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fallinginvictus · 1 year ago

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do you have any wips at all for the time loop au? 🙏🙏

WIP Wednesday Andrew & Aaron Time Loop AU

I haven't had time to write lately so I only have a tiny little bit of the first part of chapter 3 and I'm not actually sure that's how it's going to stay when I actually post the whole chapter but I'll post anyways.

part one

part two

tw: character death, suicide, mention of drug abuse, Tilda, suicidal thoughts

“You're a parasite,” his mother had told him once when he was five, her head resting on the couch, her black eyes staring at the ceiling, her clouded mind lost in the high. “You suck everything out of me and then still expect me to give you more of my love.”

Aaron stood there for a second, his puffy little hands holding tightly onto the drawing he had been trying to show her, the mother he had drawn staring lovingly at him, the mother in real life taking a puff of her cigarette, her eyes never leaving the ceiling, never looking at her son.

“I just wanted to give you the gift that I made you,” he tried to defend himself with a pout on his lips, hoping his mother would want to look at it, look at him. Hoping she would smile and thank him for his thoughtfulness, for his kindness. Hoping she would acknowledge his existence.

“I just wanted,” his mother repeated mockingly, grey smoke slithering out of her lips. “That's all you do, Aaron. You want and you want and you want and you never once think about how much you take from people. As long as you get what you want you are willing to suck me dry.”

“I-I wasn't asking to take anything,” he said softly, tears pooling in his eyes. “I just wanted to give you a gift to make you happy.”

At those words his mother's gaze finally turned towards Aaron, her black eyes looking straight through him.

“To make me happy?” she scoffed before extending her long, pale fingers towards him. “Show me then.”

Aaron hesitated for a second, his hold on his precious drawing getting tighter, the paper wrinkling in his hands.

“Come on now,” his mother tilted her head, a grin painted on her thin lips, her coral-red lipstick a little smudged. “You wanted to show me my gift, so show me my gift.”

Aaron stepped forward, a spark of hope lighting inside of his chest, the drumming of his own heart echoing in his ears, a little smile forming on his lips as he carefully handed the drawing to his mum. He had worked on it for hours that morning while she was busy getting high, he had picked his best colours and tried his hardest to stay inside the lines. It was a drawing of his mum and Aaron holding hands, big and happy smiles drawn on their faces, colourful butterflies were dancing all around them and a big yellow sun was shining on the top-right corner of the page.

“This is me and you,” he said as he shily pointed towards the two stick figures on the paper and then he placed a kiss on her cheek, his soft lips meeting the hardness of her cheekbone, his warm hands gently holding onto her cold shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“You made this just for me,” she said, arching a perfectly trimmed brow.

“For my mummy,” he nodded while smiling at her. “A gift to make you happy.”

“Oh, to make me happy you say?” she chuckled. Her tone made Aaron take two steps back and he stumbled a little when his naked feet got tangled in the black carpet. His mother's eyes were cold, the black of her pupils drowning the light brown of her eyes, none of the softness that he sometimes saw in them was visible.

“Yes I-”

“So you didn't give it to me so that I could thank you and tell you how good you are?”

Aaron didn't reply. He hadn't made her the drawing to get compliments but a part of him had still hoped for them, had hoped to hear nice words and receive warm smiles. Had hoped for warmth and love, for attention.

“See Aaron?” she said, her eyes burning holes into his skin. “You pretend to be such a lovely boy who only wants to please others but you can't fool me, I'm your mother. I know you like nobody else does. I put up with it because I love you, but no one else other than me will ever be able to put up with your selfish behaviour, with your endless needs, with your wanting and taking. I can see right through you.”

☆☆

As he lays on his unmade bed, the darkness of his room engulfing his body and his mind, Aaron finally feels light and free, the weight of the sky no longer resting on his shoulders, the cloud of darkness that had for so long engulfed his lungs finally dissipating.

He stays there for a while, staring at the darkness, searching for a crack in his heart, an ounce of doubt in his blood, regret in his mind. He searches thoroughly and critically, every thought gets analysed and pulled apart, every emotion gets dissected and categorised, and only when he's sure that nothing at all has been overlooked he finally gets out of bed, ready to face the final day of his life.

He takes longer than usual in the shower, letting the hot streams of water untangle his muscles, warm his bones. He uses all of his shampoo and conditioner, until there is not one drop left inside the bottles. He lets the water wash over him until it starts to turn cold, until there is no hot water left at all. When he finally steps out of the shower, condensation has filled the air and all of the glass surfaces and mirrors are fogged over. Aaron prefers it that way, he doesn't want to look at his face, doesn't want the reminder of what he's leaving behind. Of who he's leaving behind.

When he looks at his phone it's thirty-two minutes past seven in the morning and Aaron's heart stops beating for a few seconds: Andrew had called him five times.

A few seconds later it rings again, the phone vibrating in his hand as the ringtone fills the air, covering the sound of his now racing heart.

“What? Is something wrong?” Aaron asks as soon as he picks up the phone, worry crawling under his skin and spreading throughout his body, rooting him to the ground. Andrew would never call him of his own free will, he would never contact him unless something had gone terribly wrong.

“Are you still clean?” is what Andrew says from the other side of the line, his voice sounding strange, strained.

“What?” Aaron's blood turns into ice, freezing his veins. His thoughts drift towards the hospital's supply room, towards what he knows will take place that afternoon. For a second, for a naive and stupid second, Aaron feels touched and warmth tries to melt his frozen veins: maybe Andrew still cares for him, he thinks, maybe he still wants for Aaron to be safe.

“Just answer. Are you still clean?”

“Yes, I am. Almost 10 years.”

“Do you feel like using again?” The question feels like a trick, a trap.

“No,” he says and smiles a little: he doesn't feel like using again but it doesn't mean he won't.

“Good. Don't,” Andrew says before hanging up the phone.

Once Andrew's voice is gone and only silence can be heard in his empty house, Aaron feels hollow again. He wants to call his brother back, to hear him talk about his day, his week, his life; he wants to tell him about his annoying neighbour and his stupid little dog that barks all day and night and won't let Aaron rest; he wants to go to a café and eat three different types of cakes and discuss with him which one is better; he wants Andrew to trust him and confide in him; he wants to confess his pain and tell Andrew that there is a tiredness in him that won't ever leave him, that drags him down. He wants Andrew to burst through his door and save him. He wants and wants and wants and he hates his mother for being right: he's a parasite that will never be satisfied. Aaron won't suck Andrew and Nicky dry like he did with his mother.

☆☆

When he was thirteen, Aaron discovered that he had a brother, a twin, and something that he thought had long been lost sparked in chest again after years of laying dormant between his ribs: hope.

The whole night he paced around his bedroom, up and down and down and up, his whole body buzzing with that long forgotten feeling, thoughts getting tangled in his brain as he tried to organise them, to make sense of them.

He had a twin brother.

He stood in front of the broken and dirty floor-length mirror at the side of his room and stared at himself for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a few minutes: in front of him stood his reflection, dark circles under his eyes, hollowed-out cheeks and sharp cheekbones, rosey lips and messy blond hair. Soon enough there wouldn't just be a mindless reflection standing in front of him, but a real-life human with feelings and thoughts, a brother that looked just like him, a twin that had once been part of him, with whom he had shared the first nine months of his life.

He walked towards his desk and ripped a page from his chemistry notebook. He stared at it for a while, thinking about what he should write. He knew he was an unlovable child, he knew his personality was unlikeable and his mere presence exhausting; he wasn't friendly and he wasn't funny, he was neither sweet nor cute and he had never once been good at making friends, but he was desperate, the need to make a good first impression was burnings in his veins.

He picked up a black-ink pen. He had stolen it from one of his classmates, it was new and expensive, the gel ink rich and deep.

Five different times he began to write his letter and five different times he ripped out the page, his hands shaking, his breaths getting erratic. Aaron had never been a writer, had never liked reading, had never cared about literature, often falling asleep during Mr. Jackson lessons and now he could do nothing but curse at himself for such oversight: he didn't want his brother to think of him as an illiterate idiot who couldn't string two sentences together.

Aaron had never felt more dumb than he did on that Thursday evening as he tried his best to present himself as someone that Andrew could love, someone that was worthy of love.

☆☆

“You look happy today Doctor Minyard,” is the first thing he hears when he walks in front of the nurses station. “Did something good happen?”

Aaron smiles at Nurse Mary, “Just a good day,” he shrugs. Maybe it is a lie or maybe it isn't, Aaron isn't sure anymore.

The day passes slowly and then all at once, a strange feeling buzzing under his skin, electricity licking up his veins. He wonders if it's anticipation or dread, joy or sadness. He wonders if maybe it's a mixture of every emotion that he has ever felt throughout his life. It had been so long since he had felt so much and so strongly; it had been so long since he had felt something other than emptiness and loneliness for a prolonged period of time. He can't decide whether he enjoys the feeling or if he despises it.

He feels guilty as he walks towards the supply room: all around him are those afflicted by unimaginable sicknesses and pains and every day and every night they fight as hard they can to keep their lives: they hold on tightly onto a thin rope that is on the brink of snapping, their knuckles white, their hands bloody, their muscles aching from the strain. And here Aaron is, forfeiting his life as if it means nothing.

The keypad beeps four times, short and loud, and then a third time as the door opens. Aaron takes a deep breath as he steps inside and closes the door behind himself, the dim light inside the small room casting shadows on his face, the stale air making him feel as if he's going to suffocate at any moment. There's a thin layer of sweat on his forehead and a slight shake overtakes his hands as he tightly grips the glass vial. He stops for a second as the syringe sinks into the grey rubber stopper, his laboured breaths the only sound inside the quiet room.

There is a second after Aaron sinks the syringe in his body where flashes of Nicky's warm smile and Andrew's concerned face dance behind his eyelids, a moment where he could change his mind, put the syringe away and walk out of that room alive. But the faces disappear as quickly as they had appeared, smothered by the knowledge that he would only suck them dry, that his wants and needs would only ever hurt them. No matter how hard he tries to keep his wants sealed inside of his chest, beneath his ribs, Aaron knows that they would always find a way to escape. He's a parasite, his existence would only ever bring pain to those around him.

He pushes the morphine in his veins.

That morning he had told Andrew that he didn't feel like using again and while it had been true it hadn't been the full truth. Aaron had long since learnt that a drug addict could never stop being a drug addict. He could get clean and he could stay clean, but the addiction would never fully leave him, a part of him would always crave the drugs, the high, like a broken bone that had never healed quite right and would ache when it rained and when it snowed.

When the morphine finally makes its home in his veins, Aaron welcomes her like an old friend. He lets himself feel the euphoria as it rushes through his body and down his veins, as it reaches his every cell. His body goes limp and he slumps against the wall, the syringe slipping from his fingers. Aaron had forgotten what happiness felt like but as he lays on the snow-white hospital tiles, he thinks he has finally found it again. Maybe drugs, he ponders, had been his only real friends.

His brain goes numb after a while, a dense fog making its way inside of his mind, clouding his thoughts, blurring his vision. His body feels heavy and he lets it fall to the ground, the sound of his head forcefully hitting the ground echoing inside of the silent room. Aaron doesn't even notice. Nothing hurts anymore, the constant and unbearable ache that is his loneliness now hidden inside of the dense fog that is clouding his brain.

Why couldn't you make me just a little lovable, Aaron asks God as he falls into darkness. Why do I always have to be alone?

#aaron minyard #aftg #aftg fanfic #andrew minyard #twinyards #all for the game fanfic #fanfiction #tilda minyard #twinyards time loop au

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your-local-uwu-artist · 2 years ago

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Yoooo Marilou has a sword? :O

Also I saw something about waterproof hair and fabrics in that gijinka universe, which is really interesting! Are there any other little details like that, about the funky traits pokemon can have and how they affect the world?

(my inital response got too long and crashed my computer lol TAKE TWO)

SHE DOES! She's an oshawott so her sword is her scallchop :3 it looks and behaves mostly just like a normal non gijinka one does. is attached to her belly button and considered a part of her body. the suction to her belly button is strong enough that it can be attached through a thin layer of fabric: but ussually marilou will still have her clothes either modified to have a hole or have a special belt to attach it too. Her scallchop extends to a full length sword when she chooses! no one else including another oshawott can make it extend to sword mode.

the sword itself is based off of pirate swords and samurotts' sword thingie

THERES SO MUCH FUN FUNKY STUFF so much i'm working on some drawings of eevees evolved into every eeveelution as an excuse to infodump lol

heres some fun psmd gijinka au world building/lore facts!

