#I take this scene deeper than it might be

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 17

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 3.2K

Author's Note: This is a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

Time marched slowly forward as the leaves transitioned from their lush greens to the vibrant oranges and reds of September, eventually cascading to the ground in early October. During this period, you and Kai navigated the intricacies of your blossoming relationship. Your visits to the village became more frequent, turning day trips into extended stays where you would help his mother tend to her garden or bake, and assist with various repairs around the village. Nights were often spent at Kai’s cottage, where you would indulge in simple meals, trade stories, and share laughter over spirits and wines obtained from his trades with the lumber crew. The joy and laughter you experienced with Kai were unlike anything you had felt in a long time. 

Kai had a unique way of seeing the world, viewing it through a lens of wonder rather than fear. Every creek was an invitation to explore, every field beckoned to lie beneath the sun, and every moment demanded to be cherished. You often caught him sneaking glances at you across the gardens, flashing a coy smile, to which you would respond by sticking your tongue out. Even his father, usually stoic, couldn't help but smile beneath his beard at his son's antics, especially when Kai followed you on woodland hikes or dove into waterfalls with you.

Despite the ever-present murmur of your mate in the back of your mind, you found it easier and easier to calm it, to let it rest untouched. Kai insisted on keeping physical intimacy to a minimum, stopping wandering hands and lustful moans with a gentle touch or a soft pull away. You would growl in frustration, hungry for more, but he always shook his head, his eyes tracing your lips and the lines of your face before kissing you again. He claimed he wanted to let you heal, to learn how you wanted to be held and touched before progressing further. Though you would roll your eyes and huff, you never fought him on it. Each day, it felt as if the wound that once lay open and bleeding was slowly scabbing over.

You decided to keep your relationship with Kai within the village, reserving the cabin in the woods as a sanctuary for yourself. While you trusted Kai, you couldn't help but prepare for the possibility that the Mother might have other plans, and you didn’t know if you could survive having that place tainted with hurt. Kai never questioned your decision, always kissing you softly on the forehead before you ventured back into the wilderness, promising to return soon.

The shadows that once flitted and flickered in odd ways seemed less frequent, appearing only when you were back at the cabin. You attributed this to the changing leaves and the wind, finding comfort in the thought that the world was simply shifting with the seasons, just as you were.

________________________________________________________

“My father and I are making a trip to the city next week,” Kai said, breaking the peaceful silence the two of you had fallen into. You paused, looking up from where you steeped the tea in the kettle on the stove, gazing out into the deep December dredges of blues and purples.

“Fun,” you replied, continuing to bounce the bag within the liquid, which slowly curled with brown swirls.

“I wanted to know if you wanted to join us.”

You sucked your teeth slightly. “Um,” you started, “I don’t know.”

Kai stood from the floor, where he had been idly sharpening one of his saws. “I just thought it might be fun.” He came up behind you, wrapping his long arms around your waist, his face nuzzling into your neck and brushing away your hair with his nose. “Get out for a bit, see something new.”

You smiled, your eyes closing slightly as you leaned your head back. “I don’t know,” you whispered.

“What are you worried about?” he asked, pressing a kiss into your neck.

You shook your head lightly, breathing a sigh. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Then come with us,” he pleaded. “A few days' travel up and back and two days in the city.”

You turned your head to look at him as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “I don’t know if I can manage a week of uninterrupted time with you. I might kill you,” you joked.

“Then I would die happy,” he smiled.

You packed enough clothes to get you through the week, closing down the cabin in the woods for possible snow. While the mountains around you had done a fantastic job breaking up the clouds, a few flurries still managed to make their way down and blanket the floor of the forest in a light frosting. Kai had remarked that it had been a surprisingly light winter so far, and you only prayed it would remain that way.

You brought Clover to the village, securing him in a pen with other mules. He groaned at you as you unbridled him.

“What?” you asked him.

He threw his long snout over his shoulder to look at you, seemingly annoyed with the entire situation. “It’s a week. And you’ll be with friends,” you said, patting his rear lightly.

Clover grumbled in response and sent a huff out through his nose, the condensation swirling in the chill of the morning.

“Did you want your own private suite?” you mockingly asked as you tried to scoot behind him. Clover stood in the covered barn, staring out as other donkeys and horses munched on hay in the middle of the field. “Go,” you bayed him, “be social.”

As you made your way to the gate, he looked at you from the side of his eyes with an incredulous gaze. Apparently, his private life among the forest had spoiled him. You called out, “I’ll see you in a week, you grumpy ass.”

You walked down the slick street of the cottages towards Kai’s place, where you found him just closing the door of the cottage. A warm wool scarf was tied around his neck, covering his mouth slightly. His jacket, worn from years in the snow, had various patches on it and one pocket with a sizeable hole, but the red that shone on his cheeks in the cold sent a smile running through your body.

He turned to look at you and slung his bag up over his back. “Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, and he bounded down the stairs, his legs nearly flying out from under him as he slipped on some ice, but he caught himself with a jolt against the railing. After regaining his composure, he stood and you stifled a giggle that rose from your stomach.

The two of you met his father down by their barn as he was throwing another saddle over the back of one of the lumber horses. These were giant beasts with long flowing manes, their fur longer than the average horse and built as though there was nothing in their body but muscle. The horses let out light chuffs as they idly shifted from hoof to hoof, eager to move their legs that had grown cold in the breeze of early winter.

Kai helped his father attach the pull cart to the back of the largest horse, whose chestnut brown fur was caked with dirt. His father threw a tarp over the load and then promptly went back to the house, claiming he had left something behind.

Kai ran his hands through the mane of his own mare, whom he had named Ingrid, as you slowly brushed your gloved hands down the snout of Lila, the horse you were to trek with.

“She’s a good girl,” Kai called over to you. “Strong and reliable.”

“Maybe I should have told you that I’ve never ridden a horse before we got this far,” you said nervously.

Kai’s eyes widened. “Never?” You shook your head in response. “Well, I guess I’m glad you’re telling me now.” He walked over to you, his boots crunching down the frost of the barn floor. He explained how to get onto the horse, and more importantly, how to get off without falling, and went over basic commands which Lila followed without much hesitation. “She knows the way,” Kai told you. “She’ll keep you safe.”

Kai grabbed the small stool from the side of the barn and placed it next to Lila. You hoisted one leg over the top of her, your thigh barely able to lift over her height, but with a slightly ungraceful boost from Kai, you were able to settle in. Lila shifted onto her back hooves as you gripped the reins.

Kai tightened the saddle slightly and peered up at you. “You look nice from this angle,” he joked.

You threw him a vulgar gesture as he went to mount his own horse, easily throwing his weight up and over as his father returned, a pack of steaming rolls wrapped in a linen towel, flushing savory smells of warm meats and cheese into your nose. His father gave one to each of you, which you scarfed down greedily while trying to keep one hand steady on Lila. Within five minutes, the three of you were off, just as the sun peeked over the mountain.

You rode for hours through the woods, joking and laughing with Kai, while his father rode ahead, seemingly content in his silence.

Lila trudged forward, very aware of the path and needing little guidance from you, which you were grateful for. Instead of having to focus on her, you cast long glances into the deeper woods where the quiet of winter was settling in. Birds that overwinter chirped above and squirrels sent cascades of snow down from the branches, sometimes landing on your head or down the back of Kai’s shirt, which sent him shivering and gripping for his collar. You stopped only for a quick lunch, becoming increasingly aware that you would have to relieve yourself at some point. However, the idea of going to the bathroom in the woods with two males nearby overwhelmed your need to pee. You also found your thighs sore and your gait slightly wider as you adjusted to the width of Lila.

You made the trip in just under three days, a much shorter ride than the walk that originally brought you to the cabin. As you passed the clearing that you remembered from your initial journey out, you felt your heart catch in your throat as you peered down at the city. The evening light was just settling in off the Sidra as the rooftops, lined with light snow, began to glisten in the pinks of the setting sun.

You made it to the gates just before dark, with Kai’s father showing the documented paperwork that allowed him to sell in the Starfall Festival Market. The guard allowed you all in, and you left the horses near the outer stables, their weary bodies aching from the cold as much as your own. Kai’s father unhooked the cart, storing it in the adjoining pen before the three of you turned to walk into the city, which was still bustling with life. As darkness descended, the fae lights rose in the night.

You took in the sights and sounds of a Velaris winter. The sour aromas of cranberry cider wafted through the air, followed by the savory scents of meat pies and spices. Kai’s father opted to turn in early for the night after checking into the inn where you would be staying. Kai insisted that the two of you head into the city to enjoy the night, and you begrudgingly agreed.

Kai took your hand in his, his fingertips chilled and icy as he led you through the streets. The cobblestones had been cleared of all snow, and you wondered if it had anything to do with magic or if the city cleaners had just swept day in and day out during winter. Kai’s eyes shone bright in the fae light as he marveled at all the sights. Garland was strung between lampposts and houses, red berries nestled within the needles, and wreaths hung on nearly every door. You tried to push down a growing sadness as you held back the memories of your starfalls with your mother.

Kai barely seemed to notice your quiet demeanor as he continued through the streets, dragging you along. Music played from every corner, and Kai stopped at each band for a moment to listen before smiling widely at you. As the two of you passed a pastry shop, he pressed his nose to the glass, admiring the various pastries with fillings spilling over their edges, their buttery toppings glistening under the lights. The whole city seemed unreal, its beauty outshining even the brightest stars, and everyone was out in the streets, shopping for last-minute gifts.

As the crowds grew denser the further into the city you walked, Kai’s grip became tighter as you weaved through the bodies toward the city center, where the market would be

As the crowds grew denser the further into the city you walked, Kai’s grip tightened as you weaved your way through the bustling throngs toward the city center, where the market would be taking place the following night. Vendors were already surveying their booths, setting up colorful displays of goods and wares. Kai wandered between the stalls, stopping to chat with familiar faces while you stood next to him, smiling politely and taking in the lively atmosphere.

When he finally found his father’s booth, where they would be selling woodcarvings from the village lumbermen, Kai was reluctantly convinced to return to the warmth of the inn. 

As the two of you wound your way through the streets, opting this time to take the quieter sidestreets, you watched as Kai continued to marvel at the sights, his eyes lighting up at every possible occasion. The narrow alleys were adorned with twinkling fairy lights and garlands, creating a magical glow that reflected off the cobblestones. The sounds of distant laughter and music filled the air, mingling with the scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine.

You both walked in comfortable silence, the cold air nipping at your cheeks and the festive decorations casting a warm glow over the city. Kai’s childlike wonder was infectious, and you found yourself smiling more genuinely as you shared in his excitement. Every so often, he would point out something of interest—a particularly ornate wreath, a musician playing a beautiful melody, or a baker’s stall with intricately decorated pastries.

Kai purchased warm wine for both of you, and you stood against the wall of the Sidra, holding the cup to your nose and savoring the rich aroma. The warm liquid lined your throat, sending a comfortable burn through your body. Its full body and intense flavor made you curl your lips, sucking every last drop as you took in the people wandering before you.

“I’m really happy you came with me,” Kai noted. You turned to look at him through your lashes, now flecked with snowflakes.

You smiled at him. “I’m happy I came too.”

“I know this is probably hard, or it was. But I think that you coming back here is a good thing.”

You nodded, taking another sip of your wine and silently wishing the conversation would be over. You didn’t want your own sad memories and yearning to ruin a good night for the two of you. Just as Kai was about to say something else, you heard a voice yelling his name over the crowd. Kai perked up slightly, trying to peer over the sea of people. When his name was shouted again, Kai began waving, his lanky arm sailing through the flurry of snow as he shouted back, “Sylvan!”

You watched as a male, near the same age as you and Kai, bounded through the crowd, nearly toppling a female carrying three boxes stacked high. He apologized profusely as he continued toward you. The male had pale peach skin, a mess of ginger curls, and a face splattered with freckles. His clothes were much more suited for city life than either yours or Kai’s.

As he approached, Kai reached out in an open-armed hug to embrace the stranger.

“I didn’t think I’d see you until tomorrow!” the ginger-haired fae, giddy with enthusiasm, nearly shook Kai in his arms.

“We beat the storm out. Got in this evening!” Kai replied, pulling back and slapping the other male on the back.

“Where’s your dad?”

“Old bastard couldn’t be bothered to come out for a good time.” Kai flashed a smile over his shoulder before turning to you. “Sylvan, this is Y/N. Y/N, Sylvan.”

You reached your hand out to shake Sylvan’s, and he gave you an exaggerated bow, pressing a kiss to your hand as he crooned in feigned regality, “M’lady.”

Kai rolled his eyes and smacked Sylvan on the back of his head, causing him to yelp in pain and rub the spot. “What was that for?” he asked, checking his hand for any damage.

“For being an idiot and embarrassing yourself,” Kai scolded.

Sylvan looked up at you with a rather mocking tone. “I’m sorry for being a fool.”

You giggled slightly. “It’s alright,” you responded.

Kai shot Sylvan a stern look. “Don’t encourage him.”

Sylvan allowed a coy smile to spread across his face as he looked at you and then turned back to Kai. “So what have you been up to? Since apparently it isn’t coming to find me.”

“We’ve been wandering, looking at stalls, buying wine.”

Sylvan turned to look at you and then back to Kai. “She’s with you?”

Taking the opportunity to insert yourself into the conversation, you confidently replied, “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Did he catch you against your will and force you to spend time with him?” Sylvan asked, turning to you.

“His father pays me by the hour,” you smirked, and Kai simply shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.

Sylvan nudged his elbow into your side. “Well, if we go by the hour, just let me know the address to send money to.”

Kai’s face dropped. “Alright, that’s enough.”

You smirked at both of them, your eyes meeting Kai’s, who sent you a silent apology. You merely shook your head.

“So?” Sylvan started, “Drinks? Food?”

“I think we’re—” Kai began, but you interrupted.

“You know what, Kai? I think I’m getting pretty tired, so I might turn in for the night.” You smiled at him.

“I can walk you back,” he offered, taking a step towards you, but you raised your hand, shaking your head.

“No, no, that’s okay! You go spend some time with your friend. I’ll see you later.”

Kai looked between you and Sylvan, who seemed to be nodding along with your plan, mischievously grinning.

With a sigh, Kai said, “Alright,” and Sylvan nearly jumped up and down with excitement.

You gripped Kai’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before releasing it and turning to walk back towards the inn. You called over your shoulder, “Take care of him, Sylvan. Don’t let him get into trouble.” Sylvan may have responded, though you didn’t hear him as you made your way through the bustling streets.

Here we go... @thatacotargirl @mcuamerica @lilah-asteria @florabelll @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx @romantasyreader28 @minnieoo @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @annabethgranger123 @krowiathemythologynerd @scatteredstardustt @romantacyreader28 @caroline-books @slytherintaco @sevikas-whore @sidthedollface2 @405rry @sleepylunarwolf @acourtofbatboydreams @quiettuba @julesofvolterra @skylarkalchemist @darling006

[djarins-cyare]

Never Look Down

Part 2: Maia’s (Your) Morning

← Part 1 | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Prompt: “I don’t know what’s happening but I love it.”

Summary: Din has been ignoring his crush on Grogu’s babysitter for a while now, with varying degrees of success. But after a misunderstanding leads to some revelations, there’s no denying things any longer. Sometimes you just need to look at things from a different perspective.

Rating: Mature (18+)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Original Female Character (for his POV scenes) / Din Djarin x Reader (for her POV scenes)

Word count: 7,830

Tags/warnings: POV switch, hangover hell, light angst, confessions, even more references to erections, some swearing, references to sex, kissing, reference to fellatio, a lot of fluff, Reader has a name (and a job and an inkling of a backstory). Regarding her prior bad relationship, I don’t want anyone to be triggered by an assumption, so please note she was NOT in an abusive situation. Her former partner was just a drug-dealing douche.

Author’s note: I finished something new! [*cries in disbelief*] 😭. Thank you so much for your interest and support! 💖

READ ON AO3 (author’s preference)

Tumblr version ahead if you prefer…

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

You wake up somewhere dark and soft. It takes you several seconds to realise where you are due to the throbbing ache in your head that’s screaming for focus.

You’re in Din’s bed.

Oh fuck.

Well… more like no fuck. A shameful absence thereof.

Slowly, memories of the previous night drift to the surface of your foggy brain, each one deepening your embarrassment until you’ve reached the pitiful depths of utter humiliation. It cuts deeper than your hangover, which includes a pounding headache and a bruised shoulder (how did that happen?), yet is almost trivial in comparison. Kark, you drank – and said and did – a lot more than you should’ve.

Babysitting Grogu is not your primary source of income. In fact, you have a contract with Karga for city planning and infrastructure upgrades. But that’s just building holos, presenting them to the High Magistrate, and then outsourcing the work upon approval. It’s sporadic and flexible, leaving you with plenty of hours to kill. You took this part-time job to keep yourself busy, but you’ve come to enjoy hanging out with the little guy and his bafflingly sexy father. Both are good fun, have always been friendly and welcoming, and you’re fond of their company. Who are you kidding – you’re profoundly attached to them both. Plus, Din has taught you to use a blaster, helping you feel safer and more self-reliant now you’re free of your ex’s ‘protection’. The extra credits are merely a bonus, and you’d do this for free if it came to it.

Well, not this. Not turn up drunk, pass out in your boss’s refresher, then misread a gesture of kindness as a sexual advance. And you just had to fucking let your thoughts spill out, didn’t you? Shit, you basically told him you think he’s a virgin! Sure, you’ve wondered, but you’ve never drawn any conclusions, so why did you have to vocalise those thoughts as if you had? You’ve been so careful to avoid suggesting his commitment to his creed might be impeding anything fun. So what if he can’t eat with you or sleep with you – that’s his choice. He probably thinks you’re judging him now. You shouldn’t have opened your mouth, damn it!

Of course he rejected you.

How could you ever have thought Din would want to be with you after everything you did last night? There are so many reasons for him to have walked away like he did. Not only did you fail to provide trustworthy childcare, but you also vomited in his toilet and were a drunken burden on him after he’d had to go out on a job. Then you assumed he wanted sex, implied he might not have the requisite skills, stripped naked, climbed under his sheets, and stole his fucking bed for the whole night.

You’re a disgrace. The regret burns in your chest, branding you from the inside out as the fool who pushed a former bounty hunter too far.

Plus, you work for the guy, so that’s surely a factor. Your role here is simply to take care of his kid. At least it was. And, of course, he’s never shown any interest in you. In fact, whenever you’ve wondered if the two of you are having ‘a moment’, he’s always run away.

Why did you have to make an already bad situation so much worse by revealing your desires? You were coping fine with your self-imposed celibacy. Sure, it was frustrating, but you were surviving. Repressing your libido around him was working for you.

As much as you want to hide beneath the blankets and avoid the fallout, you know you can’t stay in Din’s bed forever. Even though it’s soft and warm and smells like him – fresh yet with a hint of spicy musk. You really can’t.

Fumbling to activate the lamp, you drain the water on the nightstand, noting your clothes strewn across the floor. Thankfully, they don’t smell of alcohol or vomit (at least you’re a tidy drunk), so you get dressed and stumble to the refresher. More memories return at that crime scene, adding to your shame spiral and giving you a likely reason for your bruised shoulder.

Din has left his ultrasound cleaner out of the cabinet, which has to be a suggestion that you use it, and you can take a hint. You recall complaining that your mouth tasted like bantha balls, and accepting his pity is the lesser evil. Though it’s far more than you deserve, it’s also far better than this flavour.

You gladly let the vibrations clean your mouth and then rinse away the residue, feeling much better for it. It’s not enough to ease your thumping headache, but it’s a start.

You can’t hear any noise from upstairs or across the hall, so you wonder if your hosts are still asleep. It’s clearly past dawn since daylight is spilling down the staircase, but it could still be early. Maybe you can just slip out unnoticed? You debate checking on Grogu first. Din probably slept on the couch, though there’s a cushioned chair in the kid’s room that he could’ve used.

Guilt and concern make you check on your charge despite the risk of waking a metal sentinel. But you’re surprised to discover an empty room. That means they’re either both upstairs and being quiet, or they’ve gone out. You’re hoping for the latter. Zandi insisted you meet her for lunch, but part of you wants to run straight to your friend’s place and cry about what an idiot you’ve been. Hmm, no. You should go home for a shower first. Not that it could wash off the disgrace, but it might ease your aching head, at least.

You dart across the hall for your shoes, straightening out your boss’s sheets before you leave (a token apology, if anything). Catching sight of a comb on top of his dresser sends another type of guilt burning through you. Stealing his bed was already an invasion of privacy, but learning about what he hides beneath the beskar feels worse. You anxiously smooth down the blankets, flick off the lamp, and tiptoe up the stairs.

Thankfully, you find an empty living space, lit by sunshine so bright that you realise it’s already mid-morning. Din must have taken Grogu to school.

There’s no sign of your glowrod, but you don’t care. He can keep it. You shove on your boots with as much haste as you can manage and fly to the exit, darting through. Kriff, it’s so blinding outside that you have to turn your back to the sun or risk your hangover increasing tenfold.

Just as you’re gulping lungfuls of fresh air and keying in the lock code to secure the cabin, you hear him.

“Feeling better?”

The Mandalorian steps out from behind the cabin, and you wonder if he’s been waiting to ambush you. Damn it, you should’ve known. Bounty hunter.

You can’t look him in the eyes. Well, the visor, really. Either way, you fix your gaze on the porch. You’d normally come out with something playful and witty, but today, your brain gives you nothing except wry honesty.

“The hangover and torturous headache are nothing compared to my embarrassment,” you answer sheepishly. “I am so sorry about last night.”

You don’t specify which part because you mean all of it. Drinking to excess and throwing up in his home, as well as climbing into his bed, stripping off, and assuming he would fuck you, then commenting on how you thought he couldn’t fuck you. You’re sure you’ll never live down this shame.

Din doesn’t respond to your apology, but he steps forward, a wall of beskar and muscle blocking you from leaving the porch. He leans past you – so close he almost traps you against the door – and reverses the lock code you just entered.

When the door behind you swishes open again, he gestures inside with a nod. “We gotta talk.”

Oh, frotz, this is bad. This is so so so bad. He’s normally relaxed and happy around you, welcoming (or at least tolerating) your friendly jokes and nicknames. But right now, he’s all stiffness and silence, thumbs in his belt and elbows out wide, staring you down as if you were prey. He is not happy with you. You’ve fucked up bad.

You’re going to lose your job. It’s not a substantial source of income, but you’ll lose your bonding time with the kid and the friendly teasing thing you’ve developed with his dad. You won’t get to watch how strong and beautiful this warrior-turned-father is anymore, how soft he is with Grogu, despite his hard beskar shell. There’ll be no more shooting lessons. He’s going to tell you how offensive your remarks were last night… kark, what if he has a duty to punish anyone who disrespects his creed? Is it disrespectful to suggest he can’t have sex, though? Maybe the offensive thing was you throwing yourself at him. Or perhaps he thinks you’re hideous and finds the idea of having sex with you offensive. Whatever the case, he’s going to—

“Maia….”

Hearing your name growled through his modulator snaps you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you realise you’re just standing there gawking at him in the doorway.

Suddenly, you feel meek in his presence, which has never happened before. Even when you first met, he was careful to make you feel safe and welcome. This menacing demeanour is new.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Can I just go home?”

Din looms closer like a rancor threatening its prey. “This won’t take long,” he insists.

With widened eyes, you shrink back toward the scene of your crimes, your near freedom now a fool’s delusion. He walks forward as you step backward across the cabin’s threshold, maintaining the proximity – a fateful dance that promises a morning even more tragic than the night before.

“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the couch. He watches you perch yourself where you’re told to and then nods, appeased by your obedience.

A heavy silence clouds the room as your soon-to-be-ex boss flicks on the caf maker and heats the beverage while you quietly unravel on the couch. You’re not even sure what this is. It feels like he’s about to punish you (and not in a good way), but you have no idea how. Is he going to yell at you? Torture you with some kind of ritualistic Mandalorian justice? Or is he just going to describe how disappointed he is, fire you from this job, and threaten to roast you with his flamethrowers if he catches you anywhere near Grogu?

Whatever’s about to happen, you’re zealously ignoring the part of you that’s low-key turned on by how dominant he’s acting this morning. You can’t examine that right now.

After a minute or two, Din brings a cup to the couch and perches beside you, performing an awkward shuffle as he angles his body toward you. Still unsure how to act, you remain facing straight ahead, watching him in your peripheral.

He’s fully armoured this morning, his movements determined but stiff, and you recall how fluidly his body moved when he was just down to his flight suit. When he swept you into his arms, cradled you against his chest, and carried you to his bed…

No! Bad thoughts! Now is not the time for those because you’re about to receive the worst reprimand of your life (and you work for Karga!).

But your brain won’t stop replaying the memory, leading you to a distracting notion. He keeps his armour on the shelves in his bedroom – you saw it there last night. That means he must have come in to grab it this morning while you were sleeping. Damn, he’s stealthy! Though, to be fair, you were utterly passed out.

Wait. You woke up fully covered and tucked in. You don’t recall falling asleep, but you do remember arranging the blanket for optimum cleavage display. Kark, you really hope you snuggled down properly in your sleep. Because if not, there’s a chance that he opened his door to an inadvertent boob extravaganza, and he covered you up for the sake of your dignity. Fuck! How much shame can you suffer in a single morning?

He still hasn’t started talking, so before your thoughts ricochet in yet another distressing direction, you prompt, “You, uh, said we need to talk?” It’s probably best to confront your impending doom so you can run home and scream into a pillow.

Din huffs a little. “We do. Doesn’t mean I know how to start.”

Hmm, well, he doesn’t seem too angry, at least. Perhaps there won’t be any Mandalorian torture-based vengeance after all.

You don’t have the energy to play ‘guess the punishment’, but maybe you can stave it off if you beg for mercy. “Okay, then let me start. I said and did some monumentally stupid things last night, and I understand if you can’t forgive me and never want to see me again. But I just need you to know how truly sorry I am and that I really didn’t mean to offend you, and if I could—”

“Stop apologising,” he interrupts, shaking his helmet.

His order startles you into silence. It was insistent, but he didn’t sound angry at all. In fact, there was an undertone of something else. Almost the amused side of frustrated. What the kriff is happening?

Din sighs and tilts his visor toward his lap, then seems surprised to realise he’s still clutching the caf he made but clearly can’t drink in your presence. He silently offers you the steaming cup, and after a beat, you accept it, staring at it just as he did.

Never has a cup of caf received as much scrutiny as when two parties are unsure how to vocalise their thoughts.

“I made it for you,” he offers. “Thought… with the hangover….”

“Thanks,” you mumble, unsure what else to do or say. This isn’t going as expected at all, and your confusion is only growing. Is he doing some kind of bounty hunter ‘killing with kindness’ act?

This is absurd. You just need to get him talking, accept your punishment, and then you can escape.

“Um,” you begin, and his shadowed visor fixes on you again, unsettling you further. “If… if you don’t want to hear my apologies… what do you want to talk about?”

Your reluctant host forces out his response like it’s stuck inside his throat. “I want… I wanna ask you… some things. And I need you to answer honestly.”

Your stomach churns with nerves. He has questions? He must want you to explain what you said. He’s going to make you relive it – not by telling you how offensive you were, but by making you deconstruct your own comments and actions.

Kark. It’s a punishment, alright.

But if the penalty for your folly is the discomfort of explaining yourself, you can deal with that. This is a man you’re used to teasing, and he sounds just as unsure about what to say here as you are. So, you need to gather your confidence and endure whatever awkwardness this brings up.

You square your shoulders and lift your chin. “Okay… ask me.”

“You’ll answer? Honestly?” There’s an edge of desperation in Din’s voice from which you intuit his real meaning. You need to check any joking at the door.

Well, your current embarrassment level is sky-high, so whatever he wants you to respond to or admit surely can’t be much worse. You’ve already laid yourself (literally) bare for him. “I will. You got a slice of my inner dialogue last night, so I might as well continue the honesty.”

“Good… thank you.” He releases a profound sigh, a rush of static through the vocoder, and appears to gather himself for his first question. “Why do you think my creed means I can’t…?” He trails off, but you follow his meaning and match his heavy sigh.

“I don’t really think that,” you assure him. “Honestly, I’ve never known what to think, which means I’ve made no assumptions either way. But I guess… my drunken brain felt it was… safer to err on the side of caution when addressing it out loud.”

You’re not in the least bit surprised that he’s starting with this. If he is a virgin, you’ve mocked him, and if he isn’t, you’ve no doubt hurt his pride.

When he doesn’t respond, you suggest, “If that’s your first question, it sounds like you’re worried I’m judging you, so let me reinforce what I just said. ‘No assumptions’ means ‘no judgments’. But if you want to clarify things, I can promise you that whatever the truth is, I still won’t judge you.”

The importance Din is giving this topic is by far the biggest clue to the likely truth. No virgin would question you in the way that he just did. If they mentioned it at all, they’d probably just insist it’s not a topic for you to concern yourself with and never speak of it again. But inviting him to confirm his expertise gives him an easy way to lay the matter to rest. It’s also the kindest thing to do in the wake of your drunken foolishness.

He nods a fraction, accepting the premise, pausing while he chooses his words. “My creed doesn’t impose any rules relating to that, only that I cannot remove my helmet. And… some people kind of, uh… they get off on the mystery. So I do pretty well when I need to… blow off some steam.”

Huh. That was surprisingly direct (for him). You can’t help but smile, wondering if your delight stems from finally having proof that he isn’t without experience or that this discussion (so far) isn’t about how badly you fucked up.

Hoping to conceal your thoughts and keep the focus on him, you instantly slide back into teasing mode with a new nickname and a vague compliment of sorts. “Super Stud! You’re very discreet.”

“That’s the idea,” he confirms, ignoring his new moniker. “Although it’s by no means frequent, and since I got Grogu, I haven’t had….” He clears his throat. “Time and opportunity are rare.”

As much as you wish Din would choose to ‘blow off some steam’ with you, all you hear is a chance to atone for last night’s thoughtless actions. “I can take care of him while you go have some fun…?”

A massive scoff comes through the vocoder, and he shakes his helmet widely. “No, Maia, that’s… that’s not gonna work.”

But you persist, desperate to make amends. “Oh, come on, Metal Man, you deserve a break. Isn’t there anyone on Nevarro you can call for some fun?”

He sighs. “I have… options, yes.”

You furrow your brow at that. “So why did you say time and opportunity are rare? If you’ve got options, why don’t you just get your shiny ass laid while I do what you pay me for and take care of—”

A distinctly peeved huff crackles through the modulator, and you instantly fall silent. You forgot you’re not supposed to be teasing. Nor is it clear yet whether you still have a job. Foot, meet mouth.

He curtly redirects you. “Next question.” You assent with a nod, but when he continues, his tone is suddenly guarded and awkward. “Last night, you said… you suggested… that you and I might… blow off some steam.”

Fuck, this is the part you were dreading, and your pulse picks up. He seems nervous. Is that good or bad? Well, it’s better than angry and scary. You try to freeze your movements to avoid either wincing or looking too eager, nervously awaiting his question.

“Was that… because of the alcohol? Or… something, uh… real?” All you detect in his voice is discomfort, so you can’t tell which option he hopes for.

You sigh and take a careful slurp of the scalding hot caf to buy yourself time. It’s hard to answer because there’s a lot at risk. If you’re too honest about your feelings and Din doesn’t feel the same way, your relationship might end – professional as well as personal.

But once again, the fact that he’s asking suggests your answer is important to him, so the odds are likely in your favour. If he wasn’t attracted to you, surely he’d play it down and give you a way to save face. Just say he knew your silly drunken advances were simply an extension of your usual urge to tease and meant nothing, and that he forgives you for them. Surely he wouldn’t ask if they were ‘real’.

The concept sparks a tiny flame of hope in a dark and dusty corner of your mind, a pinprick of light to chase away the fears you walked in here with.

However, you can’t be too hasty or draw conclusions without facts. Though this isn’t going as dreadfully as you feared it might, the sensible option is to avoid getting your hopes up. He asked you for honesty, so you’ll give him that, but you decide to err on the side of caution again. An assumption against any interest on his part shouldn’t be offensive.

“It wasn’t… totally the alcohol,” you confess cautiously, and you see his body instantly tense up. Is that a positive reaction? “I’ve been trying to remember exactly what I said to you. I told you it was a ‘dream’, right?” Din nods once. “Well… that’s true. I admit I’ve had some daydreams about the idea. But it felt… safer not to mention it. Last night, you made it clear you weren’t interested in me, and you’ve never given me any reason to think otherwise, so I—”

“I did no such thing.”

Shit. The anger you were afraid of is finally colouring the Mandalorian’s tone, and he leans forward with his vehement denial.

What did you say wrong? Did you tease too soon with the new nickname just now? Shock and confusion contort themselves across your face, and you shrink backward.

He almost growls at your retreat, and the creak of his leather gloves as he clenches his fists has you bracing yourself for trouble. You honestly can’t tell if you’re turned on or terrified.

Before you can decide, he declares, “Last night, I had to walk away from a beautiful naked woman in my bed because she’d been drinking, and I would never do anything without full consent. I did not make it clear I wasn’t interested in you. Fuck, Maia, I have dreams about you too. All the time.”

Your mouth hangs open in surprise. Even knowing it was vaguely possible, you weren’t ready for that response.

He has dreams about you too!

Now that he’s confessed what got him so worked up, you see him make a visible effort to calm down.

His next words are much softer, soothing your prior unease, though your heart continues to thump from his admission. “Time and opportunity are rare because you’re Grogu’s babysitter, and that kid loves you. When he’s not with me, he wants to be with you. He only goes to school twice a week. That’s not a lot of time or—”

“—or opportunity,” you finish. “Okay, I get it. Why didn’t you say anything before? We could’ve been blowing off steam on schooldays for months already, but I had no idea. I would’ve climbed naked into your bed way sooner if I’d known.”

Din groans, a low and sinful rumble, and you wonder if you shouldn’t have put those images in his mind.

A deep breath later, he answers, “My son is my priority; his needs come before mine. He needs a good babysitter more than I need a good… uh….” He trails off and clears his throat. “And last night was the first time you’d ever said anything. I had no idea either.”

“But, but…” you stammer. Okay, so you’ve been keeping it to yourself, but you’re surprised he didn’t pick up on your attraction at all. “I’m flirting and checking you out all the crinking time, Metal Man. I thought bounty hunters were observant?”

He hums as if he’s flattered by your admission. “Teasing me is not a sign of anything on its own. And I’ve never seen you look anywhere other than directly at my helmet. You would’ve noticed my interest otherwise.” You furrow your brow slightly, not following, and he shakes his head in frustration. “You never look down.”

You look down.

Holy mother of meteors…

That is one obscenely snug flight suit and one fucking impressive erection.

Granted, you’ve noticed he’s been wearing the loose flight suit pants more often. In fact, you’ve missed being able to check out his toned ass in the closer-fitting ones. But since you can’t see where he’s looking, you’ve always been careful to keep your roving eyes chaste whenever he’s facing you. And, kriff, you never figured the reason for his wardrobe change was to hide this glorious attribute.

“Wow,” you breathe, unsure of what else to say. Suddenly, the volume on your headache reduces, and your lust levels shoot up. It’s so….

Din fidgets slightly, perhaps on edge because of your sudden scrutiny. Oops.

You revert your gaze to his visor, chancing some levity to ease the tension. “If I wasn’t fighting a skull-splitting hangover, I’d have a whole host of new nicknames for you already. Something about being as hard as beskar or carrying a concealed weapon… ugh, gimme a day, I’ll come up with a winner.”

