#also dry skin getting caught on fabrics in general ugh

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - Addiction (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is addicted to affection. Addicted to touch. But being an addict, he can't seem to manage to find a healthy relationship, nor make any relationship last. After his latest break up, he decides to forgo the emotion and go straight for physical satisfaction.

... He just wants to find someone who needs his body. He's not particularly picky as to who - or what - that entails. (5792 words)

Notes: A major re-working of another piece I wrote. If you guys like this one, I will complete the scene that should come after it ;) Let me know. Vampire Crowley. Warnings for mention of blood and blood sucking. Sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale walks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, eyeballing the outfits he’d laid out earlier, scathingly critical of every item he chose even though, had you asked him two hours ago, he would have claimed each as tied for favorite. He’s 90% dressed already - cream colored trousers and a matching long-sleeved button down, a pale blue waistcoat (one he’s been told matches his eyes perfectly), tartan socks, and his best cocoa brown Derbys. All he needs now is a bowtie.

Does he need a bowtie? He doesn’t know exactly what the protocol is regarding neckwear where he’s going. He definitely prefers to wear a bowtie. Would not wearing one send some sort of message? Aziraphale assumes forgoing a bowtie might make him appear more casual. At ease. But in the context of the place he’s headed, might it also mean that he’s easy?

He sighs. He’s thinking too hard about this. This place he’s going - he’s paying to be there! What the Hell does the possible hidden innuendo of wearing or not wearing a bowtie matter under those circumstances? He hasn’t left the house without a bowtie on in over four decades!

He’s wearing the bowtie.

His gaze slides over his bed, the ties in the running lined up side by side on his comforter. He reaches for one, fingers hovering just above before he changes his mind and goes for the one beside it, picking it up between pinched fingers and holding it to his neck. He turns to his full length mirror and takes a peek.

“This one?” he asks no one, appraising the plain, gray fabric. “No. No, that won’t do.” He tosses it back on the bed and grabs another one - a tartan tie that matches his socks.

Heaven’s Dress Tartan. His family’s tartan. It’s pretty much the tie he wears for every occasion.

Naively, it makes him feel protected.

“This one?” he muses, already nodding his head. “Yes, this one.” Aziraphale slips the narrow strip of fabric about his neck and ties it. He looks himself over in the mirror, chest puffed with pride, but it doesn’t last long.

What is he doing?

He’s too old for this.

Maybe he should pack it in, wrap up his libido and call it quits. He’s had a good run, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need the physical. No more hugs, no more kisses, no more sex - that wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop from his smart outfit to his feet.

Except it would.

It would for Aziraphale.

He can’t give up touch. He’s never done well without some speck of it in his life.

Deep down inside, he knows he can’t survive without it.

It’s not as simple as feeling lonely or unfulfilled. His need for affection goes beyond that. And it’s stronger - so much stronger - than him.

Being an addict is no small burden. Aziraphale knows that firsthand. He’s seen what addiction can do to people. He’s seen how it can devastate families.

He sat around for years and watched, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and child, turning him from parental figure into perfect stranger well before Aziraphale’s formative years, then into an enemy when Aziraphale decided against going into medicine, law, or business (the big three that would ensure the family fortune would multiply and thrive long after his father was gone) and instead majored in linguistics and literature.

His father’s addiction led to his mother’s. She’d hit the bottle to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she’d loved since secondary school, drift away, drinking herself stupid until she couldn’t remember what day it was, where she lived … or that she had a son.

But addiction isn’t only cause and effect. It can be hereditary. It spread through the Fell family like wildfire, jumping from generation to generation. It started with Aziraphale’s great-great-great-great-grandfather on his father’s side and trickled down. Since Aziraphale is the last living Fell, his family’s vices have caught up to him, pooled around his ankles with nowhere else to flow to.

Threatening to drag him under.

Aziraphale has an addiction, too. Anyone who talks to him for about five minutes would say that his drug of choice is books, and indeed there are a good many reasons to believe that. Aziraphale loves books. He’s amassed such a collection that he even became an antique book dealer, but mostly as an excuse to find a place big enough to house his vast collection.

No, Aziraphale gets addicted to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. And he can’t live without it. He’ll take it from anyone willing to give even a smidgen of it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully blossom with people who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Not that these relationships would have gone anywhere if given the chance. That’s part of the problem. Aziraphale tries so hard to find the tenderness stolen from him at too early an age, he doesn’t necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, spots where rain won’t ever find them, away from the sun’s nurturing rays.

Tonight, walking alone through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he’s suffering the aftershocks of one such break-up. But this time, Aziraphale was prepared … somewhat. Which is to say he saw the signs. He knew the end was coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. But instead of doing the adult thing and cutting ties painlessly, he let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could. And afterwards, when he’d brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex’s apartment – toothbrush, shaving cream, CDs, a few shirts, underwear, the possessions that he’d used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

He arrives at the obscure establishment before ten o’clock, having fooled himself that he’s ready to move on even before his ex’s side of the bed is cold. He’s doing right by himself. No more leaping into empty relationships just to have his mind messed with and his heart broken.

He’s skipping straight to the physical.

This is the way to go.

But there is also the chance that he’s being phenomenally stupid.

Aziraphale has paid money for questionable things before, things that he’s looked back on and regretted, shoving them as far behind him as he could so as not to think about them ever again.

But paying to feed his addiction - he’s never done that.

The place he’s gone to, with its ornate wooden door set into the face of an everyday brick wall, looks like a day spa if anything – a rather foreboding day spa. In a way, Aziraphale had expected it to look that way. That or a bar. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? A bordello, perhaps? He’d heard about one that operates out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Let it never be said that Aziraphale didn’t do his research.

From what he’d heard, this place isn’t only the most exclusive of its kind in London, it’s the most discreet.

Silent as the grave, he’d been told.

There is no buzzer, no knocker, not even a door knob. No indication at all that anyone is allowed in but Aziraphale knows better. He sends a text to a number he paid a hefty sum for, along with a selfie that takes longer than he’d care to admit to take, but that’s not entirely his fault. There are strict requirements for this photograph - angle, background, head tilt, etc. The phone number is one-time use. After he hits send, he won’t be able to follow up with another message, so his picture needs to be up to spec.

Each selfie he takes, he despises immediately. The first one … well, the first one always bites, doesn’t it? In the second one, his face is too fat. Chubby chipmunk cheeks and puckered lips? He looks like a frickin’ cherub! The third one … ugh! Where was he even looking? The fourth one - definite serial killer with that awkward, thin-lipped grin.

He can’t keep doing this. He has to pick one! He’s running out of time! Ten o’clock sharp the message had said! If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to be even a minute late!

He decides that his next picture will be his absolute last. Whatever comes out of this shot, he can’t take another one. He holds his phone up at the pre-determined angle, holds his breath, plasters on his most sincere smile … and prays to God.

Just then, the unthinkable happens.

He fumbles his phone.

He’d been holding so hard to it and his smile that his fingers had begun to sweat. He loses traction, the traitorous thing sliding out of his grasp. The shutter clicks, the flash fires, and his phone makes a lyrical trill of affirmation.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops like a lead balloon straight to his feet.

That noise - that skipping of high-pitched notes that he chose at random because they reminded him of Rites of Spring - indicates that the picture sent without Aziraphale having a chance to double check it first.

“Oh … Hell!” he curses. He should have taken the damned thing at home! The glow from his reading lantern would have given his skin a soft, golden cast; made him look younger; mysterious; but he forgot that a picture would be required. In every photo he’s taken in this doorway, illuminated only by a chemical bulb above his head, he looks anemic, harsh shadows thrown by the overly bright flash elongating his nose, hollowing his cheeks, sinking his eyes into their sockets. But this one, snapped off while his phone was negotiating gravity, is likely to be the worst one yet! Instead of a solid face, he’ll look like a blur.

A middle-aged blur with absolutely no relationship prospects. Not even a cat.

