#its wine red stretch velvet if anyone is wondering

[saturniidaess]

I found the perfect fabric to make a clubbing dress for polly. I want to name the dress the 'he should be at the club dress'

[divine-bangtan]

- mirror, mirror on the wall | ksj (m)

⤏ vampire!seokjin, pwp, medieval!au

⤏ word count: 6.5k

⤏ Being a vampire prince, Seokjin is used to feeling everyone’s eyes on him. In fact, he’s come to expect it from his subjects. So when you won’t look at him of course he’s not happy. After all, didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude not to stare at him?

a/n: listen,,,this is unedited and overdue bc I am trash. Also for someone who doesn’t like humiliation and degrading sex I sure had way too much fun writing this I have nothing 2 say for myself okay enjoy. Happy birthday Seokjin!

⤏ vampire prince!seokjin, human servant!reader, exhibitionism, degration, nipple play, fingering, slight anal play, squirting, biting, blood drinking, orgasm denial, spanking, candlewax play, oral (m. receiving), face fucking, hair pulling, pussy slapping, seokjin is fucking hung and his precome is an aphrodisiac, bath sex, mirror sex, cockwarming, creampie, what even is aftercare lol.

One minute had already passed, your trembling hand still hovering in front of the door while you worked up the courage to knock. A single bead of sweat which had gathered at the nape of your neck dripped down your skin, and you swallowed hard in an attempt to quell your nerves. Your attempt at delaying this was inevitable, he was expecting you, had summoned you personally and he could likely tell how long you’d been standing there as well. 

With that driving thought in mind, you chewed on your lower lip for another second and moved your hand to finally knock. 

 “You may enter,” came from within the room before your knuckles had even made contact with the wood. The deep voice was slightly muffled through the walls, but nonetheless it still made you shudder with its authority. Swallowing again, you leaned most of your weight on the solid wood to open the door. Something sinister hung in the air, and you stood rooted in the entrance of the prince’s private chambers, entire body thrumming with trepidation.

Glints of gold caught your gaze, coming from every corner of the space as the candles flickered and shadows seemed to grow and lurk where your stare didn’t quite reach. Everywhere your eyes landed screamed lavish riches. If it was not pure gold, the furniture was dripping in rich, red velvet. Curtains so thick they were easily able to block out the brightest sunlight cascaded down the walls, half concealing the intricate tapestries that adorned them. The entire space had a mysterious feel to it, with an underlying sense of danger that made your heart skip a beat. 

The entrance room alone made your head spin, and an unknown force pulled you further into the labyrinth, your feet moved as if possessed, deeper and deeper into the lion’s den. A gust of wind made the curtains rustle, carrying whispers you couldn’t quite understand. You moved to look closer at the paintings on the wall on the other side of the hallway, to inspect the scenes of battle they seemed to depict. However, something stopped you dead in your tracks, a powerful presence behind you. It had you whirling around, staring through a lavish open doorway.

You gasped softly when you turned and your eyes landed on the bathtub in the centre of the room, so large it was almost taking up half the space. Wisps of steam floated from the surface of the water which gleamed iridescent in the candlelight, no doubt filled with expensive lotions and perfumes. What was more impressive, however, was the many flower petals which adorned the water. 

Your eyes lifted to finally meet the eyes of your prince, Seokjin, who reclined against the edge of the tub with an air of relaxed ease. His arms stretched out either side of him, the slight bulge of muscle beneath his honeyed skin causing you to swallow extra hard. The position made his already broad shoulders look even larger, like they could block out the whole sky as he looked down at you. It suited him well. Regality, beauty, immortality. When he raised his dark eyes to pierce yours you felt as though you’d been lured right into the lion’s den, and he was about to devour you alive. A smirk tugged at his plush lips and his gaze burned a hole right through you, the carpet quickly became your solace. 

 “How may I serve you, your excellency?” You murmured, trying to keep your tone steady, yet you knew his supernatural senses would pick up the slightest tremble. There truly wasn’t anything you could hide from him.

A long silence came from his direction, filled only by the pounding of your heart. Warmth crept up your neck, heating up your cheeks under his intense scrutiny and you squirmed slightly, feeling the tops of your thighs already growing damp.   

“Wet…” he softly noted with humour, your human ears barely picking up on it. Embarrassment caused your heart to practically halt in your chest, could he really tell so easily? “My drink.” He spoke again, much louder this time and you jumped as you snapped out of your stupor. That was until his words registered. Drink? He wanted to drink? From you?

“My wine, over there. Bring it to me,” he pointed lazily toward a table across the room before sinking into the water until he was completely submerged.

 Oh. You couldn’t help the slight pang of disappointment that you felt at the fact that you weren’t going to experience a vampire bite. From what you’ve heard they were incredibly pleasurable, some even achieving climax untouched. But to be fed from by the prince himself, of course it was foolish of you to think something like that would ever happen to you. Blinking back frustrated tears you trudged over to the table, picking up the golden tray with the pitcher and goblets already placed on it.  

Complete silence filled the room after you set everything down next to the tub, warily eyeing the dark surface of the water. However, you were unable to catch a sign of the prince and took it as your queue to leave, defeated at having gotten your hopes up. He likely knew what he was doing, bringing you here to torment you. It was obvious how painfully attracted you were to the prince, how much everyone was. Others were definitely not shy in their affection yet you were unable to even look at him for longer than a few moments.  

A loud splash was all the warning you got before suddenly Seokjin broke from the surface of the water, standing to his full height in all his naked glory. Droplets of water clung to his golden skin, adorned by the occasional flower petal and it took every ounce of your restraint to not look down. One of his hands lifted up to sweep his wet hair back, exposing his forehead to your eyes and even that part of him was exquisite. The other reached to pick up his golden goblet, and he smirked in your direction before taking a sip of his wine. God, you truly did not know where to look, eyes raking over the expanse of his naked chest.

He smirked as you finally kept your eyes glued to his face, refusing to look even past his chest. Instead you paid particular attention to the rose petals which adorned his skin.

The two of you remained locked in a silent standoff, one that you knew you could not win. As if sensing your admittance to defeat, he sipped his wine, savouring the taste and you swallowed hard watching his thick, vascular neck move with each swallow. As if hypnotised by the depths of his rich pupils, you couldn’t seem to look away as he gazed so intently at you.

Leisurely he licked his lips, seemingly had enough wine, and the action caused your eyes to drop and watch his tongue swipe over the pillows of flesh, and for a microsecond his incisor could be seen.  Hook. The leer returned when he knew he had you, and his grip on his goblet accidently slipped, causing the liquid to run in rivets down his chest. But you knew vampires did not do anything by accident. Line. No, there was always an ulterior motive with vampires, an intention. He tossed his golden goblet aside, a dull thud coming from across the room where it landed on the carpet. Sinker.

“Oh dear, I seem to have spilled my wine. Clean that up for me, won’t you? The flowers too, they do wonders for my complexion but getting them off me is so bothersome.”

You nodded silently, quickly glancing around the room to find a washcloth. Where, where did his other servants keep them? You’d never been in here before, being a lowly servant yourself you’d never even been to this part of the castle before.

“Here.” He quipped, breaking your panic, and cocking an eyebrow when you gaped at the cloth that seemed to have materialised in his hand. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“N-no! Of course your grace,” you spluttered, almost tripping in your haste.

“Good.”

Now closer than ever, were able to get a much better look at your prince. But in consequence, he was also able to get a much closer look at you. At this proximity, his aura was intense, the width of his shoulders blocking the rest of the room from your view. He had no shame in his nudity, as if it were a gift to your eyes.

Frankly, it was.

Palpitations fluttered in your chest as your eyes took in the chiselled planes of muscle across his chest and abdomen, stained slightly pink from the spilled red wine. As you moved the fabric down his chest you swallowed hard, realising how far down the spill actually travelled.

Part of you ached to even lick his skin clean, secretly wishing he would ask you to. Your own cheeks pinked at the thought, at how you’d get on your knees for him in an instant. It was well known that it was even an honour to merely be degraded by him, let alone other things.

When most of the spill on his upper half was cleaned, you began plucking away at the flowers that stuck to his skin. You reached for a rose petal on his pec when Seokjin grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

“Leave it. I’m cold now, and bored. It will wash off rather easily in the water I think,” he mused, quickly turning to step back into the tub. 

“I can fetch your grace something that might entertain you?”

Perhaps that was all, he had merely brought you here to remind you of your place. A simple human, an ant under his foot. The thought of getting to leave the embarrassing situation had you feeling as though you could breathe easily again, until his next words came. “You will be my entertainment. Join me.”

 “Your grace! I-I,” you spluttered, cheeks warming at his brash words.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure you wanted this. But I can hear the way your little heartbeat quickens when I look at you, such a desperate little slut. How in that millisecond when I hold your gaze how excited you become, how much you squirm and look away. You know, it’s rude not to stare at me.” He growled. “Now strip, or I’ll come get you myself.”

With haste, you began to unbutton your dress as to not keep him waiting, although each felt like an eternity to unfasten with him watching your fingers slip several times. Your hands shook as you peeled your clothes from your warm skin, but it was only partly out of nervousness.  

The cold air of the room immediately caused your nipples to harden as your undergarments dropped to the floor and you were left bare in front of him. Seokjin’s eyes were trained intensely on the swell of your breasts, and you could have sworn you saw his tongue dart out to wet his lips for a moment.

You lowered yourself into the warm water slowly, yet you shivered at his eyes on you. Only able to stand his ogling for a few seconds you sank the rest of the way into the warm water, feeling your bare skin engulfed in the opaque water. Once again Seokjin stretched out against the side of the tub, looking like a lion sunbathing, but even at ease they were ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

“Come here.”

The water swirled around you as you inched toward him, heart palpitating at the uncertainty of it all. The temptation of teasing him crossed your mind, a hesitation, keeping you just out of his reach. Clearly this did not please him, as he tutted and lurched forward to grab you by your elbow.

“Uh uh uh, I don’t think so. Here,” he suddenly growled as you were pulled toward him, and you felt his bare chest suddenly pressed against your back. “I want to watch you, watching me. Look,”

One of the largest mirrors you’d ever seen sat opposite the tub, trimmed with gold and illuminated by at least a hundred candles. The splendour of itself was enough to leave one breathless, but the vampire whose fingertips were creeping up your side was making it much more difficult.

You arched your back, thrusting forward your decolletage as an open invitation. Surprisingly, his touch was warm, and an involuntary gasp slipped from your lips as you finally felt him cup your breasts in his hands. You watched him knead the soft mounds of flesh, the water level stopped just below your chest. Seokjin’s dark eyes drank in the sight of you, and the feather light brush of his thumbs over your nipples had you squirming all the more.

Like pleasant torture he continued to torment you with the barest of touches, not quite exerting the pressure you wanted, the brute strength you knew he possessed. It would have to be tempted from him.

“You’re like the evil queen from that fairy tale,” you taunted as he continued to stare at your reflection in the mirror. Exactly as you had predicted, Seokjin was quick to chastise you with a harsh pinch to your sensitive nipples.

“I’d watch that pretty little tongue of yours, if you want to keep it.” What you hadn’t expected, however, was the way he was able to growl.

“Are you going to ask if you’re the fairest of them all?” Came your jaunt, rising to the challenge.

Quick as a flash his hand was closing around your throat, fingers pressing into the sides cutting off any blood flow and the room around you began to spin.

“Eyes on me, keep them open.” He rumbled, his breath warm at the shell of your ear. “I’m tired of you looking away, such disrespect to your royalty.” When you pried your eyes open again you saw something glinted in his eyes, and his fingers pressed a little tighter against your throat and you whined breathlessly. “Listen to your little pulse quicken, even when I hold your fleeting life in the palm of my hand you moan like a whore. I could kill you right now and you’d probably come.” 

Right as you felt blackness creeping into the edges of your vision he let go and air rushed back into your lungs. The dizziness made you slump back against him, your eyes slipping shut as your surroundings were blurred. With a disappointed tut he pinched your breasts once more, drawing a whimper from you.

“Not so tough now, are we?”

Instead of answering him, you squirmed away from his ministrations, your behind effectively grinding against the length of him, hot and heavy under the water. Every second he went unanswered his displeasure grew, the fire in his eyes only burning hotter.

“Since you can’t seem to be an obedient little slut, I suppose some discipline is in order.” Swiftly you were reminded of his vampiric strength as he stood from the water, pulling you up into his arms as he sauntered over to a chair. He took his time, dropping you before he slumped into what looked like a velvet throne. Right in front of it sat another enormous mirror – how many could one person own?  

Seokjin pulled you out of your thoughts and down onto his lap, manhandling you until you lay face down, ass up. You shivered at the ticklish feeling of his fingers running up the backs of your thighs, which had broken out in goosebumps from the cold air of the room. His fingernails brushed over your rump before he grabbed each of your cheeks in his hands, kneading them before spreading them.  

The feeling of your glistening folds being exposed to the cold air had you gasping, involuntarily clenching and you knew he was watching intently. Seemingly pleased by what he saw, Seokjin blew on your pussy which had you squirming harder from the strange sensation. That, however, did not please him. Your hands which had been resting in front of you were twisted behind you, one of his hands circling your wrists like iron.

 “Still.” He pressed his thumb against your clenched rim, and you paused at the unfamiliar feeling. “It’s tempting, to fuck your tight little asshole. Hmm, maybe I should.” The tip of his thumb ever so slightly dipped in, but then he withdrew it to land a hard slap on your rump. He gripped the flesh in his palm, massaging it to soothe the sting and parted your thighs more. “Tempting, but no. Your pussy looks far too appetising tonight, especially with how wet you're getting. Do you like being over my knee? So eager to become my little human fucktoy.” 

Three more slaps landed on your ass, each one leaving a delicious sting in its wake and your breathing grew more jagged after you finished yelping. He continued to grip the globes of flesh as your aching cunt clenched, and he paused as you shivered.

“A little cold, hm?” Seokjin teased, knowing full well what it was that caused you to shudder. “Let’s warm you up then.”

Bracing yourself for another slap, a gasp of surprise left your lips when you felt little droplets of hot wax instead. Each one had you jolting, not able to move much due to him holding you down. But you were enjoying it, he knew you were enjoying it. Your back arched off his lap, the contrast of your cold skin mixed with the warm wax had you moaning louder with each droplet. The wax was almost too hot. Almost. But it cooled quickly, and if you were going to fuck with vampires you need to be able to enjoy pain with pleasure.

“Look at how nice and warmed up you are now, and how wet. You’re such a little slut for punishment. Is that why you purposefully provoked me into doing this? So I would have to punish this desperate little cunt of yours? Look at it,” he smirked, suddenly pulling you up and turning you so you sat with your back to his chest once more. He reached forward and yanked your thighs apart, so your soaked folds were on display in the candlelight. 

You just love being handled like this, like a whore. Consider yourself lucky, for I could have anyone that I please on their knees for me. So, show me how grateful you are, on your knees.”

Not wanting to displease him you quickly obliged, grateful for the soft cushioning carpet. However, it only drew more attention to the aching throb between your thighs, and the faint warmth of your sore asscheeks. Looking up from admiring the thickness of his thighs, you gasped.

In front of your face was the largest cock you had ever seen, his size was truly inhuman. He was larger than any lover you’d ever had before, his length alone put every man in the kingdom to shame. You licked your lips in a rather unsubtle manner to which he tutted.

“If you’re so desperate for it, do something,” he practically purred, one hand twisting in your hair to drag you forward. He was in no way gentle you thought as your scalp ached, but the way it had your pussy clenching - the way he knew it turned you on - certainly didn’t have you complaining.

The tip of his cock brushed your cheek, smearing a few beads of sticky precome with it and you were quick to turn your head to the side and run the length of your tongue along the throbbing vein. You chased the little drops of precome that ran down the underside of the length, lapping all the way up to the mushroom head of his cock. You moaned at the taste of him as you gave little kitten licks to his slit. His grip in your hair only tightened and you looked up at him with hooded eyes, your sopping core clenching when you saw how dark his gaze had gotten. 

It was unlikely you would be able to wrap your hand around his girth, and even less likely you would be able to fit him in your mouth. But still, you were eager to at least try. The tip of his cock slipped past your lips easily, and you suckled which drew a long moan from Seokjin. He pushed on the back of your head, and you pushed back in fear at the size of him.

“Don’t worry, it will fit. Vampire precome is a bit of an aphrodisiac, now open wide for your prince,” he told you with a glint in his eye. As if his words were compelling you, your jaw laxed and his shaft eased further past your lips. Eager to please him you released your grip only to steady your hands on his delectable thighs. He cocked an eyebrow at your action, but his steely expression broke when you opened your mouth ever wider and took him all the way in.

“Fuck!” Came from his plush lips and he threw his head back, hips rocking slightly. 

Surprisingly, you felt no discomfort and your gag reflex seemed almost non-existent, and you began to bob your head back and forth.

“Fucking hell…mm. You're such a good little slut,” Seokjin grunted as he began to thrust harder, the way he began to look wrecked had your cheeks warming. You swallowed around his length and he almost snarled, his grip on your scalp tightening. His cock plunged into your throat over and over, his endless precome filling your mouth with sweetness each time he pulled out so the tip rested on your tongue.

“You’re going to make me come, little human. Such a perfect mouth for- ugh - me to fuck.” He pushed in once more, pulling on your hair until your nose touched his abdomen, and you could feel your cunt weeping uncomfortably from his praise. “Look at the way your throat is bulging. You’re enjoying this too much, making such a mess on the floor.”

A small puddle had gathered beneath you, your need growing more and more, and the suddenly need for relief hit you hard. One of your hands let go of his leg to snake down your abdomen to ease some of the ache.

“Absolutely not.” He snapped, shoving himself down your throat again. “You’ve been such a good girl, don’t misbehave now. You will wait until, mfph, after I’ve come, and you will swallow every drop. I’m close.”

His grip on your hair grew brutal yet it only drew more moans from you as you had a high pain threshold. It was a beautiful sight as his thrusts faltered, the way his pillowy lips parted, the thick column of his throat flexing and his body trembling as his orgasm washed over him. Not to mention the heavenly moans he let out.

Ropes of his warm, thick release spurted to the back of your throat. It was far from unpleasant, however, nothing like the salty, almost bitter taste of human cum. Just about everything about vampires was designed to lure you in, and you moaned a little while swallowing the thick white liquid. 

“Good girl,” Seokjin cooed at you as you licked your lips. 

“Please, your highness. I need to come. Please make me come, it hurts.” You begged, practically whimpering at his feet. In his post orgasm bliss, he gently cupped your cheek, even stroked your hair a little with the other hand while he looked at you tenderly. 

“Come sit my sweet, let me ease your pain,” he cooed as he sunk back into his chair, easily tugging you around and catching you before you stumbled on wobbly legs. “Face the mirror.” A small whimper left you as you felt the length of him pressing into your lower back as you were brought flush against his chest.

“Hmm, let’s see. I wonder if I can make you squirt. Now wouldn’t that be fun,” he growled into your ear, grinning at the way you mewled and begged. “You’ve never squirted before, have you? That pathetic human boy I know you let fuck you behind the stables always left you unsatisfied.”

Your eyes widened, alarmed that he knew such a thing. “I’ve been watching you for some time, prey are always fun to stalk. Fuck whoever said you shouldn’t play with your food, they obviously don’t know how to have fun.” 

Your whole body trembled as he gripped the flesh of your thighs, hands tugging them wide open so your swollen folds were on full display. They were glistening from how wet you had gotten, your engorged clitoris pulsing from your increasing heartbeat. It was almost painful, the throbbing in your nether regions.  How your skin tingled and grew hot.

Each pound of your heart thundered in your ears like a drum, the aphrodisiac spreading through your bloodstream. It was like delicious poison, and you were dying a slow but beautiful death at the hands of a deadly predator. The only cure was to draw the poison from one’s body through release, through climax. Your cure was his body, his fingers, his cock, his bite. 

“Look at that,” Seokjin teased, a single finger swiping through your lips to collect your sticky juices. With a feather light touch he teased the slicked digit over your clit and you clenched helplessly at the promise of stimulation. You snapped your legs shut, trapping his hand between your thighs to antagonise him. “Keep them open” he growled into your ear, supernatural strength tearing the apart again. His hand drew away, only to come back with a sharp slap on your poor pussy. Out of instinct your thighs tried closing again, but Seokjin was quick to reprimand you again with a succession of harsh slaps. Each one made you almost jump out of his lap, but you quickly learned to force your legs to stay apart. It took a few more slaps which left your thighs trembling, but you managed.

“Good girl,” he cooed when finally, you did as you were asked. Your chest rose and fell from your heavy breathing, and his flattened fingers rubbed over your sopping pussy lips. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You shook your head, unable to muster the words. However, a near scream came from you as two of his long fingers plunged into your wet heat, which was practically screaming for relief, crooking them and seeking out your most sensitive bundle of nerves nestled inside your cunt. You needed no preparation at all, the sheer amount of slick staining the insides of your thighs a testimony to that. 

“Another time I’d very much like to do this with my cock buried deep into that tight little ass of yours, sluts like you always seem to squirt more when you fuck them there. What do you think?”

Before you even had a chance to answer, his hand wrapped itself around the column of your throat, fingers pressing into the blood flow and restricting your pulse. The action left you lost for an answer, all your other senses suddenly skyrocketing because of the light headedness. At that exact moment when the room began to spin, his fingers pumped ever fasted, and mixed with the aphrodisiac that had your entire body tingling with electricity you found yourself hurtling into your first orgasm. 

However, it seemed the prince was intent on finding your breaking point. A wicked smirk spread across his face as you writhed in his lap despite being held firmly down, eyes rolling back as the room spun and you felt yourself gush around his fingers with a scream. 

“That’s it! Good girl, soak my fingers, c’mon. I know you can come again for me.” 

His assault on your most sensitive spot didn’t stop, and your thighs trembled as he relented his grip, air filling your lungs once more. You weren’t sure if your first high even finished before a sudden overwhelming feeling of pleasure gripped you, and your bones melted as you climaxed and squirted again.

Thankfully he showed some mercy, allowing you to grind yourself on his fingers at your own pace. The last waves of your orgasm ebbed away as you moaned softly, but you were far from satisfied. No, if anything you were just getting warmed up. While his fingers had felt nice, you needed the deep feeling of his cock or you felt like you might die.

“Please. I want you, I need you to fuck me. Nothing else matters right now,” the sound of your voice was pure desperation. 

“Nothing else matters?” Seokjin drawled, pushing your hair to one shoulder. “I could do anything right now if it meant I gave you what you want?”

“Yes, anything. Anything!”

The first brush of his fangs against your throat had your racing heart stopping, but he was quick to pull away. 

He lifted your body like you weighed nothing, manoeuvring you with his inhuman strength. The tip of his already erect again cock brushed against your entrance between your slick, swollen folds, and he began easing in. If you weren’t already so worked up the stretch would surely have been painful, but your cunt easily took him inch by inch. He hadn’t even bottomed out before you gripped him tightly, trying to rock for some friction but he held you still. 

“Look at me,” he growled in your ear, and your gaze met his in the large mirror right as he bottomed out and the tip kissed your cervix. Despite his strength you still managed to squirm somewhat, whimpering at the pleasure his cock brought. He seemed to relax his hold on you a little, allowing you more freedom to move which you quickly took advantage of. 

“Oh f-fuck, Seokjin,” came your breathy whine. His face twisted in pleasure and he seemed to give in, shifting his large hands down to your hips to aid you in your grinding. Back and forth you moved, panting heavily, skin glistening in the golden light as Seokjin watched the way your soft breasts moved and your belly bulged slightly.

“Sit forward,” he half grunted, half moaned as he slumped back in the chair. His words barely registered with you until he tugged on your hips, using his strength to begin fucking you harder on his length. With a yelp at the sudden change in pace, you grabbed onto his knees and your eyes rolled back in your head, helpless to do anything but allow him to do as he pleased. “You have such pretty tits, I love watching them bounce as you take my cock so well.”

His words of praise had your toes curling, that building pleasure in your abdomen growing tenfold, and it only made you want to please him more. “I love it, I love having you fuck me like this. You can have me whenever you want!”

“How delectable you are. I ought to punish you for keeping yourself away from me. For letting others whom are not worthy sample your sweet nectar. But alas, it was only a matter of time before you gave yourself to me,” he moaned, sitting forward so his mouth was right up against the shell of your ear. “Now, your reward for being such a good girl.”

As fast as you could blink, one hand snaked up under your chin to hold you in place. His pillowy lips brushed the flesh of your neck, seeking out right where your pulse was strongest. For half a second you felt a sharp prick, terror momentarily gripping you as the tips of his fangs found their mark. Seokjin bit down into your flesh like butter, the razor-sharp incisors burying deep. However, there was no pain, only a deep warmth that bled through your neck from where he bit you.  Within seconds he began ever so gently moving his hips, his cock still buried inside you brushing against your g-spot. The warmth began spreading across your whole body, melting your bones and your cunt began throbbing, an orgasm building very quickly.

“Oh- Seokjin, I-” Before you could even finish the sentence it hit all over, making every muscle in your body quake with pleasure. Thankfully he was equipped with adequate strength to hold you in place, like the perfect predator he was.

It went on and on, your muscles quivering, your cunt quaking and your little pants and gasps filling the room as he swallowed mouthfuls of blood. 

“So sweet,” he gasped as he pulled away, finally giving you reprieve. “Delectable.” His plush lips were stained pink from the little drops of blood that had escaped, some even dripping down your shoulder as you twitched from the aftershocks. 

His hot tongue swiped over your skin, cleaning any spots of blood that had been left. A wave of sudden nausea washed over you and you slumped forward, luckily for Seokjin’s reflexes his arms wrapped around you before you fell.

“Do you want to stop?” He whispered with a sudden tender note, hands cradling you gently when you couldn’t hold yourself up.

“No! No...please. I just need a moment...m tired,” you mumbled, eyes drooping. 

“It’s normal, don’t worry. I have something that will make you feel better, here.” Gently he began easing you off his lap, his length beginning to slip out but you whined in protest. “You have to let me move princess, don’t worry. I’ll fill you up again in a moment.”