His chuckle suggests the ice between you is now well and truly broken. You knock back the rest of your caf in the relaxed pause. It’s still hotter than you prefer, but perhaps it’ll quell your desire.

He lets you finish before breaking the easy silence. “Another question before you go, if it’s okay. Maybe a couple more, depending on how you answer the first one. I’d rather not leave this topic hanging now that we’ve addressed it.”

“Sure.” Right now, you’re willing to give this man whatever he wants.

“Okay. There’s another reason I walked away last night – besides your drunken state. It’s why I haven’t mentioned this before.” He swallows and inhales shakily. “You told me that your last relationship was terrible. And the fact that you chose to celebrate its end tells me you value your freedom. On my side, my relationships are rarely meaningful or long-term. So it might seem easiest to keep things casual.”

He pauses, but it’s unclear whether he wants your input. You can’t tell where he’s going with this, so you give him a one-shouldered shrug.

He leans forward and rests his vambraces on his cuisses. “If Grogu wasn’t around, it might be. But casual never ends well, and I will not threaten the bond you two have just for something meaningless. For the child’s sake, we gotta be sure where we stand before we… act on any of this. I can’t do casual with you, Maia. So the first question is: are you interested enough to try something… meaningful? Because if you’re not, we gotta bury this.”

He’s right. You start to understand why he got so worked up at your admission that you’re attracted to him for real. It complicates things.

He’s asked a logical and vital question, and you take a moment to give it due attention. Whatever happens, this cannot threaten your employment. So where are the lines?

You’ve felt something for Din from the start, and your attraction has only grown. That line is already blurred, and it hasn’t threatened anything, but it helps you see what he’s getting at. Your attachment to him and Grogu has become far more profound than you expected, so you couldn’t do casual even if you tried. It could only harm your bond with the kid if you tried to repress that attachment and keep things casual with his father.

Simply put, your feelings are already meaningful, so whatever comes next must be too.

Strangely, that doesn’t scare you. Your prior experience was poor – both oppressive and neglectful – but you were a displaced teenager on a new planet looking for protection when you got into that. Din is nothing like your ex, and this couldn’t be more different. You have faith in this man and, thus, faith in your answer.

“I am,” you confirm with a smile. “Are you?” He’s already confirmed he won’t do casual, but you need his agreement to start something meaningful.

He swallows, then echoes, “I am.”

A thrilling but weighty moment passes as you both digest this, just staring at one another in the wake of your mutual confessions. The air feels charged with promise. You can almost taste it.

It’s hard to judge how long has passed when he speaks again. “Second question. Did you use my ultrasound cleaner?”

Well, that’s a non sequitur. You have no idea how this query relates to your previous answer, but you nod nonetheless.

“Great. Come with me.”

He stands and leads you downstairs, stepping into his room and tapping on the main lights. When he sees that you’ve made his bed, he hums happily.

You’re quiet but hopeful, the heady feeling of promise that consumed you last night slowly filling you up once more as he turns to face you and beckons you closer.

“We should take this slow,” he starts. “You’re hungover, and I want you to feel comfortable when we….” He nods at the bed, oddly still reticent to describe the act.

“When we fuck.”

Din releases the cutest whimper and tugs at his pants. “That is not helping me with this problem. If you keep talking like that, I might not be able to resist,” he warns.

You scoff. “Shiny, are you really trying to threaten me with sex? Kriff, please tell me you didn’t use this tactic on any bounties back in the day.”

“No, I did not. And I’m trying to save that until your head doesn’t hurt,” he sighs. “But… question three. Before you go home, can I… kiss you?”

Your eyebrows shoot up as surprise and desire collide and carve a messy path through your chest, sending your heart tumbling into a double-time beat.

“Are you…” You’re not quite sure how to phrase your query, still chagrined by last night’s verbal blunders. “Is that some kind of metaphor? Does ‘kissing’ mean something different for Mandalorians with the whole helmet thing? Because if we’re just gonna thumb wrestle or something, I’m still in, but it’s kind of weird to call it kissing.”

He chuckles, and it eases your worry. “We do have a kissing substitute, but no, in this case, I meant what I said. I just gotta turn the lights out so you can’t see me when I remove my helmet. If that’s okay.”

All of your fears and concerns melt away with his answer. Gone are your worries about your budding romance having awkward or difficult restrictions, replaced by a certainty that you can handle not making eye contact. If observing that single caveat allows you to be with this man, you don’t even consider it a sacrifice.

Well, if he brought you down here to ensure it’s dark enough, you can help with that. You saunter to the door and touch the control to slide it closed, blocking out the sunshine filtering down the stairs, and then you turn to him with a smile. “It’s very okay. I’m not leaving here without a kiss, Din.”

He sucks in a modulated breath and doesn’t move for a second. “You… used my name.”

You know you’re allowed to – he’s told you that many times – but you find the nicknames help to maintain a friendly distance. Treat him as a friend, not as a lover. Except now things are changing.

“I thought I’d practice,” you explain. “I’m guessing that when we do get in that bed together, you’d prefer I scream out your real name instead of ‘Shiny’ or ‘Beskar Boy’.”

He groans sinfully again and reaches for you, fixing a glove around your wrist and tugging you to stand beside the shelves he stores his armour on. “Don’t move,” he instructs. Then he releases your wrist and taps a button on his vambrace, and the lights very slowly fade out until the room is darker than the void between galaxies.

Suddenly, sensations are everything. You can detect the warmth of Din’s body so close to yours, though you’re not yet touching. You hear him breathing more audibly than usual, a gentle but slightly stuttered hiss through the vocoder. You feel the air swirl around you as he raises his hands to his helmet…

The rhythmic thump of your heartbeat quickens, and despite your lack of sight, it’s as if the events occur in flashes between the beats. The absence of sound as you hold your breath. The gentle rustle as he slides off the metal helmet. The muffled clang when it hits the shelf as he lines it up. The scrape of the edge as he pushes it home. The nervous breath he releases in the subsequent silence, reminding you to exhale too.

Then he’s reaching for you, and your mind goes blank as his hands find your hips, closing the distance further. It’s not close enough to feel his arousal against you, although that’s probably wise. But if you weren’t still harbouring a headache, you’d be unable to resist pressing forward and seeking the impressive bulge you admired upstairs. Instead, you lay your palms on his cuirass and slide upward, burying your fingers in his cloak. That’s as high as you’ll go until you know what’s allowed.

One of Din’s gloved hands engulfs the nape of your neck, and you love how he’s controlling this, moving you in the dark to where he wants you. You can tell he’s leaned in closer by the sound of his breathing – more audible without the beskar barrier. Then there’s a sense of warmth on your skin as he brings you close enough to nuzzle at your hairline, gently at first, until you register the distinct press of his nose against your temple.

You feel it just before he speaks, his breath tickling near your ear as he opens his mouth to husk smooth, unmodulated words. “Go easy on me; it’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

Fuck, his voice is gorgeous. It resonates through you like a rumbling storm, drenching you with wanton promise, unleashing a different wetness upon you. If there were any frequency that could subdue your headache, it would be his soft and smoky timbre.

“Oh?” It’s all you can manage; a single syllable of surprise at his admission. He seems so confident.

“Mm,” he confirms, brushing his lips softly near the corner of your eye, and you detect some stubble around them. “Before we swear the Creed, we spend a while doing the things we’re taught to avoid after. I’ve only used this loophole once since then. So….” He trails off and presses a gentle kiss to the crest of your cheekbone, warm lips on soft skin, and you melt in his arms.

You want to assure him that he’s nailing it, preparing you so perfectly that he seems like an expert kisser, no matter how little practice he’s had. You want to thank him for deeming you worthy enough to use this rare loophole and express your stunned gratitude at the privilege he’s allowing you. But the notion of speaking confounds you, and all you can do is lift your chin and indicate your willingness to do this.

Din gets the message.

You can sense his nerves in the way he cautiously presses his lips against yours. But in the millisecond it takes to register a connection, your body reacts before your brain and electricity shoots through your nerve endings. Instantly, thousands of perfect explosions stud your skin, making you shiver in bliss.

He’s sweet, gentle, respectful… and it’s good. But it’s a little chaste for your liking, and you can tell he’s holding himself back. He needs to let go, so you emit a low hum of pleasure, which spurs him on and increases his fervour. You gently part your lips, and he gets the hint and takes the lead, deepening the kiss until your tongues meet – a touch that halts the spin of the whole galaxy around you.

Then he lets go. It’s as if he’s suddenly remembered how to breathe after holding his breath for decades, and oh, how utterly starved of oxygen he’s been. This kiss is feeding him, keeping him alive. His tightened grip, the tremors of lust you detect running through him, the way he almost whimpers into your mouth… it’s assertive and adorable in equal measures.

You can feel his inexperience, but you let him lead anyway. He gets lost in the sensations a few times, his rhythm faltering, but he corrects himself and responds keenly to your subtle signals of what’s good. It’s not long before you’re locked in a perfect moment, sharing an exquisite kiss with your ideal man.

When you part, it’s by mere centimetres, and you’re so full of happy chemicals that your hangover is barely a niggle at the back of your brain.

“I think that fixed my headache,” you purr against his lips. “I bet I could even thumb wrestle you now….” You have no clue what you’re implying, but you’re low-key horny, and openly flirting with him for once is fun.

Din’s unmodulated chuckle is the cutest thing you’ve ever heard. “Well, I was aiming for ‘mindblowing’, but I’ll take ‘headache-fixing’,” he jests, bantering right back for once. You can’t help but close the tiny distance to steal another lingering yet closed-mouth kiss, eager to show him just how addictive his efforts were.

Once again, your lips barely separate, lingering close. “Oh, it’s blown alright – completely offline. Probably why it doesn’t hurt anymore.” A salacious idea comes to you then, and you voice it a hair’s breadth from his mouth, knowing he’ll refuse but wanting to show you’re willing. “Maybe now it’s my turn to blow something of yours….”

The sharp gasp he sucks in and raggedly exhales indicates he’s just pictured your suggestion and played the image to its fruition. In the pitch-black room, you can pick up on his obvious arousal through sound and touch – the almost-groan he swallows, the twitch of all the muscles in his body as he reins himself in.

There’s a pause as he considers your proposal, and you can tell he’s waging a war with himself to refuse. You’ve put him in a difficult position. But this new closeness allows you to upgrade friendly teasing into full-on flirting, and you can’t resist.

It takes longer than you expect, but Din finally releases a shuddering breath, swallows, and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then he rasps, “I would enjoy that very much, but it’s not why I brought you down here, mesh’la.”

Mesh’la? Who the fuck is that? You stiffen in his arms, unable to process the idea that he’s just said someone else’s name during an intimate moment. Even if it does sound similar enough to yours that you could maybe understand the slip, how could he—?

“Maia,” you correct pointedly as your thoughts spiral, pulling away slightly, your stomach suddenly in knots.

He tightens his hold and hurriedly assures you, “Hey, no, it’s not— mesh’la means ‘beautiful’ in Mando’a.”

There’s a tense pause, and then you murmur, “Ah,” embarrassed and glad you didn’t instantly flip out at your incorrect assumption, then suddenly flattered by the compliment. As you fall back into his embrace, your sluggish brain gives you nothing more, too confused by the pelting of emotions you just received in quick succession. Perhaps it’s best to adopt Din’s usual policy of silence.

But he saves you from your chagrin and redirects you to another topic. “Final question. Can I make you dinner one evening this week? We agreed we’re aiming for something… meaningful here. Getting physical right away is not the best way to achieve that.” He squeezes your waist with the hand that’s remained in place throughout. “As much as I’m looking forward to that part.”

A sweet smile is your reply, though you realise he can’t see it in the dark. Luckily, it’s followed up by the return of your vocabulary. “Dinner sounds good. Grogu too?” You love the little womp rat, but this sounds like a date, so you’d rather it wasn’t crashed by a decades-old toddler.

Din hums as he follows your thought process. “The kids at his school keep inviting him on playdates and sleepovers. The parents seem like good people, so I’m sure we could arrange something both he and I would be happy with.”

You nod. “Then I look forward to our first date.” You can’t imagine how a dinner date will work with a guy who can’t show his face, but at least now you know there are loopholes. Perhaps he has another for eating together.

“Me too… mesh’la Maia.” You hear his slightly cheeky but utterly earnest tone, and you can’t help grinning. How apt that he should give you a nickname just when you decide to start using his real name.

You want to kiss him again, but since you pulled away a little, you can’t judge where his face is anymore, and you’re not sure if you’re allowed to touch him to locate it. “Another kiss before I leave, gorgeous guy?” (Two can play the nickname game, and you started it).

“Always,” Din agrees through a chuckle, bringing you in close again with the hand on your neck, finding your lips and pressing something firmer, more resolute there. You open eagerly for him and revel in the thrust of his tongue against yours. He’s settling into it now, more confident in himself and his technique, while carefully heeding your responses.

You enjoy it while you can – the sensations, the taste, the warmth, the delicious calm energy that washes through you with his lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your neck. You commit the feelings to memory, unsure when you’ll get to do it again. You hope you won’t have to wait too long for your date.

It’s over too soon, but you accept that it has to be. As you separate, you attempt to lock in the memories of the features you’ve felt pressed against you – stubble, soft lips, a strong nose. It’s not much, but it’s more than you had before.

Din’s hand falls from your neck, and you bemoan the loss of heat and comfort, spiralling back toward your hangover from the heady heights of such an intimate moment. As you hear the scrape of his helmet on the shelf’s edge again, you panic a little and blurt out, “What’s your hair like?”

He freezes, and your panic swells for a different reason. Based on the comb you spotted on his dresser earlier, you’re confident you’re not asking a bald man to describe his hair, but perhaps it’s forbidden to ask.

“I-I mean, if I’m not allowed to know, then forget I asked. I just… now that I’ve felt your lips, it’s made me wonder about the rest. It’s fine if you can’t tell me, though.”

A few seconds later, the scrape of the helmet resumes, and he slides it into his grasp. But you don’t hear him put it on.

Din’s reply is a low whisper, and he sounds even more nervous than he was before you kissed. “You can’t see my face… but you can touch it. If you want.”

Oh. You wonder how many people have touched his face, which makes you hesitate. This feels more intimate than you should be getting right now. “Thank you. I think… just your hair today. I’ll explore the rest of you on our date, face included.” That promise wins you an eager hum.

Your hands remain buried in his cloak, so you slide one to the back of his neck and rake upward. A gasp escapes you as you feel soft strands, longer than you expected and curling slightly at the ends. You picture the cutest mess of unruly waves.

“Is it… what colour is it?” You’ve seen him without his gloves a few times – last night included – so you know his skin is a warm amber. But human genetics are so diverse that you can’t really assume anything about his hair based on that.

It takes a few seconds for him to answer, busy sighing in bliss and pressing his head into your palm like a tooka getting stroked. “Dark,” he replies simply. It’s unclear whether he’s hypnotised by your hand in his hair or he’s not used to disclosing details about himself. Both are fair excuses, and you have much more data than you did ten minutes ago either way. You’re convinced he’s gorgeous.

“Thank you, Din,” you offer as you force yourself to stop running your fingers through his silken waves and withdraw a step.

There’s a quiet rustle as he places his helmet back on and seals it. “You’re welcome.” It’s modulated again, but there’s something about hearing that metallic rasp that makes you smile. You just kissed the source of that sound.

With a muffled beep from his vambrace, the lights fade up again, revealing an impassive black T-visor. However, the armoured body below it somehow looks more relaxed and assured. Gone is the stiffness you felt in his limbs earlier, and though you wonder if a certain stiffness in his pants remains, you’re not about to start ogling him when you should be going home.

So you smile and suggest, “Walk me out?” and you’re rewarded with a nod.

When you exit the cabin for the second time in one morning, you feel like a different person. Though your foggy head throbs and your bruised shoulder smarts, your very essence sparkles with an energy you’ve never felt before. It flares with each lingering touch the Mandalorian bestows upon you, with every prolonged stare of his visor, and with his soft instruction to get home safe.

He’ll call you, he promises, slipping a new comlink into your hand.

When you exit the cabin for the second time in one morning, you feel like a better person. The girl who disgraced herself last night has gone, leaving a happier and more fulfilled version in her place. Even so, you’re sure glad that idiot version of yourself ran her mouth and became the catalyst for your new path with Din.

And you can’t wait to look down again. Maybe next time you’ll get to go down too.

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Get ready for more loquacious end notes…

Maia’s job was inspired by this scene from s3e5. She’s not a civil engineer, but, like, she could be that girl with the datapad – doing all the planning and building the holos while the engineer gets all the glory (can you tell I work in a support role??).

I originally wrote details at the end of part one of everything Din decided – that she must be attracted to him based on how she worded things, and that he’d talk to her to verify that and determine whether it was something she’d like to act on or just ignore. But I realised it was better for the story to leave his intentions a mystery (is the thing he ‘doesn’t want to have to do’ ejecting her from his life, or simply having a grownup conversation?), which hopefully lets you feel more of Maia’s fear here.

I feel like there’s a lot of scope for misunderstandings, not just because of Din’s helmet, but also because he can be socially awkward. So there he is, massively attracted to this girl who threw herself at him the night before but he doesn’t know what to say, so he just sort of gravitates towards her, tries to get close. Is he sort of flirting? Maybe. The ‘get in their personal space’ thing might work for him when he’s casually picking someone up. So his actions here are him trying to say with body language “I like you too, I want to get closer,” but she misunderstands because of her embarrassment, sees it as intimidation, and shies away – a response which makes him even more clueless about how to vocalise things.

I hope the switch from third person (she/her) pronouns in part 1 Din’s POV to second person (you/your) pronouns in part 2 Maia’s POV wasn’t too clunky. I know it’s popular in this fandom to use second-person pronouns (you/your) even when writing from a third person’s POV (Din’s), but I just can’t make myself do it. If he’s the one whose head we’re in, when he’s thinking about the woman he’s attracted to, he wouldn’t be thinking “damn, you’re hot”, he’d be thinking “damn, she’s hot”. I was taught that we should hear internal dialogue exactly as it would sound to the person thinking it, thus we should use third-person pronouns when inside his head. You/your is only for when we’re inside the reader’s head (second-person POV so second-person pronouns). And of course, I/me pronouns are used if we’re ever inside the author’s head (first person POV). I hope that explains the switch here. I swear I can’t help my annoying adherence to grammar rules – it’s just been drilled into me. I wish I could be more flexible sometimes, but unfortunately the autism always wins 😔

GIF made by me again, slightly less blurry this time.

Definitions: An ultrasound cleaner is basically a sonic toothbrush from Legends. Both Boba Fett and Jabba the Hutt kept a rancor as a rather scary pet. Caf, as you probably know, is the SWU’s coffee. Din (and Maia here) often calls Grogu a womp rat, a pest on Tatooine (proving Din has spent long enough there to pick up the local lingo, and Maia has picked it up from him). A tooka is an SWU cat.

As always, comments/kudos (AO3) and likes/reblogs (Tumblr) will inspire me to produce more things. I don’t have a Kofi because I would rather have your help marketing my stories than take your cash, so if you enjoy my work, please support me with kudos and reblogs. Thanks!

Honestly, I’m not altogether thrilled with this fic. I struggle with shorter (ha!) pieces because, as those of you who have read Be-All And Endor will know, I’m much more comfortable playing the long game and writing things where I can focus on character development, foreshadow future events, reference and call back concepts, and do a heck of a lot of worldbuilding. So to me, this feels like it lacks depth because it’s a very simple and straightforward concept that lacks a full-on conflict/resolution arc, and as a character study it’s nothing that hasn’t been done before. I’ve also been struggling to write something I felt was good enough to publish in the wake of Be-All. I don’t think this passes muster, but in the end, I realised I had to just post something – anything – simply to get past that fear of doing it. So I hope this was interesting enough to at least hold your attention! I suppose I could write a part 3 where they have their date and the smut happens, but to be honest, I have several other smutty fics in the works that have much better setups, so I think I should focus on those. I might come back to this one day, though.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

Tags requested…

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I tagged those below in part 1 due to interest in my series masterlist and WIP snippets (comments/reblogs). Nobody told me off for my audacity, so I’m hoping you’ll enjoy part 2 also…

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[duahauuoplanh]

stop bumping into things after you turn the light off.

[cherrykamado]

i love tanjiro.

[junovrsmp4]

three is not a crowd

OR

5 times Chris walks in on you and Matt fucking + 1 time he gets to join in on the fun

pairing: established!matt x reader, chris x reader, matt x reader x chris

summary: what it says on the tin basically

warnings: THREESOME, PURE FILTH, dick riding, oral (female & male receiving), teasing, edging, over-stimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, p in v, slight degradation/praising, slight angst, happy ending yay

word count: 6.9K

author’s note: im a whore for both of them. that is all. (also this has plot, and is mostly beta read but i havent slept in hrs so if some mistakes did slip thru my bad

1

“Hey Matt, have you seen my-” Chris begins to ask as he pushes Matt’s bedroom door open, expecting his brother to either be lazing around in bed or be at his desk, gaming.

What he doesn't expect is the sight he is instead greeted by, of you, Matt’s girlfriend of the last year and a half, astride Matt’s lap, riding his dick while he leans against his headboard, head thrown back and hands grabbing your hips, guiding you, slowly.

Chris is shocked, understandably, and he should just turn around and book it. Instead, he stands frozen, watching the way your head is nestled into the crook of Matt’s neck, your shoulders shaking. If Chris ignores the sound of his own pounding heart, he can almost hear the soft whimpers you’re letting out at each downward thrust of your hips.

At the sound of a soft, deep groan, Chris’ attention shifts to Matt, who has his eyes shut, and his bottom lip pinched between his teeth. There’s something surreal about this scene, seeing Matt, who looks nothing like Chris, but also looks the most like him, fucking this beautiful girl who’s been on his mind for months now.

“Matt…,” he hears you whine loudly against his brother’s neck, and Chris has to grit his teeth, fight against the urge to shove his hands into his pants and fist his growing erection. This shouldn't turn him on so much, hell, he shouldn't even be here right now. He should have run in the opposite direction as soon as he realized what he’d walked in on, but he’s mesmerized by the way you move, your back arching as your hips move back and forth. The slow, sensual, almost hypnotic, movements of your body as you ride Matt’s dick has him clenching his fists, nails digging into his palms and it’s easy to imagine him in Matt’s place as he gets this view of what it might look like to fuck you. Your moans grow louder, and Chris thinks it might be because you’re getting close, and god, he feels so hot underneath his skin.

“Shh baby, didn't you say we needed to be quiet?” Matt whispers against the side of your head. “Can’t have Chris hearing us, can we?”

At the sound of his name, Chris’ heart hammers faster, and he looks up at Matt’s face, only to see that his brother’s gaze was already on him, watching him with a slight smirk before thrusting his hips up, presumably driving his cock deeper into you, making you moan even louder than you already were.

Breaking out of his stupor, Chris stumbles backwards before hightailing it to his room, slamming the door behind him. It takes all of five seconds for him to get his cock out of his sweatpants, furiously jerking off as he leans against his door, biting into the hem of his t-shirt that he’d pulled up over his chest, and only another five seconds before he shoots his cum all over himself.

2

Chris knows its wrong, wanting his brother's girl. This was never a problem before, because any time he found out Matt liked someone, Chris immediately lost interest. It was the brothers’ code; they never fought over girls, and besides, they always just liked different ones.

You, though…it was hard not to like you, even after he found out Matt had his eyes on you.

Chris remembers the first time he met you, how nice you’d been to him and his brothers, how easily you’d fit into their lives. He’s not going to lie and say he’d wanted you right from the start. It was a gradual thing, slowly creeping up on him before he realized what had gotten him.

You just made him feel so comfortable, and surprisingly, the two of you had a lot in common. But then again, you had a lot in common with Matt, and Nick. And yet, you were so different. You were smart, playful, and so, so kind. You were just the right amount of goofy and serious, and you just, fit well into the dynamic Chris and his brothers shared.

It shouldn't have surprised him when Matt eventually told him and Nick that he was into you and planned to ask you out. It all happened so quickly after that. You and Matt had gotten together and, now you weren't just the new friend that Chris and his brothers were always hanging out with, but his brother's (his brother who was also his best friend, really) girlfriend.

Which is why Chris knows it’s fucked up. Wanting you. And he knows it’s even more fucked up that he wishes he could have a repeat of what happened a few weeks ago when he accidentally walked in on you and Matt. The amount of times he’s jacked off to that memory alone the past few nights is insane, his mind supplying images to create his own version of events where he doesn't run away.

Especially fucked up is the fact that Matt had seen him, had looked cocky that he’d caught Chris watching them, and even that fact hadn’t deterred Chris from chasing orgasm after orgasm to the thought of fucking you, imagining how tight and wet your pussy might be, what it might taste like.

Speaking of the fucker who seemed totally unfazed by recent events, Matt sat across Chris, scrolling through his phone, while Nick sat beside him, editing their latest video. Chris was trying his hardest not to flip the fuck out, but his whole nervous system seemed like it was fried. Nick had already yelled at him twice to stop moving so much because he was apparently jostling the table too much, and Matt had just let out a bemused chuckle without lifting his eyes from his phone the entire time.

Just as Chris was about to get up and retreat to him room, the doorbell rings, before Matt gets a series of texts.

“Oh, she’s here-” Matt says, before shooting out of his chair and rushing to great you at the front door.

“Hey, hey, hey!” your cheery voice rings through the hallway, as you and Matt make your way into the kitchen, and Chris almost chokes on the sip of Pepsi he’d just taken because holy fuck-

You were wearing a short, tight black dress that hugged the lines and curves of your body just right, the square neckline barely covering your chest. His eyes slipped further down to the way the fabric of the dress cinched at your waist, and to the slit at the side of the dress that came up to mid-thigh. That and the combination of tall strappy heels you had on made your legs look…really good. So good that Chris wishes he was between those legs, licking a path up your calf to your inner thighs, leaving bruising kisses to mar the smooth, unblemished skin of your legs, before finally, finally-

Nick hoots just then, exclaiming about how hot your fit looks, pulling Chris out of his daze. He watches as you bask in the compliments being showered onto you by both Nick and Matt now, and can't help but smile at the way you try to hide your blushing face.

So, it’s completely out of left field when he sees you again later that night, sitting on the couch with your hands covering your face but this time it’s to hide the loud moans that threaten to slip from your mouth as you watch Matt kneel in front of you, his mouth pressing kisses into your inner thighs…just like Chris had imagined doing earlier.

It’s ridiculous really, how Chris had been feeling slightly normal after dinner with you and his brothers, because as awkward as he may have been feeling about you and Matt, being around you and his brothers, having good food and just laughing about random shit made him feel really fucking good. Like everything was normal and he wasn't fantasizing about fucking his brother’s girlfriend. Like he hadn't accidentally walked in on them fucking.

Of course it’s just his fucking luck that as soon he’s feeling just that slightest bit of normalcy, he’d decided to go to the kitchen and grab a Pepsi from the fridge at 3 AM, only to find his brother about to eat you out on the couch.

“Matt-” you whine, as your back arches off the couch, one of your hands moving to grab Matt’s hair, the other trying and failing to hold back your moans. “Matt, please- nnggh- stop teasing.”

Chris feels all his blood rush down south and it leaves him lightheaded. The low lighting in the room accentuates the shadows of your body and he can see the muscles in your legs flex as your thighs clench around Matt’s head, trying to get him to move his mouth closer to where you want him. You’re not in the tight black dress he’d seen you in earlier, but in a blue baby tee and black lace-trimmed hipster briefs. There’s an almost imperceptible quiver that wracks through your entire body in anticipation for what’s to come.

Matt doesn't keep you waiting for long. Chris' breathing grows even more jagged as he watches Matt’s fingers push your panties to the side before he runs his tongue flat up your pussy. Chris can't see as much as he’d like to, but his overactive imagination does the job for him, imagining how wet you must be.

Chris feels like such a sick perv for still standing there, watching with wide eyes as Matt (his literal brother) enthusiastically licks and kisses your pussy, and he almost wonders how neither of you haven't noticed him yet. Then again, you and Matt seem so lost in each other, and now there’s another ugly thought circling Chris’ brain, one that makes his chest hurt a little.

He forgoes his Pepsi for the night and quietly returns back to his room, cock half-hard, and his heart just the slightest bit heavy.

3

“Alright, what’s going on with you?” Nick asks him, while his eyes are still fixed on his phone.

He and Chris were sitting on the couch (Chris had been avoiding the section that you and Matt had used during your late night rendezvous), and Chris was idly flipping through his Netflix watch list.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Chris says with a heavy sigh, slumping further into the couch.

It’s quiet, and the silence makes Chris look up at Nick, who was already looking at him with a curious frown.

“Seriously, what the fuck is up with you?” Nick asks, and he actually looks concerned, which throws Chris off a bit. “You’re usually bouncing off the walls and annoying the shit out of everyone in your nearest vicinity, but lately you've just been, I don't know- I’m like actually worried, did something happen? Is everything okay?”

Chris swallows around the lump that had formed in his throat and takes a minute. To do what, he doesn't know. It’s not like he’s going to prepare himself to tell Nick what he’d witnessed, twice, and how he was feeling about it. Really, how does one go about telling their triplet brother that they’d accidentally witnessed their other brother in an intimate situation with said brother’s partner, not once, but twice, and had enjoyed it, to the point of having nightly fantasies about it?

There were more complicated feelings lurking just under the surface, more than just Chris wanting to fuck you, but he did not have the mental bandwidth to unpack all that, so that was that. It’s not like he had honest to god feelings-

“See, at this point, you would’ve been yapping away-” Nick says, interrupting his train of thought, “-but instead, you’re just sitting there, looking all sad and miserable.”

“Okay, I don't look sad and miserable,” Chris says with a roll of his eyes. At least, he hopes he doesn't. “I’m just tired dude. Haven't been sleeping well lately.”

“Right.”

“What? It’s the truth.”

“Didn't say you were lying,” Nick says, matter-of-factually, in that signature Nick tone that lets everyone know when he isn't buying their bullshit.

“I’m fine,” Chris says slowly, waiting for Nick to stop looking at him so intensely.

“Sure,” Nick drawls out. “You’re also a shitty liar.”

“Fuck you,” Chris grumbles, chucking the TV remote at Nick, who flails to try and dodge it, letting out an indignant squawk when it bounces off his shoulder and falls to the ground.

This, of course, results in Nick throwing whatever was closest to him at Chris, which happens to be an empty water bottle, and eventually they're just chucking it back and forth, cursing at each other in between laughter.

It’s the most relaxed Chris has felt in weeks.

Too bad you had to walk in at that exact moment.

“Hey guys!” you say cheerily, plopping down on the couch, next to Chris. You’d stayed over for a couple of nights now, as you usually do, and Chris should be extremely used to your presence, except he feels his skin prickle as soon as your close to him, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating off of your skin.

“God, how are you so chipper every morning?” Nick asks, shaking his head with a poorly hidden smile.

You twirl a strand of your hair around your finger, and bit the corner of your bottom lip. “It helps that I wake up to one of the hottest guys ever, and then get to hang out with his hot as fuck brothers,” you say with a smirk, waggling your eyebrows at Nick.

Chris wishes you hadn't just said that because now his mind wanders (more like sprints) to the memory of this morning, when he’d walked past Matt’s open bedroom. He’d heard the telltale sounds of skin slapping against skin, and your voice, whining Matt’s name over and over, which had him stopping right before Matt’s door, eyes wide, mouth agape. This couldn't be happening right? There was no way he’d walked into this situation for a third time.

Chris debates on whether he should just turn back around, go downstairs, out the front door, and bash his head against a tree, or if he should soldier on and just walk past to get to his room.

The sounds were getting to him. His cock strained against his grey sweatpants, creating a very obvious tent. His clothes suddenly felt a size too small, the air around him too thick, and he felt sweat break out on his forehead. He should leave, run far, far away from his house probably, but a sick part of him wants more than anything to see what’s got you moaning this time.

He rounds the corner and is met with a sight that almost has him falling to his knees.

It’s unfair, how incredibly gorgeous you look straddling Matt’s thighs, bouncing on his dick rhythmically, your head thrown back. You’re leaning back on your hands, supported on Matt’s knees, and Chris watches the way your body undulates as you swivel your hips, ribs flaring as your chest heaves. Every gasp you let out is a punch to Chris’ gut, leaving him feeling winded.

You’re so lost in the throes of pleasure that you don't hear when Chris groans out loud, but he knows exactly when Matt hears him, because his head rolls lazily towards him, his hands that had been grabbing your hips tightening, and there’s little to no warning before Matt’s flipping you over and thrusting into you with vigor.

“Does that feel good baby?” Chris hears Matt ask, his voice rough and low. “Tell me how good my dick makes you feel.”

“Fuck, so good, Matt- please, please, please-” your moans turning into whimpers as Matt’s thrust pick up in pace. Chris can tell exactly when Matt hits the bundle of nerves inside you that has you seeing stars because your back arches off his bed, hands scrambling to find purchase. Your fingers clench into the pillow above your head, as you beg Matt to go harder, faster.

Chris’ eyes bounce back to Matt, who’s watching you in awe, and he’s seen that look on his face numerous times before, like Matt can't get enough of you. Chris’ breath hitches, because he wishes it was him, in Matt’s place. Him, worshiping you, making you feel good. He wishes he was the one that was ripping those sounds out of you.

He catches Matt’s eyes just then, and Chris has never wanted to punch him in the face more than he does in that moment, because it almost feels like he’s mocking Chris.

See what I have, what you so desperately want…

Chris holds up a middle finger, directed at Matt and whatever god was up there who’d clearly forsaken him. He had half the mind to just yell but the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass you. So with a scathing look at Matt, and a mouthed fuck you, he walks to his room, the sound of Matt’s laughter the last thing he hears before Chris angrily slams the door and sheds his clothes, pumping his cock to the memory of your voice.

It’s the hardest he’s cum all week.

4

Chris walks in on Matt pounding you against the wall leading to the garage. At this point, it had to be on purpose. The two of you had to be planning this, because how was it always Chris that ended up walking in on them, and not Nick? Knowing his brother, Nick would’ve gone around voicing his disgust at having caught you and Matt fucking, any chance he got.

So, it had to be on purpose.

Matt’s whispering dirty things in your ear, loud enough for Chris to hear every word.

“You’re so fucking pretty baby-”

“I want to ruin you, want you to feel me for days-”

“You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you?” and that has you letting out a particularly loud whine. The next bit Matt whispers into your ear is too inaudible for Chris to comprehend but he can tell how much it affects you, because you absolutely lose it just then.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

“Can y’all stick to fucking in Matt’s bed?”

At the sound of Chris’ voice, you look up at him, startled, and it’s electrifying, your stare. Chris sees your eyebrows furrow, your lips, plump from being bitten (by yourself, or Matt, who cares at this point), fall open. Matt’s shoulders stiffen for a second, so Chris knows he’s aware that Chris is right behind them, but the asshole just keeps fucking going. And you, you’re still staring.

“Chris-” you gasp, your nails digging into Matt’s shoulder. Chris thinks you’re going to push him away, scramble to pull yourself together.

You surprise him by pushing back down onto Matt’s cock with even more fervor, your hands moving up Matt’s neck to grab onto his hair, pulling hard.

Chris watches you cum on Matt’s cock for the first time that night, all while your eyes were locked on his.

5

Chris doesn't like being angry. He very rarely is. And usually, he gets over it really quick.