Aziraphale scrolls frantically through his gallery to try and find the picture, see what disaster he’s unleashed, but he can’t locate it.

“Where are you, you little …?” he mumbles, heart thrumming so hard it’s beginning to make him nauseous. The picture isn’t in his saved file. Not on his SD card. It’s not in his sent messages. So where the frick is it!? Aziraphale has to see it, has to know what he’s done, has to know if he’s failed. Has to know if it’s worth waiting out here, or if he should turn tail and head for his bookshop. Somewhere in between bribing his phone and threatening to smash the screen to bits, the door pops open with a click.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, his head shooting up like a prairie dog’s on its guard.

The door.

The door is open.

He mustn’t have sent a horrifying photograph after all!

But it may not stay open for long so he’d better move his arse!

He pushes the door further and steps inside. It closes behind him the moment he’s through. He turns quickly to see who shut it since he didn’t notice a doorman when he entered.

But there’s no one.

He’s in the foyer of this large, imposing place completely alone.

As far as he can tell.

He has the distinct feeling he’s being watched.

Of course he’s being watched! he scolds himself. They probably have security cameras everywhere in a place like this! There’s nothing sinister about that! Why, he went to a thrift store not too long ago that had a security camera installed over every aisle, and the most notable item they had for sale was a velvet painting of Margaret Thatcher! Pull yourself together, Aziraphale, for Heaven’s sake!

Now that he’s inside, the place reminds him more of a bank than a spa: long stretches of empty hallway decorated in shows of old school wealth - leather chairs, ornate mirrors, glossy wood drawing tables, a long Persian runner leading him to his destination with chandeliers marking the path every ten feet or so. There’s been more money invested in this one hall than Aziraphale’s father could afford to put into their entire house, even with his lofty inheritance.

He can’t help thinking it would make the old man pea green with envy if he were alive to see it.

Little does Aziraphale know that there are two other hallways ahead of him just like this one.

Aziraphale walks through a total of three locked doors to get to what could be deemed ‘the main lobby’. He’s not escorted, but he does need to be buzzed through, the same melancholy voice asking him to repeat his name through an intercom at every checkpoint. Aziraphale marvels at the embassy-level security but he can’t help but wonder: is this a common practice at these places? No one mentioned anything about this.

What sort of trouble are they trying to prevent?

Aziraphale imagines most people might turn around at this point, go back the way they came and forget all about this place, but not him. As he approaches the final door there is no going back for him now. Not when he’s so close to what he wants.

He goes through the procedure one last time – name and then buzz. But this door is heavier, takes a bit more strength to push open. Black lighting overhead engulfs the room, creates a void that makes everything within indefinable. A few feet in, a wraparound counter fluoresces purple. Aziraphale sees only a single occupant in this room - a man sitting behind the counter who looks, from the outset, like a regular human being.

Of course, Aziraphale has never met a vampire before. He has no idea what one should look like.

He walks up to the counter, the door behind him swinging close and shutting with the same poignant click as the rest. But once this door seals, it takes the light with it, plunging Aziraphale momentarily into near complete black.

The man doesn’t look up at Aziraphale’s arrival. Aziraphale clears his throat to get his attention.

“E-excuse me?” he says nervously, his stomach flipping somersaults from his pelvis up to his neck. His voice sounds thin and disappointing to his own ears. Then again, he barely speaks to anyone from day to day. Maybe it sounds exactly the way it should.

The man sitting behind the counter – dark-skinned but with an ashy paler - blatantly ignores Aziraphale, who’d be standing practically on top of him if not for the counter between them. He flips exaggeratedly through the pages of his magazine (Aziraphale can’t tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale repeats, louder but still weak.

The man sniffs the air. He shifts only his eyes to address Aziraphale, looks him over, then returns to his magazine. “Wot do you want?”

“I … uh … I have an appointment. F-for a session.” Session. Is that the right word for it? No one Aziraphale talked to about this gave him the in on the lingo. “With a man by the name of Crowley.”

The disinterested man flips another page. “An appointment, huh?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it’s surprisingly deserted. Aziraphale can’t see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, aside from the glowing furniture, it’s so dark in there – a darkness his eyes refuse to get accustomed to – someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I’m … uh … sort of new at this.” His statement is met with a silence as thick as a brick wall. He chuckles, anxiety starting to get the better of him.

He feels vaguely like he might be in danger.

If he backed out now, walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

Then Aziraphale realizes fuck! He’d probably need to be buzzed out the same way he was buzzed in. And the man behind the counter might have to be the one to do it. He has the same dry, unenthusiastic tone in his voice as the one that greeted Aziraphale at every door.

The man glances Aziraphale’s way, then blows out a breath, obviously annoyed he’s still there. “I’ll tell him you’re here Mr. …”

“Fell. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man repeats but doesn’t reach for a phone or make a move to inform anyone that Aziraphale has arrived. He gives the air another disdainful sniff and scrunches his nose, raising his magazine to cover it. “Did you have sushi for lunch, Mr. Fell?”

“Uh …” Aziraphale clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like to a creature with super-sensitive olfactory organs. He did have sushi, but that was days ago. There’s no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listermint he uses daily.

“Was it refrigerated properly? Or do you buy your food from the day-old section of your local market?”

Aziraphale’s hackles rise. He disregards the feeling that he’s in danger in defense of his favorite restaurant. “I really don’t think that Hot Stone would stoop to selling day-old sushi!”

“Did you even remember where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scolds without listening to him. “I mean, have some respect, for Satan’s sake!”

“That’s enough, Ligur.” A new voice, amused but stern, says from the shadows. “If you don’t stop badgering the customers, we won’t have any, and then how will you afford your flat? Hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Ligur replies, barely bringing himself to care.

Inconceivably quick, their new guest goes from standing in the light to standing before Aziraphale. Ligur snickers at the move, like he’s seen it too many times before, but Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any mind. Ligur might not be impressed, but Aziraphale can’t. stop. staring.

Aziraphale has never seen such a man.

He’s never imagined a man like him could exist. He’s sure he could spend his entire life trying to think him up and still never come up with him. He captivates Aziraphale in a matter of seconds, mystifies him without lifting a finger. He’s tall, slim, and fair. He reminds Aziraphale of a prince from an old world fairy tale. In fact, Aziraphale knows just the book he’d find it in. He intends on searching for it the moment he returns to his shop (he thinks hopefully). The man’s eyes, even in the absence of light, are piercing, simmering in their depths with a light all their own.

The man doesn’t walk up to Aziraphale. He stalks. And the way he carries himself leads Aziraphale to believe he can take anything he wants with a snap of his fingers. At the moment, he’s stolen Aziraphale’s voice, his breath, practically every thought in his head.

Aziraphale’s entire focus becomes this man.

The man moves a step forward. Aziraphale takes a subconscious step back.

“I believe that you are my ten o’clock,” the man says.

Aziraphale nods, not sure if he’s expected to speak ... or if he’s allowed. “Are … are you … Mr. Crowley?”

“In the flesh. And you must be Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tongue curls around his words, the hint of an accent making an appearance. Several accents, actually. At his root, the man sounds English, but not born. But his accent is acquired, not practiced, bred from immersion. There are other touches here and there - a dash of Birmingham, a little cockney perhaps, an Irish brogue, peppered upon a foundation that sounds firmly Scottish. Lilts and rolls add flavor to Aziraphale’s name so that he feels he’s hearing it spoken out loud for the first time. Even lost in that dialect soup, Aziraphale doesn’t think it’ll ever sound more perfect than it does rolling off Crowley’s tongue. It tickles his eardrums, silently begs Crowley to say it again.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. “Aziraphale Fell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It will be soon.” Crowley winks. “Follow me, Mr. Fell.” He smiles, teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights, but those teeth … that smile … make him look predatory, and Aziraphale considers again if coming here was the smartest idea, especially since he did so impulsively, took no precautions. He was so distracted by his break-up, so wrapped up in shoulds and shouldn’ts, what people would think of him if they ever found out, that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

What if he simply disappears?