-if marilou were to put on a normal collared shirt, the collar would transform into an upturned frilly one: bassically a pokemon 'pokemonness' (being very connected to not just nature but like the nature of the world) connects with the physical natural material in the clothes and can modify it slightly. never by a whole lot. but enough that theres a canon explanation

so yeah the universe has a species dress code basically

-species names function a bit like last names. most (but not everyone!) does have a 'real' name, and in smaller communities generally everyone will know and address others as such (with the exception of like, an elder figure, like a kid won't call the kind charizard across the street by her name she's 'ms charizard' ), but generally speaking it's rude to ask for someones name, or adress someone by such if they havn't told you you can. whats wacky is sometimes if someones adopted by another species they'll adopt an aspect of one of their adoptive parental figures names as a middle name. Marilou and Comet both do this! Marilou's full name is 'Marilouise Brazil Oshawott' Brazil as in the tree nut (Nuzleaf's name) and is 'Comet Costa' Bulbasaur' Costa like Carracosta

- humans (while considered exitnct technically can still exist in the psmd-gijinka verse) can't have 'unnatural' hair colors! within anime reason of course like a black haired humans hair can be actually a shade of blue but like, a human can't naturally have a bright colorful hair color: they can have any color eyes though!

-pokemon still come from eggs in the psmdgijinka-verse. And they still can only reproduce with pokemon from the same egg group and the species of the kid will ussually be that of the 'mother' theres a chance it can be the other parent's. though maybe some species may give live birth like how there are some reptiles etc in our world that do that, but i'm not sure yet. yeah I'm that one nerd that will go on about how theoretically how pikachu can be both a mammal and lay eggs

-most fairy types have particularly like idk the word cause usually 'fair' means pale but what I really mean is that when drawing a fairy type I'll make sure they're skin tone is more saturated than I'd usually choose has more noticeable blush and is closer to the red/pink then orange/yellow hue

-so the shades of color a pokemon can be varies a lot! however the shiny color of a pokemon does effect this. like take vaporeon for example, It's more common for a vaporeon's shades of blue to be teal then indigo sense indigo is closer to purple (vaporeons shiny color)

-while more rare type exclusionist/discrimination/not comparable to any real life bigotry so idk what to call it does exist: like they make grass type dominated towns where fire types aren't allowed and dark and ghost types are often stereotyped as mischievous and up to no good. like yeah sometimes they are but not to the extent that people act

#marilou oshawott #psmd #pokemon super mystery dungeon #pmd #yumehocshi #kyuchat

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necrotiic · 24 days ago

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it always happens like this. the walk back seems to take for fucking ever compared to getting there. it is taxing on my nerves because i am in a rush ; hurrying along the side walks and weaving in and out of houses.

i know this shit hole town like the back of my knuckles, so getting too and fro isn't an issue. . . usually. maybe it's just me, but it seemed like forever before i found that familiar storage site.

i let out a sigh of relief. emotions, bubbling up to the surface. i brush them off before i open the door to that unit. can't have her knowing how much that separation effected me. has to be the speed. no way is this shit normal.

again, once i am in, i prevent that door from slamming. used my knee because the hands are full. i turn and walk over to her slowly, hand extending out with the brown paper bag.

i set the ice water down next to the side of that nasty ass sex sponge of a mattress. my own ass finds a spot next to her.

❝ i want all that water gone. cubes included. ❜

i wasn't fucking around with that, either. she needed to hydrate. ice takes a lot out of someone. especially her, she's so fucking thin, a little bit of nothing. and my shit, well, it's strong.

i don't fuck around when i cook. my back is against the same concrete as her own. i watch my clothing laying lazily on the floor, the light humming and flickering like it is begging the god that does not exist to save it from it's torment.

i am looking anywhere but her. too embarrassed by the bruises on her neck. too shy by the nudeness that surrounds me. i swallow hard because again, nervousness. i am so fucked it is beyond words. enemies will taunt me for this. for her. i don't know what to fucking do about it, either.

Miriam hadn’t moved at first. Just sat there, spine pressed to the cold wall, one leg tucked under the blanket and the other bare, her knee bent, toes tapping absently against the mattress. The cigarette between her fingers was burning down slow, ash trailing off into her lap, and still — she just stared at the metal door he’d vanished through.

The silence was different now. Heavier. Not quite empty, but waiting. She snorted to herself. Waiting for what, exactly? For a stranger to come back with fries and salvation?

Her head tipped back against the wall with a low thunk. The lightbulb above flickered and buzzed like a dying fly. She took another drag, letting the smoke sit in her lungs longer than usual before releasing it toward the ceiling. Her eyes stung. She blamed it on the cigarette.

He hadn’t said where he was going. Just barked out “ don’t go anywhere ” like she had plans to. As if she could. As if there was some other option waiting outside her door besides more rot, more ghosts, more of the same haunted loops that stitched themselves into her spine every time she tried to close her eyes.

Still. She had to admit. He was . . . something else. The kind of violent chaos that might leave bruises on your bones or your memory. The kind that didn’t ask if you were okay — just brought food, tossed a pillow, and gave you the bed like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t built entirely out of razor wire and bad intentions.

Her thoughts kept circling. Why had she let him in? Why had he come back? Why the fuck was she still sitting here like she expected anything at all?

She groaned low under her breath and rubbed at her face with both hands, dragging down her cheeks until her mouth hung open with frustration.

Then she said, out loud to the room, to the ghosts, to no one at all: ❛ What the hell are you doing, girl. ❜

The cigarette burned down to the filter. She stubbed it out on the edge of a tin tray and flicked it aside. And still, she waited. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket, toes twitching. Listening for footsteps.

#blutgebet #• replies.#he is fucked beyond words LOOL

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hisadoredwhore · 2 years ago

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Body Count

Last night's body count wasn't too shabby. I think I underestimated the crowd that would be waiting at my door. I always start my night off a little nervous. My man gives me a pep talk, I take a deep breath and own it. This evening was no exception.

I picked a booth off the beaten path. I like to watch a video and relax a little before I make eye contact with my prey. I like to take stock of my environment and get a feel for the place. The video screen was not working. Sound was working, screen was not. I left my door open as I situated my airpod, freshened my lipstick, took off my shirt, and secured my belongings. Before I knew it I had a taker.

Juan was from El Salvador. He had the shiny button up long sleeve shirt to prove it. He shut the door and started to kiss me. He pawed at every inch of me taking in every curve. We started off with him burying his face between my thighs. He was definitely hungry. my moans started to draw people to tap at he door. I took him in my mouth and jammed him into the back of my throat over and over. The distinct gagging sound drew more activity outside the door. My blowjobs rarely go unfinished but he had to bury himself inside me. Things went slowly. Clinking of the belt, dropping of the pants, kicking off of the shoes. He took me there standing. I had one hand on the wall to balance myself and the pounding I was receiving shook the room enough to release the door. Each time I looked over my shoulder, I saw a different person peering through watching. I made sure to make eye contact with each one. He finished inside me. He got dressed, got my phone number and told me in broken english how much he enjoyed my body. As he left, there were at least 6 people standing outside my door waiting.

Monica came in and introduced herself. Tall, very thin, cheap wig, torn fishnet stocking and bright red lipstick. She told me about the place and her experiences over the last few times she visited. While we were chatting a man stood in the doorway, on the phone, bummed he had to leave. He talked to Monica and myself for a little while. He excused himself and told me he hopes he gets to have a chance with me next time. Monica was biologically a man and asked me if I wanted to play. As my man says, "you are the least judgey person I know". She pulled down her skirt and binding undergarments and I sucked her off. I got down on my knees and went for it. Her legs were shaking as she came inside my mouth. She said she saw stars and could barely walk when she left. I readjusted my clothes and wiped the lipstick off my breast.

I barely composed myself when the next person entered. Complete geek. SW t-shirt, glasses, shorts, and a baseball cap. He took notice of my feet right away. The patent heel was drawing him in. He asked if he could take off my shoe. He absorbed my feet, smelled them, tasted them, inhaled them. He then adjusted and put his baseball cap on backwards and pulled my legs apart. He kept burying his face until he had to pull away and catch his breath. He had a lot off unique sexual behaviors. His fetish was being served. He pulled down his shorts to reveal his Yoda chonies. He sat me down on the bench and pushed himself inside me until he finished on me. He placed my heels back on my feet before he left.

The next few were basic blow jobs. I was hoping to utilize the Glory Holes but with a line at my door I had to get a few out of the way as time was running out. My last target was the Manager of the business. I flirted with him a bit but he wasn't taking the bait. As I started to walk out of the store, a customer was walking in and asked me if the offer extended to him as well. Yes it does. I took him by the hand and directed him into the booth I was in. He attempted to get someone to join us. He got me and what I wanted from the get go. The manager came into "clean" when he was about to eat me out from behind. I was hoping he would join but he didn't. Firecracker (my man and I give nicknames to everyone) had the capacity to give it to me the way I wanted it, rough. He was having a "hard" time getting where he needed to be. He ended up losing his load between my cheeks and then proceeded so suck his own cum out of me.

As I left, I left with a sense of empowerment. I left with confidence. I left with my whore head held up high. One of the men I was with said "come on dude, that's what she is here for". Truer words have never been spoken.

#whorish #whorelife #adult entertainment #adultarcade

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patchwork-puppybutch · 2 years ago

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In other news:

My tdick has grown so that i can now insert some of the shaft into a hole, rather than just slipping the head in and out. And 0.0 yes it's absolutely the best sensation my tdick has ever felt.

Just me rambling about it more:

I cannot tell you how exciting it is, after always wishing my tdick were long enough to actually penetrate something and then eventually getting enough growth so that the head itself has some length and can sort of be "inserted" but is less of a "penetration" fashion and more like a "plug" due to having no growth of the shaft that is present from the head to my bones but too firmly attached to the deeper flesh to extend beyond it, to use my little stroker, as I pull out, I see a 1/2 inch of shaft exit the hole before the head appears.

Like. 1/2 of shaft, visible. Long enough to not be constantly snuggled up in the foreskin and deeper tissues.

I was probably 1-2 weeks on T when I noticed initial growth. My head got larger, though it wasn't visibly noticeable since the foreskin/clitoral hood accomodated the growth. And I also could feel the base/shaft of the tdick/clit become denser (i could feel it before, though, quite easily).

But mostly the growth didn't lengthen the shaft at all. The head certainly grew larger! Wider and longer, proportionally, and surprised me by how such an adorable thing seemed to come out of nowhere. And there was a shaft, but the foreskin near the base isn't thin or fitted. It's more like an oversized sweater, being longer and much wider than the shaft. It used to be thinner, as if it was just a continuation of the labia. But it got a little thicker, gaining a bit of suppleness that looks very attractive, whether it sheathes the firmer tdick or is drawn back to let the head extend out from the hood.

So the head did extend outward. And behind it, the shaft was discernable by the way it shaped foreskin. I could gently trace the shaft back to the pubic bone, and that length is about 3 inches (which isn't much more than pre-T).

But now...!!!! There is a length of shaft that extends out from the snuggly foreskin--or, it's more like it just has a less-supple foreskin over it. More like "foreskin" and less like "clitoral hood" (though I can't fathom how the two things could be discreetly defined). It is about the same length as the head, though! Then, a good inch of shaft is discernable inside the thicker foreskin.

So like!!!!!!! WHOW. I didn't know the shaft would ever extend out from the hood! I figured the hood was the foreskin and thus would always envelop the entire shaft (and the head, in some moods). But it seems like the forefront of the "hood" actually does differentiate into a thinner foreskin, which is able to penetrate, unlike the shaft that is in the hood (the shaft in thicker hood could also be inserted into something, but it is wider than the head and thus can't go into...like...tubes :3 so i could only penetrate a length equal to the length of the head.

But now I can fit more of my dick into things.

Specifically, the shaft that is juuuuuust behind the head is much easier to insert. Which means it's really easy for me to move the head in and out, in that *REALLY* nice way where the ridge of the head thrusts through the opening, going far enough in to allow the ridge to be stimulated when pulling out almost all the way between thrusts or when thrusting in a shallower way so the ridge doesnt ever slip out.

Aaand here is an accidental ramble about pre-T clit anatomy! Lol.

Before T, I could just barely see the shape of the head (if I knew what I was looking for and where to look for it) but I could always feel the shaft. It runs inward towards the pubic bone, angling slightly up. Then it runs down, attached firmly to the lower layers of tissue along the bone. It remains detectable along the bone, until the area where it is equal in height (more or less, depending on mood and things) to the location where the tip of the clit is exposed. Almost like a √ shape, if you flip the shape upside down; with the angled line bearing the clit at its end, and the horizontal line representing the last detectable length, pointing directly towards the vagina. But! It doesn't actually end there. It actually...well, it makes me a little uncozy to think about what it does next. But it does extend very far back, and doesn't actually end until it's about equal with the vaginal opening.