Somewhat pacified by his promise, you allowed yourself to be lifted and before you could blink you were sinking into the soft cushions of the chair. Your eyes slipped shut after Seokjin had vanished suddenly, and you heard him rummage around the room behind you. 

“Here,” he murmured, and you opened your eyes to see him kneeling in front of you. His hand tenderly cupped the back of your head as he pressed a glass to your lips. 

The liquid was delightfully warm, tasting of plum and spices and you hummed happily as you swallowed it down. He whispered little encouragements to you, tipping the cup when you needed until it was empty.

“Good girl. It happens to all humans after feeding, you’ll be fine in a moment.” With that he disappeared, perhaps getting himself a drink while you recovered. The potion was fairly quick to take effect, filling your tired muscles with a thrum of newfound energy. One that had your libido coming straight back from the lingering aphrodisiac in your veins. 

“I can keep going,” you told him, standing with an air of determination. Seokjin was quick to rush to your side again, steadying you when your legs wobbled a little. He arched a brow in question, not quite believing you. “Please, I don’t want you to stop.”

“If you say so.” He appeared behind you, drinking in every inch of your naked skin like he was ready to devour you all over again. Seokjin hooked his arm behind your elbows, pulling you flush to him and effectively pushing your chest forward. 

“You’ll have to stay on your toes, do you think you can do that little human?” His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered into your ear. Eagerly you nodded, standing on the balls of your feet, entire being thrumming with a newfound energy as you felt the tip of his cock brushing through your folds.

Once again he sought out your entrance, easily sinking back into your warmth and you whimpered at how deep he reached from this new angle. Immediately he set a brutal pace, loud slaps echoing about the room along with your cries and his low grunts.

“Please, harder! I don’t want you to be gentle.” Came your cry, attempting to drop down to meet each move of his pelvis. Only a feral snarl came from the vampire behind you, fulfilling your wish by now slamming himself into you.

With each thrust his hip bones dug into your ass cheeks and your breasts bounced. The thickness of his cock had you moaning like a whore each time it split your walls open, his tip kissing your cervix. The angle of his hips was expert, he was obviously an experienced lover but you didn’t expect him to be this good.

“Look at me. Who’s fucking you like this? Who?” He growled into your ear. 

“Seokjin!” You wailed as he once again speared you on his length. A sharp slap to your clit had you keening, rising to your tiptoes again from the sharp stab of pleasure. “Prince Seokjin!” You hastily corrected, his slight discipline also reminding you to keep your gaze on your reflexion. 

“Good girl. Such an eager little slut, so ready to serve your prince.” 

“Always. I’ll always be ready and willing for you to use me as you please. Oh! I’m gonna come again!” 

“Good girl. Fuck, you can really take it. Come for your prince,” he growled, hand snaking down to rub circles on your clit. 

Muscles tensing you shuddered, feeling the euphoric feeling wash over you once again as he fucked you through your high. If it weren’t for him holding you up, surely your legs would have given out from how much they shook. A sudden wave of tiredness washed over you, the potion’s effect exhausted and you slumped in Seokjin’s arms.

He pulled out and you moved suddenly with a whoosh of air, soft sheets underneath your stomach. Seokjin was on you again straight away, picking right back up where he left off and parting your thighs, you moaned at the sudden stretch as he buried his cock into your cunt once again.

 “M-gonna, fill you uh- up, fuck!” He panted, thrusts growing sloppy as he panted loudly on top of you. Leaving no room between your sticky bodies, he draped across you entirely, barely keeping his weight off you. It was strangely comforting, making your toes curl pleasantly in your post orgasm bliss as Seokjin shuddered above you. Heavenly moans and profanities spilled from lips as he came, warmth spilling inside you with a few last thrusts. Lazily you reached beneath you, rubbing circles into your throbbing, blood fattened nub to ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Still panting, he leaned down to whisper something in your ear as you drifted off to sleep before disappearing like a shadow in the night. Spent and muscles aching, you laid on the soft sheets as the sun rose, his words finally sinking in.

“See you tomorrow night.”

[egoludes]

the greatest gift of all.

note: so, to be honest with y’all...i have no idea where this came from. i was just minding my business this weekend, @adorecevans​​ and i started talking about one (1) headcanon scenario, and now here we are! this is going to be a v casual series, basically just snippets of dom!chris and sub!reader (in no particular order) building a relationship. future installments will explore the history more, but what you need to know for this one and the series overall: dom!chris meets sub!reader through a dom/sub dating app of sorts and have been engaging each other long distance for a few months. reader has no idea that it’s chris evans for the obvious reasons, and since he doesn’t give a name at all, she addresses him as Sir. i’ll explore all that background more in the future, but for now: i really hope you enjoy!

credits: unsplash for the stock image, and an anon in @honeychicanawrites​​‘s asks one day for the image of cevans calling his lady ‘mama’... i had to do it. 

warnings: masturbation, voyeuristic vibes, intimacy over video call, dom/sub dynamics, long distance / virtual relationships, sex toys, use of title as name (sir).

wc: 2.3k

The thought comes to you on a Sunday afternoon.

You’re on your belly thumbing through texts, legs up and crossed at the ankles with Sir’s newest gift -- a pretty pink slip -- and your laptop beside you. The screen is dark, save for a grey circle with an initial in the center that lets you know he’s there, listening, when you say: “Have you ever tried one of those dildo molds, Sir?”

The initial silence is suffocating, and you worry for a second that the idea - spur of the moment, really - goes too far. You’re just learning each other, after all; still adjusting to the pictures, the calls, the gifts you model for him with pride. 

But then, he speaks, a familiar rasp to the words that makes you clench in your fitting black shorts. The question comes from a place of genuine curiosity, but you’ve riled him up still, which excites you; always does. “That’s what you’re thinking about over there, huh? Feeling me?”

Your body heats, conditioned already to react to that dangerous tone in his voice; but you try to keep your expression reticent when you turn it to your camera. There’s another moment of nothing -- just you watching the lens like it’s him before you. Then, your lips curl, lids narrow, and your voice turns playfully sweet. “Well, when am I not?”

He hisses, a sharp sound that makes you preen, and you can hear him on the other end, adjusting his screen. “Easy, mama,” he growls, earning himself a giggle, “it’s too early for you to be working me up.”

You laugh again, this time with more body before resting your cheek on your palm. Without his video on -- a compromise you’ve grown used to -- you can’t know that he’s actually watching you. But you lean into it all the same, swinging your legs behind you. “But, have you?”

He clicks his tongue, a thoughtful sound, and you imagine what his features must look like, twisted by consideration. “No - I don’t think I know anyone’s who has either.”

You hum, eyes glinting with something that makes him suck in a breath. “I’ve always wondered about it. Not just the process, but just...having one,” you murmur, settling deeper into your pensive stance. There’s a dreaminess to your tone that not even you notice; but he, that ever-mindful man, takes note.

You continue on, none the wiser. 

////

A week later, you come home at the top of rush hour, grateful that you’ve made it so early, but burdened all the same. Stress is a fickle, but poignant thing, and you’re feeling its weight extra today as you make your way up to your apartment. You’re excited for the time to yourself, thinking on what you might make for dinner, when you see it - a small, but noticeable box at the foot of your door.

Immediately, your expression turns, confusion and wariness turning your mouth into a scowl. You don’t remember ordering anything, nor are you expecting something for anyone else. You hope the label will give you a clue about what this could be, but to your chagrin, it has no company - just your address and a generic return location. 

Still, you take it in, setting it on the kitchen counter, where it stays forgotten as you shower, eat, and pour yourself a glass of wine. You’re halfway through the second when the package re-snares your attention from the corner of your eye. You drain the rest of your drink with a gulp, wiping red off the corners of your mouth before you stand, determined, to approach it.

The box is unassuming; plain cardboard with nothing but the barebones label to distinguish it. You lift it again, this time with both hands, to measure it and feel something heavy shift inside. It’s enough to pique your curiosity, and you tear through the packaging until you can see what’s in it.

At the center is another, smaller box made of sleek black velvet. A card is attached with red ribbon, careful lettering penned in dark ink. Even before you fish it out, you can work out the message, but it doesn’t feel real until the note sits in your hand and you’re reading it up close.

For my favorite girl; so you can feel me any time you want.

Sir.

Your eyes dance over the words a few times before their meaning sinks in and you realize it’s a gift from him. Then, you’re practically rabid, tugging out the box out and flipping the lid in one motion.

When you see what’s inside, it’s all you can do not to buckle at the knees. In the middle of the box, set up almost regally on a bed of plushy silk, is a veined, pink dildo. You don’t need to touch it to know that it’s heavy, but that doesn’t stop you from doing it all the same. Your fingers take it by the base first, wrapping firmly above the balls to test the weight. And you moan at it, that delicious thickness as you lift it from the box with both hands. Your palms curve around it, twitching with want, and you realize then that this is what he looks like, what he feels like.

What you would get if he came home to you for real.

The thought is too much to bear. Your breath quickens, fingers dancing deliberately up and over the shaft to size it up. You tell yourself that this is all you need for now ---- you know better than anyone that to use this toy for the first time without him is a test of his patience you’re certain to fail. But, the more you touch, the more you need, and before you can reconsider, you’re on your hands and knees on your couch, panties pressed sloppily to the side as you guide the heft of Sir’s length past your aching entrance.

The impact is immediate. You fall forward with a gasp as every inch stretches you open and by the time it’s fully seated, your face is completely hidden in your couch cushions. The fabric muffles your voice as your hips start to move, a slow, languid grind to make sure everything is felt. 

You get so lost in it, you don’t hear your phone buzzing until it’s almost too late. But, at the nth moment, you recognize the ringtone you’d chosen just for him and, despite the clear risk of answering, you reach for the device, trembling with nerves, excitement, and lust, at the dangerous game you’re about to play. 

When you answer, there’s nothing but darkness from his end and your face in the corner. You’re sitting on your butt now, legs carefully spread and hips angled to keep from jostling the toy inside you. But, it’s hard not to squirm in a situation like this; even more so, when he starts to talk, voice raw from the day. 

“Hi, honey,” he breathes, the endearment -- your favorite -- making your heart swell, “almost thought you were already asleep.”

You shake your head, biting back a knowing smile. “No, Sir… I’m still awake, just...watching tv.”

“Yeah?” He says, something skeptical in the tone. Even without his video on, you can almost feel his gaze burning a hole in your expression. Like he’s inspecting it, picking it apart for clues. He must find one, because he hums lowly; a dip in the sound that makes it sound like he’s smirking. “Only watching tv?”

“Y-Yes, Sir…”

“Okay, okay -- what’re you watching? Is it any good?”

Your eyes flicker towards the television to glean what’s playing, but Sir catches you before you can get a good look. “Nuh uh -- eyes over here.” 

Despite your better judgment, you pout, all but caught now, and the expression makes him laugh. He’d had a number of subs before you -- people who had piqued his sexual interest, but never quite held up to any of his other, more innocent expectations. But you ---- even if he wouldn’t call you something as invested as a lover, your personality makes it hard to be anything but endeared to you. Before he knew it, he was in headlong, calling you for sessions a couple times a week, sending gifts even more than that. You’re fun to just exist with, even in this moment as he’s so deliberately toying with you.

“Can’t be too good if you can’t tell me anything about it without looking, huh?” His voice drops, a dangerous timbre taking it, and you feel your body shake. “So you gonna tell me the truth before you get yourself in more trouble?”

A whimper breaks past parted lips and you bite down a little too late to stifle the sound. “T-The toy,” you whisper, clenching around his cock despite him being hundreds or thousands of miles away. The irony isn’t lost on you - if anything, it’s making your need spike. There’s something so odd, but so enticing about the whole thing. “I couldn’t wait, Sir… your cock just looked so good.”

Sir curses near the phone, so close that you swear you can feel the breath of it on your palm. “Jesus...I knew you’d be hungry for it, but I didn’t think it’d get you this much. Breakin’ our number one rule and everything.” You shift on the couch, free hand reaching to pull out the dildo in anticipation of his punishment. It’s likely to be no orgasms for the night which, as disappointing as that is, seems almost worth it for the pleasure of this weight inside you. Then he speaks again, forcing you to pause in your motion.

“Get on your computer ---- I want to see the way I fit inside you. Then, we can talk about your punishment.”

The minutes between your phone call and the start of the call on your laptop are equal parts tantalizing and tortuous. You’ve only broken this rule once prior and ended up having to watch him fuck his hand through two sloppy orgasms before getting sent to bed without touching yourself even once. So the fact that he seems to be inclined to let you keep the dildo in gives you pause.

But it’s the sort that’s almost intoxicating. Your adrenaline is pumping, thighs slick with want, and by the time you’ve gotten the video up and running, you’ve shed your panties completely, legs wedged open with the camera trained between them as directed.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetie… look at that pussy eating me up.” You whine out for him, walls clenching visibly at his words in a reaction that makes him purr. “That good? Everything you thought it would be?”

You nod in a daze, cock drunk even with your hips still, and Sir shifts on the other end, the telltale clink of an open belt alerting you to how good it feels for him too. You’re in two minds to beg him to see, even if it’s just a view of the waist down, when he beats you to the punch. “Take it out --”

You blink, trying to focus on his words enough to make sense of his command. He can see the confusion in your face and has to try not to laugh. “Take it out,” he repeats, “and sit on it. I want to see you take it properly.”

It’s a scramble after that -- you, shifting and guiding the toy out of you until you’re hovering over the tip of it on your knees. Lidded eyes dance towards your laptop as you still there, body wound tight in anticipation, and like many times before, you hold his gaze through the lens as you sink down, down, down onto the dildo he made for you.

If you thought you were full before, you’re certainly learning your lesson. The change in angle has the cock dizzyingly deep, enough that it punches the air out of your lungs. You can feel the balls against your bare skin, a permanent reminder of how much you’ve taken, and when he calls for you again, adoration in the breathy tones, you can’t help but buzz. 

You love to make him proud of you.

His tone is so tender that you nearly forget you’re in trouble and are about to lift your hips and give him a show when he stops you. “You heard what I said, honey,” he teases when your confused expression returns. “I want you to sit on it. You stay right where you are.”

The urge to beg is potent -- a searing kind of desperation that you’ve never minded indulging with him. But before you can form words in your head, let alone out loud, the dildo comes to life inside you, shaking with such force you cry out from the suddenness. Between being full, and the toy revealing itself to be a vibrator, it’s all too much, so much, and you’re falling back into the couch knees shaking beneath you.

“Now, now, don’t give up on me yet,” Sir coos, a distinct click sounding from his side of the screen and confirming your suspicions when the vibrator turns off right after, “you wanted  to feel me, didn’t you?” He pauses long enough for you to nod, gasping in a breath as your teary eyes dance blindly over the screen you wish you could see him on. There’s another click, then a cry as your body arches in an involuntary jolt.

“Then, be a good girl - show me how well you can handle it.”

[laurore-stormwitch]

Did someone say Zoya and Genya getting ready for a ball? I had this sitting in my computer for a while. I've written it at the same time of the Nikolai/Genya interaction and went for that instead, leaving this unfinished, so that's the reason why they're similar. But even if this is not wildly original I decided to post it, maybe some of you will enjoy it anyway!

together now - AO3

word count: 2661 (cause I can’t write short fics sorry)

______________________________________________________________

“Zoya, if you move again, I’m going to turn your hair purple.”

Zoya rolled her eyes. Drama queen. Whoever believed that getting ready for a party with your friends was fun, clearly never had to deal with Genya’s perfectionist and dictatorial tendencies. She purposely shifted in her chair in front of the vanity, making Genya glare at her.

“Do you want me to complete my masterpiece or not?”

No, not really. Nothing about going to Sainkt Nikolai’s ball seemed to be exciting. Dreadful and annoying were the only two terms she could come up with to describe the evening in front of her. Mainly having to do to the fact that she was going to have to watch Nikolai and his future wife simper over courtiers and nobles, with the bride-to-be practically coerced to attend the ball. And she wasn’t even allowed to get drunk; saints forbid someone attempted to murder the king again.

“Do you want your hair up or down?” Asked Genya, moving some strands of her hair over her ears.

“Are you really inquiring for my opinion?” The squaller noted ironically, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“No, of course not. Down is better, they make you seem wilder.”

She winked at her and Zoya huffed again. Genya began braiding some thin locks away from her face, leaving the rest of her mane free on her shoulders. She weaved the fine tresses with silver threads and held them in place with diamonds pins. Zoya relaxed under her delicate touch.

“A bit more practice with breaking Grisha’s orders and I’m going to tailor myself at some point. What are you going to do when the day comes?”

She had meant it as a joke, the tone light. But through the mirror she saw a shadow pass behind Genya’s eyes and immediately regretted her words and lack of tact. They knew only one person who had held as much power as Zoya was wielding now; he was rotting in a cell beneath them, and Genya would forever wear his marks on her skin. Of course her mind would have run to him; she tended to darken whenever they touched the argument surrounding Zoya’s newly acquired abilities.

“I hadn’t meant to make you think about that, Genya. I’m sorry.”

Genya smiled at her, coming back to her delightful self.

“It’s okay. I’m just a bit worried about - well, about everything. How is it going with these powers? I’ve spied on you summoning fire the other day. You were glorious.”

Zoya curled her lips and held up her arm, making the fetter made of dragon scales dangle. Juris rumbled inside her. She had told Genya what happened in the Fold, in broad outline. Zoya knew that even if they didn’t say it, they were all concerned with this. She caught them glancing at her sometimes, as if they were waiting for a ticking bomb to go off. It was unpleasant, but she understood them; after all, she was waiting for herself to go off too.

“I’m managing. I’m still not so sure of what I can or cannot do.”

Genya kept working on her hairstyle thoughtfully, letting the quiet stretch between them. She bit her lower lip before adding something else, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Does it feel good?”

Zoya understood that question too. Power is protection. No matter the cost, it would always hold its appeal for a Grisha. That was the pull they felt towards the Darkling too.

“It feels risky.” She answered after a while, releasing a long breath. It was not like her to betray uncertainty or weakness, but she hadn’t anticipated how both frightening and fascinating it would feel to be in this position. “It’s so much power, Genya. What if I can’t control it?”

“If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you, Zoya.” There was not hesitation in this answer. Yet, Zoya didn’t feel much reassured. She didn’t have a sense of who – or what – she was becoming.

“What if it’s too much power?” She realized that was not the right question, the one thing she dreaded to come true. She corrected herself. “What if it’s not enough, and I want more?”

At this, Genya paused, avoiding Zoya’s gaze, and fell terribly silent. She looked worried, almost scared. A shiver went through Zoya’s spine at the idea of eliciting something like fear in one of the people she loved most. She felt a stabbing guilt and the sudden realization that she didn’t want to explore this topic more and find out what Genya was thinking. She waved a soothing smile at her friend, hoping to stir this exchange away.  

“Enough of this. Don’t you want to show me the dress?”

Genya’s eye lightened up as she was pulled out from her gloom towards a more delightful diversion. She turned to the bed and pulled up Zoya’s gown, handing it to her. As usual, Genya had outdid herself. The gown matched the decor in her hair: Zoya thought of the dark midnight sky over Pachina while looking at it, one of the few memories she held from her childhood. When Genya moved it towards her, a million tiny crystals sparkled like stars against the sheer fabric. Zoya slipped inside it gracefully and turned to her, making the dress shimmer; the red head was gloating.

“I always give you the best dresses. All eyes are going to be stuck on you.”

Zoya doubted it, considering how equally gorgeous the other girl was looking right now, hugged by velvet the colour of blood. Genya made her wirl around on herself while she smoothed the dress; Zoya tried to reach for the wine, but Genya snatched the glass from her hands. She shrugged her shoulders at her outraged look. “What? I’m not going to let you stain this magnificent gown, excuse me.”

“You know, you have David’s adoration all for yourself.” Zoya pointed out, scowling. “Don’t get greedy. Let them admire me instead. If I can’t get drunk, I can at least have a different kind of fun.”

Genya rolled her single eye turning her gaze to Zoya, furrowing a brow at her.

“I do hope that by now you know that you have someone’s adoration all for yourself, too.”

Genya had clearly noticed the subtle shifts in Zoya and Nikolai’s behaviour, since she had been dropping this casual and mildly vague comments for a while now. At first, Zoya just ignored them; but then it occurred to her that denying what was going on was not the way to fight this. That maybe the right angle was to approach it much like a military campaign: know your enemy before you defy it. Which for her, it meant to understand what was happening so that she could crush it. And since feelings were not an area of expertise for Zoya, she had figured Genya could come in handy. So at some point she had just let it become a mutual understanding that this whatever-it-was-thing was out in the open, and she started posing carefully pondered question of her own. Zoya crossed Genya’s eye for an instant, replying with a sceptical click of her tongue.

“Both his adoration and his efforts better be for Ehri, for all our sakes. Much like his gaze better be kept on her all night like she’s the most beautiful creature to ever grace this earth. If he cannot sell it to her, at least he has to sell it for the rest of the world.”

“With you in that dress it’s going to be a challenge to look at anyone else.” Teased Genya, grinning. Zoya glared at her, pushing down the uncomfortable satisfaction this remark brought.

“He seems rather immune to my appearance and my presence.”

A poor and unconvincing objection, to say the least. Genya scoffed, handing her the wine as if she was going to need it to hear what came next. Zoya gladly took the offering.

“You do realize I’m a Corporalki, right?”

“What would that mean, apart from making people faint every now and then?”

“It means he can keep his eyes trained on the ceiling all night for all I care, because I’ll still feel his heartbeat spike up every time you pass beside him.”

Zoya didn’t much like to have this particular piece of information, that stirred some unpleasant feelings in her lungs. She swallowed the rest of the alcohol, her throat burning for something else entirely.

“Do you peer in all your friend’s visceral reaction for fun?”

“Just the two of you. Want to know what happens with you?” Mused Genya, knowing damn well the curiosity that sparkled in Zoya’s eyes and even more well feeling her breath itch. Know your enemy, right? Zoya grunted, not even bothering to try and look unfazed.

“Fine. Rip the band aid off.”

“Your heart usually beats like it’s at war. On the contrary, it slows down when he’s around, like you feel- I don’t know, safer. At home.”

Zoya fell silent, turning the words over in her head. It was always a punch in the gut when she wondered when things have started to turn and understood just how much they had turned. Instead of lingering on this painful realization, she did what she knew best and deflected the conversation again where it hurt most. She had the strange belief that if the heart was indeed a muscle, you had to train it like any other one in your body. The more pressure and blows you would put into it, the less you would feel the pain with time. Yuyeh sesh. Be cruel to your heart.

“How are the preparation for the wedding going?”

“As good as they can be.” Genya’s gaze turned sweet and affectionate, and she went along. “No one would say anything, you know. If you wanted to stay away for a while or get some distance.”

“We both know that a lot of people would say a lot of things.” Zoya held her chin high. “And you know that’s not my way of doing things. This is my place; I’m not going to let anyone take it away.”

I don’t want to live in darkness. She fought and lost and suffered to get to where she was. She was certainly not going to give it up for a bad timed and poorly chosen crush. An idiotic and simple crush. Genya nodded, getting the hint that it was enough for today. She seemed to remember something and got back to her tailoring kit.

“Speaking of Nikolai, there’s one thing missing. He gave them to me before I came here.”

Genya walked towards her and clipped what looked like a pin on her dress. She made her turn around to look herself in the mirror. Zoya felt something warming her from the inside when she looked at it; it was more of a medal than a pin. Ravka’s double eagle was shining on her chest, pleated gold, with Alina’s sun behind it and an Etherealki blue ribbon. It resembled the medals she saw on the supposedly war heroes’ generals that worked with Nikolai, but it was more elegant. She brushed her finger on it, full of pride.

“Me and David have one too.” Genya showed her the other one she was holding before securing it on herself. It was Corporalki red. “David has a Materialki purple ribbon. Nikolai told me people should always know we are his most trusted generals and friends. That we work for Ravka as much as he does, and we are owed the same respect, even at a ball.”

Respect. Recognition. Another time, Nikolai managed to surprise her. Because this wasn’t just a pretty thing, a nice embellishment. And while she had been his general for almost three years, that didn’t mean people had accepted and treated her with the appropriate regard. This was a symbol of the king’s trust, something that would force the nobles and the army to behave accordingly, even at events where it would be so easy to down-play her and treat her like another beautiful hollow courtier. Stupid thoughtful Nikolai. She was torn between wanting to kill him for making her feel like this or kiss him senseless for the same reason. Get a grip, Zoya.

“You’re not going to be like him, Zoya.” Zoya startled at Genya words, confused for a moment. She cleared her throat, shoving the treacherous thoughts she was having away. Genya had moved beside her, taking her hand in her own. Looking at Genya firm and proud gaze, she realized they were not talking about Nikolai anymore, and that she hadn’t dropped the conversation before because she was scared or angry at her. It was because she understood where Zoya’s fears were coming from, and she was facing them head on now.

“The Darkling.” She added to clarify, lingering on his name with a tremor in her voice. “Even with all the power you have, you are nothing like him. You managed to do what he had always claimed he wanted, and he had never done: you are saving Grishas, you are rebuilding the Second Army and you hold a position as the King’s right hand. What drives you is not the hunger for power; is the care you have for Ravka and your people. The Darkling wanted to control them, to own them. You protect them.”

Zoya tightened the hold of her hand, while looking at their reflections in the mirror, in the stunning gowns and the triumvirate’s pins. Two women who had believed in the wrong man and kept paying the price for their ingenuity, who had saved themselves in the end. She sucked in a breath, seeing someone she barely recognized; there was almost nothing left of the scared little girl. With the medal on her chest, diamonds in her hair and a glowing fierce light in her eyes she really looked like the leader she aspired to be. She wondered if she was still pretending, or some of the act was now true.

“Stop me before I can become like him.” Zoya blurted out, the words unsteady and whispered. Genya shook her head, leaning in towards her.

“You are different in every way. And you have something he never had; you have people who love you. Believe me, Nikolai is going to burn down all of Os Alta before he lets anything happen to you. None of us is going to let anything happen to you.”

“I’m not afraid of something happening to me, rather than to others.” What if I hurt Nikolai? What if I hurt anyone of you? Genya lowered her head on her shoulder, still holding her hand.