Which is why it’s shocking to everyone when he gets cold and hostile towards Matt seemingly out of nowhere, and the anger doesn't subside.

It gets in the way of their work. Filming becomes exhausting, and it leaves all three brothers feeling frustrated and annoyed at each other.

It’s in the middle of filming a new car video when it all goes to head. Nick and Matt had attempted to film a video, but Chris couldn’t hold back the jabs at Matt, interrupting him every time he spoke, insulting him for no reason whatsoever, which only made Matt retaliate just as hard.

“That’s it-” Nick yells, his hands pushing his hair out of his face in frustration. “I’ve fucking had it with you two. I’m getting the fuck out of this car and the two of you are going to stay in here and talk. Don’t even bother coming back in until you sort out whatever-” he gestures wildly between Matt and Chris, “-is going on with you two!”

And with that, Nick storms back into their house.

Chris stares out of the window with his arms crossed, seething. He can tell Matt is looking at him, can see part of his reflection on the window, but Chris isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking first.

Matt, much to Chris’ annoyance, was completely calm and collected.

“Chris-” Matt begins to say, but Chris just chucks his empty Pepsi can at him without looking. He hears it clatter against something (the steering wheel, he thinks), before dropping down onto the car floor with a dull thud.

Matt sighs, and Chris wants to yell, because Chris is the one that should be huffing and sighing, he’s the one that’s tired of all this bullshit.

“Are you trying to prove something?” Chris asks, because he never could stay quiet for too long. “Is that it? What the actual fuck Matt?”

Chris had fully turned to face Matt, who at least had the decency to look somewhat abashed now. His face was tinged pinked, and he was fiddling with his rings.

Chris continues. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but if you’re just trying to get me to see she’s your girl, I fucking get it, okay? You’ve made that really fucking clear. Did I say or do something to warrant this shit, because if you think I’m out to get her, I’m not, okay? Jesus- do you know how fucking insane-”

“She wants you bro.”

Chris blinks. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it.

“I used to catch her staring at you sometimes, and there were times she’d just keep scrolling through pictures of the two of us together- you and me, I mean- and…I don’t know, she’d have this look on her face.” Matt trails off. He looks at Chris, trying to gauge his reaction so far, but truth be told, Chris was still trying to process what Matt had initially said.

“What…?”

“Look, the two of us are happy together. I love her, she loves me, but I think she…” Matt coughs out, and it’s the first time since this whole thing has started that Chris has seen Matt this awkward. “She’s into you too. She never really told me, but it got pretty obvious after a while. And eventually, I- I started bringing you up, when we- um, yeah. She wants us both.”

Chris starts laughing. Because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Alright, good prank dude- I’m still so fucking mad at you but-”

“I’m not kidding, Chris.”

Right. Because why would Matt joke about something like this?

“Um…”

“Yeah…”

And that’s how Chris finds himself back in Matt’s room. You and Matt were sitting on his bed, albeit a little far apart, meanwhile Chris had taken a seat in Matt’s gaming chair. Chris almost wants to call the two of you out on the pure torture you’d put him through the past few weeks, but one look at your face has him abandoning that train of thought.

You look so…remorseful. You’re slightly curled in on yourself, like you’re bracing for some sort of attack, and Chris’ heart melts. The last thing he wants is for you to feel upset, so he tries to lighten the mood.

“So, do you just wanna see which one of us has the better dick or-?”

He smiles as you sputter, eyes wide as you finally look up at him.

“There we go,” Chris whispers. “You’re finally looking at me.”

“Chris…I’m so sorry,” you whisper, lips trembling. “God, this is so stupid, why did we decide to tell him-”

“Hey, hey-” Chris chides. “I think I’ve been kept in the dark long enough, actually. I just wish y’all hadn’t used such a weird ass fucking way to tell me.”

“Well, to be fair, she didn’t even know you’d seen us that first couple of times,”

“Oh, god-”

“-And, we kinda assumed you’d take the fucking hint or something.”

“Yeah, I thought the hint was ‘I know you wanna fuck my girl, so I’m gonna make sure you catch us fucking every chance we get so you stay the fuck away’,” Chris says with a raised brow, staring deadpan at Matt.

“Wait, what-” you start, but you’re interrupted by Matt.

“Yeah, he’s wanted to fuck you for a while too.”

And that's how Chris finds himself with a front row view of Matt fucking you, up close and personal. Matt has you on all fours, facing Chris, while he pounds into you from behind, hard and deep. Each thrust punches a high-pitched moan out of you, and Chris watches, enraptured by the way you take it.

Chris watches to his heart's content that night, no longer worried about getting caught, no longer stressed about wanting to fuck you.

Chris watches you fall apart in Matt's hands over and over, and all he can think about is when he can finally have his turn.

+ 1

They’d had to wait for the perfect moment, a night they could be sure none of them would be interrupted.

They'd been planning for this night for a few days now, and it was finally here.

Chris and Matt stand side-by-side in front of Matt’s bed, arms crossed over their chest as they watch you squirm in his bed, their combined attention making you nervous. They’re both barely dressed, Chris in a black tank top and grey sweatpants, the front of which were already tented from his hard dick, while Matt was just in his black boxers. The low lighting of the room made Matt’s rings glisten as he rubbed at the stubble that he’d slowly allowed to grow on his face.

“How are we feeling, baby?” Matt asks you, smirking at the way you visibly gulp. “You ready for us?”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, looking up at Chris through your lashes before nodding.

That’s all the cue he needs.

Chris stalks over to you, slowly, climbing over the bed and crawling over you, his hands landing on either side of your head as he holds himself above you. You lay back, your hair fanning around your head on the pillow, your eyes wide as you wait for Chris’ next move.

“Can I kiss you?” Chris asks, wetting his lips, and he doesn’t have to wait long for his answer. Your fingers thread through his hair, pulling at the strands close to his nape, bringing his lips onto yours. The kiss is heady, a wild mess of tongue and teeth, because you’d both been waiting for this, dying for it, and here it was, finally happening.

“Chris-” you gasp, open mouth sliding over the hot skin of his cheek as he lowers his head to the crook of your neck, biting harsh kisses into the skin there, before tracing his tongue across your jaw.

“Fuck, fuck- you smell so good, I need you so bad ma-” Chris blabbers, his brain-to-mouth filter long gone. He vaguely registers Matt settling onto the bed, leaning against the headboard, as Chris kisses a path down your body, laving every inch of skin he can access with nips and kisses. You arch your back as Chris circles one of your nipples with his tongue, sucking on it as he flicks the other. He alternates between kissing and nipping your nipples, all the while, you have an almost painful grip on his hair, pushing your chest harder into his face.

Matt watches your face intently, seeing the way your features scrunch up in pleasure, mouth wide open as you gasp and whine. There’s a small part of him that knows he shouldn’t be so okay with his own brother having his way with his girlfriend, but it’s almost like he gets a 4K view of what it might usually look like when Matt’s the one doing these things to you.

Chris continues his path downwards, fingers hooking into the sides of your panties and slowly, agonizingly slowly, pulling them off of you. Your legs instinctively squeeze shut when the cold air hits your wet core, but Chris’s hands gently pry them open, staring at you in wonder.

“You’re so fucking wet, fuck-” Chris groans, before licking a stripe up the seam where your thigh meets your crotch, so close to where you actually want his tongue.

“Please, please-” you whimper, pushing your hips up closer to his lips, feeling his hot breath fan over you pussy. You hear both him and Matt chuckle, before Chris has his mouth on you, licking the wetness gathered in your folds. All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the obscene sounds of Chris’s mouth as he eats you out like a man starving.

It’s almost too much, the way he’s sucking on your clit, before pushing his tongue into you, his face pushed deep, you’re sure he can’t breath. The pleasure builds, heat pooling low in your stomach. You feel Matt’s fingers brush against your forehead, pushing the hair that was starting to stick to it from all the sweat.

“You feel good baby?” Matt asks, tone soft, but his eyes glint dangerously. “One of us wasn’t enough for you, was it? You’re such a dirty girl, wanting me and my brother.”

You whine, head pushing against his thigh closest to your head. Chris laughs, pulling his head back to chime in.

“Greedy little slut, that’s what she is,” he says, cheeks rosy and face glistening from the nose down, his chin absolutely soaking wet. “You gonna cum soon ma?”

You don’t even know what you respond with, just that Chris goes back to eating you out, this time, bringing his fingers to your entrance, sliding one finger, then two, into your sopping wet cunt as he licks random paths across your folds, occasionally circling your clit and sucking on it harshly, all while thrusting his fingers in and out of you, causing you to buck your hips up wildly. Your orgasm, only the first one of the night, is fast approaching, and your thighs clench around Chris’ head. The only warning he gets is a sudden yell of his name before you gush all over his face.

“Did you just- did she just squirt?” Chris asks, eyes wide as he takes in the mess that you’d made. His face and neck were now fully wet, and there was a perfectly round wet spot right underneath you. His fingers flutter over your now slightly puffy pussy, watching your folds quiver.

“Fuck, it’s too much- Chris, wait,” you whine, hands moving to grab Chris’ wrist. He doesn’t stop with his ministrations though, fingers pumping in and out of you, prodding at the bundle of nerves inside you that caused your vision to white out. It was fast, intense, and Chris manages to pull a second orgasm out of you before you’d even managed to catch your breath from the first one.

Chris sits up on his knees, reaching his arms behind him and pulling his tank top off, throwing it behind him. He hooks his arms around your thighs before pulling you down the bed, closer to him, allowing Matt to slot himself behind you.

“Can you turn over for me ma?” Chris asks with a gentle pat against your hip. It takes some effort, your limbs feel loose and languid, but you manage to flip onto your stomach. Hands grab your face, tipping your head up, and you see your boyfriend looking at you with a smirk, tongue peeking out to run across his teeth.

“Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, voice like dripping honey with a hint of something razor-sharp. “This everything you imagined?”

“Yes- oh god, Matt- I need you, please-”

“You have me baby,” he coos. “You have me and Chris. That’s what you wanted, right? ‘Cause one dick was never enough to keep you satisfied.”

“Ngghh- please, please, I-” you whimper, mouthing at Matt’s dick through his boxers, startled when you feel a sudden smack against your ass, pain blossoming across your skin.

“If she’s already this cock dumb, I wonder how she’s gonna get when we actually get our dicks in her,” Chris wonders out loud with an amused huff, palming at your ass cheeks as he rubs his clothed dick against it.

You continue begging, your pussy soaking wet and clenching around nothing in anticipation for what’s to come, hips arching off the bed while your back dips low, shoulders tucked between Matt’s spread thighs as you lick him through the only piece of fabric that is keeping you from tasting him, from having his cock fill your mouth.

Chris smooths his palm down your back, making you arch your back even further, before he spreads your cheeks, seeing the way you twitch at being put on display.

“I think she’s waited long enough, hasn’t she?” Matt asks Chris, nodding his head slightly as if to tell Chris to get on with it. Chris doesn’t waste any time pushing his sweats down his thighs, freeing his cock. You turn your head back to try and peek at it from over your shoulder, but Matt has a firm hand on your head pushing you towards his crotch while he pulls his dick out of his boxers. With one hand holding the back of your head, and the other around his dick, Matt slaps it against your cheek, amused at the way you so desperately try and get him to guide his cock into your mouth instead.

Simultaneously, Chris is behind you, rubbing the tip of his dick through your folds, gathering the wetness there. Above you, you feel Matt lean towards his dresser, before rifling through the top drawer and chucking something at Chris. There’s a sound of a bottle cap clicking open, and lube being squeezed out, before you hear the squelch of it as Chris spreads it over his dick.

Later, you’ll think they must have planned this head of time, but both Matt and Chris decide to push their dicks into you at the same time, Matt feeding you his cock, pushing past your lips, applying gentle pressure to the back of your head, while Chris spreads your folds apart and drives his dick into you, the tip catching inside you for a moment, before he thrusts his hips and pushes his dick deeper into you.

“Look at that,” Chris says, smacking the palms of both his hands onto your cheeks at the same time, before kneading at them. “She takes dick really fucking well.”

“It’s like she’s made for it, isn’t she?”

Chris fucks you like he has all the time in the world, savoring the feeling of your pussy clenching around him, fascinated by the sight of his dick disappearing in you at every thrust. You stretch around him so beautifully, and you’re so fucking tight, he wonders how he managed to fit it all in you in one go.

At the other end, Matt watches you with soft affection as you suck on his cock, tears streaming down your face from the exertion on your body and minimal air supply. At every thrust of Chris’ hips, you would get pushed closer to Matt, which would push his dick deeper into your mouth, making you almost gag on it.

You have no concept of time anymore, or where your body starts and Chris’ and Matt’s end. You feel like one big mess of limbs, moving fluidly, with the common purpose of chasing your orgasm. You hear Matt’s groans getting louder above you, and you know he’s getting close. You’re not far behind yourself, but Chris still seems like he’s nowhere close to being done.

Pulling your mouth off of Matt’s cock, you circle your hand around the base of it, before stroking your hand up and down, twisting it around the head. You swipe your thumb across the slit at the top while you tongue at the underside of the head, all while looking up at Matt through hooded eyes.

“Cum on my face, Matt, please-” you beg, mouth slightly open, a line of spit connecting your tongue to his dick. Chris' thrusts are picking up, but you keep your elbows planted firmly on the bed below to keep yourself steady for Matt. There’s a tingle building low in your spine, but you focus on Matt, the way he looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. His hair is a mess, and his body is flushed. The hand he has on your head grips your hair tight, and the other joins your hand in pumping his dick. It only takes a few more seconds of that before Matt lets out a loud groan of your name, spurts of thick, hot cum landing across your face, and you close your eyes as it drips down your face, some of it landing on your tongue.

Matt leans back heavily against the headboard, and before you can register anything, you’re being flipped onto your back, face still covered in Matt’s cum. Your shoulders hit Matt’s chest as Chris crowds against you on the bed, his hands now on the back of your knees, pushing your legs back against your chest, before thrusting his dick back into you.

The sudden shift has you blinking back stars, and this new angle has Chris’ dick brushing against your sweet spot on every thrust, and all you can do is sob at the immense pleasure you feel. Matt circles his arms around you, one hand playing with one of your nipples, while the other moves down your stomach and edges closer to your clit. The tingling sensation grows, and grows, your hands scrambling to find purchase on Chris’ shoulders as he thrusts particularly deep into you before you finally snap, screaming as your third orgasm is ripped from you, the force of it pushing Chris’ cock out of you as you squirt all over him, yourself, and the bed, legs shaking uncontrollably.

You’re fully gasping and sobbing now, the intensity of your orgasm wracking through your whole body. You watch through hooded, teary eyes, as Chris leans over you, furiously stroking his cock as he soaks in the view of you, hot and messy, ruined because of him, before he too eventually reaches his orgasm, cum pulsing out of him and landing high on your chest, across your nipples, one spurt even hitting your chin.

The three of you are a heaping mess of limbs after, all basking in the afterglow of a night well spent, tired, but satiated. Matt and Chris lay on either side of you, stroking whatever part of your skin they can reach, occasionally batting each other’s hands away and pulling you closer to either side, like you’re not all squished together already.

“We should do that again sometime,” you say after a long beat of silence. Matt snorts, eyes closed, but the corners of his lips are quirked up in a small smile.

“Y’all are crazy if you think I’m never fucking you again after I just got a taste,” Chris states. “Besides, I think there’s a lot of lost time I need to make up for, hm?”

After that night, Chris gets to have his turn with you, over and over. Sometimes, Matt is present, and the brothers somehow always turn things into a competition of who can make you cum the quickest, who can make you cum multiple times, who can make you absolutely incoherent by the end of the night.

Now Chris had his own reason for always being so chipper in the morning. It helps that he finally gets to fuck the hottest girl he’s seen, who just happens to also be fucking his brother.

author’s note: i put too much fucking effort into an idea that essentially started as a joke, its gonna be so funny if this flops because i literally stayed up till 4 am twice in a row to write this lmao- anyways, let me know what you think! my inbox is open and waiting for your thoughts (: likes, comments and reblogs r much appreciated <3

taglist 🩵 (comment on my pinned post to be added or removed):

@luverboychris @bigbeefybitch @liz-stxrn @slut4chriss @sturniolosgirl @coochiedestroyer1 @kvtie444 @vschrissturn @hercigaretteblush @fwskullz @m4rriii @anabanana28 @sturniolosange1 @webbersturn @odeezier @johnniesrealwife @freshsturns @marlenafortuna @carolineheartsmatthew @incndescentglow @starniolosposts @urfavgirllyyyyy @mattsturniolosworld @lilyloveschris @sturniozo @lookingformyromeo @heartss4matthewq @lanasturniolo @ezziewinchester @s-s-842 @sturnlova @55sturn @chrisopeningabag

[affixjoy]

I finished my first ever watch of Star Trek: The Original Series last night and wow, what a journey.

I’ve loved all the Trek I’ve watched before, but for years I avoided TOS. I had watched a handful of episodes and not really been into it, and I didn’t want to deal with any sexism or racism or other remnants of the 60s. I bought into the Kirk Drift and thought he was an asshole, and I didn’t want to watch 79 episodes of an asshole.

But after finishing Lower Decks my husband and I decided to dive in and watch all of it. I expected to adore Spock and groan at the special effects. I expected to roll my eyes a lot.

Friends, I was so wrong. I am delighted by this series. There was plenty of things to roll my eyes at and cringe at and yeah there’s stuff that has aged poorly or maybe was bad from the start. But overall, what a joy to watch. It was so fun to see the origin of so many things in science fiction and Star Trek. The costumes and sets were fun to look at. The fighting scenes are sometimes goofy but fun to watch. So much of this show is FUN and you can tell they had a blast making it.

And yeah, I loved Spock. But Kirk, Kirk surprised me. He’s such a deeper and more interesting character than I realized before watching. He’s not really an asshole at all. He’s smart and sweet and a good leader. He loves and ship and his crew. As Spock would say, he’s fascinating.

I knew vaguely about K/S and the history of fanfiction but watching it it’s like…yeah. Of course. Of course these two are together. Of course they launched fandom as we know it. Of course people saw the way they looked at each other and knew they should be married.

If you haven’t watched it yet take this as your sign that you should give it a try. You probably don’t have to watch every episode. There are some real stinkers in there. But give it a try, go in with an open heart, and you might be as delighted by it as I am now.

[charliemwrites]

Mister(s) Steal Your Girl — part 3

(I seriously need to come up with an actual name for this series before it sets in)

Introducing his grand horniness- John “Soap” MacTavish

No Content Warnings

It’s been six, coming up on seven, dates with Kyle. A dwindling part of you feared that after the absolutely mind-blowing night you two shared, he’d ghost you or something.

But nope, the morning after was spent in one of his jumpers, receiving kisses and breakfast and tea. The two of you watched movies all day until he drove you home, kissing you at the door. He let you keep his jumper.

Not three days later, he invited you to a movie you’d both been excited to see, and giggled over the popcorn bowl like teenagers. He didn’t even mind that you leaned over to whisper during certain parts, or the ramble you went on afterwards. (When you apologized for overanalyzing and talking so much, he gave you a bizarre, almost offended look. “Don’t you dare stop,” he huffed, “you’re way better than radio. What did you think about that after credit scene?”)

A few days after that, he called with apologetic news.

“Being shipped out for a couple weeks. Shouldn’t be anything too dangerous, and I’ll call when I can,” he explained.

You told the nervous little twist in your gut that you knew this about him. That this is Kyle’s job, not a convenient excuse to ignore you.

“Stay safe regardless,” you murmured earnestly into the phone. “I‘ll… I’ll miss you, Kyle.”

“You’re getting the biggest hug when I get back, darlin’,” he promised.

He kept to it too. Called at odd hours sometimes - once during dinner with your fiance even. But Brandon is always taking random calls nowadays, so you figured, given the circumstances, it’s not such a big deal to excuse yourself either.

On the other end of the call, Kyle sounded a bit tired, but happy to talk to you. He couldn’t tell you anything about what he was doing, but shared some smaller, safer details. That the tea was shite because Soap kept over-steeping it. That his lieutenant was big enough to body slam him during sparring practice. That Captain Price wishes you well and promises to bring Kyle back in one piece.

You even heard one of his teammates in the background, asking Kyle if he was “chirping at his new bird.” Soap, as you found out. They sound like a good bunch.

When Kyle comes back, you offer to welcome him at his apartment. You bring a little plate of cookies and a pack of his favorite beer, hoping it’s not too much. But when he opens the door, his expression melts before he scoops you up in the big hug he promised.

“You’re a fuckin’ dream, ya know that?” he murmurs, tucking his face against your neck.

You spend the whole weekend with him, kissing at the stitched-up knife wound on his muscled arm. Otherwise, all in one piece.

“Would you… want to meet my mates sometime?” he asks as you’re getting dressed for work Monday morning.

“Of course,” you reply instantly. Realize that might be too eager. “If you want to introduce me, that is.”

“I want to show you off to the bloody Queen, babes.”

You giggle, crossing the room to drop a quick kiss on his lips. He tries to draw you in for something deeper, but you wiggle and swat at him, complaining that he’ll make you late.

It’s good, you think. Blissfully good. Honeymoon phase, maybe, but considering how far off your actual honeymoon is, you feel like you deserve this. Kyle is a wonderful partner - kind, attentive, respectful. He listens, he cares, he’s independent of you and respects your boundaries. Sometimes you can’t believe you were ever nervous about this open relationship thing in the first place.

On Wednesday of that same week, Kyle tells you that Soap is going to visit and is eager to meet you. He was thinking dinner and drinks, come back to Kyle’s apartment afterwards. You readily agree.

The next day, a bouquet comes in. It’s a beautiful, though not extravagant, arrangement. Calla lilies, roses, and hydrangeas. The note that comes with it says, “Wanted to make a good first impression in case Kyle told you lies.” It’s signed “Johnny.”

You send a picture to Kyle, amused and a bit endeared. It brightens the rest of your day so much that you barely notice Lucy’s usual snide comments.

On Friday night, Brandon is unexpectedly home. Usually he doesn’t even come home from work on Fridays anymore - or at least he didn’t before you met Kyle. Lately, you only pop in if you’ve forgotten something for your overnight bag. You had to stay late at the office today, though, and your apartment is closer than Kyle’s.

“Was thinking we could go out tonight,” he tells you.

“Oh,” you say, taken aback. Not just by the invitation, but by the mix of emotion in your gut. Some of it is excitement and relief, but not as much as you’d expect. It’s warring with unease and reluctance, a bit of frustration that now of all times he wants to reconnect.

“Um, raincheck?” you offer, smoothing down your dress. It’s a new one you picked out with Kyle; you’re hoping he (Kyle) will notice. “I have plans.”

Brandon’s brow furrows, smile going tight. “You can’t reschedule?”

God you hate confrontation and he knows that, doesn’t he? Why is he pushing?

“Well I don’t know when I’ll get to see them again,” you explain.

Suddenly the tension in his shoulders eases. “Oh, is it a few people then?”

“Just a couple. I’m meeting one of them for the first time.”

“Have fun then,” he says, fishing his phone from his pocket. Like you’re not even there anymore.

You blink, then your phone buzzes with a message from Kyle and you hurry out the door.

“I knew you’d look terrific in that dress,” he says as soon as he sees you.

Thoughts of Brandon, that strange interaction, and those churning feelings all disappear in an instant. Kyle just has a way of soothing you.

The restaurant is one that has quickly become one of your favorites with Kyle. Good food, good drinks, quiet and relaxed atmosphere. You like the funky artwork and squishy booths.

Soap (Johnny?) has already gotten your party a table, and stands as the two of you approach. You nearly stop right there, and then almost trip a bit as momentum urges you onwards. Manage not to make a fool of yourself, but you still boggle at him.

Because Kyle? You thought he was a fluke. Just too handsome to be real, never mind tall and fit and friendly and— well, anyway.

You thought he was a fluke.

But Soap/Johnny is goddamn handsome too! Trim stubble, pretty eyes behind thick lashes, a soft-looking Mohawk that gives him a boyish charm without seeming immature.

“There you two are, thought ye stood me up!” he greets, drawing Kyle into one of those friendly man-hugs with the shoulder pats that look like they hurt.

“Youre a cheap date anyway, MacTavish,” Kyle replies, gently easing you forward with a hand on the small of your back.

“Och, don’t bad mouth me in front of a lady,” Johnny/Soap complains, then turns his twinkling gaze to you and offers a hand. “John MacTavish, but this bampot calls me Soap.”

“Not Johnny?” you ask curiously.

You take his hand, find callouses similar to Kyle’s. But his palm is a bit broader, a scar along his thumb - from a burn it looks like. Just as warm, just as careful. A firm, but not tight shake.

“You can call me anything you like, lass,” he says. From the corner of your eye, you see Kyle choking back a laugh. Johnny it is, you figure.

“Wait ‘Soap’ is a callsign right?” you ask as Kyle herds you into the booth.

“Right-o,” Johnny replies, smiling.

“Does Kyle have one?”

The grin that he gives you would make the devil sweat. As it is, Kyle groans and shoots you a betrayed look.

“Oh does he, lass.”

You light up, grin right back. “Tell me?”

“As if I could say no to a pretty face like that!”

And so begins a long, warm, perfect night. Johnny is great company. Welcoming and friendly, quick to smile, sharp witted. You could sit all night listening to him and Kyle quip at each other, but they’re so careful to keep you included and engaged.

Johnny even offers you some of his chips when his order comes, and you’re too delighted to say no. Not that Kyle seems to mind, encouraging you to steal a couple for him since Johnny keeps whacking his hand away.

The night ends back at Kyle’s. You whip up another batch of cookies with some suspiciously new-looking baking ingredients. The boys keep you company while you work — Kyle mixes the batter when your arm gets tired and Johnny keeps your wine glass full. In the end, you let them each get a lick of the dough spoon.

Eventually, you move to the couch, climb on together. Kyle, for some reason, scooches you into the middle instead of one of the ends, but you don’t mind and neither does Johnny, it seems. They argue over a movie to put on, but it doesn’t matter because the three of you talk through most of it anyway.

The second movie is your pick, which is your downfall. You barely get halfway through before dozing off. End up stirring to muffled laughter and harsh whispering. You’ve slumped into Johnny, you realize, seeing Kyle’s broad smile.

“Oh,” you hum, trying to sit up. “‘M sorry…”

“You’re alright, lass,” Johnny murmurs, gently nudging you back down.

“Kyle?” you ask, yawning.

“Still watching the movie, sweetheart. You can go back to your nap. Soap’s nice and warm, yeah?”

You hum, snuggle in again. He is comfy. “So are you.”

Another quiet chuckle. “I know, love.”

He rouses you later — the movie must be over, you think blearily. Kyle scoops you up, plants a kiss on your cheek as you tuck in.

“Say good night to your teddy bear, baby.”

“‘Night, Johnny,” you mumble, nuzzling your face into Kyle’s neck.

“‘Night, bonnie.”

You wake first the next morning — rare and precious. Kyle is lying behind you snoring softly, arm around your waist. You wiggle around to watch his sleeping face for a minute, appreciating the peace in his features. Drop a whisper-soft kiss on his cheek and then slip out of bed.

He grumbles a bit, but you coo at him to go back to sleep and he subsides quickly. Once you’ve freshened up in the bathroom, you pad out to the living room. Johnny is up as well, watching tv on low volume with a coffee on his knee.

“Mornin’,” he says.

“Good morning,” you chirp back, continuing for the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” he observes, following.

“Slept well,” you reply, grinning. “Thanks in part to you. I hope that wasn’t uncomfortable.”

He ducks his head a bit, a light flush blooming across his ears and cheeks. “Nah, can’t complain about a pretty girl fallin’ asleep on me. Means I must have made a good impression, eh?”

“Oh! That reminds me - those flowers were gorgeous. Did you know calla lilies are my favorite?”

“Aye, Kyle’s been talkin’ about ya nonstop since ye met.”

It’s your turn to flush, and much brighter. You hurriedly turn to the cabinets.

“Well, thank you. I loved them.”

“Yeah? I’ll send you more then.”

Startled, you whip around on him, mouth stupidly open as you try to find a response. “You really don’t have to do that!”

“But what if I want to?”

And if you were struggling for words before, you’re hopeless now. So you just throw your hands up with a little “gah” sound and turn back to gathering ingredients.

“What are we making?” Johnny asks, taking mercy on you. Not that using that sly “we” isn’t devastating to your composure.

“My super special flapjack recipe,” you answer. “Could you get that big bowl down for me?”

He steps past you to do so while you dig out the measuring spoons from the dishwasher.

“If they’re as good as your cookies, then I’m gonna need extra PT after this weekend.”

“Good,” you reply, smug, “that’s my goal.”

“Dangerous woman.”

You snort, holding up a wooden spoon. “Oh yeah, I’m a real threat brandishing cooking utensils at a special ops guy.”

“Och, don’ sell yourself short - my nan used to be a menace with those things!”

Kyle exits the bedroom fifteen minutes later to the smell of cinnamon and his best friend with a face full of flour.

“…Do I even want to know?”

“Just be glad she’s on our side, Garrick.”

[ineffable-romantics]

Some thoughts on why and how I believe Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship would incorporate sex/why I do not read them as wholly asexual:

This is something I've seen the most discourse about in this fandom, and I've had a few thoughts of my own that I really wanted to expand upon in a full meta/character analysis post. I do understand that this can be a contentious topic, so first, let me clarify a few things:

First of all, this is going to be long. Tbh it probably won't be that organized either. I ramble and I'm not very good at editing, so just... you know. Be warned. (*Hi, it's me from 2 days after writing this; I'm really not kidding, it's LONG)

These are all my own thoughts. They might not be hot takes, because recently I've seen more than a few people come to the same conclusions on a lot of these points as I have. But I've also had these notes in my drafts for about a week and a half now, and have been continuously adding to it as things have occurred to me. This post is essentially just somewhere for me to collect the separate but related meta I've been kicking around in my head.

I fully respect anyone who does see and prefer an asexual reading of this relationship. These are my own thoughts and interpretations as someone who is not asexual. I am in the LGBT+ community, so while I do know a few things about the asexuality spectrum, I am by no means an expert.

This is NOT something I expect, need, or even necessarily want the show (or, God forbid, Neil's tumblr ask box) to address. Tonally, it's just not that kind of show. Newt and Anathema's sex scene was very much played for laughs, and it worked for that reason. If the show found a way to address it in a way that was both appropriate for the tone of the show and ultimately satisfying, then great! But there is so much more to this relationship than sex, and I didn't need a kiss to confirm their love, so I certainly don't need a sex scene. As immortal beings (as I assume they'll stay) there is so much of the rest of their lives we'll never get to see. You can headcanon them as asexual and potentially be right. I can headcanon them as not and be equally potentially right. Again, these are just a collection of my own thoughts, because I think the question of sexuality (or lack thereof) is just as interesting a facet of these characters as any other.

Note: Tbh I've been second-guessing this whole post and debated deleting the whole thing several times for being silly or unnecessary, bc I don't want anyone to think that this is the only thing I care about when it comes to this story/characters. But if nothing else, it's inspired me to write in a way that nothing has in a very long time, so I've decided it's worth continuing, if for no other reason than that.

This is going to be a mixed bag of textual reading, subtextual reading, and a full-on reach or two. It's been a while since I've been in an English class, but if my teachers expected me to find a deeper meaning behind blue curtains, you can expect me to read too deeply into the symbolism of a loaded rifle or an ox rib. (This is probably not what my professors had in mind when grading my literary analysis papers but oh well) My point is, if it feels like a reach, I'm as aware of it as you are. I am in no way saying that all (or even any) of my points made were deliberate on the part of Neil or the actors or the writers or the directors. I am no longer the delulu Apple Tree Yard child of my youth, I promise.

If anything said here is in any way offensive or hurtful to anyone in the asexual community, please do not hesitate to message me or comment and let me know exactly what it was. I promise you it is not my intention to do so, and am happy to clarify or outright edit anything that reads that way.

With all that being said, let's talk about why I think Crowley and Aziraphale would absolutely fuck nasty incorporate sex into their relationship.

Note: I am out of practice with essay writing, so I think I'll just go down the bullet points of notes I have been making, and expand on each as best I can

Food

Where better to start than with Aziraphale's introduction to Pleasures Of The Flesh? (Just a heads up, this entire post may feel very Aziraphale-heavy, and with good reason).

This might be the least hot take here. We've all seen the Job minisode. We've all seen That Scene.

Whether this was intentional or not, the symbolism here is off the charts. Eve was tempted by an apple. So why not go a similar route and tempt Aziraphale with another fruit, or cheese, or bread, or literally anything else for his first experience with food? Instead, we go with a huge, glistening slab of fresh meat that he proceeds to absolutely go feral upon, moaning and gasping into his meal while Crowley watches with what definitely doesn't look to be disgust or even satisfaction with a good temptation. There's surprise at the ferocity of Aziraphale's appetite, certainly. But ultimately he looks to be intensely fascinated by it, while the thunder crashes, the music crescendos, and the earth literally shakes around them.

(It's also interesting to note how very little it takes for Crowley to tempt him with the ox rib. One murmured suggestion, a bit of unwavering eye contact, and vavoom Aziraphale immediately meets him in the middle.)

Cut to Aziraphale devouring the rest of the meat with Crowley splayed back on a makeshift bed, drinking wine and continuing to watch him indulge through half-lidded eyes. Outside a thunderstorm rages while they're learning secrets about each other in warm flickering firelight. It's cosy, it's intimate, and if they'd thrown in a bearskin throw blanket, it might as well be a post-coital scene straight out of Game of Thrones.

The next time (chronologically) we see them discuss food is when Aziraphale "tempts" Crowley with oysters in Rome. So Crowley first tempts Aziraphale with meat and then Aziraphale tempts Crowley with what is widely regarded to be an aphrodisiac. Interesting.

And then chronologically after that, the Arrangement begins to form, which has always reeked of a friends with benefits situation. Just to throw that in there.

It's What Humans Do

In the very first episode, we're shown Gabriel's obvious disgust and bewilderment towards Aziraphale eating sushi, calling it "gross matter" and being proud of the fact that he does not sully his body with it. Aziraphale initially tries to defend his own enjoyment in it, before passing it off as something that humans do, as something he simply has to do in order to blend in (which we know very well is not the case).

He does this again in season 2, passing off Nina and Maggie being in love as "something humans do". But it isn't, is it? Angels are beings of love, and can sense it, and understand very well what it is... up to a point. Even romantic love is obviously within their wheelhouse, given what we now know happened between Gabriel and Beelzebub (we'll come back to them).

What the "humans do" that angels wouldn't understand is messy, physical forms of love.

But here's the thing: Aziraphale and Crowley love doing what the humans do. They love drinking, they (or at least Aziraphale) love eating. They love music. Crowley loves driving and sleeping and watching rom-coms and sitcoms. Aziraphale loves reading and doing magic and earning little licenses and certificates for achievement in his various hobbies. They love to playact at being human so much that they've stopped playacting and started building a genuinely human lifestyle for themselves and with each other.

Once together in an unambiguously romantic sense, why do we think they wouldn't also want to explore one of the most prominent, intimate, powerful human expressions of love and desire with each other?

Angels, Demons, & Asexuality

Here's where I really want to clarify that in no way do I mean that sex is necessary for a healthy, fulfilling, and loving romantic relationship, or that the lack of desire for sex makes you any less human. Asexuality is a sexuality as valid and human as any. What I would say is that it is definitely in the human minority compared to allosexuality.