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pochipop · 2 years ago

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＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win.

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so.

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more.

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from.

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.)

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through.

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever.

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her.

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some.

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.)

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.”

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.”

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July.

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you.

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own.

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another.

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.)

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it.

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind.

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh.

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.”

Bingo.

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires.

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that.

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner?

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place.

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira.

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages.

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all.

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them.

#moira #overwatch #moira x reader #moira o'deorain x reader #moira odeorain x reader #moira o'deorain #moira odeorain #moira overwatch #overwatch x reader #moira reader insert #moira x you #moira o'deorain reader insert #moira odeorain reader insert #moira x y/n #overwatch imagines #moira imagine #overwatch x you

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scifrey · 2 years ago

Text

Keepsakes:

A Hospital Bracelet: Comfort

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature. There are discussions of medical torture and wounds in this chapter. Please curate your experience accordingly.

Warnings: Discussions of violence. Some whump and hurt/comfort.

Relationships: Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Delirium of the Endless, Death of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Daniel Hall, Destruction of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Matthew the Raven

Directly follows the previous part, A HOSPITAL BRACELET: HURT

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A Hospital Bracelet: Comfort

Inspired by a prompt from @hummingbird231 on Tumblr.

“Let me in!” Matthew shouts. “I’mma peck his eyes out myself, the stupid, noble fuckface.”

The noise is enough to rouse Hob. He who opens an eye to take in the vision of Matthew buffeting at the small window in the hall-side door with gimlet-eyed fury. He is resplendent in his little neon-blue coat that declares him a Service Animal Do Not Pet.

The door pushes open, and a startled-looking nurse immediately flattens himself against it. “I’ve never heard a crow speak in full sentences–”

“Raven!” Matthew and Morpheus correct together.

Morph flows into the room with all his magnificent, royal fury, dragging his sleek wheeled suitcase behind him and practically flinging it into the corner. He must have come straight from the airport.

“Get out,” Morph snarls at the nurse, and before Hob can even work up the spit to scold him for his manners, the fellow is off like a shot.

Morph locks the door behind him. Matthew lands on the bed rail behind Hob’s head and actually does peck him. But it’s just once, on his bare cheek, and gently.

“Ow,” Hob moans softly.

“You deserve worse,” Matthew complains, fluffing up in agitation.

“You are foolish,” Morph adds, as he drags a chair right up against the side of the hospital bed. He sounds so wrecked that anyone would think that Morpheus was the one who was in a car crash. “Jumping in filthy, frigid water, Robert! With a hole in your head!”

“I had to try to save her,” is all Hob says.

“Foolish,” Morph repeats. He takes Hob’s nearest hand between his own and presses his forehead against it, bowing into the bed. It causes the thin, plasticky hospital bracelet to rub against Hob’s road-rash, but he doesn’t say anything about it, too happy to have the warmth of his husband against his skin. “I know you cannot die, erasti, but I will kill you myself if you do this to me again.”

“Hey,” Hob croaks. “Not my fault.”

“He sounds worse than me, boss, get him some water,” Matthew says, hopping over to the bedside table where someone has left a pitcher, a cup, and a paper straw.

Morph pours, and Hob takes the opportunity to look around the room. Besides registering that he was now in a hospital, he hasn’t had much time awake in here to take in his situation. He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since the ambulance, swapping so frequently between this bed and a soft bit of meadow Fiddler’s Green that they’ve sort of blended together in his scrambled brains.

God’s bones, he hopes he doesn’t have permanent brain damage. Or memory loss.

Matthew extends a wing and holds the straw still as Morph uses one of his hands to hold the cup, and another to help prop Hob upright enough to drink without spilling all over himself. He knows enough to go slow, to take it in little sips, and is grateful for Morph’s patience as he wets his throat.

"I won't be able to stay awake for too long, duckie," Hob says when Morph sets the cup aside. Hob fiddles with the morphine pump button on the side of the gurney but doesn't press it yet. "But I'm glad you're here."

"Hob," Morph says, miserable. He lifts Hob's bandaged hand and presses a long, slow kiss around the bruised flesh of the IV port.

"I am fine," Hob reassures him. He wants to brush his hand through Morph's hair, more wild than usual, undoubtedly from his fretting. He wants to smooth it down, and then smooth down Matthew's ruffled feathers. He wants to put them all back to rights, so this can be behind them.

But it hurts too much to move, so he lets his head flop back, carefully resting on his intact right side, and takes in the hospital room. This is the longest stretch he's been awake so far, and he's been here… hours? Days? Hob's not actually sure.

There was surgery at some point, he remembers that. Daniel had come to keep him company on the Green while he’d been under anesthesia.

It’s probably only been about twenty four hours, considering the fact that Morph would have had to make his way back from the convention in Glasgow, then hired a cab to bring him to Hob in… whatever hospital they're in. An eye-flick at the window on the far wall offers Hob a view of pastureland and a small garden, dotted with other patients, close to the building. So definitely not in London. They must be close to where the crash happened.

Good. Small hospitals in out-of-the-way places are easier to vanish from, and the doctors are less likely to want to perform expensive and unnecessary tests. They’re easier to bribe off with cash, too.

While he and Morph aren't wealthy, they live comfortably enough that their health insurance is sizeable, if only for exact situations like these where a private room and a dedicated nursing team would make it easier to explain away their strange physical conditions. Like surviving a bullet grazing past one's head and taking out a chunk of skull the size of a golf ball, and not dying from it.

"Beg to differ. You got a hole in your head, Hobsie," Matthew argues, hopping down to roost on Hob's belly, pretty much the only part of him that doesn't hurt right now. "And a wrenched shoulder, a broken ankle, and your hands look like you went ten rounds with a hellcat."

"And all of that will heal," Hob assures the bird. Then he squeezes his husband's hand in his. "Though if your mom wants to speed things up for me this time, duck, I wouldn't say no."

He tries to wink at Morph while he says it, but it comes out as a wince instead, which seems to upset Morph even more.

"I should never have gone," Morph says, his voice little more than a broken rumble. The way Matthew scoffs makes it clear that this is already well-trod path between them.

"You couldn't have known, boss," Matthew reassures Morph, but it falls on deaf ears.

"I ought to have," Morph growls. "I was King of all Dreams, I should have—I shouldn't have been surprised—I—"

"Hey, hey," Hob says gently. He uses his grip on his husband’s hand to slowly pull his hand up so Hob can kiss his knuckles. "Shhh. You're not Dream of the Endless anymore. There's no way you could have seen her fantasies."

"Maybe I was hasty in abdicating," Morph says in a miserable, red-eyed rush. He fits his free hand against the side of Hob’s face without the crisscrossing bandages, soothing the little spot where Matthew had poked Hob with his beak. "If I had remained in my role for a few more years, I could—"

"No," Hob says firmly. "No, we're not playing what ifs. And you're not going to beat yourself up for not seeing something coming every time something happens to us. This is what human life is, duckie. It's just rolling with the punches as they come, getting back up, dusting yourself off, and moving forward."

Morph runs his thumb back and forth over Hob’s temple, the place where Hob’s started to bleach and colour his hair into a charming grey stripe.

“This is Desire’s doing,” Morph grumps.

“I doubt that,” Hob soothes him. “Desire doesn’t give a shit about your old rivalry any more. Stop looking for people to blame. Jill’s already dead, poor thing. There’s no one else.”

“Poor thing,” Matthew snorts.

“Well, I feel sorry for her,” Hob says. “Imagine, going through what she did, losing her mum, and then figuring out that some other bastard gets eternal life and you don’t, she didn’t, and it’s not fair—that’s enough to drive anyone mad. Believe me. I should know.”

“Yes, speaking of knowing, how did she?” Morph snarls.

Hob tells him.

It just makes Morph angrier. “Lucifer, that flamboyant, self absorbed–”

“Cut it out,” Hob barks, trotting out his Professor Gadlen voice.

Matthew startles enough to puff up, and Morph jerks back, stung. His face falls from surprise to hurt. Morph draws his hands away and curls into a ball on the hospital chair, and Hob wishes he could chase after him. But even raising his IV’d hand to follow tugs and burns painfully, and Hob hisses and drops it to the bed instead.

Matthew looks like he’s about to say something, but Hob shoots him a warning glare, and the raven snaps his beak shut.

“Morph, babe,” Hob says gently. “I’m not mad at you. I just need you to stop thinking that this is anyone’s fault but hers. I know you feel lost and aimless because there is no one to punish, and no one to blame, and no one to yell at—it’s hard to have all that anger in you and nowhere for it to go. I get it. But you gotta let it go.”

He holds up his hand and Morpheus pounces on it, clinging like Hob is floating in the sea and he is the only life raft.

“Erasti,” Morph breathes, and his lower lashes sparkle with unshed tears. Where once they glowed sliver, mercurial as stardust, they’re now just regular old saltwater… but no less beautiful. “I was… I was so frightened.”

“Me too,” Hob assures him. “But nothing was going to keep me there. Nothing will ever keep me from you.”

“I couldn’t… the… glass… I couldn’t stop thinking about…” His sentence devolves into panicky little breaths, and, by god, does Hob wish he was the kind of immortal creature that heals quickly, so he could be over all of this nonsense and out of the hospital already. That he was able to fold Morph in his embrace and kiss away every one of his terrible fears and memories.

For half a moment, he enjoys the extremely bitter irony of not being a vampire.

“Here, come up here,” Hob says, wiggling as much as his bound shoulder and casted foot will allow. He makes a small gutter of space between his side and the rail of the bed.

Matthew rides him out, waiting until Morph has folded his skinny arse on the mattress, and then picks his way over Hob’s chest to hunker down on the pillow, right behind Morph’s upturned shoulder. He lays his head over Morph’s pulse and watches Hob with worried black eyes. Morpheus presses himself so close to Hob it’s like he’s trying to crawl through his skin.

“I can’t do this without you,” Morph warbles.

“And you never will. No one is ever going to take me away from you.”

“Dee said that when you didn’t show up for class, he went to check on you. He said it looked like someone dragged you out of the flat, and Destiny gave us the CCTV footage and you were so limp, and so alone, all I could think about was… the… the basement…”

The glass prison, Hob realizes. Being trapped while a demented human demanded boons and power that are not within you to give.

“That’s fair, duck, I would think of that first, too.”

“And then I… I didn’t know… I’m powerless now, Hob. I can’t–”

“Shhh, shhh, you’re not powerless. You’re here. Right here. Right now. Right where I need you to be.”

“I had to rely on my family to find you. To save you.”

“And they did. That’s what family is for.”

“I felt so helpless.”

Hob decides it’s worth the pain and effort to stop up Morph’s mouth with his own. The kiss starts desperate, dislodging Matthew, who flaps back to Hob’s belly, but Hob is able to slow it down into something sweet and reassuring.

“You’re not useless, you’re not powerless, and you’re not helpless,” Hob reminds his husband, in between lingering pecks. “Even if you did not have your siblings to turn to, I don’t doubt for a second that you would have found me. Not one second, do you hear me, beloved?”

“You suffered,” Morph whispers, so soft it’s nearly lost under the beep and whirr of the machines around Hob. “And I was not there to make it stop.”

“I’m not suffering now,” Hob says gently and kisses him one last time. “I am safe, thanks to you.”

Morpheus mumbles something, but it’s buried between Hob’s neck and pillow, and he doesn’t catch it.

“I’m going to reup my meds. All this moving around has me in agonies.”

Morph sits up. “Erasti, you should not have let me–”

“Nah,” Hob says, reaching over Morph to press the button to release a dose of his husband’s namesake drug into his IV. “I’m much happier with you here. Stay ‘till I fall asleep?” Hob asks, pleased when Morph both against the mattress to keep him company.

"It wasn’t me, you know," a voice drawls from the window-side of Hob's bed, the next time he regains consciousness.

"Hmm?" Hob asks, working to get his eyes gummy open.

The little birdie weight on Hob’s stomach is gone, as is the press of Morph next to him.

He reaches out, wincing, but finds Despair in the hospital chair next to him, and not Morph.

"They've gone to fetch tea," Despair says, with thin grey glee. "Hospital tea is the worst kind of tea."

Hob rolls his head the other way—or, at least as far as the wad of bandaging on the ventilated side of his head allows—and Desire winks from the narrow sofa under the window. They're lounging like it's a luxurious settee from a golden age starlet's dressing room, instead of the sagging, pokey thing it is.