“We fought our way out of his grip once. We’re not going to let him bring us down. We’re stronger than we were before.”

“And we’re together, now.”

Zoya needed something to anchor herself on; the words felt uncertain, more like a question. Because she knew, deep down she knew she was still somehow living by what he had taught her: love is a weakness. And she knew that while Genya talked of friendship, Zoya herself was distancing from everyone. That she was suffocating her feelings for Nikolai, effectively cutting out the person she had relied on the most. That she didn’t know how to be close to someone. That, like the Darkling, she felt destined to be alone. And yet a part of her still needed to believe that a strand of what she conquered was going to save her, that someone was going to reach for her.

“And we’re together.”

Genya repeated, more firmly. We’re not going to let him bring us down another time. A litany. It was our blood on the skiffs, in the sand, on the rocks of a mountain. I’m nothing like him. An enchantment. And we’re together. He had taught her wrong. One day she would be free of this last cage, too.

[yespolkadotkitty]

Conference Room B

A little smutty fix-it for poor darling Marcus Pike, who really got shafted in The Mentalist. I wanted to give him a treat. Special thanks to @alldatalost​ for cheerleading.

Warning: shamelessly fluffy smut.

You stare at your computer screen, willing something to change, so you can leave already. You adore the team here, in many ways they’ve become your family, but you were meant to have been in DC with Marcus for eight days already - well, okay, so he wouldn’t have been there yet, but you could have slept in the sheets that smelled of him and started to organise your home together. Instead, a new murder case dropped and swallowed the lives of everyone. But you’re nearly there, you’re all so close you can taste it. Even Jane is antsy.

You miss Marcus. No, that doesn’t seem enough. You long for him. Marcus’ new job seemed to come with some hefty, dangerous undercover work, and while he’d been on the job, you hadn’t been able to video call, so for six weeks your relationship had been maintained via whispered voice calls and texts at random times.

Sometimes, late at night, you hadn’t seen his face for so long that you wondered if you’d made him up, inside your heart.

Agent Cho drops by your desk, tapping the corner to get your attention. “Agent Pike is in the building.”

Your pulse jumps. “Thanks. But-”

Cho just arches a brow and smiles.

Your heartbeat rockets as you stare at the lifts opposite the bank of desks you work in. What would he smell like, after this time apart? Why was he here now?

“What if I fuck it up?” you whisper to Cho. “What if he’s changed his mind?”

Kimble smiles at you, and his usual calm, stoic demeanour works its magic on your nerves. “If he’d changed his mind, would he be here?” He gives you a little nod, and then swaggers off, no doubt to impart his even-keel advice on someone else who needs it.

You spend a few fruitless moments trying to get back into work, and failing. Lisbon meets your gaze from her own computer and gives you a sympathetic smile. You guess they all know.

And then the elevator doors open and actually, nothing else matters when you see him.

His hair’s grown out, and it curls over his forehead, flicks up at his collar. It looks so soft; you want to sink your fingers into it. And his top lip and jaw are scruffy and the new, patchy beard really suits him. His posture is great as usual - he’s not arrogant, but he won’t apologise for being confident. He wears a suit well; always has, the lines cut sharp, his white shirt striped with grey, cut in half by the wine red tie.

He is a big, tall drink of water, and you want him more than your next breath. He scans the room and you stand up, and your eyes meet. His are that bottomless, dark chocolate brown, and his face lights up when he sees you, that big, goofy, no-holds-barred grin, and you make yourself calm down and try and remember you’re at work, rounding your desk and walking to him slowly across the carpet.

“Hey,” he says softly, and his voice is deep and sexy and everything you’ve ever wanted. Your hands itch with the urge to touch all that soft hair and his scruffy beard.

“Hey.” You search his gaze. He looks thrilled to see you, his expression soft and sweet and tender and unguarded, and your heart aches for all the nights you’ve missed him. “I love the beard.”

Marcus rubs a hand over it. “Thanks. It’s for the undercover thing. It ended last night, and - well. I know it’s sudden, but I had to see you.” He glances around the office, and you turn around to see Cho, Lisbon and the rest of the team quickly duck their heads, pretending to be super engrossed in other stuff.

“Wow,” you mutter. “We’re supposed to be good at subterfuge.”

Marcus chuckles, and takes your hand. Just that simple touch sends licks of want and need up your arm. “Is there… somewhere we can talk?”

Your stomach drops. Is he.. Ending things? “Sure.” You keep his fingers linked with yours, and lead him down the hall to a small, unoccupied conference room. You gesture and he precedes you in, dropping your hand, as you close and lock the door, and release the blinds, so you’re totally alone.

“Marcus, is everything-” your words get swallowed up as he’s on you in a heartbeat, kissing you like a man desperate for air after a lifetime underwater. His tongue traces your lips and you open eagerly, sliding your hands up his chest and into his newly grown hair, and it’s as soft as you imagined. He smells of his habitual black pepper and vanilla cologne and fresh coffee and clean soap, and it’s heady and you could breathe him in forever. He tugs you as close as possible, folding your body into his larger one, his hands running over your back like he’s re-learning you after over a month apart. You fist your hand in his hair hungrily, licking into his mouth. His moustache tickles your skin and it’s decadent and delicious, like a favourite cake with a new flavour added.

He releases you, making this low groan of need in his throat, and you think if he isn’t inside you in the next thirty seconds, you might die.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Couldn’t do that to you out there. And I had to - I had to.  Sometimes I’ve wanted you so much, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me too,” you whisper, cupping his dear face, tracing your thumb along his scruffy jaw. He feels so good. “Is it wrong to get frisky on FBI property?”

Marcus winces. “Most definitely, but…” He pulls you close again, and you thrill to the evidence of his want for you pressing hot and heavy against your belly. “ Fuck, I want you. We’ll have to wait until you get home from work.”

“For what I really want, yes, but… not for everything.” You back him up against the door, kiss him breathless, drinking in his addictive taste, and slide one hand down to his fly, unzipping his suit pants.

“What are you-” Marcus asks, and then footsteps sound on the other side of the door.

You kiss his scruffy cheek and whisper into his ear; “You’ll have to be quiet. Anyone could come past.”

He swallows audibly but doesn’t say anything to the contrary. You nip at his earlobe as you use your other hand to play, too, sliding open the slit of his boxers and drawing him out, palming his length and soaking up the little growl in his throat that’s just barely audible.

“Oh my God , have I missed you,” you murmur, licking at the scruff on his jaw. “And you show up looking hotter than a Laredo night.”

Marcus’ hands clench on the small of your back as you continue to stroke and tease him. He’s steel in velvet, and your hands become slick as you begin to draw an orgasm up his spine, one eager touch at a time. When you pull back to look up into his face, he’s wrecked, pupils blown with lust, teeth sunk into his lower lip in an attempt not to make any sound.

He’s a fantasy wrapped in a Bureau-issue suit, everything you want in a tanned, voice-made-for-sex package - kind, smart, patient, soft, and he’s yours. “Marcus,” you murmur, your head full of love with him, and you slide down his body and take him in your mouth.

A strangled sound escapes his lips just as voices pass the door, and you hear him mutter “ Jesus fucking Christ,” as you start to lick him the way you’ve been fantasizing about for six weeks. One of his hands curls into your hair as you work him steadily close to a blinding climax. He’s slumped against the door now, desperately trying not to let his knees give in, as his hips move incrementally, exercising extreme restraint in not fucking your mouth.

You take him as deep as you can and he makes that sexy little growl again, and your name falls from his tongue, the syllables deep and gravelly, a warning, and you squeeze the hand he’s fisted at his hip, letting him know it’s okay.

A litany of curses barely reaches your ears as he comes like a freight train, his whole body tensing for a moment that seems to stretch to forever, and you drink down everything he gives you, afterwards gently tucking him back into his boxers and zipping his smart suit trousers.

Marcus rubs a hand over his face, and you see his wrist tremble. “Fuck. That was…. Probably not legal.”

You kiss a smile on to his sweet lips, hug him tight, and he pulls you into him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Thank you,” he rasps, low and sweet in his perfect drawl. “You can’t imagine how many times I’ve come in my hand in the last six weeks, wishing it was you.”

“About the same number of times I’ve imagined you in my bed,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “That’ll have to hold us until I finish for tonight. Do you still have your key? Wait for me at my place?”

Marcus pats his pocket, dark eyes shining. “I will.”

You take time to adjust your clothes before leaving the conference room. The coast is clear and you walk Marcus back to the elevators.

Jane passes with a cup of coffee in hand. “Glad you had time to come, Pike,” he says genially, and you follow Marcus into the elevator, and when the doors close, you laugh in each other’s arms until you’re weak.

Tagging: @pedropascalito​ @pedropasscals​ @paniclana​ @littlemissthistle​ @spacegayofficial​ @tiffdawg​ @keeper0fthestars​ @dindjarindiaries​ @pedrosasscal​ @thewaythisis​ @javierian​ @restingnurseface​ @abuttoncalledsmalls​ @fleetwoodmactshirt​

Please do ask to be added or released from the tags!

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Ectotherm (all parts)

Hey, all! I really wanted to contribute to the Great Good Omens Snake-Off. Short crack fic about Crowley being driven out of Ireland by St. Patrick.

(Spoiler: the punchline was “Of course I’m going to take it personally -- I was the only snake on that bloody island!”)

But I am burned all the way out today. Instead, please enjoy my Snek!Crowley Angst-with-a-Happy-Ending, “Ectotherm” - all the parts gathered together in one place, for the first time ever!

(If you enjoy, please consider reblogging!)

--

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

In twenty-four hours he had been subjected to the inferno of a burning bookshop; the hell-born flames of the dread sigil Odegra enveloping his Bentley; the terrifying freezing-hot-burning-cold presence of Satan himself; and a column of Hellfire intended not for him but for Aziraphale, because the Archangels were determined to destroy the best thing that had ever walked the floor of Heaven.

Well, forget them.

And so, they sat at the Ritz raising their glasses to the world, ready to share a meal and start their life together.

Only Crowley suddenly realized he couldn’t eat. He’d thought he was hungry, but the food just sat in his stomach, heavy and cold. Even the wine seemed to sour, once it was past his tongue.

Just nerves, he thought, and did it really matter? He’d always preferred to watch Aziraphale eat, see the joy bubble across his features. It was enough to know that they could do this every day for eternity if they wished, and right now he certainly wished it.

He felt a little better when the coffee arrived, almost-painful heat radiating out from his stomach.

“My dear fellow, that’s your fourth cup!” Aziraphale protested, as he downed another.

“It’s good! And I didn’t complain when you ordered a second piece of cake.”

“Well, I…I was rather thinking you might like some, too.”

With a rush of giddy emotions, Crowley realized he liked the sound of that very much. He picked up his fork and sliced off a bite of red cake with thick white icing. “What is it?”

“I thought I’d try something different, something a little modern. This is red velvet cake.”

Only Aziraphale would think a flavor that had been popular for over sixty years was a little modern. Crowley smiled as he tasted it – rich and sweet and strangely light on his tongue. “You know, it’s not bad,” he said, reaching for another bite.

And a little heat rose to his face as he realized that Aziraphale was sitting there with hands folded, smile on his face – watching Crowley eat.

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

They went for a walk after the Ritz, but he found he was very tired. He tried to shrug it off.

“I’ve had a busy week, and I missed my sleeping day,” he explained. “I don’t – I don’t need to sleep, you know, but I still get exhausted. I’ll be fine.”

“You should sleep, then,” Aziraphale said, tone slightly scolding. The angel seemed determined to make sure Crowley took care of himself, as if he hadn’t learned to do that long before the Garden. It turned out, being fussed over wasn’t so bad. “I can walk you back to your place. Or. Er. You can come to the bookshop. I don’t have much to offer, but there’s the sofa, and perhaps we can have a drink…”

“Bookshop sounds lovely.” He always had to fight back a smile when he remembered the many nights they’d sat in the back corner together, sharing wine, sharing stories, complaining about work, just being themselves. Actually, he didn’t have to fight back that smile at all anymore – he could wear it for anyone to see. For Aziraphale to see.

None of that today, though. Crowley was rather embarrassed to find that the moment he stretched out on the sofa, he started falling asleep, and there was nothing he could do to fight it off.

He was dead to the world before Aziraphale had even settled into his armchair, and didn’t wake up until the shop was filled with bright Monday sunlight. A fleecy tartan blanket covered him from shoulder to toe, but he still shivered, and his stomach felt strangely heavy. Too much cake, probably.

Crowley sat up stiffly, running a hand through his hair and blinking around the shop. His eyes landed on a customer, who jumped in surprise, then quickly walked out.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Aziraphale hurried over. “How are you feeling? Better, I trust?”

“A bit.” Crowley rubbed at his face. “Didn’t I have glasses?”

“You took them off before falling asleep.” Aziraphale pulled them out of his pocket. “I was worried you might roll over them in the night. You slept very heavily. Is that normal?”

He shrugged, pushing the dark lenses back onto his face. “Probably. Didn’t wake up, didn’t dream much, seems like a good sleep. Does it have to be so blasted cold, though?”

Aziraphale glanced at the old-fashioned thermostat. “I do keep it a little cool to discourage customers. You scared away three different people just by sleeping there, you know. Perhaps I should get you a permanent bed right in the middle of the floor.”

“Only if you promise to turn the heat up.” Crowley wandered closer to the window, feeling the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. That was better. “I’m…” It wasn’t a word he used often.  “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“About the customers? Don’t be, they were trying to touch my first edition Verne novels and I was running out of ways to be inconspicuously rude.”

“No about…falling asleep. I know you had…” Plans? Expectations? They’d never really talked about what Our Side would mean. “…you had hopes, for our first day, you know, free.”

“And every one of them is being fulfilled right now,” Aziraphale said, with such sincerity that Crowley started to smile. “Ah, I lied. Now all of them are being fulfilled.” He took Crowley’s hands in his. “Just standing here, talking to you, not worrying about who might see us, it’s more than I ever thought would be possible. I am perfectly content as we are.” He frowned suddenly. “Except that your hands are freezing.”

Crowley laughed as Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the demon’s, rubbing them, trying to warm them up. It certainly did make him feel better, and not just because his fingers had been a little numb from the way he’d slept.

“I was actually worried…” Aziraphale started again, still staring at their hands. “Oh, I assume you have your own, er, hopes. Since you’ve been thinking about this so much longer than I. We should probably discuss that, but, well, just to warn you, I haven’t thought much about…that is, I’m not sure that I want…ohhh…”

Crowley lifted one hand to tilt Aziraphale’s face up, to look into his eyes. The heat of it was almost unbearable. “I haven’t really thought about it either,” he confessed. “Never thought we’d make it this far. Everything from this point on is just a pleasant surprise.” With his other hand, he squeezed the angel’s fingers gently. “I don’t think I’d say no to more of this, though.”

Aziraphale blushed, the heat of it rushing to fill every space inside Crowley, and his eyes dropped briefly. “Your hand is still freezing,” he finally said, pulling away with a smile. He bustled across the shop to pick up his coat. “I know, let’s go for a walk. It’s a nice, warm day. We can feed the ducks in St. James’s Park…No. Let’s do something different. Something daring.” There was a wild gleam in his eyes as he turned back. “Let’s feed the ducks in Regent’s Park.”

It was indeed a gloriously warm day, and they spent over five hours exploring every path in London’s third-largest park while a small sign sat in the bookshop window reading Out to Lunch – Back in a Jiffy.

Every once in a while, Aziraphale’s hot hand found its way into Crowley’s cold one. Again and again, until it felt completely natural.

--

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

It had been three weeks since the world had ended and begun again, everything ticking along nicely as Aziraphale liked to stay. Crowley caught himself thinking more like Aziraphale these days, which was both worrying and wonderful.

Except that any time Crowley was indoors, he felt lethargic, cold, a little cranky. Aziraphale had miracled up a thick scarf in grey tartan. It was hideous and embarrassing and he wore it all the time even though it didn’t really help. He knew what the tartan gifts meant.

He took more hot baths than he ever had in his life, including the years he’d spent living in Bath. He soaked until he felt lightheaded, feverish even, and bundled himself up to try and trap in the heat.

Yet still, an hour later, he huddled in his seat, shivering, unable to concentrate on a game of chess, or even draughts.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" Aziraphale asked as Crowley moved his black piece forward.

"Stop asking me that. I know how to play this, I've been beating you for centuries." He glared at the angel sitting comfortably in his armchair.

Two weeks ago, Aziraphale had summoned his favorite seat into Crowley's study, across the desk from that ridiculous throne. Despite his complaints, at the time he'd welcomed the idea of the angel being as comfortable in his space as Crowley was in the bookshop. Of sharing all those idle moments as he had dreamed for so long. Of finally opening his life enough to make room for the only other being that mattered.

Now, he couldn't help thinking how awful the chair looked, how it clashed with his decor, with his whole flat, how much he hated the way Aziraphale smirked as he picked up one red piece and, there he goes again, captured every single one of Crowley's in a rapid series of jumps.

Really should have seen that coming.

"Well, my dear," Aziraphale folded his hands. "Shall we try for best seven out thirteen, or should we switch to something more your speed? Naughts and Crosses, perhaps?"

With a sweep of his arm, Crowley knocked the board and pieces off the desk, scattering them across the floor.

"Crowley!"

The demon didn't respond. He didn't have the energy to respond - every muscle in his body screamed to just stretch out and rest.

He walked into the next room, where the heat lamps over the plants kept the air at nearly 40 degrees. All but the most tropical had already withered, and even the few remaining trembled at his approach, knowing they weren't up to his exacting standards. But he wasn't here to berate them, just to try and soak in some of the heat.

"Crowley? My dear, are you quite alright?"

He leaned against the counter, trying to will his shoulders to relax, his stomach to unknot, his brain to start functioning again. He didn't even notice Aziraphale's approach, until the too-hot hand landed on his shoulder.

"DON'T!" Without thinking, Crowley spun, shoving the angel away with all his strength. "Don't touch me, don't come near me, don't even speak to me, you arrogant sod!"

Then he tore off the tartan scarf and threw it into the corner.

Over 6,000 years, Crowley and Aziraphale had had many fights.

The everyday ones, the endless bickering and teasing, they both knew never to take to heart.

The truly fierce ones, a request for Holy Water, and a plan to run away - these had nearly shattered them, yet they'd still understood, on some level, that each wanted what was best.

The argument that night was like nothing they'd ever experienced. All the bitter pettiness of their daily arguments, but with every ounce of ferocity Crowley could muster.

Later, as he lay on the ceiling, shivering in the heat, Crowley replayed every word, crystal clear in his mind, hoping that at least the burn of his shame could warm him up.

It wasn't anger. It was lashing out.

Crowley was afraid. Something was wrong, and he didn't know what.

--

Crowley couldn't get warm.

He tried wearing more layers.

He tried wearing fewer layers.

Eating hot food.

Lying under a tree.

Lying in direct sunlight.

Finally, there was only one conclusion he could reach.

“I’m cold-blooded.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Aziraphale sniffed. His ego was still somewhat bruised from their argument, but he was clearly making an effort.

They sat facing each other across the café table, opposite sides. Aziraphale had ordered a slice of warm pie with ice cream melting down the sides. A second fork sat, waiting for Crowley, and the angel kept giving it significant looks, but the demon wouldn’t unwrap his hands from the enormous cup of coffee he’d ordered, the largest they served.

Aziraphale sighed and folded his hands. “Crowley, dear. I know the…transition to our new life hasn’t been as smooth as we hoped, and we’ve both said things we regret, but I’ve never felt that you were –”

“No, Aziraphale.” He took a sip of coffee. It was something American-style, hot and bitter and lacking any particular flavor. He didn’t care. He just needed absurd quantities of near-boiling liquid. “I mean it literally. Somehow, after the Apocalypse, I became cold-blooded. I can’t get warm no matter what I do.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, as if waiting for the punchline of an unfunny joke. “That’s simply impossible. How many times have you told me off for making those assumptions, just because you used to be a snake? You have a mammal body, and it does…mammal things,” he waved his hands to indicate that he still wasn’t completely caught up on modern science classifications, “including being warm…”

He trailed off as Crowley reached across the table, taking his hand. Even after being wrapped around the hot ceramic mug, it still wouldn’t feel right. “What are you always saying these days?”

“That your hands are freezing.” Aziraphale shook his head. “It can’t be true. That’s not proof…”

Crowley gestured to the plate. “I can’t eat because my stomach is too cold to work. When I do eat, I have to lay down because any extra movement takes away energy I need for digestion.” He tugged at the tartan scarf, back around his neck where it belonged. “Extra layers don’t help, because they just insulate me from the warm air. Blankets don’t help because I’m not creating enough heat on my own. Even turning up the thermostat doesn’t help because this blessed body is made to shed heat, not retain it.” He stared into his mug of coffee. “I can’t move when I’m cold. I can’t move when I’m hot. Sunlight helps for a little while, but the days are getting shorter.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, knowing what he was about to say would make the angel pull away, wishing it wasn't true. “I…I don’t think I like being touched anymore.”

He didn’t fight it when the hand vanished, taking its warmth with it. Crowley just slumped, closing his eyes in defeat.

The squeal of chair legs against hard floor made him glance up. Aziraphale had moved to sit beside him, pulling his chair as close as he could.

Carefully, Crowley leaned his head to the side, resting it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting their bodies press together. It was easier this way, a sort of passive contact, unrestrained, letting the heat flow between them.

“Are you…” He could hear the way the breath caught in Aziraphale’s throat. “You seem so certain. Is there any chance you’re wrong? Any other explanation?”

Crowley gently shook his head, letting it wobble back and forth on the angel’s shoulder. “This is how it felt when I was a snake. You don’t forget something like that.”

“At least now you know. Surely what you learned from being a snake can help you navigate…”

“I looked it up,” Crowley muttered. “A snake can handle a range of fifteen, twenty degrees easily. Human body…a little more than one degree. At 35 I’m freezing to death, at 38 I’m burning up from the inside. I don’t even know how I’ve lasted this long.” He pressed himself even closer into Aziraphale’s side. Half of him was still cold, even as his shoulder and his thigh screamed in the heat. It wouldn’t balance properly. “It’s going to kill me.”

He felt the tension all through Aziraphale’s body. “Crowley, no!”

“Fine, it’s going to get me discorporated, and I’ll wake up in Hell, and they’ll kill me.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“Maybe. It’s getting harder to concentrate every day.”

“Then I’ll look for a solution.” He offered his hand and Crowley grabbed it, grateful for the almost-too-hot touch. “I might as well, since I’m responsible.”

“What are you talking about, Angel?”

“Your body was fine, then I used it and…it must be something I did.”

“Don’t say that.” He pulled away enough to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “This isn’t your fault. I agreed to switch bodies, I knew there was some risk. And I don’t think you could have caused this. Somehow this is Heaven or Hell, still interfering with our lives.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, nodding. Crowley wasn’t sure if he really believed it or not. “Still. If this was done to you, there must be some way to undo it. And if there’s a way, I will find it.” He swallowed, turning to look at their linked hands. “But, in the meantime…It’s probably best if you turn back into a snake.”

“No!” Crowley all but shouted, anger mixing with fear. “No, Aziraphale I won’t. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Isn’t it better than dying?”

He clenched his jaw, biting back his reply. He honestly wasn’t sure it was. An eternity as a serpent, no driving, no music, no wines, no gardening, no feeding ducks, no holding hands…

Crowley twined his fingers through Aziraphale’s, lifting up the hand clasp between them. “I fought…We fought…so long for this. I can’t just…I won’t give this up. I won’t, Angel.”

“You’re not giving anything up,” Aziraphale insisted. He brushed his lips across Crowley’s fingers and, oh, add something else to the list of things he wasn’t willing to lose. “I will still be here. My feelings for you won’t change at all.”

“They’ll probably change a little,” Crowley pointed out.

“I want to spend every day with you, talk with you, see you happy. And it doesn’t matter if you’re scaled or human or turn into a fish, that’s not going to change.”

“I won’t be happy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But please. Give me the time I need to save you.”

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale, letting the angel do the same back, even though part of his mind screamed and squirmed to escape the heat of contact. He told himself this wouldn’t be the last time.

--

Crowley was warm.

He stretched out in his favorite basking spot by the window, feeling the winter sunlight play across his scales, heating him up. Oh, there were heat lamps tucked in the corners for when he needed them, but nothing beat the feel of real sunlight.

Every now and again, the door would open, a customer hoping to browse for a Christmas gift. The rumble of footsteps through his belly woke him, and he reared up his head, tongue flicking out to catch the scent of the blurry shape by the entryway.

Almost every time, the visitor took one look at the enormous red-bellied black snake and vanished soon after.

The hours ticked by, slow and sweet, like drops of honey. Crowley was aware that he should be filling them with fast-paced reckless activities of some form, but he couldn’t quite recall what…just a general sense of dissatisfaction.

Still, whatever he had lost, the best was still here.

When he’d drunk his fill of warmth, he twisted his way through the shop, sliding around stacks of books and potted plants (hissing at the ones that didn’t seem to be growing well enough). There, at the desk, sat the angel.

Aziraphale was rarely anywhere else these days. Bent over old grimoires, reading glasses balanced on his nose, pile of notes beside him. He hadn’t glanced up for any of the customers. Three cups full of cold tea sat beside him. He hadn’t even risen to get a new one in a while.

A pair of folded-up sunglasses sat in one corner of the desk. He never picked them up, but sometimes touched them as he worked.

Crowley twisted around his leg, climbing, finding his way along the chair and across the shoulders until he was draped across Aziraphale, watching him work.

“Hello, my dear. How was your day?”

Crowley hissed dismissively. One day was the same as another for a snake. “Progressss?”

“I’m close. I really think I’m close.” His voice was just a rumble, rising from his chest through Crowley’s belly, distorted, missing half the notes. He couldn’t pick up on the nuance, couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not. Just like he couldn’t see all of Aziraphale’s face at once, just the jaw, the little smile, the rest curving away in the distance.

“Ssssupper,” Crowley reminded him. The angel needed lots of reminders.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I really want to keep at this a bit longer.”

“Resssst.”

