#full of jazz and speakeasies

[isekyaaa]

Inazuma and Sumeru have such huge problems, Liyue is dealing with their loss of a god, and then there's Mondstadt whose biggest social problem is alcoholism.

[silversodas]

Interesting Alastor Insights

I think I may have figured out what was up Alastor’s ass in Dead Beat Dad. On one hand it may be a deeper issue that I am missing some context for, but I actually think it’s a little simpler then we think.

Even before Lucifer arrived, Alastor was clearly not happy about him coming over, and yes Alastor was 100% full of shit in the dad off song, BUT! Something note worthy is that he was not only being possessive of the Hotel (claiming to be its host and even greeting Lucifer as the master of the house does) but is also weirdly possessive of Charlie

And right down to the “fuck you” to Lucifer’s face it was projecting “get your feet off of my damn coffee table and get outta my house” energy. At first I was wondering what crawled up Alastor’s ass and died, and then Hell’s greatest Dad starts playing and..

“Who’s been faithful as a Nun? Who’s been here since day one?”

And it dawned on me and I was like “Alastor, why are you acting like your being replaced?” And Charlie is just as confused at Alastor’s behavior, like this came out of nowhere. Apparently Alastor was determined to show Lucifer who the Genie of this bottle is. But I didn’t believe it at first, I was like “nah it has to be something else” but then Mimzy gave some VARY interesting insight

When Mimzy first arrived, Alastor has a look that says (oh this is all I need right now) but he still seems happy to see her

Like holy shit, he happily reciprocates the hug, but that’s not to surprising if you know who Mimzy is if you have been fallowing Viv for a while

When she mentioned that he frequented the club (speakeasy)that she preformed in I was like “oh! They are drinking buddies!” Drinking Buddies are someone you generally only know the fun side of because you only hang out together at the bar, but Mimzy highlights a different side to their relationship

“Put on some Jazz, and pour a few fingers of Rye, and he becomes a kitten”

This gives me insight that while they were alive, she wasn’t just his drinking buddy and dance partner, she was his comfort zone. The way she phrased this sentence, made it sound like this was something she used to do for Alastor when they were alive, maybe she was a soothing presence as well as an entertaining one in Alastor’s life. But bar friends can sometimes be pretty high maintenance friends outside the bar, actually I think a lot of us have had something close to a friend like Mimzy in our lives. Apparently she is so bad that even Husk is concerned enough about Alastor to try and talk to him about her

“You and I both know Mimzy only shows up when she needs something. That bitch is trouble, and who knows what demon she fucked with to come running to you this time”

Alastor’s response threw me for a loop

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, don’t worry Husker, who would cross me?”

So Alastor is not immune to having toxic friends? I always assumed he would just drop anyone who became to much trouble, this is an interesting surprise. And on top of that he’s…an enabler!? Huh…that is super interesting to know. Putting a pin in the rest of this interaction for another post because there is a lot to unpack with husk and alastor. Except for the being on a leash thing because it made me realize something.

What if the reason he felt upstaged by Lucifer was not because Lilith told him to keep him away (yeah I am subscribing to the Lilith theory, it’s to much to Be a coincidence) but because he is legitimately afraid of no longer being needed by Charlie? What if, if he isn’t needed by Charlie then he has to go back to wherever he was the last 7 years? Everyone assumes he is free because he acts as such, but is he? Like real question, what if he was a straight up gift to Charlie in a way? Even if it was a “look after my daughter” command I would still call that sending a gift.

And oh man, what if he was suppose to tell the whole truth to Charlie but gave the whole, “I am here for entertainment” speech instead.

And your probably thinking, Charlie wouldn’t tell him to leave. Yeah but does Alastor know that? And he probably thinks Lilith might call him back anyway if he is not needed but just hanging out. But as we have seen, he cant even except his own situation

I will unpack this whole encounter later, but for real I don’t even think he is that mad at husk, he was mad at the reminder that his soul doesn’t belong to him any more. Like look at his face, it’s the most upset we have ever seen him, and it’s so detailed. He looks enraged, but also hurt at the same time. He and Charlie are not friends, yet, but I think he does feel some what safe at the hotel and maybe that’s enough for now

I also think there is some stock in Alastor hating that Lucifer is a bad dad theory, because that contempt was so raw and he did calm the fuck down a little bit during the “more then anything” song

But those are my random insights of Alastor, there were more but this is already to long I just hope it’s coherent

[weebsinstash]

Random 'extra yandere' Alastor things because I've been working on a fic and I feel like my yandere aren't yandere'ing enough

- I haven't seen anyone mention this as an idea but like ... why do I see Alastor getting cuteness aggression from his darling? You're really happy and you like idk say something genuine or goofy or happy or you stim or something and he's here "oh, i could just eat you up!" and hugging you so hard it makes you wheeze for air. Would he ever bite you though? Or gently "roughhouse" you? He's kinda feral w it so 😳

- Alastor strikes me as a yandere who would dry your tears with one of his handkerchiefs and then some time later you find out he didn't wash it because it had You Juice on it

- I'm not saying he's hiding in the bushes with a Polaroid or anything but I feel like he'd constantly invite you along to parties or events he's going to where he knows pictures might be taken and he has an absolutely HUGE album of you. He prefers sepia and black and white photographs the most of course, but he'll accept the occasional social media print-out that he may or may not have forced someone else to acquire for him

- this is so lowkey funny but the idea has been growing on me of like. Alastor forcing literally fucking forcing Husker to help him with his obsessive bullshit because Husker has a cellphone. Alastor sees Husker thirstscrolling through Angel's social media, and suddenly the Radio Demon has an idea. "You wouldn't happen to be able to look up my, er, little friend would you?"

Imagine you're like out running errands or even st a club or, somewhere NOT the Hotel and you're suddenly getting a call from... Husker? How weird, he doesn't call you often and you only have his number as another Hotel-goer, so hopefully nothing is wrong? And you answer the phone to Alastor talking far too loudly into the receiver, "HELLO? HELLO, IS THIS BLASTED THING WORKING? I DONT WANT TO BRING IT TOO CLOSE TO MY FACE BECAUSE OF THE RADIATION AND ALL, HAVE YOU PICKED UP YET MY DEAR? HUSKER MY BOY YOU SAID THIS DEVICE WAS WORKING-" like literally actually, this grown ass man who is forcing this other grown ass man who i think age wise is also older than him to do shit like, "what's that photograph in their publications there? Select it. Why is that man standing so close to them? What does HIS 'page' look like? He seems like a rather unsavory fellow who shouldn't be around someone as sweet as-"

- i feel like Alastor has a lot of threatening power purely in his social connections and his own little net of information. Imagine sneaking away from him to go to a speakeasy or something and the bartender already has your photo and knows to keep an eye on you and give Alastor a call if you show up. Imagine going to a jazz club Alastor had taken you to and everyone is nice and friendly and maybe a little TOO friendly because they heard an entirely true rumor about a man who got torn to pieces for asking aloud "so who's that sweet piece over there?" referring to you while Alastor was within earshot

- I dunno if I've mentioned this before but. I like the idea of him meeting his red string soulmate and he's just immediately "well I suppose the proper thing to do is get married then!" Like the man considers it "the traditional way to do things" and just immediately decides that since you two are essentially eternally bound together already, OBVIOUSLY the next step is to be married! I'm talking week one you meet this man and he's insisting the two of you immediately find a living place to share together. Like he might not even be "full yandere" yet but he starts putting you through the motions and gets progressively more attached with time. Day 1 is exchanging names and pleasantries. By Day 4 or 5 he insisting you two sleep in the same house, and eventually, the same bed (partially because he may or may not. Miss you when you're gone)

- imagine a yandere Alastor who is so unwilling to part with you that if he needs to go torture someone or do something unpleasant, he'll just... bring you along. Leaves you nice and cozy in a nice chair with a hot cocoa as he excuses himself to the next room followed by UNIMAGINABLE SCREAMS OF SUFFERING before he returns dripping with blood, "Boy, that one was a GUSHER!" *proceeds to kiss your forehead and drip blood on you and does not care*

- ok so I haven't posted this yet but. Imagine if instead of "patching themselves back together" that when you die in Hell you just respawn in a new body and the old one is still left behind, and you get into a random accident and die and you find out Alastor has been keeping pieces of your body and he's been. Eating you. Drooling heart pupils level of down bad, gorging on your meat, bare handing raw dogging that shit, having your blood seeping between his teeth and fingers. Imagine going into his room and there's a fridge and you open the door and you can tell it's your body because there's just like a whole ass leg that has your tattoo or an old scar. How do you even have that fucking conversation.

You go to shut the fridge and decide you're going to pretend you never saw anything because now you know Oh My God He's Like Actually Genuinely Fucking Nuts and he's already behind you when you turn around😱 and he acts like nothing is wrong. May even joke about how good you taste. Tells a joke about how it would be rather unfortunate if you got hit by a car again, but, hey, maybe you should give him a call whenever more of your meat is available-

- I wanna make a fic out of it because I literally have the fic outlined in my head already but, you know how he's eating just a normal fucking deer in that one episode. Or, if it's not an Earth deer, it doesn't look like it's from Hell at all. I started thinking about what if certain demons know shortcuts or special tricks to still access the human world (if blitz can get a crystal, why not anyone else?) and I love the idea of a Farmer Reader who has wolves eating their livestock and you stake out in the woods in the dead of night and you find out the wolves are only eating your sheep because something has been eating all the deer, and you witness the Radio Demon with your own eyes, horrified at this horned humanoid creature that bends and snaps at angles that just aren't right, with you managing to snipe him right through the head, and he just laughs and praises you for your great shot, and he keeps repeatedly ahowing up on your farm, and he unintentionally or not causes your death and wants you to be with him in Hell. Like you're a good person but you've also done shit where he knows you're gonna go to Hell so he's doing some dramatic shit like cradling your dying body and being all :) eerily happy and jovial as he muses what you might look like "in that awful place down below"

- Hmmmm. Alastor allegedly isn't very materialistic but I like the idea of like. Once he decides how cute and sweet and adorable his darling is, he wants to get you only the best. It won't be, like, EXCESSIVE in the sense Vox could be, but, if he gets you gifts, they're always of a certain level of quality. If he begins to style and dress you, he wants you in high quality fabrics that will last and don't have any unsavory materials or harsh colorants in it. I may or may not like the idea of him taking you to a tailor and he gets you an outfit to match his very own and if anyone ever gets a speck of dirt on it or anything else he's gotten you to wear, they're getting absolutely fucking MOLLYWOPPED

[kentopedia]

♰ sent to destroy — dazai osamu

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ KINKTOBER NO. 5 - fallen angel!dazai

he promises he's not the devil, but he steals your soul with just a kiss.

contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, takes place in 1920s for fun ig, actress!reader, alcohol, one mention of suicidal ideation and prostitution by reader, blasphemy, sacrilege, pls don't read this if ur religious & will get offended LMAO, angel fucking (& he has wings), bondage (thru powers), unprotected sex, cunnilingus, corruption kink, possessive sex, softish dazai, mm idk what else — 6.1k

note: i didn't edit this as thoroughly as i normally do so plss ignore any mistakes and i'll love you forever

the speakeasy fills with a thin veil of smoke, coating the room with an intoxicating mix of alcohol and nicotine. it’s a lewd place, full of degenerates and failed actresses like yourself, a crowd of people who don’t belong, but try their best to find a way to keep living. 

it’s a place where women pick up their clients, leading them to the hotel around the corner for a night they certainly won’t be paid enough for. it’s where people drown their miseries in alcohol and hope they won’t wake up in the morning. 

it is, regrettably, the only place you can afford. 

you sit alone at one of the tables, hands shaky from nerves as you smoke another cigarette, contributing just as much to the cloud that suffocates the small room. 

hoards of people make their way downtown for a sip of alcohol, the drink that has so ridiculously been banned, but you are no exception, no angel amongst the sinful devils. 

someone plays a saxophone at the front of the bar, spinning into a graceful melody of jazz that sings out to you, lulls you into an embrace that warms your core. it soothes the anxiety that has lingered with you throughout the day, the reminder that your life is tailspinning. 

you’d failed at landing yet another role, and the acting career you’d packed your bags and moved out for was plummeting. who would accept you now, now that your hopes and dreams had been for naught, now that you’d created a shameful woman of yourself and your family?

the answer was clear; but you were too stubborn too accept it, too desperate to believe that you could be up in the glimmering lights, the brightest silver star the world had ever seen. 

you lean back in your chair, stamping out the cigarette with a sigh as you stand to collect another drink. there’s not much left in your pockets, but you’ve made it work before, and you’ll keep making it work now, scrounging up coins for the relief that came with forgetting. 

the only consolation is the line of women that stand alongside you at the bar, as dejected and miserable as yourself. all of you have been labeled the failures of your families, the ones that bet on a shot in the dark. none of you expected that the road would be easy, certainly not with the way the industry is hasty to pick up only the most beautiful faces… but your ambitions had led you to believe that you, of all people, had had a chance. 

you know your beauty is endless, a sight to be admired, but even that had not been enough to secure your spot in the limelight. 

you thank the bartender as he hands you a drink, and slump back to your table, waiting for the effects of the alcohol to kick in. yet, when you stand at the edge of the table, peer at the chair you’d once been seated in, there is already a man there. 

he gazes at you with a crooked smile, eyes amused as he regards your beaten-down state.

you’ve seen him before—made every attempt not to see him again. you know what they say about him. he’s a wizard, he’s the devil, he’s a god that steals the body of a mortal, waiting to destroy the earth. all bad things, certainly, and with the way your life’s been going, you’d be a fool to get mixed up with someone like him.

still…you know of the things he’s done for people. that miracles have happened for those brave enough to ask for them. 

perhaps, you’re in need of a miracle. 

the dark-haired man leans forward, eyebrows raised as you gawk at him from the other side of the table. “no need to look so frightened,” he says, gesturing towards the other chair. “sit.” 