"I didn't know that the woman had such designs. I would not have…" Desire makes a disgusted sound. "I’ve laid my quarrel with your husband to rest. It’s no fun, now that he’s a boring old human.”

“I’m making an effort not to be offended,” Hob sing-songs, then coughs against his dry mouth. Despair helps him get some pillows behind his back to sit up, and to take a few sips of water.

Desire only rolls their golden eyes. “I did not set the woman on you to punish him."

"I know," Hob says.

Desire pouts petulantly. "He doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust anyone," Hob offers gently. "Don't take it personally."

"He must trust you," Despair says. Hob knows that she’s saying it to hook anxiety and resentment into him, and that she can’t help it. It’s just who she is. He doesn’t let the barbs break skin.

"He loves me, which is not the same,” Hob corrects kindly. “There are still things he doesn't trust me with. I think maybe the only person he really trusts is Daniel. Maybe Matthew."

"But you are his spouse," Desire says, the confusion drawing them out of their sulk. "Surely he trusts you."

"To an extent," Hob says affably. He wishes he could shrug but he knows that it will just hurt, so he doesn't. "I'm not offended by it. He's been hurt a lot in his life—hey, look at me, Desire, don't pout, I'm not calling you out here—he's been hurt because he loved too much, too fast, and too completely. And he’s had the trust that this kind of love engenders broken a lot. Then to top it off, he naively believed that humanity was the sum of all its best parts–and it is, it can be–but he’s been disabused of that by some very awful humans doing very awful things to him. And to one another. And now that he's just human, he lives in dread of the day that I’ll succumb to the same thing every other lover he’s had has succumbed to–that I’ll find the size and intensity of his love too much of a burden. And that eventually I’ll resent him, or get bored of him, and send him off."

Desire bursts into howling, hysterical laughter. "You? You? Fall out of love with our darling Moron Morph? Ha! Better to think you could piss on the sun to put it out!"

"Colourful," Hob chuckles. "But accurate. He needs to settle into that realization himself. I can't do it for him. And," Hob adds, as Desire’s expression turns mischievous and thoughtful. “Don’t you go meddling either. Let him sink into it naturally.”

“My darling little brother,” Desire drawls. “I am Desire of the Endless. There is literally no force in existence more natural than I.”

Hob just levels them a flat, unimpressed look.

“Oh fine,” Desire says, throwing up their hands. They flip around on the sofa, irritable, laying on it head down with their long, long legs propped against the wall under the window, crossed at the ankle. “Spoilsport.”

“Thank you.” Hob turns his attention to the other twin. “And how are you, darling Despair?”

“Wonderful,” she effuses with a sated sigh. “I love hospitals.”

Hob grins at her. Some people might be put off by another’s joy in people’s misery, but that’s literally who Despair is. The sun rises in the east, water is wet, and Despair of the Endless revels in suffering. He’s just happy she’s happy.

“Your lovely hair,” Despair moans theatrically, brushing her hand through the ends of it visible on the side of his head. “You must be sad.”

“Of course. But it’ll grow back,” Hob assures her. He tries to reach up to tug on his ear, the little tick that has given away his embarrassment since he was a wee boy, and his mam caught him in a lie, but the motion pulls on the bandages on his shoulder, and he drops his hand to the bed instead.

“Of course it will,” Desire adds, grinning with their tongue between their teeth. “Handsome Hobsie.”

The urge to tug his ear grows stronger. "Where's Delirium?"

"She had her turn to sit with you while you slept through the drug-haze," Despair says.

"She's out pestering the nurses right now," Desire adds, gesturing at the door as if whatever Del was up to was simply childish nonsense, not worth remarking on. "Confusing them into allowing you a discharge tomorrow. After that, the files will simply vanish."

"The head nurse will berate herself for weeks," Despair adds with relish.

"That's… really thoughtful," Hob offers with a blink. "Thanks, guys."

"It's almost as if we love you, little brother," Desire drawls, stretching and rising to their feet, amused by the way Hob's gaze latches onto the bulge in their anatomically-impossibly-tight trousers, which of course they had done on purpose to fluster him.

"Destruction will pick you up tomorrow afternoon," Despair says, rising as well and setting the chair in just the right place to trip anyone coming into the room. "Oh! Morph should learn to drive."

"Oh, no, he absolutely should not," Hob rejoinders. "Not if he doesn't want to end up in one of these beds himself."

"But he'd be so bad at it," Despair points out, full of hope.

Morph returns with two cups of truly wretched tea, and informs Hob that Del’s pulled some unseen strings to get him released into Morph’s care. Apparently she’s convinced the hospital that Hob is being moved to a posh, ultra-private clinic under specialist supervision.

“So private it only has one bed!” Matthew jokes, and Hob tries not to wince at the volume of his caws. It’s not the raven’s fault that Hob is having problems regulating his sensory input due to a traumatic brain injury.

As Hob and Morph grimace their way through the appalling tea, Matthew pulls the chart off the foot of the bed and painstakingly flips through it, reading the most interesting bits aloud.

“Three-dee printed disk of human bone fitted into your skull, isn’t it a wonder what they can do with technology nowadays, with a skin graft to cover the wound…”

“Where did you learn to read the chart?” Hob asks.

“I was a cop, wasn’t I?” Matthew says with his version of a shrug. “Got lots of practice hanging around in hospital rooms with vi–witnesses and the like.”

Hob tries not to be offended that Matthew thinks he’ll be triggered by the word ‘victim’.

“Oh!” Matthew snorts, “They took the skin from your ass! You’re a real and genuine asshat now!”

Hob groans and shifts on the bed. “No wonder I can’t get comfortable.”

“Are you in a great deal of pain, erasti?”

“Only from this tea,” Hob jokes, handing it back to Morph.

Morph looks like he wants to protest, but instead just takes the tea and sets it aside.

“Sorry,” Hob fumbles, unsure how to parse Morph’s quiet thoughtfulness. “I… I didn’t mean to insult–”

“No, no,” Morph murmurs. “It is just…”

Matthew mantles and, after a moment, finishes Morph’s thought with: “We’re just worried about you, Hobsie. You seem a bit–”

“Am I slurring?” Hob interrupts, fear surging up his spin. “Do I sound funny? Is my brain scrambled, I mean, I sound fine to me, but am I–”

“You are perfectly intelligible, erasti,” Morph reassures him. “Only, you are being… unexpectedly genial.”

“What?”

“Your good mood is freaking us out,” Matthew clarifies.

Hob takes a moment to parse what they mean. “Wait, you’re worried because I’m not acting traumatized enough?” Morph takes his IV’d hands between both of his, looking theatrically sympathetic and worried. “Oh, come on! I’m fine.”

“There’s a hole in your head,” Matthew says gently.

“And they filled it with science fiction medical shit,” Hob grouses. “I can’t die.”

Morph looks hesitant to speak his mind, which, perhaps, a first for him. At least for as long as Hob has known him. Which is damn near seven hundred years, now. But he clearly has something he wants to say. It’s written all over his face like a ticking time bomb.

“Go on,” Hob says. “Spit it out, already.”

Morph blinks hard. Gently, he begins with: “You once told me that your greatest nightmare was to be captured and experimented upon. Despair told me what was done, and–”

“Stop.” Bile, hot and sour, rushes up Hob’s throat. He swallows hard against it, refusing, refusing to let that woman hurt him any more. He squeezes Morph’s hand hard enough to probably hurt.

Morph stops.

“No,” Hob says firmly, screwing his eyes shut, forcing his breathing to remain steady, to not speed up, to not betray his…no. No. “No. We’re not… no.”

“Okay,” Matthew says, wobbling over the blanket to press his head comfortingly against Hob’s heart. “It’s okay.”

“I’m fine,” Hob says, pushing him off gently. “I just don’t see what good dwelling on it will do. It’s over. I’m fine.”

Morph and Matthew exchange a look that makes it clear that they don’t believe him. It settles like a nettling irritant under his skin.

“You know, I fucking hate it when you guys conspire,” Hob snaps. “Makes me feel like a third wheel in my own fucking marriage, sometimes.”

Morph doesn’t outwardly react to Hob’s words, but the shine in his glacier-blue eyes gets brighter, his entire vibe closing off.

“Yeah, I guess that’s my cue to fuck off,” Matthew says, voice pinched.

“Wait, Matthew, I didn’t mean–” Hob starts, but doesn’t finish, as Matthew’s already leapt into the air and, in the span of two wingbeats, vanished into the Dreaming. Hob turns to look at Morph. He wishes he could cross his arms across this chest. “What?”

“Excellently done, erasti,” Morph says, and sarcasm oozes like sludge from every syllable.

“Well, I do feel that way, sometimes,” Hob snaps.

“Then why have you not said so before now?” Morph challenges. “Why bring it up only to weaponize it right when we’re all feeling at our most vulnerable? Do you seek to hurt us the way you have been hurt? Or in recompense for my failure to protect–”

“No,” Hob interrupts hastily, shame flooding his body and dousing the prickly standoffishness. “I’m sorry. I am. That wasn’t fair. My brain-to-mouth filter must have been in the glob of grey-matter that fell onto the van floor. I’m sorry.”

Morph sniffs, clearly not ready to forgive Hob yet, and that’s fair. That’s fair. He’s going to have to grovel to Matthew, too. “Was your emotional intelligence in that glob as well?”

“Ouch,” Hob laughs, but it’s thin and strained. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Hob, we were scared for you. We are still frightened of what complications may arise from what occurred. Will you not concede that our fears are well founded, at least?”

Hob chews on that for a moment, and while he thinks that it’s all ridiculous, that it’s nothing, he won’t deny Morph the right to feel what he feels.

“No, yeah, of course,” Hob says softly. “I’ll… I’ll do better.”

“You do not need to do better at trying to lie to yourself and us about your mental state,” Morph warns him. “You need to allow yourself to process what happened and experience it.”

Hob makes a sour face at that. “Right now?”

“No, of course not in this immediate moment…” Morph heaves a sigh.

“Okay. Later,” Hob says, meaning not ever.

Morph eyes him like he knows, but lets it drop. After a few long moments of awkward, frustrated silence, Morph says, “What else was in that glob of grey matter, do you suppose?”

He’s trying for a joke, and Hob’s replying laughter is too forced, but neither of them remark on it.

“I dunno. Why don’t you quiz me?”

“In what year did we first meet?”

“2019,” Hob says promptly, just for the way Morph’s face transforms with shock and dismay, only to curl into sly amusement.

“Ah, you jest.”

“Of course I jest. 1389, June 7th. Best day of my life.” He uses their entwined fingers to pull Morph’s hand to his mouth for a quick kiss. “Give me a hard one.”

“Hƿæt ƿæs þīn earste inƿætling þū me?”

“I č ierēamde þīn ēagan for dæᵹ,” Hob replies.

"Menteur. Je suis revenu en arrière et j'ai regardé tes rêves à propos de moi après que nous soyons devenus amants."

"D'accord, j'ai rêvé de tes yeux et de te pencher au-dessus de la table, juste là, au milieu de the White Horse."

“Kinē sōhaṇē śabada. Tusīṁ mērē nāla kivēṁ rōmānsa karadē hō, isa la'ī.”

“Tusīṁ saca magi'ā, rōmānsa nahīṁ,” Hob says with a cheeky wink, feeling much more himself now that they were back to flirting.

“That’s not truth either!” Morph blurts out. “Þú virðir mig. Þú óttaðist mig.”

“Ég hef aldrei óttast þig.”

“I glóssa sou eínai asiménia ópos pánta. Den nomízo óti écheis chásei kamía glóssa.”

“Ti anakoúfisi,” Hob says, with a sigh, and indeed it is a relief. Whatever it was what made Hob Hob, that formed his personality, and his memories, and his core identity, seem to be intact.

Hob’s not entirely certain he trusts Destiny of the Endless to drive any more than Morpheus, considering he’s never seen the entity’s eyes through the curtain of his hipster-emo hair. But it’s Destiny who greets them from the driver’s seat of Dee’s junky little Jeep hatchback. As Dee lifts Hob from the wheelchair into the back seat, Hob supposes it makes sense for the big strong burly Endless to be the one to manhandle him around while his motor function is still shot. Still, he thinks he might prefer the one who’s lived among humans to be the one navigating.

“We will arrive at the New Inn safely,” Destiny sniffs as Morph scoots in the other rear door, and gets Hob buckled in.

Hob is reminded sharply that his in-laws can read his surface thoughts, so long as they pertain to their sphere of influence. A spike of annoyance flashes through him, but Hob shoves it down. It doesn’t matter.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Hob laughs lightly, instead, trying to keep the mood light.