No one in his life would dream of looking for him here, and he left absolutely no clues to point them in this direction.

Regardless of the warning bells tolling in his head, new ones firing off with each pound of his heart, Aziraphale follows Crowley down several vacant hallways. The place was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illuminations doing nothing more than throwing shadows on the walls – shadows deep enough to disappear in. Crowley walks swiftly. Aziraphale almost loses him twice, but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with doors. Aziraphale hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart speeds in his chest.

It slams to a stop when he hears a man scream – strained and blood curdling.

Aziraphale can’t tell if the man is screaming in pleasure or in pain.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Um … is he going to be alri---?”

“Right this way, Mr. Fell,” Crowley interrupts, opening the last door on the left. “This is my private office. No one will dare disturb us in here.” Aziraphale hesitates but decides to go inside, not because he feels any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn’t, he might run the other way. Crowley waits patiently till Aziraphale steps in, then shuts, and locks, the door. “Now … what can I help you with today?”

Aziraphale paces the room, examining its violet walls with their black-and-white photographs mounted in minimalist glass frames. It isn’t much brighter in here than in the lobby, but it’s more inviting - the sort of space created specifically for people to spend time in together, get to know one another. A round, wooden table in the center of the room holds a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. Candles cover every level surface - some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, and scent the air with the sweet fragrance of vanilla. Their dancing flames reflect off the glass, the constant flickering making the room appear to sway. It’s disorienting. It gets Aziraphale’s adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, which Aziraphale assumes is the desired effect.

He’d heard that a speeding human heart can be a powerful aphrodisiac for a vampire.

They apparently get off on it.

Against a far wall sits a plush, red sofa, and against another, a four-poster bed.

Aziraphale bypasses the bed (it isn’t his gut decision, just the safest seeming one) and heads for the sofa. “I … I have a problem. An addiction.”

“Go on.” Crowley strolls over to join him, each step he takes deliberate, noiseless, as if his feet don’t make contact with the ground at all, gliding on the air right above. Aziraphale watches Crowley settle onto the far end of the sofa, sitting catty-corner to keep his amber eyes on him. That predatory expression he wears moves from his smile to his eyes, which track Aziraphale’s movements with unnerving precision. “Well, I … I’m addicted to affection, a-and everything that comes with it - touching, holding, kissing, sex, from anyone who wants me, really. And I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha.” Crowley crosses his legs. He draws it out, diverting Aziraphale’s attention purposefully to them. “So tell me why you think I can help you.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Crowley moves, the fluidity of limbs that would look spindly on a human but not on him. Not in the slightest. “Because even though I need companionship, nobody seems to need me. But from the things I hear, you gentlemen … do.”

“We’re not desperate, Mr. Fell,” Crowley groans, rolling his head back on his neck, his eyes following along.

“Oh, no! No, no, no! That’s not what I …!”

“We service a distinguished clientele. We have certain expectations.”

“I understand that.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a thorough once over with eyes that burn through him, every move Aziraphale makes telling Crowley more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Fell?” Something about the way Crowley repeatedly calls Aziraphale ‘Mr. Fell’ shoots right to his stomach and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel compliant, confused ...

“I’m an antique book dealer,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley chuckles. “Ah. So you hawk old, worn-out romance novels to elderly women wanting a tingle in their lady gardens?”

“Uh … no,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle himself because, he has to admit, he’s gotten one or two of those in his lifetime. “Mostly literature, first editions, rare texts, misprinted Bibles, that sort of thing.”

“And you make a living from that?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, a tad uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Not that I need to. I live mainly off the interest of a generous inheritance. I get to do whatever I want mostly.”

“I see.” Crowley’s tone shifts, as if Aziraphale passed some sort of test. “And where do you currently live?” With a flick of Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s hand crawls up his own shirt, reaching for his bowtie. He grabs a tail and pulls it, unties it, then goes after the top button. He toys with it, undoes it, feeling constricted, uncomfortable while it’s fastened.

“I live over my store front in Soho.”

Crowley slides an inch closer. “With a roommate or …?”

“A-alone.” Aziraphale moves on to the second button. “I live … I live alone.”

“Impressive. And your blood type is AB negative?”

“As far as I know.”

“Interesting.” Crowley moves another inch closer. “Alright. Let’s give you a shot.”

“A-and how do you do that … exactly?”

“Give me your arm so I can take a taste. Then I’ll know if we can use you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, long fingers with black painted nails motioning for Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale doesn’t take it. He has a second of doubt, of Are you nuts!? that stays him. But it’s been so long since Aziraphale has felt truly wanted. And this man … or this creature … wants what he has to offer. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes. It’s cut and dry. No muss, no fuss, no emotions involved. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came for.

“If you’re nervous, I could always …” Crowley makes a gesture toward Aziraphale’s neck and smiles an alluring, toothy grin – charismatic, hard to resist. But Aziraphale might not be ready for what Crowley’s proposing. It seems a little too intimate.

“O-oh no.” Aziraphale rolls up his sleeve. “It’s not that. I was just … uh … thinking.”

“Oh.” That single syllable sounds tragically disappointed. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, of course. But just so you know, it’s always an option.”

Aziraphale gets a sudden image in his head of Crowley lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his fingers undoing the rest of his buttons and reaching beneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly down his skin. He envisions Crowley removing his clothes one piece at a time, marking his flesh with kisses, with bites, taking small sips as he paves a trail to his trousers. Sharp fangs slice through the threads that keep the button sewn on and he pulls down the zip with his teeth. There’s a mouth on Aziraphale’s cock, sucking, hands massaging his chest, the gentle brush of silky hair against his thighs, the occasional sting of a cut opening, a tongue collecting, and Aziraphale writhing with the sweet agony of it. He doesn’t picture himself cumming quickly, but sees himself sliding along the beveled edge, getting to that point, hanging from the crest of it, just to be sent back to the beginning, to start the process over again.

It feels planted, a suggestion. Aziraphale isn’t sure how. He’s not savvy to the abilities of vampires beside the blood sucking thing. It’s not real. Aziraphale knows he’s still dressed, can feel the fabric of his shirt sleeve balled in his fist, but he starts to sweat at the thought of it. His cock aches because of it. That’s what he wants – the give and the take.  

It changes his mind, stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, gaze fixed to Crowley’s seductive eyes, “that does sound like it could be … nice.”

Crowley grins. It’s almost too easy. “Oh, it will be,” he purrs. “I promise.”

Aziraphale scoots closer until they’re sitting beside one another, knees touching. Crowley wastes no time kissing Aziraphale’s neck, cool lips pressing against hot, sensitive skin. Aziraphale moans. God, it’s been so long. And whatever Crowley is doing with his tongue, circling the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing builds.

As Aziraphale’s heart beats faster and faster, until individual thumps are no longer distinguishable from the whole.

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, fangs lengthening as he searches for a place to sink in and drink. He finds the perfect spot and bites. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide.

“Oh … God.” He becomes rigid as the sensation of smooth and sharp assails his skin, but he succumbs to the sublime numbness and melts into Crowley’s arms. “Oh … oh God …”

Crowley retracts his fangs, licking them clean. “This isn’t really the place to be praying,” he says, inhaling Aziraphale’s scent – fresh, rich, healthy, untainted blood. The blood all vampires crave - not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind a night club or filled with preservatives like the bagged gunge they have the option to buy down at NHS Blood and Transport. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Aziraphale is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He’ll make Crowley rich … if he can bear to share him.

Crowley might just decide to keep Aziraphale to himself.