“i don’t want any company,” you say, straightening, pulling your drink closer to your chest. “i came here to be alone.”

his eyes flash, predatory, as if seeing down through the depths of your soul, to the very desire that lingers within. all of your dreams, your ambitions, and your loneliness are displayed to him, a flashing banner that alerts him easily of everything that’s ever been wrong with you. 

“is that so?” he asks, leaning forward, his voice deepening amongst the chaos of the speakeasy. “then, why have you been staring at me all evening?” 

you can’t help the flush that rushes to your cheek, the heat that covers your entire body. with the crowd of men and women alike that are constantly at his arm, you’d hardly thought he’d notice you.

and though you know what they say about him, he is undeniably beautiful; you’re drawn to him. there is a dark and heavenly beauty about him, something that you fear is too angelic to be of this world. his eyes glimmer almost like diamonds in the candlelit room, skin so flawless that it is nearly luminescent. 

it’s no wonder, really, that you haven’t been able to peel your eyes off of him.

you circle around his question, instead, and set your drink down on the table, lured in either by a false sense of safety, or the confidence of his grin. “i know what you are,” you say, swallowing back the fear that devils often prey on. 

he smiles, indulging you, a lifelong game he has surely played. “and what is that, my dear?” 

the mocking tone sends a cold wave down your spine, even though the sweet name seems to warm you. “i don’t believe i should say it out loud.” you’re not sure what kind of consequence that will bring you. perhaps you do not need to make a deal with him for your soul to be damned, straight to the fiery pits; maybe this conversation is enough, and already, you are on the long list of sinners that will be sent to burn.

“because you believe i am the devil? a demon sent to prey upon you and your soul, drag you down to hell once the contract you’ve made is over?” 

you say nothing, but your silence speaks loudly. 

he sighs, leans back in the chair and looks at you from under thick lashes. “i have no interest in the dealings of those fifty, lesser beings. i find that i can bargain for more enjoyable ventures.” two dark eyes trace over you, swallow you whole as he grazes your curves with his irises, the shape of your breasts under the tightness of your dress, the style shorter to match the current fashions. “so, i think we both may have something the other is interested in. please,” he gestures once more to the seat in front of him, addressing you by your first name—one you never even had to tell him. “sit.” 

nervous, you take the chair, wondering why you aren’t running away, screaming at everyone that there is a monster in your midst, a being that hunts the weak to lure them away from their misery. no wonder he has made himself a frequent customer at this place—there are people drowning in sorrows. one deal with him, and they will wake up in the morning, drowning in riches instead. 

“what do you want from me?” you ask, letting your hands fall to your sides. 

“so eager to get to the best part of my bargain, silly girl. have some patience.” he takes a sip of his own drink, pinning you with his gaze, even above the rim. you squirm under the intensity, but you, even now, can’t look away. “i know you’re struggling to find work. you’ve been here for years, and made pennies to live off of.” he reaches across the table, spins a lock of hair around his finger as he sighs dramatically. “such a shame, really. they must fear the power of your perfection if they refuse to let you shine brighter than the rest of the dull creatures that they call starlets.” 

your heart drops, stutters within the delicate bones of your skeleton before starting again, as you remember that this is how the devil would act, luring you in with sweetly poisoned words full of deceit. “they are talented—”

“they are nothing,” he snarls, banging his fist on the table so loudly that you jump, hands shaking against the beaded skirt of your dress. “you may claim to believe in your own talents, your appearance, but it is all a lie, a facade that you maintain to protect yourself. you are the one holding yourself back, and unless you let me help you, you’ll get nowhere.”

you feel tears burn. “you mean to lure me away from the path of god—”

his eyes narrow. “i mean to free the human race from the chains that religion has bound on them. there is nothing for you in the afterlife but an existence of slavery. one to a malicious devil who only wishes to torment, or one to a god who doesn’t love you.” 

it confuses you, the way he speaks of these beings as if he is not on the side of heaven or hell. as if there could be another option. it seems surreal, a secret that you should not have been told; since the day you were born, you have learned of the path of righteousness, the will of god. 

that is the only way you can obtain a life of peace… yet, there is a creature before you, claiming to offer you a third path, one that doesn’t have you bowing down for a god that won’t answer your prayers. 

it may be foolish, the work of the devil, but you are willing to listen. you are already lured in by this graceful creature with a charming smile and a quick tongue, and you don’t know if it will take much more for you to succumb to him completely. 

already, you have lost your way—you would do anything to escape your unhappiness.

“what is it you’re after, then?” you ask, your voice softer, weaker than you anticipated. 

he laughs, and lets his head tilt sideways, studies you before answering. “my father has cast me out of heaven; i plan to build my own religion of followers, tearing them away from that idiot of a being they call their god. because i am much stronger, much wiser, and the only way that they can find peace after their death is by trusting that i will give it to them.” 

you swallow, twining your fingers together, and think. “you’re… an angel?” 

he waves his hand. “a fallen one.”

there are things about the world that you do not understand, but you know that god has not once help you when you were drowning without a savior. he did not guide a helping a hand when you contemplated dragging a knife across your wrists, and yet, here is something, someone wanting to save you from just that. how is it that god can be more benevolent than those he casts out, when you have seen nothing but the opposite?

“you want me to join you, then?” you ask, drawing your eyebrows together. “if i join you, you’ll give me what i desire?”

“well… that is usually the bargain i offer. however,” he hums, eyes flashing as they scour your body. he looks at you hungrily, like he has never seen a being like yourself. “it has been a while since i’ve seen a human as beautiful as you.” 

you swallow, blinking at him with wide eyes as you grow hot all over. this would not be the first time you’ve sold your body for fame, but never has it been with a man as stunning as the angel before you. “you mean… if i fuck you, you’ll give me whatever i want?” 

he sniffs, repulsed by your suggestion. “always so lewd, you mortals.”

your eyebrows knit together. “but you said—”

“i don’t want you for one night. i want you forever. i want you to swear your body over to me for the rest of your life, let me use it as i wish, bear my children.” he traces your features, grazes a thumb over your jaw, your lip. his eyes are hard, and you swallow, wondering why your stomach flips. “you are meant to be mine.” he smiles, and though you can see the mischief within it, for some reason, there is also softness there as he crosses his arms over the counter. “but if you aren’t interested, then the deal is off the table. i have no need for someone who doesn’t want me in return.” 

you blink back at him, observing the seriousness of his expression, the softness lurking within the pools of his deep brown eyes. perhaps he is a vengeful angel… but he is offering you a life that is much more promising than the one you have now. would it really be so bad to give yourself to him, to spend the rest of your life in his arms, when he promises to give you everything you’ve ever wished for?

“i—” you hesitate, unsure how to even begin to answer the question, when you didn’t quite understand what it was that he needed from you.  

“i’ll give you some time to think about it. after all, it is a decision that will affect the rest of your life.” he stands to his feet, and it is then that you notice there are some eyes on you, the women he typically has hanging off of him watching your interaction with bated breath. “when you have an answer, just call for me. i’ll be there.” 

“wait,” you say, turning in your chair to face him. “i don’t even know your name.” 

“you can call me osamu.” he smiles and winks at you, tucking his jacket closer as he begins to walk away. “we’ll be in touch."

three weeks pass before you see him again. 

you’d decided quickly what you would say to him, and after two weeks worth of auditions that led to nothing, drinking without a friend in the world, alone to rot in your bedroom, you’d made up your mind.

osamu’s proposal, now, after everything you’d suffered, seemed too good to be true. how long had you wished for a companion, for money, for a steady job—and now, these were all things he promised to provide you, if only you’d stand by his side. 

you’d called to him at the start of the week, said a prayer to any angel named osamu that was out there—but no one came. 

night after night, you said the same prayer, wondering, if perhaps, you’d been made a fool of. that everything he had said was a lie, and you, truly, were doomed to live an unhappy life. maybe, he was mocking you for your misfortunes, for your weak heart. 

though, on the twenty-first day after your discussion, you awaken to a figure standing in the corner of your room, watching you with hawklike eyes, the shadow of a wingspan shaped out behind him. 

you gasp, nearly letting out a scream as you scramble to a seated position in your bed, bringing the sheets up to your chest. the man is nothing more than a silhouette, so dark in the moonlight, but you know, without seeing his face, that he is the one you’ve been searching for.

“osamu,” you say, trying to quell the fear that has made a home in your chest. you gawk at him as he uncrosses his arms, sauntering over like he owns the place, like he’s been here before, knows the shape of your body, even under the sheets you hide within. “you heard my prayers.” 

“i apologize for not coming faster,” he smiles in the darkness, teeth glimmering under beams of starlight. his face becomes visible then, and it steals your breath away—he is more stunning than you remember, skin nearly glowing, golden. “you were beginning to sound desperate.” osamu watches as your breathing evens out, your eyes flicking over his features. “is that still the case?” 

he is a sight to behold sitting before you, the very essence of power seeping off of him in waves. a creature crafted from the hands of god, shaped to be the very thing that would protect the weaker creations. 

osamu’s skin, his hair, every inch of him is without flaws, while you are but a sinful human girl who succumbs to each of her urges. 

“i want—” you stop, realizing that you’re not sure what you want. to be an actress, yes, a famous starlet that is cherished by the masses. but, when you look at osamu, the soft, plump shape of his lips, the lean limbs that hide under his tailored coat, you wonder if fame, security, comfort—perhaps, those aren’t the only things you desire from this exchange. “i accept—”

“you sound uncertain,” he interrupts, eyebrows drawing together in a scowl. “you called me here, begged me to come steal you away, and now, you change your mind?”

“no!” you say, scrambling to grab his wrist as he starts to stand from the bed, his eyes flashing as you reach for him on all fours. “i’m not changing my mind. i want to be famous, i want to be yours.” you swallow, choking out the word as it turns your cheeks warm, the heat making its way up from your toes. 

it hit you harder that you anticipated, the taste of belonging to another. you aren’t sure if its because you’ve craved the connection for so long that it’s twisting your insides, turning you into something desperate, or if, already, you feel an invisible string tying you and this stranger together. 

“but?” osamu asks, still seeming like he’s about to flee, his eyes hard, blinking back at you. there is something about you that he wants, but he won’t take it, not unless you crave him just as much. it muddles your mind, confuses you—he could have anyone, could take anything. yet— 

“but why do you want me?” you ask, releasing him to curl your fingers around the blanket. “i don’t understand.” 

osamu balks, then laughs, his eyes crinkling as he regards you with some sort of gentleness. “perhaps i have always loved humans a little too much, much more than i should, at least.” he curls a piece of your hair around his finger, hums to himself. “innocent creatures that my father cursed with misery, blaming their own sinfulness against them.” osamu licks his lips, hungry as dark eyes cover your face. “but it’s not entirely your fault that you must bear the torment of generations. just as it is not my fault that i was born with a lust for something much more delicate than the creatures of heaven.” 

he strokes your cheek, fingers grazing you like you are nothing more than a piece of glass, that you might shatter under the force of his power. perhaps you would—with too much, he might break you, turn you into a pile of ash with a snap of his finger.  

“but there are millions of us to choose from,” you say, sweating under the blanket as your heart pounds in your chest. the breadth of his power becomes more obvious with every passing second, and yet, you crave  a taste of it. “what makes me so special?”

he wraps a large palm around your jaw, thumb pulling at your lower lip. the tip of it dips into your mouth as you watch him with wide eyes, frozen, but not from fear. “i was meant to be your guardian angel, to be the guide that leads you away from the devil until your dying breath.” he moves closer, dipping his head towards your lips, brown irises never leaving your own. “and yet, the moment i laid eyes on you, i had already broken the first rule.” 

you stumble over your syllables, whispering them breathlessly. “and what’s that?” 

osamu smiles, muttering the words against your mouth, his voice ghosting over your skin. “angels are wired to protect those that we are assigned to,” he says, swiping his tongue against your lip, just barely kissing you, the sounds low and breathy. “we’re not supposed to want to fuck them.” a finger drags slowly, sensuously up your arm, and you can’t move, can’t do anything but watch as he pushes you, sinks you slowly into the bed. “i have never wanted anything as badly as i want you.”

you breath, in and out, slow, as the heat settles in your stomach, a burning pool of need churning there. it’s been so long—so long—since anyone has touched you in a way that is kind, has wanted to please you, instead of steal from you. “all that, just for me?” you ask cheekily, though you’re still not sure that he is telling the truth. 

maybe he is the devil, but you no longer care. his voice is so sweet with praise and affirmation, bleeding into the softness of your heart. 

he shrugs. “perhaps i was always meant to fall.” your head hits the pillow. you aren’t sure when he got you pinned on the bed. osamu looms over you with wide, burning eyes, licking his lips with an ache he doesn’t bother to hide. 