Angels and demons, on the other hand, are predominately asexual. Sexless/genderless unless Making An Effort. (Which, btw, is a concept introduced as early as the original book; why even bring it up as a possibility? Why not keep angels/demons being sexless/asexual as a hard and fast rule, if not to open up the potential for later use? Chekhov's Effort, if you will. And isn't that something that Aziraphale in particular is shown to do time and time again? He makes an effort in French and driving and magic, doesn't he?)

And this is why I don't believe Aziraphale and Crowley necessarily need to be asexual, narratively. There is already a huge amount of ace rep within the angels and demons (and no, not just the horrible ones. Muriel also doesn't "drink the tea" and has no reason or desire thus far to Make An Effort, and there are certainly other angels and demons who aren't horrible like the archangels seem to be who likely wouldn't Make An Effort either).

The central conflict for Aziraphale and Crowley is that they are on their own side, the ones who went native, the ones who are so different in so many ways from their respective hives. It would make sense for them to also break away from traditional angel/demon asexuality.

I say "traditional angel/demon asexuality", because I would also like to note that I would absolutely not rule out demisexuality for either of them. This post is being written to as a response to people who specifically believe that they (like the rest of the angels/demons seem to be) would be sex-averse in a relationship, and that it wouldn't be a factor in their relationship. I could easily read them as demisexual, but I do think there would be no real way of verifying this, because they've never been able to form as close an emotional relationship with anyone else but each other. Certainly not in heaven, and I can't imagine they would be able to form that kind of attachment with any of the humans, who they love and emulate but ultimately regard as the separate species they are. So yes, they could either be allosexual or demisexual, in my opinion.

Then again, now that I think about it, Making An Effort itself could be a great metaphor for demisexuality, since they would be entirely sexless/asexual until they have enough of an emotional connection with someone to consciously manifest otherwise. Since the other angels and demons don't generally form those types of emotional connections with anyone, there hasn't been a precedent for it.

Except...

Brielzebub

We do have a precedent for it now, don't we? Gabriel and Beelzebub fell in love. They are a direct foil for Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship, speedrunning right through their courtship and finding their happily ever after on the other side of things.

For being such a 1 to 1 comparison, it feels deliberate that they did not kiss. They held hands, they were gooey with each other, but they did not kiss. That feels like such a deliberate thing to omit when you know what's to come at the end of the episode between Crowley and Aziraphale.

And going back to the food = sex metaphor for a moment, let's notice how even as they fell in love over the years, even when pints and crisps were there on the table in front of them, they never felt the desire to reach out for them. They didn't need to. It's a date (love story) even if you aren't eating dinner (sleeping together).

Yes, I know Jim liked hot chocolate. No, I am not counting it because I don't consider Jim and Gabriel to be the same person with the same proclivities, and Jim was highly suggestible at the time anyway.

Gabriel and Brielzebub's big happily ever after moment (as of now) was one between two asexual supernatural beings. They did not need to kiss to drive the point home. They showed what Crowley and Aziraphale could have, if they would only acknowledge it.

Crowley & Aziraphale's Dissatisfaction

But they do have that already, don't they? If you really think about it, what do Gabriel and Beelzebub do with each other that Crowley and Aziraphale don't already? They hold hands, they spend time together, they create little rituals, they give gifts, they're visibly and verbally affectionate with each other, etc. They are more or less already in a romantic asexual marriage relationship with each other, aren't they?

And it doesn't seem to be enough for either of them.

At the beginning of the season, Crowley is immediately shown to be unsatisfied with the way things are. Obviously part of it comes from living in his car, but it seems to be more than that (especially since Aziraphale makes it clear that the bookshop is just as much Crowley's as his, implying that he could have been living there the whole time and is choosing not to, for some reason?). You could argue he's feeling unmoored without Hell telling him what to do, but isn't that what he wanted? Isn't that what he still wants, by the end of the season? All season long, he's never indicated the desire for a new job, or a new project. He stopped the apocalypse because he wanted the freedom to openly spend time with Aziraphale, to spend his time on Earth however he sees fit. Until Gabriel arrives, he has exactly that (minus a flat).

So where does the dissatisfaction come from? And if it represents anything to do with his relationship, what does he want out of it that he isn't getting already?

I think Crowley only really comes to the realisation of what he's missing when Nina names it for him, not only putting them in the category of romantic, but physical (outright asking if they are sleeping together). These two posts [1], [2] go into more detail about what I mean, but I think it really pushes him into acknowledging that their relationship is more human than either of them have stopped to consider, and what that might mean as far as everything a human relationship can entail.

After all, Nina and Maggie only advised that he should talk to Aziraphale, make clear his feelings. The decision to kiss him, to tip them over the edge from nonphysical to physical, that was all him. And no, kissing isn't sex, but I wonder how taboo even that might be in the kind of all-encompassing asexuality most angels seem to identify with. (If they're disgusted by food and drink, I can only imagine what they think of snogging, much less sex.)

Aziraphale doesn't have this moment of someone observing their relationship from the outside. He loves Crowley, and as of 1941 probably even knows he's in love with him in a way that Crowley doesn't understand yet. Which makes sense, since love is technically his job, he'd be more likely to recognise it for what it is.

However, Aziraphale's reference for romance and relationships is Jane Austen. It's chaste. It's dancing and dinner and doing sweet things for each other and roses and candles and handholding. He contextualises his love for Crowley in that soft fantasy sort of way, where it's there, it's obviously there, but it's neat and easy and unspoken. Not to quote Glee in this, the year of our lord 2023, but it's all very "the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets".

Someone should tell that to Aziraphale's face, then.

I'm not going to pretend I know what Michael Sheen's script notes were, but there were definitely some Choices™ made. Because yes, there were plenty of moments in both seasons with Aziraphale looking at Crowley in a sweet, loving, smitten way. And then there were moments that were yearning.

But yearning for what, exactly? All of those sappy Jane Austen tropes already apply to the two of them. So why are there moments where Aziraphale is looking Crowley up and down like the last eclair in the window and licking his lips and visibly exhaling like he's trying to get in control of himself (see: Bastille scene + Crowley telling Muriel to ask him if they have any other questions about love)? Why is Aziraphale not only unconcerned when Crowley shoves him bodily up against a wall in s1, but staring at his lips and a beat too late in noticing Sister Mary's arrival? Why are some of his lines so suggestive? I'm sorry, but the car ride after the church explosion might as well have been the beginning of a Pizza Man porn with a really weird Blitz theme. If even my mother picked up on that vibe, I can't imagine it wasn't intentional on part of both the dialogue and the delivery.

(This section may feel like more of a reach/joke, but I'm really only 20% joking. These are writers and actors who are EXTREMELY good at their jobs; they know what they were doing here.)

More importantly, I don't think Aziraphale is even aware that there is more to what he wants. He lives in the Jane Austen fantasy and it never even occurs to him that he might be interested in anything further. It never even occurs to him that, as an angel, there is anything further to be interested in in the first place. Until Crowley forces it to occur to him. Just like I believe Nina forced Crowley to confront the idea that romantic love is what he's been feeling all along, I believe Crowley forced Aziraphale to confront the idea that physical intimacy is something he's been wanting, without even realising.

Aziraphale's Hedonism

Expanding on Aziraphale for a moment. We talked about his relationship with food, but we all know that Aziraphale is defined by his love of things that Feel Good.

It isn't just that he and Crowley love human things. Aziraphale loves the best of the best, or at least his version of it. He doesn't just love food, he loves going to fancy restaurants. He doesn't just love clothes, he loves soft, cosy, warm, plush clothes, or shiny, flashy, bougie fashion. He loves the warmth of tea and cocoa, loves getting drunk, and sitting in a comfy chair in the sunlight. He doesn't just experience, he indulges.

Given the emphasis put on things that Aziraphale loves just because they Feel Good, it feels narratively strange to assume that he wouldn't enjoy the feeling of being touched, or that he wouldn't be willing to try it, at least once, with someone he cared very deeply for. And just like the ox rib, I think that once he gets the first taste of things, he would absolutely tip over into complete and utter self-indulgence.

Dancing

I also think that dancing could be construed as a huge metaphor here. After all, we're told flat-out that angels don't Dance. Except one.

I would argue that Aziraphale, in fact, Made An Effort to learn how to Dance. He threw himself into the gavotte with delight (at a Victorian gay club; noted) and worked hard to be good at it. He's chomping at the bit to Dance with Crowley, working up the nerve to ask him with undeniably romantic intent and eagerness. So, angels don't Dance... unless they Make An Effort to do so.

We are told that demons, on the other hand, do Dance, but not well. Makes sense, since they're the ones who would want to encourage a deadly sin like lust, but have as little understanding of human love and physical intimacy as the angels. Crowley, however, is shown to be an excellent dancer at the ball, especially in his compatibility with Aziraphale.

(But Aziraphale WandaVisioned the ball so everyone knew how to dance! Yes, he did. However, the rest of the brainwashing doesn't seem to affect Crowley in any way, and they did actually live through the time period where this sort of dancing was a social norm; I'd be surprised if he never needed to learn. After all, the demons can't spell either, and Crowley is at least functionally literate, as far as we know.)

As of today, it's also been confirmed that when Aziraphale asked Crowley to dance, Crowley replied with "you don't dance." Not "WE don't dance". So going along with the metaphor, Crowley is just now discovering that Dancing is something Aziraphale is interested in at all, much less with him, and not denying that he himself is interested in Dancing. In his defense, I believe he was asleep for a few years while Aziraphale was learning the gavotte, so he wasn't exactly aware of Aziraphale's hot girl summer.

Love Languages

I want to expand on that; Crowley and Aziraphale's compatibility. Specifically in regards to their individual love languages.

We all know Crowley's love language is Acts of Service. I don't think there's any debate there. He loves it, Aziraphale loves it, they're both aware of it, we're all aware of it, God and Satan are aware of it, no surprise there.

You may disagree with me, but I believe Aziraphale's love language is Physical Touch, for a number of reasons. One of which being his aforementioned hedonism. Aziraphale likes things that Feel Good, remember? He likes soft clothes, and well-worn books. Neil himself has said that they like holding hands. And any time he is taken by surprise (Brielzebub getting together, the wave of love in Tadfield, etc.) what is the first thing he does? Reaches out for Crowley. He stops him with a hand to the chest in the pub. He leads him by the hand to the dance floor. He guides him by the waist in the graveyard. He reaches out during the entire Brielzebub scene, whether he can reach Crowley or not. Despite his own turmoil, he grasps at Crowley's back during the kiss.

The one time Crowley reaches out for him (not counting the kiss yet; we'll get there), he is aggressively pushed against a wall (by someone he loves and trusts) with a complete and utter lack of concern (and perhaps some interest, depending on how you read it).

And when he isn't reaching out for anyone, or there isn't anyone to reach out to? Well, he's wringing his own hands together, squeezing his own fingers, as if to find that physical comfort in himself.

So. With that theory in mind, we have Aziraphale (Physical Touch) + Crowley (Acts of Service). Throw in 6000+ years of deep love, cherished companionship, and forcibly repressed longing, and there is a very real potential of this combination resulting in fierce sexual compatibility. Where Aziraphale would want to touch and be touched, to indulge in physical pleasure with someone he adores, in the same the way he indulges in every other fine thing in his life. And where Crowley would want to indulge him in return, to give him everything he wants, and to take pleasure in Aziraphale's pleasure, in the same way he enjoys watching him take joy in food everything else.

So Aziraphale is an angel who is insecure about his own less-than-holy desires, who would want to treat Crowley like a luxury to be touched and cherished and adored. And Crowley is a demon who has, over the millennia, been unhappy about how they've been forced to deny even their friendship with each other, who would want Aziraphale to feel comfortable and safe and encouraged to indulge in earthly delights. That sounds like a stunning recipe for sexual compatibility to me.

"You said 'trust me'" / "And you did"

Just like the Job minisode, the Blitz is RIFE with symbolism (intentional or otherwise). This one will be quick, but I did want to touch on it because I thought it was interesting. Maybe I'm reaching at this point, but I'm assuming you read the tin.

First of all, Crowley not wanting to admit to never firing a gun before; comes off as someone who very much does not want to admit to their crush that they're a virgin ("You must have done this lots of times!" / "Umm.... yyyyyeah.")

(You could make the argument that Aziraphale having a firearms license and a Derringer in a hollowed-out book is symbolic of him not being a virgin while Crowley is. I disagree, for reasons I'll go into later, but it's a valid reading. However, I see it more like keeping a condom in your wallet; it's there in case you need it, but the opportunity has not yet risen no pun intended.)

More importantly, the theme of this entire minisode is trust. We already know they trust each other with their lives against the rest of Heaven, Hell, and the world. But specifically, this is about the importance of having complete trust in your partner in a charged, physically vulnerable, intimate moment, where the only danger is between the two of you.

Aziraphale needs to believe Crowley would never hurt him if he can help it. Crowley needs to trust Aziraphale's unwavering blind faith in him. Frankly, it all feels very symbolic of two people deeply in love losing their respective virginities with each other.

The trick is a success, and they share an intimate candlelit dinner in which they reaffirm their faith in each other. Aziraphale also begins to voice his agreement with Crowley, that maybe Heaven's rules shouldn't have to be as black and white as they are, and that there are benefits to... blurring the lines, shades of grey, wink wink (at which point even my mom was like, whoa guys, this is a family show).

Btw also: Can we all agree how much it looked like Crowley was getting ready to get a lapdance in that one scene? You know the one.

Also also: "Aim for my mouth"? Come on.

The Birds & The Bees

Now that I think of it, there's also something to be said for the fact that Crowley and Aziraphale are both obviously familiar with where babies come from (how they're made and how they're born) while the other angels aren't.

Something something Aziraphale and Crowley fundamentally understand sex and reproduction in a way the other angels (and probably demons) very much do not, nor have any desire to.

Probably not important. Just thought it was worth mentioning.

The Kiss™ & Religious Trauma

The Kiss. Where to even begin?

This has definitely been the hardest one to start, because there is so much going on here that I definitely won't be able to cover it all, and will certainly miss a few things here and there.

Aziraphale's reaction to the kiss afterwards is the most interesting to me. And I don't mean directly after, I don't mean the "I forgive you" part. I mean the way he touches his lips when Crowley is no longer in the room and he no longer needs to save face, when he is completely alone. Had it been directly after the kiss, it would have been rightfully read as horror, or disgust, a shield to discourage further action.

It's not. It isn't just a touch, it's a press. As desperate and angry and unexpected and imperfect as the kiss had been, Aziraphale is pressing it into himself, recreating the feeling as best he can. Beneath all the poor timing and shock and hurt from their fight and fallout, I think it's fair to say that it was something he enjoyed. Something he doesn't think he should enjoy, something that Feels Good that he only allows himself to indulge in when completely alone.

Remember, Aziraphale's idea of love is Jane Austen and gentleness and courtship and fantasy. If he'd ever even considered kissing an option, it might have been gentle pecks, cheek kisses, forehead kiss, hand kisses. Soft, safe, chaste affection.

Crowley's kiss turns all of that on its head. He introduces physical intimacy in a very real, very messy, very human way that I don't think Aziraphale ever even considered could apply to them. Considering what other angels are like and what they look down on, even Aziraphale's Jane Austen fantasies probably would have been considered taboo.

So for their first kiss to be rough and desperate and passionate in the way it was, of course he was confused and in shock. It was deeply physical, and as overwhelming and awful as it was in the moment, it Felt Good. Enough that he grasped at Crowley and kissed back, if only just for a moment, before stopping himself. Enough that he actively pressed it into his lips afterwards, in private, to remember.

I adore how Neil has decided to evolve these characters past the first book/season. More so in this season, Aziraphale and Crowley have both become such interesting allegories for queer people on either side of the spectrum of toxic religion. Aziraphale in particular obviously, because he is the side that so desperately wants to believe, to make a difference, and to unlearn all of the propaganda he's been fed over such a long time. Just like so much of organised religion, there is so much that he is told, time and time again, that he should not want, that he is silly or stupid or outright wrong for wanting. It reminds me so much of the severe Catholic guilt one might feel for wanting/engaging in sex for the first time, and the stigma of being queer layered on top of that.

What is so critical to Aziraphale's character is that he goes on wanting, and more than that, actively pursues. He was convinced to go up against Heaven and Hell and stop all of Armageddon because he wanted to go on listening to music and eating lunch and reading books and enjoying the simple company of the person he cares most deeply for, even if that person is supposed to be the enemy.

All this to say that if angels are as generally asexual/sex-averse as I believe them to be, narratively speaking, it would make sense for Aziraphale to be singular in that regard as well. Mirroring his first experience with food, it would make sense for Crowley to be the one to first introduce this new messy, physical, human dynamic between them, for Aziraphale to hesitate (obviously we are at the Hesitation phase at the moment), and then (eventually) for him to dive in wholeheartedly, to absolutely glut himself on this new thing that Feels Good. It would make sense for his character development to show him overcoming his metaphorical Catholic guilt and pursuing the sexual intimacy most (if not all) of the other angels would scorn.

(I can't help but remember that plot idea Neil described from the unwritten sequel, with Aziraphale in a hotel room trying to watch a full porno by way of the free 2-minute teaser clips so he wasn't technically sinning by paying for it. I so hope this is used in season 3, because gosh, I wonder why Aziraphale would suddenly be so interested in observing human physical intimacy after 6,000 years. Lonely and doing a little surreptitious research there, angel?)

Crowley, on the other hand, is the queer person who has broken free from his toxic religion. He prides himself on being his own person, on their his own side. He doesn't have the hang-ups Aziraphale does. He doesn't worry that he's going to be judged or cast aside for wanting things he's not supposed to. So it only makes sense for him to be the first one to suggest/initiate physical intimacy. It makes sense for him to be the one who "goes too fast" (another fantastic example of this dynamic beginning as early as s1; what is that conversation in the car meant to represent, if not Aziraphale being overwhelmed by the intensity of their relationship, and his fear of succumbing to it when he believes he shouldn't? It's also interesting that this is the first conversation to take place in Soho, just after watching Aziraphale realise he's caught feelings for a demon, with the red glow of lust serving as the backdrop).

Do I think the kiss in and of itself was sexual? No. I think it was a passionate and devastating last-ditch effort on Crowley's part to convey the way he feels for Aziraphale. Not just that he loves him, but that he loves him in the most human way possible. But I do think that the kiss represents how they can move forward from here, and what they might want to explore with each other once they feel free enough to do so.

In Conclusion

I am sure, deep in my bones (unless we are explicitly told otherwise), that this was both of their first kisses no, I'm not counting the gavotte, and that neither of them have ever thought to do anything else physical with the humans while they have been on Earth. Like I said before, they adore the human race and lifestyle in general, but ultimately view them as a separate species altogether, and they seem mostly happy to keep to themselves and each other, unless otherwise necessary. I just can't see either of them being drawn enough to a human to pursue anything close to sex. If Crowley in particular has had anything to do with sex in the context of temptations, I'm positive he would be inciting lust amongst the humans themselves, not involving himself directly. At least not that directly.

So, like every other human experience they've had on Earth, sex is something new that they could explore together, just the two of them, on their own side. A deeply intimate, tangible declaration of their love and everything they've gone through to earn it. A visceral finger to give both Heaven and Hell. A renewed appreciation for their corporations and for each other's. A enjoyable method for immortal beings to simply pass the time in each other's company. A new and exciting way to Feel Good, and all the variations that come with it.

You might agree with this post, or you might not. Whether this is something that is ever addressed or not, it doesn't matter to me. This is a brilliant love story either way, and I genuinely feel so privileged to witness it.

But I just can't find it in myself to imagine, given everything we know about these two characters, that sex isn't an experience they would both consume with wholehearted enthusiasm, curiosity, and profound, ineffable adoration.

___________________________________

Bonus feature: the very silly notes I made to myself that inspired this post

[seruadoric]

okay but ramming you headfirst w my brainrot but like jiyan(wuwa) probably a brat tamer right? tbh i cant really get into brat taming bc if my mans start being all mean to me i would /gen get upset esp in like the bed UNLESS its like done out of love. So like i can only imagine he ""brat"" tames his lover when they've done something he does not like and like i dont think jiyan is the type to get easily upset UNLESS you've like---say put yourself in harms way bc of him to like shield him from an attack or something then he'd fuck you meanly (after you've recovered obviously) anyways hello welcome to wuwa rot let us all go to hell amen

I HAVE SUCH A SOFT SPOT FOR JIYAN so many relationships/smut hcs for him 😔 afab!reader, slight voyeurism

personally, i don't see jiyan being too mean with you. rough as he is on the battlefield, he's much more tender and gentle with his companions.

but at times, he finds himself frustrated at your attempts to protect him ... he knows that you're coming from a good place, and that you really care for him — but he can fight for himself just fine.

so when he sees you injured for trying to shield him, his emotions just blow up ... ( nsfw under the cut )

"consider this your punishment." he growled into your ear, thick and girthy cock ramming into your cunt once more. pressing you up harder against the wall, he was not holding back. "i already told you i could handle myself out there, and you want to play hero?"

"look at yourself." whimpering and moaning against the wall, with jiyan's hand covering your mouth. you were a mess underneath him. "stay silent, or do you want someone else to hear you?" "j-jiya—" you managed to say, only for him to press himself harder inside you. "i told you to stay quiet."

another moan slips from your lips, and jiyan takes his hand off, instead exploring down your body. he felt your walls tightening around him, taking him in so good —

he groans, pushing himself deeper inside. "i'm close," he whispers in your ear, his cock throbbing against your womb. "do you want me to do it inside?"

with your nod, he plants his seed inside of your core, eliciting a loud moan from your lips. he gently pulls out, grabbing a cloth and cleaning the both of you up. "i hope you've learned your lesson, sweetheart." his demeanor was different than what you had just seen, as he placed a kiss on the corner of your lips. "... don't do that again."

this is highkey shitty 😭 i don't have much experience writing smut, so please forgive me if this wasn't as good ૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა this is actually my first time writing smut scenes, so eckkck 😿

i might also write this but for amab!reader ... but i need someone to tell me so, since i'm not so good at writing for amab 😓

[thewulf]

The Quiet Between || Azriel

Summary: Request -Hiyaaa loved your Az story. So freaking good. I had one in mind and wonder if you could write it? Maybe some deep Azriel and reader angst? I'm picturing a scene where Azriel, drowning under his duties and secrets snaps harshly at the reader, our newest healer at the Night Court when she gently suggests he talks about what’s weighing on him. His words sting, making her doubt her role at the court... Read Rest Here

A/N: Whew this was challenging to write but I really love how it turned out! Please let me know how you like it below. And as always, keep sending in your requests!

Pairing: Azriel x Female Reader (Dawn Court Reader)

Word Count: 6.2k +

TW: Mean Az, Harsh Words (soft ending!)

When Madja, the esteemed healer of the Night Court, realized the growing demands of her duties required an apprentice she petitioned the High Lord for permission to seek out a promising candidate. Her search led her to Dawn Court where your skills and unique approach to healing caught her attention. Impressed, as she often wasn’t, she offered you the chance to study under her. A chance to take over for her in a few hundred years. It was a proposition that both excited and terrified you. Normally you were more risk-averse but something within urged you not to let this opportunity slip by. Accepting the offer might be a decision you'd regret forever if declined.

Your arrival at the Night Court was a mix of awe and overwhelming pressure. You were acutely aware of the Court’s reputation with its warriors and schemers, and its dances of politics and power. Yet, as the years unfolded you found more than just acceptance. You found a place where you felt like you just might belong. Madja was an exacting teacher and under her guidance you thrived. Your skills became indispensable to the Night Court.

Mor, your favorite social butterfly, took it upon herself to integrate you into the Court's vibrant life. She invited you out with the girls to Rita's where the music and laughter helped weave you deeper into the fabric of Night Court society. Cassian with his easy grin and boundless energy offered to train you in physical defense. He said it was essential for everyone at the Court to know how to protect themselves. And even Rhysand himself showed you how to fortify your mental shields as a necessary skill amidst the intrigues that often played out around them.

Yet despite these warm inclusions, Azriel was the only one who kept a cautious distance. The shadowy spymaster was polite but reserved. He often watched you with a contemplative gaze that suggested he was trying to figure you out from a safe distance. His reluctance to engage was not overtly hostile but it was clear he held reservations. His own shadows clinging too tightly, perhaps, to allow another close. This delicate balance of respect and curiosity marked your interactions, or lack thereof, with the spymaster. You often caught glimpses of Azriel as his presence like a whisper in the vast halls of the Court. He was always just out of reach, both physically and emotionally. His aloofness didn't hinder your duties. But it did create a space of unanswered questions in your mind.

One cool evening in the Night Court the opportunity to bridge that distance between him presented itself unexpectedly. Azriel returned from a particularly grueling mission. His arrival unannounced except for the quiet clatter of his boots in the hallway of the healer's quarters. As he pushed open the door, the grimace etched across his face spoke volumes of the pain he was enduring, both visible and hidden beneath the surface.

You ushered him in, your professional demeanor in place yet your heart beating a tad faster with the realization that this was the closest you had ever been to him. His usually guarded expression was replaced with a rare, unguarded grimace of pain. It revealed a vulnerability he typically masked beneath layers of shadows and silence making you feel a touch uneasy.

"Let me help," you offered softly while guiding him to a seat where you could better assess his injuries. The proximity to him in this moment tending to his wound felt like an unspoken permission to finally address the silent questions that had lingered between you. It was an opening to understand the man who had so thoroughly perfected the art of being untouchable.

"Let's take a look at that," you murmur while taking his hand in yours. Your hands are steady and careful as you gently peel away the fabric near his wound. The cut isn't deep, but it's laced with poison, enough to have caused significant discomfort. “I’m sorry. This is going to sting.” You whispered as you rushed off to grab the needed supplies.

As you apply a soothing salve you notice Azriel's clenched jaw and the way his muscles tighten under your touch—not just from the sting of the wound. You've seen warriors in all states, and you recognize the signs of inner turmoil as clearly as physical injuries.

"Azriel," you start, your voice soft but firm, "even the strongest warriors can benefit from sharing their burdens. It doesn't make you weak to speak about what's weighing on your heart." You try and sound confident in your words, but it comes out as meek.

His reaction is immediate and sharp. It cut through the air like a freshly sharpened knife. Azriel's eyes snap up to meet your with a coldness in them that freezes you in place. "You think you have the right to offer me counsel?" he says with his voice low and biting. "You, who have barely seen a fraction of the darkness I have faced. Yet you presume to understand my duties, my sacrifices?"

You open your mouth to apologize. To clarify your intentions but he doesn't give you the chance. "No, don’t," he snaps. Cutting you off as your heart begins to sink. "Don’t patronize me with platitudes and naive compassion. You know nothing of the burdens I carry. Of the secrets that consume me. You see surface wounds and think to heal a soul scarred by centuries?" It was the most you had heard him speak and unfortunately for you those words made your heart nearly twist in two. Surely that wasn’t what you were trying to do.

Your eyes begin to burn. His words slicing through any defense you might have had. You look down instead focusing on the bandage. To hide the hurt that’s welling up, threatening to spill over. "I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

"Save your apologies," Azriel interrupts with a tone as harsh as a winter storm. "They mean nothing in the face of what I endure daily. You wish to help? Do so by not overstepping your bounds again." You drop his arm after finishing up removing the poison and sealing the cut. But he wasn’t done, no. You just wished he’d fly away instead of cutting you even deeper. You had no intention of offending him yet here he was, hurt by your very own words. You’d never truly felt like a helpless child in all your centuries until this very moment.

As he continues his words grow even colder, each one a deliberate stake right into your very own heart. "Understand this, healer. My life, my pains are not fodder for idle chatter or curious minds seeking to 'fix' what they perceive as broken. You cannot begin to comprehend the wars I fight within the shadows. Wars meant to protect you and everyone else here from horrors you should hope never to encounter." His words were final, offering you no chance at rebuttal. Not that you would have been able to find the words. Your mind was racing in horror about what had just transpired in your very own healing hall. You, the one who was meant to mend broken souls might’ve just torn his right back open.

He stands abruptly with his wound tended but the air around him colder than the stone walls of the court. His departure is swift, leaving a wake of silence so deep it echoes through the chamber. You're left alone with the sting of his rebuke more painful than any physical wound you've treated. His words replay in your mind as a harsh reminder of the chasm between his world of shadows and your desire to heal. Guilt begins to consume you as you replay the words that struck you so hardly in your mind.

The room feels overwhelmingly empty as you struggle to compose yourself. The impact of his dismissal weighing heavily on your heart. You realize that healing Azriel might be beyond your reach. Not for lack of skill, but because the wounds he carries are far deeper and more complex than you ever imagined. Perplexed and deeply hurt you find yourself grappling with a tumult of emotions. Confusion is the first to surface. You had approached the situation with genuine concern. Your offer to listen driven by the empathy that defines your role as a healer. His aggressive response, then, feels like an undeserved refusal. A dismissal not just of your words but of your very intent.

You replay the conversation in your mind, dissecting each exchange, each barbed word. His accusation that you, nestled in your world of herbs and healing, could never understand the scope of his darkness stings sharply. It's true though you realize. That the depths of his secrets are beyond your grasp. This acknowledgment doesn't ease the sting of rejection. If anything, it deepens the wound. You had not claimed to understand. You only wanted to listen. And yet, he had cut you off, leaving no room for reconciliation.

As the initial shock fades, a deeper, more persistent ache settles in. You're hurt. Undeniably so. Hurt by his insinuation that your attempts at comfort were trivial, naive even. Does he truly see you as just another court member? As just a healer? Naive to the true workings of his world? The thought is disheartening, and you feel a profound sense of isolation creeping in. A sense that perhaps you are out of your depth in this court of shadows and secrets. Perhaps your mother was right. You weren’t built for the Night Court. You had a wonderful, easy life in Dawn. She had even picked out a high-ranking husband for you that would’ve provided and kept you safe. Her nagging words pricked at the back of your mind as the last five years here almost fell all for nothing. Five years was no time in the world of fae, you knew this. You were still the new healer, but you had thought that maybe you were finally finding your footing here. But then again maybe you were wrong.

Yet, beyond the hurt and confusion there's also a glimmer of resolve. You're a healer, trained not only to mend wounds but to understand the people you treat. Azriel's outburst, though harsh, reveals more than his disdain. It highlights his immense burden. His profound isolation. Perhaps your approach was too direct. Too unguarded for someone so accustomed to concealing his emotions.

As you clean up the space a quiet resolution forms in your mind. You won't push him again, no, not without invitation. The sting of his words lingers, and you decide that perhaps the best way to handle this is to give him the space he seems to fiercely guard. He may have dismissed your concern today but it's clear that what he desires most is distance. Not the compassion you offered. In this moment of reflection, you recognize the complexity of healing. It’s not just about tending to visible wounds. It’s also about understanding when to step back. Recognizing that some scars are too deeply etched to be approached without consent. Azriel has his walls, high and fortified. And you, you decide, will no longer attempt to scale them. Instead, you resolve to avoid him, believing that distancing yourself is the kindest thing you can do for him right now.

This decision doesn't come easy. You're a healer, trained to offer solace and aid to those in pain. Yet, in this case, the healing you want to provide is not welcomed or perhaps even needed in the way you thought. You accept that sometimes healing means stepping back. It means allowing wounds to close in the solitude they were opened in. Maybe with time he will seek you out if ever he feels ready to lower his guard. Until then you'll focus on those who welcome your help carrying with you the lesson that sometimes the best way to care for someone is simply to let them be.

After the confrontation in the healing room the atmosphere at the Night Court seemed to shift becoming dense with an unspoken tension that hung heavily in the air. Azriel quickly became burdened by the discomfort of his own harshness. It wasn’t often but he felt an acute sting of regret. His words, sharper and colder than he had intended, replayed relentlessly in his mind. Each sentence an echo of a reminder of the pain he had inflicted on somebody so kind.

Late into the night he found himself wandering the quieter corridors of the court trying to clear his mind.. The stone beneath his feet was cold and unyielding much like the mask he wore so well. With each step he attempted to outpace his regret, but solitude brought no relief. The memory of the genuine shock and sadness in your eyes haunted him. A vivid image that refused to fade into the shadows where he so often retreated.

Why had he lashed out? Azriel questioned himself. His normally composed thoughts unraveling with unusual disorder. He knew the stress of his duties as the spymaster often left him on edge, a blade perpetually sharpened and ready. Yet, it was more than just the strain of his role. It was the fear of vulnerability. Of opening those darker parts of himself he fought so hard to control. Seeing your concern, so innocent and genuine, had somehow threatened the walls he had meticulously built around his emotions for centuries. He couldn’t become undone by your one simple question.

He hated himself for how he had responded to you. How his instinct to protect his inner turmoil had manifested as cruelty towards you. The more he thought about it the more he despised the part of himself that had become so adept at pushing others away, especially those who dared to care.

As Azriel continued his nocturnal wanderings the shadows around him seemed to whisper of solitude and sorrow. Yet, it was the sorrow in your eyes that lingered most prominently in his mind. He realized then that his actions might not only have hurt you but could also have damaged whatever budding respect or friendship could have grown between you. This thought tightened the already constricting band around his chest. He had messed up badly and he knew it. His shadows knew it.

Resolving to seek redemption, not just for his peace but to mend the fracture he had caused, Azriel decided he would apologize to you. He needed to explain to you. To make you understand that his outburst wasn’t a reflection of his feelings towards you but a misguided defense against his own insecurities.

His journey through the night didn’t erase his regrets, but it solidified his resolve. He would try to bridge the gap his words had created hoping that you would understand and perhaps forgive. In the quiet before dawn Azriel finally stopped walking, the decision firm in his mind. Tomorrow, he would face you again, not as the Night Court's daunting spymaster, but simply as Azriel… imperfect and remorseful.

As he moved silently past the gardens the moonlight cast a serene glow over the night-blooming flowers illuminating the path with a ghostly light. Drawn by the soft, muffled sounds of distress his shadows unconsciously steered him towards a secluded alcove hidden by tendrils of ivy and the long shadows of the towering trees. It was unmistakably you. His heart tightened as he approached. Driven by a mix of concern and a need to understand the impact of his earlier harshness.

There in the dim light, he found you seated on a small bench. You were not alone, but with one of the younger assistants from the healer's quarters he had recognized. The assistant, whom you often mentored, sat beside you with a hand on your shoulder. Her presence meant to support you as you struggled with a flood of emotions.

"I don’t know any more Helena. Maybe I just don't belong here," you whispered between sobs. Your voice shaky with uncertainty. Tears streamed down your cheeks unrestrained after holding them back for so long. Azriel's words had not just stung. They had acted as a dam break, releasing all the pent-up doubts and fears you had about your place in this illustrious court. "I keep thinking maybe I should just go back to Dawn. My very own mother always said I was chasing a fantasy coming here. Maybe she's right. Maybe a quieter life away from all this would be better for me. Maybe I’m not cut out for the Night Court."

The young assistant, Helena, looked up to you not only for your healing skills but also for your kindness and leadership. She listened intently. Her expression one of deep empathy and concern. "You can't think that way," she responded softly. Her voice earnest. "Everyone here, especially Madja, respects you so much. Cassian, Mor, even Rhysand—they all see how much you bring to our home. It's not just you’re healing. It's your spirit. You're meant to be here with us. Please don’t think like that. I’ve learned more than I ever thought possible from you. We need you here."