It’s not just Aziraphale’s blood that tempts him. There’s something else, something sizzling beneath his skin that Crowley suspects Aziraphale doesn’t even know about himself. But it sends sparks through Crowley’s skin with every touch, a white light that nearly burns too hot to hold but fuck it all! The second Crowley moves his hand away and it’s gone, it makes Crowley want him more.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, following Crowley’s mouth, whining like a kicked puppy when it seems he won’t be returning to the task of biting his neck. But it’s not that. Crowley has every intention of taking his time with Aziraphale. Savoring him. He wants to hear Aziraphale beg for it, beg for Crowley’s teeth buried deep into his neck, beg for the euphoria that comes with being fed upon.

“Do you like that, angel?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s skin. He punctuates his question with a nip around Aziraphale’s jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Crowley’s knee and squeezing. “Yes, please.”

Crowley hums, lips pressed to Aziraphale’s neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. He licks over the pinprick marks, exploring with his tongue for a spot to take another bite. “You know, I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“You … you do?” Aziraphale rises from the sofa in a trance, following Crowley when he moves their soiree to the bed, preparing to make Aziraphale his own private nightcap.

“Oh yes.” Crowley lays Aziraphale out on the mattress and crawls over him, like in the vision. His fingertips creep up Aziraphale’s neck, up his cheeks, the pads coming to rest against his temples. A blue spark, an arc of static electricity, and Aziraphale’s brain fills with images that cloud his vision over so that Crowley’s eyes disappear, replaced by what promises to be a long night in this room, and all the methods of pleasure Crowley plans on using to distract him while he feeds. Skin against skin, Crowley’s hands covering his as Crowley enters him, his body possessing his. Aziraphale can already feel how hard Crowley would claim him, how sore he would be after, and Aziraphale wants it. Wants it more than life itself.

And he’s willing to pay with every drop to have it.

The vision rolls on. With every fantasized thrust of Crowley’s hips, it monopolizes all five of Aziraphale’s senses - his own moans in his ears with Crowley’s voice dripping honey underneath, the pungent smell of sweat and sex around them, the coppery taste of Crowley’s mouth, the slide of a flesh against his so smooth it feels like marble, and Crowley’s eyes - those snake-like eyes with pupils razor blade thin - watching unblinkingly as Aziraphale comes apart beneath him.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body on the bed with Crowley’s fingertips rubbing circles against his skin, Aziraphale watches this fantasy in awe - open-mouthed and without an inch of fear. He shudders when he sees himself coming, the memory of similar sensations igniting every nerve in his body, turning fantasy into reality. Crowley absorbs every tremor, the way Aziraphale thrums beneath him, his hips bucking up in search of friction. Crowley smiles, reaches between them to start unbuttoning his own uncomfortable trousers.

And let the feasting begin.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, nose nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck, following the pounding rhythm of his heart for a place to tuck in. “I could become very addicted to you, Aziraphale Fell. Very addicted.”

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

Hair Dye - Gerard Way x Reader

Request: aaaa could i request a lil thingy with revenge!gerard helping you dye your hair one night and you both get dye all over yourselves akdhsjdhj Word count: 1 256 A/N: The thing with spreadying handcreme on your skin to protect it from stains does work. And if you only want to dye parts of your hair, cover the rest with conditioner; that makes it harder for the dye to go into the covered hair (but doesn’t protect it completely, so be careful).

“Are you absolutely sure?”

With a concerned glace Gerard was weighting the little can of hair dye in his hands. His eyes flickered from the etiquette, to you and back.

“I’ve waited to do this for months, and I will not walk around like a poor imitation of a ghost,” you argued, tucking at your bleached hair.

You were sitting on a stool in Gerard’s tiny bathroom, wearing an old jeans and an even older shirt, both already covered with paint from that time you had helped Frank to paint his new flat. Gerard, your boyfriend, had offered you his help when you had presented him with the idea to dye your hair, so now he was dressed in some old clothes as well, a pair of disposable gloves put to the side.

“Then let’s start, I guess,” he shrugged. Taking a look at you sitting in his bathroom like this, an excited smile on your face, he chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he grinned, “You’re just adorable!”

“Am I now,” you challenged, but shook your head smiling.

It had been well a year now since Gerard had gotten sober, and shortly after, you had gotten together. Now, with the next tour coming up, he had managed to get you a job on the crew so you were able to travel around the country together. And since it would be your first real huge trip around the US, you had decided you wanted to do it looking and feeling your best; and that included dying your hair flaming red, the same way you had wanted to do since high school.

“Yeah, believe it or not, you are,” Gerard replied, “can you like… lift your hair up in the back?”

Confused you did as he told you, even though the box with the paint was still screwed shut, and he wasn’t wearing the gloves.

“I’m gonna spread some hand cream on the skin around your hairline so you don’t get too many spots,” he explained, and sure enough, a couple of seconds later, you could feel the cold, but smooth cream on your skin.

Carefully he spread a thick layer all over your neck, around and on your ears, before he worked along your temples and to your forehead. When he started putting the cream on your face, moving finally into view, you took the opportunity to watch him closely. His hazel eyes were fixed on his work, but when they met yours, he smiled happily, making you smile in return. His skin was smooth and pale, no wonder some people seriously thought he was a vampire. Underneath his eyes were some traces of dark make-up which he apparently had not gotten off yesterday evening after the show.

When he was done, he wrapped a towel around your shoulders, and put on the gloves, before he unscrewed the little can with the red hair dye. Taking a brush, made especially for this purpose, he scooped out some of the slimy looking colour and walked over to you.

“Last chance to back out,” he warned, but you shook your head.

“Just start already, I want to get my hair dyed finally,” you laughed.

“Well then,” he giggled, “This might be cold.”

The next moment you could feel the cold, slightly gelatinous mass on your head. It took a while until Gerard had managed to work his way through your hair. He made sure to catch all the roots and every single strand of hair, before he continued spreading the dye down the longer parts of your hair. You would have never believed how heavy hair dye could actually be, and you could feel your neck starting to hurt a little from sitting still for so long, but you made sure not to move anyway.

When Gerard was done, you looked up at him expectantly.

“And now?”

“Now we wait for about… half an hour,” he explained, “But you stay here in the bathroom, I don’t want you to drop any dye all over my carpet.”

Although you laughed, you knew he was serious, and you knew how hard the colour would be to wash out from any fabric, so you patiently stayed in the bathroom while Gerard fetched you something to drink.

“Ugh, I think some dye just dripped down my neck,” you shuddered, when you felt something wet hit the skin just above your shirt.

“Let me see…”

Gerard pushed away from where he had been leaning against the wall and walked over.

“Oh great, right to the spot without any cream,” he sighed, quickly grabbing a toilet paper, and whipping the dye off your skin. “Now you have a stain in the neck.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you shrugged.

Honestly you had imagined this to be a lot more stain intensive than it was so far.

But that did not mean it stayed that way. A while later, another drop of paint ran down your forehead, and before either you or Gerard had noticed, it had dropped to your cheek. When Gerard tried to wipe it away, he only spread it, so he quickly grabbed some hand cream to rub it off. But the real battle with the dye happened when Gerard was trying to wash the dye out of your hair.

He was still wearing his gloves, but somehow they had ripped a little, and he got dye all over his hands. When you laughed at him, slightly poking fun at your boyfriend, he did what almost made you hate him a little. Almost.

He grabbed your face, with the still dye covered hands, and crashed his lips into yours, leaving you not only breathless, but also with hand formed dye stains in your face.

Pulling away, he grinned proudly.

“You look like you murdered someone,” he laughed, making your roll your eyes.

“And if you ever get out of these gloves, it’ll look like you washed your hands in blood” you retorted, reminding Gerard why he had kissed you in the first place, “Can we finish washing out my hair now please, it’s really heavy with all the dye and the water.”

Several minutes later, your hair had finally stopped bleeding out the colour, and you were standing in front of the mirror, blow drying it. Happily you watched as the red strands blew around your face, finally adding the spot of colour you had always wished for.

Gerard meanwhile struggled to get the colour out from underneath his fingernails, before he helped you to clean the stains he had left on your cheeks. When he was finished, he smiled down on you, the same crocket smile you loved so much.