He’s already exhausted from their little escape. Okay, so said ‘escape’ is agonizingly slow, in broad daylight, and under the approval and supervision of a bunch of people who won’t remember it afterwards, but perhaps they were a bit hasty in getting him out of there so fast. He really does wish he’d been able to bring some of that lovely IV-strength morphine with him.

Destruction climbs into the front. “All set?”

“Yeah,” Hob says. “Good as it’s gonna get, at least. You know, it’s sweet of all of you to check in on me, but I’ll be fine.”

Matthew lands on Morph’s lap, and they exchange a skeptical glance as Morph shuts his door, and Destiny pulls away from the hospital carriageway.

“What?” Hob chuckles, leaning as far back in the seat as it allows to cradle his poor head, broken ankle propped on the wheel well. “Really, I’m fine!”

“Boss,” Dee says, turning awkwardly around in the passenger seat. “Not to make, you know, light of it, but you were drugged, abducted, imprisoned, medically violated, shot, and then in a horrific car wreck. You’re allowed to be not fine. Anybody would be not-fine.”

“I was not-fine after only two of those things happened to me,” Morph says softly.

“That was a whole century, though,” Hob says. “I was only gone a day. Twenty-four hours at most.”

“A short duration of torture lasts does not make it any less torturous.”

“Torture!” Hob echoes, with a forced guffaw. “Come on, guys.”

Morpheus lays a gentle hand on Hob’s thigh, and somehow the usually comforting gesture feels condescending this time. “Erasti, waking nightmares have been spawned by less. There is no shame in–”

“Stop pestering me,” Hob snaps, shoving Morph’s hand off, his good mood starting to strain.

“Hobsie, come on,” Matthew says, scrambling up Morph’s arm to perch on his shoulder and preen Hob’s visible hair under the bandages. “I thought you didn’t buy into the toxic masculinity bullshi–”

“I said I’m fine!” Hob snarls. “So leave it.”

Matthew jerks back with a startled squawk, landing on his back in Morph’s hastily cupped hands. No one else says anything, but the silence that descends on the car is thick with I told you so. Four pairs of eyes drill into Hob accusingly, worriedly; even Destiny's, while he still somehow manages to keep them on the road. Or so Hob assumes, cause he can’t see them.

“Ow,” Hob says, his head throbbing so hard that he sees dark spots in his vision.

Morph sets Matthew to rights. The raven faces away from Hob on Morph’s lap, Morph helping him groom his feathers smooth with stiff, pale fingers. Hob immediately feels like an arse.

But everyone is finally quiet, so he closes his eyes and rests the intact part of his skull on the cool window and closes his eyes, and tries to banish the vision of the needle coming toward him, over, and over, and over again.

Death and Delirium are waiting for them at the flat, and Hob tries not to be irritated by it.

He’s not a fucking child, he doesn’t need babysitting.

Hob is handed off like a grouchy baton, Destruction setting him gently on the sofa, Death covering him with the hand-knit blanket from the back of it. Delirium twines the stem of a flower—drooping, partially managed echinacea, which otherwise would be a sweet wish to get well soon—through the bandages around his head. Destiny reviews the uses of the medication the nurses had discharged Hob with in the kitchen, with Matthew and Morph.

“Brought you a present,” Death says. She holds up a stunningly beautiful art-nouveau style stoppered pitcher in emerald-green glass. It’s filled with what appears to be an ever-swirling golden storm of Dream Sand. "And it's not addictive, like opiates or morphine."

"Well, not that much more," Despair says, from where she's appeared on the armchair next to the sofa.

"Tsk, this is so tacky," Desire says, grabbing his wrist without even asking Hob, and cutting away the hospital bracelet with one blood-red, razor-sharp nail. It drops to the floor with an anti-climactic flutter. "There."

Hob recoils from their touch, overwhelmed and feeling very much that he wants to be left alone. And also, very much, that he is desirous of a shower. He feels objectively disgusting under all the sweat and grime and reek of the hospital.

"Well, I'm not washing your back, Hobsie," Desire purrs. "Though if you got permission from Mister Morose, I think I could be persuaded to give you a sponge bath." With a seductive gesture, they're suddenly dressed in an extremely frilly, extremely skimpy candystriper costume.

"Bath?" Death pipes up from behind the sofa, where she was in discussion about security of the flat with Destruction. "Absolutely not. You’ll get your cast wet, and water in your cuts, and soap in your brain, and that can’t be good, even if it won’t kill you.”

“They put a skin graft over the hole,” Hob grumps. “Nothing can get in my brain.”

“They took it from his ass!” Matthew chirrups from the kitchen. “So Hobsie’s a real asshat now.”

“Yes, thank you,” Hob growls. “Ha ha ha. That gets much funnier the more you tell it.”

Matthew mantles and harrumphs, puffing up like a particularly irritated soot sprite. “Hey, I’m just trying to lighten the mood around here.”

“There’s no mood,” Hob says. The bandages itch. The adhesive is pulling uncomfortably on his hair, and he just feels so gross. He wants to brush his teeth, but he doubts any of the Endless will even let him piss in peace.

Despair smiles. “There’s definitely a mood.”

“AGGresSioN aNd uNUsUAl CoMbATiveNESS is A sIgN oF TrAuMaTIc bRaIn InJuRY. HaVe yOUr puPiLs ReTuRnEd to THE sAmE SiZe, oR—” Delirium floats far too close to Hob, peering into his face, the tip of her nose touching his.

"Okay, that's enough! Everyone out, out!" Hob snarls. Silence falls like an atom bomb. The assemblage of his in-laws all turn to blink at him with expressions ranging from amused to offended. "Please, I am exhausted. I appreciate your concern but please go. Please."

"Of course," Death says, graciously, as if it were her idea and not because Hob just bit off the collective heads off of six of the most powerful entities in existence. "We must let Dream have his time with our littlest brother, as he is still too young to step into the Waking."

"No," Hob moans. "No, I beg you. I don't want to be coddled in the Dreaming either, I just—" But then he's talking to an empty room.

Well, not quite empty.

Morph and Matthew are still in the kitchen. Morph has a pill bottle in each hand, and a raven on his shoulder, and a look of intense scrutiny on his face as he pointedly does not divert his attention from the medication.

Matthew shoots a few looks between Hob and Morph, and then spreads his wings.

"Yeah, good luck with that, bossman," Matthew says, and launches himself off of Morph and through the open window, into the sky.

"Fuck," Hob says with feeling, punching the sofa cushion beside his thigh. And then, once more, "Fuck!"

Which of course makes his head start to ache and his vision dance, and his stomach roil.

He wants to scream, and puke, and pass out, all at once. Instead he does his best to throw off the blanket, and shove himself furiously to his feet.

"Do not stand," Morph says, setting down the bottles and crossing the flat in floor-eating strides. He scoops up the discarded bracelet and shoves it in his pocket, then puts his hands carefully on Hob's arms. He tries to guide Hob back down onto the sofa.

"I'm not fucking made of glass!"

"I never said that you were."

"Stop treating me like it!"

Sneering bitchily, Morph obligingly releases Hob's arms. But Hob's honestly still struggling with his balance, and he wobbles, then steps down hard on his airboot. He yelps as his broken ankle screams its protest.

Morph simply crosses his arms and glares at Hob, unimpressed.

Hob grits his teeth, firms his chin, and gives him back a glare of his own, determined not to budge. He takes deep breaths through his nose to push through the pain.

A small part of himself is calling Hob a stubborn fool, and reminding him that he’s only hurting himself by pushing away everyone, by trying to power through instead of taking the rest that he needs, but laying down hurts in a way that Hob can’t describe.

It’s not physical, it’s… it’s in his head, in a part of his brain that the bullet didn’t scramble, and he’s so stupidly tempted to poke through the wound on his scalp, get his finger in there, hook into the place where the fear is writhing and yank it out, make it quiet, make it stop–

Laying down is too much like surrendering.

It’s like willingly putting himself on that table again and just letting—no.

Hob’s stomach interrupts their silent standoff with a frankly mortifying gurgle.

“You must sit. And then I will bring you something to eat, and your medications. They must be taken on a full stomach.”

Hob only lifts his chin and grits his jaw harder.

“You are being a brat.”

That gets a rise out of Hob. “Don’t bring your cute little BDSM terms into this, this isn’t the bedroom, I’m not… I’m not being sassy so I can get spanked,” Hob says, so offended that Morph would take something that is supposed to be fun, and intimate, and weaponize it against him like that, when he’s already feeling so–so…

Go on, he thinks viciously at himself. Put a name to what you’re feeling. Be a grownup about it.

No.

No, because if he names it, if he acknowledges it, then he has to feel it, and if he has to feel it then he has to admit to it, to deal with it, and he’s not ready to… not ready to…

“Erasti, sit.”

“No.”

“Hob Gadling!” Morph snarls, drawing himself up, clearly at the end of his patience. His voice booms deep and resonant: “Cease your whinging and do as I command!”

Hob plops down on the sofa, glaring mutinously all the while. Not because Morph commanded him to do so. Because he chose to do so. Because his ankle was really, really starting to hurt.

Yes.

That’s it.

“Now, please,” Morph begs, deflating a little but still ramrod-straight with his agitation. “Please, my beloved, just allow me to help you.”

“I don’t need help, I just need… I just need to get back to normal,” Hob says helplessly, and he hates how small and desperate it comes out. “I just want everything to go back to the way it was, before she… before…”

He squinches his eyes shut and shakes his head hard to dispel the sense memory of cheap scratchy cuffs at his wrists, and a hard table against his back, the prick of a needle in the bend of his elbow, the revoltingly violating touch against the intimate curve of his neck—

Which of course makes his head throb again, his stomach heave, his world slide. The discomfort in his gut increases, both starving after days of little sustenance and no solid food, and so nauseous that he’s afraid that even the smell of food may make him heave.

He wants tea.

He wants a bath.

He wants to cry.

“And you will, erasti, I promise. Things will return to normal. But you must allow yourself the time to heal. Body and mind.”

Hob scowls, even as he drags the knit blanket over his lap. He’s aware that it looks like he’s trying to hide himself in it. Or armor himself. He just needs something to do with his hands, he feels so useless. “There’s nothing wrong with my mind.”

“I never said there was anything wrong–” Morph starts and then stops. He heaves out a bone-deep, growling sigh of frustration and scrubs his long fingers through his already-wild hair. “You were not this difficult when you cracked your rib.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t strapped down to a fucking lab table then, was I?” Hob sneers, and then actually claps a palm over his own traitorous mouth.

Morph, in response, looks utterly stricken.

“Oh, no, no, duckie,” Hob says, voice and hands suddenly trembling as he drops them away from his face. “I didn’t… please don’t worry… I…” He blinks hard, refusing, refusing to give in to the—to the…

His stomach gurgles again.

It spurs Morph into action, sending him back to the kitchen, where he takes a moment at the counter to not-so-subtly wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he’s pulling a baking sheet from the oven, plating up something that fills the flat with the divine scents of buttery pastry, savory spices, and rich gravy.

The nausea Hob feared doesn’t rear its head. Instead, his stomach just growls louder.

Morph putters a bit more, setting things out on the tea tray, opening and closing the fridge door, but Hob is too busy flexing his hands on his knees and counting out some calming deep breaths.

Face dry and once more rearranged into something less wrought, Morph returns to the sofa with a glass of water, a bottle of pills, a meal-replacement shake, and a plate with two little wonky, misshapen pasties. He sets the tray on the coffee table within reach of where Hob’s slumped in the corner of the sofa, and takes the chair beside it.

“Did you make these?” Hob asks softly.

“Destruction did this morning, and if you say one word about how terribly formed they are, I do believe it will send him into paroxysms of melancholy.”

“I’m not going to get food poisoning, am I?”

“No,” Moph says. “Only the outsides are queer.”

Hob doesn’t move.

“They are venison.” Morph says it in such an achingly tender, hopeful voice that Hob’s eyes burn.

Something huge and hot and harrowing surges to life in his chest, stoppering up his breath. Hob leans back into the corner of the sofa and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “This is too much,” Hob gasps.

“This is how I show you how much I love you.”

“Duck?”

“Because this is how you show me,” Morph says, in a soft tone that nonetheless conveys his belief that he’s married an idiot.

“How…?”

"Do you think I am unaware that your love language is acts of service?" Morph asks, sitting forward to lay a calming, claiming hand over the crown of Hob’s bandaged head, just shy of the wound over his ear. "Especially when it comes to the provision of victuals?"

Hob feels his face flush. He didn't realize his little kink had been that obvious. Or that he'd been quite so transparent. "Awww, you know my love language, babe?” Hob teases, without looking up, trying to get his footing in this conversation back. “That's embarrassing for you."