“osamu,” you shudder, grabbing his bicep to steady yourself. it is too much, suddenly, all at once. you are filled with need for him, clawing at his skin as he commands complete control over you with nothing but his words. “i—”

your sentence is stolen away by a kiss, one that burns from your mouth all the way down to your toes. it twists something within you, turns you into a monstrous being that you had not realized you were, longing so recklessly to be touched. 

his hands roam over your body, touch featherlight as he removes your dress, drags it slowly off your body, eyes grazing over every inch of your skin like he wants to devour your whole.

he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, fingers lightly dipping down your chest, between the swell of your breast to your ribcage. “how cruel of our father to keep us from such divine creatures,” he says, leaning down to kiss up your stomach, lick the skin around your breasts. “perhaps we are the ones that are truly being punished.”

you writhe under him, hands curling in his hair as his own dips between your thighs. grabbing his scalp hard, you yank him back up to your lips, and your eyes meet, both dark and dangerous as you brush your nose against his own. “you are punishing me right now.” 

“is that so?” he laughs, eyes flashing with humor. “such a greedy, impatient little thing.” osamu slips out of his coat, his shirt, revealing the tent that has already grown in his slacks. they are the next to go, and his golden skin is revealed, the perfection of every line and angle of his body heavenly and refined. he leans down to whisper in your ear, breath ghosting the shell of it. “act like such a princess, but i know you want to be fucked until you can’t form a single thought, don’t you?” he says, and the coolness of his voice has you squeezing his shoulders, gasping out his name.

your skin burns, your chest burns, an ache gathering and settling deep in your stomach. your cunt throbs as you look at the angel before you, and he kisses down your neck, bites a hard bruise into your collarbone. 

you whimper, wondering why you ever questioned going with him, when he could make you feel this good from nothing more than his hands on your skin. 

“such pretty fucking tits.” he swirls his tongue around your hardened nipple, teasing the bud as you cry out loudly in the silent room. far too loudly for the thin walls, the cheap apartment. yet, you wonder if you care that your neighbors can hear the noises that come with your pleasure. 

“that’s it,” he purrs, kissing down your stomach before his lips reach your hipbone, smiling into the sensitive skin there. “so quiet before… thought i was doing something wrong.” 

“n-no,” you say, chest rising quickly as you watch him hover above your soaked cunt with anticipation. “feels good.” 

osamu smiles, spreads your legs farther, so your dripping, aching hole is on display, embarrassingly, every inch of you vulnerable to him. “look at you,” he says, eyes hazy as he holds you tight, digs his fingers in your skin. “so fucking perfect. bet you taste as good as you look.” 

there isn’t a moment for you to say a word—his head is already between your thighs, kissing your clit before sweeping his tongue through your folds, gathering up the wetness. a moan leaves his lips, and the vibration sends a wave of need through you as you squeeze his hair, force him back down on your cunt, nose dragging against your clit. “osamu, please.”

“ah, ah, ah,” he stops, licking his lips that are moist from your juices as his head lifts from between your thighs. a dark smile stretches across his features, calculating and cruel. “where are your manners, sweetheart? i don’t want you to cum too quickly.” 

you’re not sure what he means until you feel your hands pinned to the bed by an invisible force, the power of the angelic creature before you, finally obvious. you can’t move, can’t even writhe against him, even as you try to thrust your hips forward, gain any sort of relief from the position. 

he laughs at you, so pitiful at your desperation to be touched. “much better,” he says, and returns to lap at your cunt, tongue already stretching you as his fingers graze your thigh. 

“s-samu,” you say, feeling the heavy pressure build down in your stomach. “want,” your cheeks grow hot, and you’re tingling with a need to touch him, but you can’t move. his pace is too steady, too slow. you’ve never wanted to scream more. “want your fingers. please, please.” 

“please? such a good girl.” osamu grins against your pussy. the sound of his tongue slurping at your arousal is loud in the darkened space, and you clench around him, burning with need and shame. “you taste so good, too. better than any of the fucking shit in heaven. fuck.” he slips a finger in then, working at your clenching hole as his tongue curls around your clit, rubbing at the sensitive bud. 

your words leave you in a cry, every muscle in your body aching. “please, i want to move. let me touch you, i want to, i—”

“i’m not letting you go that easy,” osamu says, and he pulls his mouth away, his face glistening, soaked. his fingers curl into you and you squeeze your eyes tight as he reaches deeper, to the second knuckle. “you’re so fucking worked up. bet you could cum at the sound of my voice alone.” 

“i wanna, please, i’m so close—"

he laughs, looking up at you from under dark lashes. “already?” the sound is mocking, nothing about it soft as he kisses your inner thigh. he sees the desperation in your irises as you can do nothing but stare, unable to twitch a single muscle. “gonna cum all over my face?” he asks, and he’s back between your legs, tongue diving into you. “make a mess on me, sweetheart, wanna see that pretty face of yours when you cum.” 

you don’t think you’ve every felt like this before, basked in the moonlight as the angelic man soaks his face with your desire, smiling at the sight of you so sinful. your heart hammers in your chest as you remember what you’ve promised him—that you would be his forever and, perhaps, this is what forever entails. 

breathy moans leave you, and with each thrust of his tongue, you’re left with less words on your lips, less thoughts in your mind. “feels so good, you’re so good, osamu,” you babble, over and over. 

osamu reaches the deep spot inside of you, and you squeeze him, clenching as you come on his fingers, cry out in the space of black room, nothing but the stars to guide you. you’re not sure you’ve ever come this fast before, not without the help of your own hands, but osamu just continues to lap at your cunt, drinking the juices and making lewd noises of pleasure at the taste of you. “mm,” he hums, “so fucking perfect.”

he fists his cock, already hard as his tongue swirls inside of you, and you lose any train of thought, too focused on the way he’s making you feel. 

osamu is hard, leaking before he shifts onto his knees, rubbing his cock between your folds, gathering slick at the tip. “want my cock, baby? such a pretty thing deserves it, don’t you think?”

you nod, muttering syllables you don’t even understand. osamu teases you, drags his cock against your hole as he kisses your lips. 

“use your words, sweetheart,” he smiles. his soaked fingers leave patterns of your own slick on your stomach. 

you groan, eyelashes wet. “want your cock, ‘samu, please, wanna be stuffed so full,” you babble, and you can’t do anything but lay there, even though you want to touch him, want so badly to shift your hips into him. “please, osamu, please,” 

he makes a noise in the back of his throat, grinning as he plays with your nipple, lining himself against your dripping hole. “so fucking sweet for me, anyone would think you were the angel, wouldn’t they?” osamu asks, and then he sinks into you, slow, eyes careful as he searches for any pain in your features. 

you blink up at him, making a soft noise as you writhe under your skin. “b-big,” you say, feeling him stretch your walls as he sinks further. 

though his eyes are careful, he doesn’t bother to stop, each second dragging as he inches further into you. he laces his fingers with yours on the bed, grinning as dark hair falls into his eyes. “i think you can take it, can’t you? you’ve been sogood for me already.” 

sucked into the coolness of his gaze, you don’t realize that he’s released you from whatever spell you’ve been trapped under, kept helpless on the bed. you gasp as he sinks into you completely, aching from a mix of discomfort and the deep need with you. 

“too much,” you say, but he sinks further, deeper, and your walls clench around him, bringing a heavy groan out of both of you. “fuck, please, let me move, i—” 

“i’m not stopping you,” he kisses you hard, sloppy as his saliva drags across your lips. there’s a possessiveness in the way he fucks you, dragging his mouth across your own, claiming you as his. “you take it so fucking well, angel, slipping right into this soaked pussy.”

his words take a moment to reach your disoriented mind, and when you try to move, you can, your hands flying to his shoulders to bring him closer. your whimpers are loud in the hollow room, and osamu loves the sound of you, drinking each little whisper in like a heavenly elixir. 

“you’re so pretty,” he says, kissing across your forehead as you arch into him. “making you feel good, hm? so fucking innocent, and i’m ruining you.” 

“mmm,” you force the sound out as osamu thrusts into you, hard against the mattress, his hips moving in a steady, fast rhythm. hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, his brown eyes even darker in the midnight hour. 

your fingers graze across his back, between his shoulder blades, and though your touch is featherlight, he freezes, stops immediately with a loud groan as he clamps his teeth down on your shoulder. 

you breath in sync, your chests rising and falling together. “osamu?” you ask, staring up at him, his eyes pinched together tightly as he grits his teeth. 

“sensitive,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “fuck, i’ll cum on the spot if you touch me there.” 

you blink, your haziness clearing as you let your hands fall to your sides. it takes you a moment to realize why he would curl away from your touch there, why he would—

“your wings?” you ask, and he drags his gaze back up to your’s, nodding, before dropping his head onto your collarbone. he exhales into your neck, resuming a slow, steady pace inside you. though, you place a hand on his chest, feel his erratic heartbeat. “can i see?” 

“you don’t want to.” 

you pinch your eyebrows together, but he shifts his hips, forces a cry out of you as you collapse back down against the mattress. “i do,” you argue, but he’s fucking you mercilessly, sensuous sounds echoing in the room as he attempts to distract you. “i want to.” 

he’s about to deny your request, but you let out another soft please, batting your eyelashes so sweetly. your cheeks are flushed from the heat in the room, and, for some reason, he relents, bowing his head in some sort of remorse. slowly, his wings span out across the room. 

you lose your breath for a moment as you stare at them, muddled from the feeling of him inside and the beautiful sight before you. the wings are thick, black and feathery, spanning the length of the room, casting a dark shadow over you. they’re strong and unwavering, with a sheen that could be seen only on a raven, the light turning the shades from a deep purple to green. 

“oh,” you can’t mutter anything else as he drags his tip against the sensitive spot inside you. “oh, they’re so beautiful. fuck, osamu, i can’t—”

you can’t stop yourself from touching them, dragging a gentle touch against one of the feathers. osamu cries out, groans into your mouth as your walls clench around him, sweat dripping between you as your chest presses against his own.

“shit,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “oh, i’m so close. gonna make me come, aren’t you, baby? squeezing me so fucking tight, touching me like that.” 

his eyes are hazy, and, somehow, for some reason, he’s let you have control of the situation. he kisses your face, treats you with a gentleness you didn’t think he was capable of, his lips so warm against your skin. 

the dark, heavy wings cage you in, falling over the two of you, and you run your fingers against them once more as you feel another orgasm creep upon you. your clit rubs against him, and your slick drips between the two of you, down your thighs as your breath catches in your throat. 

for a moment, you revel in the feeling of him deep inside you, and you close your eyes, his feathered wings so soft under your palm, letting your pleasure overtake you.

though that is short-lived as osamu pinches your jaw.

“hey,” he says gruffly, “look at me. want to see those pretty eyes of yours when you cum.” and though his eyes are soft, delicate from the way you’re stroking his wings, he sounds so mean, so possessive. “gonna fuck all my cum inside you, cause you’re mine now.”

your fingers curl around the feathers, hard as you tug him down towards you. osamu moans deep into your mouth when you clench around him, your orgasm rolling over you again as you scream his name into the blackness of the room. 

“such a good girl f’me, fuck, i—” he doesn’t finish his sentence, already filling your soaked pussy with his cum. it seeps deep inside of you, coating your walls white until he pulls out, lets his seed drip between the two of you. 

osamu presses his fingers across your face, dragging the delicate touch around your jaw, your chin as you breath heavily, still awestruck by the creature before you. you’re exhausted, sleepy, eyes hazy as you regard him with stuttered breath. 

but he doesn’t let you go, kissing you over and over again with flushed lips. “i know you can give me one more,” he says in a low voice, humming against your throat. “my perfect mortal girl. just one more, and i’ll give you whatever you want, got it, pretty?” 

your body aches, sensitive and spent, but you don’t object when he slips another finger into, kissing you hard as he lets you touch his raven wingspan. 

you’d always wanted to be an actress, anyways. 

tags: @hannzai @cha0thicpisces @kissesmellow21 @sukiischaotic @hinata7346

OCTOBER MASTERLIST

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

can you do human Alastor with reader who’s like Velma Kelly from the musical Chicago? Fem reader please! and maybe mimzy is a bit jealous?

A/N: I love Chicago and Velma Kelly! I’ll be basing it off of the movie version just because it’s easier for me but tysm anon for your request!! I was on a writing block / super long break, but i’m hoping to try and get into the swing of things again! Hopefully I’ll be posting more and getting requests out since I have some good ones I do wanna expand on! We all know I’m a fien for human Alastor so I was really excited to write this.