“You look absolutely stunning,” he confessed, reaching his hands out to run his fingers through your newly dyed hair.  

“Thanks, and especially thanks for helping,” you giggled before you got on your tip toes and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Fuck,” Gerard mumbled, causing you to raise an eyebrow at him, “my heart still isn’t used to you doing that.”

What you had not known until a couple of weeks ago, was that you had caught Gerard’s eyes long before you had ever been officially introduced, so to him it sometimes still seemed like a dream too good to be true, when you were so close to him, so affectionate with him.

“Oh yeah?”

Slyly grinning up at him, you kissed him again, making sure to press yourself really close to him, and enjoying the feeling of Gerard wrapping his fingers into your newly dyed hair.

~*~

Taglist (if you want to be added or taken off, please let me know):

General: @justawriterinprogress @robinruns @jayloverthe3rd @lookalivefrosty @butterfly-writes @rene-royale @angelevansfalls

MCR: @deadlovers

[evapunk333]

Secret Admirer/Dirty Secret

I've kind of combined the prompts for the 2/11 @ghostbcfandomevents today just to give it a little spice..definitely NSFW guys.

This can also now be found on my Ao3 page..

Papa looked down the hallway but made sure to stay as hidden as he could behind a statue. At the end of the hall was Imperator and Copia talking. They both stood in front of her office. Shortly after their brief conversation, Papa watched as they both went in and shut the door behind them.

That's when he knew the coast was clear.

Papa hurried down the end of the long corridor to Copia's apartment. He brandished a key that he stole earlier and opened the door.

Inside was what he expected, an office/study to the side, bathroom to the left, a sunken sitting area next to a dining area, and at the end of the short hallway…Copia's bedroom. Papa felt a little apprehension about going into Copia's room, but he just had to. Ever since he met the man, he'd been intrigued by him. Yes, he was occasionally awkward, but it was endearing. Ever since he heard him sing his older brother's song Jigolo Har Megiddo in that gorgeous white suit, he couldn't get him out of his mind. Papa thought he had made it even sexier by performing it acoustically, but Copia…Copia took it to a whole other level.

Papa opened the door and looked around Copia's bedroom. His closet was what he was after. He looked around the room and found it. He opened the door and saw mostly a lot of his traditional Cardinal cassocks that he wore daily, both in black and red. At the end, covered in plastic were his "other"outfits..the ones generally only for ritual. Of course, there were a few of each, only an idiota would have just one.

He looked through and found what he was looking for, what the congregation called "The White Suit of Sex." He agreed…it was glorious.

He took one of them out and laid it on the bed. He took off the plastic and felt it. The coat seemed like it was made of some kind of reptilian animal skin. The pants were made of something he couldn't quite figure out silk..no..spandex..he wasn't sure. Whatever it was, he had to feel it for himself.

Papa began to strip off his own clothes. The pants went on first followed by the coat. He looked at his reflection in Copia's mirror. Papa gushed at himself in the pristine white of the outfit.

"Damn, I look fantastico!"

But then he noticed the way his dick looked in the pants..something about it didn't look quite right. 'Could it be that this Copia is bigger than me?' he thought.

Papa had only been with other men that were smaller than him in that department. Being a man of power generally meant that you didn't want anyone else to show you up, so he'd always pick men that were smaller, in stature and in package size. However, now…why should he even worry about that? Yes, he was still Papa in name, but after his death, someone else was appointed to lead, so he didn't necessarily need to be the one in charge anymore. Papa guessed that this was the beauty of his resurrection...he got to live again but didn't actually have to impress anyone anymore.

Papa looked at himself more in the mirror and groped his crotch, feeling the way that the fabric felt against his skin, and thinking about how Copia's obviously larger dick must feel inside the constricting pants. Papa wondered if Copia ever became aroused by the feeling. He could understand if Copia did, since he was starting to feel aroused just by the feeling of the fabric.

As he rubbed himself through the fabric, his cock grew harder. At one point he noticed that he finally filled out the pants the way Copia did.

"Ha! Guess he's not THAT much bigger."

Papa was somewhat relieved. He wanted Copia's dick, but started to get worried when he thought of how it might feel if he was able to get Copia to top him.

Once he felt better about getting Copia into his bed, he turned around to look at Copia's own bed. It looked comfortable so he laid down in it. Of course, Copia would be one to have his bed made everyday so he tried not to disturb it too much and just laid on the top comforter.

When he was comfortable, Papa unzipped the delicate zipper of the pants and pulled out his cock. It throbbed even more after being let free. He began to slowly stroke it, savoring every pull.

He thought more about Copia and how much he loved the way that Copia looked in the outfit that Papa was wearing right now. Papa also thought about how much he'd like to kiss Copia. To feel his lips over his own, to feel his tongue in his mouth. He also wanted Copia to undress him, and run his hot tongue over his chest as he unbuttoned his shirt. He wanted Copia's hands all over him. Then, Papa wanted Copia's cock in his mouth. He wanted to feel how big it was and how big it would get when fully hard.

The thought of it filling his mouth and throat made the stroking of his own cock increase in speed.

Finally, Papa would love to feel Copia's cock pounding into his ass. He wanted to feel how much his ass would stretch around it's girth. Papa knew there may be some pain, but the pleasure would be insurmountable.

As Papa thought of Copia fucking him, he could feel his orgasm rising. He lifted his hips slightly with each stroke, fucking his own hand like he would if Copia was behind him, pushing his cock in and out of Papa's tight ass.

Finally, he lifted his hips one last time and he could feel his muscles tighten. Papa let out a groan, "Fuck.." and cum gushed out liked it had not done before. Papa tried to catch most of it in his hand, but lost control of himself. His body jerked as the spasms of orgasm flowed through his body.

Once he normalized and his heart stopped racing, he realized his mistake. While, he had caught some of his cum, a lot of it had gotten on the pristine white pants.

"Shit..shit..shit!"

Papa rushed out of the room and into the bathroom nearby. He rushed to wipe off the pants. He then used water from the sink to wet some toilet paper to try and wash it out a little. Of course, now this made his whole crotch wet. Papa knew he couldn't leave it this way, so he used the hair dryer Copia had sitting on the sink. It didn't take long for it to feel mostly dry, but Papa was glad he tried to dry it before he left because apparently his half-assed clean up job was not going to be enough. He stared into the bathroom mirror at himself in the pants and realized that you could still see the cum stain, and it was VERY obvious.

Papa threw up his hands.

It looked to him like nothing really could be done right now and Copia could be coming back any minute. Papa decided that he would just find a way to clean them later. Luckily, the Cardinal would not be leaving for tour for the next month, so he had time.

Papa rushed back to the bedroom, took off Copia's jacket, and put his own clothes back on over Copia's pants. He hung up the coat and made sure that it could not be easily noticed that this outfit had no pants. He looked around the room to make sure that it didn't look like someone was there and made his way to the exit. He peaked out first to make sure no one was around, then locked the door back up.

Just as he was putting the key in his pocket, Copia came around the corner.

"Ah, Cardinal! I was just about to leave. I knock, but you were not home. I'm glad I run into you."

"Did you need something from me Your Dark Excellency?"

"Bah, what is this 'Dark Excellency' business? Call me Emeritus."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Ugh, fine..how about just Papa, eh?"

"Papa is ok."

"Good! Now, I visit for a reason. I would like you to join me for dinner tomorrow. You will do this, no?"

"I'm not sure Your Da..." Copia corrected himself, "Papa..I have a lot of work to do."

"Oh Cardinal, you don't want to disappoint your Papa. Per favore?"

"Ugh, I suppose."

"Eccellente! Grazie!" Papa turned to leave but then stopped to turn back around to face the Cardinal. "Oh Cardinal..I forget something, bring a date."

Copia looked at Papa in horror.

"That bella donna I see you with all the time should do nicely, ask her. I will bring mia amore Cirice, it will be a double date."

Copia gulped but bowed in acceptance of Papa's request, "Yes Papa, I will..see you then."