Her comforting words were meant to bolster your spirits, but the reassurance felt hollow against the backdrop of your raw emotions. Despite her encouraging tone, the doubts seeded by Azriel's harsh outburst lingered. They tainted your thoughts with shadows of uncertainty about your place in this world you had grown to love yet still sometimes felt alien in.

Azriel was hidden just out of sight. He felt a deep pang of regret as he listened. The raw pain in your voice and the sight of your tears struck him more profoundly than he had ever expected. He realized then that his careless words had cut far deeper than he had intended, not just challenging your confidence but piercing the very core of your sense of belonging. Knowing that an apology would be necessary but not sufficient, Azriel resolved to actively show that you were valued and essential. Not just as a healer but as a vital member of their community. His thoughts solidified in the quiet of the night. He would make amends, starting with a heartfelt apology and followed by actions that would hopefully restore your faith in your place at the Night Court.

It was an ordinary yet busy day in the healer's quarters of the Night Court. You were deeply focused on tending to a young fae warrior who had sustained a minor but painful injury during training. As you carefully applied a healing salve the sound of urgent voices and heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"He needs help now!" Azriel's voice carried a tone of dire urgency as he burst into the room. He was supporting a limping Cassian whose leg was bleeding profusely from a deep gash surely laced with poison. These damn Illyrians always coming back with some form of poisoned injury. The sight of such an injury would normally have you on your feet and rushing over. But the presence of Azriel, the harbinger of your recent heartache, gave you pause.

For a split second your gaze met Azriel's and the memory of his harsh words and cold dismissal surged through your mind. You looked away as quickly as you could. Your chest immediately tightened with anxiety at the thought of what to do. It wasn’t fair to Cassian to ignore him, but you didn’t think you could face Azriel right now. Terrified of another confrontation and still raw from the last you quickly turned your attention back to the young fae before you.

"This one's in a critical state, I need to focus here. Helena, please attend to the General." you called out your voice slightly louder than necessary. The lie laid bitter on your tongue. It wasn't entirely untrue. His injury did need attention, but it certainly wasn't as dire as Cassian's condition.

Helena, who had followed in behind Azriel and Cassian, quickly stepped forward to assist, sensing the tension. "I've got him, don't worry," she spoke as she moved to tend to Cassian with a swift efficiency that you were grateful for.

As you focused intently on the young fae's injury with your back turned to the drama unfolding behind you, you heard every strained whisper and shuffling footstep echoed ominously. Despite your efforts to concentrate your mind spun with anxiety and dread. You knew your actions were a protective shield guarding you from a confrontation you felt unprepared to handle.

Behind you, Azriel's concern for Cassian was palpable. His usual stoic demeanor was pierced by urgency. His voice a low, constant murmur as he assisted your assistant. Yet, his mind was partly on you. He was troubled by the palpable tension and the rigid set of your shoulders. The memory of his previous harshness towards you weighed heavily on him, mixing regret with a newfound caution. He wondered if his actions had broken something essential. Perhaps fearing that your trust in him might be irreparably damaged.

Cassian, despite his pain noticed the strained dynamics as well. As your assistant worked on his wound his eyes flicked towards you, then back to Azriel. "What happened between you two?" he hissed under his breath not missing the unusual distance you kept. Azriel's silence was an answer in itself. It was filled with remorse and resignation. Cassian's frown deepened. Concern for his friends overshadowing his physical discomfort. "You need to fix this, Az," he muttered, firm yet worried. "She’s not just any healer. She’s part of this family now. She’s going to replace Madja someday."

Once the immediate crisis was handled and Cassian was stable Azriel made his way towards you. His steps were hesitant, each one heavy with regret. When he paused by your side his presence felt like a cold shadow. His usual warmth for his family became obscured by the barrier that had formed between you.

"Thank you," he said softly. His voice low and perhaps understanding more than you wanted him to. "For all that you do here." You sucked in a breath at his words. Was he apologizing? Was he sorry? Were you completely misreading the situation yet again?

You didn't turn to face him. Fear of what you might see in his eyes—anger, disappointment, or worse, indifference—kept you fixed in place. "Of course," you managed to whisper. The words barely escaping your lips. He sensed that this wasn’t the time nor place to dig deeper so he resolved to keep his words simple. He would find you later when you weren’t busy working. He truly needed to apologize to you.

After he left the weight of the encounter settled heavily upon you. You felt a mix of relief at having avoided direct confrontation and a deep-seated guilt for your evasion. You knew this wasn't just about professional duties. It was about the fractures within a team, a family you had grown to cherish.

Later, as the healer’s quarters quieted and the evening settled in, Cassian found you in the gardens, where the night’s cool air seemed to echo the chill in your own thoughts. It was your favorite place to relax and unwind. Your sanctuary in the chaos that was the Night Court. He approached with a confident stride despite his recent injury and his expression was serious.

"Hey," he started. His voice carrying a hint of his usual directness mixed with concern. "Things were off between you and Az today. He’s worried, and frankly, so am I. We’ve all had our rough patches, but we don’t let that drive a wedge between us. Yeah?"

You paused, looking down at your growing herbs rather than meeting his gaze. You let out a soft sigh before answering him. "I’m just scared, Cass. I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing again. It’s like... I’m tiptoeing around landmines with him. How do I even start to fix that?"

Cassian nodded. His features softening slightly. "Az can be intense. I won’t argue with that. But he’s also one of the most upright guys I know. Just be honest with him. Tell him you’re trying to avoid making things worse. He respects straightforwardness. Always has." He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "And remember, it’s not just about avoiding the landmines. It’s about clearing the field. Start with the truth. It’s always been the best foundation for us here, no matter how hard it might be."

You nodded appreciating his words. He was right. The truth got you so much further. "Thanks, Cass," you replied feeling a resolve begin to form. "I think I’ll talk to him. Just lay everything out."

"That’s the way," Cassian said with a brief nod. "We’re all here together, and we keep no secrets... save Azriel,” He smirked knowing that’s likely what got the two of you in the situation in the first place. “At least not the kind that hurt. If you're honest, he’ll listen. And if there’s anyone who can understand the value of facing hard truths, it’s Azriel."

As Cassian left you to your thoughts the weight on your shoulders didn't lift entirely but you felt more prepared to face the challenge ahead. Honesty would be your approach; you would share your fears with Azriel, hoping that it would bridge the gap between you. After all, in the Night Court, even the darkest shadows were faced together, not alone.

The next night you found yourself back in the serene confines of your herb garden where the evening light softened the edges of each leaf and petal. You were deeply absorbed in tending to a cluster of chamomile. The quiet focus on your plants provided a necessary reprieve from the swirling anxieties that had occupied your thoughts lately. However, your calm shattered when a shadow loomed unexpectedly over you. Azriel.

Startled, you looked up, only to find him standing there watching you with a curiosity you’d never seen from him before. His sudden presence was imposing and unexpectedly close and sent a rush of panic through you. His height and the intensity in his eyes seemed to fill the space making the air around you feel thinner.

"Oh! Azriel, you surprised me! I didn’t hear you walk over," you blurted out. A nervous chuckle escaping you as you hastily tried to gather your scattered wits. "I was just, um, focusing here, and—you know, plants don’t really talk back, so I guess I wasn't expecting any company."

He paused after noting your discomfort. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you," he said gently. His voice a soothing rumble. "I came to apologize. For the last time we spoke. I was too harsh. It was unfair to you."

Your response tumbled out in a rush. Your words tripping over each other. "No, no, it’s fine, really. I mean, not fine fine, but you know… I should’ve been more aware or something. I’m usually not this jumpy, I swear. Maybe a little—actually, maybe a lot right now because, well, you're kind of, um, imposing? And this wasn’t how I imagined our next conversation going..."

Azriel’s slight smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it did appear to carry a hint of amusement at your rambling. "I appreciate you saying that, but truly, I am the one who should be apologizing. I’ve thought a lot about what I said... and I regret it deeply. You didn’t deserve that." He took another step toward you as you stood.

You swallowed hard trying to steady your racing heart. "Why are you apologizing now?" you managed to ask feeling suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. The question felt bold, but your voice was anything but confident.

He took a slight step back giving you a bit more space. "Because I realized I might have made you feel unwelcome or undervalued here and that’s… that’s the last thing I want. We all need to support each other, and I failed in that moment. I want to make it right if you’ll let me."

Your mind raced with every thought, but you nodded feeling a mix of apprehension and relief. "I... yeah, I’d like that. I’ve been feeling a bit lost here. Like maybe I don’t belong. It’s been tough, and, well, your words stung. But maybe, I don’t know, maybe we can start over? Try to understand each other a bit more?" As you offered him a tentative smile the garden seemed to return to its peaceful state. The earlier tension dissipating slightly.

Azriel’s gaze softened with a rare flicker of amusement lighting his eyes as he noticed your unease. "You handle the complexities of healing with such ease," he commented with a slight tease in his voice, "yet you seem quite disarmed by a rather simple conversation."

You gave a small self-conscious laugh appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood. "Well, it's one thing to deal with herbs and potions. They tend not to talk back. It's another to navigate apologies and emotions. Especially with someone who usually keeps his cards so close to his chest."

He smiled and it transformed his face, softening the usual stern lines. "Fair enough," he conceded. Then, his expression turned more serious. The playful glint replaced by a depth of sincerity. "I really am sorry, though. For everything. I know I keep saying it, but it’s because I mean it. I’ve been... difficult towards you these last few years. And I don’t want to burden you with the things I’ve carried. Of the decisions I've had to make. It’s not your weight to bear."

You listened, understanding dawning as you saw the heavy cloak of responsibility he wore. Something that was so integral to his identity yet so isolating. "Maybe not," you replied softly, "but sharing those burdens doesn’t mean you're passing them on. It just means you’re not alone with them anymore. We can share without it being a burden. Sometimes, sharing is how we heal."

Azriel looked at you with something like wonder flickering in his gaze. "I suppose you’re right," he admitted. "It’s just not easy for me. I’ve always thought keeping my troubles to myself was a way to protect others. But maybe... maybe I’ve been wrong about that." The conversation deepened as each of you explored the nuances of forgiveness and the strength found in mutual understanding and empathy. Azriel learned about the power of vulnerability. Not as a spymaster but as a man. And he saw how your empathy and gentle nature enriched the court in ways that strategy and strength could not.

"I've kept many secrets," Azriel confessed. His voice a soft murmur against the backdrop of rustling leaves. "Not because I enjoy the solitude but because I fear the consequences of those secrets unraveling."

"You don’t have to tell me everything," you assured him. "Just knowing that you trust me enough to admit you have these secrets is a step. We all have secrets Azriel. What matters is how we face them and who stands with us when we do."

Azriel nodded. The corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiled. A real smile that reached his eyes. "Thank you for understanding."

You nodded but still felt a nagging question at the bottom of your heart. The gardens around you seemed to hold their breath as you voiced a concern that had been shadowing your thoughts. "Azriel, back when you... when you were upset. You called me 'healer.' Is that… is that all you see me as?" Your insecurity got the better of you. The question sounded so much more childish as you asked it aloud, but you needed to know the answer.

Azriel’s expression changed instantly. The regret in his eyes unmistakable. "Gods, I am so sorry, Y/N. I was angry and overwhelmed and I unfairly took it out on you." His voice was thick with remorse. His usual stoicism giving way to a rare openness. "You are so much more than just a healer to us, to me. I should never have made you feel otherwise." Seeing the sincerity in his gaze you felt a complex knot of emotions begin to untangle. Yet, there was still a shadow of sadness in your eyes. A remnant of the hurt his words had caused.

Noticing this, Azriel did something completely unexpected. He stepped closer. His presence enveloping you whole, and hesitantly, almost awkwardly he opened his arms. "May I?" he asked softly giving you the choice.

With a small nod you stepped into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. It was a rare gesture from him as he was known for his guarded nature. It spoke volumes of his regret and his desire to make amends. His shadows ever a part of him, seemed to curl around the both of you gently. A comforting whisper against your skin.

As you stood there held in his careful embrace Azriel spoke again, his voice gentler than you had ever heard. "I’m truly sorry, Y/N. For everything. I let my anger and frustrations dictate my actions and you bore the brunt of that. I promise you this, I will do better. You deserve better."

Pulling back slightly he looked down into your eyes, ensuring you could see the truth in his. "Thank you for giving me the chance to apologize, to make things right. I don’t take your forgiveness lightly."

Your heart that was once heavy with doubt and hurt now fluttered with a burgeoning sense of renewed connection. "Thank you, Azriel, for understanding, for this," you said, your voice steady despite the emotions brimming within.

This conversation that was once a tentative path to reconciliation had blossomed into something deeper. A genuine connection fostered by understanding and shared vulnerabilities. Azriel's willingness to show his softer side, to bridge the gap with both an apology and a hug, marked a new chapter in your relationship. One filled with potential for even greater understanding and closeness. Together in the quiet of the herb garden you both began to navigate a path toward healing. Your relationship strengthened by the honesty and empathy of your exchange. It was a tentative step forward. One filled with potential for deeper understanding and a strengthened connection.

As the weeks turned into months, the atmosphere between you and Azriel visibly shifted. You both continued with your roles at the Night Court—Azriel, cloaked in shadows as the spymaster, and you, weaving magic and medicine as a healer. The sharp edges of earlier interactions softened replaced by a mutual respect and an unspoken understanding that grew with each passing day.

One evening during a relaxed gathering at the Night Court, the air was filled with the soft murmur of conversations and the warm laughter of friends and allies. Under the gentle glow of twilight you found yourself beside Azriel discussing something that excited you greatly—a plan for a new herb garden specifically designed for healing and restorative properties.

As you outlined your ideas your enthusiasm was palpable. "I’ve been researching some rare herbs that could thrive here under the Night’s eternal stars," you explained with your hands gesturing animatedly. "There’s this one flower, Lumina Blossom, known for its potent healing capabilities with poison but incredibly rare. I think with the right care, we could cultivate it here."

Azriel watched you with a soft smile playing on his lips as he listened intently. The usual shadows that clung to him seemed to lift slightly instead replaced by a light of curiosity sparked by your passion. It was a stark contrast to the brooding intensity he was known for. His gaze was fixed on you, clearly fascinated by your knowledge and the excitement that lit up your features.

"Have you considered adding Dawnlight Belle to your garden?" he suggested. His tone encouraging but slightly hesitant, as if he were treading on unfamiliar ground. "I've heard it's a good one. Especially for salves used in treating deep wounds, which unfortunately, we encounter often here."

You paused, your expression a mix of surprise and delight. "Azriel, I'm impressed you’ve heard of Dawnlight Belle," you said while nodding enthusiastically. "Yes, it's remarkably effective for healing deep wounds and incorporating it here would indeed be incredibly beneficial. It's also a bit of home but with a practical use for the Night Court."

Azriel’s smile widened slightly. His usual reserve melting away in the warmth of the conversation. "I thought it might be useful," he said softly. "It’s important to have pieces of home with us. And you’ve done so much to find your place here. It’s only fitting your garden does the same."

The conversation flowed easily between you as it slowly had come to. And as you spoke more about your plans Azriel's responses were thoughtful, showing his deep respect for your work. It was clear that he was not only listening but also truly engaged in what you were sharing.

As the evening wore on you found yourself more relaxed and open to discussing your hopes and dreams for the garden. Azriel's attentiveness and the sincere interest he showed in your passions brought a new depth to your interaction. A sense that something meaningful was blossoming between you, rooted in mutual respect and a shared sense of purpose.

Together you sketched out potential layouts for the garden. His strategic mind complementing your creative vision. The project that was born from a casual conversation was shaping up to be a beautiful symbol of regeneration and unity. It was a confirmation to the growing relationship forming between you as you both discovered the joy of collaboration and mutual understanding.

From across the way Cassian caught Rhysand and Feyre’s attention, nodding subtly towards you and Azriel with a wide grin. "Look at that," he chuckled. "Seems our resident shadowsinger has found a bit of light. Never thought I’d see the day."

Rhys, with a sly grin and a sparkle in his eye that matched the mischief in his voice, glanced over at you two. "Oh, I’d say there’s a bit more than just gardening going on there," he quipped as he leaned back with an air of casual intrigue. "Wouldn’t you agree, Cass? Feyre? It seems our spymaster might just be more enchanted with our lovely healer than he lets on."

Cassian laughed. His loud voice booming across the room. "You're one to talk, Rhys. Just don’t start planning their mating ceremony yet. Let them at least decide if they like each other first."

Feyre, who had been quietly observing the exchange from her place next to Rhysand, chuckled and shook her head. "She seems so good for him I must admit. But don't you dare meddle, Rhysand. We know how that turns out," she teased. Her eyes gleaming with humor. "Remember the Great Cake Incident of '49?"

The group erupted into laughter, including Rhys, who rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a grin. "Alright, alright, no meddling," he conceded. His voice still laced with laughter. "But for the record, that cake deserved better and meddling here would only help them."

The evening continued with the stars twinkling above as conversations flowed around the room. Your interaction with Azriel, now less guarded and more genuine, did not go unnoticed by those who knew him best. As the night deepened, the easy banter and shared smiles between you and Azriel spoke of something that was quietly strengthening. It was clear to everyone, even without Rhysand’s playful meddling, that something significant was blossoming. Something that went beyond the professional respect of two court members.

Together, you and Azriel discovered that even in a place as mystical and imposing as the Night Court, the true magic lay not just in ancient spells or hidden power but in the connections forged through vulnerability, trust, and perhaps, the beginnings of something deeper.

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[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 18

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 5.5K

Author's Note: This is a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

While you told Kai you would be going back to the inn, you didn’t feel fully comfortable entering a room where his father might still be awake, unsure how to navigate the awkward silence. Instead of heading straight back, you let yourself meander through the streets, the cold nipping at your nose, turning it a bright red as you sniffled lightly. You smiled politely at the well-dressed females wandering alongside you, their coats lined with furs and shoes polished for winter. Your own attire was more than a little worn, with a practical jacket far from fashionable but essential for survival.

As you made your way down the paths, past the baker’s square and through the arts district, where peddlers sold art worth more than everything you owned, you observed the chic, modern clothing hanging low on mannequins in fashion halls, with females of all ages drooling over the craftwork. Gradually, you found yourself wandering closer to the outskirts of the city, where things began to look familiar. The music of the city faded into the background, and wreaths became less grand, more hastily strung together with bits of wire but festive nonetheless. The streets were more iced over, clearly not as well-maintained as the inner parts of the city. Snow, scraped to the side, was dirtied and blackened from the roadway, piled high and unmelted by the afternoon sun. Your boots slapped into the slush, kicking up bits of snow onto your pants as you huddled closer into yourself. Clotheslines strung above cut through the fae light, casting long shadows.

You knew this place—the faded green awnings, now with more holes, but recognizable nonetheless. The wrought iron stairs with handrails frozen over, icicles trickling down from them, were just as familiar. You squinted down the alley where the faelight shone in small patches. Somehow, this felt much more recognizable than the squares and inner city where you and Kai had strolled. It perturbed you how little you remembered of those places, yet here, memories flooded back.

You remembered chasing bouncing balls down the street gutters as other fae yelled at you to get out of the road, the rabble of children laughing without care. You recalled sitting on the stoop of the now-closed and boarded-up café with your mother, sharing a sandwich. In your memories, this place always seemed brighter, more lively. Now, a gloom settled over the visions. Your mother, still slightly blurred, appeared skinnier, her wrists and ankles bony. The roadways, which you imagined as clean cobblestone, were now filled with more debris and waste. The rose-colored glasses of your childhood were giving way as you made the long trek down the last alley.

Windows were gated over, with faded lights scraping their way through the grime. From a few streets over, you heard a man and a woman laughing—a maniacal, crazed sound. You turned at what sounded like footsteps behind you but realized it was only snow falling from the patchwork metal roof above. Every hair on your body stood on end as the light seemed to be sucked from every shadow. The sound of your boots on the ground was the only noise besides the dripping water and the subtle murmurs of those inside their homes.

As you reached the end of the alley, the faded green door, now more brown than green, came into view, illuminated by the small flickering fae light above it. The knocker, which you remembered so vividly, now tarnished more than you recalled, stood before you. Letting out a slow breath, you watched it curl into the shadows. The knocker, a fae female with nothing more than a piece of cloth draped around her body, her curves accentuated as she smiled slyly, held the knocker below. As a child, you thought she was beautiful, often standing in the doorway just looking at her, the knocker slowly swinging in the breeze. Now, her face was more tarnished, the wood below splintered and peeling. You read the sign to the right of the door: “Titania’s Temptations & Pleasure House.”

Your heart stopped. You remembered Titania, a boisterous older woman who often took you and the other children living in the apartment on evening walks, offering candies and sweets as some of the children cried for their mothers. Titania, who your mother always referred to as Madame. Titania, who had been there for your first steps when your mother was working. Titania, who had tried to keep you and your mother from leaving, begging her to stay. It couldn’t be the same.

But it was. Your breath caught as you tried to parse through the memories. So much of your time in Velaris was spent with your mother—days and days of memories that now seemed untrustworthy. You looked back down the street, recalling how children ran about playing while their mothers and a few odd fae males sat on stoops. You always thought they enjoyed watching the children play, cheering you on in games. Now, you more clearly recalled their gaunt faces, purpled under their eyes from lack of sleep. Many were thin, wearing not much more than their undergarments as they lounged in the sun. Occasionally, a fae would come down the street, and all the children would run up, begging for sweets or coins to spend in markets, surprising the fae with their requests. Titania would holler from the upstairs windows to stop pestering them. Then, with eyes cast down, the fae would knock on Titania’s door, be let in, and leave a short while later with a rosy glint on their cheeks.

You continued to recall memories. During the day, the children weren’t allowed inside the house, and at night, you all slept in quarters with your mothers, or those who could be there. The pieces slowly came together. Your mother was never around at night, only during the day, except on odd days when she had work. When you finally asked her, she told you she washed laundry. And you, being only a child, with memories laced with lies, believed her.

Your eyes filled with hot tears as you stood on the doorstep, a sob choking through your body as you tried to shake the awful feeling rising inside. Your mother worked in a pleasure house. You were raised in a pleasure house. All your memories circled around this place where your mother sold her body. 

You shook your head, sniffling as you stared at the door knocker, now more hideous than melancholic. Why had you done this? Why did you come back here?

Turning, you descended the steps, slipping on the ice and falling hard on your tailbone, causing a sharp hiss to escape your lips as you sat, tears flowing down your face. 

You sat in the dirty snow, a few echoing sobs escaping your lips. The faint tolling of a bell sounded in the distance, eleven gongs before it subsided. Moments later, the door of the pleasure house creaked open, and out descended various fae, both male and female, none of them looking at each other as they pulled their clothing tighter around their bodies. They walked past you without a glance as you wiped the tears from your eyes.

A familiar voice behind you made you turn. Standing in the doorway was a gaunt, bony fae woman with pale, almost yellowed skin. Her hair was an unnatural, bright red, and she lounged leisurely in the doorway, wearing nothing more than a bright red silk nightgown that barely skirted past her hips. Her nails, matching the vivid red of her hair, tapped idly against the doorframe as she spoke to a male fae whose face was obscured by the collar of his jacket.

“This ain’t no charity,” she hissed. “You don’t pay, you don’t play.”

The male fae whispered back, covering his mouth, “I can get you the payment by next week.”

The woman traced a long line up the center of the male's chest with her elongated, cat-like nail. “Now you listen to me. In my eyes, you’ve already stolen from me and one of my ladies. I expect not only repayment but double. If you run off, I’ll have no problem sending someone to find you in whatever hole you’ve crawled into.” She flicked his nose with the tip of her finger. “Understand me, my love?”

The fae male nodded and walked down the steps.

“Oy, you,” the gravelly-voiced woman called out to you. You turned to her. “This ain’t public property. Get your dirty ass off my stoop.”

You quickly stood, wiping the tears from your eyes and the grime from your rear as you took a few steps forward.

You heard the door creak slightly as the woman went to close it. Without thinking, you rushed up the stairs, shoving your arm between the door and its frame. “Wait!” you called out.

The woman whipped her head around toward you as she shut the door. “Are you stupid?” she hissed. “Get the fuck out of here.” She grabbed your hand, her bony fingers pressing into your own as she pushed your arm out.

“Wait, please!” you pleaded as the door slammed in your face. You pounded one fist on it. You heard the multiple locks clicking into place as you cried out, “I’m here about Sile!”

The locks paused on the other side of the door. Then they unlocked, and the door opened slightly, held by a chain. The woman with the red hair peered out at you. “What about her?”

Panting slightly, your breath visible in the light of the hall behind the woman, you said, “I’m her daughter.”

The woman surveyed your face and then, seemingly in recognition, gasped slightly. “Y/N,” she said more than asked.

“Yes.”

The woman shut the door, unchained it, and opened it fully, peering over your shoulder slightly before beckoning you inside. “Come in, come on, you’ll be letting the draft in.” You stepped past her and, as though you had just come in from playing, wiped your feet on the mat underneath you.

“I should’ve known it was you, with that mess of hair!” the woman said as she took you in. She gripped you by your shoulders, holding you at arm's length as she surveyed you. “You look just like your mother.” She ran her hands down the length of your arms before throwing you a smile. Although her face seemed aged with time, her eyes still held a lightness that you remembered from so many years ago.

You smiled back at her. “It’s good to see you, Titania.”

Titania pulled you close and wrapped her arms around you. Awkwardly, you wrapped your own around her small, bony frame. “You too, my love,” she said, pressing a red-lipsticked kiss onto your cheek, which you knew would leave a stain. “Where’ve you been?” she asked, turning you to take your coat off your back before hanging it on the hall rack. “Come on, let’s get us some tea.” She gestured down the hallway, and you followed her, taking in the sights and sounds of your childhood.

The carpet on the floor, once a place where you lay staring at the wallpapered ceiling with its patterns of overlapping branches, now showed stains on its red cloth, and the ceiling’s paint was peeling. The walls were lined with photos of the women who worked in the house. Some you recognized, while others were unfamiliar. You looked for a photo of your mother but couldn’t find her face among the many.

You followed Titania into the small kitchen, which had not much more than an old woodstove with a few dirty pots and pans on its top, and a sink with a dripping faucet. The familiar cadence of the dripping water brought back memories of playing with dolls under the table your mother had made for you from sticks and weeds. Titania beckoned you to sit at the kitchen table, which you did, the chairs now fitting your body instead of forcing you to climb up them as you did years ago.

Titania filled the kettle as the faucet rattled water out of its spout, then placed it on the stove before coming to sit across from you at the table. Her brown eyes scanned over your face. “I never would have thought I’d see you again,” she said.

You smiled lightly. “I thought the same.”

“Why are you here?” she asked, reaching her hand out to take the one you had placed leisurely on the table.

“I’m here for the festival.”

Titania leaned back in her chair, casually tossing one skinny leg over the other. Her red nightgown barely concealed anything as she propped her elbow over the back of the chair, perching her face on her spiked nails. “Oh, so we’re just in town to visit?”

“I’m here with a friend,” you responded.

“I always wondered what happened to you,” Titania said distantly, looking intently at you.

“It’s been a few years.”

“I’d wager more than a century,” she shot back.

You nodded as the kettle started to whistle. Titania jumped up to pull the pot off, then took out two teacups, both chipped in various places, and placed them on the table, pouring the steaming liquid into each. “So,” she started as she placed the kettle down and resettled into the chair, “fill me in.”

You picked up the cup, feeling the heat push through the thin porcelain, and traced your finger around the lip. “What do you want to know?”

Titania scoffed. “Well, my love, you’re the one who’s been gone. I ain’t seen you since you came to my knee.”

“I’ve been in the mountains.”

“I could’ve figured as much,” Titania responded. “And you’ve just now decided to come pay your old lady a visit?”

“I didn’t know how to get back,” you replied, pulling the cup to your lips and taking a sip. The heat singed your flesh, and you pulled it away quickly.

Titania chuckled. “You ain’t got enough sense to ask for directions?”

“Mama told me we couldn’t come back.”

Titania rolled her eyes. “Your mother was a fool.”

You looked at her, scanning her face, which held a displeased look. “What happened?” you asked.

“With what?”

“Mama, me?”

Titania leaned forward, her gown falling open to reveal her incredibly pronounced collarbones. “What do you know?”

You shook your head lightly. “Only that she packed us up and moved us out. She told me we couldn’t come back.”

Titania nodded. “And your mother, where’s she now?”

You looked around the room. “I was hoping here.”

Titania tilted her head slightly. “You thought she was here?”

“She told me she was going back to the city. A long time ago. And then she never came back.”

Her face fell. “Oh, my love, I’m sorry. If she came back, she didn’t come here.”

You nodded, not surprised. It would have been too easy to find her here, if she was anywhere. “The last I saw of my mother was when she was leaving with me that morning.”

You let your hands cup around the warmth of the tea, looking down into the swirling browns as you asked, “Why did she leave?”

Titania shrugged, leaning back. “I don’t know. I tried to stop her, but she insisted on leaving.” She tsked, “You were so sad, cried like you’d wake the whole city when she pulled you down those steps.”

You furrowed your brow. “I don’t remember that.”

Titania nodded. “Oh for sure, you were sobbing, throwing a fit, begging for her not to take you from Gramma Nia.” Titania picked at her nails.

You shook your head. “I remember leaving and feeling excited.” Was your memory wrong?

“I can’t tell you what happened once you were down the street. But when I last saw you, those tears were as big as dewdrops.”

“And she didn’t say anything about why she had to leave?”

Titania sniffed lightly, pulling her teacup to her lips and leaving a red stain on the edge as she cleared her throat. “Your mother was a very paranoid female, always looking over her shoulder and jumping at shadows. As long as I knew her. She just kept saying it wasn’t safe to stay here.” You just peered into the cup in your hands. “You used to love it here.” Titania smiled lightly. “You’d run around the halls, singing those little songs you’d make up. I can’t tell you how many times I had to tell you to get out of the street because you were getting into other people’s garbage. You were always my little adventurer.”

You smiled. “I remember that yellow ball we had that we used to lose in the sewer gutter.”

Titania guffawed. “Oh yeah, and you’d send one of the little boys down the grate to get it back. They’d be smelling like shit for days after, but they couldn’t say no to you, or you’d wallop them.” You laughed lightly with her. “You loved that little ball, told me it was the best birthday gift you’d ever gotten.” Titania sniffled through a laugh. “Do you remember that little girl, Wren?” You shook your head no. “She was pretty little when you were around, but she would follow you around like a little puppy. You used to get so annoyed at her touching your toys you’d come running into the sitting room screaming bloody murder, ‘Gamma Nia, Wren touched my stuff!’ and then I’d go out and find little Wren with her hand in her mouth just smiling.”

You smiled. “I think I remember her now. She had that little rag doll she carried everywhere.”

Titania nodded. “That’s right! She was a sweet kid, always wanted to be just like you. You were her hero.”

The room felt warmer with the shared memories, the nostalgic laughter easing some of the tension.

You looked puzzled, “What-what do you mean?” 

Titania looked up to you through her turned down eyes, “I just-those memories, those were things we did together.” 

“You were always playing some game. And you’d rightly piss off the other children by changing the rules or bossing them around, even some of the older ones.” Titania ran her thumb over the stain on her cup. “I always told Sile that you were gonna grow up and run this place someday.” She laughed a bit louder. “I remember you used to play High Lady. You’d put on one of your mother’s entertaining gowns and shoes, and you’d go clomping down the hall ordering everyone to move out of your way.” Her laughter grew. “And then you made me take you down to our bakery so you could show off to Henri.”

You looked up at her. “Our bakery?”

Titania’s eyes shone with light. “Yeah, the little bakery on the corner. I’d take you every morning for a cuppa and a scone.”

You swallowed. You had always remembered your mother taking you.

“And Henri just loved you. He’d always tell you that you were the finest lady in all of Velaris, and you’d twirl for him in those heels.” Titania seemed lost in the memory.

“It sounds like we had a lot of fun.” You tried to smile at her.

Titania’s lips curled slightly at the corners, the smear of her lipstick much more defined. “I tried to keep you busy. Especially since you had no manners in knocking before barging through doors. Can’t tell you how furious I used to get when you’d interrupt a client and lady.”

You chuckled lightly, trying to pull any of those memories from your mind. “I wish I could remember that.”

“What do you remember?” Titania asked, leaning onto the table slightly.

You thought through the memories. “I remember walking along the river with Mama. I remember playing in the squares, and I remember the trips she would take me on into the mountains.” You laughed lightly. “I remember that when the summer storms would roll through, I would hide under the bed. And if it was night, I’d wake up and cuddle into Mama.” You looked up at Titania, whose face had hardened slightly, her brow furrowed. “What?”

Titania shook her head out of whatever trance she seemed to be in, relaxing her face. “Oh, no, nothing.” Then she smiled.

You looked at her intently. “What are you thinking about?”

Titania threw her hands up. “What are you talking about? Nothing. I was thinking about the memories.”

“Yeah,” you started, gesturing to her, “but you made a face.”

Titania made a tight-lipped smile and looked down at her cup. “Sometimes, the memories aren’t always as sweet as we think.”

You shook your head lightly. “No, no, Mama and I did those things together.”

Titania licked her lips lightly, smearing the lipstick more. “No, my love. We did those things, except the trips to the woods.”

You shook your head more. “That can’t be right.”

Titania sighed, leaning forward once more and grasping your hands in hers. “My love,” she started, “your mother was a very troubled woman.” Your face fell, brows furrowing as you listened. “And she—she would fall into these spells, where she would just sort of lie around all day. I tried to get her up, get her back to work, but she just wouldn’t. So I’d send her out.” You shook your head lightly. “If she couldn’t work, she couldn’t stay; that was the rule. So I’d tell her to go out, get herself back up, and then come back when she was ready.”

You looked down at the table. “I remember her being around.” You looked up at Titania. “I remember her being around a lot.”

Titania threw you a small, sympathetic smile. “Whenever she was around, and she was,” she paused, “when she was on the right track, she would spend all the time with you she could, but she—she had problems.”

You felt a slight rising anger. “What kind of problems? She was sad? I mean, look where she was!”

Titania’s face hardened. “Watch your tone, my love.”

“No,” you cried out, “no, you would throw her out when she wasn’t ‘performing’ to your standards!”

“I would not!” Titania shot back, her fist pounding into the table, making the cups rattle. “Your mother was troubled.”

“You keep saying that, but you're not explaining what that means. What do you mean, troubled?” You glared at her.

Titania shook her head, looking down at the table. “Your mother—she,” Titania seemed to be searching for the words, “your mother relied on certain substances to feel normal. To be able to get out of bed.”

You looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, substances?”

Titania sighed. “Your mother, before I found her, was making some very dangerous choices, and she’d gotten in with a rather rough group of people. She was pretty reliant on Luster.”

“Luster?” You asked.

“You haven’t heard of it?”

You shook your head.

“You must have been really deep in the mountains.” Titania chuckled. “Luster is a euphoric. Fae that use it breathe it in as a shining powder to feel like they have some sort of spark in them. It’s cheap to buy and a lot of times is laced with other drugs to make it more potent. I’ve heard them say that they feel like there’s fire in their veins and that the world suddenly seems more colorful.”

“And it’s bad to use it?”

“Fae that use it, like your mother, and a lot of the fae that work in this area, for a long time, seem to not be able to be without it for long. If they go without it, they can go through Lusterburn, and they just sort of seem to be sleeping when they’re awake, or they become enraged, everyone seems to have a different response.”

“And you would throw my mother out for using it?”

Titania’s eyes hardened. “I’d make her leave when she used it around you.”