Warnings: mentions of death & murder, fluff

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!

All That Jazz

He thinks you’re too full of yourself

He doesn’t like it about you, but also doesn’t like when other people insult you

Hes seen you live before, and honestly he was impressed

You dance quick and can keep up with him when you both dance together

He loves when you sing All that Jazz, he’s even rehearsed with you before

Now he does know about your sister and how you… you know, got rid of her and your ex-husband

Unfortunately for him, you work at Mimzys rival speakeasy, so Alastor sneakily goes to see you, though he doesn’t really care if Mimzy does find out

In his opinion his darling doe is a fine better singer than Mimzy but he’d never tell her that

He doesn’t have too, not when Mimzy drags him and a few of their other friends to your club to see you preform

Mimzy quote ¨didnt know why you were so popular¨

I mean for christs sake you killed a man and your own sister!

Well now she understands why you’re so popular, after seeing the way you sang and danced on stage

People were cheering and clapping by the end of your number, but you had so much more in store for them tonight

Especially if you knew you were being watched by a certain someone

You shake your hips a bit more and lift your skirt just enough to entice the crowd, give them something a little more to look forward too

Mimzy almost dies when you and Roxie do a number together, the guns and the flare, the white coats and dresses

People throwing roses at the two of you as you both exit the stage and Mimzy is fuming in her seat, no wonder her club is losing money when they have two acts practically running around naked on stage

Alastor meets you backstage in your dressing room where you’re freshening up your hair

Your manager comes in with Alastor in toe, his grin wide as he holds out a bouquet of roses.

¨You were great tonight dear!¨ He says, handing the flowers to you. Your dressing room has various bouquets all from him sitting on different shelves and tables.

¨Thank you so much, these will go right next to my mirror.¨ You say, taking the bouquet from Alastor with a kiss on his cheek. He smiles as he watches you put the bouquet next to your mirror.

¨ Would you like to get dinner dear? I hear a new restaurant has opened and it would be nice to give it a try. What do you say?¨ He asks, before you smile at him through the mirror.

¨I think I like that idea ¨ you say.

Heaven forbid anyone ever offend you in his presence, he WILL throw a fit and then go on a ten minute rant about how good of a dancer and singer you are.

Will sing with you while he plays the piano

Will ask you to sing for him whenever, but loves when you sing to him before bed

[quona]

i have brought her laughing (to my quietly dreaming garden) ------------------------------ The scene: A smoky, velvet-lined speakeasy smudged carelessly somewhere in the pocket of a roaring, glittered New York City, 1924, nighttime. Prohibition is on, but the law books never really dissuade anyone from getting a drink, not if they know where to go. It sure as Hell doesn't stop Crowley from taking her Angel out for a drink, because Aziraphale wanted one. And hey, it's the jazz age, Crowley knows where to get weed again.

This painting is one half of a collaboration I did with my dear friend @thescholarlystrumpet, who wrote a fantastic companion piece on AO3 (Rated M, mind the drug use tag).

“I got something else to liven up your final night in town. If you’re feeling a little… daring.” Crowley looked sidelong at Aziraphale and arched one penciled-on brow. Aziraphale wiggled happily and slid off the stool to sidle closer, until her head was practically on the Demon’s bare shoulder. “Do tell.”  Crowley tried not to shiver as she could feel the Angel’s breath against her heated skin, smell the heady potpourri of perfume, wine, and a pinch of ethereal sweat, taste it on her (currently unforked) tongue. She held up the expertly rolled joint between two fingers accented by red painted talons. “It’s been a very long time, I think, since we really… indulged.” Turning her head just so, nearly nose to nose with her friend. “Don’t you think we’ve earned it?” “Why, you wicked temptress,” Aziraphale murmured, her voice low and slightly breathless, sly smile belying any hint of admonishment. 

full size and detail shots after the jump

[aurumacadicus]

Anyway I saw a commercial where Don Cheadle runs a speakeasy.

--

"Tony, my bar is opening tonight and my piano player has food poisoning," Jim stated when he found him in the living room of his penthouse, watching a basketball game.

Tony blinked at him, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. "I can flush him with Pedialyte?"

"This isn't college. Also I already left him a case and a credit card in case his girlfriend has to take him to get an IV," Jim answered with a blasé shrug. He reached over the back of the couch to grab his hair and give him a gentle shake. "I understand you're still reeling from your breakup but I need a favor. You must have dated at least one person who can play jazz on the piano."

"Stop wobbling me I'm full of chips," Tony grumbled, lifting his hand to slap Jim's arm. "And no, I didn't. I'm the piano player in my relationships."

Jim paused, then began shaking him with more fervor. "HOW COME YOU NEVER PLAYED FOR ME."

"There wasn't a piano in our dorm I will throw up on you," Tony snapped, smacking his arm again. "Also??? I was adorable in school I would have hogged all the girls."

"It's so annoying that you're right," Jim huffed, allowing himself to be brushed off. He looked around the penthouse, then pointed at the piano next to the window, which he'd always thought was just there either to impress Tony's dates or because rich people just owned pianos. "Show me what you can do."

"I don't want to go to your speakeasy opening," Tony complained, even as he stood and brushed his hands off on his sweatpants. "I want to wallow in finding my ex-boyfriend fucking my ex-girlfriend in my bed. I was supposed to propose tonight. You're getting George Gershwin."

"Oh no," Jim deadpanned. "A way to get your mind off of that guy I hated anyway while getting me to owe you a favor."

Tony paused, slanting him a look out of the corner of his eye. His fingers hovered over the piano keys. "...You'll owe me a favor?" he repeated.

"A big one," Jim confirmed, and couldn't help a relieved smile as Tony's fingers danced along the keys in response, Rhapsody in Blue vibrating out from the piano's body. "Wear that pinstripe number. You'll never have to buy yourself a drink."

--

Most of the patrons were by invite. Jim had wanted to show the place off to his friends first, now that it was finished. A themed bar wasn't the safest bet in any economy, and he wanted them to be able to enjoy it before he had to start stressing about finances. And military people never needed an excuse to drink.

Tony's favor had involved inviting a few of his rich friends, though, and with the selfies Janet Van Dyne and Johnny Storm were posting online, Jim figured he'd be set for a few years, especially when Jan grabbed his hands and sparkled at him about how she'd be coming at least once a week to show off new flapper dresses. (He was still unsure as to how she "sparkled" at him, but it was an adjective he'd gotten from Tony and it was the only really apt one.) They kept dropping fifties in the tip jar, too, which only made his bartenders more cheerful and willing to act in their roles.

Luckily, the higher class clientele were balanced out with Jim's pals from the military. Carol and Maria had already said their goodbyes (Monica had an event early the next morning) but as the air force left, the army rolled in, and he welcomed the Howling Commandoes in with only a little teasing.

"Jim," Natasha said, appearing beside him between one breath and another, despite the beads on her dress tinkling musically with each step. "Why is Bucky lying to people that his food poisoning miraculously ended. And why did he give me five hundred dollars to shut up about him not having food poisoning."

Jim sighed. He should have known that Bucky would have gotten dragged here regardless of his "illness" with friends like the Commandoes. "I needed to get Tony out of the house but I knew he'd only do it if I needed help. Today was the first time he showered in a week."

"I see. Well, I've just gotten May and Happy together," Natasha said ominously. "And Pepper is well on her way to realizing Phil is asking her out. I could use a new project. Steve is also single."

"I really don't want Tony dating right after he found his cheating ex-boyfriend in his bed with someone else," Jim began.

"Don't worry, Steve is stupidly loyal even to people he's not dating and will punch Tiberius Stone in the teeth if he ever sees him," Natasha assured him, and floated halfway across the room as Jim gave her an astonished blink.

Well. Jim couldn't say he didn't want to see that. He drifted over to the piano, where Tony was still diligently playing Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong and Jelly Roll Morton. "You need a break, bud? You've been playing for two hours straight."

"Rhodey," Tony slurred happily, and it made Jim suddenly aware of the rows of martini glasses on the side of the piano. "This is so much fun. Is it okay if my tips go to charity. I can't feel my hands."

Bucky appeared a moment later, cheerfully shouldering him aside. "I'll take over, fella," he said, giving Jim a wink, and hip-checked Tony off of the piano bench and directly into Jim's arms.

"Was that hot or am I sad and drunk?" Tony asked. He squinted at Bucky blearily. "Am I sad and looking for anything to be hot. Or was that actually hot."

Reluctantly, Jim answered, "No, it was hot, but Bucky's taken." He pulled Tony's arm over his shoulders. "Let's get some water in you, okay?"

"Okay but I promised Jan I'd play her out because of drama and panache," Tony wobbled, allowing Jim to tow him over to the dark, moody sitting area. "Is this a secret door? Oh my God yay," he added as Jim pulled a bookcase open to reveal a back room where he could rest without excitement.

Jim had intended for it to be a room for private parties, but letting his friends sober up in it tonight would be fine, probably. Especially if Tony was going to be drunk and cute about it. "What is Jan going to have you play?"

"'Let's Misbehave,'" Tony slurred, and Jim sighed fondly, because of course she was.

[cupidsyndrome]

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ME AND MR WOLF.

🏹 MURDER, FALSE ROMANCE. 985 WORDS. 💌 nothing worse than a wolf in disguise. careful not to be fooled. 🩷 cw. human!alastor. suggestive. straight up murder. alastor needs his own warning.

freshly moved from the countryside, it’s easy to feel oh-so out of place here– amidst the dimly lit speakeasy that your friend has been urging you to go to. you vaguely remember hearing the song it’s a sin to tell a lie some time ago over the radio: this time, it’s live. you can feel each chord reverberating in your very own body, heart playing along the beat. humming along to it as your eyes desperately search for your friend that seemed to have disappeared– the smoke lingering in the air makes it hard to see, to even breathe.

a couple making their way out bump into you, sending you stumbling towards someone. to keep your balance, your hands instinctively find their way to the stranger’s chest– it’s an awkward situation, to say the least, and the way his gaze drops to your hands with annoyance makes you want to bury yourself 6 feet under. 

“my apologies,” you try, stammering.

the stranger seemed more relaxed at that, eyeing you up and down without a care in the world.

“no need, sugar.”

you frown at that– something about his voice felt familiar, “i think i know you.”

his face falls at that. uncertainty tainting his face as one his eyes twitches. have you done something wrong ? the atmosphere feels suffocating as you struggle to find the words to explain yourself– he doesn’t bother helping either, hard gaze stuck on you.

“i.. i must apologise again, sir. knowing would’ve been the wrong word. i’m a listener of your shows.”

a scoff.

then, a full-on laugh.

as the sound of his laughter fills the air, mingling with the lingering notes of the jazz band– your stomach churns, something akin to feeling butterflies. it's a warm, rich sound that washes over you, momentarily easing the tension that hangs between the two of you. his laugh attracts the dirty looks of a few other customers– he doesn’t mind it.

“well, darlin’,” he muses, a playful twinkle in his eyes, “if you’re a fan, then i reckon we’re practically ol’ pals !”

the night went on, with the stranger– alastor, you’ve learned– never leaving your side. the hours slipping away in a haze of laughter and shared drinks. the once-crowded room now dwindled as patrons found themselves wandering into the moonlit streets. with the fading strains of down hearted blues, an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. would you ever have the chance to meet him again after tonight ? would he even wish to ? 

but alastor seems to be more understanding of your silent dilemma than what you would’ve thought. he leans close, lips brushing against your cheek– velvety voice making you an offer. and so, you push your doubts to the side, eagerly nodding to accept. 

on the walk to your house, his hand finds your waist, keeping you close to him. it’s comforting, and you start to think that you could get used to this, someday.

[...]

you tell him to make himself home and he does, oh-so effortlessly. as his coat gets tossed somewhere on your couch– he rolls off his sleeves, forearms adorned with lengthy scars that makes your face twist in worry for him.

“goodness, alastor! those must’ve hurt.”

he offers you a smile, gloved hand twirling a strand of your hair. 

“you should be worryin’ for yourself, cher.”

the term catches you off guard, and a blush blooms across your cheeks, the warmth spreading like wildfire. it catches you so off guard that your mind won’t even try to comprehend his words. there’s red signs flashing through your mind but you don’t pay attention to any of them as you find yourself succumbing to the intoxicating allure of the man standing before you. he’s too charming for his own good, you think– even worse so for yours.