"Si, Cardinal, buongiorno."

Papa finally turned to leave all the while smiling to himself at all the naughty plans that he had in store for the Cardinal.

[mama-m1na]

Three Rings: Chapter 1

                                                    ~~~I~~~

It was a surprisingly nice morning in Temecula, California.

The sun was hidden by light grey clouds and there was a nice breeze going by compared to the usual bright and dry weather in June.

A teenage female let out a yawn as she made her way down the street towards the park just down the street from her home.

She wore a dark plum, knee-length dress with black wedges and had a brown, leather purse across her body. Around her neck was a pentagram necklace with purple gems and on a shorter chain was an amethyst pendulum with a small charm with a ‘T’ displayed on it. On her left pointer finger was a gold ring with three small diamonds on it; which, was a gift from a friend. Hanging from her ears were a pair of silver, hoop earrings.

Her black hair was left down for the day to just reach her thighs and the length of the dress allowed a decent amount of her golden-brown skin to be left visible as her brown irises speckled with golden flecks were turned down to the screen of her phone.

‘I’m going to meet with the council right now,’ she sent into her discord server before placing her phone back into her purse.

Quickly looking around to make sure no one saw her, the ravenette went behind a fence and headed under the bridge which went over a ditch in the middle of her park.

Going to the second column, past all of the random graffiti, she found a symbol etched into the concrete of three crescent moons tangled amongst each other surrounded by a larger circle.

Taking one last look at her surroundings she held her right hand over the symbol and said, “Lacus.”

It felt as if the floor disappeared from underneath her feet as the surroundings disappeared from around her before changing to the scenery of the entrance of a train station.

Putting her hand back to her side she was about to enter the building when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window.

“Ugh,” she scoffed looking at how one of her eyes was open slightly wider than the other, “I look so dead inside.”

Taking a small booklet from her bag that read ‘Magical Registration: Identification Card’, she opened it and swiped it over the scanner at the turn gates before walking through and entering her train which had arrived on time for once.

Upon taking her seat the female sighed as the train began to move before taking out a tube of concealer from her purse and a compact.

Using the mirror to see, she put concealer on her eyelids before blending it out with and air puff.

She then put away the tube of concealer before opening the second part of the compact to reveal a small eyeshadow palette and got an eyeshadow brush from her purse before using a light plum shade all over her eye.

After making sure it was even she pulled out a liquid eyeliner and applied it extremely carefully due to the fact she was in a moving vehicle.

It took about forty minutes for the train to get to the ravenette’s stop and she just spent the time responding to people on her discord server.

Resurfacing from the subway, the ravenette found herself standing in front of a building with Roman styled columns and a large sign that read ‘Magic Registry’.

Once again taking the green-covered identification card the female entered before showing it to the secretary who sat at the front desk before being led to a conference room at the top floor of the building.

Upon opening the door the female earned the attention of six elderly looking creatures already sitting at the circular table in the center of the room.

“Hello Ms. Ibadora,” a woman covered in scales greeted, “It’s nice to see your actual face for once.”

“Yeah well I decided to actually try on my appearance today and thought it would be a waste to cover it with a mask,” the ravenette chuckled before taking a seat closer to the door, “So why am I being called in today?”

“We have another job for your circus,” a man with pointed ears said handing the girl a file from across the table, “This one is much more important than the previous jobs you’ve handled.”

The teen’s eyes widened as she read over the contents of the file before she looked up and asked, “Are you sure you want the Three Ring Circus to handle this one?”

“Do you believe you are incapable of completing it?” a human woman asked causing the ravenette to shake her head.

“That’s not it,” she explained, “We’re a group of reject, teenage witches and wizards… Are you sure a job this important should be given to us?”

“I’m sure you’ve handled it much worse,” a human man chuckled, “We let you stay together as an official guild for a reason.”

It was silent as the seventeen-year-old thought about her options.

“Alright,” she finally said slipping the folder into her purse which didn’t show any sign of holding anything in it, “We’ll get it done as efficiently as we can.”

Saying her goodbyes the female exited the conference room and was about to leave the building until the secretary called for her.

“You should probably take this as well,” the woman said handing the ravenette a long envelope.

“A wand permit application?” she read with a raised brow.

“Your old one is about to expire isn’t it?”

“Oh, you’re right well thank you.”

“No problem, see you next time, Ms. Ibadora,” the secretary said earning the attention of a young male walking down the hall.

‘Ibadora?’ he thought with wide eyes walking after the ravenette who had just walked out the doors of the building.

“Kitsami, wait!” he called just as the female was about to descend into the subway again.

“Hm?” she asked looking up to see a familiar looking elf in a Royal Guard’s uniform which consisted of a red, blue, and gold outfit paired with white gloves and boots with a blue cap.

“So it is actually you,” the blonde male stated looking down at the slightly shorter female.

“I’m sorry do I know you?” she asked as the wind picked up a it causing her raven locks to flutter slightly.

“I’m Fidel Einnor, I was in the same year as you in the Trinity Institute,” he explained as the light of recognition flashed through the female’s eyes.

“That’s why I thought you looked familiar, it’s so good to see you again!” she chirped embracing the male for a moment, “You’re part of the Royal Guard now? Congratulations! It must have been a hard thing to do after just graduating.”

“Thank you, and it really was,” he chuckled, “So how have you been, I haven’t seen you since you graduated early after 9th grade.”

“Well, since then I’ve been a Peacekeeper  for the past three years and I’m also the Ringmaster of the Three Ring Circus,” she said brushing her hair behind her ear.

“A Peacekeeper?” he asked with a small frown, “since you were only fourteen? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Says the one who’s in the Royal Guard at seventeen? You’re seventeen now right?” the ravenette retorted, “plus it isn’t that bad once you know what you’re doing.”

“The Royal Guard doesn’t have to go out into the other world and try to keep both worlds safe,” the blonde sighed, “We only stay here.”

“That’s probably why they let me become a Peacekeeper then,” she shrugged, “Considering I didn’t even know this world existed for half of my life. I just knew plain old everyday human life and that I had to hide magic otherwise my parents would call me a freak. Hell, even now I’m being called a freak here because I’m the first witch in my clan within the past ten generations and now I’m the clan head so… Fuck…”

She took a deep breath before taking out a sticky note from her bag and writing something down before handing it back to the male.

“Text me so we can talk again later, I need to pick up a book and I want to get there before it gets flooded with teenagers,” she smiled before descending back down into the subway to wait for her train.

When she emerged from under the bridge the ravenette crossed the street to get to the bus stop and wait for her bus.

When the vehicle arrived she pulled out her student I.D. that read ‘Rhamina Miyu; Grade: 11’ and showed the bus driver before paying her reduced fee.

As she found her seat, the ravenette sent a text in her discord server.

'So we all got another job,' she typed while looking out the window of the air conditioned bus, 'And we're being transferred to Japan.'

Within moments of sending the message she was getting bombarded with questions about their new job and how they were even going to get there. 

The ravenette merely shook her head at all the questions and told them that she would give them details at their next practice which was in two days.

Once at her stop Rhamina got off and walked across the street to her local Barnes and Noble.

She spent quite a bit of time browsing through manga but also looked over some of the stationary they offered.

‘Forty-five dollars for a traveler’s journal?’ she thought looking through the nicely made, leather journal, ‘I could make this for cheaper and better suited to my needs.’

After purchasing the latest volume of ‘Children of the Whales’ and a brush pen, the teen walked over to the craft store behind the chain bookstore to get the supplies she was looking for which were leather fabric and elastic cord.

Once the female got home she immediately got set on making the journal by first making the journal inserts from paper and cardstock she already had then made the cover using the leather and elastic cord.

After the two pieces were finished she just slipped the inserts into the elastic bands in the spine of the leather cover and also slipped her Magical I.D. in it for safekeeping before taking out her wand permit application and filling it out with green ink.