“Stop deflecting,” Morph says. "Do you not think that I am also aware that you despise being babied, and greatly dislike the thought that you cannot provide for yourself? Or for me?"

“I… it’s not about being babied, it’s–”

“You have been alone for centuries, my dearest heart,” Morph says, sliding closer and pressing the side of his face to Hob’s, cheek to cheek, clearly not minding how greasy his hair is or how his breath must reek. “You have been forced to shift for yourself this whole time, and so you see accepting help as a weakness. But it is not a weakness, my beloved. It takes great strength to allow others, others who love you, to see you vulnerable and in need, and to allow them to meet those needs. As much as I cannot do this without you, you no longer need to do this without me.”

"I hate this," Hob grumbles mutinously. "I hate this. I hate this!"

And then, without warning, he's sobbing.

Great, horrible, face-twisting, throat-shredding, revoltingly snotty sobs heave their way out of the deepest, filthiest part of his guts.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Morpheus soothes him gently, sliding out of his chair to kneel at Hob’s side, to wrap his arms around Hob’s chest, press his ear to Hob’s heart, and hold on. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I was so scared!” Hob gulps and splutters, gids his fingers into Morph’s shoulders and holds on, holds on. Doesn’t ever think he’ll be able to let go. “I was so afraid that she’d do something and it would be permanent, and I’d never get to tell you… never get to see you…”

“I’m here. I’m safe. We’re both safe,” Morph murmurs into his chest, deep voice buzzing against Hob’s rib cage, here and alive, alive, alive.

"She wanted me to marry her. She shot me in the head and then expected me to drink your blood and marry her and I was scared, I was so scared she would hurt you, that you would—I can survive anything, I've been through everything but I couldn't bare to see you hurt again, locked up again, I couldn't—I c-couldn't—"

Hob curls over Morph’s crouched body as much as his aching shoulder allows, pressing his husband into his stomach, wishing he could merge their skins, their flesh, wishing he could tuck Morpheus up behind his own bones where no hurt could ever find him ever again.

"I cannot die either, Hob."

“I know that, I know that, in my head I know that. But my heart… in my heart, I just, I j-just—”

Morpheus just squeezes him tighter.

This wrenches a new wave of horrified, whining sobs from Hob. “It’s my worst fear. The worst–the table, the needle, I screamed, I screamed and nobody came, nobody—I was alone, and I–I–I, I… I…”

Morpheus rises on his knees, slides his hands to Hob’s face, cups his cheeks and presses a revenant, worshipful kiss into the deep furrow between Hob’s eyes.

“I will never let that happen to you again,” Morph vows, lips pressed against Hob’s forehead.

“You can’t... you can’t promise that. You can’t be sure—”

Morpheus sits back. “Please look at me, Robert.”

Hob takes a moment to calm his stuttered breathing and pry his tear-sore eyes open. Morpheus’s expression is grave and gaunt.

“Be reassured that I know this is your greatest fear. You berated me for it so roundly in Gadlen House that it is seared into my heart, erasti. I shall not forget, even if we live for a hundred thousand years. Please also be assured that I am furious that this happened to you, and more furious still that I could not stop it.” Morph sweeps his thumbs across Hob’s cheeks, comforting and kind. “And so, I have spoken with Dream, and he has granted you a great boon.”

“A… a boon?” Hob echoes, reaching up to pull Morph’s hands into his own shaking ones, desperate for the long-familiar comfort of his fingers laced between Hob’s, needing the reassurance and the grounding like air.

“Originally I asked for a raven of your own to watch over you,” Morph says, with a disappointed twist in the corner of his fine pink lips. “But it seems that only Dream of the Endless—or his former incarnation—may be so blessed.”

Hob jolts with the memory of his childish, cringey accusation that Matthew and Morpheus’ relationship makes his marriage feel crowded and lesser. “I should apologize to Matthew.”

“Yes, you should,” Morph says, but doesn’t allow himself to be diverted. “Instead of a raven, Dream has gifted you this.”

He pulls back just enough to pull a golden ring from his back pocket. It looks so much like Hob’s wedding ring that he has to glance at his own hand to be sure, but no, the crazy bitch hadn’t stolen it off him while he was unconscious, thank god. This ring is slightly thinner, plain, but with a deep emerald chip embedded in the band in such a way that it would be impossible to prise out.

Slowly, with great veneration and ceremony, Morph slips it onto Hob’s finger, to settle snug against his wedding band as if made to go there. Which it actually, literally, was.

The stone flares bright, gold-green for one gloriously beautiful moment, then quiets down.

“Should you be in danger, the moment you fall asleep or lose consciousness, Dream will find you in your sleepscape. If necessary, he will alert the other Endless. Should the ring be removed by any but you or I, it will alert the Endless. If the ring is destroyed, or someone attempts to tamper with the Dream Stone, it will alert the Endless.” Morph bows his head and kisses the ring like a medieval troubadour making courtly love.

“Awww, babe,” Hob sniffles. The tight, searing bands of panic wrapped around his lungs ease away, and Hob feels like he can breathe again. “You microchipped me. That’s so romantic.”

Morph smirks at Hob’s trembling attempt at good humor, and holds up his own left hand. An identical ring of silver and green is snugged up against his own wedding band. “I microchipped us both.”

Hob snorts a laugh, but it comes out disgustingly wet and miserable. Very carefully, Morph joins him on the sofa. Morph tucks into the corner and pulls Hob back against his chest, sheltering him in the cradle of his pelvis, guiding Hob’s head down onto his own shoulder.

“I hurt,” Hob sniffles, in a tiny, broken voice.

“I know. Will you eat? Then you can take your medication.”

“Yeah,” Hob says.

“The pasties, or the shake?”

“I’ll try the pasties. If only so Dee doesn’t pitch himself out a window.”

Morph’s chuckle buzzles against Hob’s skin, comforting and alive.

He takes very great delight in feeding Hob careful, gentle bites of one pasty, alternating it with sips of water, until Hob feels full and warm, and cared for. Together they wrangle the morphine pill down his throat. And then, very, very carefully, Morph pours a trickle of Dream Sand out of the pitcher and into Hob’s eyes, all the while promising Hob that when he wakes, they will figure out the best way for Hob to bathe.

Hob’s eyelids grow heavy, and Morph tucks the heavy knit blanket over Hob, a pleasant, steadying, reassuring weight.

And in the Dreaming, Daniel greets them both with the waking nightmares that Hob’s ordeal has germinated at his side. They are small dark things, rambunctious and shy by turns, barely out of their infancy. Hob crouches on the pale marble floor of Daniel’s throne room, and lets them climb all over him, eager in their puppish devotion to their duty.

With Daniel’s gentle guidance, and Morpheus’ support, Hob spends the night diligently working through the trauma they leave clinging to his skin. He relives it over and over again, nightmare flowing into nightmare, until the dark, scrabbly little things begin to soften at the edges, becoming insubstantial and wisp-like.

Just before dawn, they fade away, returning to Dream Sand in order to be called back into existence and to another Dreamer, at another time.

When Hob opens his eyes, the morning light cuts across the room and into his eyes. Morph must have carried him to their bedroom sometime in the night, likely waking while Hob was distracted. Now he is sprawled against Hob’s side, feet carefully tucked away from the cast, head pillowed on Hob’s chest above his heart.

Hob kisses the pieces of Morph he can reach–mostly hair–and only then registers that there is more fluffy blackness there than usual. Matthew is asleep against Morph’s neck. Hob pets gently down Matthew’s back with one finger, and relaxes into the knowledge that he is home, and he is loved, and he is safe.

____

Morpheus and Hob's language-testing conversation:

Morpheus (Anglo-Saxon): "What was your first impression of me?”

Hob (Anglo-Saxon): “I thought of your eyes for days."

Morpheus (Contemporary French): "That’s not true. I went back and viewed your dreams of me after we became lovers."

Hob (Contemporary French): "'kay, so I dreamed of your eyes and bending you over the table, right there in the White Horse."

Morpheus (Contemporary Persian): "What pretty words. How you romance me so."

Hob (Contemporary Persian): "You asked for the truth, not romance."

Morpheus (Contemporary Icelandic): “You venerated me. You feared me.”

Hob (Contemporary Icelandic): “I have never feared you.”

Morpheus (Contemporary Greek): “Your tongue is as silver as always. I don't think you've lost any languages."

Hob (Contemporary Greek): "What a relief."

(If you speak any of these languages, PLEASE correct me. I am leaning heavily on GoogleTranslate. The French was graciously provided by UldAses.)

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sea-salted-wolverine · 1 year ago

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Social media interactions are kinda just doomed to be awkward but we just power through. Talking in the reblogs specifically is good because it makes the convo public and theoretically some expert could see us fumbling around and swoop in with decades of knowledge and perfectly supple leather. But failing that, here's what I got.

All my hides came from animals hunted for food, so pelts are usually an afterthought once I get through meat processing. People will also give me hides from their hunts because tanning a hide is more work than most people are ready to deal with. But that means that the hide was peeled of as fast as possible in a bush somewhere and usually the hide is left on the quarters for the pack out. So what's left over will have holes and blood and chunks and bits stuck to it.

Paradoxically, sometimes this makes things easier. There are bits to grab and hold onto and pull on, especially if its something greasy, like a beaver or wolverine. I think the skin as much as I can while the hide is green and peeling back those layers of connective tissue I find to be easier when everything is fresh.

The dry salt has a purpose beyond simple preservation. The hypertonic environment locks the hair follicles and prevents sloughing and hair loss. If you're trying buckskin (leather without hair) soak in freshwater and depending on the state of your hide forgo the dry salt.

I stretch my hides before I soak them. They salt dry with the remaining connective tissues fully extended so its much easier to break them. For a small skin this is as easy as tacking it to a board, I've used a cardboard box when I ran out of space. Don't worry about the pin holes you can't even see them. Case skins can be stretched on a metal frame (there is a specific name for those that escapes me atm) or you can make one out of bendy twigs or even slide it over a well sanded 2x4.

Big hides are more of a pain. I have a frame build out of 8 foot 2x4s that I can lace bigger hides into and then tighten the laces to get a nice even pull. I am not a big person but I can do it alone for the most part even with really big animals. The flesh side does have to be kept out of direct sunlight.

Stretching hides does not play super nice with faces. Its possible, but very finicky. I generally don't keep faces and paws unless it's a bear rug and I'm still experimenting with that project.

As for the soak, I'm less concerned with Ph and more interested in degreasing. I think this could be one of your issues, especially with the badgers. The subcutaneous fat will harden with drying and tanning so I use dawn dishsoap in the soak and also scrub the bejezus out of it with a brush. This is less necessary depending on the season and the species, but weasels are as a general rule pretty greasy. The dish soap will raise the ph but it does a better job of degreasing than acid alone. Length of soak should also vary by species, the smaller thinner skinned animals only need a few hours, I've heard fox pelts only need as little as 15 min, but jury's out on that one.

Once you enter stretched your hide it will have thinned out quite a bit, (like bubble gum) and if you already did most of your fleshing while it was green, there should not be too much left to do. But after the soak is a good time to clean up edges and holes and blood stains and that kind of thing. The edges of a pelt are always a pain because as you've probably already noticed they roll in and its hard to get them as clean and dry as the rest. We're tanning for different reasons, I'm more concerned with a final product and you're preserving, so I usually end up trimming a 1/4 inch or so off my edges just so I dont need to get so fiddly, but you may want to put in that extra work.

As far as knives and scrapers go, I highly recommend you get yourself an ulu. You don't need a super fancy custom art peice, you can get the cheap tourist version for $25 and it will work just as well. Helpful link goes here. There is a pretty steep learning curve, but because of the way you hold it the leverage comes from your wrist and your arm rather than your fingers which is a lifesaver for hands that don't work as well as they're supposed to. Also the wide curved blade makes it way easier to get a single smooth cut between the layers of connective tissues rather than the chewed up look you get with a standard knife or a scalpel. The blade is only ground on one side which means they can get super stupid sharp but you can also flip it and use it as a scraper as well.

I've been using Deer Hunter's and Trappers Hide Tanning Formula (HTF) mostly its the easiest option available, but I've also been experimenting with egg yolk, mayonnaise, and brain tanning. Its all more or less the same process, rehydration the tissues you just spent so much time beating the water and oils out of with an oil of your choice. Commercial tanneries use extra special plasticizers and industrial preservatives that are not domestically available so don't feel bad that your hides don't look like that.

As for breaking the hides, its really a case of picking your battles. Rabbit really does need to be done by hand because its basically paper and you will put your thumb straight through it, even if you're being super careful. But if its hide thats going in a place it can be stiff? Its gonna be stiff. I have a hide on my office chair that i let dry most of the way and then drapped over the chair while it was still slightly damp and it molded to the chair. It looks cool as hell and is super comfy but when I lift it off the chair its as stiff as a board. Same with rugs and wall hangings.