You leaned in. “Why would you do that?” Your brows furrow in confusion and anger.

Titania’s lips tightened slightly. “I don’t want to talk about this.” She leaned back.

Your face hardened as you commanded, “Tell me.”

Titania ran her tongue over her teeth as she gazed at you. Her leg bounced nervously under the table, and her heel clicked against the floor. “I don’t want to ruin the memories you have.”

“Apparently they’re all wrong anyway.” You responded quickly.

Titania sighed, her eyes softening. “Your mother was an addict, Y/N. She did things she wasn’t proud of, but she loved you. I didn’t want you to see her like that. I didn’t want you to see her when she was down, she’d just ignore you, or scream at you, and you’d cry for hours and she just- she wouldn’t care. That’s why I made her leave when she was using. I couldn’t bear to listen to you seem to lose all hope.”

You swallowed hard, processing the revelation. “So, all those times she left...”

“She was trying to get clean,” Titania finished for you. “She wanted to be the mother you deserved.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you realized the weight of your mother’s struggles. Titania reached out and took your hand, squeezing it gently. “She loved you more than anything, Y/N. Remember that.”

You shook your head, distraught, trying to sift through the memories that you had held so dear, that had kept you going on the darkest days. “She left me,” you whispered softly, to no one in particular. As the words left your lips, they cemented the uncertainty of years gone by, and you considered whether it would have been better to continue living in ignorance.

Titania squeezed your hand again, her eyes turning down to the table. “I’m sorry I don’t know more about what happened to her.”

Without looking at her, you just replied, in a soft whisper, “I don’t know if I want to know anymore.”

The fae across from you took a deep inhale and exhale, as though she had let something go finally, after holding it in for years and years. “She tried to do right by you, Y/N. You have to know she wanted better for you, and whenever she would go on these benders—when she would come down, she would just sob and beg you to forgive her. She really did try.”

“I wasn’t enough.”

“You were more than enough.”

You looked up through your lashes, now heavy with tears, as Titania looked down at you, her mouth fluctuating in discomfort as she tried to find words to make this better. “I wasn’t enough to make her stop. She didn’t choose me.”

“My love, we don’t know why she left you.”

You shook your head. “She didn’t come back either. Even when we were in the village, she would disappear for days, telling me she was going hunting, or to visit someone, or to go gather supplies.” You paused, “And yet, when she never came back with anything, I didn’t question her.”

Titania brushed her nail down your hand. “I know, my love.”

You looked up at her. “Why didn’t she leave me with you?”

Titania took her turn looking down, her heel still clipping on the floor. “Your mother didn’t want you to end up as a pleasure lady.”

You scoffed, “What? She didn’t want me to carry on the family business?”

Titania’s face shifted to one of slight anger. “She didn’t want you to make her mistakes.”

“But we had a good life here,” you cried, tears hitting the table in soft thuds.

“You survived,” Titania responded quickly. “I tried to keep you safe, to feed you, to educate you, but you were sick constantly. You had these fevers that would spike often, and the healers didn’t think it right to use their time and resources on you. But every night when you would lie there,” Titania stopped as if she could see you before her as a child, “you would shake with the chills, and your face would be red, and you wouldn’t speak, just smile at me. Smile like nothing was wrong. And you would ask for her, your mother. You wanted her with you to make you feel better.” Titania choked back a sob. “And when I would try to find her, between clients, to bring her to you, she would just tell me to do my best with you and that she would see you in the morning.”

You wondered if being so sick, combined with your youth, was why your memories seemed so cloudy.

Your lips quivered under the weight of the words that hung in the air like daggers. “Why didn’t you take me anywhere?”

“I tried. I tried to get your mother into a sanctuary, in the library, under the House of Wind,” she paused again, “but the females there didn’t want to take in anyone who might bring in Luster and tempt the others who hadn’t been using it. And I tried to get you to go, but you just wouldn’t. You wanted to stay with us.” She looked up at you. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

You let a sob leave your throat as it burned through you. Your head swam with confusion at everything you felt your life was and had become. You couldn’t seem to stop trying to find her, your mother, her face long since forgotten in your mind, replaced by shadows and blurs which you now thought looked more like Titania than her.

Titania looked at you, her eyes full of sorrow, the red of her lips merely more than a pink now. “She would be proud of you.”

You shook your head. “She would despise me.”

“Look at where you are. Look at who you have become.” Titania urged, her hand lifting yours off the table.

“I have become homeless. I’m mated to a male who hurt me and did things to me I can’t even force myself to think about. I ran from everything and everyone. I have nothing. I am nothing. I’m no better than her.” You shook your head.

“You are not your mother,” Titania whispered as your tears clouded over your sight.

“I don’t even know who that is.” Another sob escaped you, raw and guttural. “I’m so tired, Titania.” Your body convulsed with the force of your emotions, wracking out through coughs and sobs. “I’m so tired of running and hiding. I’m tired of being hurt and never fully healing. I just—” A fresh wave of grief surged, making you gag on the bile rising in your throat. “I’m tired of pretending like the world is anything but lies and pain.”

Titania’s voice was a fragile whisper, filled with sorrow and helplessness. “I know, my love.” Your face grew hotter and wetter, tears and snot mingling as your shoulders heaved with choppy, pain-stricken sobs. She watched you fall apart, unable to stop your anguish. “You are lost,” she finally said as your sobs turned silent, “You are lost, but you are not forgotten. And you may not know the way back, but you can’t stop trying to find it.”

“I’m so tired.” You lifted your gaze, meeting Titania’s tear-filled eyes, the kohl that lined them streaking in black drifts down her cheeks. “I’m so tired of searching for anything.”

Titania’s smile was small but filled with a fierce, enduring love. “You’re not alone, my love. Not anymore.” She squeezed your hand. “And while I won’t let you call this your home, I will always be a home for you.”

Your lip continued to quiver as you looked at her, this woman who you had forgotten but who had never stopped thinking about you. She sat across from you, so full of hope for your future, despite her own life being bleak. Her love and faith in you were palpable, a lifeline you hadn’t realized you needed.

You smiled lightly, a simple gesture that seemed to mean the world. Titania rose from her chair, dropping to her knees before you, wrapping her arms around your neck and back. She held you tight, and in that moment, you felt the promise of home. The sweet scent of peppermint, a fragment of a lost memory, washed over you. You thought of her, of Titania.

As you wrapped your arms around each other, Titania’s bony frame seemed fragile, almost breakable at your touch. “I’m not angry with what you do,” you whispered. Titania pulled back, looking at you with tear-filled eyes. “You take care of people. You offer them a home and hope.” Her lips began to quiver. “I don’t care what you or anyone else does for money. I care about what you do and have done for others, and I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me.”

Titania let another tear roll down her cheek, her gaze locked with yours. “I could have done so much more for you, my love,” she said, her voice breaking. She turned away, but you pulled her back.

“You did what you could.”

The two of you sat there for a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes, sharing a connection forged in survival. You were two survivors of a life neither of you had asked for, yet you had saved each other, drifting apart only to be brought back together by fate. In this moment, in this kitchen, you were alive and filled with hope, held together by memories that refused to fade.

To my readers, I promise this is still an Azriel fanfiction, the boy will be back. @thatacotargirl @mcuamerica @lilah-asteria @florabelll @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx @romantasyreader28 @minnieoo @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @annabethgranger123 @krowiathemythologynerd @scatteredstardustt @romantacyreader28 @caroline-books @slytherintaco @sevikas-whore @sidthedollface2 @405rry @sleepylunarwolf @acourtofbatboydreams @quiettuba @julesofvolterra @skylarkalchemist @darling006 @rhysandorian

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

✨Dress Up, Part 2: The Ceremony✨

Well well well, looks like you guys won. You get a continuation of this fic that was meant to be a one shot lmao! I had some awesome people to bounce ideas off of and I couldn't do this without them. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's time for the wedding! But you know I can't go a chapter without writing a little smut hehe~

*** - Scene change ~~~ - Flashback

Lucifer x f!sinner reader

Summary: It's wedding day! And Lucifer is more than willing to try and convince you to the leave the reception early...

Warnings: 18+, smut, hand job, oral (m receiving)

"You know, if you don't quit your pacing back and forth, you're gonna wear out the carpet..."

***

It had only been a week since the proposal and the wedding was already here. But this is what you both wanted; a nice quiet wedding with only a handful of people with everyone else in Hell being none the wiser. You had to beg Lucifer for the week you got in between, he was practically ready to say "I do" once he put that engagement ring on your hand. It may have seemed like you two were moving a little bit fast considering most weddings take months, sometimes years to plan out! But when you're marrying the King of Hell, there really was next to nothing to worry about when it came to your special day.

The new hotel was the perfect venue, complete with a beautiful ballroom that could rival any chapel on Earth. The guest list was extremely exclusive consisting of only the occupants of the hotel, minus one Radio Demon, not that he would attend even if he was invited. It was Charlie who suggested that he protect the hotel today from any threat that might make itself known. On top of that, Charlie was more than happy to be the officiant, as being the Princess of Hell granted her that authority. Money was no object to the Morningstar family, so no expense was spared.

But regardless of any of that, Lucifer couldn't help but worry. You had one other request for him after he popped the question.

~~~

"I hate to ask more of you after asking for a week to prepare," you started, putting on the last of your clothes that you had discarded during your fun little teasing display, "but..." Lucifer approached you suddenly and held your hand in both of his.

"My love, you can ask of me anything you wish. There is no limit when it comes to you. You've already given me the best gift of becoming my future bride. Anything in my power is yours for the asking, you just name it!" He leaned down and planted a small kiss on the back of your hand. You couldn't help but blush, he never failed to charm you.

"This may sound a little odd, considering what just took place a few minutes ago," you breathed out a sigh, "but...what would you say to refraining from any...intense intimacy?" Lucifer cocked his eyebrow and smirked, seemingly intrigued. "B-but only for this week, I promise! Kissing and cuddling would still be on the table, of course. And no deliberate teasing from me, that wouldn't be fair. I was just thinking that...I want our first night as a married couple to be special. And I figured holding off for the time in between would only heighten the experience. If that's not something you want, I completely understand that-MMPH," you were silenced by Lucifer's soft lips on yours.

"Oh darling, was that all?," he flashed his signature toothy grin at you. "That's hardly a request! I think that's a wonderful idea...n-not that I don't want to ravish you at any given time! But you're right, I couldn't imagine a better honeymoon than getting the chance to feel you again after being denied for a few days, even though it may feel like an eternity. I'll be on my best behavior; you have my word!"

~~~

And Lucifer was on his best behavior, for the most part, at least. There were a few instances where his hands had traveled a little too low on your body and some kisses became deeper than they should have. But both of you managed to make it through the week! But today was the day, and his anxiety was at an all-time high. You decided to sleep in separates rooms the night before, wanting the next time you saw each other to be at the altar. That was the plan, at least.

It had been a while since Lucifer had slept alone. Suffice to say he couldn't sleep. He assured you that he would be alright sleeping alone for just one night, but that ended up being easier said than done. The empty bed he laid in brought back painful memories of his first night without Lilith, something that still haunted him to this day. There would be times where Lucifer would wake up in a cold sweat, only to glance over to see you peacefully asleep, and he could breathe again. Anytime you felt him tug you closer to him in the middle of the night, you knew what had woken him up. He never hid his feelings from you when he confided in you about his ex, and you didn't mind that he would wake you when his nightmares overwhelmed him. You loved him and he loved you. You would never leave. So when you heard your door creek open in the middle of the night to see your fiancé standing ion the door frame, you only smiled and gestured him to you.

~~~

"I-I'm sorry," he sobbed quietly, "I tried...I really did...I-I had a dream, a nightmare, you were there but you started to fade away in front of me. I reached out but it was no use. I woke up and…and you weren’t there, I panicked…I’m so s-sorry…”

"Hey, hey, shh, it's alright," you soothed and brought him into a tight embrace. You felt a tear that had fallen from his face make its way down your collarbone. "Don't cry, Luci, I'm not upset, not at all." You lifted his head up to wipe away his remaining tears. "Let's get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow." You planted a kiss on his forehead, and from the dim red light that shown through your windows, you could see a small smile appear on his face. He laid down, his back facing you as you wrapped your arms around him and brought him flush to your chest. You could hear his breathing start to even about again.

"I don't deserve you," he murmured.

"You know I think the same thing every day," you respond.

He interlaced his fingers with yours at your words, squeezing you hand softly. "Promise me you'll never think that again. Please. You deserve everything and more."

"Alright," you conceded, kissing the back of his head, "as long as you promise me the same thing. You're my everything, and I'll spend the rest of my afterlife showing you that."

"Okay," he spoke weakly. You intertwined your legs with his, bringing yourself as close to him as possible. "I still intend to keep my other promise. I'll be gone before you wake up."

"You can stay as long as you need to," you whispered before drifting off to sleep once more.

~~~

True to his word, Lucifer had managed to sneak away before you woke. After adorning his typical attire, he found himself wandering the halls of the hotel, finally stopping when he reached the lobby. Thinking he was alone, Lucifer started talking to himself and paced back and forth like a madman.

"Was this a mistake? Are we moving too fast? No, no, no it's alright, it's fine! We're fine! Get a fucking GRIP, Lucifer! You're panicking for nothing! She loves you...right? Yes, yes of course she does! Why would she say yes to you?! Unless...NO! No, none of that! Relax! Need to relax..."

"You know, if you don't quit your pacing back and forth, you're gonna wear out the carpet," Husk remarked, attempting to get Lucifer's attention in his anxious state.

"WHAT THE-" Lucifer shrieked hearing the bartender's voice. After seeing Husk standing behind the bar, he breathed out a sigh of relief and clutched his hand to his rapidly beating heart. "Geez, warn a guy next time!" Husk huffed and returned to cleaning the whiskey glass he held in his hand. "How, uhh, how much of that did you hear?"

"Enough to know that you're a fucking mess right now," the cat demon replied, setting down his now clean glass. "Perhaps you need a bartender to talk to."

"Uhh, alright?" Lucifer made his way over to the bar and took a tentative seat on one of the stools.

"This is about your girl, ain't it?" Husk correctly guessed, "about the wedding?" Lucifer sighed and nodded. "Mhmm. You love this gal, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do!" Lucifer answered almost defensively. "She's...my everything!"

Husk picked up another dirty glass to clean. "And has she given you any reason to doubt that she feels the same way?"

Lucifer huffed. "Well, I...no, no she hasn't. She's always been there for me. Listening to my ramblings, making me laugh, consoling me during the worst times, like last night...she's...she's just perfect!"

"So what's the holdup?" Husk asked after setting the other glass down.

"It's not as simple as you're making it out to be, Husker," Lucifer retorted, pushing his way back from the bar. "I loved Lilith with all of my heart and soul. And she said...that she loved me too. But then one day, she was just gone. Vanished. We fell together. We built a life here TOGETHER! And she just leaves? It's like the last 10,000 years together meant absolutely NOTHING!" Lucifer ran his hands through his hair, trying to keep his composure. "I-I can't lose her like like I lost Lilith. I just can't! I just want to be enough for her. I don't know what I would do if she...", he couldn't finish his sentence. He sat back down at the bar, resting his head in his arms. "The pain would break me..."

The sound of a glass sliding across the counter top caught Lucifer's attention. When he lifted his head, he noticed a full glass of scotch sitting next to him. "Calms the nerves," Husk spoke. Lucifer let out a deep breath and took a swig, choking slightly in the process not realizing how strong it was.

"Not much of a drinker," Lucifer admitted, setting the glass down.

"Sir, if I may..." Husk began.

"You can call me Lucifer," the angel smiled slightly.

Husk smirked. "Lucifer, all I can tell you that love is a vulnerable emotion. I understand that you're afraid. Afraid that history will repeat itself, that your love is not meant to be, and that you're going to end up alone all over again." Lucifer's face sunk, lowering his head against his arms once more. "But," Husk continued, "I know one thing for sure. That girl up there ain't Lilith."

Lucifer raised his head, now hanging onto every word from the bartender.

"If anybody thinks you aren't enough, that's their own fucking problem. And I can tell you that your girl ain't like that at all. She adores ya, can't get her to shut up about ya! Hell, I couldn't even tell you why she ended up down here in the first place! Another one of Heaven's fuck ups, for sure. But for your sake, I'm glad she did." Husk reached over and gulped down Lucifer's unfinished glass of scotch. "Be a shame if it went to waste."

Lucifer let out the smallest of laughs. "Thank you, Husker. And you're right, even in this God forsaken pit, she manages to make it just a little bit brighter. She saved me. And I'm going to devote every moment of my immortal life to her."

"Good to hear. Now..." Husk slammed his hand down on the counter, "get your shit together and go get ready! You got a wedding to attend."

*** You startled awake with the sound of knocking at your door. Your mind was still foggy, brief memories of last night flooded through your head. "Lucifer?" you sat up and looked around your room, but he was already gone, leaving you alone in an empty bed. He had kept his promise after all. There was another set of knocks at the door. "Coming!" you shouted as you ran to grab the robe you had left on the armchair. You opened the door to see Charlie bouncing giddily.

“Good moooorrrrnnniiiinnnngggggg~” she practically sang. “Did you sleep well? Are you ready for your big day?? Are we forgetting anything???” She rapid fired questions at you while you were still rubbing the crust from your eyes.

“Charlie, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re more excited than I am,” you joked, gesturing her to come in. “In order: Yes, I slept…well. Yes, I’m ready...mentally speaking. And no, we’re definitely not forgetting anything. You’re the most meticulous and thoughtful person I know, you definitely have everything planned to a tee! You practically leapt out of your skin when we asked if you would officiate.”

"Aww, thank you!" Charlie smiled as she skipped into your room. "And of course! I would never turn down such an opportunity! Being the princess of Hell does have its perks! You can never be too prepared, ya know? Especially for a day that's so wonderful and magical and full of love!" You saw tears welling up in her eyes out of pure joy.

"Hey now, I thought I was the one that was supposed to be crying today!" you joked.

"Right, right! Sorry!" She wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed your hands excitedly. "Let's get your hair and make up done!"

Charlie dragged you over to the vanity and sat you down in the chair. You weren't one to wear much makeup typically, but Charlie insisted. And when Charlie asks for something, it's pretty much impossible to tell her no. So you obliged. But you made her promise that she would not go overboard, only the basics. Thankfully you showered the night before, so your hair just needed a good brush through. Charlie grabbed the hairbrush and began to comb through your hair, gently pulling out the knots out of the nasty case of bed head you were sporting. She truly was the kindest soul you've ever met. But that didn't stop you from feeling a little awkward.

"Charlie," you mumbled, "can I-oww...can I ask you something?"

"Yes, absolutely!" She grabbed the the already plugged-in curler and started working on adding some volume to your hair.

"Are...are you sure you're alright with this?" you asked timidly. "I mean...me and your father. I just don't want you to think I'm trying to, you know...replace your mother. I know I don't know much about her or your relationship but..."

Charlie put down the curler and kneeled down next to you, gently grabbing your hand. "You don't need to worry about that! I promise, it's alright with me. It's more than alright, actually! I haven't seen my dad this happy in a long, long time. He loves you so much! You wanna know how I know that? Because he tells me. Every single day. His eyes light up when anybody mentions your name! And I know you would never do anything to hurt him, or me. You're too kind and good hearted for that. I know it may feel like you're inserting yourself into the picture, but I'm more than happy to have you as part of our family! I know the love you have for my dad is genuine, and I wouldn't change a thing!"

A smile formed on your face. "Thank you, Charlie."

"Now," Charlie hopped up from the floor and grabbed the large make up bag sitting on the counter, “time to make magic happen! I have the perfect idea! Close your eyes and no peaking until I say so!”

*** You could feel your heart beating out of your chest as you stood in front of the closed ballroom doors. You knew just on the other side of that door was the love of your life, and he was waiting for you. Husk linked your arm with his, flashing you a warm smile. "You ready?"

You let out a few shaky breaths before you could answer him. "Y-yes."

"Don't worry, I gotcha," he comforted, "one step at a time, alright? Trust me, whatever you're feeling now, he was in much worse shape this morning. Nearly had to kick his ass to the altar myself. But I straightened him out for ya."

You could help but laugh. "Thanks, Husk. And thank you for walking me down. I know this isn't really a traditional wedding, but I appreciate everything you and everyone else have done for us."

"No thanks is necessary," Husk replied, "for what you do for Charlie and the hotel, it's the least I can do. You're a good one to be sure. And the King is damn lucky to have ya." You smiled and tightened your grip on Husk's arm as you heard the faint sound of music start to play on the other side. "It's time."

Without another word, the large wooden doors opened in front of you, and the music could be heard much more clearly now. The Bridal Chorus. Husk waited on your command as you took the first step. You scanned the room. You saw Vaggie and Cherri standing to one side, Angel off to the other, while Niffty skipped in front of you throwing a mix of flower petals and roaches. You noticed Charlie straight ahead of you in a lovely blue suit, a color you've never seen her wear before. You also took notice to the fact there didn't seem to be any organ in the room, despite the music that continued to play as you walked. You guessed it was some of Lucifer's magic. He really knew how to set the scene for the occasion.

Finally, your eyes found Lucifer. He looked at you as if you were the most angelic being he's ever laid his eyes on. You couldn't quite make out the details of his face yet, but you could tell that tears had begun rolling down his face. You saw his suit for the first time. A beautiful black velvet suit with embroidered gold detailing on the jacket. He looked like royalty.

Lucifer stared back at you, fighting every urge in his body to run to you and scoop you up in his arms. Your dress was immaculate. A stunning flowing sleeveless white dress adorned with fluffy scarlet feathers that were scattered across the skirt and completely covered the bodice. An homage to your future husband. You were only a few feet from him now. His smile could have lit the darkest of rooms. The tears continued to flow from his eyes, and you could feel tears threatening to leave yours as well.

"Deep breaths," Husk murmured to you before stepping to the side to join Angel. You inhaled deeply, holding your breath until you stood directly in front of Lucifer, only exhaling when he reached out and held your hands in his.

The music stopped. Your heartbeat was the only thing you could hear now.

Charlie cleared her throat. "Dearly beloved, we're gathered here today to join these two souls before us in holy matrimony. I understand that the couple have written their own vows." Charlie glanced your way and beamed. "Ladies first!" You smiled back at her then turned your full attention to Lucifer, staring lovingly and longingly into his eyes. You had spent the entire week practicing and memorizing your words for this very moment. You breathed in, and you breathed out.

"Lucifer, words cannot begin to describe how you make me feel. You have shown me so much compassion, understanding, care, and adoration that I had never experienced on Earth. My promise to you is that I will always stay by your side, I will never abandon you, and I will love you for the rest of my after life. You've changed my life for the better, and I will make sure that I do the same for you. You are my one true love, forever and always. I love you, my angel."

Lucifer pulled one of his hands away to wipe away the tears the refused to stop flowing. Angel pulled out a handkerchief and brought it over to him and began patting it across his cheeks. You looked at Charlie who had also started to cry. She quickly composed herself and turned towards her father. "D-Dad?" she squeaked out.

Once Lucifer was able to compose himself, he took hold of your hands once more. "My love, I have existed since before the dawn of creation. And in my thousands of years of existence, no one has brought me as much joy as you have. You came into my life suddenly, like a thief in the night, and stole my most precious possession. My heart. It is yours now, for eternity and even beyond. I promise that you will never know another day of sadness, of heartbreak, or of loneliness. My devotion to you is boundless and unfathomable and never ending. I am yours. I love you, my queen."

Razzle appeared in front of the two of you, displaying the silver wedding rings for each of you. You and Lucifer took your respective ring to to place on the other's hand.

"Lucifer," Charlie spoke through her sniffles "will you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife; will you love, honor, and cherish her, hold her up in the good times and the bad, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do, forever," he answered, sliding the ring onto your finger.

Charlie turned and repeated the question to you.

"Yes, I do," you proclaimed, sliding the ring onto his hand in the same manner.

"By the power vested in me, as princess of Hell, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

You and Lucifer smiled at each other, no longer able to hold back any of your tears. Lucifer cupped your face and brought your lips to his for a tender kiss. You heard the cheers from the others in the room, and you definitely heard Angel whistle as your lips connected. When you pulled apart, something had caught your eye. Your rings were glowing. Magic in the form of golden dust surrounded each of them, swirling around the metal bands.

"What's this?" You asked Lucifer, who didn't seem alarmed at all.

He chuckled. "You're the new Queen of Hell, my darling. This magic is a symbol. It signifies that you are no longer bound by the rules that govern the sinners; you are bound to me. You have free reign to travel anywhere you wish, including the other rings of Hell. You're now one of the most powerful beings in the realm! But we can get into the finer details later; for now," Lucifer pecked your lips once again, "let's celebrate!"

After wiping away her excessive tears, Charlie cleared her throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you for the first time ever, Mr. and Mrs. Morningstar!" The crowd cheered as you walked hand in hand with your husband back down the aisle.

"Who's ready to fucking PARTY?!" Cherri yelled behind you as you all made your way towards the bar in the lobby.

Drinks poured at the reception, everyone was cutting lose and having fun! You two had decided to partake in as many traditional reception activities as you could! Neither of you knew how you ended up with so much cake all over yourselves, but it was alright considering Lucifer easily snapped his fingers and both of you ended up back in pristine condition. You invited everyone to participate in the bouquet toss, but it was Vaggie who ended up with the flowers in the end. She absolutely failed to hide her blush from Charlie who was jumping for joy! But this next tradition was something Lucifer had really been looking forward to; the garter belt toss.

Ever the showman, Lucifer hiked up your dress to your thigh and rather than using his hands, he decided to use his teeth to pull the garment down. His head lingered near your thigh way longer than necessary, and you could Angel snickering as Lucifer dragged it down the length of your leg.

"Oh, you're gonna get it," you leaned down to whisper to him, hoping no one else could hear.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Lucifer retorted with the garter belt still between his teeth.

To no one's surprise, Angel was the one to catch the belt once Lucifer finally tossed it.

The reception was going off without a hitch. Everyone was having the time of their lives getting plastered and gorging themselves on the enormous buffet Lucifer hand conjured up. You had changed out of your wedding dress into a new purple dress; the lavender one that you really liked that you had tried on a week ago before you got yanked out of the dressing room by a certain horny angel. Thankfully, you two were able to go back to the store the next day to properly purchase it. You and Lucifer were given your own large round table so you wouldn't have to sit at the crowded bar. Luckily for Lucifer, this gave him easy access to you. As the reception went on and with no one being the wiser, Lucifer's hand found your thigh once more, gliding it up ever so slowly before you shot him a knowing glance.

"What do you say we leave early," he proposed innocently, "I have a wonderful surprise for my new bride once we're on our honeymoon."

You playfully grabbed Lucifer's wandering hand and pushed it down towards your knee. "Luci, it's only been an hour! You can't tell me you can't wait just a little longer, can you?"

Lucifer stuck out his lip and pouted sweetly. "Oh, but my love, have you forgotten? It's been an entire week! And you know how well behaved I've been, I am nothing if not a man of my word." You felt his hand begin its ascent on your leg once more. You didn't stop him. "But I can only be a gentleman for so long..."

You didn't want to admit it, but you were in the same boat as well. That week apart had been almost tortuous. But you were more than willing to wait until the party was over. Your husband, however, appeared to have a different idea.

Alright then.

Before his hand could climb any higher, your hand shot down immediately to his crotch. Lucifer bit back a yelp as he felt you palm him through his pants. His hand stopped all motion, but instead started digging into your thigh, ultimately trying to remain calm. But that task seemed nearly impossible with the way your hand continued its ministrations, his pants feeling tighter and tighter with every passing second.

"D-Darling, please..." he begged through his clenched teeth.

You grinned wickedly. "You want me to take care of you, Luci?" He nodded his head vigorously. "We're not leaving early. But, I'll help you out as a good wife should, yeah?" Lucifer panted, his nails now dangerously close to breaking through your skin. "Head to the restroom just down the hall. Give me a minute and I'll follow you. I'll knock three times to let you know it's me. I have a plan. No touching yourself, understand?"

"Y-Yes," he breathed. When he was sure no one was looking, he stood up from his chair as fast as possible before making his way down the hall. Once you saw him disappear around the corner, it was time to give yourself some cover.

"Angel!" you yelled across the room, waving your hands to flag him down. The spider demon turned his head and smiled. He said something inaudible to Cherri before making his way over to you.

"Hey there, pretty lady!" Angel bent over and folded is first pair arms on the table, "Congratulations on the new gig! Being Queen of Hell sure is a status boost!"

"Yeah, I still need time to process that," you admitted. "So Angel, can you umm, do me a favor?"

Angel stood up and slicked his hair back. "Oh, anything for the new member of the royal family! What can I do ya for, doll face?"

You let out a shaky breath. "Can you...how do I say this...cause some sort of distraction?" Angel raised an eyebrow. "I just need to take care of something real quick."

"Uh huh," Angel chuckled, "you need to take care of something? Or someone?~" You pursed your lips, a light blush dashed across your cheeks. You really should have known better than to try and tiptoe around your means of leaving with Angel. "That's what I thought. Don't think I didn't notice the King almost sprint out of here just now. Man is absolutely smitten with ya! But you'll get no judgement from me, baby, I know how it is! Consider this your wedding gift, I typically end up being the most distracting person wherever I go! How much time do you need?"

"Five minutes?"

"Oh honey, I think you're giving him way too much credit, especially considering the state he's in." Angel laughed, "I can give you three."

"Four."

"Deal," Angel stuck a hand out for you to shake. He was ready to turn away when he flashed you a wink. "Get ready!"

As soon as you heard Angel shout loud enough to grab everyone's attention, you got up from the table and followed Lucifer's path down the hall. Once you stood in front of the restroom door, you knocked on it three times just as you said you would. It took less than a second for the door to swing open and for Lucifer to pull you inside. He locked the door behind you and crashed his lips into yours. You pushed him up against the door as you slipped your tongue further into his mouth. He was devouring you as his hands gripped your hips.

"We don't have a lot of time," you said breathlessly, "we have four minutes."

"How did-HHNG," Lucifer wanted to question until you began to palm at his now very apparent erection through his pants again.

"Let's just say I owe Angel big time." You started to fumble with Lucifer's belt, pulling it off of his pants with a quick flick of your arm. Your hands worked at the button and zipper of his pants next, going almost too fast for you to properly hold anything. You gripped the hem of his pants and boxers and were about to pull them down together until Lucifer grabbed your wrists.

"Wait, wait! What about you?" he asked. Even in such a lust filled state, he still only ever thought about you. God, you really hit the jackpot.

You gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I appreciate it hon, but we really don't have the time to argue about this. Four minutes, remember? Probably closer to three now." You pulled your hands away from Lucifer's grip and went back to the hem of his pants, pulling down his boxers in the process, finally freeing his hardened cock that was already leaking precum. You placed your hands on either side of his hips, his back flush against the door. "You better tell me what you want quickly, Luci."

Lucifer gulped hard, staring at you through half-lidded eyes. "T-touch me...please...n-need you..."

Without another word, you moved to stand at Lucifer's side as your one hand gripped his shaft while the other cupped his mouth to keep him from making too much noise. "Shh, gotta be quiet, my love. You don't want the others to hear how your queen makes you feel." He nodded his head silently as you began to stroke him. You watched as precum dripped onto the floor below; it was obvious how pent up he was. You quickly picked you the pace as your hand moved up and down his cock, thumbing over the tip only for Lucifer to mewl into your hand and buck up into your touch. His breathing became more and more staggered by the second, he wasn't going to last much longer at this rate. But you knew you were running out of time and your hands alone were not going to be enough to finish the job. "Not a sound," you commanded as you released your hand from his mouth, dropping to your knees in an instant. Before Lucifer could protest, your mouth had already full engulfed his length. He threw his own hand over his mouth to muffle his screams as best he could. Your head bobbed up and down rapidly on his cock while stopping every few seconds to lap circles around his tip. He was close.

"F-Fuu-uuccckk," he whimpered, "I-I'm g-mmph...gonna c-cum...shitshitSHIT!" And almost on cue, you felt him empty himself inside you. Strings of hot cum hit that back of your throat while you continued to suck him off, helping him ride out his orgasm. Once he was finished, you let his now softened dick fall from your lips, not letting a single drop leave your mouth. You gracefully stood up and grabbed his belt that you had flung earlier and handed it to him.

"Feel better?" you whispered in his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

He turned his head to meet your lips once more. He always loved the taste of him on your mouth. "Immeasurably," Lucifer moaned into you.

"And only with a few seconds to spare!" Lucifer buckled his pants once more while you walked over to the sink and began soaking one of the wash cloths in cool water. You dabbed the towel on his forehead, attempting to cool him down. "Can't have you looking so disheveled, my king."

"I promise to make this up to you," Lucifer swore. "You should never be left unsatisfied."

You smiled and kissed him on the forehead sweetly. "My satisfaction is knowing I'm the only one who can pull those beautiful sounds out of you." Lucifer could help but look away from you in embarrassment. "Now, if you promise to behave for the rest of the party, let's just say I have a...proposition for you later tonight. I know exactly how you can pay me back." You unlocked the bathroom door and held it open for him. "Let's not keep our guests waiting!"

~~~

IT'S SO FUCKING LATE RIGHT NOW HOLY GOD I WAS ON A ROLL I DIDN'T WANT TO STOP! I hope you guys are ready for the honeymoon ;)

Taglist: @ask-theradio-demon @kermitdafroggy @thonethatflies620 @luc1fersducky @a-okay-rj @bat-boness @myhornybrainonlyknowsthis @misfitgirlwrites @animationmovieshipps @orbitinglumps @ramenkitten @blaackbiird @bigfatbimbo @lucisaspen @bvnnyangel @seulace9 @fluffypinkpillows @starlightdreaming @k-n0-x @rosen-und-mondlicht @raindropsfromheaven @slutforlucifermorningstar (I'm sorry if I missed anyone!)

[vidavalor]

Crepes: The 1.01 sex meta thing

Alright, my romantic and horny murder hornet friends...

...come and get your very requested 1.01-scene(s)-that-shows-that-Crowley-and-Aziraphale-are-lovers sex meta thing.

We'll be getting a bit blush-inducing NSFW under the cut so keep that in mind...

As Fraulein Maria suggests: Let's start at the very beginning... a very good place to start... when you read, you begin with: A, B, C...

...when you speak Ineffable Husbands, the show tells us, you begin with: lunch, alcohol, and crepes...

We're going to do this semi-glossary-style, since those have proven popular and it works well for this. There are some very brief mentions of Satan's attacks on Crowley, for those that would like to know of that ahead of time. Other than that, I don't think any other trigger warnings apply.

"Gentlemen, in your role as the audience, could you, perhaps, give us more to work with?" -- William Shakespeare, 1601, meta-ing for the writers and performers of Good Omens, requesting us to dive a little deeper.

Temptation accomplished.

~~~

Secret language. A language spoken by secret agents for the purpose of keeping the full, true meaning of their conversation hidden by those who might be observing them. Comprised of code words and phrases that contain other layers of meaning beneath the more easily understood surface layer. Difficult-- and, at times, impossible-- for those who do not speak the language to understand it without a key that unlocks at least one word of the language, revealing the hidden conversation beneath the surface.

Key. Additional context that reveals hidden meaning in a secret language by providing understanding of other layers of meaning beneath the surface in a conversation between secret agents.

Example: some bleating goats in 2500 B.C. illustrating for Aziraphale via additional information and context the true meaning of Crowley's words in the scene. Most keys in Good Omens are separate scenes; this one is an exception because it's the origins of their secret language in the first place. This is also a partner scene to the "no nightingales" moment in 2.06.