The next day for the female was just spent looking up schools in the area of where they would be stationed as to not draw attention to themselves as a group of sixty teenagers randomly showing up in Japan.

As she did this she mentally thanked her parents for not living in the same house as her.

Her father lived with his new wife in Washington state after he divorced from her mother but also had a house he kept in Japan from his time being stationed there in the U.S. Navy.

Her mother was also in the Navy and was currently on a ship in Hawaii.

Both of her parents were quite appalled upon finding out that she was a true witch, even going as far as keeping her true name from her until she found out from her outside family, but eventually her father began to grow accustomed to the idea and slowly began to support it.

Rhamina’s mother on the other hand… Well, she hasn’t actually spoken to her mother in almost three years. They’ve only contacted each other over email and even then there was almost no emotion behind those words.

Calling her father, Rhamina asked to use the house in Japan for the time they would be working there and he agreed.

The rest of the day the female just read over the files and took notes in the new journal she had made the day prior.

At around four o’clock she received a call from one of the members of her troupe.

“Hello?” she asked as she finished up a sentence she was writing before cracking her back over the chair at her desk.

“Mina, G-lo wants to know if you want to come over to the park cause his phone is like dead,” the voice of her friend, Jamie, requested.

“Sure,” the ravenette replied as she began to put the papers away, “I’ll be there in a bit, I just need to change.”

After ending the brief phone call, the ravenette made her way to her closet to change out of her house clothes into a plum colored shirt and a pair of bleached, denim shorts.

She then put the journal into her purse as well as her phone before heading out of her house, making sure the doors were locked. 

It took less than ten minutes to reach and find the pair of fourteen and fifteen-year-olds sitting at a table under the sun.

“Mina!” called the taller blonde as she ran up to hug the upperclassmen.

“Hi, Jamie,” Rhamina greeted before turning to her fellow Filipino neighbor, “and hello to you G-Lo.”

“Hi, Mina,” the taller male greeted before the trio began to walk around the almost empty park.

“So, are we really being transferred to Japan?” Jamie asked once they reached a more secluded part of the park.

“Yep,” the ravenette replied popping the ‘P’ at the end, “According to the case report there are a lot more magical anomalies in Japan than there should be, even for an Asian country. Our job is to actually find out what’s causing it, report it back to the Council, and put a stop to it rather than just apprehending someone.”

“So we’re getting an actual job is what you’re saying?” G-Lo asked as the wind blew past them.

“Aw, and I was just getting used to Temecula!” Jamie pouted slightly before asking, “What about school?”

“Well, I’ve already contacted the Trinity Institute about that and they’re sending some professors to a local high school for you guys so you’ll be fine,” Rhamina explained, “Oh, that reminds me, make sure your wand permits and Magic IDs are up to date. As soon as we get there we won’t have much free time.”

“Mina, you’re so lucky graduated early and don’t have to deal with school anymore,” G-Lo said earning a chuckle from the said female.

“I don’t have to deal with school anymore but I have to deal with being a clan head while being completely disliked by almost everyone in the magical community for existing,” she retorted, “I would honestly take that over school though, it’s funny making adults get so frustrated over me but not being able to do anything about it because the council favors me.”

“Yeah, that is funny,” G-Lo chuckled remembering the stories of the times Rhamina had been in meetings with said adults.

When their walk was over Jamie was picked up from the park by her mother and the other two walked back to their kuldesac together since they lived in houses right across from each other.

As soon as the female had changed back into her house clothes she looked at the case reports and just knew she would need to make copies of them for the others in the troupe.

Instead of using her printer and wasting ink the ravenette decided to use a spell to have one of her pens copy down all of the files word for word, and image for image.

Normally she wouldn’t resort to using magic for something so mundane but she didn’t have time nor the heart to do it any other way.

The next day the teenager begrudgingly woke up early and changed into an anime t-shirt as well as a pair of normal denim shorts with her normal wedges.

Checking the time to see it was around eight in the morning she sighed before getting her chia pudding that she made the day before as well as her purse which had her traveller’s journal in it.

Immediately she left the house locked the door and called G-Lo; while, walking over to his house.

“Hello?” he asked groggily, making it obvious to the female that he had just woken up.

“Jello, it’s already eight o’clock, the meeting starts at nine and the bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait, shit! That’s today!”

The ravenette chuckled when the line went dead and five minutes later the teen appeared at the front door of his home.

“You forgot didn’t you,” Rhamina accused as they began their walk to the bus stop which was on the opposite side of the park.

“I set alarms but they didn’t go off,” he replied brushing his unstraightened hair out of his face while they waited in the shaded area.

When the bus came around the two presented their student IDs before paying and taking a seat.

Rhamina uncapped her Chia Pudding before pulling out a spoon from her purse and beginning her meal.

She tried to offer some to the fifteen-year-old but he denied it saying he was just going to buy something from the stores across the street from the high school. 

At eight forty a multitude of students had gathered at the still locked gate of the performing arts wing of the school and were complaining about how the school never let’s them in on time.

“Fuck this,”  Rhamina hissed as she made her way to the gate with her pendant glowing a light purple.

Along with that her eyes were glowing a soft gold color and her hair began to float as her raised her left hand.

Snap!

With the snap of her fingers the ravenette then pulled the gate opened without the silent alarms going off as her hair fell back down and neither her pendant or irises glowed.

“Mina!” a female called with a surprised/scolding tone.

“What?” she replied as she pulled over a nearby garbage can to keep it open, “We have an important meeting today and need to get started as soon as possible.”

“But we’re Peacekeepers!” the same female voice said worriedly.

“We only get in trouble if we get caught now get in the fucking gate,” Rhamina said pointing at the other kids already walking in.

“Good, someone already opened up the way to the tent,” she said as she walked through the open door of a classroom only to end up in the inside of a circus tent.

After waiting about ten more minutes Rhamina stood up from her spot on the ground and called, “Hey, Band!”

“Hey, what?!” was the simultaneous reply she got before everyone stopped talking and the tent became silent.

“Can someone shut the tent?” she asked glancing at the open archway before a short male closed the door causing it to phase out leaving a closed tent flap in its place, “Thank you, Zack.”

“Now!” she said snapping her fingers once again causing rows of desks to appear in front of the seats where the audience would usually sit, “As you guys are taking your seats what are the status on the recent missions we were given?”

“Trumpets finished their mission with no problems!” a Mexican female called giving a thumbs up.

“Alright, thank you Vivian,” Rhamina said before turning to another section of seats, “Everyone else finish?”

She earned a series of positive responses and nods before opening her purse to take out her traveller’s journal; however, she kept it open near and on her as she cleared her throat.

“Okay, now that basic stuff is out of the way, onto why most of you were actually excited about a meeting for once,” Rhamina said as multiple folders began flying out of her purse and landing in front of each occupied seat, “If you checked the discord server then you’ll already know that we’re going to be transferred to Japan for awhile and those are copies of the case reports for this job of ours.”

“As you know when thinking of places where magic runs rampant, Asia is at the top with the amount of creatures they have,” she explained earning agreements from the Asian teens in the troupe, “But recently there are an alarmingly higher rate of magical anomalies in Japan and the Council believes there was an interference to the peace.”

“So we’re all going to Japan to apprehend someone?” a smaller girl with curly, purple hair and glasses asked.

“Not exactly. With the extent of what has been happening recently the Council believes it is a group of at least ten people who did it and not only are we tasked with apprehending each of them but we have to fix all the anomalies and make sure they don’t happen again,” the ravenette said looking down at her notes momentarily.

“That’s all?” a male sitting towards the back asked with a shrug.

“Don’t get cocky, Justin,” Rhamina said with her eyes narrowed slightly at the male, “It sounds easy but we have some obstacles.”

“Now, you probably don’t know who they are since I’m sure none of you are as much of a weeb as me-” “Bet!” a Filipino female called from the front row next to a Mexican female with short brown hair.