I've heard of people putting hides through a dryer, (as in laundromat) but that seems unnecessarily hard on both the hide and the machine. I try to break while the tanning solution is still drying. I have an infinite supply spruce poles for breaking hides and I use a truck hitch I mounted to a log for the really heavyweight ones, but its really just the amount of work I'm willing to put in. Anything I'm using for clothing is getting lined anyway so the tanned side won't show and I haven't got into taxidermy so my process works for me.

there is no handicraft that will have you screaming TRUST THE PROCESS like tanning hides. remember that pristine ice-white snowshoe hare pelt that went in the salt bath? yea. now it looks like what dog groomers clean out of the drain.

#Hide tanning #Holy shit this got long #Hunting #Preservation

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odditycircus-2002 · 2 years ago

Text

Huddle Up

Y'all remember my post about the Black Sun Job where Diyana and Hellboy were stranded in an arctic wasteland for a little over 6 weeks after Hellboy blew up a Nazi's base? Well, this drabble is what came to mind for a bit of what happened between them during those weeks on the ice.

Hellboy huffs to himself in frustrations as he dug at the snow and sleet hoping to find something from the remains of the hangar to use as fuel for the fire, he and his fellow agent only have so much daylight left after all.

"Just more useless crap."

The large red man grumbles, tossing aside scrap metal in a small pile of similar debris. He then looks up to find his fellow agent, Diyana Swann, a little off in the distance; a black setter dog is currently digging deep into the snow. Hellboy watches as Swann briefly disappears into the hole she dug before reappearing, completely covered in snow contrasting brightly against her dark fur but otherwise without any tinder. The dog that is Swann frowns before speaking.

"I have nothin' here either."

Swann lets out a huff before shaking her entire body, briefly appearing as a dark blur that then shifts into a more humanoid form that Hellboy is more familiar with. Despite having the general shape of a human of African descent with black wavy hair, it's not hard to miss the dark rabbit ears sprouting from the sides of her head or the long tail extending from her spine that ends with a tuft of blue-gray fur. Upon closer inspection past the winter boots she's currently wearing, anyone could see that Swann's legs don't exactly resemble a human's either. Sure, they seem normal above the knees, but going down from there, they're more digitigrade in appearance, like that of a four-legged animal.

"You just had to blow up the entire hangar, eh? Deadly job ye did there leaving any kindlin'."

"I'll keep that in mind next time Nazis try to use me as their guinea pig."

Hellboy sarcastically quips back. Swann sighs as she places her hands on her hips before returning to where their impromptu firepit is, which is basically a small hole in the ground with a pitiful amount of wood in the middle, they dug out earlier. Hellboy is not too far behind as he joins his coworker, sitting opposite her.

"I gotta ask though, where were you during that? You seemed to have vanished into thin air when the grunts started pulling out the ray guns."

Hellboy narrows his golden eyes in suspicion at the pooka across from him. Swann waves a gloved hand dismissively with a nonchalant grin.

"I knew you had it covered, 'sides you're able to take those shots than I could anyway."

"Doesn't mean they didn't hurt like a S.O.B."

Hellboy subconsciously runs a hand over the burgundy-colored bruise on his right shoulder where the ray guns first hit him. Diyana grits her teeth as she lets out a hiss at the various bruises and injuries that decorated his hulking form.

"I can imagine, yer gonna be so sore in mornin'. But hey, at least I got ya out just in time before ya could blow up with the rest of those morans."

"That reminds me, you haven't exactly answered my question. What were you doing while I was having my ear talked off by wannabe Hitler?"

Swann maintains the same unbothered expression in contrast to her colleague's persistent gaze. She's the first to break their eye contact as she gives a shrug and a hum.

"Eh, no use keepin' it hidden, 'sides we'll need the kindling."

Swann then reaches into her stylish coat to pull out a small stack of papers. They crinkle in her hand as she shifts through them with an analytical eye; some she throws in the fire pit, and others she tucks back into her coat. Hellboy isn't sure he would like the faerie woman's answer when spotting a familiar symbol on the corner of one of the documents and recognizing the writing to be in German. He isn't going to stop Swann from using her lighter to set the papers ablaze, though. The faerie snaps her lighter close when the kindling does its work for the few wood pieces they can find.

"I don't need to be a psychic to know yer askin' why I have Nazi papers."

"Yeah."

Hellboy confirms, observing as Swann warms her gloved hands over the small fire. She then moves her hands to grab a pack of cigarettes and her cigarette holder from her coat pocket to use the small fire to light one. Hellboy watches Swann take an inhale before exhaling a smoky yellow hand grabbing at the air.

"I'm simply fulfilling the research aspect of your organization as upon my agreement with the Professor and the board members. While you're their smash, I am more of the grab."

The smokey apparition then disperses before Swann takes another inhale to exhale a blue and yellow stream of smoke that resembles the planet, Earth, along with a few of the aircraft that dragged them to their current location.

"If it's any comfort, there wasn't really a lot of juicy intel as much as much as thick crackpot plans for world domination."

Hellboy follows where Swann is gesturing to the ashy remains of the documents she burned, his lips are pressed together in a thin line as he stares intently at the fire. On one hand, he knows that it's always these Nazis' plans to take over the world, essentially. On the other, he's not a fool to accept what Swann told him to be the whole truth. She's come through in a pinch within the hangar and now with the fire, though.

After a few moments of silence, Hellboy looks from the fire to his fellow agent, her cigarette half its original size.

"Did you at least gather any idea on how to get out of this winter wonderland?"

Swann shakes her head to which Hellboy gives a tired sigh.

"You blew everythin' up, handsome. Any vehicles ain't nothin' but scrap now."

"Well, why not teleport us out like you did with me?"

"I'd have to know what continent we're on first to figure out where to go. Though, all I see is ice and snow to the horizon."

Swann then makes a sweeping gesture to the frozen land around them. A icy breeze then blows by which cause the agents' small fire to dance rapidly in the wind, looking almost ready to go out. Both Hellboy and Swann desperately start to shield the flame with their body, the large man begging under his breath for the flame not to die. Once it stabilizes again do both agents back away a bit from the fire.

"Any word on the radio?"

Swann inquires, once she's able to stop her teeth from chattering too much. Hellboy shakes his head before pulling out the blocky radio that was one half of a two-way radio, one of the only things they could find amongst the wreckage.

"Nothing, just static."

"Here, let me."

Swann holds out a hand to which Hellboy obliges. He watches as Swann takes out some small screwdrivers and a plier then starts to disassemble the radio.

"Can ya find a small thin and malleable piece of metal?"

She asks him while wiping the batteries with her coat. Hellboy, again, acquiesces to the phooka's request, finding and breaking off some scorched metal the size of a fist into rough strips the width of his pinky. If there's one thing Hellboy can trust Swann with, it's her way around machines. He watches his fellow agent use one of the metal strips to attach to the radio's antenna, using a rubber band and bobby pin she found in her pocket. Swann appears to pay special attention to a small scorched cube in the radio, then fiddles with the wires within it before returning it to the radio.

"Alright, the batteries seem to be in working order, with no sign of damage or corrosion. Added some length to the antenna to hopefully boost the signal 'fore takin' a gander at the repeater. It seems to suffer a bit of damage from the blast, but everythin' else looks good. Just wish I had my carpet bag on me."

"Only one way to find out."

Hellboy then takes the radio from Swann and switches it on.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Agent Hellboy and Agent Swann of the BPRD requesting rescue and pick up. We're stranded on what looks to be a tundra. There's snow and ice everywhere. Last known location, is Fletcher's Ice Island T-3 in the Arctic Ocean. Hurry, we don't have a lot of fuel for a fire."

Hellboy then releases his hand from the receiver before glancing back at Swann.

"Fingers crossed that your upgrades worked and somebody heard it, otherwise they're gonna find some strange snowmen by then."

Hellboy gives a dry chuckle while Di nods in agreement with her arms wrapped around her in a death grip.

A Few Days Later

As Hellboy feared, their fire situation worsened to the point that both he and Swann had to dig through their pockets for any flammable miscellaneous items. This includes Swann's carton she held her cigarettes in, her hat minus the hat pins on them, old receipts and memos, and even some of their hair or fur in Swann's case. The latter made their small camp stink as hell to the point it became hard for either of them to choose between getting away from the stench or getting closer to their only source of warmth. Well, perhaps the fire isn't their only warm source.

Hellboy looks up from their only line to the outside world to the woman across from him. On Swann's lap is loose wiring, screw, and more metal scrap as she works on disassembling and picking apart the repeater from the radio. Swann hopes that by making repairs to the repeater or even making a new one, could boost the signal of their radio. However, the faerie woman's progress is slow as is evident by her trembling hands causing her to drop a screw or cause her to start over what little progress she made. The sound of Swann's teeth chattering together is the only other sound to fill the silence between them besides the weak crackling of their fire and howling freezing winds. Hellboy couldn't stand it for much longer.

"C'mere."

The large man beckons Swann toward him with his giant stone hand. Swann tears her gaze away from her work her long ears tilted at an angle to express her confusion.

"W-w-what?"

"I'm not gonna repeat myself."

Hellboy then stands up to shuffle over Swann's side of the fire, securing the radio in his belt before sitting down behind the faerie woman and scooping her up into his lap, bridal style. He then wraps his muscular arms around Swann's shivering form, flinching slightly when brushing against her ice-cold cheeks. Said woman lets out a small squeak at the contact but instinctively clings to the larger red man once fully processing how he's pretty much a living furnace.

"Christ on a stick!"

Swann happily mutters to herself. She wraps her arms around Hellboy's barrel chest as best as she can.

"You're welcome."

Hellboy could've sworn he felt a rumbling sensation coming from her. It seems that Hellboy huddling close to his fellow agent did the trick, as after Swann took a few minutes to warm herself up by greedily taking in his body heat, she is able to complete making a new repeater. She then installs into the radio before handing it to Hellboy, who gives more or less the same message as last time. After taking his hand off the receiver. Sensing he's being watched, he looks down at Swann gazing up at him with hooded eyes and a sultry grin.

"I always knew you were hot, Handsome."

"Don't start. You're lucky I feel like being nice."

Swann gives a shrug before crooning,

"I'll still take what I can."

Hellboy lets out a groan but doesn't object when Swann intertwines her tail around his nor does she say anything when he rests his chin on top of her head right between her small horns. Although, Hellboy does note that Swann is soft and warm to have in his arms. For a while, they both sat in silence to simply bask in what little heat their fire gave and the warmth exchanged from their combined body heats. The silence is eventually broken by Hellboy, who doesn't bother moving from the top of Swann's head.

"You're lucky to have small horns. Must make everyday life easy for ya."

"Aye, how else do you think I'm able to put on my hats or lay my head down on a pillow without tearin' it to pieces?"

Hellboy lets out a huff in amusement, his warm breath brushes against the fae woman's long ears, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine and causing her to tighten her tail around the large red man's. The latter thinks nothing of it, chalking it up to the bitter cold. He raises a brow when hearing a sudden crunchy pop similar to whenever he cracks his neck or spine while stretching. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he can spot Swann's horns lengthening like trees growing 100 times faster. He moves his head from the top of Swann's head in time to catch her horns twisting and curling before settling to resemble a ram's. Swann twists in Hellboy's lap with an amused smile.

"What did I tell ya? Sure, they're grand an' everythin', but I'd prefer a bit less of a hassle. Ya like?"

She runs a hand down one of her horns as if brushing back a strand of hair while maintaining heavy eye contact with Hellboy. The latter gives a barely perceptible shrug.

"Horns aren't really my thing, but they're fitting on you."

Swann then places her hands over her cheeks before using one to fan herself in an overexaggerated fashion.

"Ah shucks, you make me blush, Handsome!

The fae woman then raises her hands to run them over her horns as if sweeping back her hair, causing them to shorten and shrink under her touch until they're back to their usual convenient size.

"Speaking of horns, where's yours exactly, Big Guy?"

Swann gestures with one hand to the smooth stumps on Hellboy's forehead. He glances up at them before lifting his normal left hand to feel the mostly smooth stumps.

"Don't got'em 'cause I didn't want them. I used to be insecure about them as a kid, but nowadays I file them down for about the same reasons as you."

Hellboy gives a shrug in response. Swann gives hum as she contemplates what her fellow agent just told her.

"I suppose that's best for ya,"

The faerie woman then starts giggling to herself, causing the giant red man to raise a brow in confusion.