He held up his hands before him, letting Crowley slither from one to the next without trying to grasp. There was something about hands, something important. It was just on the edge of his memory, but snakes don’t have hands. It slipped away.

“No, I can’t rest yet. Not until…no.”

“Pleassssssse.”

“I can take a small break, but no dinner. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

When Crowley was coiled back around his shoulders, Aziraphale stood up, walking across to the little secluded corner of the shop. This was another important area, though Crowley couldn’t exactly remember why. He thought it involved a lot of sitting, drinking…water? Not water. He forgot what he used to drink.

The angel fiddled with his collection of round discs. “How about some Vivaldi, since it’s almost Christmas? You always liked his Seasons.” Crowley nodded.

He couldn’t really hear the music. Noises on the air meant nothing to a snake.

But once Aziraphale was stretched out on the sofa, Crowley made himself comfortable on his chest, and felt the deep thrum of the music as the angel sang along.

Warmth rose from Aziraphale, too, just like from the sun. It was a different kind of heat. Purer. Better.

Whatever else he had lost, Crowley still had that. And he was content.

--

Aziraphale collapsed across the sofa, head and shoulders wedged into the corner, too exhausted to even keep himself upright. The long black serpent lay on his stomach, watching him intently.

“Oh, Crowley,” he tried to keep his voice steady, despite the tears he could no longer hold in. “You were wrong. It was my fault. I’ve – I’ve worked it out now. Obvious, really. Serpent. Human. Two corporations, woven together.” His voice started to crack. “When we changed places I…I sort of dropped a corner. Let one bleed into the other. I – I’m so sorry.”

Crowley took a moment, processing this. “Accccident.”

“Yes, but I…” He held out a hand. Crowley didn’t like to be scratched, or petted, or held. But he did glide across the hand, bringing his snout closer to the angel’s tear-streaked face. “I could have killed you, Crowley. I could have destroyed you over something so…so foolishly simple. You must hate me.”

“No. Nevvver.”

He wiped furiously at his eyes with his free hand. They itched with fatigue as they never had before. “I’m almost there, Crowley. Just a little more. I can see where I dropped it. I can see how to separate them again. I just…just need to figure out how to secure the ends, so it doesn’t happen again.” The sobs broke through again. “I’m nearly there, my love. I’m nearly there.”

“Resssst.”

“I can’t. Not when I’m so close. Crowley I…I need you back. I want to see you human again. And I know you hate this, I won’t leave you in this form a moment longer than necessary, I just…”

“Ssssleeep.” Crowley retreated, coiling up on Aziraphale’s chest. “Ssssleeep. Lovvvve. Sssssleeeep.”

Aziraphale drifted off under that watchful golden gaze, allowing his mind the rest it needed to put the last few pieces together.

--

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

The angel had spent the morning carving lines and curves deep into the wooden floor, until Crowley could feel every scratch and dip through the sensitive skin of his belly. Now the angel was trying to keep him at the center of the pattern, while he ran around the edge doing – something.

There was a heat lamp, but it was too far away. Why wasn’t he under it?

Crowley started sliding across the floor, coiling and uncoiling in the direction of that delicious, life-giving heat –

The angel suddenly loomed before him, hands flapping. “No, no! I told…the center…few more minutes.”

A few minutes? Crowley was cold now. He wound to the side, planning to dart around, but the angel’s feet suddenly shifted, coming down sharply in his path.

Startled, Crowley reared up, nearly as tall as the angel, to hisssss from his maximum height, head flattened, vision suddenly clear enough to see the angel’s face: eyes wide, jaw tight. Frightened. Crowley gave another hisssss, hoping that would be enough to scare the interloper away, clear a path to the heat.

But the angel merely raised his hands, moving more slowly this time. “…sorry, my…adjust the lamp…break the circle now…start all over…” The words were murky, distorted, most of them too low or soft to be perceived. “…explained…ten minutes ago…remember?”

Ten minutes? That was a long time.

No, no it wasn’t. The cold was just making his mind fuzzy again. He gave another longing look at the heat lamp, then at another, further away, tucked safely in a corner where he could bask and hide. He felt exposed, anxious, very much in danger. What if this was some kind of trap?

Then he looked again at the angel’s face. Not frightened. Worried. Sad. Tired.

Crowley trusted Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember precisely why, but it was undeniable – a deep, profound trust. If Aziraphale said he had to stay here, stay he would.

“Fasssssster,” Crowley grumbled, and twisted back to where he’d been before. A moment later, the light from the heat lamp grew a little warmer. Still not quite enough, but better.

Two more slow circuits around the marks on the floor, adjusting things and muttering, and finally the angel sat down, facing Crowley. He held out his arms, but Crowley was in no mood to be handled, pulling back into his coils.

“I need…preferably your face.” Crowley flicked his tongue, but otherwise didn’t move. “Please…”

Reluctantly, the black and red snake moved closer, lifted his head until the angel could cup his jaw with burning-hot hands. He didn’t like it and nearly pulled away, fighting the urge to retreat.

Necessary, this is necessary. He tried to relax into the contact, tried to pretend it didn’t feel wrong.

The angel’s blue eyes fluttered shut; Crowley could just make out the tense wrinkles forming in his brow, but the stiffness in the fingers around the snake’s jaw was unmistakable. It wasn’t enough to be painful, but it was close. Crowley’s back half twisted and writhed as if ready to pull away, even while he focused his entire being on keeping his head still. Necessary. Trust him. It’s necessary.

Finally, the angel’s hands fell away, and he dropped back, breathing heavily. His eyes opened and he smiled. “…finished.”

Good.

Crowley turned and slithered under the heat lamp, stretching out for maximum comfort.

Just as he was settling in for a good late-morning nap, the angel appeared beside him again. “…you hear…finished…”

Now what? Perhaps he should go find one of the more secluded lamps, to avoid interruptions.

“…fixed you…”

Shrugging off the nap for the moment, Crowley raised his head just enough to tip it to the side. Fixed…?

The angel knelt at the edge of the heat lamp’s warmth, and spoke again, much louder. “…fixed…change back…”

Crowley tilted his head the other way. Change back…?

“Human! Crowley, human.”

It all came back in a rush. Arms. Legs. Hands. Drinking strange red water, watching birds swim, moving very fast in a large black box which made the angel very angry – human.

He reared up again.

Nothing changed.

“Hhhhhow?”

The angel shook his head, mouth working, but Crowley couldn’t hear a sound. He pushed closer, far closer than was comfortable, until the heat pits of his face were filled with the angel’s warmth, until he could see the tears gathering in blue eyes.

Crowley focused on those eyes, that shape, on every part of his life in human form that he could still make sense of.

Still no change.

Hissing with frustration, he abandoned the warmth of the heat lamp, shooting away to weave among the plants, drape himself across the sofa, even nudge his face at an open book.

No effect at all.

He couldn’t remember how to change back.

As he circled the shop again – feeling his energy sap away in the cold – he noticed the angel sitting once again at his desk. Crowley climbed up his leg, across his back, draped over his shoulders and around his chest. Felt the pure warmth, cleaner and sweeter than sunlight.

The angel wasn’t working now, of course; his chair was pointed away from the desk, as if to avoid even looking at the piles of paper. He clutched something in his hands, shoulders heaving, chest shaking with sobs. “I’m sorry…I tried…I tried so hard, but I couldn’t…I’m too late.” The voice was a little clearer now, rumbling through Crowley’s belly.

“Sssshhhhhh,” Crowley comforted as best he could, trying to nestle his head on the angel’s arms. It wasn’t a gesture he was comfortable with, but he could remember now that arms, hands, were important. Perhaps if he could get closer…

“If I hadn’t been so foolish…oh, my love…I failed you…”

But Crowley wasn’t listening. He was looking at what the angel held in his hands. He was looking at –

“Glassssssesss.”

“Wh – what?”

“Glassssess.” Crowley nudged at the angel’s hands until they parted, revealing a pair of black lenses held by silver frames. “Pleassse. Glassessss.”

It wasn’t easy to put a pair of sunglasses onto a snake’s head, even one so large as Crowley. They dangled rather uselessly down either side of his jaw, the lenses didn’t exactly cover his eyes, and where they did the world became a murky black soup he had no hope of seeing. But it felt…right.

He turned, trying to face the angel, but somehow lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.

“Crowley? Are you…Crowley?”

The voice was too crisp, too sharp, to rich. It was startling.

He shook his head and hissed, but it sounded strange. Thick. His tongue couldn’t get out because there were too many teeth.

Crowley blinked. Not because he had to, but because he suddenly realized he had eyelids.

A hand drifted over and adjusted the glasses, settling them correctly over the ears and across the nose – no that was his hand, his fingers.

His eyes slowly panned up and he was shocked at how clearly he could see the angel standing over him, looking more pale, more drawn, and just a bit thinner than he remembered, clothes a rumpled mess, eyes red.

“Aziraphale?”

“Crowley!”

Two arms suddenly around his shoulders, pulling him up onto legs he barely remembered how to use, wrapping around him, pulling him into the indescribable softness of Aziraphale’s embrace. It took him a moment to remember that he had arms of his own, that he could twist them, twine them, pull Aziraphale even closer.

He could still feel Aziraphale’s warmth pressing into his chest and stomach, but it no longer felt like a blazing fire, or the strange glow of life-giving heat. It was simply a body, pressed close to his. Two bodies trembling, shaking, shoulders heaving, breath ragged.

Aziraphale was still crying, still mumbling apologies into the demon’s shoulder.

Crowley was laughing.

They didn’t let each other go for a long, long time.

--

Crowley was warm.

No, Crowley was happy.

It wasn’t as easy to fit both bodies on the sofa in this form, but they managed – Aziraphale stretched out, Crowley, lying across his chest, legs in a tangle, head tucked against his throat, listening to the sigh of breath, the rumble of heartbeat.

They hadn’t talked about it. Aziraphale had finally admitted to being tired, and they just found themselves here as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I suppose I’ve gotten used to this,” murmured Aziraphale, who never used to lie on his own sofa, trembling fingers tracing through Crowley’s hair.

“I’m used to it, too,” he mumbled back, but used to it didn’t begin to describe it. This was right, this was home, and he knew it was more than a leftover serpentine instinct to bask that had brought him here, that would keep bringing him here for as long as Aziraphale would allow it.

Aziraphale’s right hand was still twined with Crowley’s left, resting on the angel’s chest. Crowely couldn’t stop studying it, turning it, running his thumb across fingers and knuckles and nails. He could feel more than just heat now, he could feel the softness, the rough callus on the side of one finger where Aziraphale rested his pencil as he wrote, the faint hard edges of papercuts. It was an entire world to explore, that hand, full of more wonder than Crowley had ever suspected.

“Might be more comfortable in a bed,” Aziraphale whispered, clearly already on the edge of sleep.

“I’ve got a bed,” Crowley said idly, still looking at the broken edges of Aziraphale’s nails. He’d never seen them like that before. Aziraphale had kept them perfectly manicured since the invention of manicures. “Lots of space, too. More than I can use. But then, all my plants are already here…” He trailed off, realizing what he was saying.

“Mmh,” was Aziraphale’s only reply. The fingers combing through Crowley’s hair were now almost still.

“S’alright, Angel. You rest. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

--

Notes for Americans: Draughts is checkers, and Naughts and Crosses is Tic-Tac-Toe. All temperatures are in Celsius, and I hope I have them accurate.

Snake notes: I am not a herpetologist (reptile/amphibian scientist) but my cousin is, and he provided some notes on snake behavior and biology, which I've used here and elsewhere in my writing, though my attempts to render ectothermic traits onto a warm-blooded body are entirely my own.

Some fans like to HC Crowley as cold-blooded in all his forms, which is fine, but it certainly means more than just "he's a little chilly when it's cold out"! I have a full list for if I ever want to do a cold-blooded-Crowley story, but not all of them made it into this one. Relevant points include: - Ectotherms need to bask to get their heat up to a comfortable temperature before any major activity - Digesting food is a long, slow process. Snakes prefer to rest somewhere warm and safe while this happens - Bundling up can help retain heat (snake sweaters!) but only if the snake is already hot to begin with - Snakes can only actually be safely away from their heat lamps for half an hour or so (depending on ambient temperature) - Torpor is a sort of involuntary state of reduced metabolism that ectotherms enter when it gets too cold. Various other terms also apply, depending on how long the period is, and how intense the cold, but keep in mind - INVOLUNTARY. - Snakes do not like to be touched, handled or contained. Snakes are just not comfortable with physical contact the way mammals are, though they will tolerate it if you stay within the right boundaries - Do not startle a snake.

Thank you all for reading! This was originally from my Christmas Prompt fic, “Boundless Love.” I’ll post the link in the comments!

[joy1579]

bound to you ficlet

a song fic based on “bound to you” by christina agulara

When Jumin Han proposed to MC he made the decision to love her for all of eternity, through all of life’s trials, beyond all the rumors and media mudslinging. So when his wife had insisted he work through their first anniversary, of course he was hesitant. He worried she was hiding her feelings in order to not burden him during the current C&R merger with a newly acquired asset. She had seen his recent stress and late nights, heard Jaehee’s frustration in the RFA chatroom. She had even felt firsthand the knots of tension in his shoulders when she had offered to help him relax one night. He hated the idea of MC sitting alone at home while he approved document after tedious document yet here he sat reviewing the quarterly budget for his latest acquisition.

A knock drew him from his paperwork and he looked up as his chief assistant’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Mr.Han, driver Kim is here to pick you up sir.”

“pick me up? I haven’t requested to go home yet?” Jumin replied confused.

“your wife requested to see you, sir. I am given to understand she has organized something for your anniversary.” Jumin could hear the smirk in Jaehee’s voice as he stood to take his coat. she knew something of his wife’s plan he was sure, with his coat on he moved to follow Jaehee to the car.

MC was more nervous than she had ever been for any public show. She knew she was being silly, she had spent months practicing, getting Zen’s advice on choreography, Jaehee’s advice on makeup and dress, even Luciel had pitched in to automate the lights an audio. so that as long as she hit her marks and started on time everything would be perfect. She had even found the perfect song, though she had adapted it to be slower and have a more vintage feel, the words called to her. she knew exactly what she wanted to tell the man she loved and tonight she steeled herself to show him just like he had shown her at the RFA party only 11 days after they had met.

A knock made her jump and she rushed to pull her tan floor length coat on over her dress. With it securely closed she rushed out to meet Jumin. She couldn’t help the smile she wore when she saw her husband’s eye’s darken with confusion at the sight of her coat.

“darling are you cold? Its plenty warm in here do you have a fever?” he worried over her. she laughed and swatted away the hand he had lifted to feel her head.

“honey bunny I am more than okay! I’m wonderful. I made a surprise for you, do you mind indulging me this evening.” she stretched upward then to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear “I have a table ready for you love. Right this way.” With a wink and a sweep of her coat MC led him to the table she had set for him at the end of the runway like stage. It was set with and ice bucket and unopened bottle of wine along with a cheese tray so he could fully enjoy his wine. he smiled at her lovingly, pulling her to sit in his lap so he could bury his face in her neck. for a moment she was tempted to skip her performance all together. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she simply pulled him into a kiss here and now. Surely she could make even just that worth both there whiles. Then the alarm on her phone chirped a warning for the automated lights and she pulled herself from his arms. “love I’ve planned a show for you. I hope you enjoy it.” With that she blew him a kiss and rushed backstage to get prepared.

It was a small club. Dimly lit with a stage runway in the center. He poured himself a glass of wine as he waited for whatever surprise his lovely wife had planned for him. When the lights went up he couldn’t help but pause glass halfway to his lips. Then the music began and he recognized the tune simply because his wife had been humming it for months. So she had been planning this for some time then. the slow piano resonated around the club to reach every table and then he heard her. There was no mistaking MC’s sultry singing voice, though he had only ever heard it when she sang distractedly to herself. This was different only because he could feel the heart and passion in her voice now. She was singing for him.

“sweet love, sweet love” her voice reverberated from the small speakers, and the deep red velvet stage curtain drew slowly open to reveal MC in a black sequined dress that clung to her curves only to pool around her feet. Jumin felt like he couldn’t breathe for a moment as his eyes traced the bare streak of skin highlighted by the thigh high slit in the dress.

“You're all I need when I'm holding you tight” she took a step forward and he set down his glass all thoughts of wine forgotten. It felt like her eyes were burning him and her voice strangled all coherent thought. He loosened his tie as she stepped from the main stage onto the runway that led directly to his table. He couldn’t take his eyes off of MC as she sparkled under the spotlight, singing about being bound to him. He knew his wife had been a singer before they met, but she had told him that she was unknown and not very good. he had obviously not believed she was bad but he had respected her request for privacy when she told him it embarrassed her. Well he would have to look into her past career now no doubt about it. Perhaps he should invest in a recording studio. No, to be honest he didn’t want to share her voice with anyone, maybe just a room like this in the penthouse. Yes, that would work he would love to see her like this more often after all.

“Oh, I can trust, and boy, I believe in us” she was stepping off stage now and he was sure she could read his mind with that piercing gaze of hers. He could feel her eye’s look him up and down as she spun to give him a full view of her sinfully gorgeous dress. When she faced him again she was close enough to hold and it was only with herculean effort that he resisted the temptation to pull her to him.

“Can't you see that I'm bound in chains” she leaned forward taking his loose tie in her hand to pull him forward before releasing him and skimming her fingers along his shoulders as she circled behind him.

“And finally found my way” in the split second that he lost sight of her he heard a slight rustle and when he turned she had slipped a small box on the table before him.

“I am bound to you” she sang sinking into his lap slowly, “I am Ooh, I am I'm bound to you” she wrapped an arm around his shoulders pressing their foreheads together as the song came to a close. He could feel her breath ghost across his lips and couldn’t hold back anymore. he kissed her fervently holding her tight, he could feel the hum of appreciation as she deepened the kiss. How could he not have known his wife was so talented in performance art. She was truly full of surprises. Slowly she pulled away from him to catch her breath.

“you should open your gift” she said breathlessly “it’s kind of important” he barked out a laugh.

“how could anything be quite so important as loving you?”  he joked as he used one hand to retrieve the box she had brought him. He opened it and smiled gently. “cuff links?”

“look closer honey bunny. What do they say?” she giggled and upon closer inspection he did see that inside they had a small puzzle piece and on that puzzle piece a single word was engraved.

“dad?” he choked pulling a laugh from his wife. “what? When did? When did you find out?” he asked burying his face into her neck and shaking slightly. She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair soothingly.

“about a week ago.” She whispered gently. “I had to see the doctor to confirm, and then I figured since I already had this planned for tonight it would be perfect”

He lifted his head from her neck and locked eyes with her before pulling her into a searing kiss.

“I love you MC”

[artificialqueens]

Washed in the Tide of Her Breathing 1/4 (Branjie)--athena2

A/N: Brooke is a lonely lighthouse keeper and Vanessa washes up on her shore. This started off as a tumblr post I sent to Writ, turned into a one-shot idea, and became this mini multi-chaptered fic. I have so enjoyed writing it so far, and I hope you all enjoy reading it! I appreciate any feedback you have! Thank you to Writ for brainstorming this with me, betaing, and for all your encouragement. Title from Cherry Wine by Hozier.

*I do want to add that there will be mentions of past death, anxiety, and depression throughout, so please be cautious.*

On the day Brooke Lynn Hytes was born, the skies opened up and rain screamed down with her. The rain pounded on the roof and rattled the windows as she was wrapped in a white hospital blanket. Wind tore branches from the trees as her legs kicked around. The streets rose with water as she slept in her mother’s arms.

From then on, it seemed significant events in her life always came with a storm.

She was six when her parents didn’t come pick her up from kindergarten. Brooke had stood on the steps, Little Mermaid lunch box in hand, craning her neck to find her parents in the crowd. She stood there as the swarm of kids and parents thinned out, leaving Brooke all alone on the steps. Breathless empty space stretched as vast as the sea in front of her, sun reflecting the bare pavement. She stood there so long one of the teachers took her inside, and Brooke sat in an empty classroom, trembling with fear, until a police officer came to the school and said there had been an accident.

An accident. It was all Brooke heard when anyone tried to talk to her. An accident. An accident was when another girl bumped into her at recess and Brooke scraped her knee. An accident was when she hit into her mother’s vase and the blue glass shards rippled on the floor.

How could her parents not being there anymore be an accident too?

The town flooded for a week after they died, raindrops falling in time with the tears of a confused young girl, struggling to understand why she had to live in a scary old lighthouse with her grandfather, why her mom and dad couldn’t take her to the park or the library anymore.

The day her grandfather picked her up in his green truck, lightning flashed and thunder tore the sky apart but no rain fell as Brooke sat in the backseat, fearfully clutching her stuffed turtle and not saying a word.

When her grandfather died and she inherited the lighthouse, soft raindrops drizzled to the pavement, trickling down windows like silken threads.

When the storm smashes into the windows as Brooke is wrapped in her quilts one night, waves swelling so fierce they’ll throw ships around like toy boats, ocean lapping up against the rocks like a hungry dog, Brooke wonders what’s awaiting her the next day.

—

The rain is still drizzling down when Brooke wakes, the sky a soft pink, like a paintbrush swept across the world, interrupted with streaks of red like broken blood vessels.

Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.

They’re her grandfather’s words, words that were passed down to Brooke. According to old sailor legends, a morning red sky means a bad storm is coming. A storm worse than the one last night, that howled and splattered outside her window?

Brooke isn’t sure she wants to meet a storm worse than that.

Brooke has a certain routine, and today is no exception. It’s Wednesday, which means breakfast at Nina and Shuga’s diner and therapy with Dr. Ganache. She lays out food and water for her cats, scratching Henry’s ears and rubbing Apollo’s back while they eat. She washes down her medications with ice water and pulls on jeans and a green wool sweater.

Her dark blue pickup truck makes the quick journey down the main street of Cape Charles, the smell of salt and ocean calming her, reminding her that it’s okay to be outside, that nothing bad will happen just because she left the house.

The diner stands beside the three-screen movie theatre, its plush velvet seats like home to Brooke. She’d been sitting in the dark and watching stories unfold on the big screen, salty popcorn stuck to her lips, since she was a kid who couldn’t even reach the counter to take her favorite Reese’s Pieces. The damp cobblestone sidewalk is solid beneath her. She used to run down these streets with her grandfather trailing behind her when her feet were much smaller. When everything was much smaller.

The diner door jingles happily. Shuga, in position behind the counter, greets Brooke with a smile and motions for her to take her usual booth in the back corner. Brooke breathes in the rich smell of sweet syrup and sizzling bacon, the safety of those scents and the warmth of the diner’s pale blue decor filling her.

“Sky sure is red this morning,” Nina comments as she pours Brooke’s coffee. “What’s that thing the sailors say? Red sky in morning–”

“Sailor’s warning.” Brooke’s answer is rough and scratches at her throat like gravel. It’s been a few days since she last talked, and her voice is hoarse from disuse as she speaks now, sipping carefully from her steaming coffee.

“Those sailors were so somber,” Nina says, pursing her lips. “Maybe the warning could be a good warning. Maybe something good is gonna happen.”

Brooke disagrees, but she won’t take that hope from Nina. Nina and Shuga are two of the only people in town who don’t whisper about Brooke being crazy, or share in the more outlandish theories that Brooke is a ghost haunting the lighthouse.

Though sometimes Brooke does feel like a ghost, like there’s not even enough of her to hold down a solid human form. Like she might look at herself in the mirror one day and find nothing there. No sign there ever had been something there.

“Maybe,” Brooke tries.

“You having your usual today?” Nina asks. Brooke always gets the same thing, but Nina likes to check with her just in case.

“Yeah.”

Nina smiles. “I’ll have it right out for you, hon.”

Brooke flicks through what their small town dares to call a newspaper, today’s news-worthy feature being seagulls stealing French fries on the beach. A few minutes later Nina sets the glorious stack of apple-cinnamon pancakes and crispy bacon in front of Brooke, with the extra homemade whipped cream Nina started bringing when she noticed how much Brooke liked it.

“Thanks, Nina,” Brooke says, a wave of affection hitting her.

“Of course.”

Brooke eats slowly, savoring each bite of fluffy pancake, each sip of rich coffee. It’s nice to be able to taste it all, to notice the soft patter of rain on the roof, to be comforted by the booth’s cushion. She focuses on each sensation, like Dr. Ganache encourages, and Brooke appreciates it, a far cry from her bad months when she couldn’t feel or notice anything, the world just a mass of gray around her.

Brooke goes to her therapy appointment and regains her voice with what is the most talking she’ll do all week. It had been uncomfortable to her at first, having to talk so much about herself, her parents, her grandfather. Now, it’s almost a relief to let the words spill out, to get all the thoughts out of her head, like releasing a dam bursting with poisoned water.

Brooke busies herself during her afternoon routine, making sure everything is set for tonight. Her mind calms as her hands come alive, wiping down the windows in the lighthouse tower, cleaning the lenses on the light, and checking the ship schedules. A lot of the ships have already canceled their routes. Sailors are a superstitious bunch, and they’d taken the red sky to heart. The light is scheduled to turn on at 4, but she turns it on now because the rain has grown too thick to see around.

Her grandfather said in the old days they would change the oil of the light and trim the wicks down, but it’s electric now. Brooke spent hours each day following him around, watching his rough, callused fingers tidy the tower and study weather reports, keeping logs of ships scheduled to pull in to Cape Charles that night. Everything she knows about keeping the lighthouse is from him, a former sailor.

He would speak in a soft voice about the sea, his time sailing, how it was important to keep the lighthouse because even with navigation services, that light would outshine everything. Each word was soaked with the salt and brine of the sea, waves roaring in Brooke’s ears as he spoke, and Brooke would just listen, her grandfather never making her talk if she didn’t want to. His voice still clings to the brick of the tower walls as ocean clings to sand. Sometimes Brooke can hear it loud and clear and sometimes it’s just a faint whisper, tinged with the fear of forgetting.

The rest of the day is quiet, just the way she likes it. She exchanges her jeans for soft leggings, heats up milk for hot chocolate, and curls up on the couch with a bowl of mac and cheese, the cats, and Jane Austen movies (she’ll fight anyone who says there’s a better adaptation than the 2005 Pride and Prejudice).The storm rains down in a heavenly wrath with no sign of stopping. The wind wails like a woman in fear of the booming thunder.