Partner scene(s). In Good Omens, a scene or scenes which act as keys to other scene or scenes, providing information and context necessary to fully understand the initial scene, which is usually one we saw earlier in the story.

Example: The Bullet Catch scenes in The Blitz, Part 2 in S2 adding layers of context and meaning to both Crowley and Aziraphale with the paintball gun and Crowley giving the office workers miraculous escapes from death at Tadfield Manor in S1.

Crowley and Aziraphale. Supernatural secret agents of sorts, introduced to us that way by our narrator, God, who points out their penchant for meeting alongside human secret agents in St. James Park. They speak in a secret language that we'll call in this meta Ineffable Husbands Speak that only they-- and God-- speak fluently... but for which Good Omens has been slowing giving us enough information to learn how to speak as well.

Code words. Often neutral-sounding and very common words--by design-- in order to keep the hidden meanings of the secret language secret from outside observers by making it sound like everyday conversation. As a result, code words have dual layers of meaning: they refer to a literal thing on the surface level but also have a secondary meaning beneath that within the secret language.

Example, in Ineffable Husbands Speak: "dining at The Ritz."

To "dine at The Ritz" (in Ineffable Husbands Speak). Surface, literal level: to eat a meal at the restaurant at The Ritz-Carlton, London. Hidden level: to take steps towards being less secretive about their relationship and to live more of a life that is theirs together.

Code phrase/cypher. A phrase that sounds as if it has a single, understood meaning on the surface but is comprised of code words put together to convey a meaning that is hidden from anyone who might hear the phrase but does not speak the secret language. Impossible to understand unless you either created the language or were given instructions on how to speak it... unless you can come into possession of a key that can unlock it.

If spoken to someone who does not have a key to understanding it, they might possibly be able to recognize that you are speaking in a kind of code... but they will not have the understanding of the double meanings of the keywords, nor the context required, to figure out just what the hell you're talking about.

Example: "The clarinet can make beautiful music."

Good Omens included this scene right near the start of the season in 2.01 in which both Crowley and we the audience have no idea what Agent Fuzuli is *really* saying, even if his sentence makes technical, if not really contextual, sense. We can recognize from his over-the-top obvious spy-speak that he is speaking in code. They did so to highlight the existence of hidden language in the show and how important it is to unlocking more layers of meaning in the story.

Neither we nor Crowley expressly need to decode this particular sentence to understand what's happening in the story of Good Omens because Good Omens is not about the romance of Agent Fuzuli and his new paramour, the Azerbaijani Sector Chief. (Cupid!Crowley really out here matchmaking everyone in sight in S2 lol.) If it were, we would be needing to figure out what this clarinet and its beautiful music are all about. Instead, though, the show is suggesting that hidden language and decoding it is paramount-- but we should focus a bit more on the secret language of our main characters Crowley and Aziraphale instead.

Sexual innuendo/sexual euphemism: A kind of secret language in which something that is not inherently sexual is given a sexual connotation. Relies heavily on suggestive tone and context. Often full of in-jokes. Often done to soften talk of sex-- and, just as often, paradoxically, tends to make things actually a bit sexier. Relies on a sense of humor and so increases a sense of playfulness and fun between partners. Is flirting by way of creating a secret language out of innuendo.

Example: To "mend his shirt" in the (code-named) Mrs. Sandwich's sexually euphemistic speak, as brought on by Aziraphale's 19th century-era magic during The Ball, is to give a blowj-- well, actually, here: Crowley will define the innuendo for us through the use of partner scenes...

"Fine *stable* of ladies"... the horse statue where Crowley keeps his glasses in the bookshop... mending Aziraphale's shirt in a way evocative of mending Aziraphale's shirt...

Mrs. Sandwich. A "seamstress." Not her real name. A walking, talking intersection of secret language, innuendo and sex in Good Omens, whose name and the content of her scenes help us confirm we're on the right track in decoding Ineffable Husbands Speak.

Sandwiches. Popular, common food that can be eaten anytime during the day but are most commonly associated with lunch.

Lunch. Midday meal. What Aziraphale offers to buy Crowley in thanks for Crowley rescuing him from The Bastille in the Paris, 1793 scene.

Paris, 1793/The Bastille. Partner scene that acts as the key to the 1.01 scene-- and its subsequent scenes-- that shows the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship through their use of secret language.

Let's Have Lunch. The 1.01 scene that, when unlocked using its partner scene of 1.03's Paris, 1793 scene, reveals that Crowley and Aziraphale are lovers. How so? Read on. :)

Armageddon: Round One. The end of the world and what Crowley and Aziraphale both separately learn is in motion in 2008 in 1.01. They meet the following day to discuss it and the show tells us then, at the start of the story, exactly one bullet point on their shared timeline-- the very first thing we ever learn about the entire 6,004 years that they have been living on Earth together since the last time we saw them together in Eden. Something important enough that it received its own partner scene in the 1.03 Cold Open basically entirely to help decode this scene in 1.01-- and re-contextualize the 2008 minisode (and a lot more) as a result.

What is this single, very important bullet point?

A lunch they had together in Paris in 1793.

As Crowley & Aziraphale head through the park and argue over whether or not to stop Armageddon, they eventually reach the spot on the side street where Crowley has parked The Bentley. This brings them to not just a conversational impasse but a physical one-- there's nowhere left to walk because they're now at the car and this is when Crowley says:

"Well, let's have lunch, hmm? I still owe you one from..." At this point, we're too busy being charmed by this vintage-y angel and this rock star demon who lunch together on Earth arguing over Armageddon to barely notice the content of this scene and that might be by design. It is sandwiched between two other scenes, both of which understandably get a lot more attention: the "celestial harmonies" conversation on the bench in St. James Park and the kinky lunch at what we'll later learn is The Ritz. ("Lunch" in Ineffable Husbands Speak is not *just* the food kinky lunch, as we'll get into below.)

We also don't yet have the key the first time we watch this scene to decode it because we aren't given that by Good Omens until the 1.03 Cold Open and its Paris, 1793 scene. We can pick up on some vibes in this scene in 1.01 but unless we use the Paris, 1793 scene to fully decode Let's Have Lunch in 1.01, we aren't actually understanding what they are saying and, as Fraulein Greta Kleinschmidt would say, we must know what they are saying... (since we're all not Nazi Zombies, we'll be able to actually figure it out...) :)

...but we do now have the 1.03 Paris, 1793 scene so now, let's check out the moment this scene becomes, um, important-- and that is Aziraphale's response to Crowley's invitation to lunch:

Oh, what's this now...? Crowley owes you lunch from *when,* Aziraphale? From "Paris, 1793", did you say...?!

You mean from the time that you dragged Crowley to The Bastille to save you from a situation you put yourself in and could get yourself out of the entire time because you have a Neil Gaiman-Ask-confirmed, canonical thing for him rescuing you (and because, as a fun S2 partner scene suggests, rescuing you always does make him so happy) and you were so very grateful for the rescue that you offered *to buy him lunch*?! A lunch that this scene in 2008 will confirm you went and had together? A lunch that we had *an entire, separate scene about* in the middle of the 1.03 Cold Open-- alongside The Arrangement and the 1862 breakup and 1941 and the 1967 holy water scene, in terms of importance to understanding this relationship from the show's perspective? THAT LUNCH?! lol

Paris, 1793. The ONE TIME IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THIS RELATIONSHIP lol that it can be safely said that Crowley absolutely, 150%, *most definitely does not owe Aziraphale lunch*. The time we had a whole extra scene over, just to confirm how much Crowley does not owe Aziraphale lunch from this one time in Paris in 1793...

Well, well, well... seems we have ourselves a key. :)

Lunch. Code word in Ineffable Husbands Speak. A code word that, when unlocked, helps to unlock additional language, as we will see.

If Aziraphale's reply to Crowley's lunch invitation is to say the one time in history from which we know Crowley doesn't owe Aziraphale lunch, then Aziraphale's reply is really in response to the hidden, second layer of meaning beneath the lunch invitation, which means that Crowley isn't just asking Aziraphale if he wants to go grab the midday meal together and Aziraphale is more than aware of that. As we will see from the dialogue below, this suggestion that they have lunch on the surface level is also, on the hidden language level, a suggestion that they have sex.

So, ok, let's try this 1.01 scene again, now that we've started to factor in the information we have from its 'Paris, 1793' partner scene from 1.03...

What Aziraphale Is *Not* Saying When He Replies "Paris, 1793" to Crowley's Lunch Invitation in 2008: That he would like to time travel to The French Revolution for lunch; that he would like to go to Paris in the present for lunch; that he wants to go to their favorite creperie; that he wants to go get himself locked up in a maximum security prison so Crowley can come rescue him...

What Aziraphale *Is* Saying When He Replies "Paris, 1793" to Crowley's Lunch Invitation in 2008: That he would like to go to lunch and also that he would like to go to *lunch*-- which is to say that he's in agreement that sex sounds perfect-- and that what he "wants for lunch" is a repeat of how they made love in Paris in 1793.

Let's repeat that because mmhmm lol...

Sitting there in the middle of the second half of Crowley and Aziraphale's second scene in person together, in the middle of the first episode of the show, is Aziraphale recounting sex he and Crowley had over 200 years prior to when this scene is taking place in response to Crowley's suggestion that they shake off the Armageddon blues by sexy lunching their way to spending the night in Aziraphale's bed.

This conversation on the surface is about going to lunch and they are very funny with the literal part of their secret language, as they will actually go to lunch, as we know-- and during that lunch, Crowley will make a joke about the dual layers of meaning of their language when defining the next word in their language for us, which we will get to in a moment. For now, though, let's just go back to the "let's have lunch" scene here and look at the rest of it now that we can understand it on both levels of meaning...

"Well, let's have lunch, hmm? I still owe you one from..." Crowley does not actually owe Aziraphale lunch; this is a way to throw the decisions to him, keeping it sounding like they are just talking about eating lunch-the-midday-meal on the surface when we now know that it's more than that. He trails off and both verbally and non-verbally indicates a whole "you tell me" attitude, having offered up the idea and now giving the choice to Aziraphale. (It's not a magical influence "you tell me" like he did with Sitis, just a verbal ellipsis/non-verbal head shake that hands the conversation over to Aziraphale.) As a result of this and their responses in the rest of the scene, this becomes:

"Well, let's have lunch, hmm? I still owe you one from..." Well, let's have sex, hmm? Let's do our kinky lunch thing. Tell me what you want for later and we'll do that. Whatever you want. Armageddon already fucked up our lunchy dinner that we were supposed to sneak out to have at the fascinating little sushi restaurant where they know you last night-- it can go fuck itself for the afternoon. We're both depressed and tired. Eleven years left. We're almost out of time. I just want to be close to you. Let's have lunch.

"Paris. 1793." I could eat. I never can resist you, you know that. Remember Paris? After The Bastille? I'd like that.

Does Crowley remember The Bastille?

Oh, Crowley remembers The Bastille...

Someone had a very nice time in Paris in 1793 if that little smile and that look and the little "yessss" are any indication. Crowley is down with revisiting The French Revolution and after this, they're both just heading to The Bentley as they continue talking because lunch is on. But why are we even talking about Paris 1793 when we have all seen this episode and know they aren't about to instantly drive back to the bookshop and get their Bastille on?

Anticipatory kink. When partners arrange to have sex in the short term but not immediately and spend the interim time discussing the sex they plan to have as a way of arousing one another over anticipation of the future lovemaking. A form of psychological edging/delayed pleasure. Fancy way of saying 'teasing the fuck out of each other' lol.

The first part of lunch for Crowley and Aziraphale is deciding what's for lunch-- before they go to have lunch-as-in-some-food-- even if part of lunching is that they aren't going to have sex for hours still to come. In addition to the anticipatory element, it's just fun to talk to your partner about sex and the way they do so also has them euphemistically refer back to past times they made love as a way of turning each other on with the memories of those past encounters-- so, doubly fun.

"Yessss. The Reign of Terror. Was that one of ours or one of yours?" Crowley's response to "Paris, 1793." He says 'The Reign of Terror' a little sarcastically, implying that while that is the historical name for the era, he and Aziraphale were actually pretty happy during it, which goes along with what we saw in The Bastille scene. On the surface, though, Crowley and Aziraphale are still attempting to make it sound like they're talking about The Reign of Terror so, technically, "was that one of ours or one of yours?" is a question that is supposed to be about who (Heaven? Hell?) was responsible for The French Revolution but oh, that Paris, 1793 scene is a good partner scene as we know the answer to this question, too...

The French Revolution. Not Crowley's demonic work. The humans thought it up themselves. Established in the Paris, 1793 scene, to help us better understand this bit of the Let's Have Lunch scene.

"Was that one of ours or one of yours?" Look at the wording of that. By definition, since Crowley is speaking to Aziraphale, the "ours" has to include Aziraphale. It's a subtle but present indicator that this isn't entirely smooth language on the surface here because it's accounting for two layers of meaning at once. If it is just about who is responsible for The French Revolution, the sentence doesn't actually make sense but that's because it's designed to sound like something of a casual reply to the surface question about The French Revolution but this conversation is now happening more on the second, hidden level and there, it really means:

We had all the sex in Paris in 1793, angel. Talk to me more about what's got you all hot for The Bastille. I remember all of it but want to know what's lighting you up here so to keep us talking about it, I'll start throwing out some options from Paris under the guise of pretending I'm talking about who is responsible for The French Revolution. Was that one of ours or one of yours? Meaning: do you want to fuck each other later or am I fucking you? By tossing these both out as options I'm obviously also saying that, if you're up for it, I'm in the mood for "ours". I currently have both the need to be inside you *and* the need to get done into next Thursday right now...

"Can't recall." Aziraphale's response to "one of ours or one of yours?" A blatant lie on every level lol. He remembers that the humans were responsible for The French Revolution and, based on how quickly he reached for it when asked what he wanted for lunch on an especially harrowing day, Aziraphale remembers every damn minute of the two of them in bed in Paris in 1793. He knows as much as Crowley what they got up to. "Can't recall" is a reply designed to sound like he can't remember who is responsible for The French Revolution on the surface level but answers Crowley's question on the hidden language level by using "can't recall" to signal that he doesn't have a preference. It's whatever you would like is fine with me. He's definitely noted the "ours" request, though, as we'll see later on.

But Aziraphale also still needs to answer Crowley's underlying question of what's he's wanting that's got him all hot and he keeps the euphemistic, hidden sex chat going by telling Crowley what he's picturing from Paris exactly that he wants later on:

"We had crepes."

Did Crowley and Aziraphale go to lunch-the-midday-meal in Paris after Crowley rescued Aziraphale from The Bastille and have crepes-the-food for lunch? They absolutely did. Lunch-the-midday-meal (or, really, *any* food/meal that is probably not breakfast, which they seem to had yet to sort out by S2 because of Crowley not staying the night) is part of lunch. But we know that this conversation in this scene in 2008 is not really about lunch-the-meal so crepes is our next bit of Ineffable Husbands vocabulary. We can tell at this point that this is a sexual euphemism. That The Guardian of the Eastern Gate and The Serpent of Eden use types of food as euphemisms for types of sex because of course they do lol...

Does the show get into what, exactly, "crepes" are in Ineffable Husbands Speak? Oh yeah. They do lol. But it's mostly on the other side of kinky lunch so we're going to come back to it...

Off of Aziraphale's crepes declaration, they get into The Bentley and peel off and the next time we see them, we're at...

The Ritz-Carlton, London. One of the finest restaurants in the world; known for their famed afternoon tea and world-class service. The origins of the word 'ritzy.' Where Crowley and Aziraphale have lunch in 2008, for what we will learn in the subsequent scene between them is the first time. We won't know that this restaurant is The Ritz until the S1 finale, when they return there after specifying that it's where they are going. We won't begin to understand fully what it means to them in their language to do so until then. The first hint happens around midway through S1 in the 1967 scene, when it becomes apparent that they are speaking to one another in a coded way-- even while alone, as they are just used to their own language by this point-- and that Aziraphale's "dine at The Ritz" aspiration was something tied to the idea of them taking some more steps towards being more openly and fully together.

In 2008, Crowley and Aziraphale decided to go to The Ritz while in The Bentley after the "let's have lunch" scene, in a scene we aren't shown, likely because the decision to do so would include directly referencing their relationship in a way the show has avoided doing so far but, as the 2.06 kiss showed us, won't be doing forever. (We also are never shown them past a certain point at night-- the show choosing to leave them in 2008 after the "godfathers" conversation in the bookshop and again in 2019 after we last see them holding hands during the ride back to Crowley's flat in London from Tadfield. This seems likely to change in S3, especially because there is almost certainly a The Blitz, Part 3 and we last left them late at night drinking wine alone in the bookshop making eyes at one another.)

Right, so, back to The Ritz in 2008 and the kinky lunch part of lunch...

Foreplay. Activities between partners-- physical, psychological, emotional, or all of the above-- that are designed to stimulate sexual arousal, in order to put the mind and the body in the mood for sex.

Kinky lunch is a form of foreplay, as Aziraphale is into the pleasure of being watched by Crowley as he enjoys the pleasure of his food and Crowley is into watching Aziraphale enjoy himself. This is also where the anticipatory kink starts to make even more sense as if they've already decided a bit of what they're going to get up to in bed later on, then they know what each other is thinking about all afternoon-- but especially during kinky lunch.

First date. There's also something of a romantic element to this, which a partner scene in S2 provided, which is that kinky lunch is essentially repeating what first happened thousands of years earlier in Job's cellar in 2500 B.C.. That night was, more or less, Crowley and Aziraphale's first date. Not all the sex they have is tied to lunching but part of lunching is, essentially, weaving their first date into these little sexy dates they're going on throughout different periods in history. Pretty romantic stuff for these two who also literally cannot say the word 'couple' but are basically married.

Biblical "fruits of knowledge." In Good Omens, what happened in The Garden of Eden is canonically known and it's that our Serpent of Eden Crowley tempted Eve into eating an apple from The Tree of Knowledge, which she then shared with Adam. The two of them then followed up the pleasure of eating with exploration into other sensual pleasures, discovered sex, and Eve-- whose biology really is something-- was basically eight months pregnant about two days later when Aziraphale snuck them out of Eden, jumpstarting humanity. Humans, though, have had ongoing debate over Genesis in The Bible as to what, exactly, the "fruits of knowledge" were that Adam and Eve consumed.

One argument is over what kind of food it was that Eve actually ate. In Good Omens, it is the most commonly thought food-- an apple-- but arguments have been made for everything from grapes to different berries to figs to even wheat. While Crowley does eat and different things than this, most of what we've been shown that he's consumed is humorous because it's almost all things related to speculated foods of the Biblical fruits of knowledge (wine-- grapes/berries; whisky-- wheat; an apple-looking tea in the S1 finale at The Ritz, etc..)

The other argument that is made is whether "ate fruit from The Tree of Knowledge" is actually just a metaphor for having sex. In Good Omens, the answer to this question is the opening of its story and it's not an either/or. It's both, with one leading to the other. Crowley and Aziraphale are more than aware of this and of the parallels with Adam and Eve to their own relationship and, like with everything else, they're very dryly funny about it. The two who are responsible for all sensual and sexual pleasure for all of humanity since the literal beginning of time have kinky lunch and a language full of food euphemisms for sex and flirty innuendo mixing the pleasures of eating with the pleasures of sex ("constitution of an ox!") because they're witty and playful like that.

Scrumptious. How Aziraphale describes his dessert at The Ritz. Means both "delicious" and "attractive/sexy enough to eat." Is basically the foremost adjective that describes human, physical beauty in terms of taste. It's kinky lunch-- a mix of the the sensual pleasures of eating food with sexual desire-- in a word.

Scrummy. Shortened version of 'scrumptious.' How Aziraphale describes the grapes he buys at The Globe Theatre in 1601, which he then spends the scene eating in front of Crowley, who flits around him like the horny little murder hornet he is, trying to flirt his way into Aziraphale's bed. 192 years before The Bastille.

Affirmative consent. Verbalized, informed and positive consent to participate in a sexual act. Needs to be direct and clear-- the more explicit and enthusiastic, the better. Good sexual practice is checking in with your partner before and periodically during to ensure that you're both still on the same page and having a positive experience. True of every relationship-- but especially true if one or more partners has had their autonomy violated in any way in the past, as Crowley has (and as Crowley had again the night before in 2008, when attacked by Satan in The Bentley, which was one of his many motivations for wanting to lunch with Aziraphale the next day.)

A cleverly-worded partner check in need not break the mood but is still equally important to do, even if everything seems to be fine. A sense of safety brings about trust and trust is sexy, after all.

"So, what are you in the mood for now?" Aziraphale's pitch-perfect partner check-in after he finishes dessert at The Ritz. He knows Crowley well enough to know that he's alright so this is flirtier than it might have otherwise been had Crowley not been. Still, it's presenting an opportunity to stop and giving Crowley the same sense of control and choice that he gave Aziraphale at the start of their lunch date. It's all done with a practiced ease and a subtle, sexy confidence that highlights that Aziraphale is very good at this and probably undid Crowley even more than watching Aziraphale eat lunch did.

Alcohol. Fermented fruit, wheat/grains or the like. Consumption of alcohol can lower inhibitions and the ability to be fully in control of yourself. To drink with someone then is to let them experience your most vulnerable self and to trust them to keep you safe and unharmed while you're not in a state of full control. It's intimate. It's sex, in food/beverage euphemistic terms, and we already know that Crowley and Aziraphale have a whole food-related sexual vocabulary... which Crowley jokes about in this scene.

When Aziraphale asks Crowley what he's in the mood for now that they've finished their dessert course, the point of the initial shot of the scene comes into focus-- the way the camera swoops a little over the surface of the table before settling back to show us Crowley and Aziraphale. The swooping shot illuminates what's on the table. It shows us that they've already eaten lunch, as Aziraphale is on the last forkful of his dessert. The key bits, though, are the beverages-- the coffee and the wine glasses.

Aziraphale has a larger, cappuccino-sized mug of some form of coffee drink while Crowley's dessert was a dessert coffee, based on the size and shape of the mug he's drinking it from. This is also where it's fun to point out that Mr. Six Shots of Espresso in a Big Cup has drunk half of what would be less than two shots of coffee, in a normal-for-the-drink-sized cup, and that the coffee is light in color, suggesting that it's cut with cream. But while the coffee and its symbolic freedom tied to S2 is fun to look at, the point here is that Crowley's coffee looks to be a dessert coffee, most of which frequently contain alcohol and, even more prominent in the shot, are two, empty wine glasses-- one in front of each of them-- that each have a little hint of red wine stuck in the spot above the stem in each glass, confirming that they both had at least one glass of a red wine with lunch.

The point is that they had wine with lunch and Crowley's likely been sipping an alcoholic coffee with dessert, and they're literally surrounded by bottles of wine behind them, as they're in a restaurant lol-- they're at The Ritz, which is known for their service and isn't exactly rushing them out. They could sit there for hours drinking more alcohol, should they want to... so, when Aziraphale asks Crowley what he's in the mood for now and Crowley-- who has spent this scene looking like he's considering freezing time and throwing Aziraphale over the table-- picks up the spoon from his likely Irish coffee and uses it to ding his wine glass-- that is empty of the alcohol he already drank out of it--to get the check lololol and says he wants "alcohol-- quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol", well...

Alcohol (in Ineffable Husbands Speak). Literal, surface level: Alcohol. Hidden language level: Sex.

"Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol." "Sex. Quite extraordinary amounts of sex." Enthusiastic, affirmative consent from Crowley over here. He loves kinky lunch and he's glad you asked, Aziraphale, but he's very, very okay at the moment and wants to go to the bookshop now for more alcohol and, later, for quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

"An extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz." A complete sentence in Ineffable Husbands Speak in S2 that Muriel doesn't understand but that we can by this point. Muriel not being able to speak Ineffable Husbands is the point of the moment-- it's to highlight that Muriel is missing information because they don't have the information needed to decode what Crowley is saying or to even realize that there is something to be decoded. It's to point out to us that we have this information and that's why we can understand what Crowley is saying. It, along with "no nightingales", is a moment designed to point out the language and how we can't interpret what we're seeing without being able to understand it. The context of the "us time" scene in S2 helps to reinforce that we have this language correct then also makes it an additional partner scene to the 2008 minisode, as it reinforces this interpretation of the language and the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale that suggests.

Why does Muriel need to leave the bookshop in 2.06 if Crowley and Aziraphale are going for breakfast at The Ritz? We know it's because breakfast is the latest step they want to take when it comes to dining at The Ritz and alcohol is also sex so the Inspector Constable needs to leave because Crowley is out to have some lunch for breakfast.

Right, so, after kinky lunch at The Ritz back in 2008, we then catch up to Crowley and Aziraphale as they are walking up Whickber Street towards the bookshop.

Romantic stroll. They seem to like to go for a little walk together as part of lunch, if they can swing it. In 2008, they're caring a little less because they've just dined at The Ritz for the first time and they have 11 years left until the end of the world, so they're taking some moderate more risks. This might not be always typical of lunch but it is in 2008. They did this on their first date in the Land of Uz, sneaking out of the cellar to take a walk under the cover of night after the storm stopped. They also take a little stroll from the park to The Ritz in 2019 at the end of S1. All three of these times are possible exceptions-- it was night in 2500 B.C. on their first date and 2008 and 2019 are examples of not just lunching but dining at The Ritz, in the sense that they are in an era of being a little less guarded, if still cautious enough to maintain a sense of secrecy. There is a practical reason for the walk, though, as well as well as a romantic one, and that's related to:

The Bentley. Parked nowhere near the bookshop. On a side street somewhere, like we see Crowley has been doing ahead of S2 and is doing during S2 (including the night before the season began.) Crowley staying in the bookshop late into the evening is a given since they're lunching and have already planned to have some alcohol after their alcohol. The Bentley cannot be parked for hours in the evening in front of the bookshop without them running the risk of being caught so, even if they are coming back to the bookshop during the daylight of the mid-afternoon, The Bentley is already parked away from the shop because lunching comes with an understanding that Crowley will be staying in the shop well into the night.

This all seems routine for them at this point. As speculated in another post, this is probably how Crowley became friends with Mrs. Sandwich, whose work has her outside a bit in the early morning hours just outside the side door to the bookshop. Either way, the car is away from the bookshop so Crowley can stay most of the night with Aziraphale.

1921. The year in which Aziraphale bought a dozen cases (144 bottles) of Chateauneuf-de-Pape "for special occasions", as he either tells or reminds Crowley on their walk up Whickber Street. Twenty years before The Blitz.

This is an interesting comment for this exact moment here because one of the two pretty large gaps of time in the last few hundred years in their history is 1862-1941, right? We don't know much about what transpired between their whole breakup mess in St. James Park in 1862 and The Blitz. One of the flashbacks that was cut from S2 might have illuminated some of this, as it was the one set during The Gold Rush in America, which means it would have had to have taken place before about 1893. We know about Aziraphale learning to gavotte in The Hundred Guineas Club in Portland Place in the 1880s, we know that Maggie's great-grandmother started The Small Back Room with Aziraphale's help in the 1920s and we know that Crowley bought The Bentley sometime around 1933. In the midst of all of that, though, there's this one reference to 1921 here in the 2008 minisode that is pretty interesting when you consider why Aziraphale might be bringing it up in this moment.

Aziraphale is saying that he made an investment in the idea of them having a future of special occasions to celebrate together-- in whatever way they could manage to do so-- in 1921, which is a year in which, as far as we can tell so far, he might not have had a lot of hope that this would be possible. They do seem relatively incapable of breaking up for very long but it's also evident that they don't really fully start to get beyond 1862 until 1941 from what we've seen so far so it might have been a bit slow to heal. We do know that they were in contact and not just from the deleted America flashback but from the canonical reveal that Aziraphale got his driver's licence in the early 1930s, after Crowley bought The Bentley. But Aziraphale might be trying to say to Crowley that things didn't seem especially hopeful for them in the early 1920s, either, but Aziraphale has always held out hope.

1941. A special occasion, as that is Chateauneuf-de-Pape that they are drinking in The Blitz, Part 2.

2008. Year in which this minisode about lunching is taking place, when Aziraphale says that there "are a few bottles left" of the Chateauneuf-de-Pape he bought 87 years earlier, implying that they've drunk their way through almost 144 bottles worth of *just* "special occasion" wine *alone* in the last just under 90 years.

"For special occasions." Would be a truly insane way to refer to learning that the world was ending so safe to assume that Aziraphale is wanting to bust out the Chateauneuf-de-Pape in 2008 because what we see in 1.01 is the first time they dined at The Ritz. It was maybe not the most ideal way they'd ever wanted to as it was largely reactionary to learning they were almost out of time but they did it so time for the Chateauneuf-de-Pape.

Chateauneuf-de-Pape. Wine with quite the holy history. Translated from French, means "The Pope's New Castle". The Catholic papacy in early 1300s were big fans of the Burgundy wines in the area, spearheaded their popularity, and used the church to help spur the economic growth of the Avignon viticulture in that area. They drank the wine exclusively themselves and the papacy had been relocated to Avignon so, to an extent, Chateauneuf-de-Pape is something of a "holy water", symbolically. Maybe the antithesis of it-- holy water (water blessed through the power of Heaven) can kill Crowley, Chateauneuf-de-Pape (wine made by humans; symbolic of sex and love and a lifetime of special occasions with Aziraphale) is the stuff worth living for.

Wine is alcohol is, therefore, in Ineffable Husbands Speak, sex.

"Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they?" What Crowley says on their walk to the bookshop, in response to Aziraphale's suggestion that they break out the Chateauneuf-de-Pape.

A very funny line made even funnier by this partner scene in S2:

Well, you'd better pop off and get it then, haven't you, Aziraphale? lol

What, exactly, was going on between these two Influencer Brats of Job and their usual angels-- do we even want to ask? Probably not. The way Keziah says "they haven't brought the wine" with that little emphasis makes it feel like it's possible that their usual angels bring some Heaven-blessed wine as a pretense but that 'bringing the wine' is sexually euphemistic. Ennon hitting on Aziraphale adds to that sense by giving us the feeling that Job being God's favorite human means that, prior to the bet, Heaven was sending angels to see to the needs of the family and the elder two siblings have a pair of usual angels who service their, uh, beverage needs. All of which is, objectively-speaking, against what Heaven says it disapproves of (sex, alcohol/drunkenness, etc.), emphasizing the hypocrisy of the fascist state of Heaven.

The Job minisode then serves to reiterate the wine/alcohol = sex throughout the series and makes even funnier the fact that Crowley then drank the rest of the house's existing wine in revenge for these older kids being such brats and Ennon treating Aziraphale like a whore.

What it shows, though, is that maybe the only consumable beverage that Heaven *is* very big on-- if not on drunkenness-- is wine, like many big religions on Earth, right? As a result, Crowley's "not very big on wine in Heaven" line is then emphasized to really be "not very big on sex in Heaven, are they?"

Ok, back to 2008...

"Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they? Or Chateauneuf-de-Papes... Or single-malt scotch... Or frou frou cocktails with little umbrellas..." Crowley's full response to Aziraphale's Chateauneuf-de-Pape discussion on their walk. Translated from the Ineffable Husbands Speak below.

"Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they? Or Chateauneuf-de-Papes..." Not very big on sex in Heaven, are they? Forget music and food and books and our life here with our human things and our special occasions and spending time together, you are going to spend an eternity trapped in a open-floor-plan office building in the clouds with a bunch of prudish religious zealots. Forever and ever and ever... We have, potentially, eleven years until we'll never make love again. You *love* sex and if we don't stop Armageddon somehow, you're never going to come again...

"...Or single malt scotch..." Scotch is whiskey made in Scotland. Talisker, Crowley's favorite whiskey and recurring drink order, is a single malt scotch. So, this is: Not very big on *me*, either. Not exactly like I can just ride the elevator up for a visit... if I even survive Armageddon. You might have noticed Heaven is not tagging everything on their Tumblr #bildaddy. In case it wasn't obvious that this entire time, I've been listing other things you like about life on Earth while under the surface basically screaming "WE WON'T BE ABLE TO BE TOGETHER, ANGEL..."

"...Or frou frou cocktails with little umbrellas..."

Frou frou. American slang for "fancy", sometimes overly so. The American English sister word/answer word to "ritzy". Spoken by Crowley after they've just left The Ritz and as they walk past what will be the American-themed Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death in S2. Comes from America's longest allies--the French-- where it means the rustling sound made by skirts as they move and is onomatopoeia (words derived from the sound they make, rather than rooted in a language.) To reference Scotland, the United States and France within two sentences while bashing Heaven is very Crowley, who doesn't see Heaven as The British Empire or anything lol.

Cocktails. Mixed drinks. What you get when you combine alcohols. Also ties to the scene in S2 with Mr. Brown of Brown's World of Carpets in The Dirty Donkey, which is now a partner scene to this as well. Crowley's "a sherry for you, a whisky for me." It's another example of alcohol as symbolic of sex as Crowley bringing Aziraphale his preferred drink is their attempt at getting Mr. Brown to get the hint that they are a thing and they like now to keep the alcohol just to the two of them.

A cocktail, though, being a mixed drink, can refer in the context of discussion of Heaven and their relationship to the fact that they are an angel and a demon and Heaven is not very big on that particular cocktail.

Frou frou cocktails with little...

Umbrellas. Canopies.

Canopies. The essential setting component of Crowley's Vavoom in S2, as we heard him talking about (while having a drink) with Aziraphale in S2: "You mean like a sudden rainstorm forces them together beneath a canopy... and they look into each other's eyes and realize they were made for each other."

Vavoom. Alternatively: va-va-voom. Voluptuously sexy. Of or portending to sensual pleasure. How Crowley described his hypothetical-for-Maggie-and-Nina erotic-gazing-into-a-passionate-kiss-while-sheltering-from-rain-together-under-a-canopy thing that is absolutely not Crowley and Aziraphale's first kiss recounted back to Aziraphale by Crowley as his definition of romance. Not at all. Crowley just has a thing about tree canopies and their modern rain-sheltering cousins, umbrellas, ok? We didn't just spot The Vavoom hidden there in 1.01 a bit, too. Absolutely not. ;)

"Or frou frou cocktails with little umbrellas" (in Ineffable Husbands Speak). Heaven is definitely not very big on opulent mixed angel-demon drinks like us and our little romance... We're never going to kiss again, angel. Do you really want to spend *eternity* without ever kissing one another again?

According to S2, the answer to that question is that Aziraphale cannot handle the thought to a point of having a complete breakdown of 'what if you were an angel again so we never had to worry?' desperation, so this is probably why Aziraphale's downward hands of 'argh, not right now-- I can't handle this' show up at this point in 2008, as they finish crossing the street and arrive at the entrance to the bookshop.

This is when Aziraphale starts in on his whole "I'm an angel; you're a demon" stuff again but the tone of it is pretty soft and he adds this bit into it:

"We're hereditary enemies." Something which is hereditary is something which you've inherited through no fault of your own and without your agreement. Often, something foisted upon you that you would not have chosen. Aziraphale's comparing their situation to things like hereditary disease-- they didn't ask for it. It's not their fault. The reality of it, though, is still present. This is a way of reassuring Crowley that, even though Crowley could see through the Yay, Heaven! from the earlier St. James Park scene, that Aziraphale doesn't see him as the enemy and would never have chosen this whole mess. He's not yet agreeing to help Crowley stop Armageddon-- the odds are good that he never was going to while they were outside of the bookshop anyway and Crowley knows that. Everything Crowley has said so far is preamble to his argument for stopping Armageddon later on, when they're inside, sobered up, and Aziraphale is ready to work on a potential plan with him.