“But I’m talking about the Sailor Senshi and Phantom Thieves of Hearts,” Rhamina continued, mostly ignoring the interjection of her sibling, “The Sailor Senshi are basically guardians and personifications of various celestial beings in space. They are seen as local heroes and normally we would have to do something about them being so flashy about their powers but it’s too late for that since they have basically become quite normal in Japan so we’re leaving them alone. The Phantom Thieves of Hearts are seen by the public as criminals but they’re only doing vigilante work which is what we used to do before becoming Peacekeepers so we’re just going to leave them alone as well.”

“How exactly are they obstacles, hoot?” another Filipino with short-ish brown hair asked from the third row.

“With both groups acting as the guardians of Japan they might see our presence as a threat and normally we would want to avoid them but with what we’re trying to do it’s inevitable we’ll cross paths with both groups,” the ravenette sighed before cracking her neck, “So we’ll basically try to convince them that we mean no harm and not get in their way and hopefully they won’t get in ours.”

“What happens if they do?” another male, this time Filipino, named Justin asked.

“What happens to anyone that gets in the way of the Three Ring Circus?” Rhamina asked instantly causing laughter to erupt throughout the tent.

“Hey!” the female barked, causing the ground to shake.

It was silent as she continued, “I’m being serious. I don’t want any conflict with them but we have a job to do so if they get in our way we know what to do.”

“Are there any questions?”

A few hands were raised and Rhamina picked her sibling first.

“Yes, Kerstin?”

“So we’re being transferred to Tokyo, Japan right?” the darkette asked earning a nod from the seventeen-year-old, “Where exactly will we be living?”

“I found some decent apartments in Tokyo that will be paid for by the Council and I have a house that you, Sam, Chloe, and Tijarah will be staying in with me,” Rhamina replied before choosing another person for questions.

“Alright!” Rhamina said at around 2:50 in the afternoon, “So we’ll be leaving for Japan in about three weeks so make sure you keep training and make sure all of your documents are up to date with the registry! That’s all for today so you’re dismissed.”

As soon as she said that the kids began to exit the tent and ended up back in the school hallway next to the gate they entered from.

Once it was only G-Lo and Rhamina in the tent she swiped her right hand from left to right with her palm held out causing the desks to disappear.

“Well, since we’re here do you want to go to Round 1?” Rhamina asked as they approached the gate which she now had to lock.

“We have three hours till the bus to take us home so might as well,” the male replied.

With that the two teenagers went on the twenty minute walk from the high school to the mall in which the arcade was.

They spent the first two hours playing arcade games and eating some food before they both decided to go up for karaoke.

“Why did I agree to do this?” Rhamina asked on the stage nervously holding a mic.

“No one else was doing it,” G-Lo reasoned looking through the song book, “Plus no one will pay attention.”

“Oh! I think you know this song!” he stated entering the song number as a familiar drum beat began to play over the speakers.

“G-Lo, you edgy bastard,” Rhamina chuckled as the lights began to flash different colors.

“Ever on and on I continue circling with nothing but my hate in a carousel of agony,” the male started while reading the lyrics from the small screen in front of them as the ravenette had begun the dance in the background, “Till slowly I forget and my heart starts vanishing. And suddenly I see that I can’t break free. I’m-”

“Slipping through the cracks of a dark eternity with nothing but my pain and the paralyzing agony,” the ravenette continued not paying attention to the audience they were gaining, “To tell me who I am who I was uncertainty enveloping my mind till I can’t break free and-”

“Maybe it’s a dream maybe nothing else is real but it wouldn’t mean a thing if I told you how I feel,” G-lo sung again as Rhamina dropped to background vocals, “So I’m tired of all the pain all the misery inside and I wish that I could live feeling nothing but the night.”

“You can tell me what to say, you can tell me where to go but I doubt that I would care and my heart would never know,” the ravenette sang glancing down at the lyrics every so often, “If I make another move there’ll be no more turning back because everything would change and it all will fade to black.”

“Will tomorrow ever come? Will I make it through the night? Will there ever be a place for the broken in the light?” G-Lo sung now doing the dance with Rhamina, “Am I hurting? Am I sad? Should I stay or should I go? I’ve forgotten how to tell. Did I ever even know?”

“Can I take another step? I’ve done everything I can. All the people that I see I will never understand,” both teens began singing as they now noticed the large crowd at the base of the stage, “If I find a way to change if I step into the light then I’ll never be the same and it all will fade to white.”

As both teens danced during the guitar solo Rhamina glared at the boy mentally saying, ‘Liar!’

“Ever on and on I continue circling with nothing but my hate in a carousel of agony,” G-Lo sang with a shrug in response to the ravenette, “Till slowly I forget and my heart starts vanishing and suddenly I can’t break free, I’m-”

“Slipping through the cracks of a dark eternity with nothing but my pain and the paralyzing agony,” Rhamina took over once again now plotting ways to get back at the younger male, “To tell me who I am, who I was. Uncertainty enveloping my mind till I can’t break free and-”

“Maybe it’s a dream, maybe nothing else is real but it wouldn’t mean a thing if I told you how I feel,” G-Lo continued starting to get a bit tired from the performance, “So I’m tired of all the pain all the misery inside and I wish that I could live feeling nothing but the night.”

“You can tell me what to say, you can tell me where to go, but I doubt that I would care and my heart would never know,” Rhamina sung feeling the same fatigue, “If I make another move there’ll be no turning back because everything would change and it all would fade to black.”

“If I make another move, if I take another step then it all would fall apart there’d be nothing of me left,” Rhamina sang as the song changed key, “If I’m crying in the wind, if I’m crying in the night will there ever be a way will my heart return to white?”

“Can you tell me who you are? Can you tell me where I am? I’ve forgotten how to see, I’ve forgotten if I can,” both teens sung pushing because they knew the song was almost over, “If I opened up my eyes there’s be no more going back ‘cause I’d throw it all away and it all would fade to black.”

As the two stood in their final pose, panting, the audience cheered loudly and the ravenette sat down on the stage.

“Never will this happen again!” she hissed at the male while trying to catch her breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think they would pay attention,” G-Lo responded as both of them walked off the stage and sat down to get drinks and take a break.

While the two were sitting many people came up to say what a great job they did performing and one of the workers even came by to give them a free ice cream each.

“So, I saw that you finally did a face reveal on your Youtube channel,” G-Lo said as they were finishing up their dessert.

“Yeppers, it was on the ‘Senbonzakura’ video I did,” Rhamina replied throwing away the paper around the cone, “It was so much more editing than I would usually do though so I might just stick to the simple drawings in the background I use.”

That night the ravenette sat at her Wiccan styled altar and picked up her tarot cards after saging them.

She shuffled them with her eyes closed, focused on their job on Japan before drawing the three top cards.

The first was the Knight of Cups, upright. A creative, dreamy individual, the Knight heralds new relationships, and friends. As a situation, he brings that holiday feeling- a sociable, languorous time spent musing on the infinite possibilities of life in a sunshine glow. If one falls for the Knight romantically, he may offer affection but one may feel uncertain about his potential as a long-term partner.

The second was the Six of Cups, upright. Past and present mingle, bringing happiness and stimulation. One benefits from skills acquired and contacts from the past, and appreciate what one’s life experience has brought them. An old friend or other acquaintance resurfaces, and one may enjoy time spent reminiscing. The company and ideas offer a spark of inspiration for future schemes and adventures.

The third was the Ace of Wands, upright. As a symbol of creative masculine energy, this card expresses inspiration and good communication, and favors all new plans and projects. Whether one is setting up a business or hoping to start a family, embarking on a trip away or an artistic pursuit, the Ace predicts great success. It’s the perfect time to take an important step forward.

‘Well, this seems like our mission will go smoothly then,’ the ravenette thought as she put away the cards.

If only it ever went as smoothly as she wanted.

~~~Fin. Chapter 1~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Song Used:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPLxGctIQJE

Dance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgeQPTq2xqk

Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/436497388884225850/

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