An alert comes in that the town streets have flooded and all roads are closed until further notice. The sea should be empty tonight, but Brooke leaves the light on anyway. She always does, just in case someone out there needs the light. Just in case someone needs to get home, wherever they are.

She curls up beneath a pile of blankets with the cats at her feet. It’s cozy and warm and yet sleep takes hours to come, the cats whining with each toss and turn. Brooke swears she can hear her name in the howl of the wind and patter of the rain, like the storm is calling to her, but she doesn’t know why.

—

Gray blots out the sun when Brooke wakes, a typical morning in Cape Charles. She takes her meds and is checking on the light when she sees it.

There’s something down by the water, flapping in the wind.

Breath halts in her throat. Just visible through the rain is a fishing net with something–no, someone–tangled in it.

Heart pounding, Brooke throws on her rain boots and coat and enters the cold rain, water bobbing at her ankles, tall frame shivering as the chill seeps through her clothes. The familiarity of the stone path calms her racing heart, laughter of the young Brooke that used to run down this path–another ghost–carried on the winds of memory.

The land beneath her lighthouse isn’t a beach, just a small piece of rocky sand jutting out at the ocean. She used to spend hours by the water, sand sticking to her legs as she built castles that in her mind were stone, not sand, searching for seashells that her grandfather always praised her for finding, and gazing out at the water and pretending to be a sailor like him, commanding her own ship and fighting off pirates.

Brooke lets the memory fight away her fears as she reaches a woman, net tangled around her like tendrils. Brown hair hangs in soaked curtains around her face, torn clothes black with the water weighing them down.

“Fuck,” Brooke mutters, a million questions running through her mind. How the hell did this woman get here? What happened to her?

Brooke scoops up the woman, net and all. She’s tiny nestled in Brooke’s arms, and something tugs in Brooke’s chest, some need to protect this woman, keep her safe. The feeling only grows as she cuts through the net and lays the woman on her couch before standing blankly, helplessly, in the living room.

What the hell is she supposed to do now? She can’t just leave an unconscious woman in her house. If it’s not outright illegal, it’s certainly wrong, but what choice does Brooke have? The roads are flooded and blocked off; no one can get in or out of the town. They’re both stuck here, stuck like a sinking ship.

Brooke’s breath is speeding into erratic hiccups over having someone here. No one has been inside except Brooke and the cats since her grandfather died seven years ago. When Brooke is inside, all the bad things that happen outside, like parents getting in car accidents and grandfathers having heart attacks, can’t happen. Nothing bad happens in the lighthouse. Nothing can hurt her.

It’s why Brooke never returned the voicemail a woman from the local historical society left years ago, asking if she wanted to open the lighthouse for tours a few days a week during summer tourist season. She told herself it was because she doesn’t need the money and because talking on the phone makes her want to throw up (both of which are true), but the real reason was that she didn’t want people in her lighthouse, didn’t want her safety at risk. She doesn’t want intruders, and it’s hard to think of this woman as anything but that, especially when Brooke’s hands start to tremble and sweat runs down her neck as her vision blurs.

Breathe. She practices the counted breathing from therapy, willing her lungs to accept air. In and out, in and out. She reaches for a piece of rope, one of hundreds all over the house, shaky hands rhythmically tying and untying knots until her mind clears and she focuses on what to do next.

There’s a thin cut on the woman’s forehead and bruises dotting her arms. It makes the woman seem oddly fragile, like a teacup, the bruises and cut like chips in her otherwise perfect appearance. Brooke’s stomach clenches as she looks at the injuries. She’s always been squeamish about blood and medical stuff (she still has to close her eyes when she gets a flu shot), but she finds herself not queasy but saddened as she absorbs the rips in the woman’s clothing. What happened to this woman? Are the marks from waves tossing her about, or are they from a human, a cruelty worse than the randomness of nature? Waves have no control, but a person does, and Brooke’s fists tense at the thought of someone deliberately hurting this woman.

She takes a breath. Whatever happened isn’t important now. She needs to help.

Brooke removes the woman’s soaked clothes and dresses her in flannel pajama pants, wool socks, and a soft gray sweatshirt, taking care in being gentle, in causing this woman as little pain as possible, even if she’s unconscious. Brooke can’t do much for the bruises, but she carefully dabs antiseptic on the cut and tapes a square of gauze over it. She breathes a sigh of relief that there’s no other injuries and piles blankets on top of the woman’s small form.

Only when she’s bandaged up, the clean white making things seem a little less scary, does Brooke realize how lucky this woman actually is. She’s been through who knows what, left on rocky sand in a downpour, and there’s barely a mark on her. There should be scrapes and a lot more bruises; a few broken bones would be expected. Hell, if she was carried by the sea, she’s lucky to be alive, and yet the slice on her forehead is little more than a papercut.

The squashy armchair hugs her like a friend, and Brooke is too tired to answer the questions swirling in her mind, too tired to change out of her cold, damp clothes. The woman’s breathing is steady, hypnotic, and sleep tugs Brooke under like a tide.

—

“Where the fuck am I?” a gruff voice shoots Brooke out of sleep.

The woman is sitting up on the couch, wrestling with the mountain of blankets and whipping her head around in confusion.

“Why is this so heavy?” The woman demands, sending Brooke’s weighted blanket to the floor. “And who the hell are you?”

Brooke’s stomach flip-flops, words speeding through her mind but not leaving her mouth. Things were easier when the woman was unconscious, when Brooke knew to bandage her and warm her up, when there was no talking involved. Now, Brooke has no idea what to do. There might be a first aid manual, but there isn’t one on talking to people, much less people who washed up on the shore in a fishing net.

“Um, I’m Brooke,” she says, inching toward the couch. Her fingers twitch for her rope but she resists. “I–I found you. On the shoreline. It’s okay,” she offers weakly, just because it seems like something she should say.

The woman’s dark brows wrinkle in confusion. “Where am I?” She asks, and some of the harshness leaves her voice, replaced with a fear that Brooke wants to soothe. This woman has obviously been through enough already, and Brooke’s heart aches for her. She remembers how scared she was moving in here the first time, how calm and kind her grandfather had been, and steadies her voice to comfort the woman.

“Cape Charles. It’s a tiny town by the ocean. This is my lighthouse. I found you in…in a net.”

The woman lowers her head. “Yeah. I was on a boat across the cape. I went overboard in the storm. I grabbed a life vest and followed the lighthouse. The net musta stuck to me.”

Brooke is silent. The net wasn’t stuck to her, she was trapped in it. There’s other glaring holes in the story–where’s the vest? Why was she sailing in a storm?–and from the way the woman keeps avoiding her eyes, Brooke is sure she knows it. Brooke decides to just let her be. She’s always shied away from confrontation.

“Uh, is there anyone you need to call?”

The woman just shakes her head and Brooke doesn’t want to pry.

“Right, um, the storm’s still going on, and the roads are closed, so–”

“I’m stuck here,” the woman interjects.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. B-but once the roads are okay, you can go back home.”

“What if I don’t want to go back?” she asks.

Brooke pauses. There’s a storm in the woman’s eyes at the question, brown flashing like lightning. She wonders what might have happened to account for the disgust in her eyes, but it’s not her business.

“Then I’ll help you get wherever you want to go.”

A small smile of approval runs across the woman’s face, her features glowing, like Brooke passed some sort of test. Brooke finds herself smiling in return as the woman speaks. “I guess if I’m gonna be in your house you should know my name. I’m Vanessa.”

“Brooke.”

“Yeah, you told me.”

Brooke’s face burns. “Right.”

Vanessa huffs a small laugh. “You think I could shower?”

“Oh, of course.” Brooke leads her down the hall, and it’s nice to have control again, to focus on a task, even one as simple as walking to the bathroom. She points out where to find towels and changes out of her still-cold clothes before getting some for Vanessa.

“Damn, you rob Lush or somethin’?” Vanessa asks when Brooke returns.

Brooke sheepishly looks at the rainbow mountain of bath bombs beside her towels. She buys one every week from A’keria’s boutique in town, partly because A’keria is always nice to her but mostly because Brooke likes sinking into the tub and watching the colors ripple around her.

“You-you can use one if you want,” she offers, setting the clothes by the sink. “There’s an extra toothbrush under the sink too. Here’s the clothes. Sorry, they’ll be a little big.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vanessa says reassuringly. “Thanks, Brooke.”

“Of course,” Brooke manages, mouth suddenly dry as Vanessa runs a hand through her flowy curls.

Brooke listens to the rain outside with a growing dread. What is she supposed to do with Vanessa in her house until the streets clear? She’s not used to people being there. Even when her grandfather was alive, Brooke would go for walks on the beach or to the movies alone. No one made her feel freer than she did herself.

But then her grandfather died, and Brooke hasn’t had anyone since. Now, it’s almost like her solitude is something she’s stuck in, rather than her choice, and she doesn’t know how to get out of it, doesn’t know how to let someone in. It’s been seven years since she started seeing Dr. Ganache, since she got herself out of that dark place and back into the light, but it still feels like Brooke hasn’t rediscovered her old self or fully formed her new self yet, her edges blurry as she flickers in and out of being.

Her eyes drift the the picture of her grandfather, smiling at her in his big navy coat. He had made her feel safe and comfortable when no one else could, and Brooke vows to try and follow his example with Vanessa.

“Shouldn’t the walls be round if we in a lighthouse?” Vanessa’s booming voice enters the kitchen.

Brooke sees immediately that ‘a little big’ was an understatement. The hem of Brooke’s gray wool sweater brushes Vanessa’s knees, and she’s rolled the sleeves back three or four times to free her hands. It makes her seem smaller, softer, and Brooke’s heart tugs as she’s hit with a sudden image of Vanessa curling into her side, wrapping her arms around Vanessa’s waist, as they cuddle and watch movies. She blinks the thought away.

“This is a cottage attached to the lighthouse,” Brooke explains. “The entrance to the tower is down the hall.”

Vanessa nods and seats herself at the kitchen table. Brooke follows, legs bouncing. She bites her lip, trying to think of absolutely anything to talk about and failing as the silence grows longer.

“I’m kinda hungry,” Vanessa says with a shy grin.

Right. Food. That’s something you offer guests in your house.

It’s almost noon; they might as well have lunch, even if Brooke never had breakfast. “Um, do you like grilled cheese?” It seems a safe enough option. It was what Brooke’s grandfather had made on her first night in the lighthouse, so crispy and gooey that Brooke ate the whole thing even though she hadn’t been hungry all week.

“Hell yeah!”

Brooke smiles as she gets to work, the sizzling of the sandwiches on the griddle filling the kitchen. There’s something about Vanessa, how she’s so unashamedly loud and excited, that puts Brooke at ease, stops her fears over having an intruder.

Vanessa’s grin almost overtakes her face as Brooke sets the plates down.

“So,” Vanessa begins eagerly, “is this place haunted? I thought all lighthouses were haunted.”

“I don’t think so,” Brooke says. “I’m pretty sure my great-great-grandfather died here though.”

Vanessa clicks her tongue in approval. “See? Haunted. He’s probably just waitin’ to pop out of a mirror.”

“It’s not haunted.”

“But it could be.” There’s a mischievous glint in Vanessa’s eyes as she eats her sandwich.

“Well, any place could be haunted,” Brooke argues.

“Yeah, but when you think of haunted, it’s an old house, an old hospital, or an old, scary-ass lighthouse.” Vanessa nods to herself, chin jutting out toward Brooke. Brooke has to admit her argument is pretty solid.

“Do you want this place to be haunted?” Brooke asks.

“Oh, hell no! I don’t want that spooky shit near me!”

Brooke laughs and Vanessa laughs too, and Brooke is wondering if maybe this won’t be so bad. If maybe they’ll be okay for a few days like this. But then the moment ends and Brooke studies the cheese dangling from her bread as the silence fills the kitchen once more, and she thinks she was wrong.

“How long do you think the roads will be closed?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke shrugs. “Depends on the storm. It’s supposed to stop Friday night. If it does, things should be clear by Monday or Tuesday.”

Four days, Brooke thinks. She has to get through at least four days of eating with someone, sharing her TV, having Vanessa wear her clothes. Four days of sharing her space, of someone being there. Four days of Vanessa breathing in the same salty air as her, looking out at the same deep blue water. Would she search the waves for answers, like Brooke did? What kind of questions did Vanessa want the swirling blue to answer?

Brooke is thinking too much. It’s just a few days. A few days, and her life goes back to normal. Vanessa is just some stranded stranger, nothing more.

“Sorry, what?” Brooke asks, heat spreading through her when she notices Vanessa’s lips moving.

Vanessa looks down at her empty plate. “I just–thanks for helping me. For letting me stay here and everything.”

Her words ring with sincerity, and Brooke finds herself trusting Vanessa despite the obvious lie about how she got here. “It’s no problem.”

“Well, thank you.” Vanessa whips her head up, eyes sparkling. “So, can I see the tower?”

—

“This is some real spooky shit.”

Brooke snorts as Vanessa looks up into the tower, old red brick mixed with black metal stairs circling the walls to the top. When Brooke was younger, she used to think looking up into the tower was like looking up from a giant’s mouth, rickety metal steps turning into the giant’s teeth, which she had to climb to get to the light and save the town.

“We can’t both fit on the stairs, so I’ll go first to lead you,” Brooke offers. She always went first with her grandfather, knowing that he was behind her if she fell or got scared. She wonders if she’ll ever have that same trust in someone.

They curve up the walls, steps narrowing as they get higher. Finally, they approach the opening that leads to the observation deck. Brooke pulls herself through, muscles rippling with familiarity. She turns and grabs Vanessa’s hands to help her up.

Brooke stands on the deck, calm at once, the floor-to-ceiling windows circling her and showing off the rainy landscape and deep sea. She turns to show Vanessa and finds her sticking her head through the opening to gaze down into the tower.

“Whoa,” Vanessa breathes. “It’s like one of those collider-scope things.”

“Kaleidoscope?” Brooke asks around a smile.

“Yeah! Come look!”

Brooke shakes her head. “I-I’m afraid of heights.”

“But you’re up here,” Vanessa says in confusion, pulling herself up.

“I can be up here, I can look at the water, but I can’t look down. When I look down, I feel like I’m falling,” Brooke explains.

“I guess that makes sense,” Vanessa agrees. Then she notices the windows and what lies beyond them, and Brooke’s face warms as she watches Vanessa’s eyes light up. “Holy shit, Brooke.”

It’s a view Brooke herself saw for the first time at age six and hasn’t tired of since. A view that makes her fears seem smaller. A view that calms her, makes her feel less alone without her parents by showing her the ocean and the world and all the life inside it. A view that made her cry the first time she came up after her grandfather died, and knew that the view was hers alone now, that she would never share it with him again.

Vanessa is here with her now, and Brooke can’t fight the burst of affection, the gratitude of having her here. Of knowing that she isn’t alone, that someone exists to see this ocean with her.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Vanessa declares, crossing to the windows and staring out at the water.

“Yeah, it is.” Brooke works through her routine as Vanessa stares out the rain-splattered windows, and she can’t help but notice that Vanessa’s face is just as radiant as the sea.

—

Vanessa almost trips over Henry and Apollo when she climbs down the stairs, the cats in their usual spot below the first step. Neither cared to climb the 97 steps to the light, but they waited every afternoon for Brooke to come back down and see them.

“You have cats!” Vanessa squeals, gripping Brooke’s arm to steady herself, her hand warm through the thick wool Brooke’s wearing.

“Yeah. Apollo is the gray and Henry is the brown,” Brooke explains as Vanessa crouches to pet them. “Don’t feel bad if they don’t like you at first. They’re kind of only used to me.”

Yet Apollo nestles his nose right up against Vanessa’s palm without hesitation, and it somehow seems fitting.

—-

Vanessa insists on helping Brooke with dinner, boiling the pasta and sneaking samples of the lemon-garlic sauce Brooke is making, eagerly mixing shrimp and linguine together with the biggest spoon she could find.

“So, um, where are you from?” Brooke asks Vanessa, almost losing her fork in her sweaty grasp. She wishes she had a piece of rope to calm her. Before dinner, Brooke had reviewed some of the topics Dr. Ganache had told her were good starting points for meeting new people, and she’s hoping they’ll be okay for this.

But the look that flits across Vanessa’s face is anything but okay.

“I live about an hour away, in the city. I used to live in Florida, though. Moved up about 10 years ago, after my parents died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Brooke says quietly. “You’re probably sick of hearing that, though,” she adds. Brooke remembers how it was all she heard for weeks after her parents died, all from somber-faced grown-ups she didn’t know.

“Yeah. After a while, you know it’s all people are gonna say, and you kinda stop hearing it.” Vanessa shrugs, then looks into Brooke’s eyes. “Thank you, though. It’s nice of you to say.” She scoops up a piece of shrimp. “How about you? You always live here?”

“In Cape Charles, yeah. Moved into the lighthouse with my grandfather when I was six. My…my parents died too.” Brooke wasn’t planning to tell Vanessa–she’s just here for a few days, and practically a stranger–but something about her has earned Brooke’s trust. Some sort of understanding that Vanessa knows how it feels and won’t pity her.

Vanessa’s face falls. “You’re probably sick of it too, but I am sorry.”

It’s sincere, just like everything Vanessa says, and Brooke doesn’t care what secret she’s hiding, why Vanessa shuts down and abruptly changes the subject when Brooke asks if she sails a lot, in an effort to find out why she was on a boat in a storm. Whatever got her here is clearly a sore subject and Brooke vows not to ask again.

“Do you like hot chocolate? I could make some,” Brooke offers after dinner. It’s another safe option, she’s hoping. Her grandfather’s weapon of choice whenever Brooke was upset. She knows he had been shaken to his core when he would put the mug on her bedside table only for it to go untouched, whipped cream melting into hot liquid before the whole thing went ice-cold, the effort of sitting up, grabbing the mug, and drinking it just too much for Brooke during her bad months.

“Of course I do! Is there a show or somethin’ we could watch, since we’re here for a few days?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke pauses to think. Vanessa seems like someone that likes action, something exciting. “Game of Thrones will take us a few days. I might punch my pillows when we hit the final season, though.”

“Why?”

Brooke grins wickedly. “You’ll see.”

—

It’s not until later that night, after putting fresh sheets on the spare bed (Vanessa throwing herself across the mattress to reach), when Vanessa is in Brooke’s plaid pajamas that she keeps tripping on, sleeves rolled back to her elbows, slurping hot chocolate from a lobster mug, that Brooke sees it. Or, rather, the lack of it.

All Brooke sees are Vanessa’s smooth, unblemished wrists, where there had been mottled blue and purple just this morning.

This can’t be right. Had she imagined the bruises? No, she knows she saw them, can still feel the anger pulsing under her skin at the thought of Vanessa being hurt. But how could they be gone already? Brooke glances at the fresh gauze Vanessa put on her forehead after showering. If Brooke takes it off, will she find perfect, unbroken skin there too?

Her grandfather told her there were all kinds of creatures in the ocean. Most people regarded them as legends, but sitting by the fire, hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, Brooke had believed him.

Is it possible Vanessa is something…more? Not a mermaid; in the stories, they can only walk on earth for a short time. A siren? But sirens are nasty creatures in the legends, luring people to their island for the joy of watching them drown, and Vanessa has been nothing but kind. Maybe Brooke is just trying too hard to make something of nothing, to keep hold of her grandfather’s stories. Maybe she’s trying to find some reason, some excuse, for why she likes Vanessa, actually enjoyed the day with her.

It would be easier if Vanessa has some kind of magic, because at least that would explain why Brooke falls asleep with a smile on her face and Vanessa’s laugh looping in her mind.

[alitheamateur]

The Grind-Chapter 29

I helped clean up the dishes, and he emptied all our trash into the dumpster behind the shop before we journeyed to the next stealthy location on his to-do list. I made sure to cork the pricey wine bottle so I could take the last bit home to sip on in bed with him, not wanting to waste a drop of the bittersweet goodness. Colton peeled off his jacket to drape over my bare back since the evening temperatures had chilled noticeably, then we locked up and he offered his aid to the car, considering my acutely inebriated state.

Instead of following the traffic further into the eventful side of town, we made a left and headed off towards the outskirts. It was a part of Pittsburgh that normally would have me on edge consider the late hour, but with Colton at the wheel there was truly never any reason to fear. He wasn’t a certified superhero, or a proclaimed savior of humanity, but I felt he was my own personal, daunting vigilante. I was independent, and capable on my own, but with him I could be fearless.

I looked out the side window as the streetlights and skyscrapers became scarce, and felt the dizzy aftershock of the merlot floating through my veins, creating a warm blaze over my cheeks. Rolling the window down a crack for some cool breeze to chill my alcoholic hot flash, we turned on the very familiar street where Mac’s gym used to sit. I stretched in my seat to get a good look around, continuing the trend of confusion.

“You okay, Livvy?” Colton tested as he parallel parked directly in front of the cloudy, dust stained windows of the unoccupied building.

“Yeah, just a little hazy from the wine is all. And wondering what we’re doing here.”

He only half-smiled and opened the door, gesturing for me to follow suit. Checking carefully for any oncoming vehicles, I slung open the passenger side to meet my offered escort on the sidewalk. The “A” of the sign above the doorway was cracked and barely hanging on by some sketchy wires, and the street number that was stickered on the glass was pared and faded. I felt instantly sad for Colt seeing the current state his once second home. In fact, it had probably been more of a home to him than the old, dingy apartment he was held up in when we first met, considering the innumerable hours he spent training here.  As our steps accidently synced in speed toward Mac’s, Colton tore away a graffiti marked “For Sale” sign heftily tapped to the glass. He disconnected our hands to pull a key tucked away in a pocket of his wallet…

Shards of broken glass from the overhead lights furthermore shattered as we walked over the polluted floor of the abandoned gym. Most of the equipment remained intact and the ring still stood in its place, only now stained a bit with the passing year of lacked maintenance. A red-wrapped box, taped with a black bow had been placed in its center, which I gathered was exactly where Colton was dragging me. He gaped the stretchy, leather-like ropes open and grasped my forearm to keep me from woozily face planting. From side glance, I watched him drink in the sight of my leaning figure, and the spilling out of cleavage as I did so.

“I hate seeing the place like this. I know it has to be pretty brutal for you too, babe.” I weakly slurred in a sympathized manner.

“This place got a lotta memories, for sure. For the both of us, hm?” He approached me from behind covering me in a bear hug, kissing the crook of my neck, and inhaling in my most customary scent. A reminder of the first night we spent together standing in that very spot made the echo of our moans, and the feel of his hands on me play back like a fantasy in my mind, and I sunk further into his body.

“Be careful talking about such things, Ritter. I might just be drunk enough to let you take advantage of me right here again.”

“As much as I need to get my hands on you, you should open ya’ present first.” He suggested, nudging me onward with a pat to the behind.

I squatted to lift the box, and felt the barely-there weight of its contents. Colt remained in observance over my shoulder, quietly inspecting for a reaction as I worked my nails over the knotted, silk bow closure. It fell to my feet, tickling over my exposed toes in the stilettoes I wore, and I then dropped the cardboard lid shortly after. Lined with tissue paper inside, the black gloves Colton wore to fight Danny Mendez were laid next to each other. The grained leather was softer than when I had first gifted him with them, now broken in and loose due to the blows thrown, and punches blocked.

“Colton. These belong to you, babe. I don’t even deserve a pair this nice. And besides, they have your name on ‘em, silly.” I reasoned, turning slow to face my one-man audience.

“I think I can maybe do somethin’ about that little name issue, pretty girl.”

Suddenly, the crisp box and its contents crashed to the floor, falling buoyantly from my now numb hands. Instead of spinning around to meet his smiling eyes, I had to sink my sights to discover him knelt a few feet from me, caressing a square velvet case.

“Colton, what ar-.”

“You listen, ‘n let me talk this time, baby.”

Uncontrollable outlines of mascara black tears initiated abruptly, and the white noise of passing traffic, and distant sirens ceased.

“The second I looked into those bright emerald eyes of yours Livvy, a fuse kicked inside me. All those emotions that I had turned off a long time ago, fuckin’ came roaring back. The typical me, woulda walked right out that morning with a coffee to-go, without a second thought. But it was like every time I looked back at ya’, I swear I could literally feel my heartbeats inside of me. I coulda counted them out loud, Liv. You had me in this… this trance or somethin’. You know I ain’t gonna say all this the way you deserve to hear it, but I need you to know what you are to me, Elliott. How much you mean t’ me.”

I could hear his voice crack under the pressure he had put on himself, and the lump of tearful release he was trying to choke back into his throat.

“There’s a billion damn reasons why I don’t deserve ya’. We both know that. But there’s another billion reasons why I want to. You’re the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met, and the only one I know who could get me laughin’ like a damn idiot the way you do. I love that you always have a little smudge of leftover makeup unda’ your eyes when you wake up every mornin’, and that you can have me beggin’ in desperation the second you put on a pair of those shoes like the ones ya’ wearin’ now. And don’t even get me started on how thrilled I get seeing you strapped into a pair of sparring gloves. As nervous sick as it gets me, I love it all the same. I ain’t never wanted to be a better man, babe. For myself, and sure as hell not for anyone else. But the man I am with you, the man you turn me into, is a far better one that I ever thought I could be. C’mere, Livvy baby. I ain’t gonna bite.”

Following the suggestive direction of his nod, I weakly closed the distance between us, and he took my chattering hand into his. He laughed, and tried to still the very obvious nervous, euphoric emotion coming through my skin.

“You are such a beautiful, loving, kind heart. Not to mention sexy in the most subtle ‘n real way. You’re strong as a fuckin’ ox, inside & out, and you sit my ass straight in line every day. God knows I need that. I want to spend the rest of my life being ya’ sidekick, and watchin’ you succeed with whatever your heart wants. I can’t promise I’ll be as perfect as all the otha’ men you truly deserve, and I need ya’ to be patient wi’ me when I get all caught up in me head. There ain’t nobody else I’d rather have nursin’ my wounds after a fight, or eatin’ a whole gallon of ice cream with on a cheat day. You’re my only light, and any chance I have at bein’ a decent man is only because of you. So, Liv Caroline Elliott, will you marry me?”