“what’re you thinkin’ about ? focus on me.”

as your back hits the wall, you stumble over your words. he’s close– too close for this to be considered respectable between two strangers. his left hand is on the wall, a few inches from your head, as his right hand grabs the point of your chin: keeping you in place, right where he wants you to stay. you find it difficult to breathe– imagination running wild, conjuring up scenarios that leave your mind dizzy with need.

his lips finds yours in a heated kiss, a collusion full of passion that threatens to consume you whole. each movement fuels a primal need– and you can’t help but moan at the feeling, the heat of his body radiating against yours in waves.

the hand that once grabbed your chin now tightens around your throat, cutting your airways in a grip that feels foreign– yet pleasurable for the most part. still, it makes you uncomfortable and you whimper: wishing to let him know, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t know just how strong he was. alastor breaks off the kiss and relief floods through you for a moment. 

your eyes flutter open.

the illusion breaks.

the man standing before you looks like alastor, but doesn’t feel like the man you’ve met earlier. his facade crumbles off in an instant– a chilling bored gaze never leaving yours. the sudden panic filling up your eyes doesn’t faze him, as he continues to strangle you with a vice-like grip. 

lungs burning, you try to gasp for air as his left hand joins the deadly embrace. when you realise that the monster wouldn’t take mercy on you, your fingers start tightening around his forearms the best you could– nails digging into the very same scars you’ve pitied him for.

the realisation puts tears into your eyes– what a fool you’ve been.

and as the world begins to blur, mind falling in and out of consciousness, you’re met with the mocking smile of the very same stranger you’ve brought home.

“have a good sleep, sugar.”

© CUPIDSYNDROME, all rights reserved.

[rita-rae-siller]

Okay but what about a 1920’s set fantasy novel. I’m talking speakeasies with a vampire crooning the blues while a Siren sings jazz. Shady fae gangsters that you definitely never want to make a deal with watch through the haze of their cigars—Faewild imports. Highly illegal contraband. Elves and nymphs dripped in beaded finery and pearls hang off their dates and puff on cigarettes. Silent Film stars sip champagne. Absolutely wild parties thrown by the high and mighty, full of strange wonders and magic mixed with the modern amenities of the era.

[enlitment]

Tagging @theghostofbean @trz4potttt @chaotic-history @brissot @talcifer-lurks @ptolemaicrevival @marcusagrippa @theromaboo @privateandshamefulvices @starsunderwater to kick things off (no pressure though!)

[weaver-z]

Saturday night. 1927. A lone jazz crooner plays the saxophone from a distant room as you take shelter from the rain in a dim, smoky speakeasy. Slow night. The bartender polishes a glass. A few lost souls sit nursing their ill-gotten liquor, eyes vacant, mouths half-open. You sigh. You're about to order a glass of your own when you spot me in the corner, lounging alone in a booth. I wear a hat that casts a pitch-black shadow over my eyes and a heavy black coat -- the telltale attire of a private eye. I'm smoking a clove cigarette while I read something, and you flush when you realize the title is Pussy Magazine. It's so dirty, even for a place like this. Maybe your mama was right, and the city is full of low-down hungry dogs who will snap a country girl like you right up. Then you look back to me and find me staring at you with a pair of brooding, piercing yellow eyes. I raise my hand to give you a lazy, debonair wave as your heart flutters in your chest. My elbow knocks my glass over while I'm distracted. "Fuck," I groan. "Balls." I immediately forget about you and start trying to slurp my whiskey off the tabletop before it spills off the edge. My magazine falls open on the floor. It's full of pictures of frolicking domestic cats. I fall off of my stool. You leave the speakeasy.

[silversodas]

Lackadaisy Makeup

I love the implication that Mordecai and Mitzi May were pretty good friends. In the 20s makeup was considered kinda scandalous, because it was only worn by actors and prostitutes and make up especially eyeliner was seen as rebellious, it’s supposed to be bad and for women so I would say it’s pretty special to be close enough friends with Mordecai to have him help. It being inappropriate is probably why characters like Ivy only wears her makeup while in full flapper attire inside the speakeasy. Come to think of it, I think Ivy’s Flapper outfit may be symbolic of her true self

Makeup is usually thought of as a cover up, something women use to hide who they are but with characters like Ivy it’s presented as a way to show who she is. She is heavily associated with Daisys light and the Sun specifically, and I think her gold eye shadow, mascaraed eyelashes and sparkly gold dress perfectly reflects someone youthful, beautiful, and radiates the warm glow of the sun. It’s a look that says she is the Lackadaisy’s beloved Jazz baby princess

Also side note about Mordecai in the picture because I need to talk about it

As a makeup lover and someone with OCD (not anywhere near the level Mordecai has it though) and as someone who learned about eyeliner in the 1920s. Mordecai’s facial expression completely captures the struggle. So that little pot of eyeliner he is holding? Yeah that’s basically powder, and way harder to use then todays pencil or liquid eyeliner. And you can tell from his face that if he messes up he is going to Chuck the eyeliner pot through the window so help him God! and I relate to it so hard I almost feel called out!!

[cherubispunk]

UP IN YOUR ARMS (CHAPTER ONE) -Noir!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: The Canary Club. Illicit. Underground. Dangerous too. But nowhere near as dangerous the affair you and Joel start there.

a note from Lucy: chapter one! I'm digging my own grave here. thats all im saying. i promise it is focused on joel and the reader later in the chapter. im just setting the scene for differnt relationships in the series.

playlist

wc: 6969 (haha lol) Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! 1940s!au, no outbreak, no use of y/n, age gap (reader is in her early 20’s and Joel is in his 40s), smut. p in v sex, oral - f receiving, oral through panties, choking, groping, sexism, mentions of racism, touch starved joel, me being back on my bullshit, drinking, ,smoking, throwing fists because men are stoopid and cant talk things out, cheating on the readers part, but joel knows this and still fucks her like the horny bastad he is. *sigh*, use of pet names such as doll, cursing, ww2 references, an unhealthy relationship between reader and joel, mentions of blood, let me know if ive missed any warning out that should be tagged. 6969 words of unedited bullshit because im piss drunk and cant for the life of me edit.

series m.list | m.list

The jazz band was one of the finest groups in the city. ‘Only the finest for The Canary Club’, as Johnny had put it. 

Johnny Boy Finnick. 

Now he was a man. Played sports in college, muscular, strong arms that pinned you to the wall or mattress or table. Hands that shuffled playing cards with ease and had you screaming far after the night was over. Deep blue eyes and blonde hair that never fell out of place from its slicked back style. Not even after he had crushed someone's jaw under the weight of his pummeling, bloodlusting fist.  

Johnny made a name for himself bootlegging liquor, too young to fight in the first world war. Took over as The Boss of Boston. It’s how he got his name. Johnny Boy. Fresh faced but the heart of a ragged old man. Lost it all after the second world war, gained it back not long after. A killer with a bone deep yearning for blood, money, violence, and you. 

He sat in his pressed suit, legs parted as he leaned over to display his full flush to the table, flashing a killer smile when he collected the money off his right hand man and three more of his boys. You smiled from the bar, beads of your dress twinkling in the low light of the speakeasy, ready to waltz over with another old fashioned and drape yourself in his lap.

“Thanks, Henry.” You smiled at your oldest friend, taking the drink he had placed down in front of you on the bar. Henry was your age, 25. A boy from Hartford, Connecticut, grew up in Kansas, then moved here looking for work in a big city. Honest, hardworking. Sweeter than cherry pie. And his little brother Sam was just the cutest pip you'd ever seen. 

“No problem, Doll.” He teased, which deserved a roll of the eyes from you. 

“How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”

“This would make it…” he glanced up for a second, as if calculating within his mind, “one too many times to count.”

“Funny.” You gave him a quick bitter smile. All in good fun, clearly, for he took no offence. He just shot you a smile, running a clean rag over the bartop, collecting two glasses and wiping the rings of condensation they left upon maplewood. 

“Your man looks thirsty. Might wanna take him his drink now. Before he gets the wrong idea about me talking to ya.” You sighed, craning your head slightly to look back at Johnny who scanned the place with a scowl. It made your skin crawl the thought of his temper snapping again. Despite it, you left Henry with a playful wink his way before swanning back over, placing Johnny’s drink in front of him and a vermillon kiss to his cheek. 

Johnny sneered at the affection, wiping your lipstick stain from his cheek. All the confidence you had fell to the floor and shattered miserably. Liquid courage sloshed on the cured wood floor.

“Fuck’s sake, Doll. What you do that for?” He demanded of you, the disgust in his cruel cerulean eyes sending a chilling, agonising jolt down your spine. 

“Sorry, Johnny.” You shied away, folded your hands together, eyes on the floor.

“Ain't you gotta powder your nose or something? Go on. Piss off.” 

He was right. You’d be on soon. Drenched in the spotlight. Under the scrutinising, side cramping glare of everyone's eye. You could do with the quiet. So you shuffled off to your dressing room without a word more, holding back tears with your breath. 

In the mirror, you mourned the girl you were. Mourned the life you had before it all turned upside down. Mourned the man you fell in love with. And the monster you had no choice but to stay with. 

—

Joel was fuming. If you touched his skin you'd reel back with a scorched yelp because his blood ran hot, fast and thick under his flesh. Trust Tommy to catch himself in the web of underground crime. Always a joiner. Always a deserter too when things got heated. And who was left to untangle him from its intricate, venom snared weave? Joel ‘Gubbins’ Miller. He might as well have ‘mother to my brother’ branded on his forehead. Because that's what he was now. 

The war ended four years ago and ever since Tommy had been searching for his purpose. Preached about it round the dinner table in their grimy, mildew inhabited apartment like a preacher would his sermon. And every time it set Joel’s teeth on edge. Because he knew what came after the downfall. The pickup. 

Now, however, Joel was determined to nip this lunacy in the bud. Tear it up from the soil by the new roots. 

The Canary Club was one of the few remaining speakeasies around in Boston. To a cop it was practically a ghost of an establishment. Might as well not be there. But to a man like Joel, whose brother never stopped babbling on about the next best thing he had cooking for himself, it was as easy as pie.  

A shroud of cloud hung just above Boston’s looming buildings, teaming with the early moon to create a murky gloom over the dim city’s sin. It seemed to fill the hollow, smoggy air as they cast dark, taut shadows over the slick, grimy roads. The sky threatened rain for the third day in a row. A place that reeked of underground crime, drug rings and watered down, once bootlegged alcohol, laced with what one can only assume to be illegal too. All of that was washed down with the constant sour smell of new rain upon dirty tarmac. A city plagued and tarnished by its own rejects.The promise of work bought them in. But the lifestyle spat them back out. Chewed up and ruined by their own humanising hope.

He and his brother came in search of work. They were getting nowhere down south in Texas. On the dole and barely able to afford a loaf of bread between the two of them. Even their own mother hardly recognised her boys after the war. Said they were empty shells of men. Husks of the boys she raised. Killers. 

The woman was a pacifist at heart. And it was a trait that Joel not only saw as weak, but typical of women. Or that's what his father had socialised him into thinking. He didn't know where his father’s ideals ended and his started. As the days went by he saw more of the violence his father harboured in himself. Grimaced at the lug in the looking glass. 

Joel was no pacifist. But he didn't storm through the doors either. No gun was in hand ready to send people screaming bloody murder. That was stupid. A mistake that he knew could wind him up on the concrete in the flooded gulley with a bullet in his head where blood and water could finally mix. Instead he stole in quietly in the ambience of playing cards and a Jazz band, ordered himself a drink, and sat at the far corner of the bar where it was dimly lit. Just enough for him to see his drink and the room, but his face still remained shadowed. 

While he sipped in ponder, he took the chance to people watch. Scan the patrons for any uncanny resemblance of dear Tommy. But nothing. He seemed distracted by the careful and steady hand that polished glass after glass, though each of them were spotless before touching the rag. 

A pointless task. Some may say sisyphean. But the boy doing so knew when eyes were on him. It was a very rare occurrence if not related to his race. People of any darker colour were ogled often in these parts despite it being more accepted within the north of America. There was still divide and segregation. However, this new patron wasn't looking for Henry’s skin colour, rather contemplating how on earth a boy such as him had ended up in such a place. What connection he had to the gang. Was he like Tommy? Roped in at the side of the side of the road and choking on his remaining pride. Or in a sticky financial situation? All these questions seemed to circle like the rag in the crystal glass Henry held. 

“What’s your name, kid?” Joel asked him with an ex-smoker's voice, brow dark in the shadow. The boy looked up, eyes youthful, but they'd seen things no man should have to. 

“Henry.” He said after a beat, quick to refill Joel’s glass when it was empty besides a drop circled thin and amber in the bottom. “Yours?” Joel lifted his head, taking a sip before placing his glass back on the bartop in furrowed brow contemplation. 

“Joel.” He leaned forward on his forearms, haunched over the bar, before looking around again. “Whatcha doin’ here, Henry?” 

Henry laughed slightly, looking down at his feet before back in Joel's eyes. And what he was met with was the hollow ache of a man scarred by war. Henry’s face fell flat. 

“Working.” 

“No…I mean in Boston.”

Henry cleared his throat at the sudden, and even brash way Joel approached his question. So much that it took him a second to frown and then reply. 

“Came from Kansas. Hard for a black kid to find honest work there. Especially with a family to look out for.” His words were solemn and reflected a truth Joel knew all too well growing up down south. Even if he never lived it in his own white skin.

“You look a little young to have a kid.” 