After "hereditary enemies"...

"Get thee behind me, foul fiend." Blasphemous Bible-speak delivered flirtatiously as a sexual invitation. Not the only scene in the series with blasphemous innuendo but this one line alone could be its own meta so, in an effort to keep this at under 4 billion words lol, we're just going to look at how this is relevant to lunching.

Foul fiend is just Biblical speak for wicked demon. "Wicked" and "demon" are words in the same vein as "wily", "thwart" and "smitten"--words with dual layers of contradictory meanings that Crowley and Aziraphale love to use in their language. To be "wicked" is to be evil in the sense of in line with Satan, yes, but it's also to be playfully mischievous and is a positive adjective used in place of "excellent" at times. To be a "demon" is to be a familiar of the Devil, yes, but it's also to be extremely skillful and talented at a particular thing.

Aziraphale does the whole "I'm an angel. You're a demon. We're hereditary enemies" thing but then turns around and uses "foul fiend"/"wicked demon" in the non-satanic definitions of it through his fond and suggestive tone. He's not calling Crowley evil-- he's calling Crowley playfully mischievous. He's calling him trouble in a light and fun way. He's not calling him a demon in a derogatory sense but in the skillful sense. The same words that mean "evil ally of Satan" also mean "playful and talented"-- Aziraphale has added context by situation and tone of voice/delivery to essentially turn "foul fiend" into calling Crowley "a demon" in bed, in the "skillful" sense of the word. It becomes fuck me, my very wicked demon by use of a suggestive tone.

But it's the use of "get thee behind me" that is most relevant to 2008 here because remember when I told you we'd come back to crepes?

Crepes. Thin, French pancakes. Can be had almost anytime of the day because they are quite versatile-- savory, sweet, for lunch, for dessert, you name it lol. As sexual euphemism, though, we are really looking at how 'pancakes' have been used traditionally by people using food as euphemisms for sex and that is, unsurprisingly, in relation to how a pancake is cooked. I think we've all probably made actual-pancakes-the-food before or at least have seen it done so it probably will not come as a surprise to you that you have to turn a pancake over to griddle it on both sides for it to be done.

As a result, any sexual euphemism involving pancakes is referring to sex that involves a switch from an initial position to a second position that is literally just the receptive partner turning over. So, in order to fully get Aziraphale's love of his romantic French pancakes here, we'd have to have the starting position of crepes and that is something the show actually gives us because why not at this point lol.

"Get thee behind me" after they've spent the afternoon setting up this 1793-inspired crepe-a-palooza indicates that the starting position of crepes is Aziraphale getting done from behind but he'll turn over because he likes to finish his French pancakes facing Crowley.

Vavavoom Yellow. The color of Crowley's eyes and the actual name of the actual paint the actual people involved with this show painted the actual walls of the bookshop. The color Aziraphale turned The Bentley after making it take off its black and silver sunglasses. Crowley's only out here trying to seduce Aziraphale in every other scene by looking at him over his glasses or taking them off or going on about their tantric eye sex into their first kiss... Seems possible Aziraphale might have a thing for Crowley's eyes, no?

"After you." Aziraphale wants crepes for dessert, though. After "get thee behind me, foul fiend", he gestures Crowley into the bookshop with a very witty "after you", which is both politely letting him go first into the bookshop and insisting he is in bed later as well.

Inviting Crowley inside the bookshop with the "after you" in tandem with inviting him inside with the "get thee behind me" is also then using the fact that Crowley is allowed into the bookshop as sexual metaphor for being allowed inside, well, Aziraphale. This gives it a partner scene in S2, when Aziraphale turns The Bentley into a sexual metaphor and is going for the innuendo gold when he then again uses the bookshop to euphemistically refer to himself with "... just as that bookshop is, technically, my shop... but we both get *plenty* of use out of it, don't we?"

God. The only other character on Good Omens aside from Crowley and Aziraphale themselves who speaks Ineffable Husbands Speak. Character responsible for teaching us one of its most important code words-- "nightingales"-- and who ships it so hard that She had a literal nightingale singing as a joke on their dual-meaning-happy language in the S1 finale. Our narrator in S1.

"...while, in London SoHo, an angel and a demon had been drinking solidly for the last six of them." As we cut away from Crowley & Aziraphale's scenes in 2008 to see The Youngs leave the satanic nunnery with their new baby, God points out-- with a hilarious 'oh my stupid children, scared of a baby' tone-- that "The Antichrist had been on Earth for 24 hours." If we can assume that The Youngs were not sent home from the hospital with a new baby in the middle of the night and that it's closer to the more civilized option of a dinner hour, then that would also go with the fact that Aziraphale was having dinner during all of this the night prior, right? Which means it's dinner time, if we're at 24 hours later. Which means that if, in London SoHo, an angel and a demon have been "drinking solidly" for the last six hours, then God is counting the entire afternoon since Crowley and Aziraphale met up for lunch as "drinking solidly" and that's because "drinking" in Ineffable Husbands Speak isn't just alcohol but sex. Yes, that's God making a sex joke. (She has a few more in S1, too.)

"Baby." Term of endearment for a romantic and/or sexual partner that has been documented as having been in existence since at least around the 1830s but was mainstreamed by American jazz, soul and rock 'n roll music and cinema.

While Crowley and Aziraphale are in the alcohol stage of their alcohol, they get plastered on Chateauneuf-de-Pape and Crowley, in a drunken ramble that we will realize by S2 is inspired by Aziraphale's magic words and their conversation in 1941, is going on about what is going to happen to the creatures of Earth when the world ends. He begins to try to say that the fish will be "turned into bouillabaisse" but that word is too difficult for him to say while drunk. While attempting to, he gets distracted gazing at Aziraphale and calls him "baby" in a low voice and then we get their hilarious very drunk kissy faces. Crowley manages to translate "bouillabaisse" in his mind enough to "fish stew-- anyway!" and they sober up soon afterwards to have an actually semi-coherent conversation and some actual alcohol.

In the context of lunching, this becomes getting drunk and distracted by thoughts of later in the middle of trying to talk-- and we know now thanks to S2 that Crowley is also distracted by thoughts of 1941 here at the same time, as he's going on about bananas, fish, and gorillas. We've never heard him call Aziraphale anything but his name or "angel" with the exception of this scene, when they're alone in the bookshop with alcohol on the brain. Aziraphale is drunk but he also doesn't react like it's unusual-- if he heard it, to be honest, as he seemed a bit devoted to stringing together his thoughts related to The Kraken... that great, bigggg bugger, as Aziraphale described him, not at all thinking about the quite extraordinary amounts of buggery they were going to get up to later on.

But, anyway, there's the scene where Crowley calls Aziraphale "baby" in 2008 and that might suggest that he does if they're alone and there's no risk of anyone overhearing it. (As "angel", at least, is theoretically meant to be calling Aziraphale by what he is in a semi-derogatory way but Crowley's honestly never made that work a day in his life lol.)

Thwarting. See: separate meta on my blog on "wily", "thwart" and "smitten" as examples of words with contradictory, dual meanings that Crowley and Aziraphale like to use in the 'angel-and-demon' sense on the surface but in their 'sexy/romantic' connotations in their hidden language. While talking about a plan to stop Armageddon, Crowley uses "wiles"-- the enticing and feminine-leaning-in-connotation definition of "wily"-- in a dry joke where the surface level is about how it's the role of an angel to stop the Evil One (his demon counterpart) at every turn but is really using "wiles" in its seductive definition. He also uses "thwarting" in a way that is substituting it in a sentence for "fucking" on the hidden language level: "You can't be certain that thwarting me isn't part of The Divine Plan, too."

Indeed, Crowley. Indeed.

"...at every turn." Ha. Crowley has crepes jokes. Think of all the French pancakes we can have for eternity if we thwart Armageddon, angel...

Godfathers. The 2008 minisode scenes end with them deciding to have a baby. Crowley's like I have a plan to stop the end of the world and it's that we crash this mansion and live together raising a kid like a little family and I've thought of a way you can sell it to Heaven-- whaddya say? And Aziraphale melts into a puddle of sparkly-eyed joy and they have some quippy lines about being damned that feel like foreshadowing for Aziraphale something fierce but this is where we leave 2008. Right here.

After alcohol, but before alcohol, ya dig?

Lunch (in Ineffable Husbands Speak). A recurring date of kinky lunch and spending time together that is pre-determined to end hours later with sex that is at least somewhat decided upon at the start of lunch, often euphemistically through discussion of " lunch food" and/or their romantic encounters in their shared past.

Off of this, let's go look at our partner scene of The Bastille again, now using 2008 to illuminate parts of it.

Paris, 1793. Crowley and Aziraphale playing 'damsel in distress and dashing hero rescuer' in The Bastille. Seven years before Aziraphale opens the bookshop; thirty years before Crowley's dragged to Hell in Edinburgh. They've been getting away with this forever at this point, to a point that while they're still overall cautious and terrified of getting caught, they're starting to think it's possible they never will because they've managed to keep it a secret this long. Aziraphale is dry and arch when referencing the recent "strongly-worded note" he apparently received from Gabriel about doing "frivolous miracles". Even though the note might not exist as this whole scene is, basically, a roleplay game, the attitude there is that they're getting one over on Heaven & Hell and are taking advantage of it.

We all know things like Aziraphale lighting up when Crowley shows up and the "oh, good Lord" while raking his eyes over him-- we're just going to look at some bits here that have more significance in Ineffable Husbands Speak.

As a side note here: the buttons on the black part of Crowley's outfit in Paris also are very similar in style to the jacket he's wearing in the Let's Have Lunch scene in 2008, in a fun bit of visual paralleling between the partner scenes via the costuming. This scene is also a great one for the consistent thing in the series where Aziraphale will casually reference God and Satan ("oh, good Lord"/"luck of the devil" in the Tadfield Manor scene) but Crowley will not ("what the deuce are you doing locked up in The Bastille?").

So, Crowley does his whole haughty and faux-put-upon thing upon arriving and S2 actually makes how he arrives even funnier because he spends the first half of the scene lounging on the floor across the room, which has real Job's cellar vibes. Later in the scene, we get the "well, you're lucky I was in the area" and Aziraphale's reply of "I was", both lines of which are arch as all fuck. They ring with a kind of knowing playfulness that honestly signals the whole thing is not exactly an organic situation. Crowley has come to Aziraphale's rescue out of nowhere before and odds are solid that led to Aziraphale's whole rescue kink awakening here lol but this scene in 1793 is not that. Crowley was absolutely "in the area" with his calendar cleared for whatever sexual hijinks the angel wanted to get up to that afternoon. He's committed to the bit and asks near the start: "what the deuce are you doing locked up in The Bastille?", prompting Aziraphale's response of "I got peckish."

"Peckish", meaning "slightly hungry", but you don't wade through a revolution because you could use a snack so Aziraphale's downplaying it for humor-- he's fucking starving. And not really for food. They have food in England. Aziraphale has intentionally got himself locked up in The Bastille because he's horny, which he's expressing using food terms because of course he is. Ineffable Husbands Speak was created by this dry-humored and self-deprecating duo, one of whom is the Serpent of Eden and the other of whom is a bit of a raging gourmand and, together, they've never met anything consumable that they can't make into sexual innuendo.

To learning that Aziraphale on the surface needed a snack and, in Ineffable Husbands Speak, needs a snack, Crowley has this hilarious response:

Go on, Crowley, keep pretending like you're offended that this is all just because Aziraphale is horny and like you think it's not specific to you, like you wouldn't let him nibble on you whenever he wants lol.

Tell him he's special, Aziraphale, and not just one of your favorite toys. You dragged him to a prison cell feet away from a guillotine for this.

"Well, if you must know, it was the crepes. And the brioche. Can't get decent ones anywhere outside of Paris." is Aziraphale's quite illuminating reply.

Paris is France and anything Parisian or French is coded as romantic and as related to love to them, even if we know how much they speak around those words. We know what crepes are now from the 2008 scene and we'll look at brioche in a moment but we can already see that this sentence, translated from Ineffable Husbands Speak, is Aziraphale saying that he can fuck his way around the world (and we know it's suggested that he has at times) but he feels that it's never as good for him as it is with Crowley because the crepes and the brioche are better when they're had in Paris-- because sex with Crowley is better for Aziraphale than with anyone else because of how they feel about each other.

Probably also worth mentioning that crepes and brioche both originated in France (many societies around the world have versions of crepes but the crepe itself is French) so this is also really saying it's just always been Crowley for Aziraphale since the start and Aziraphale was alluding to that to Crowley in the Paris, 1793 scene.

Brioche. A bit of a bread, a bit of a cake, it is a bit sweet and rich like a pastry and falls mostly somewhere there on the French deliciousness spectrum between the two and treated by chefs and bakers as a bit of both. As a result, can wind up in many different meals throughout the day, in different ways. Brioche = Crowley, in food form. Can be used to make sandwiches (ha) but is most well-known as the signature bread used to make French toast. French toast is traditionally made the same way as crepes-- involving turning, like pancakes.

Brioche (in Ineffable Husbands Speak). Both Crowley himself, in food form (bread is necessary for sandwiches, after all) and crepes-as-sex reversed between them with Crowley as the receptive partner.

[Crowley is also suggested to be black bread, according to God's narration, in the St. James Park scene, leading me to believe that he's just every kind of bread Aziraphale likes, which is probably most of them.]

Aziraphale invites Crowley to lunch and we know now that lunching was already a thing for them then. True to form, the scene ends with their first step of lunch-- the anticipatory part-- with Crowley asking "what's for lunch?", which we now understand to mean the same thing as "I still owe you one from..." in 2008. He's asking Aziraphale what he would like for lunch and we know already from 2008 that they went out for crepes and had a whole French buffet.

Armageddon: Round One. 2019. Averted. Afterwards, they meet up in a park and swap bodies back unnoticed because we didn't have enough secret sexual relationship stuff already happening on this show lol so yay metaphor and now there's a full-circle back to the bench at St. James Park in 1.01 but now with them having survived and at least temporarily halted Armageddon. Then, as they start to adjust to the whirlwind being over, it's Crowley with:

"Time to leave The Garden." Crowley likening Aziraphale and himself to Adam and Eve-- and just prior to proposing that he and Aziraphale go get their Garden on with a little lunch. Shows that Crowley and Aziraphale are more than aware of how much they parallel the first humans and reinforces that all of the Eden references and related humor in their romantic relationship that we've seen is not coincidental but intentional.

To ask Aziraphale if you can "tempt him to a spot of lunchchch" while opening up your hip to spread your thighs and angle yourself to suggest that your body is also on the menu. Complete with the 'wanna go to bed?' head tilt of 1601 and 2008 fame. I mean...

Meanwhile, Aziraphale's barely conscious of the fact that he's rubbing his thighs and looking at Crowley's lips...

To reply "Temptation accomplished." with a cutely dorky little laugh to Crowley's invitation to lunch. To never be one to say no to a spot of lunch and accept the invitation, while joking around about how neither of you ever actually tempt each other, you just find each other tempting, in the 'attractive' sense of the word.

Anticipatory kink. The first part of lunch.

To say that a table at The Ritz has miraculously come free. To suggest that you have 2008/Eleven Years Ago for lunch, coming full circle back to 1.01 in the S1 finale. 2019 is 2008 is 1793 is...

Champagne tea/high tea. The meal that Crowley and Aziraphale are actually eating when they go to lunch in the S1 finale. Features champagne and macarons, both of which are French, adding to the romance and the ties to 1793. There also appears to be an apple-hued tea on the table, nodding to Eden.

PTSD. What causes Crowley to sometimes go quiet and zone out. In 2008, we came in on the end of their meal at The Ritz and Crowley was in the moment. In 2019, we see the start of their lunch part of lunch and Crowley is not at all present. He's facing ahead and staring into space at nothing, exhausted and not in the moment. Aziraphale's partner check-in is different this time, as he can tell that Crowley is not with him. He draws him back to the now with a bit of romance.

"...if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit of a good person." I love you, you know.

"And if you weren't just enough of a bastard worth to be worth knowing." I love you, too.

"A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." Romantic 1940 song containing the lyric "angels were dining at The Ritz" that formed the basis for Aziraphale creating "dining at The Ritz" as a code phrase meaning a more acknowledged and somewhat more open relationship in the future... which they then celebrate agreeing to try by literally dining at The Ritz, in line with their dual layers of meaning-happy language. We're still awaiting the origins of the song as their song but it is to a point that one of them has the pianist playing an instrumental version of it during this afternoon tea lunch in 2019. We also get Tori Amos' cover playing over the scene because dual layers of everything.

Literal nightingale singing. God showing only us the bird that Crowley and Aziraphale don't know is actually singing is the show acknowledging that our perspective is, like God's, on the outside of the relationship but we are now able to understand it. To see the literal nightingale but know what it means both symbolically and in Ineffable Husbands Speak is to see that there are different levels of meaning beneath the surface of what we've been watching.

Nightingales (in Ineffable Husbands Speak). Romantic love. Specifically, Crowley and Aziraphale's word for their love for one another.

[physalian]

What No One Tells you about Writing #3

Opening this up to writing as a whole, because it turns out I have a lot more to say!

Part 1

Part 2

1. You don’t fall in love with your characters immediately

But when you do, it’s a hit of serotonin like no other. I’d been writing a tight cast of characters for my sci-fi series since 2016 and switched over in a bout of writer’s block this year to my new fantasy book. I made it about ⅓ through writing the book going through the motions, unable to visualize what these new characters look like, sound like, or would behave like without a ‘camera’ on them.

Then, all of a sudden, I opened my document to keep on chugging with the first draft, and it clicked. They were no longer faceless elements of my plot, they were my characters and I was excited to see what they could accomplish, rooting for them to succeed. Sometimes, it takes a while, but it does come.

2. Sometimes a smaller edit is better than a massive rewrite

Unless you’re changing the trajectory of your entire plot, or a character’s arc really is unrecoverable, sometimes even a single line of dialogue, a single paragraph of introspection, or a quick exchange between two characters can change everything. If something isn’t working, or your beta readers consistently aren’t jiving with a character you yourself love, try taking a step back, looking at who they are as a person, and boil down what your feedback is telling you and it might demand a simpler fix than you expect.

Tiny details inserted at the right moment can move mountains. Fan theories stand on the backs of these minutiae. One sentence can turn a platonic relationship romantic. One sentence can unravel a fair and just argument. One sentence can fill or open a massive plot hole.

3. Outline? What outline?

Not every book demands weeks upon weeks of prep and worldbuilding. I would argue that jumping right in with only a vague direction in mind gives you a massive advantage: You can’t infodump research you haven’t done. Exposition is forced to come as the plot demands it, because you haven’t designed it yet.

Not every story is simple and straightforward, but even penning the first draft with your vague plan, *then* going back and adding in deeper worldbuilding elements, more thematic details, richer character development, can get you over the writer’s block hurdle and make it far less intimidating to just shut up and write the book.

4. It’s okay to let your characters take the wheel

I’ve seen writing advice that chastises authors who let their characters run wild, off the plan the story has for them. Yeah, doing this can harm your pacing and muddy a strong and consistent arc, but refusing to leave the box of your outline greatly limits your creativity. I do this particularly when writing romantic relationships (and end up like Captain Crunch going Oops! All Gays!).

Did I plan for these two to get together? No, it just happened organically as I wrote them talking, getting closer, getting to know each other better in the circumstances they find themselves in. Was this character meant to be gay? Well, he wasn’t meant to be straight, but you know what, he’d work really well with this other boy over here. None of that would have happened if I was bound and determined to follow my original plan, because my original plan didn’t account for how the story that I want to tell evolves. You aren’t clairvoyant—it’s okay if it didn’t end up where you thought it would.

5. Fight. Scenes. Suck.

Which is crazy because I love fantasy and sci-fi, the actiony-est genres. Some authors love battle scenes and fistfights. It comes naturally to them and I will forever be jealous. I hate fight scenes. I hate blocking and choreographing them. I hate how it doesn’t read like I’m watching a movie. I hate how it could take me hours to write a scene I can read in 5 minutes. I hate that there’s no way around it except to just not write them, or put in the elbow grease and practice.

Whatever your writing kryptonite is, don’t be too hard on yourself. It won’t ever replicate the movie in your head, but our audience isn’t privy to that movie and will be none the wiser of how this didn’t fit your expectations, because it’s probably awesome on its own. It could be a fight scene, sex scene, epic battle, cavalry charge, courtroom argument, car chase—whatever. Be patient, and kind to yourself and it will all come together.

6. Write the scenes you want to write first

And then be prepared to never use them. It can be mighty difficult working backwards from a climax and figuring out how to write the story around it, but if you’re sitting at your laptop staring at your cursor and watching it blink, stuck on a tedious moment that’s necessary but frustrating, go write something exciting. Even if that amazing scene ends up no longer working in the book your story becomes, you still get practice by writing it. Particularly if you hate beginnings or the pressure of a perfect first page is too high, you’re allowed to write any other moment in the book first.

And with that, be prepared to kill your darlings. Not your characters, I mean that one badass line of dialogue living rent free in your head. That epic monologue. That whump scenario for your favorite character. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out anymore, but even if it ends up in the trash, you can always salvage something from it, even if that’s only the knowledge of what not to do in the future.

7. “This is clearly an author insert.” … Yes. It is. Point?

No one likes Mary Sues, because a character who doesn’t struggle or learn to get everything they want in life is uncompelling. The most flagrant author inserts I see aren’t Mary Sues, they’re nerdy, awkward, boring white guys whose world changes to fit their perspective, instead of the other way around—they don’t have anything to say. I’m not the intended audience to relate to these characters and I accept that, but I don’t empathize with the so-called “strong female character” who also doesn’t have flaws or an arc either.

A good author insert? When the author gives their characters pieces of themselves. When the “author insert” struggles and learns and grows and it’s a therapeutic experience just writing these characters thrown into such horrible situations. They feel human when they’re given pieces of a human’s soul. They have real human flaws and idiosyncrasies. I don’t care if the author wrote themselves as the protagonist. I care that this protagonist is entertaining. So if you want to make yourself the hero of your book, go for it! But make sure you look in the mirror and write in your flaws, as much as your strengths.

[sneezypeasy]

The Lightning Scene, How Azula Targeted Katara (of All People), and the Doylist Reason Why That Matters

Mention Zuko's sacrifice for Katara in Sozin's Comet Part 3 as part of a pro-Zutara talking point, and invariably you'll get a Pavlovian response of:

"But Zuko would have taken the lightning for anyone."

(Not to be confused with the similar-sounding Pavlovan response, which is "Zuko's sacrifice ain't shit compared to a mouth-watering, strawberry-topped meringue dessert"*, which is actually the only valid counter-argument to how the lightning scene is a bona fide Zutara treasure, but I digress.)

Now, I've talked in depth about how the lightning scene is framed far more romantically than it had any right to be, regardless of how you might interpret the subject on paper; this is an argument which I still stand by 100%. That Zuko would have gotten barbecued for anyone, and that he was at the stage of his arc where his royal kebab-ness represented his final act of redemption, doesn't change the fact that the animators/soundtrack artists decided to pull out all the stops with making this scene hit romantic film tropes bingo by the time it played out on screen.

(I mean, we stan.)

There's also a deeper level to this conundrum, a layer which creeps up on you when you're standing in your kitchen at night, the fridge door open in front of you, your hungry, sleep-deprived brain trying to decide on what to grab for a midnight snack, and quite inexcusably you're struck with the question: Okay, Zuko may indeed have taken the lightning for just anyone, but would Azula have shot the lightning at just anyone?

But there's yet a deeper layer to this question, that I don't recall ever seeing anyone discuss (though if somebody has, mea culpa). And that is: would you have written Zuko taking the lightning for anyone else?

Or in other words, who Zuko would have taken the lightning for is the wrong question to be asking; the question we ought to be asking is who Zuko should have taken the lightning for, instead.

Get your pens out, your Doylist hats on, and turn to page 394. It's time to think like an author for a hot minute.

(If you don't know what I mean by Watsonian vs. Doylist analyses, and/or if you need a refresher course, go have a skim of the first section of this 'ere post and then scoot your ass back to this one.)

So. You're the author. You've written almost the entirety of an animated series (look at you!!) and now you're at the climax, which you've decided is going to be an epic, hero-villain showdown. Classic. Unlike previous battles between these two characters, your hero is going to have a significant advantage in this fight - partly due to his own development as a hero at the height of his strength and moral conviction, and partly because your villain has gone through a bit of a Britney Spears 2007 fiasco, and isn't quite at the top of her game here. If things keep going at this pace, your hero is going to win the fight fairly easily - actually, maybe even too easily. That's okay though, you're a talented writer and you know just what will raise the stakes and give the audience a well-timed "oh shit" moment: you're going to have the villain suddenly switch targets and aim for somebody else. The hero will be thrown off his groove, the villain will gain the upper hand, the turns will have indubitably tabled. Villains playing dirty is the number 1 rule in every villain handbook after all, and each of the last two times your hero's braved this sort of fight he's faced an opponent who ended up fighting dishonourably, so you've got a lovely Rule of Three perfectly lined up for the taking. Impeccable. The warm glow of triumph shines upon you, cherubs sing, your English teachers clap and shed tears of pride. (Except for that one teacher you had in year 8 who hated everybody, but she's a right bitch and we're not talking about her today.)

Now here's the thing: your hero is a hero. Maybe he wasn't always a hero, but he certainly is one now. If the villain goes after an innocent third party, there's basically no-one your hero wouldn't sacrifice himself for. He's a hero! Heroes do be like that, it's kind of their thing. The villain could shoot a bolt of lightning at Bildad the Shuhite, and the only thing that'd stop our boy Redeemed Paladin Bravesoul McGee from shielding his foxy ass is the fact that Bildad the Shuhite has the audacity to exist in a totally different show (disgusten.)

But. You're holding the writer's pen. Minus crossover shenanigans you don't have the licensing or time-travel technology to achieve, you have full control over how this scene plays out. You get to decide which character to target to deliver the greatest emotional impact, the juiciest angst, the most powerful cinematic suspense. You get to decide whose life you'll put at risk, to make this scene the most intense spine-chilling heart-stopper it can possibly be.

This is the climax we're talking about, after all - now is not the time to go easy on the drama.

So.

Do you make the villain target just anyone?

Or do you make the villain target someone the hero cares about?

Perhaps, someone he cares about... a lot?

Maybe even, someone he cares about... more than anybody else?

You are the author. You are the God of this universe. You get to choose.

What would deliver the strongest punch?

If you happen to make the inadvisable decision of browsing through these tropes on TV tropes, aside from wasting the rest of your afternoon (you're welcome), you'll find that the examples listed are littered with threatened and dead love interests, and, well, there's a reason for that. For better or worse, romantic love is often portrayed by authors, and perceived by audiences, as a "true" form of love (often even, "the" true form of love). Which is responsible for the other is a chicken/egg situation, one I'm not going to go into for this post - and while I'm certainly not here to defend this perspective as objectively good, I do think it's worth acknowledging that it not only exists but is culturally rather ubiquitous. (If you're playing the love interest in a story with a hero v. a villain, you might wanna watch your back, is what I'm saying.)

Regardless of whether the vibe you're aiming for is romantic or platonic however, one thing is for certain: if you want maximum oomph, the way to achieve that is by making the villain go after the player whose death would hit the hero the hardest.

And like I said, this doesn't have to be played romantically (although it so often is). There are platonic examples in those trope pages, though it's also important to note that many of the platonic ones do show up in stories where a love interest isn't depicted/available/there's a strong "bromance" element/the hero is low-key ace - and keep in mind too that going that route sometimes runs a related risk of falling into queer-bait territory *coughJohnLockcough*

That said, if there is a canon love-interest available, one who's confessed her love for the hero, one who has since been imprisoned by the villain, one who can easily be written as being at the villain's disposal, and who could quite conveniently be whipped out for a mid-battle surprise round - you might find you have some explaining to do if you choose to wield your authorly powers to have the villain go after... idk, some other sheila instead.

(The fact that this ends up taking the hero out of the fight, and the person he sacrifices himself for subsequently throws herself into the arena risking life and limb to defeat the villain and rescue her saviour, also means the most satisfying way this plays out, narratively speaking, is if both of these characters happen to be the most important person in each other's lives - at least, as of that moment, anyway - but I think this post has gone on long enough, lol)

This is, by and large, a rebuttal post more than anything else, but the tl;dr here is - regardless of whether you want to read the scene as shippy or not, to downplay Zuko's sacrifice for Katara specifically as "not that deep™" because "Zuko would have taken the lightning for anyone anyway", suggests either that a) nobody should be reading into the implications of Katara being chosen as the person nearest and dearest to Zuko, so that putting her life in jeopardy can deliver the most powerful impact possible for an audience you'd bloody well hope are on the edge of their seats during the climax of your story or b) the writers made the inexplicable decision of having the villain threaten the life of... literally who the fuck ever, and ultimately landed on someone who's actually not all that important to the hero in the grand scheme of things - which is a cardinal writing sin if I ever saw one (even disregarding the Choice to then season it with mood lighting and sad violin music, on top of it all), and altogether something I'd be legitimately pissed about if my Zuko-OTP ship paired him with Mai, Sokka, or just about anybody else 😂

Most importantly c) I'm hungry, and I want snacks.

*The Aussies in the fandom will get this one. Everyone else can suffer in united confusion.

[garoujo]

✩ ˛˚ . WRIOTHESLEY — your boyfriend always had his own ways of teasing you whenever you’d visit him at work.

ஜ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ warnings! f!reader, cockwarming, a lot of teasing, office scenes! my first wrio thing ueueue ♡ ˖ ࣪࿐ྂ note! i had to write something for him before i lost my mind ,, im going sooooso crazy over him <3

you were always so incredibly needy by the time you finally got to visit your boyfriend wriothesley in the fortress of meropide. unfortunately, he’d seemed to pick up on that — always figuring out new ways to tease you by the time you arrived, like he hadn’t been yearning for you just as much.

you’d barely been there a few hours and you’d already been palming at his muscles over his shirt, losing yourself in one of the many makeout sessions with the duke that seemed to take all of the air from your lungs. he was a daunting presence, all sharp edges and rough lines and exceeding the kind of dominance he holds over everything else in his life as he kisses you.

“wrio, i want you—please—“ is where wriothesley’s little game begins when he pulls away to give you a narrowed sort of look— crossing his arms over his chest as he hums to himself.

“mmm, in my administrative office space? what ever shall i do with you?” the tone of his voice is playful as he tries to bite back the whisper of a smirk on his features, his sharp eyes are on you and he’s already so consumed by the way your thighs rub together from where you’re sat on his desk.

“it’s been so long, i wanna feel you.” your voice trembles under the weight of your arousal as you blink up at wriothesley, sending him a terribly unfair, glassy look that makes him tilt his head down at you before he breathes out a laugh. oh, he’d devour you entirely— and he will, eventually.

“oh? is that so? well i might have a suggestion to fix that.”

you should’ve known what he meant by a suggestion, known that is was always going to be something amusing for him but oh so annoying for you. he’d led you into it, drowning you in kisses and languid touches when he’d coaxed you into his lap— sinking into you with the sweet promise of making you feel good after he’d finished his work— it was his office you were in after all. god—he was so annoying.

“well then, is this enough for you, hm?” wriothesley grits as he exhales deep against the shell of your ear. your chest is pressed tight against his and your thighs are spread so prettily over his own as you sit on his lap— soft walls wrapped around his heavy cock as you both rest on his desk chair.

he’s got one hand on your ass as he palms at the skin, the other flipping through the paperwork on his desk and he’s so glad you can’t see the way he does it without purpose, his only goal to last as long as possible with you around him— but it’s harder than he thought it would be.

“you didn’t even finish your tea.” his tone is smooth as he grumbles, giving your ass a particularly rough squeeze while he eyes the set of teacups at the other end of his desk— he’d even used the fancy kind to make you that cup. “i could always stop and make you another if you’d rather that.”

“n-no!” you squirm at that, you’re already so wound up tight— feeling his cock smooth along your sensitive walls and stretch you out so mercilessly. his teasing isn’t doing you any favours and you’d do anything for a little friction, all he’s offering you being a few shallow thrusts everytime he readjusts himself on his seat with a ‘oh i’m just getting comfortable is all.’ but you know him, you know it’s just an excuse for him to rock his hips into yours, pushing his cock even deeper into you just to hear you bite back a whimper of his name, a plea.

“wow, you’ve really been waiting for this, huh?” wriothesley tries again and you don’t even need to see his face to know he’s smirking just as he pulls your hips closer to his. there’s a lewd squelch between you both with how wet you are, the blunt head of his cock gliding along your sweet spots until you’re mumbling out a strangled sort of sound, and you feel something burn in your abdomen as you all but drip down his heavy shaft.

“mmhm, that’s a real shame. bet you’re regretting being impatient now.” he truly was relentless,

“wrio! just move already, come on!”

“oh no, you insisted you’d let me work like this. all i’m asking for is a minute to finish my work and my tea, ‘s all. you can handle that, right?”

oh but despite his teasing you feel like silk around him, making his fingers twitch and grip at the edge of his desk as he tries so hard to focus on his documents in front of him. he wants nothing more than to have you over the table, walls trembling around him as you cum but he’d started this little game — he can’t give in too quickly.

“well can you hurry up, n-need you to move!”

“yeah, well .. maybe if you stopped moving so much i’d be done a little faster.” wriothesley grumbles playfully, pulling back to shoot you a look before he’s placing a few ticklish, open mouthed kisses along your jawline.

you can only glare cutely at him in response, not trusting the sound of your own voice when you’re so full— but you still manage to tighten your walls around him as a little playback. you watch his lips part at that before he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, biting back a low growl but you still feel it rumble through his chest— he always liked when you teased him back, it made his games more fun.

“oh? good for you. that is wonderful~” wriothesley grunts with the praise but you can sense the sarcasm, goading as the muscles in his chest expand with a sudden, shaky exhale as he narrows his eyes up at you again— they’re darker now.

the sight alone has your pussy twitching, flexing around him and he hisses through his teeth at the sudden tightness before he thrusts abruptly into you in response. it makes you moan at the sudden friction he’s been so generous to give you— but makes you whimper even louder at the loss when he slows back to a stop before popping his neck to the side.

“quit teasing me! just fuck me, already!” wriothesley can’t deny the way your want—need for him has him like putty, making something burst and warm underneath his shirt when your fingertips graze their way beneath his collar, making him shudder when they trace so gently over his scars. he hums like he’s considering it, thinking it over before he’s placing a sloppy kiss against your neck and taking a ragged breath, then finally rolling his hips languidly into yours.

oh but it’s so fast the way he moves you, pushing you so quickly onto his desk that you squeeze around him from the movement alone. he lets himself curl over you this time, his cock throbbing when your thighs tremble around his hips and you’ve never been so thankful to feel the cold wood of his desk against your lower back and this man between your thighs.

wriothesley’s eyes are blown as they glance down between your bodies, so hypnotised by the way your folds spread for him before he almost crumbles with the first real bounce of his body against yours. his palms reach to squeeze at your hips, pulling back until only the tip of his cock is resting inside of you before he’s sinking back down, and the way your pussy coaxes him back in is filthy with the wet, clapping connection of his hips with yours.

“aren’t you eager? seems i win this round. you gonna give me a prize?”

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