The flawless solitaire sent iridescent beams of sparkle bouncing across the ceiling as the light caught it in Colton’s suddenly shaking hand. The stone was impressively hefty in carats, and was uniquely chiseled into the shape of an octagon. I knew that little quality wasn’t just a coincidence, and Colt had made this purchase with careful consideration and lots of preparation. His dedicated search for the perfect diamond to join the two of us together was a thoughtful sentiment no one could refute.

He bore his soul without question, so unnaturally against his nature, and let his every emotion spring forth for me to potentially criticize and dismiss. The metamorphosis I had witnessed overtake him the last months satisfied my hearts every yearning, and I knew fully that Colton Ritter was the only man who would ever fill the shoes of my true love. As tears began saturating his soft, bristle-like eyelashes too quick for him to conceal and rub away with his shirt sleeve, I wordlessly nodded an accepting, smiling ‘yes.’

“You ain’t gettin’ off that easy 2-1. A man’s gotta hear you say it.”

“Yes, Colton. Yes, yes, yes! A hundred times over, yes. I will marry you. Only if you promise me, to stop selling yourself so short and trying to convince the world what a monster you are. When it comes to the cage, sure you’re unforgiving and dangerous. But otherwise, we both know that’s so far from the truth. Whether I’m the only lucky individual who gets to see it behind closed doors or not, you’re so kind. And you’re the most loyal man I have ever met. Any time I’ve been lucky enough to spend with you, have been the best minutes of my entire life. And when I happen to think about the time passed without you, I cringe at the memories we could’ve made. I want nothing more than to spend whatever life I have left by your side.”

The feeling of the cool silver band as he slid it with ease over the knuckle of the proper finger sent a tsunami of wedding color schemes, and potential venues flooding into my train of thought. Never was I the girl for fairy tales, and tulle and princes riding in to rescue the damsel, but the countless possibilities of marital bliss with Colton had birds chirping and singing around my head.

My newly crowned fiancé lunged in to seal the celebration with a deep kiss, pulling me into him by a hand on the back of my neck. The sticky tears wetting his face mixed with my own as our faces touched in embrace, and Colton dipped me like the closing move of a Salsa dance, laughing when I yelped in surprise.

“What is it about this little place, I wonder? It seems Mac’s has been pretty important to us over the last years.” I pointed out, as he kissed the fine jewelry now situated on my finger.

“Yeah…… Well, uhm... About that…”

I looked at him through slit eyes, and cocked a quizzical, suspicious brow at what had him so apparently tongue tied.

“You’re right. This shit hole has been pretty damn important t’ me. And a’ course, to us too. I can’t stand to see it just sittin’ here. Rotting.”

“I’m sure if there was anything Mac could do, sweetheart, he would’ve already. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the next owner will give it a good makeover, y’know? Freshen it up.” I attempted to cheer him up with positive outlook, and cheery suggestions.

“Oh, I think you right. The next owner is gonna get this place back on its feet, and back to it’s roots. Some new bags first thing, and a definite fuckin’ fumigating.” His nose crinkled as he looked around at the mildewed ceiling.

“It sold? Someone finally bou-“

I froze, and Colton’s instantaneous smile furthermore proved my suspicions. He had torn down that weathered ‘for sale’ sign before we came inside, and the little key tucked in his wallet should’ve been my tell-tale.

“COLTON?! It’s yours? You bought it? How? Whe-“

“Hey, hey, hey, hey. Take a breath, ya’ crazy chatterbox. Yes, I bought it. And yes, it’s OURS.” Colton annunciated the significance of ‘ours’ in his confession, assuring I understood that this cherished little corner of a rickety, dark corner block in Pittsburgh now belonged to us. Together.

“I was thinkin’… How does 21 Punches sound to you? I mean, I’d like to have Mac maybe be a manger for me, y’know, when I can’t be here ‘n stuff. But I do wanna change that sign out front.”

Invisible atoms of a tranquil fog consumed the every corner of being, and my legs felt insubstantial on a cloud of celestial contentment. This stiff as cement man, who seemed to turn to near wet, molding clay in my presence wanted to name his most prized possession after a silly, what I viewed as irrelevant, high school basketball number from my ancient days as a Westfield Warrior. I half expected a hidden crowd to jump out into a surprise party, or a horse drawn carriage to wheel up outside to seal the finishing touches on an evening of unadulterated shock and romance.

“I think you’re the best thing about this smelly, foggy, freezing city. And I think you should take me home right now, and let me show you exactly how amazing I think you are.”

Forgetting any class or feminine daintiness, I grabbed firmly around the bulge of his thin, extremely well-fitting slacks and parted two buttons of his shirt to tickle his beating chest.

“Home? We own the place now, ya’ naughty lil’ thing. I could just take ya’ right fuckin’ now if I wanted to.”

“Slide your hand under this dress and get to it then, Mr. Ritter.” I sighed fervently into his ear, sloppily sucking his neck just under the line of his beard.

The lack of undergarments he discovered as he used two fingers to crawl up the side of my leg caused him to groan out hauntingly.

“Your wish, is my fuckin’ command, Mrs. Ritter.”

tags: @torialeysha @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog @littleluna98

[glamrockmonarch]

Goddess Series: Vesta (PresentDay!Roger Taylor Fluff)

Warnings: we all want some smut, I know...but because this is Vesta-based I kinda couldn’t bring myself to do it! Although, fear not for I will also be doing an alternate version with Roger for Discordia.

A/N: Someone requested for Bri proposing and I thought it would be unfair not to have one for Roger. Also, y'all are thirsty for bang bang boy. BTW this is unrelated to other pieces.

The afternoon sun hit your window as it did every day at six. The warmth of the orange sun falling and hiding behind a hill before setting for the night to fall upon the city made you aware of the time passed since you first sat down at your small desk in the room contiguous to yours and Roger’s room.

The house, which now was a lot more than a simple place to live in and felt warm in your bones and on those of anyone who stepped inside, was a beauty bought by the two of you in a shared effort at keeping the expenses divided and in order for you to claim as much independence from your wealthy boyfriend as it was possible to do.

Without a doubt, it had been your feminine touch and modern style what made of the one-story home that extended far across the property, your room leading to a garden you religiously tended to in the mornings before leaving for work, enjoying the smell and sight of the flowers growing outside your french doors.

Stretching in your seat, you saved your work and turned the computer off before standing from your chair and checking your wristwatch.

The clock red exactly 6:05 so you left the small office and walked out into the hallways to seek for your boyfriend. Finding him, you giggled at the sight of the man you loved so much standing in front of the oven with a kitchen apron.

“What’cha cookin’?” You asked him with a humorous tint on your voice.

Roger looked back at you for a second and his brow furrowed as he found you staring. He pointed at the table behind you and you gasped when you realised he had set it all up for a small dinner.

“Would you look at that!” You clapped your hands and wrapped your arms around your waist. “Rog, what’s going on? I know it is not our anniversary and you don’t cook at all…”

Of course, you were suspicious of your boyfriend. The reason why you met in the first place was because you were a young talented chef working on a famous restaurant in London, you had been lucky enough to work on a place where the pay was not too bad and the clients always included celebrities who had a taste for more than food but also for knowing who the hell was behind their delicious meals. One night you unknowingly served a delicious Paris-Brest to a tv producer and he liked it so much he had you come over to his table and invited you to cook on a morning tv show. Taking the chance meant you met celebrities from time to time, and with it being so well known that Roger Taylor was an awful cook, when his turn to come on the show came, the hosts made the most of it and invited him over to your little cooking segment where you had a great laugh trying to teach the man how to make something easy and delicious: Banana-Walnut Coffee Cake Muffin Tops. The chemistry had been undeniable between the two of you and soon you found yourself getting down to more than dining together…

“You cannot blame a man for trying…” Roger pointed out.

With a smile on your face, you saw the cooking book laying on top of the counter and pursed your lips.

Roger was following one of your recipes from the very first book you published. Brian had insisted you had to do it and seeing as you did have many dishes in mind outside of only pastries you thought it was a great idea. Roger had been sitting beside you during half of the writing sessions for the book, he remained quiet and wrapped his arm around you while you half sat and half laid on his lap with your laptop on your own lap. Roger would read something while you let your creative juices flow; always after a cooking session to test the recipe. And always including some backstory and afterthought to each recipe. Perfect for a light brunch date,  comfort food, great for a new cook! Although challenging - rewarding and tasty.  There never failed to be a small note at the bottom of the page.

However, Roger owned a copy of each one of your cooking books, your boyfriend never touched your recipes unless it was as a sous chef.

“Please,” Roger took you out of your daydream and you smiled at him once he dropped the apron on the kitchen island and grabbed your hand. “come on, dinner is ready!”

“But what’s on the oven?” You looked over your shoulder with the concern of a burned meal.

Roger shrugged and led you to a seat. “Don’t worry.”

After a second you realised he had taken the time to prepare some sort of dessert for tonight’s dinner, this peaked your curiosity but you remained quiet about it watching how your boyfriend brought the Avocado Sushi “Biscotti” to the table for the appetizer.

Chuckling, you closed your eyes and gave a pouty smile.

“Oh God, Roger…” You shook your head in disbelief, it smelled quite well and looked as good as it had looked on the book.

He even had a bottle of pinot grigio to pair it with.

“Is everything okay?” You looked up at him in concern.

Roger smiled at you with a joy so pure he resembled a child for a moment. It was nothing bad what he wanted to do that evening. He was aware of the stress you were under preparing for the opening of your own pastry shop, creating new recipes and talking to the designers about the look of the shop, you had to be on it and although you seemed to have it all under control, Roger could tell you needed a break and perhaps some space to breathe - it showed by the way you had been going out for dinner more regularly lately when you loved to put your music on and dance around the kitchen to present Roger with a meal delicious and homemade.

Then of course, was the heavy velvet box burning Roger’s pocket for weeks now. He could not think of a way to pop the question and he felt quite stupid going down on his knee, so he thought of a better way to do it. A way you that would surprise you and make you feel especial. Your boyfriend planned something that he knew you would love more than a fancy restaurant.

“Yes, of course!” He opened the bottle and you ate the appetizers together.

This was a wonderful little taste - no pun intended, of what the meal ahead would be like with Roger cooking.

The fish was delicious, the side of veggies was beautifully cut and how could you ask for anything else when Roger was in a fine mood, popping jokes and reminiscing of old pranks from his time on the road with his bandmates. You laughed and told him stories from your university years, which to him were as crazy and weird sounding as his stories were to you. It just happened that you two lived very different lives in very different times.

At some point, Roger stood from the table and went to get his dessert out of the oven. The smell overwhelmed you as you recognized that bitter smell of coffee. Your head turned to watch, the glass of wine still on your hand as you were about to take another sip, when the memory struck you.

“Are those…” You sniffed around the air, stretching out your neck to catch a whiff of banana and cinnamon. “you did not!” You accused him with your eyes wide open.

Roger laughed as he set the tray down, the muffin tops had been ready for a while but Roger hid them in the oven and kept the temperature as low as possible so they would stay warm but not burn.

“Well, seems like I did!” He bragged and served a couple of the Banana-Walnut Coffee Cake Muffin Tops on a plate.

You watched him come over to the table with it. Once he set them down you covered your face with your hands and giggled.

With your mascara a little smudged from the time spent in front of the computer you felt a couple of tears prickle your eyes as you smelled the delicious pastries laid in front of you. Roger watched with his hand rubbing his chin, a smirk playing with his features.

“You do have to try them, I don’t know if they are good.” He motioned towards the plate and you sighed.

Why would he do this? This was the very same dish that brought you together - as to say.

“And while you’re at it, love…” Roger rummaged through the pocket of his jacket and revealed to you a small box of soft black velvet. “I cannot promise to cook every night...but I will eat whatever you make. If you marry me, of course.”

You laughed and took in a deep breath, taking in the sight in front of you. Roger looking at you with a confident look on his face; knowing well that he had somehow pulled off a great dinner and surprised you, he was sure you would never give him a negative answer, so overcoming the temptation of playing with his emotions, you nodded your head and reached out to put your hand on top of his tattooed one.

“I will marry you but you try the muffin tops first.” You replied, aware of the fact that Roger sometimes misjudged the amount of sugar needed for desserts.

In a heartbeat, Roger grabbed one of the muffin tops and gave it a bite. He started eating it and shrugged in content as he tasted nothing bad on his own cooking.

“It’s a perfect recipe, what can I say?” He complimented you.

Wiping his hands carefully, he opened the box and held out his hand for yours and pulled the ring out of its little cushioned bed. He slid the golden ring on your finger and stared at it in amazement for a moment.

“I might cry Rog.” You warned him in a whisper, already feeling too overcome with joy.

Roger huffed and turned away, he really hated to see you cry even if it was just because you were laughing too hard for too long. Roger hated it!

“Oh, stop that!” He said.

Your boyfriend stood from his chair and went to your side to offer his hand so you grabbed it. He pulled you to your feet and as you were level with him you wrapped your arms around his neck, an honest and childish smile spreading through your eyes, cheeks and lips mimicked his.

[frankie2902]

Rose of Fate; Jakoby X Reader Imagine! Source is pinterest again! {Teehee.. pinterest is life! XD}

Imagine...

You sigh as you look again down at your phone, no text, no call, no nothing. You were here because you'd finally convinced your significant other to participate in a weekly date night in order to fix things between you but it would seem that they have decided attendance is not mandatory.

"Ma'am/Sir? Can I get you anything to drink at least? I know you're waiting for someone" the nice waitress comes to asks you for the third time. you can't help the sad frown that comes to your face as you finally break, it's obvious what your boyfriend/girlfriend was saying by not showing up. They'd said so themselves earlier that day that if they didn't show that meant they didn't want to be together anymore but you had to take the chance that they might.

"It's been three hours, if they're not here by now then they're not coming" You finally rationalize with yourself as you reach down for your bag to tip at least tip her for being so nice. You can feel the pitying eyes of the others around you and bite down on the inside of your lip as a tear falls but suddenly the chair across from you scrapes back.

"I'm sorry I'm late my love, things were so hectic at the station that I couldn't get away" You straighten instantly, feeling the tear slip down your face and swipe it away on instinct as a handsome Orc man in a white button up shirt and black slacks sit down across from you. You blink in shock as the waitress sighs with relief and says she'll give you both a moment. That’s when he leans forward a little with an apologetic smile on his face.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, My name is Nikolas if you'll be willing to play along I think the man/woman who stood you up is an absolute fool" He tells you kindly, offering you the red rose he'd had in his hand. You quickly realize his kindness is almost enough to bring back the tears back and take a steadying breath.

You carefully accept the rose, smiling at the sweetness of its smell as you thank him sincerely. Its thorns had been carefully removed to prevent injury, roses have always been your favorite. You wonder for a moment why he would have a random rose on him like this but then your eyes drift to how smartly he's dressed and your jaw drops as the realization hits you.

"Oh my gosh.. You were not stood too! Were you?" You ponder quietly, he blinks and chuckles nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he looks down at the table. Well that was an answer if ever you were looking for one, you quickly reach across and touch the back of his hand lightly to reassure him. "Well I think we both have our fair share of fools to deal with then huh?"

He looks back up at you and smiles sweetly, his eyes wide as though relieved that you weren't judging him but why would you? He's so handsome, you can't wrap my head around the fact that this woman or man wouldn't show up. On your end however it was told to you daily why your s.o. wouldn't want to be seen with you, painfully so. At least you wouldn't have to deal with that anymore thankfully.

After twenty minutes filled with amazing conversation and a delicious meal you were finding yourself even more confused as to why any woman or man would reject this beautiful soul. You lean forward with your chin resting on top of your interlaced fingers and smile as he tells you about his day and about how his partners wife had been the one to kindly try and set up this date for him.

"Well I think he/she's seriously missing out, I haven't been able to figure out why someone would stand you up in the first place the whole time we've been sitting here" You tell him as you take a sip of wine, you see a pinkness flow into his face and can't help but think not for the first time that he's adorable. Then waitress then comes back with your checks, even though he had insisted that he pick the whole thing up you had managed to convince him to either let you pay your own way or let you pay for his as a thank you for his kindness. As she walks away he turns back to you and shrugs slightly as he answers your assertion.

"Well I'm not exactly anyone's type as I've been told, what with my filed tusks and being an Orcish cop" He speaks so frankly, not even looking at you as he again rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as though this is pain he deals with every day. You feel an instant pull of guilt, putting down your glass and are about to reassure him that he's an absolute delight when his eyes flick back up to your face and he gestures right back to you. "Meanwhile I've been thinking the same thing about you! What fool would dare to pass a chance to spend time with you? I certainly think they're missing out as well"

He laughs but as he says this you feel a pain in your chest, reminded that your own boyfriend/girlfriend didn't have half the decency this Orc man did. Your lips part slightly as you think of what to say to this, should you just agree? You have no idea, so you just mirror his earlier body language. You glance down to the table with a small cheeky smile on your face, cheeks flushing with the thinly veiled compliment. You notice his ear twitch and his nostrils flare slightly as the depressing feeling washes over you.

"Well thank you but I don't think I'm all that special, my own boyfriend/girlfriend couldn't bring themself to walk two blocks and be here to fix things so.." You feel the words flow forward before you can filter them and suddenly you feel your eyes brimming again, throat tightening just a little bit. You laugh and blink rapidly, fanning your face a little as you lift the wine glass and set it a little farther away from you. "Ooh, my gosh I'm so sorry, this wine is getting to my head"

This time it's Jakoby, as he told you he prefers to be called, who reaches out but he doesn't touch your hand like you had done for him. Instead he picks up the rose that he'd given you, a soft smile on his face as his golden eyes meet yours.

"Do you think this single rose is special? It's only one and its thorns have been removed, all it has is red petals and a green stem, green leaves." He speaks so carefully, pointing out each part of the rose in turn as you shake your head clearly not understanding what he means. You take the rose back from him as he hands it to you, leant forward as well as you cradle the rose gently, admiring it.

"Oh no! it's beautiful! I think it's more precious by itself, anyone can give someone a bouquet but a single rose is much more romantic." You smile as you trace your fingers over the petals, leaves and stem, thinking of all the reasons why you love roses so much. "Its petals are soft as velvet, the colors are gorgeous, it's smell is intoxicating! Its leaves can be used for tea and lotions and even without its thorns its gorgeous, softer even, than it would be with them."

"Absolutely, so if one single rose has all those beautiful qualities don't you think you have that and much more?" You freeze mind blown as he tells you this softly, his hand just barely curling around the top of yours as it cradles the flower petals. He lowers his head to catch your gaze, smiling so sweetly. For a moment your stunned at this eloquent delivery that makes your heart flutter and a smile crawl across your face.

You also notice how close you are as the silence stretches on, though you hardly notice the quiet as you find yourself tracing his features with your gaze. He truly is magnificent, the most handsome male you'd met before and with his kindness much more appealing than your jerk of an ex boyfriend/girlfriend. You break apart as a small voice giggles to your left and you both flinch, sitting back in your seats as the waitress stares down at you. You imediately notice the chocolate cake in her hands as she sets it and your paid checks on the table.

"Oh we didn-"

"I know but you two are just so cute that we wanted to do something for you!" She tells you sweetly, nodding back to the group of wait staff and bartenders gathered at the bar a few of whom wave emphatically at us. Its then you realize that the restaurant is very much empty and you think that Jakoby notices this as well as he speaks up.

"I'm sorry miss but what time is it?" Jakoby asks her curiously, You also look down at the watch on your wrist and nearly gasp as you find that its almost ten at night. The waitress blushes and laughs nervously as Jakoby looks to you to find out why exactly you look so shocked.

"It's almost ten! Don't you guys close around eight?" You ask kindly, feeling guilty that you'd made them stay later than normal. Jakoby looks like he might say something but the waitress rests a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Don't you worry about that! You finish your cake okay? We don’t usually get out of here till ten anyway so it's not that much of a stretch" She assures you carefully, you hear footsteps start approaching as Jakoby shakes his head.

"Oh no we couldn't possib-"

"You can and you will" You turn and find a matronly woman with brown hair and a take no crap gait approaching the table. "My name is Molly, I'm the manager. When Lana overheard the situation she came to me and I cleared this so everything is just fine"

Lana laughs again, clasping her hands in front of her timidly as she blushes.

"you guys were just so lost in each other and it was just so sweet how he came to your rescue like that! I had to" She admits quietly, Molly setting a hand on her shoulder.

"Lana is one of our most devoted waitress's, she takes our Fate policy very seriously" She smiles happily at the young woman and Jakoby and you both frown, his ear twitching cutely as you both look up at her curiously. "Our Fate Policy means that we will not ask any couple to leave as long as they are acting appropriately. Because you had met this requirement Lana came to me once eight o clock rolled around and the staff took a vote to give you a complimentary dessert"

"Well thank you very much, that is so sweet of you" You tell her, awestruck and as they walk away, You and Jakoby stare at each other in mutual shock. "So I guess that makes you my knight in shining armor then"

You say this jokingly but he blushes and laughs, his smile the only thing keeping you from thinking you'd embarrassed him.

"That'd make me more of a knight in blue armor but.." He smiles and trails off as you laugh at his joke and you both pick up your forks to dig into this beautiful piece of cake.

Once you're done with your cake you mutually decide to clean up the table and bring the dishes to the bar despite the protests from the wait staff around you. That done, you thank the employees and make your way out and onto the street. The streetlamps buzzing and the silence comforting as you both turn towards each other.

"So I don't know about you but tonight was just about the best date I've been on in my entire life" you let yourself admit with a happy smile, You see his eyes light up at this, the smile broadening on his face.

"I can definitely agree with you, with that said would it be too forward to ask if you'd like to go out with me again sometime?" He ventures awkwardly, his eyes averting from your face and you smile at him letting the warmth in your cheeks be seen.

"I don't think that’s forward at all, I'd love too" You respond gently, giggling as he looks back up to your eyes and that wonderful smile comes back to his face.

"Then I'm definitely looking forward to it, may I walk you home?" He asks politely and you nod, taking his arm as he offers it and leaning your head on his shoulder as you walk the four blocks to your apartment in comfortable silence.

(I really hope you guys like this one!! Here are the tags! If you like to be one of them feel free to ask and I’ll add you too!! :3 @byzantium-glytch @multi-villain-imagines @queencobblefreezestuff  @walterkov @ever-hungry-aria @littlemessyjessi @homra-the-red-clan )

[thehiddenlawyer]

A Brand New (Complete) Doctor Strange Fic!

At the request of @tsukuyomi011, I whipped up some more strange for all y’alls enjoyment!! Because of time constraints on my part, I simply posted all the chapters at once!!

Here, in allllllll it’s glory, Spells and Wild Abandoned Stars!

Summary:  Doctor Malick is giving a lecture in New York at a neurological society function when she sees Doctor Stephen Strange in the crowd. After 20 years of silence, 20 years of no contact between lovers, how did time disappear between them? How did 20 years of distance simply cease its existence with a simple touch of his lips to her cheek, a touch of his hand to hers, a smile? 20 years, and she was under his spell again.

A Taste:

When the lecture was over, Dr. Rayna Malick smiled at her colleagues, nodding her thanks at their applause as she gathered her notes from the lectern, her eyes easily finding him.

In her entire life, she had only ever had one him. A him that she could identify by just those three vague letters, without the necessity to properly identify him using a distinct first and last name. Just…him. Or he, depending on grammatical need.

And he was walking towards her now as she shook hands with the people on the dais, who congratulated her on her talk, on her empowering presence, on the way she had illuminated so much for them about emergency medicine in faraway places, in regions wracked with natural and man-made disasters. She didn’t know how and what she responded with to the people that complimented her, she was sure she said the right things, smiled and nodded the way she was supposed to, her notes clutched in her hands, her smile pasted on her face as he walked towards her. As always, he seemed to suck all the energy out of the room, a walking talking blackhole, she used to call him, because whenever he walked into a room, nothing else existed for her.

He always consumed her, always occupied her, always stretched himself within her very skin and scrambled her thoughts. It was a good thing she hadn’t spotted him during the lecture or he would have made her sound like an incompetent, nervous ass. Or whatever the opposite of accomplished neurosurgeon turned WHO ambassador was these days. Or the simple opposite of a composed, graceful, literate woman.

He turned her into a cavewoman, reduced her down to the most common denominator of biology. She always liked to entertain herself by imagining all her diplomas and commendations burning in a sacrificial pyre in front of him while he looked on imperiously with that tilted chin and big body that exuded arrogance and confidence.

He was a few feet from her now, looking more handsome than she remembered. And she was convinced that it had been impossible for him to look even more tantalizing than he normally did, than he did when she had first known him lifetimes, ages, eons ago. Age had settled into his features with a grace that made her envious, that had her eyes tracing the laugh lines and crow’s feet around his eyes and mouth, that had her looking at the gray at his temples with an appreciative smile. He looked more severe, more austere with the whitened temples, as if his physical form was finally catching up to the brain, the talent that he was known for. And in that black suit that fit his body like a glove, she wondered vaguely if he’d worn black on black because he’d remembered her weakness for it. Or if he’d worn a simple black tie instead of a bowtie because he’d remembered her preference for it.

Stephen Strange was aging like fine wine, and as she stood talking to the head of the neurological society that was throwing this little party, she wondered she looked like to him. Her hair was a deep red now from a bottle, cut short to a manageable length around her shoulders, now pulled back in a professional bun. She wondered if he saw the age lines on her face, saw them through the make-up she’d used to hide them, suddenly feeling shy that day about her age when she’d realized he was going to be at the dinner. Would he see how her body had changed with time, with age, with motherhood? Would he trace her features the way she had his? Would he even notice the black dress she wore with the velvet jacket over it, in her attempt to look elegant when she felt frumpy?

“Dr. Malick,” he grinned, his voice the same, incredibly soothing baritone that lived and breathed in her dreams, that haunted her and woke her up in the middle of the night, aroused beyond explanation, panting for him, and knowing there would never be a substitute for him.