“I don’t. I got a brother.” Joel nodded as he listened, waiting for him to go on. Which he did after a beat of silence. “Bright kid. Bright future too. He’s deaf though. Got a lot stacked against him in this world. Mom can't bring in enough to fund education for ‘im. So I stepped up.”

“No Daddy?” Joel asked and Henry shook his head. “How’d you end up here then?”

“A girl.” The look Joel gave Henry was sceptical. But the young boy was soon to put a stop to it all. “Not a girlfriend. Just a girl. We grew up in the same building. She moved up north for a life and I followed a few months later. She met a guy. A wealthy guy. And she wrote to me often of how swell Boston had been for her.”

Joel wasn't the questioning type. Neither one to beat around the bush. But Henry intrigued him. Reminded him a lot of Sarah. The challenge she had faced with the colour of her skin that he, as a white man, would never understand. He felt a guilt about it every day that flared up in the dark of night before his eyes closed for restless and futile sleep. “And this guy?”

“Him.” Henry nodded subtly over to the table of men playing cards. Poker. A game Joel knew well in the frontline and in Egypt where he fought. Him and a few others often huddled together in their own game. Nothing but the last pair of intact socks to bet on, or a single cigarette to get them through the night. Joel quit smoking the moment he got back. Knew it was something that made him unpredictable and jittery in the best of situations. “Johnny Boy Finnick. A big name in these parts.” 

Joel followed Henry’s gaze, but his attention was snagged by the unmistakable head of dark curled hair facing away from him. He knew his brother anywhere and his blood began to boil as he threw back his second drink and slammed the empty glass on the bartop. 

“Hey, man-” Henry tried, shoulders straining as he stood to attention. Joel didn't pay him any mind. Merely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before his bar stool sharied upon the varnished wood floor. He cared not for the noise. Only the feeling he would get once his closed fist met the bone on the bridge of Tommy’s nose. 

Trumpets flailed to a stop and drums failed mid blow. The room fell silent after a chorus of gasps. 

He loved his brother. Deeply. So much it caused a chasm of a rib cracking hole in his chest every time Tommy slipped up. But he saw red now it all caught up behind his lids that blinked once. That split second of not seeing and before he had a chance to second guess, he was gripping the back of tommy;s collar and wrenching him up to his feet to deliver a shiner to the face. 

Tommy staggered back, and everyone at his table stood up with the intention to harm. Yet no one but the brawling brothers fought. As he gained his footing again, he also gained his senses, recognising Joel anywhere. 

“Joel, what the fu-” He was hardly able to finish before another shooting pain split his bottom lip open and Tommy’s mouth was filled with the taste of his own bitter blood. Blood he and Joel shared and were now shedding in a futile fight of nothing but testosterone. That was enough to send the same foul blow to his kin. Joel winced, knowing the crescent of a bruise that would bloom on his cheekbone overnight. One of Tommy’s many rings sliced his skin. He felt warmth in crimson dribble from a fresh flesh wound. 

“Hey!” One loud and bellowing voice that had the power to command a whole unit of men boomed out before neither Joel or Tommy had the chance to throw another fist. It was for the better. Any more and Joel’s knuckles would have bruised purple. A colour of shame. 

It was Johnny. And his face was stoic as he stared each brother down with a burning gaze that had even Joel’s hairs stood on end at the nape of his neck. Like an army stood to attention before the first charge. Except he didn't move. Joel knew now where he stood in the food chain of this speakeasy. And it was right at the very bottom. “You!” He pointed at Tommy. Go clean yourself up.” And Tommy went as pale as a funeral sheet before nodding meekly. His face melted from shock to shame in the blink of Joel’s very eye before he grumbled something under his breath and passed Joel with a sharp clip to his shoulder. 

It's his turn now. 

At this point you'd come out to see what the commotion was for. The walls, while thick upstairs in the printer's press, were thin in the basement. And you;d heard silence and the spit of a man as his blood splattered with spit on the floor in the doorway. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doin throwin’ fists in my god damned club for?!” He roared. And Joel had to take the duration of both inhale and exhale to get his lips and tongue to work. But the scowl on his face said it all. “Huh?!” Jonny’s nostrils flared like a spanish thoroughbred bulls’. 

“That’s my brother you got workin’ for ya. I ain't havin’ him in some shady drug ring you got goin in. I aint!” 

Jonnly was no stupid man. Hr was smart. Quick minded and knew a man with balls. But Joel also knew very little. So this one time, he took the approach of calmness, and used his usual lying tongue for truth. Any other time it would she forked like Lucifer's serpent form. But now he was a man of coolness. “Right.” Johnny nodded at him, his tone was one that could soothe a ravenous bear. But with an edge as sharp as a knife. So sharp it could slice skin in one swift swoop. “Sit down.” He commanded calmly. “Let’s get you a drink.” 

With a wave of his hand a cha was pulled out. Two heavy handed brutes shoving Joel down into a chair, an old fashioned presented to him by Henry in front of him on the maplewood table. Then Johnny addressed the room gently. Set its patrons at ease. The music played its jazzy, jolly tune once more. People spoke again.And Johnny took his seat opposite Joel. 

“Look here…” The gangster waited for Joel to give him his name. Which he did. “Joel, I appreciate a strong swing as much as the next guy. But I don't appreciate it in my establishment.” Joel nodded in understanding. His temper ashamed him. How it ran hot under his skin. Fizzled white when provoked until he saw red in rage and swung. Never blindly though. He wasn't a loose cannon like the  broken soldier stereotype enforced. Just a fractured man. 

“You’re a soldier aint ya?” “Was.” Joel said gruffly. Curtly and he brewed a stare across from Johnny.

“Oh, nah.” Johnny shook his head, swirling his drink in the crystal glass, “Once a brother in arms, always a brother in arms. The war sticks with ya. You’re a soldier.” “Fine. Yeah, I'm a soldier.” 

“I know the war. I served like you. Left a boy and came back a shell of a man. Now look at me.” Joel took a moment to calculate his motive here. Johnny’s arms stretched wide with a smirk of pure pride as he gestured to the heart of his Boston crime empire. “I got money. I got birds.” He held up his glass to Joel, “I got liquor.” then leaned forward and spoke in a grave tone, "What you got?” 

Joel swallowed harshly, unable to answer because he had nothing in reality. 

“You got a job?” He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. “No.”

“Figured. Hard finding work when all the women are competent enough to do it themselves. Fight for your country. End up on the streets. You don't die a hero like you thought you would. No one knows your name.” He scoffed, holding fingers up in air quotes around competent. It left a bitter taste of disgust in Joel’s mouth as the father of a daughter. Curled the edges of his tongue distastefully. Made him kiss his teeth to hold back the insult. “Well, people know my name.” Johnny paused again, the air grew thick between them and smouldered on their shoulders. He was squinting at Joel opposite him, sizing him up. Joel was rugged. A strong build and most likely a strong character too. Something Johnny could always do with having in abundance. And so when the devil's own smirk curled at his lip, Joel felt a question brewing at the very tip of his tongue. One that would change his life for better or worse. Regardless of it he declined or accepted. “And they could know yours too.”

Joel didn't want to admit it for the sake of his crumbling pride, but the man had it all. Even a good five years his junior, the man made a living for himself. Picked himself up from the dirt and used bloodshed and bodies for the foundations. 

“I could use a guy like you–”

“No.” Joel put his offer down flat before it had the chance to meet the air. 

“Hear me out.” He said calmly, and held up a hand, “A roof over your head. A steady income. A little extra dough in ya pocket?” Johnny rubbed his thumb and index finger together in the older man's face. An action to which Joel’s nostrils flared. It was embarrassing to even mull over. “Come on,” Johnny smirked. “Give it a go.” 

The southerner’s lips pursed, as if he was thinking it over. Which he was. But to what lengths would he go? Sure, Joel was conditioned in a short few months to kill. He was good at it. Mowed down men on the frontline like clockwork. And his trigger finger twitched at the thought of holding that power once more. But that didn't mean he was a man without morals. The men’s blood he;d coat his hands in had families. They were someone's son. Probably someone's husband or father. Joel knew the hollow ache loss left. The imprint of a shadow it left. The chasm ripped in your chest. Loss felt like an agonising, deep, helpless pit. But here was Johnny, throwing him a rope 

“You know, you’re right. This ain't the time to talk this over.” Johnny held his hands up and leaned back in his seat before they clapped back in his lap. Now you were at Johnny’s side once more. But the figure of Joel in his chair had something jumping in your bones. Tongue curling to taste his very words.  “Dollface here will patch you up.” 

You raised a brow, giving the two of them a dirty look. “Excuse me? Do I look like a nurse?” You shut up when Johnny glared. Swallowed your pride, and sighed inwardly. You both hated and loved the power he held over you. As much as you despised it at times, Johnny had your being wrapped around his finger like a puppeteer holds his strings. And tightly. You felt his tug at the strain in your limbs. 

“And you come back here tomorrow. We’ll talk in my office over a drink and a cigar. A good fucking drink.” 

—

Joel swallowed harshly when he saw you. Eyes, wide and decorated by dark mascara lashes, white liner on lower waterlines, face of a doll like Johnny’s nickname for you suggested. The red lipstick you had re-applied moments prior was glossy, inviting him to stumble over velvet words he would hear you speak. Lean closer so the blood red could graze the shell of his ear while you would whisper a dirty joke at him. 

He followed as you led him down a corridor off to the other side of the bar. Your dress seemed fit for hypnotising him into your bidding. Surely you were a siren who climbed the strats of a pier of the east coast and arrived here. Something about the beauty you wielded was not the everyday sort. It was the type you see women bend over backwards to achieve even a glimmer of for their man who came back after work. He could see himself now. Loosening his tie, hanging up his coat and hat. Leaving his briefcase and sanity at the door to see you in a pinafore and pin curls. Pretty gingham dress. He’d sit at the table and either be presented by you or a meal for his satiation. He’d prefer to devour the sweetness between your legs. 

Your hand in front of his face had his attention now. Fingers snapping. Nails manicured and painted the same shade as your lipstick. 

“Hey, you listening?” You asked, face set into displeasure. Joel straightened as he cleared his throat.

“What?” His tone was gruff and he mirrored your expression to you. His southern accent catching you off guard, but is intriguing. 

“I said sit down.” 

Joel looked over at the chair set at a vanity mirror you gestured to with an extended arm. The second time he had been asked to be seated. The second time he obeyed. 

You took your time to wet a washcloth in the small basin in the corner with warm water. Took the bottle of whiskey you stashed last week from the bottom of a rickety chest of drawers. Joel watched you in the mirror, eyes narrowed a fraction to make sure you were of no threat to him. He knew he could take you easily. In more ways than one. The power imbalance had his length twitching in his trousers. 

Your hands weren't gentle as you sat on the vanity between his legs. You took his stubbled chin in your grasp and jerked his head up into the light, tilting it to take a closer look at the gash. 

“Stay still.” You said curtly, holding the rag to the opening of the bottle and wetting it. You then pressed it over the pad of your finger. The initial touch made his teeth bare at you and a hiss to escape his mouth. His large wrist enclosing around yours to make you stop. “I said,” And you yanked your wrist from his hold, “stay still.” 

He did as he was told again. Silence setting his between the odd hiss from him and twitch of muscle under weathered skin. The crows feet at the side of his eyes were old. He clearly had lost his smile to something in the past. But you didn't ask, only wondered as you wiped the dried blood clean from his wound. “Fuckin grown man and you cant take a little sting of a cut.” You mumbled under your breath to yourself in amusement. Followed by a small huff of dry laugh.

“Maybe if you weren't digging your fingers into a fresh bruise I wouldn’t be wincin’.” You shot him a look and let go.

“All done.” And you held up your hands for good measure. 

“What are you doing here anyway?” You asked, tossing the rag aside and crossing your arms. He reached for the whiskey and took a large gulp, pursing his lips at the slow burn in the back of his throat. 

“None of your business.” 

“What’s your name?”

“You know my name.” He stated lowly. He was right. But you found a sick satisfaction in having any man you liked bend to your will. Answer any question you so pleased to hear the answer to. 

His bones groaned as he stood up from the chair. Your coat draped over the back of it fell to the floor and you swiftly got up to swipe it from the floor and hand it on the hook on the back of the door before pressing your back to it and facing him. Blocking his exit.  “Move.”

“Tell me your name.” You crossed your arms, jutting your chin up at him. 

“Don’t make me move you, princess.”

“Tell me your name.” 

Joel bit his tongue, the vein in his neck starting to pulse visibly under his skin that once again went hot. 

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Because I’m nosy.” You smiled, sarcastic and saccharine. “And i want to know the name i’ll be moaning tonight as i touch myself under the covers.” 

“Fuckin-” His jaw ticked, nostrils flared in his disdain. You kept your smile as he pinched the bridge of his nose with a small guttural noise from the back of his throat. A headache was starting to coil behind the strain of his eyes. “Joel.” And he looked back up at you. It still wasn't enough “Miller.” Your smile was genuine this time, just as sweet. You uncrossed your arms, standing up straight from the door to hold out your hand and give him your name in return. He rolled his eyes, reaching for the handle and swerving you. He pulled the door but you used your body weight to slam it shut with your back again. A loud slam and a creak of protest from its hinges.