“Stephen,” she grinned, shaking his hand, his long, eloquent fingers swallowing her hand whole, “must we stand on formality?” she murmured, looking into those cat-like, mercurial eyes, that beautiful, chiseled face that she had sketched with her pencil and with her fingertips, her lips, her tongue…so many nights in his arms, so many hours…

“I thought you’d prefer it,” he grinned at her, “if we’re dropping the titles then, I can greet you properly,” his eyes flashed as he leaned down, kissing her cheek even as he held her hand in his. She tried not to moan, not to react, not to weep or turn her face into the familiarity of his lips. How was it possible? After all these years, to still become breathless in his presence, to still remember the texture of his lips?

“That’s better,” she laughed, “how are you, Stephen? I must say, I’m surprised to see you here!”

“I make it a point to come to functions featuring an old friend,” his smile was the same, wondrous to behold, transforming his entire face into light even as it melted his perfect jaw line to multiple chins of mirth.

“Old friends,” she rolled her eyes.

“Polite term,” he grinned.

She vaguely wondered what that impolite term for them would be. Lovers? Fuck buddies? Friends with benefits? She looked deep into his eyes and couldn’t make herself reduce their relationship to callus words and phrases that didn’t quite reflect what they’d shared. They had been each other’s rock, she knew that, but she’d never fooled herself into thinking they would be anything else. It had been the strangest relationship she could imagine, physically demanding, emotionally taxing and simultaneously satisfying her to her core. But they had lived together with the knowledge that there was a temporariness to everything between them, that the peace they found together was just a brief lapse in judgement.

Her thoughts were momentarily interrupted as a pair of surgeons walked up, introducing themselves and looking at Stephen in wonder. She felt grateful that she could melt into his shadow for just a few moments, knowing that anyone would be overshadowed by the Great Stephen Strange. Rayna didn’t mind standing next to him, listening to the confident way he accepted praise, knowing fully well he deserved every single one and making no qualms about it.

“How do you two know each other?” Dr. Simpson was asking, looking at Rayna.

“We did our residency together at New York Gen under Dr. Walsh,” she answered the elderly surgeon, accepting the glass of wine the waiter offered them.

“I didn’t realize!” Dr. Simpson looked astonished, her eyes on Stephen, and Rayna could relate to the feminine appreciation she saw.

“Rayna was always the better doctor,” Stephen was saying, one hand casually in his pocket, his long fingers wrapped around the squat class of whiskey he’d had the waiter bring him, “always gave me a run for my money. Thank God she didn’t stick around or I’d have serious competition,” they all chuckled at the comment and she saw the astonishment that flared in the eyes of the doctors in the little circle that had convened around them. To think that there was another doctor, another surgeon that Dr. Stephen Strange would admit to being inferior to.

But then, whatever impermanence they’d shared, she could at least say they stripped each other of ego.

Rayna’s thoughts drifted as she listened and responded mechanically to the conversation around her, catching his eye every once in a while, watching those crinkles at the edges of his eyes when he smiled for her, winking at her in the secret way he always did. Back in the old days, he would wink at her like that at parties too, or even while they were in class or at work, and she knew it would mean he was going to catch her alone somewhere and devour her. And oh, how she loved it when he feasted on her.

She remembered their little crappy apartment in New York, the cramped space somehow seeming infinite when he was around, every surface seemed to be covered with medical textbooks and notebooks, a pair of scrubs always on display somewhere, announcing to the world that two medical residents lived there. Rayna, a neat freak, would work tirelessly to make sure their place was clean but it always looked disastrous, an inexplicable, permanent hurricane seemed to live in their place. She remembered the warm nights when she’d be studying outside, sitting on the fire escape, listening to the sounds of the city as she studied and strived, the way he’d crawl nimbly out of the window and sit next to her. She’d always put the book and highlighter away and lean back in his arms, and they’d simply breath together.

Looking back now, older and wiser, with enough life experience under her belt to last a regular person thousands of lifetimes, she realized they’d been happy because they knew it wasn’t going to last between them. They had held each other, made love to each other, breathed for each other with the knowledge that there was an end date. And she’d been the one to say good-bye, signing up with Doctors Without Borders not long after she’d completed her residency, and she would forever remember the way he’d kissed her good-bye at the airport.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked her now, leaning down, his words for her alone, “catch up a little? Talk about the old times? Unless you’re too much of a hot shot right now and can’t be bothered with an old friend.”

Old friend.

She laughed, “sure!” she smiled, “I guess I can make time for you if I must,” she looked at the other doctors they’d been talking, “excuse us.”

*cough @sobeautifullyobsessed cough*

[cutiecrates]

Cutie Reviews: NMNL Dec 19

Ugh... I feel yucky being reminded that the last time I posted a NMNL review was four months ago <_< I feel like I need to stretch my review muscles again because that last one I did was kinda lousy.

But today I’m really feeling this one! I got my bath and body order I’ve been waiting for, my Pink Fairy Gumdrop candle is lit, I’m ready!

“The year is almost over and it’s time to celebrate the holidays, for the last nomakenolife box of 2019 we’ve included beauty products that will bring out the glamour girl in you! Wear those false lashes, make sure your skin glows and remember there’s never too much Glimmer & Glam!“

Contest

For this month’s contest the prizes come from the brand I’m Meme to help complete that glam, bold look. I love the heart stamp blusher~

Glam Gift and Horoscope

Meanwhile, the Glam Gift includes a variety of products from the brands Too Cool for School and Frudia. 

The horoscope for this month is “Which K-pop star’s makeup look should you try for the Holiday?“

Aries: Hyuna Taurus: Lisa from BLACKPINK Gemini: Chaeyoung from Twice Cancer: Sojin from Girls Day Leo: CL from 2ne1 Virgo: Seoulgi from Red Velvet Libra: Yuqi from (G) I- dle Scorpio: Yoona rom Girls Generation Sagittarius: Lee Na Gyung from Fromis_9 Capricorn: Jisoo from BLACKPINK Aquarius: Jessica from Girls Generation Pisces: Sohee from Elris

Do you guys recognize anyone from the list? I know BLACKPINK and 2ne1, but that’s about it. I’m a Libra, so I got Yuqi. They all look very pretty.

Tear Drop Liner & Whitening Eye Cream

From Etude House (one of my favorite brands x3), our first item is a cute-shaped shimmery eye liner that was available in pink, white, or gold. Besides being an eye liner, you can just apply it to the corners of the eye for a glittery brightening, it also makes a lovely eyeshadow or highlight if you thin it out. 

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

I usually hate eyeliner because I’m not any good at application. It’s not that it comes out and looks lopsided, or a bad wing, I literally cannot apply it. At all. I’ve given up after so many failed attempts- but I keep hoping that maybe I’ll find one I can apply that doesn’t look like a splotchy mess.

I seem to finally have found it in this liner! The applicator is very small and smooth where you apply it, and because its so glittery/light any sort of “flaw“ isn’t very noticeable. It wipes off pretty easily, and like I said above, if its not your type of liner it can be used a few other ways.

- - - - -

The whitening eye cream is a mess-free way of keeping those eyes bright all day long. You just give it a small squeeze, then use the roller-balls on it to massage the product into the skin. You can use it both at night before bed, and in the morning.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

I think I’ve mentioned it before, but my sleep schedule is a nightmare. So my eyes usually don’t look very nice in the morning. We don’t get many products like this, so it was pretty interesting to try out, and I think it actually works pretty good! I can see a noticeable difference when I apply it (I’m already pretty pale) and my eyes don’t feel so heavy. I’d recommend it!

Champion Lash

While these lashes are meant to be extravagant and bold, I actually got probably the most tame option out of the various choices. I think. There was 11 possible varieties!

So... I mentioned this before, but I can’t really use false eyelashes. I’ve tried and I have so much trouble getting them on, so I usually don’t use them. I’m not very concerned over my eyelashes anyway because they’re naturally pretty long anyway, I usually put on some mascara or a strengthener if I want a little shine to them and that’s about it.

Morning Facial Mask

This is an all-in-one morning face mask ideal for those rough nights or busy mornings when you’re in a hurry and want an extra boost. It contains not only toner, but moisturizer, makeup base, and skin cream. It also gives your skin a shimmery glow and is available in pink.  

However, the booklet claims you only need it for 5 minutes, while the back of the package says 10-20 minutes. I left it on for about 13 and while I liked it, one of my eyes was bothering me due to allergies this morning and it was kind of a pain.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ 

Initially I was disappointed because the image on the back shows the mask as yellow/gold, and it was white. But it turns out there’s very fine gold glittery through it, someone pointed it out to me after using it and I saw in the mirror I had gold glitter all over my face. It was very light though, not obnoxiously bright or annoying at all.

It also has a very strong perfumey fragrance. I’m not sure what it was.

Rhinestone and Pearl Hair Tie

I really wish we got more items like this, cute accessories :D I love them, and look how fancy this one is!

For this month, we had 4 possible hair ties composed of a black band with three pearls surrounded by a rhinestone frame, which could be a diamond, square, heart, or bow. I really wish I got the heart or bow, but all four of them are very cute.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Besides being cute, I really like this because of how easy it is to put in and take out. My hair is pretty thick so it can be hard using hair things sometimes, but I have no issue with this. It’s not pulling out any hair or snagging it.

The only problem I have is that I wish we got 2 of them. I’m not much of a ponytail girl, I prefer twin tails. But sometimes I’ll wear my hair over my shoulder, in fact I’m wearing it right now as I write this.

It also makes an adorable bracelet~

Peel Off Pack

This pack is designed to remove Sebum from the skin and is full of keratin to make it healthy and youthful. You apply it to your face and leave it on 15-20 minutes, then you simply peel it off.

I was a little worried about using this, it tends to happen when your first experience with peeling packs is seeing people screaming in pain on Youtube. They look... sort of fun, but I was scared it would hurt and really didn’t want to ever try them- so when I get items like that in these boxes, I get a bit excited...but really nervous at the same time.

So far there’s been no painful experiences :D

♥ ♥ ♥

I wasn’t really sure how to rate this one, because it doesn’t hurt to use. Applying and removal is easy, with the exception that in some spots, I noticed the “under-layer“ wasn’t dry yet like the top was and needed more time, and this was later than the time they recommend. I also didn’t really notice any real changes to my skin when using it, but they suggest you use it twice a week so it could just be that I need to use it more than once?

It’s really fun to use, I kind of wish we got a bigger pack of it though. It also smells really good, like the face mask but a little lighter.

Champagne Hand Soap

Just in time for the holiday, we get a lovely bottle of champagne... soap! We’ve been given green-tea scented champagne body soap before, but this one looks way more fancier. 

Besides gold, its also available in pink! It’s kind of a bummer, this entire box and I got no pink items. 

♥ ♥ ♥

Um... in terms of scent, I suppose its meant to smell like champagne? I’ve never had it before, but it smells like what I assume things like wine and champagne would smell like. I’m not very crazy about it though.

In terms of being a soap, it’s very bubbly. My hands feel the same prior to using it, maybe a teensy bit softer? I’m not entirely sure, but they’re not dry at least.

Glitter Hair Gel

Our final item of the box is this pretty, eye-catching gel for the hair. Apply it to your bangs, tips, throughout the whole thing, or give yourself glittery roots. The gel came in 4 variations, I think the one I got would have been the one I wanted.

♥ ♥ 

As pretty as this is to look at... it’s kind of difficult. By that I mean, I tried and I can’t seem to get it to really come out. I might get a few flecks or stars in a small portion of hair but nothing like what the pictures demonstrate. I don’t know if I need to use a lot of it, or squeeze it directly into the hair, I tried a variety of things to get it to work and they seemed to all reach the same result. Not only that but the hair was wet, sticky, thinned out, and knotted.

Also... I might be crazy, but I was thinking that I might be able to use this as a nail polish. If I apply it very thinly/put the little mix-ins on my nails, give them a few minutes to dry, then apply a clear coat over it. Not sure it will work, but its worth trying sometime.

♥ Cutie Ranking ♥

Content -5 out of 5. We didn’t get too much of a variety, it was almost all for the face and head, but the items were wonderful and pretty fun.

Theme: 5 out of 5. Almost everything was glitter and glitz, and had a glamorous appeal. It would have been nice for them to save this for January though, and focus on a Christmas theme, but you could argue that these items would still work for a Christmas celebration.

Total Rank: 9.5 out of 10. A lot of items were on the smaller side, but most of the box is reusable. I loved the creatively cute, colorful, and glittery items we got and I didn’t hate anything. I probably won’t ever use those lashes, but maybe I’ll feel brave enough one day to try them out. I’d recommend the items from this if you like any of them, check out Japan Haul to see if they have them on there. 

♥ Cutie Scale ♥

Hair Tie - I know it’s not very amazing, but it’s so pretty to look at. Not only that, but it doesn’t hurt putting it in or removing it, I really like it! 

Eye Liner - Usually I don’t rank these high, but besides being cute I feel confident wearing this; or at least using it for practice. Maybe by the time I run out of it I’ll be an expert at using eye liner :D

Peel Pack - Like the mask, it smells really good but I didn’t really notice any sort of changes after using it. It was fun to use though. 

Whitening Eye Cream - It feels very nice on the skin and I could feel/see a difference.

Face Mask - it smells very good and felt lovely, but I don’t actually think it really changed much. 

Glitter Hair Gel - it’s very cute and pretty looking, but I have no idea how to make it look as nice as the pictures did.  

Champagne Hand Soap - it’s so fancy looking, I hated destroying the packaging. I kept the little ribbon as is though, it makes a cute little ring~ I didn’t like the scent but it’s great if you like bubbly soap.

Lashes - They’re really fun to admire in the case, but I feel like they won’t get any use. If I was any good at doll customization though, I think it’d be fun to use them then.

[anonywhiskers-blog]

The Best Christmas Ever

Actual Michael Buble woke up that cold December morning with an ache in his heart. As he padded in hand-crocheted sock-slippers down the hallway from his modern-rustic bedroom to his open-concept living space, Actual Michael Buble wondered why he was so unhappy. He had it all-- four Grammy awards, piercing green eyes, a steady standing at #45 on Forbes top 100 celebrities list, both Canadian and Italian citizenships. Yet here he was, 42 years old, all alone, sipping his eggnog latte made by his custom-made robot barista in his carerra marble kitchen, barely even in the Christmas mood.

Michael Buble tied the sash of his cranberry-red velvet dressing gown closer around his waist and set his steaming seasonal mug on his artisan-crafted locally-sourced teakwood desk before pulling out his antique high-backed brown leather chair and sitting down. His monogrammed linen stationary lay before him on the perfectly polished desk, beckoning in the glow of the huge warm fire burning in his open fireplace. Outside the windows, Canada’s gorgeous snowy tree-filled landscape stretched as far as Michael Buble’s green eyes could see. He uncapped his solid-gold fountain pen and sighed. It was time.

Dear Santa,

He wrote, then paused. He had asked for so many things for Christmas in his 42 years of being alive. A red bicycle, a teddy bear, a fourth Grammy. Santa Claus had never failed him. No matter what else was going on, no matter how cold and snowy the Canadian December got, nothing stopped Santa from making his way to Michael Buble’s 5200-square-foot four-story cabin in the remote Canadian woods.

But this year, for the first time, Michael Buble couldn’t think of what to ask for.

Another handknit angora sweater? More monogrammed cashmere socks? No, Michael Buble thought. Cozier. A double-knit chenille scarf in a plaid pattern. Cozier. A set of sweater-patterned ceramic mugs wearing actual knit sweaters with handles through the sleeves. Cozier.

Michael Buble pushed his leather chair back and stood, pacing in frustration.

“Alexa,” he said. “Play Michael Buble’s Christmas album.”

Michael Buble lit a holly-flavored cigar and puffed gently while the soothing strains of his own velvety voice washed over him, calming him like nothing else could. He smoked his cigar while looking at his 72-foot Christmas tree in front of the roaring fire. Each ornament was a handcrafted antique, handed down from his great-great-great-great Grandfather, who had been the Canadian glassblower who first invented Christmas ornaments. They twinkled in the golden heirloom Christmas lights. Below the tree lay all the beautifully wrapped presents that Michael Buble had personally selected for each of the 47 orphans at the local Canadian orphanage. Michael Buble held his cigar between his straight white teeth and shoved his hands deep into the satin-lined pockets of his robe. There was a slip of paper in one of the pockets. He pulled it out and read it. It was a fortune cookie fortune. It said, “Happiness will soon be yours.”

Michael Buble sat down at his desk once more and tried to picture the perfect Christmas. He would spend his morning hosting a Christmas brunch for the orphans, of course, like he always did. In the afternoon, he would visit the graves of his family, who had all died when he was a boy. He was an orphan himself, which was why he always made sure to take care of the orphans. He had been saved from poverty on one fateful winter day when he was singing on the street corner, begging for pennies to buy himself a nourishing cup of cocoa at the local artisanal bakery. An important record executive had heard his smooth croonings and declared, “That’s the voice of a boy who could win three Grammys!”

Michael Buble chuckled to himself as he remembered. Little had old Gerald known, he would go on to win four Grammys.

“If only you could see me now, Gerald,” Michael Buble said to Heaven.

Up in Heaven, old Gerald smiled. He was proud of Michael Buble.

The blank paper beckoned. Michael Buble sighed as his soulful and melodic rendition of “All I Want for Christmas” began to play. All I want for Christmas is… He was lonely, that much was clear. But who was it he was missing? Who was he longing for? Not just anyone would do. Michael Buble was very selective. He didn’t want anyone who would just love him for his fame, fortune, and enormous tree. He wanted someone with a good heart, someone who would truly love him for who he was inside.

His heart skipped a beat as he thought of the one person he most wanted to spend Christmas with, the only person who had always been there for him, who would never desert him or betray him. Michael Buble’s cheeks flushed with excitement. He knew exactly what to write.

Soon he was sealing up his envelope and mailing it to the North Pole. With the letter on its way, Michael Buble hurried to the Master bathroom to get ready. Today was Christmas Eve and if his wish came true, there wasn’t much time. He lathered up his beavertail shaving brush with organic castile soap and lathered up his deeply handsome face. He shaved carefully with a sharp razor, until he was satisfied that his face was as smooth as his jazz. He sipped a 200-year-old brandy while taking a steamy shower, lathering up his body in thick lavender-and-sandalwood bubbles. He ran his hands over himself with an electric shiver at the thought of his lover crawling into bed and smelling this soap. He swallowed hard and tried not to get his hopes, or anything else, up. What if I don’t get my wish?

But Santa had never failed him before. Michael Buble truly believed that he would come through again.

The closet in Michael Buble’s bedroom was huge. It was the size of your whole apartment, probably, if you live in a small apartment. It was full of red cashmere turtlenecks and flattering blazers and tan corduroy pants. Michael Buble put on a white cable knit sweater and gray slacks— his loungewear. His loafers were felted from the wool shed by angora rabbits and made his feet look like his voice sounded, delicious and smooth.

When he was dressed, Michael Buble went into his state-of-the-art chef’s kitchen and tied on his red-and-white checkered apron with the loop for a rolling pin on one of the pockets. It still had a flour smudge from the pies he had baked for the Unwanted Old People’s Home last week. Michael Buble giggled to himself with excitement as he assembled ingredients on the Carrera-marble counters. He had had this marble shipped in from his second homeland, Italy, when he had built this house. They were as deep and sparkling as his vibrato. He smiled his cute smile with his nice teeth while he stirred dough and dusted the counter with flour and rolled the dough out. Then his cheeks were tired so he just started singing along with the Christmas album that was still playing while he cut out all the shapes from the dough. He baked them in his enormous double-decker oven while he made his own icing from hand-powdered ethically-farmed sugar and 100% vegetable-derived food dyes.

After he was all finished, Michael Buble surveyed his enormous plate of cookies. They were sugar cookies, three shapes squished together so that each cookie said “I <3 U”, decorated with Christmas colors: green and red stripes, red polka dots on white, green zigzags on white, white and green waves on red, green holly leaves with red berries, silver snowflakes, red and white peppermint striping. “Perfect,” Michael Buble said, his voice mild and resonant. All around him was the sound of the children’s chorus from his rendition of “Silent Night.” Not many people knew that that choir was all the orphans from the orphanage. They were all beautiful singers, but none of them had voices that could win even one Grammy, sadly, much less four.

Michael Buble set out the plate of cookies with a glass of wine in front of the fire and prepared to wait for morning. It had been a long day of smoking a cigar, writing a letter, and taking a shower, and night had fallen long ago. He sipped hot cocoa with eleven marshmallows from a red mug and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. All of his fireplace tools had little white knitted sweaters on their handles. Michael Buble put his feet up on the red velvet ottoman in front of his highbacked leather armchair and read “Twas the Night Before Christmas” before starting on “A Christmas Carol.” He fell asleep somewhere between the Spirit of Christmas Present and Spirit of Christmas Future, the book tumbling from his hands and landing on the plush red and white carpet beside the empty cocoa mug.

It was well after midnight when Michael Buble felt something brush against his cheek. He woke up, blinking cutely, to find a soft beard tickling him.

“Santa,” Michael Buble breathed breathily. “You got my letter.”

“I certainly did,” Santa chuckled, his voice deep and warm in Michael Buble’s ear. Cookie crumbs twinkled in his long white beard.

“And are you here to give me my Christmas wish?” Michael Buble asked, his voice trembling with excitement like a snowflake at the edge of a cloud.

“Have I ever not given you your Christmas wish?” Santa smiled, his eyes twinkling. He scooped Michael Buble up in his strong arms as if he weighed nothing. Michael Buble wrapped his arms around Santa’s neck and buried his face against Santa’s strong chest, breathing in the smells of peppermint and manly sweat. He was overcome with joy. Santa carried Michael Buble down the hall and closed the bedroom door behind them, leaving only the stockings on the mantel to enjoy the remains of the glorious fire.

“Oh Santa,” Michael Buble sighed in bed later. “I just knew you’d come.”

“I always come for good little boys.” Santa chuckled, his naked belly jiggling. Michael Buble rested his head on Santa’s chest and drifted off to sleep with a blissful smile.

The next morning, Santa and Michael Buble watched the 47 orphans tear excitedly into the pile of gifts. Michael Buble sat nestled between Santa’s legs, resting against Santa’s warm body while Santa’s arms were wrapped around him. Michael Buble laughed with joy as the boys squealed over the gifts.

“Oh, Santa,” Michael Buble said, “Let’s adopt them!”

“Whatever you want, my darling,” Santa said, and kissed Michael Buble on the top of his head. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Michael Buble nestled closer into Santa’s embrace and blinked back a film of tears from his green eyes. Outside, more snow was falling over the Canadian forest. There were two mugs of eggnog latte on the table beside them now.

“Hey, boys, would you like for Santa and your uncle Michael Buble to adopt you?” Michael Buble called over the sound of the din.

There was a pause, and then all of the boys started screaming with joy and jumping up and down.

“This is the best Christmas ever!” cried Timmy, the littlest orphan.

“Yes, Timmy.” Michael Buble turned and pressed a tender kiss on Santa’s lips. Santa’s bright eyes danced with promise. “Yes, it is the best Christmas ever.”

THE END

[scriptmin]

100 ways to say I love you

Notes: This prompt was originally a request but 2k words into it I realised that it asked for “fluff” and never really mentioned if smut was okay so… if you’re reading this I’ll make sure to do fluff for your other prompt!

Genre: Angst-ish, rated M for semi-smut (again) and voyeurism / Words: 3k 051. “Are you sure?” | rebound!taehyung, college!au

Sleeping with Kim Taehyung took more than just a bewitched heart, or a bottle of liquid courage, moreover it had not been in the wake of such short-lived pursuits that you found yourself between his legs, draped over his chest like a couture shawl. When you beheld the truth, it had become clear that it was not the man himself at the face of which you had so willingly lowered your tail, neither had it been the alcohol that blazed beneath flushed skin.

You hadn’t known exactly what your motivations were, but you had admittedly prepared for this party with the purpose of looking for a good fuck with anyone but Jeon Jungkook. While it was not difficult to imagine each attendee had possessed their individual drives, most you knew were simply hungry for a partner in bed, or at least, that had been the first step in the grand scheme of things. Some knowingly, others not quite.

You belonged to the latter category. Belonged to the category of single women in desperate need of pampering, not exactly wanting anything more, yet still entertained the thought of it. And you knew no better fit for the role than the host himself, a host reputed for his sinful good looks and even more sinful voyeuristic gatherings. Taehyung called it a lover’s party, but in all honesty it had just been a classier take on having turned his bungalow into a pleasure house for the night. You were by no means a prude, but something of this caliber had always been out of your league.

Apparently Taehyung had not shared your opinion. Claimed by the waist from the moment he permitted you past his front door, you were surely the last woman to utter a word of complain. As host, Taehyung took mostly to the arrangement of sofas in the middle of his parlour, drinking leisurely and entertaining whomever might choose to sit within the velvety rectangle of conversation. Your presence had been more akin to a trophy in a glass cabinet than anything else, a trophy someone like Kim Taehyung was more than proud to call his for the evening. Though you had been extremely self-aware of your own sexual appeal, to say that you had expected this would be quite a stretch. Taehyung was never a man you thought you could claim—or rather, would claim you.

But although he appeared to have dedicated every expanse of his attention to his guests, you soon learned just how artful he was as both a host and a partner. Your ass nestled snug in his lap, legs draped over the edge of the sofa, the broad palm laid over your inner thigh with which he had used to subtly pin you down had never budged an inch despite the many engagements outside of your intimate physicalities he had subscribed to. That hand had soon become rather idle, transitioning then into a feather-light rhythm up and down, up and down the supple skin.

The gesture was nowhere near enough to quench the desire which ached between your legs, and you supposed neither was it enough for the hard on between his, judging by how solid he had gradually become and remained with every slight shift of your body atop him. Still, it had conveyed enough to the people within the bubble of conversation, to the ones who would glance down every now and then, their gaze preying on just how high up he would drag his fingers before pulling them down. And when they had gotten bored of the repeated gesture, they would leave and others would fill the seats they had abandoned. Taehyung had no shortage of guests, at that rate you wondered if you would ever have him to yourself. If he would know to shift his attention to you when the right person had taken the opposite seat.

“You’re getting bored.” It was the rumble in his chest beneath your ear that had signaled he was finally addressing you. You lifted your head, enough to meet his gaze and the tiniest of smirks on his lips, leaning into his touch when his other hand had come up to ghost your jaw.

“What gave it away? My second bottle of wine or the fact that I literally cannot feel my legs?”

“Hmmm.” Now the vibrations had been against your breasts, the deep, lustrous chuckle that proceeded to tumble out his mouth eliciting you to press closer against him. “Perhaps the wine. If I’d known you couldn’t feel your legs I would’ve done something else.”

Your body reacted before your mind—with a jerk and a squeak. Taehyung had been brazen enough to heighten the trail of his hand, a ministration that had taken a backseat until now, to dip past the hem of your minidress, quite literally flicking a finger at the thin material clothing your sex. The touch receded as quickly as it came. Desperate for more, your walls clenched unwittingly.

“Don’t do that,” you hissed between gritted teeth.

Taehyung merely laughed. “Stay with me baby, just a few more and I promise you…” He had finished the sentence by closing what little distance there was between your faces with a chaste kiss, pulling away just as you had begun to lean forward. You seethed in silence. He was good at this.

But you were no amateur either. You could not let him proceed without some form of retaliation.

When a round of new faces had taken up seats around the sofa formation, you chose to nuzzle by his neck instead of laying back down on the sturdiness of his chest. Though it wasn’tmuch, the contact was something he had acknowledged with a short but gentle squeeze to your thigh before he had resumed the rhythm he was stroking.

The mood lights had bathed every object under its path in an ocean of magenta, yet Taehyung’s golden skin still seemed to shine through. Much fainter than it perhaps originally was, the scent of his cologne was almost as sweet as the wine lingering in your throat, warm in the pit of your belly. You weren’t drunk yet, not by a long shot. And though you couldn’t say the same for fucking him, providing Kim Taehyung with at least some distraction was well within your means.

“… plan on taking things to a much… larger scale.”

His gaze slid sideways to regard you with lazy curiosity, and you had returned him with a coy smile, if not less, before your mouth had resumed its task over the taut, wet skin. By the time you realized that he had stopped stroking your thigh in favour of a feral grip, you had littered tiny pools of red and purple across his nape and shoulder. Taehyung had expectedly managed rather well, all the while able to hold a steady stream of conversation despite the slow tightening of his hand on you. His guests, however, were quite transparent. Though they responded to his sentences, their eyes were trained on you, their own hands on each other, subtle at first, but progressing to lewd, unreserved motions soon enough.

When you allowed the man to take your chin between his thumb and index, effectively putting a halt to your task at hand, you found all other occupants of the sofas to have gone. They hadn’t strayed too far, though, most were by the perimeters of the room, wholly engrossed with whichever partner, or partners, they had found for the night. Left in whatever scarce privacy you had begun with, Taehyung was now free to claim your mouth with his. His kiss was languid, almost lazy, but the connection—even if only physical—was all that you sought. He had plenty time to give you more if he had any intention of making good the unfinished promise he had whispered to your ear none too long ago.

“Are you done now?” You asked against his mouth, barely speaking the question before he pressed harder, deeper, back against you. He had taken one breast into his hand now, pinching the nipple in the valley of his fingers, while the other anchored at the base of your neck.

He broke the kiss lingering, a string of saliva hanging between your lips and his before he cut it off with a deft swipe of his tongue. His hand trailed from your back to grip your chin once more, angling your head in whichever direction he needed to deliver his point. “I am, but you’re not.” When your eyes finally settled, squinting through the dim but saturated colour, you had found a pair amongst many leaning against the rightmost wall of the parlour. The taller, broader figure, with cropped hair and soft bangs had regarded the smaller one with a single affectionate hand to the cheek, a scene of bliss dominating his features. The latter appeared standing still, but even though the lower halves of their bodies were obstructed by an end table, you could leave nothing to chance considering the context you were all amidst.

“He’s the reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

Your muscles stiffened, and you knew Taehyung felt it too. “How did you know?” You asked, mouth suddenly dry. It had been easy to forget, to deny, the true reason for your unanticipated attendance tonight.

“A little bird sang in my ear the other day…” A shiver skid down your spine as the hills and troughs of his knuckles skimmed over your cheek. His voice was tender, benign, “I heard it wasn’t pretty. Are you okay?”

“If I was anywhere near okay I wouldn’t be here.”

“True.” Taehyung was close to purring, something normally unsuited for a voice as baritone as his, but it had felt like milk and velvet in the bed of your ear. The figure you were watching jerked forward, his features scrounging, teeth biting down on lips. You looked away then. Taehyung’s words were barely registering. “Always the rational one, you. These things are too frivolous for your usual lifestyle.”

“Look, I just need you to fuck me.”

“Are you sure?” His knuckles left your face, the heat receding with the touch, before it returned in the form of the soft pads of his fingertips on your bottom lip. He dragged the finger down, tugging the plump flesh until it had slipped from his touch and popped back into place. Taehyung appeared sinister. Beautifully, beautifully, sinister. “Because you’ve got other things to get fucked over by right now.”

You sensed the arrival of new people before you had even freed your consciousness from the hypnotism he was surely exuding on purpose. He was sat before you now, knees spread apart, chest rising and falling with each laborious breath he inhaled and expelled. His partner was slung across his arm, her leg thrown over his left thigh as she rubbed small, tantalizing circles over his collarbone.

“You two have been busy.”

You could not bear to look, but in anchoring your gaze downwards, you had allowed yourself clear view of the evidence of their previous deeds. Jungkook’s zipper was up, but his button was undone. The neatly pressed navy blue dress shirt which you assumed he wore tucked in had fallen from the hold of his jeans, creased and wrinkled and teased.

“Not as busy as you.” The voice was feminine, high in pitch but almost as liquid as the decadent aged wine you were swirling in your glass all but ten minutes ago. She was beautiful and of the same build as you, though she was much fleshier in the areas you could only pinch and pull at whilst in front of a mirror.

“Mmm. At least you look like you’re having fun.”

Taehyung’s jaw was pressed against your forehead, and when he talked, the movement provided the smallest of distractions from the sin seated on the other side of the sofas. You had spaced out easily enough while the two chatted, only reacting whenever your partner would angle his head to press light kisses to your temple and cheekbone, to remind you he was with you, that you were still here despite the fiery urge to hightail it out of the estate.

Spacing out was no longer an option as you became more and more aware of the slow breach of territory that Taehyung’s hand was venturing. He was shamelessly up your skirt now, squeezing and releasing, rubbing smooth circles, grazing nails. It was enough for you to part your legs just that tiny bit more, permitting him a better avenue with which he could enter. His fingers had reached the dip of your pelvis, painfully close to where you wanted him to be, and where he had been infuriatingly avoiding.

Stubborn against joining their two-person conversation, you resorted to nipping kitten-like up the expanse of his jugular, starting from the base of his neck to the earlobe where you had paused to beseech him with a breathy whisper, “Please, please…”

Taehyung shifted, his hard on now pressed directly against your thigh. He said nothing, only tightened his free hand over your hipbone. His fingers continued to tease you short of your cunt. With the devilish ministrations he was applying beneath your skirt, you could not for the life of you believe they were discussing the salad bar at the university dining hall. And just as you had conceded your pride in favour of more friction, subtly rocking your hips forward, his finger had entered you.

“Fuck.”

You were absolutely throbbing, and it had only been a single digit. If you could bring yourself to turn and look at the people across you, you would notice that their line of sight had all but fallen to your lap, would notice that despite it being a few good minutes since Jungkook sat down, there was still the distinct heaving of his chest, his lips unable to purse shut.

He was fucking you slowly, drawing out to the tip of his finger before re-entering knuckle deep. It was not until your nails had left scarlet crescent marks on the skin under his shirt that he allowed you a second finger, thrusting at the same pace, but deep and vivid every time. You held down your moans half by sheer willpower and the other by nursing the mural you had painted on his neck, laving the flat of your tongue over and over again on the bruised skin, sucking until you felt your cheeks hollow out, before finally releasing it with a lewd pop.

You were only on the cusp of feeling a coil in your belly when a familiar warmth had returned to cup your chin. His thumb dug into your cheek, the rest of his fingers firm on the other side of your jaw.  “Don’t hide baby,” he murmured, grinning explicitly into his words, “let them see.” With this firm authority, he had lifted you away from his neck, had turned your face and thrust you into a world that hung by its axis, threatening to spiral into darkness at any given moment.

“Let them see how good you feel with me.”

It was then that you had made first contact with Jeon Jungkook, fire against the iciness in his pupils. His hands were splayed atop each leg, unmoving, his torso was straightened, his chin dipped, unmoving. Even his partner found no other means to maintain nonchalance, much less ignorance, and was unreservedly observing the two of you with the residue of satisfaction playing on her lips.

You held his icy gaze under hooded eyes, too blissed to sense even a fraction of the intensity that poured from him. Taehyung was more enthusiastic now, having captured their attention, keen on nothing but making a good show. The quickening of his pace had set your breathing in a race against his.

“I want…” You pleaded, “I need… more.”

He broke contact with the pair to glance down at you, his smile saccharine sweet. “Say please baby.”

He had crooked his fingers upwards and continued fucking you into a new dimension of pleasure, bruising the spot that could have you fall apart under him.

“P- Please,” you gritted out. It hadn’t even been a heartbeat before he had knocked your legs apart, the force sending them swinging over his knee such that your ass had fallen fully in the space on the couch between his legs, your back to his chest, spread nice and wide for their viewing pleasure. Throughout the movement, he had not once fallen out of rhythm with you, thrusting into you at the same pace, if not even faster.

“Come for me,” he purred against the shell of your ear. You’d almost missed it amidst everything else. “Come for me and I’ll give you more.”

He had inserted the third and final finger into your cunt, his thumb working fervently at your clit, and it was only a short of matter of time before the coil in your belly had finally unwound, the muscles in your thigh rippling as he fucked through your orgasm.

The magenta lights were bleeding scarlet into your eyes as your head fell back against his shoulder, your chests heaving in unison. The small audience of two had shifted scarcely in their seats, still locked together by the arm, but otherwise in comparably innocent positions compared to the two of you. Taehyung had given you only a few seconds to catch your breath, before he was slipping a palm between your flushed bodies, pushing you into a standing position by your ass.

As you rose, you felt something soft slip down under you. Caught by your knees was the black silk panties you had tastefully donned for the event, his fingers hooked around the waistband of the petite fabric. He slid it down the remainder of your legs, guarding your waist as you gingerly stepped out of it. You shivered at the coolness.

There was movement behind you, before the same heat was applied to your back once more. You felt strong with him over your shoulder, felt bigger than Jungkook, bigger than life.

Tucking your panties into his pocket, Taehyung reached out to the couple on the sofa, smirking deviously. “Join us upstairs, if you’re still interested.”

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Ectotherm

I’ve known exactly what I was doing for this prompt for a while, though it went in a bit of a different direction. Here’s day 22 of @drawlight‘s advent calendar, and yet another knife to the heart. Shout out to my cousin the herpetologist who has put up with some really weird questions from me the past few months.

22 - Warmth (3,170 words)

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

In twenty-four hours he had been subjected to the inferno of a burning bookshop; the hell-born flames of the dread sigil Odegra enveloping his Bentley; the terrifying freezing-hot-burning-cold presence of Satan himself; and a column of Hellfire intended not for him but for Aziraphale, because the Archangels were determined to destroy the best thing that had ever walked the floor of Heaven.

Well, forget them.

And so, they sat at the Ritz raising their glasses to the world, ready to share a meal and start their life together.

Only Crowley suddenly realized he couldn’t eat. He’d thought he was hungry, but the food just sat in his stomach, heavy and cold. Even the wine seemed to sour, once it was past his tongue.

Just nerves, he thought, and did it really matter? He’d always preferred to watch Aziraphale eat, see the joy bubble across his features. It was enough to know that they could do this every day for eternity if they wished, and right now he certainly wished it.

He felt a little better when the coffee arrived, almost-painful heat radiating out from his stomach.

“My dear, that’s your fourth cup!” Aziraphale protested, as he downed another.

“It’s good! And I didn’t complain when you ordered a second piece of cake.”

“Well, I…I was rather thinking you might like some, too.”

With a rush of giddy emotions, Crowley realized he liked the sound of that very much. He picked up his fork and sliced off a bite of red cake with thick white icing. “What is it?”

“I thought I’d try something different, something a little modern. This is red velvet cake.”

Only Aziraphale would think that a flavor that had been popular for over sixty years was a little modern. Crowley smiled as he tasted it – rich and sweet and strangely light on his tongue. “You know, it’s not bad,” he said, reaching for another bite.

And a little heat rose to his face as he realized that Aziraphale was sitting there with hands folded, smile on his face – watching Crowley eat.

--

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

They went for a walk after the Ritz, but he found he was very tired. He tried to shrug it off.

“I’ve had a busy week, and I missed my sleeping day,” he explained. “I don’t – I don’t need to sleep, you know, but I still get exhausted. I’ll be fine.”

“You should sleep, then,” Aziraphale said, tone slightly scolding. The angel seemed determined to make sure Crowley took care of himself, as if he hadn’t learned to do that long before the Garden. It turned out, being fussed over wasn’t so bad. “I can walk you back to your place. Or. Er. You can come to the bookshop. I don’t have much to offer, but there’s the sofa, and perhaps we can have a drink…”

“Bookshop sounds lovely.” He always had to fight back a smile when he remembered the many nights they’d sat in the back corner together, sharing wine, sharing stories, complaining about work, just being themselves. Actually, he didn’t have to fight back that smile at all anymore – he could wear it for anyone to see. For Aziraphale to see.

None of that today, though. Crowley was rather embarrassed to find that the moment he stretched out on the sofa, he started falling asleep, and there was nothing he could do to fight it off.

He was dead to the world before Aziraphale had even settled into his armchair, and didn’t wake up until the shop was filled with bright Monday sunlight. A fleecy tartan blanket covered him from shoulder to toe, but he still shivered, and his stomach felt strangely heavy. Too much cake, probably.

Crowley sat up stiffly, running a hand through his hair and blinking around the shop. His eyes landed on a customer, who jumped in surprise, then quickly walked out.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Aziraphale hurried over. “How are you feeling? Better, I trust?”

“A bit.” Crowley rubbed at his face. “Didn’t I have glasses?”

“You took them off before falling asleep.” Aziraphale pulled them out of his pocket. “I was worried you might roll over them in the night. You slept very heavily. Is that normal?”

He shrugged, pushing the dark lenses back onto his face. “Probably. Didn’t wake up, didn’t dream much, seems like a good sleep. Does it have to be so blasted cold, though?”

Aziraphale glanced at the old-fashioned thermostat. “I do keep it a little cool to discourage customers. You scared away three different people just by sleeping there, you know. Perhaps I should get you a permanent bed right in the middle of the floor.”

“Only if you promise to turn the heat up.” Crowley wandered closer to the window, feeling the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. That was better. “I’m…” It wasn’t a word he used often.  “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“About the customers? Don’t be, they were trying to touch my first edition Verne novels and I was running out of ways to be inconspicuously rude.”

“No about…falling asleep. I know you had…” Plans? Expectations? They’d never really talked about what Our Side would mean. “…you had hopes, for our first day, you know, free.”

“And every one of them is being fulfilled right now,” Aziraphale said, with such sincerity that Crowley started to smile. “Ah, I lied. Now all of them are being fulfilled.” He took Crowley’s hands in his. “Just standing here, talking to you, not worrying about who might see us, it’s more than I ever thought would be possible. I am perfectly content as we are.” He frowned suddenly. “Except that your hands are freezing.”

Crowley laughed as Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the demon’s, rubbing them, trying to warm them up. It certainly did make him feel better, and not just because his fingers had been a little numb from the way he’d slept.

“I was actually worried…” Aziraphale started again, still staring at their hands. “Oh, I assume you have your own, er, hopes. Since you’ve been thinking about this so much longer than I. We should probably discuss that, but, well, just to warn you, I haven’t thought much about…that is, I’m not sure that I want…ohhh…”

Crowley lifted one hand to tilt Aziraphale’s face up, to look into his eyes. The heat of it was almost unbearable. “I haven’t really thought about it either,” he confessed. “Never thought we’d make it this far. Everything from this point on is just a pleasant surprise.” With his other hand, he squeezed the angel’s fingers gently. “I don’t think I’d say no to more of this, though.”

Aziraphale blushed, the heat of it rushing to fill every space inside Crowley, and his eyes dropped briefly. “Your hand is still freezing,” he finally said, pulling away with a smile. He bustled across the shop to pick up his coat. “I know, let’s go for a walk. It’s a nice, warm day. We can feed the ducks in St. James’s Park…No. Let’s do something different. Something daring.” There was a wild gleam in his eyes as he turned back. “Let’s feed the ducks in Regent’s Park.”

It was indeed a gloriously warm day, and they spent over five hours exploring every path in London’s third-largest park while a small sign sat in the bookshop window reading Out to Lunch – Back in a Jiffy.

Every once in a while, Aziraphale’s hot hand found its way into Crowley’s cold one. Again and again, until it felt completely natural.

--

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

It had been three weeks since the world had ended and begun again, everything ticking along nicely as Aziraphale liked to stay. Crowley caught himself thinking more like Aziraphale these days, which was both worrying and wonderful.

Except that any time Crowley was indoors, he felt lethargic, cold, a little cranky. Aziraphale had miracled up a thick scarf in grey tartan. It was hideous and embarrassing and he wore it all the time even though it didn’t really help. He knew what the tartan gifts meant.

He turned up the heat in his flat as high as it would go, until even his most tropical plants were struggling to meet his exacting expectations. He took more hot baths than he ever had in his life, including the years he’d spent living in Bath. He tried to sit up and engage his mind, especially at night, when his body screamed to just stretch out and rest. He got angry when he discovered he couldn’t concentrate on a game of chess, or even draughts, and said some things to Aziraphale he really shouldn’t have.

Later, when the angel tried to embrace him and make up…he said some even worse things.

He tried wearing more layers. He tried wearing fewer layers. Eating hot food. Lying under a tree. Lying in direct sunlight.

Finally, there was only one conclusion he could reach.

“I’m cold-blooded.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Aziraphale sniffed. His ego was still somewhat bruised from their last argument, but he was clearly making an effort.

They sat facing each other across the café table, opposite sides. Aziraphale had ordered a slice of warm pie with ice cream melting down the sides. A second fork sat, waiting for Crowley, and the angel kept giving it significant looks, but the demon wouldn’t unwrap his hands from the enormous cup of coffee he’d ordered, the largest they served.

Aziraphale sighed and folded his hands. “Crowley, dear. I know the…transition to our new life hasn’t been as smooth as we hoped, and we’ve both said things we regret, but I’ve never felt that you were –”

“No, Aziraphale.” He took a sip of coffee. It was something American-style, hot and bitter and lacking any particular flavor. He didn’t care. He just needed absurd quantities of near-boiling liquid. “I mean it literally. Somehow, after the Apocalypse, I became cold-blooded. I can’t get warm no matter what I do.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, as if waiting for the punchline of an unfunny joke. “That’s simply impossible. How many times have you told me off for making those assumptions, just because you used to be a snake? You have a mammal body, and it does…mammal things,” he waved his hands to indicate that he still wasn’t completely caught up on modern science classifications, “including being warm…”

He trailed off as Crowley reached across the table, taking his hand. Even after being wrapped around the hot ceramic mug, it still wouldn’t feel right. “What are you always saying these days?”

“That your hands are freezing.” Aziraphale shook his head. “It can’t be true. That’s not proof…”

Crowley gestured to the plate. “I can’t eat because my stomach is too cold to work. When I do eat, I have to lay down because any extra movement takes away energy I need for digestion.” He tugged at the scarf he always wore. “Extra layers don’t help, because they just insulate me from the warm air. Blankets don’t help because I’m not creating enough heat on my own. Even turning up the heat doesn’t help because this blessed body is made to shed heat, not retain it.” He stared into his mug of coffee. “I can’t move when I’m cold. I can’t move when I’m hot. Sunlight helps for a little while, but the days are getting shorter.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, worried what he was about to say would make the angel pull away. “I…I don’t even know if I like being touched anymore.”

He didn’t fight it when the hand vanished, taking its warmth with it. Crowley just slumped, closing his eyes in defeat.

The squeal of chair legs against hard floor made him glance up. Aziraphale had moved to sit beside him, pulling his chair as close as he could.

Carefully, Crowley leaned his head to the side, resting it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting their bodies press together. It was easier this way, a sort of passive contact, unrestrained, letting the heat flow between them.

“Are you…” He could hear the way the breath caught in Aziraphale’s throat. “You seem so certain. Is there any chance you’re wrong? Any other explanation?”

Crowley gently shook his head, letting it wobble back and forth on the angel’s shoulder. “This is how it felt when I was a snake. You don’t forget something like that.”

“At least now you know. Surely what you learned from being a snake can help you navigate…”

“I looked it up,” Crowley muttered. “A snake can handle a range of fifteen, twenty degrees easily. Human body…a little more than one degree. At 35 I’m freezing to death, at 38 I’m burning up from the inside. I don’t even know how I’ve lasted this long.” He pressed himself even closer into Aziraphale’s side. Half of him was still cold, even as his shoulder and his thigh screamed in the heat. It wouldn’t balance properly. “It’s going to kill me.”

He felt the tension all through Aziraphale’s body. “Crowley, no!”

“Fine, it’s going to get me discorporated, and I’ll wake up in Hell, and they’ll kill me.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“Maybe. It’s getting harder to concentrate every day.”

“Then I’ll look for a solution.” He offered his hand and Crowley grabbed it, grateful for the almost-too-hot touch. “I might as well, since I’m responsible.”

“What are you talking about, Angel?”

“Your body was fine, then I used it and…it must be something I did.”

“Don’t say that.” He pulled away enough to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “This isn’t your fault. I agreed to switch bodies, I knew there was some risk. And I don’t think you could have caused this. Somehow this is Heaven or Hell, still interfering with our lives.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, nodding. Crowley wasn’t sure if he really believed it or not. “Still. If this was done to you, there must be some way to undo it. And if there’s a way, I will find it.” He swallowed, turning to look at their linked hands. “But, in the meantime…It’s probably best if you turn back into a snake.”

“No,” Crowley all but shouted, anger mixing with fear. “No, Aziraphale I won’t. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Isn’t it better than dying?”

He clenched his jaw, biting back his reply. He honestly wasn’t sure it was. An eternity as a serpent, no driving, no music, no wines, no gardening, no feeding ducks, no holding hands…

Crowley twined his fingers through Aziraphale’s, lifting up the hand clasp between them. “I fought…We fought…so long for this. I can’t just…I won’t give this up. I won’t, Angel.”

“You’re not giving anything up,” Aziraphale insisted. He brushed his lips across Crowley’s fingers and, oh, add something else to the list of things he wasn’t willing to lose. “I will still be here. My feelings for you won’t change at all.”

“They’ll probably change a little,” Crowley pointed out.

“I want to spend every day with you, talk with you, see you happy. And it doesn’t matter if you’re scaled or human or turn into a fish, that’s not going to change.”

“I won’t be happy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But please. Give me the time I need to save you.”

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale, letting the angel do the same back, even though part of his mind screamed and squirmed to escape the heat of contact. He told himself this wouldn’t be the last time.

--

Crowley was warm.

He stretched out in his favorite basking spot by the window, feeling the winter sunlight play across his scales, heating him up. Every now and again, the door would open, a customer hoping to browse for a Christmas gift. The rumble of footsteps through his belly woke him, and he reared up his head, tongue flicking out to catch the scent of the blurry shape by the entryway.

Almost every time, the visitor took one look at the enormous red-bellied black snake and vanished soon after.

The hours ticked by, slow and sweet, like drops of honey. Crowley was aware that he should be filling them with fast-paced reckless activities of some form, but he couldn’t quite recall what…just a general sense of dissatisfaction.

Still, whatever he had lost, the best was still here.

When he’d drunk his fill of warmth, he twisted his way through the shop, sliding around stacks of books and potted plants (hissing at the ones that didn’t seem to be growing well enough). There, at the desk, sat the angel.

Aziraphale was rarely anywhere else these days. Bent over old grimoires, reading glasses balanced on his nose, pile of notes beside him. He hadn’t glanced up for any of the customers. Three cups full of cold tea sat beside him. He hadn’t even risen to get a new one in a while.

A pair of folded-up sunglasses sat in one corner of the desk. He never picked them up, but sometimes touched them as he worked.

Crowley twisted around his leg, climbing, finding his way along the chair and across the shoulders until he was draped across Aziraphale, watching him work.

“Hello, my dear. How was your day?”

Crowley hissed dismissively. One day was the same as another for a snake. “Progressss?”

“I’m close. I really think I’m close.” His voice was just a rumble, rising from his chest through Crowley’s belly, distorted, missing half the notes. He couldn’t pick up on the nuance, couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not. Just like he couldn’t see all of Aziraphale’s face at once, just the jaw, the little smile, the rest curving away in the distance.

“Dinner time,” Crowley reminded him. The angel needed lots of reminders.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I really want to keep at this a bit longer.”

“Resssst.”

He held up his hands before him, letting Crowley slither from one to the next without trying to grasp. There was something about hands, something important. It was just on the edge of his memory, but snakes don’t have hands. It slipped away.

“No, I can’t rest yet. Not until…no.”

“Pleassssssse.”

“I can take a small break, but no dinner. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

When Crowley was coiled back around his shoulders, Aziraphale stood up, walking across to the little secluded corner of the shop. This was another important area, though Crowley couldn’t exactly remember why. He thought it involved a lot of sitting, drinking…water? Not water. He forgot what he used to drink.

The angel fiddled with his collection of round discs. “How about some Vivaldi, since it’s almost Christmas? You always liked his Seasons.” Crowley nodded.

He couldn’t really hear the music. Noises on the air meant nothing to a snake.

But once Aziraphale was stretched out on the sofa, Crowley made himself comfortable on his chest, and felt the deep thrum of the music as the angel sang along.

Warmth rose from Aziraphale, too, just like from the sun. It was a different kind of heat. Purer. Better.

Whatever else he had lost, Crowley still had that. And he was content.