“Where are you from, Joel?” 

“Is this a game to you, girl?” Joel growled. 

“Yes.” The smile you had was sly. Foxy. A  single finger ran down his chest and dared to slip just under his shirt’s collar. “I like games.”

“You don't wanna do that.” He warned, dark eyes burning you up inside from your very core. It was the look of a man’s lust that had been left untouched, unloved for quite some time now. It strained at his morality. But who were you to give up the warning and keen hand of a man who so desperately needed a release to the coiling tension of his shoulders. You saw it. Felt it in the rhythmic yet chaotic hammer of his heart against his ribs. As if it were trying with all its might not to break his own bones clean in two and lurch from its enclosure of flesh and bone. 

“And why not?” This was a devils game of chess. Careful calculated words from loose tongues and taking each other's moves in as you exhaled a counter. And oy had him three moves from checkmate. His king weak in defence, your advances stronger  by each word that fell into his eras from your red painted, enticing lips. He could feel his limbs being string up for you to pull at like a puppeteer in an advanced level of her craft. But he was no kind man. His words were even less forgiving than his disposition. 

“Because I aint a kind man. Haven't been for a long while. And I know types of things a man like me would wanna do to a pretty girl like you.” 

“I doubt it would be anything new.” You cooed, watching your finger as it traced a line lower over his buttons,  stopping at the top of his belt buckle and just shy of teasing at the growing bulge in his trousers. 

The tension between you was thicker than molasses. And it seeped through the cracks of his better judgement to the part of him that hungered for touch. That was ravenous for a single one of your fingers. 

“I don't think Johnny would like that.” 

“And I didnt like the way he spoke to me earlier.” You pouted. The way a child would when dined a sweet treat before dinnertime. 

“That aint a good reason to start an affair with me. Because when i get my grubby hands on ya there ain't no going back, doll.” 

His words were enticing you more. To have a man obsessing over your body. Your curves. Your voice singing his name as he fucked you dirtier than anyone into anything. Joel was that man now. He knew it in the very marrow of your bones that you were trouble. His new little minx. So it was no surprise when his lips crushed yours under the full weight of his sexual frustration. 

It was needy. Heated. A clashing of tongues and teeth as he pressed you with his entire simmering being into the wood of the door. His bulge grinding desperately into your thich that parted his legs. 

His tongue swiped your lower lip before drawing it back between his teeth for him to suckle on until it tingled deliciously. He was jealous with his touches. Groping your hips as the sating of your dress that crumpled to the floor. It revealed sweet sweet skin. Skin Joel wasted no time in delving in for the first damning lick. A pleasure to every sense. Sight, taste, touch, smell, sound. 

Heavy breaths were exhaled into the dewy skin of your clavicle, tongue languidly sliding over the high points of your collarbones and enclosing in a sharp suck over the skin just above your right breast. It sent a chorus of heavenly sinful, light and airy monas from your mouth and floated into his ears. His lips were chapped and weathered in contrast to the silk smooth of your skin. It was delightful. 

He went lower, got to his knees as he drank up the sense of a woman's skin for the first time in years. This was the taste of true damnation. He was past the opening of hell's gates and somehow found heaven in the parting of your thighs down the newly trodden path of your navel. 

He pressed his open mouth to your clothed cunt, tasted the seeping slick you gave him on his tongue and gluttonously inhaled your musk right at the apex of your thighs. Your fingers tangled into the curls of his messy, wind wrecked hair. Keening your hips up to press into the curve of his aquiline nose, and riding the burning in the pit of your belly starting to grow. Your head fell back against the door. Your mouth unhinged and letting out moan after sigh after mewl of his name. His face buried between the meat of your thighs as his hands gripped your asscheeks and spread them so he could push his face deeper between your folds. Your underwear drenched and ruined from your wetness and his spit while he tongued your hole through the flimsy lace. 

You pulled him back, smirked at the wreck he was with his lips sticky and shiny in the light of your dressing room. To then pull him up to your lips so you could curl your tongue into his mouth and taste yourself on him. It’s where the taste belonged. Among notes of whiskey and chewing tobacco and drugstore gum. 

His large hands pawed at your hips once more, listing you so your legs could wrap obediently round his waist. That's how it worked now. He wanted, you gave. And willingly like the sounds that fell into his motu like sweet, freshly harvested honey. Ut had the feel of money. Powerful and green like spring leaves. But with the warning of rotting when summer meets its tragic and fatal end. It was like trying to cross a canyon with a broken limb. Near impossible. The last sip of a drink that would ensure drunken and slurred movements. It took even the nest of a man his entirety to deny you, But deep down, Joel was a weak man. Strong in body, maybe mind too. But weak in soul. And he gave in with the cashing of your back against the vanity mirror. 

He had his faults. He knew that. And you did too. It had you wondering how a man like Joel loves. Did he change for his chosen lover? Or was he just as rough a callus as he was with everyone else. Would he destroy and ache and leave you wondering when your body would be at his whim next and how he would bend it to his will. Or would he let you lean into his embrace as he kissed down the column of your throat to the holy entitled epiphany between your thighs. The glisten of your hot cunt aching to be touched by anything. His everything. 

So you reached for his belt. So you undid it along with his buttons to touch his heated skin, To feel the blood flow beneath as the strain of each of his muscles. You ran a hand across his chest and he let his head fall back as a woman touched him for the first time as a man of war. A veteran.

He felt like he had been cast in gold by the sun for the first time in his life. Shed his skin for a new layer reserved just for you. As if he was thanking whatever resided up there for you. He was no believer in god, but, Jesus Christ, he was starting to believe in some form of higher power. You were proof that there was a blessing for him to steal away from the world. It was in your sound. Your taste. Your touch. It beckoned him the way your finger did, curling into the collar of his shirt to clash your lips with his and let. He had no autonomy over the moan that fell into his mouth where it festered at the back of his throat and was swallowed with a desperate and heady inhale. 

You trod roads into his skin with your touch. Ones he knew he would follow later that night in an erotomaniac’s pleasure. And you finally pulled his length free from his trousers. Your underwear was soon to follow and your slick aided the way he managed to sink so smoothly into your sopping heat. A squeeze he would commit to memory and savour like the taste of fresh and ripe fruit. Because you were. Fresh and youthful in age. Ready to be devoured to the core as a gleaning red apple would be. The very same one that even took in the garden of eden. Temptation. Fruit flesh to signify sin. 

He took his first bite out of you with a satisfying crunch. And keep devouring until there was nothing left but the remnants of your birth, ready to be resurrected, grown again in the form of a new tree. 

He stilled once he bottomed out, letting himself bask in the moment. The first time he was nestled deeply in the walls of your cunt. He heard your quiet whimpers for him to move. Felt the way your pert nipples brushed his sweat slicked skin. It was a ghost of a memory the last time he felt this. The heat of someone in the throes of intimacy. And it was all over him. It was the very air he wes starved of. The past was all paled in comparison because of the way your hips bucked pathetically to feel his thrust inside you. To get him going. No one had needed him this rawly, this undignifying before. 

A single hand clamped over your mouth, stilling your movements. He felt the tickle of your exhale against the pinky finger. 

“Stay still…” He commended with a swallowed down groan when you clenched around him, ironically repeating your words from earlier.

You looked at him. The glazed over, far away look in his eyes. His voice low and laden in a gravelly tone that came from the very back of his throat. You pulled him forward to lick it out again with your tongue when his hand fell to your throat. It gave a warning squeeze. And you once again canted your hips in protest. 

This time he moved. And it was like poetry as it hit that toe curling spot inside you. Made your eyes close in blissful ignorance of what this would do to you. YOu slick drooling from your cunt onto his shaft until it shined at his very base and dripped down his heavy balls. 

His hand squeezed your throat tighter. Had you yelling for him in a suppressed squeal. His other hand clamped around your mouth for you to moan into. Your words of praise lost on his ears, listened to by his palm instead. Every devil was fuelling this act of infidelity. This act of carnal sin you both needed. Ut unwound your bones, but had the coil in your belly cramping with each swift buck of his hips. 

You met his swift thrusts in a desperate attempt to be of use to him. Finding it hard to breathe, yet alone Your cunt spasmed delectably. Searching for a new feeling. A feeling primal and dirty as the streets of Boston. Your eyes rolled back in your head as your legs trembled while he went on, giving you something you would remember from this day forward, A sentence of being binded to him.

You were in the arms of the devil himself. St his ,ercy. Nsd nothing felt more thrilling than the pleasure that rolled at a landslide's power and pace down your spine into your core. 

Another squeeze round your throat. Another unhinged moan into his hand. He snarled, baring his teeth at you before pressing his face into the crook of your neck and biting down. Your eyes closed and painted a picture of stars. You were close to seeing angels by now and the deep ache of pleasure grappled your flesh and had goosebumps flicking up to attention over your flesh.

His chest heaved with each curl of his hips. Your exhales heavier by the second while you moaned his name like a mantra to his hand. His teeth imprinted on your back like a randhishing. A mark of the sin that was witnessed by the two of you that day. Your voice was shrill. A repeated ‘Joel! Joel! Joel!’

“Fuck, yeah, sing f’me doll. Sing f’me. Let em know who’s doin’ this to you.” He panted in vain. “Tell me.” “Feels so good–”

“Again.” He demanded. 

“Feels so good! Too good!” 

And it was. He had you burning white hot at the end of an illicit teather. You gripped his back with talons of hellbirds. Clawing at his shirt clad back. The wings of hi shoulderbales. The snake length of his spine. 

“That’s it. Tell ‘em. Tell me! Tell me in making you feel fuckin’ good.” 

“You are. Harder Joel.” His pace was like poetry. Ripped you in tow and had you displayed to him. One knee was hooked over his hunched shoulder, spine curled as his forehead pressed to yours. `The new angle had you singing like a songbird. High and melodic in tune.  Your kitten heel slipping off and clattering to the floor without a second thought. The head of his cock nipped your cervix. The lewd wet sounds of your pussy smothering him in your slick and your shared moans filled the room. Everything of you was his now. You couldn't even think of giving this up to Johnny. Yes, he fucked you dirty. But Joel fucked you like it was his sole purppose of living. Like it was what gave him life. 

You fell. You fell as soon as you hit your climax with a mewling moan that ended Joel right there and then. Coming together with heavy breaths and shaking, trembling chests. His release inside of you, strings of his come smearing you in him. Marking you for later. Well and truly ruined for any other warm body that dared to slip into your sheets. 

But falling was not the problem. Only when you hit the ground is what causes all the grief. And the look you shared once the gold haze of afterglow faded was what confirmed this. 

What have you done? How would you live without this?

[babyseraphim]

Fic question !!! Do you have any fun details or headcanons you put into your precanon fics that folks haven’t really talked about but you enjoy?

Oh yes, I absolutely do! I have a number of them, but the main one that comes to mind is from my oneshot, Victrola Blues.

In it, I talked a bit about a man named Sicily Thomas, who I created to be Edwin's jazz (specifically ragtime) piano instructor. He accepted Edwin as he was, no questions asked, and was the only one to ever do so while Edwin was alive. He didn't care about manners, or decorum; he just liked Edwin.

When Edwin escaped Hell, one of the first things he did was research what had happened to Sicily. He discovered that Sicily had grown old and never married, but had lived out his days with a long-term male 'roommate'. In the oneshot, Edwin basically cast this information aside and never thought about it again, due to the anxiety it caused him (because this fic is set in the late 1990's-early 2000's, and Edwin has not delved into the possibility of his own queerness yet).

I wrote Sicily to be closeted queer jazz musician in the 1910's. He and Edwin found community in each other, whether they realized it or not, though I am of mind that Sicily was fully aware of Edwin's queerness, even if he never said anything about it. Jazz music has always been a bit of a refuge for people outside of the status quo, especially back then, so finding that kind of community wouldn't have been out of the question.

In my precanon series, right before Edwin was sent off to St. Hilarion's, he performed at a speakeasy that Sicily frequented. What Edwin said was this:

"The audience was full of the kindest people I had ever met, and I truly felt as though I belonged for the first time in my life. I was able to be myself, and the people there not only encouraged it, they celebrated it.”

Edwin found a community of queer people shortly before he was carted off to boarding school, even though he didn't understand the specifics of it, because queer people still existed and formed communities back then (albeit much more hidden). I wanted to drive home the fact that we have always existed, and we have always found each other. Queer joy and love has always been there.

Unfortunately, though, Edwin only had one night with them before he was sent off to school, and subsequently murdered. He never saw Sicily or played piano again after that night, either.

[yasubloodly]

Just Us

Chapter 1: Bentley's Owner

Good Omens x GN Reader

Sypnosis: Moving into a new place will never be easy but making new friends especially with an angel and a demon?

Who knows.

A/N: Decided to post it here too. Uh this is my first time posting here.

(Y/N) - Your Name

(H/C) - Hair Color

(E/C) - Eyes Color 

(Y/F/N) - Your Full Name

(S/C) - Skin Color

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Over the years, Soho evolved and adapted. It became a haven for the creative minds that flocked to its streets. Musicians, writers, and artists found solace and inspiration in its coffeehouses and underground clubs. The melodies of jazz, soul, and rock 'n' roll filled the air, drawing both the curious locals and the adventurous tourists to its lively margins.

Beyond its artistic allure, Soho pulsates with culinary delights. From hidden speakeasies to renowned Michelin-starred restaurants, its diverse array of flavors tantalizes the taste buds. Soho is an epicurean's paradise, inviting food enthusiasts from all walks of life to explore its gastronomic offerings.

The neighborhood cherishes its working-class heritage, weaving the stories of the past with the energetic rhythm of the present. Traditional pubs frequented by laborers still stand proudly on street corners, their wooden interiors echoing with laughter and tales of days gone by.

Soho may be a small corner of London, but its spirit is immeasurable. It is a place where creativity knows no bounds, a hub of artistic expression and cultural revolution. The legacy it leaves on those who venture through its vibrant streets is one of inspiration and acceptance.

(Y/N) has been living in a big city their whole life, so moving to Soho was a dream come true. Even though they were excited, the hustle and bustle of the city was intimidating and overwhelming. They started to wander around and got lost in the busy street.

As they were trying to orient themselves , something caught their eye. It was a grand old Bentley, parked across the street. (Y/N) was mesmerized by it. The car was sleek and elegant, totally different from anything they ever owned and different from anything they’ve seen before.

The Bentley’s owner was leaning against the car, with his fiery red hair and a black jacket. He remained stern-faced despite the chaos brewing in his mind as he leaned against his sleek Bentley, his gaze fixed at the vintage little bookshop across the street. Even though (Y/N) had made eye contact with the Bentley owner twice, the person never responded which made them feel like they weren’t welcomed.

(Y/N) couldn’t peel their eyes away from the beauty of the Bentley. To them, the car was much more than a vehicle, it was a symbol of adventure. With that car they could travel the world, explore different places and meet people from all kinds of backgrounds. It was a dream come true.

(Y/N) already knew that living in Soho was going to be an amazing experience. They simply had to take this opportunity and make something of it. With that thought in their head, (Y/N) smiled.

"What?" The man spat out impolitely. 

(Y/N) flinched.

"Excuse me...hello, I'm really sorry for staring. You have such a lovely Bentley, I can't help but to stare" (Y/N) awkwardly stumbled not only on their words but on the steps too, talking to a stranger in a place you don't know can be dangerous. Slowly, (Y/N) walks to him but stay a few feets away from him.

"Oh, also I'm new around here so I don't actually know what to do besides walking around..umm" (Y/N) whispered to themselves, Crowley could barely hear them. 

(Y/N) does not want to make a weird first impression to Crowley. Their soft (H/C) hair bounce from every steps they are taking. 

Crowley was bored and a bit hungry. But the human seemed rather polite. (Y/N) had that innocent puppy dog look on their face. Maybe the human wasn't so bad after all, especially because they admired his car. 

He raised an eyebrow at them, wondering why they were approaching him. He didn't want to be bothered by someone looking for directions or something similar. 

However, he still asked, "Are you lost?" Maybe he could give them false directions, he smirked internally.

"Oh! No no... I'm not lost actually. I'm new to this area. I'm just hanging around here. I did visit some shops and uhh that coffee shop behind me, it was good! " (Y/N) directed their finger towards the coffee shop behind them. 

Their bright (E/C) eyes squinted, they smiled awkwardly or perhaps nervously. Their shoulders dropped as both of their hands are at the sides. 

"Hmm, new here. I don't know anyone that looks quite like you," Crowley muttered, looking them up and down. Their nervousness amused him, he was sure he could annoy them even more. 

He looked at them with a serious expression on his face, "What's your name?"

"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself! I'm (Y/F/N) , pleasure meeting you umm... " (Y/N) trailed off, trying to get Crowley to tell his own name. 

"Crowley." He said his name with a straight face, even though he was slightly entertained by the conversation.

Then he smirked, and his voice rang with a bit of sarcasm, "Pleasure is all mine," he said, even though he didn't really think that. "Oh, and are you some kind of exotic tourist around here, (Y/N) ?"

He knew (Y/N) just move into here since they mentioned it earlier but he decided to tease them even more. 

Flush creeps across their (S/C) cheeks. Their (E/C) eyes widen for a second before shifting glances all around the streets. "Uh... I'm a freelancer, I move into this neighborhood just to get some fresh air. It looks nice here" They flashes a smile to Crowley as they nervously tucked one hair behind their ear. 

"How about you Mr. Crowley? What are you doing here, I guess you're not new here like me since you look like you're seems to park your car here every days" questioned (Y/N) . 

"Oh, are you trying to figure out my secrets?" He asked with a smirk. "I've got some time to kill, so I thought I'd come and see if my best friend is in the shop."

He gestured in the direction of the shop. "I'm never far from him," he said with a little smile. "I have nothing better to do. I'm so bored. I wish I could fall through a crack in the world to a more exciting world." 

He looked at (Y/N) with a bit of curiosity. "Are you enjoying this part of the world?"

It was indeed a strange question, someone that you don't even know and meeting them for only a few seconds just ask you that. What does he wants? Is he trying to be friendly or just curious. 

(Y/N) glances at the bookshop Crowley gestured to, their eyes sparked as soon as they saw the shop. "Ohh! I would love to visit the bookshop, I was supposed to go there just to look around and introduce myself but I'm taking my time out here. Probably just me been nervous" (Y/N) chuckled. 

They turned back to look at Crowley "I do actually enjoy the world, there's a lot of stuff to be discovered! I get to do things that I enjoy too! " beamed (Y/N). Their smile widen at the thought of enjoying life with everything that they have. 

"It just so happens that my best friend works in that very charming little bookshop." He couldn't help himself, and grinned at (Y/N)'s excitement about the bookshop. 

"Is it really that exciting for you?" He asked, a bit amused. 

"Are you perhaps a fan of books, then?" Crowley wondered, because he himself enjoyed a good book every once in a while. But he was sure that there were many things more entertaining to do than reading. Or so he thought.

"I love books! It's just the smell of books got me feeling gleeful. Besides reading books, I also love listening to music especially when I'm drawing or reading. How about you Mr. Crowley, do you enjoy them as well? "  curiously, they look at Crowley in anticipation. 

"Hmm, you seem like a bit of a nerd," he teased. 

"Yes, I might enjoy books and music too," he said with a small smile. His grin widened, and he glanced at (Y/N) in a way that made they feel as if he was looking right through them. He always found it amusing to see someone blush, and he was sure (Y/N)'s face was starting to get a little pink. 

He took a breath and then asked, "Speaking of music, what kind of music do you like?"

(Y/N) let out a soft breathe laugh "To be honest, I love music like Queen but not a lot of people seems to enjoy it. Quite rare if I must say" They crossed their arms as they crinkles their nose. 

Crowley grinned when (Y/N) started to talk about their favorite band. He loved Queen, and he was actually quite surprised that they mentioned them.

"Queen? Really?" He asked. "I also really enjoy them, they're one of my all time favorites!"

The demon gave a loud laughter and then said, "I never thought that I would ever find someone in a place like this that enjoys music even half as much as I do!"

He looked at (Y/N) , and then added with a flirtatious edge in his voice, "Perhaps you and I aren't so different after all."

(Y/N) giggles, they hums a bit " Perhaps we aren't, Mr. Crowley " they winked. 

"Well, it was nice meeting you Mr. Crowley. I guess... I better go now. That bookshop of your good friend has been intriguing me for almost hours" They look down at their black leather watch, wrapping nicely around their left wrist. 

(Y/N) look up back to Crowley, smiling softly "Unless you wouldn't mind to walk me there and introduce me to your friend? " 

Crowley was surprised by their sudden flirtatiousness. Were they really flirting with him? A human, flirting with him? He liked it. 

"Of course I don't mind," he said with a smirk. "I don't want you to get lost. And it makes me happy to make you happy by introducing you to my friend," he replied with a charming smile. 

He started to walk towards the bookshop. It was almost time for closing, and he was hoping that his best friend was still around.

Before they could even reach to the bookshop. Crowley halted. He was hit by a strong sense of urgency, his heart rate increasing rapidly. He immediately stopped walking, turning to look at (Y/N) with a serious expression on his face.

(Y/N) looked at Crowley in concerned " Is something ma-"

"Something is wrong," he said in a low voice. "I have to go back."

He knew that something important had to happen to disturb him, but as always, his curiosity got the better of him. He decided to at least have a look, maybe it'd be worth it.

He quickly started to walk in the opposite direction, trying to ignore all of the people staring at him and wondering what the heck was going on.

Crowley let out a sigh. "Oh, for Go- ugh, what is it now?!" His face suddenly changed to an angry, annoyed gaze. 

Crowley stopped for a moment and turned to (Y/N). They seemed confused about his abrupt behavior, but there was really nothing he could do about it.

He said, "I'm sorry for taking up your time, but something urgent has come up, something I can't ignore."

Crowley then turned and ran as fast as he could, disappearing out of sight around the corner and leaving (Y/N) all by themselves with no idea what the heck just happened.

(Y/N) watched Crowley's Bentley disappeared as he drives away from there. They already at the bookshop door so they don't mind at all. Crowley business seems rather urgent so they don't really want to bother him. Crowley was an interesting man, wearing all black and his red colored hair stood out even more. 

(Y/N) shook their head, turning around to face the fascinating bookshop that they have been wanting to go inside. They took a deep breath, they look through the glass on the door, trying to find the mentioned friend of Crowley.

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A/N: I'm so sorry that they might be a bit OOC but I've been dying on creating a GO fanfic and finally after 2 seasons 😭 decided to write one. Anyways, reader is non binary,

I'll update new chapter whenever I can so please do not put too much hope on me. At first I wanted to write this as one shots but decided to make it a series. Thank you for reading it!

I might not be a big fan of Queen but I love them🧡

[laiqualaurelote]

First Lines

Tagged by @nostalgicatsea (forever ago but I'm only getting to my tags now). Thank you!

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 (or however many you have) posted fics and see if there’s a pattern!

speak easy, swing hard

When the shots rang out in the Arc, the band didn’t stop playing. It was twelve minutes into the new year at a Stark speakeasy and the joint was jumping, the floor crammed with gin baby socialites essaying the Charleston, mobsters clustered around tables, petty thieves circling and dipping into the pockets of the unwary; when the bullets started flying the crowd screamed and sought to scatter but the bandleader barely blinked, just led his crew full tilt into another chorus of ‘I Wish I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate’ while the singer, a svelte Sokovian songbird in a shimmering scarlet number, sidestepped a bullet that buried itself in a piano leg and kept right on crooning, All the boys in the neighbourhood know she can shimmy and it’s understood, while all hell broke loose on the dance floor.

well-versed in etiquette, extraordinarily nice

“You must know, Mr Crowley, that this is to be my last job,” said Jane.

all the men and women merely players

In with the wind blows the news that the Players are coming to town. 

constant as a northern star (constantly in the dark) 

Sachiko Crimm meets Ted Lasso for the first time in a Lidl.

The Lady With The Recorder Asks The Questions

“You took out the line about the threesomes, didn’t you?” 

ain't practical, a world you can't touch

Just a whole lot of aiming, he’d told Cornelia once. But it’s Martha Myers who misses.

maybe everything that dies someday comes back

“He don’t look like much,” said the client. “You sure he’s the chap we’re after?”

a song that will keep sky open in my mind

We knew Eli was back because of the baby. We could hear it crying clean across the wheat fields. 

can't start a fire without a spark 

It was a whole thing when Eddie Munson and Chrissy Cunningham blew town together and ran off to start a rock band.

A Gentleman's Guide To Love And Piracy

Day seven of my return to the high seas, wrote Stede in his journal. Since Lucius was no longer around to take dictation, the journal existed only in his head. Morale is low, I will not lie.

Patterns - I'm a big fan of in media res (it worked for Homer and it works for me) and so I like to start in the middle of things. I'm also trained to write hooks for people with short attention spans, so my first lines tend to be crunchy. The one exception is the first on the list, which is from speak easy, swing hard, the 1920s Prohibition-era Avengers AU I wrote for @nostalgicatsea as part of @marveltrumpshate. I wanted it to evoke the wild, chaotic tempo of a hot jazz number (something like the intro to this) so most of it is a pile-up of a long run-on sentence, and the writing continues in this fashion until Tony shows up to calm things down, whereupon the paragraphs go back to being a brief couple of lines each. I learnt this trick from seeing how translators handle action sequences in wuxia novels.

Tagging: @leupagus, @themardia, @auntieclimactic, @nagia-pronounced-neijia, @eisoj5, @swallowtailed, @justplainsalty, @bropunzeling, @st-clements-steps, @sagiow and anyone else who'd like to do this!