"What's so funny, now?"

"I was just thinkin' of ya tryna put on a shirt only for two absolutely massive horns-"

Swann holds her hands about a foot from her forehead.

" -to rip a hole through them, leaving ya stuck mid-dressing."

Swann then bursts out into full laughter.

"Or-or-or ya tryna to go through one of the doors at HQ, but ya can't cause the horns are too wide to let ya through! So you're just left havin' to figure your way in, only to get stuck in the doorway!"

A wry grin makes its way on Hellboy's face before he's too left chuckling at the ridiculous imagery.

"Kinda reminds me of when Mac tried to bring in a whole tree branch inside, but he didn't figure that the branch was too wide until after he ran full force at the door frame."

A moment of silence passes between them before both burst out into laughter to the point Swann has to grab onto Hellboy's broad shoulder to keep from collapsing, which is harder than it sounds considering how his shoulders kept shaking from the force of his laughter. Hellboy raises his left arm to wipe at his eyes for any tears that leaked out, which gives Swann a good look at a faded bitemark. A bitemark that's a lighter shade of red than the rest of Hellboy and appears to be the result of a large creature by the looks of it.

"How'd ya get that scar? Looks like it got ya good."

Hellboy glances over at the bitemark on his forearm and flexes his left hand.

"Yeah, but I'd say the mutated mutt got it worse in the end. I can at least say I'm alive."

"Mutated mutt? Do ya mean what happened last year in Rosemead, California?"

Hellboy nods.

"Yup. Guessin', you read the papers about it?"

"Aye, kinda hard not to when your face and name were everywhere.

"I can't help it I got a mug that cameras just love."

The giant red man gives an amused grin at his joke. Swann reciprocates his expression with one of her own and lightly elbows him in the ribs.

"Don't get a big head about it, yours is already large as it is."

"Guilty as charged."

Hellboy shrugs without an ounce of guilt.

"I'd wager though you got your share of scars."

"More than you can believe."

Swann glances down at one of her arms before adjusting the gloves to smooth out a small wrinkle, her grin falling ever so slightly. Hellboy could sense the change in demeanor from the smaller woman, making him furrow his brow.

"What kind of scars are you talkin' about?"

He asks quieter and gentler than his voice was just a minute ago. Swann remains silent, making no indication that she even heard Hellboy. The latter chooses not to push the fae woman, but that doesn't stop him from noting how unusual this sort of heavy silence is for her compared to her normal chatter.

Eventually, the silence is broken when Swann opts to shrug off her coat, revealing the white blouse with long frilled sleeves underneath. She then turns around and stands between Hellboy's legs to drape the blue coat over his broad shoulders. The large red man raises a brow but doesn't stop the smaller woman from smoothing the way-too-small jacket over him.

"You sure you wanna be giving this to me? I don't believe it's my style and I don't really need it."

The corner of the fae woman's mouth twitches.

"It's the best I can do given yer own was cut into ribbons, plus I can't have my personal heater turning into an ice cube."

"Touching."

Crinkle

Both Hellboy and his fellow agent turn their heads, Swann's ears standing at attention, in the direction of a familiar sound of plastic clinking followed by a light thump, followed shortly by a loud clink. Looking over to Hellboy's left side, they find a small packet of airplane biscuits and two mini bottles labeled "bourbon". Both agents look at the unexpected sustenance and then at each other again with wide eyes. Swann then gives a shrug to the large man's silent question.

"Even I sometimes forget what I keep on me."

Some More Days Later

After some thorough searching and Hellboy shaking the coat turns out Swann had half of another airplane biscuit pack in her and Hellboy has a mint broken down into dust in one of his pockets. While it isn't much in normal circumstances, to both BPRD agents, they may as well have found a feast. They both nibble their share of a cinnamon and sugar biscuit, both sharing half of one of the scarce biscuits while engaged in conversation with Swann still sitting in Hellboy's lap.

"....Why Romania? I figured you'd wanna go somewhere warmer like Mexico, Africa, the Sahara desert, the Bahamas, or Florida after this."

"You'd be wrong, Red. For one thing, I still have fur, so what may be mild to ya, is fiercely the opposite. 'Sides, I know a couple of great restaurants there, including one that makes some of the bleedin' best paprika chicken ya ever tasted."

The fae woman then takes another small bite from her quarter of the airplane biscuit, closing her eyes to briefly imagine the paprika chicken she mentioned; she can almost taste the delicious dish on her tongue, not the stale sugar cinnamon of the biscuit. Hellboy opts to wash down his biscuit with a small sip of bourbon, which is barely an ember warming his chest.

"You'll have to take me to one of those restaurants sometime then."

Swann gives a coquettish grin as she playfully bats her eyes.

"Are ya askin' me out on a date, Red?"

Hellboy's brows shoot to his forehead.

"Uhhh, no? Not really."

The large red man reaches his left hand behind his neck, suddenly feeling warmer than he did a minute ago. Swann's grin softens into a small smile as she turns her head to look up at him.

"Date or not, I'd be happy to show ya."

Hellboy gives a soft grin of his own.

"Sounds like a plan. Though, honestly,"

Hellboy leans back against the wall of the pit they dug, craning his neck to stare up at the bright full moon in the sky.

"I'd like to spend some time home. I know the Professor, Margret, and Archie must be scouring the Earth right now to find where we're at. It'd be nice to see them all again, and I'm sure Mac is missing me as much as I miss him. What I wouldn't give right now to be back in my warm bed with him. "

The large red man glances back at the fae woman in his hold, certain he would find her batting her lashes at him before making an innuendo; however, this is not what he finds. Hellboy finds Swann looking over at the fire with a stolid expression on her face as if in deep concentration.

"Swann?"

At the sound of her last name, the fae woman turns to look at Hellboy with a smile that doesn't quite reach her forlorn eyes.

"Ya lucky to have so many folks waitin' for ya at home. At least, I got Romania and all of Europa to head to."

Swann then gives a bitter chuckle. Hellboy doesn't say anything, pressing his lips in a thin line, silently hoping for his fellow agent to elaborate. His patience pays off when Swann gives one final detail.

"It's the closest I'll ever get to going home."

"Why? Are you saying that you can't? Actually, why do you stick around HQ and not Ireland?"

The faerie woman doesn't say anything in response, leaving them both in heavy silence once more.

...

Even More Days Later

Swann didn't speak much after mentioning home, barely uttering a few words. Even then, only when necessary, such as asking Hellboy to hold a few components of the radio as she got to work trying to strengthen the signal again. He watches as she screws and unscrews each piece in repetition with no real progress other than, perhaps, a way to keep her hands busy. While Swann is occupied with the hand radio, Hellboy looks over their remaining food, which, while not a lot to begin with, is nothing more than crumbs. The large man gives a sigh as he looks at the sad crumbs and dust in his normal hand.

"Any luck with the radio, Swann? Cause food's here is just crumbs you'd feed a mouse."

"s-s-sickner for-r-r yaaa."

The Fae woman slurs thickly in reply, stuttering at the same time from what Hellboy figures to be from the cold. He quickly takes the coat draped on his shoulders to cover his partner, even rubbing her shoulders a bit to generate extra heat. Hellboy then presses the back of his hand against Swann's cheek, finding that he may as well be touching the snow around them. He throws a quick glance at the small fire that may as well belong to a candle. Hellboy clenches his jaw tightly as he then looks back at Swann, finding her hands to be moving at a snail's pace and her head bobbing, causing her wavy locks to fall forward.

Before she could fall forward as well, Hellboy uses his giant right hand to catch the fae woman and tilt her back and used the other to place the radio down. He attempts to will away the way his heart started clawing its way up his throat by talking to his fellow agent and putting her coat back on her.

"Hey, Swann? Why don't you take a break from workin' on the radio for a bit? We're gonna need more fuel."

"A-ayeee... an féidir leat an fhuinneog a dhúnadh, le do thoil?"

"I have no idea what ya just said, but I'm gonna need ya to stay awake. Just don't close your eyes, yeah?"

Swann only lets out an acknowledging hum which Hellboy figured is good enough. He then snaps his fingers in front of the woman's cat-like eyes, briefly getting her to keep open without struggle for a few seconds before she's back to struggling with their weight. Hellboy ends up cradling Swann's shivering form, so small compared to him, close to his chest. Hellboy shuffles around, trying to find any flammable debris that both of them may have missed. Occasionally he would jostle her in his arms when she seemed too still, sometimes engaging in nonsensical conversation with her, anything to keep the fae woman from falling asleep and dying.

"I missh the soft ground a-and the grass 'tween toes."

"Uh-huh, and what else?"

"mo dheartháireacha agus deirfiúracha amaideach,"

Di gives a small drunken laugh as she gives a thousand-yard stare without actually seeing anything.

"plainsss, fielllds, winds... Jesusss I misss the aaaale...."

"We can get some ale later, but we can't if you go to sleep."

"Mmmmhhhh... souuuunds goood."

"I hope you mean the ale."

Hellboy moves aside a piece of metal that's roughly his size with one arm, finding something charred in the snow. He crouches down next to the partially buried item and uses his free hand to start digging at the snow around it. His face brightens when he unearthed a mostly charred piece of wood that could've been part of a door.

"Ah ha! A bit burnt but it's still wood."

Swann can only give a breathy giggle.

"bleedin' kelpies... gotta hog waterrr..."

"Right."

The large red man sits in front of the fire, its flames larger than a minute ago, thanks to the charred wood he found. Once he's taken care of the fire, Hellboy turns his attention back to the smaller woman in his arms, the knot in his stomach somewhat lessening when finding her no longer shivering as badly. To be safe, though, he takes one of Swann's arms tightly wrapped around herself to check her pulse.

"Mmmhhh... weak, but at least it's still there."

"A-are we in the w-wetlandsss?"

Swann mumbles out as she starts to kick her feet against the snow with barely enough force to flick a snowflake away. Hellboy is quick to hoist the faerie woman up more into his hold.

"No, we're in the ice lands."

"Ohhh booo..."

"Yeah, I know."

For the rest of the day, Hellboy continues to make nonsensical small talk with the barely conscious fae woman, which admittedly. During one conversation, he stopped to give Swann a few crumbs and the few drops of bourbon left in his small bottle.

"Cén fáth a bhfuil an fuisce imithe i gcónaí?"

Swann slurrs as she tiredly squints at the tiny bottle in Hellboy's hand.

"Sure is, Swann."

The fae woman then goes silent for a moment longer than he would've liked. However, before Hellboy could open his mouth to say anything, Swann speaks again at a volume her fellow agent had to lean down to hear.

"W-why can't I gooo home?"

"What's stopping you?"

"Them..."

"Who's them?"

The demon-like man couldn't make out the rest of what his fellow agent said, but they were swears and curses, given how she practically growled them out. Feeling it'd be better to get straight answers when Swann is more lucid, Hellboy changes the subject.

"You wanna hear about the time I crashed a vehicle when I was a kid?"

"A-aye...hehe..."

"Figured you would. To start, I love reading Lobster Johnson comics and I had something of an overactive imagination..."

Hellboy spends the rest of the night recalling his childhood and the places his job has taken him around the globe, having found that telling anecdotes from his life stories helped keep Swann awake. For the most part, he still had to shake her around to keep from dozing off. Sometimes, Swann would interject with some murmured commentary, which is how Hellboy learns that she's apparently banned from places in Sweden. Something about framing a giant talking squirrel for crimes she committed, but the large red man decided that's a question for another time.

...

He must've dozed off at some point since Hellboy opens his eyes to blink blearily at the rising sun. He then looks to the fire pit, where only ashes, embers, and smoke remains. Hellboy gives a heavy sigh to himself at the idea of scrounging up more fuel for the fire.

"Hey Swann, we're gonna-"

The large man is jolted fully awake as everything comes rushing back to him. He looks down to find the fae woman curled up in a fetal position on his lap with her back with a light cover of frost that gave an almost glazed look to Swann. He feels his stomach lurch as he raises a hand to her neck to try and search for any sign of a pulse, finding her skin to be cold as the landscape around them. Hellboy then feels it sink when he finds nothing.

"No,no,no, no come on."

Hellboy mutters to himself as he picks the smaller woman to squeeze against his body, which likely may not have been as effective as he would like given he's been shirtless in the cold the entire time, with frost forming on him. Yet, none of this bothered Hellboy, who starts rushing around the area with Swann still in his arms, desperately searching for anything he can burn while ignoring the hunger pangs from days of little food. While he didn't find any wood, he did find miscellaneous melted rubber parts from a variety of destroyed machines and items. Hellboy didn't care that it smelled worse than when either he or Swann would use a bit of their hair for kindling, as long as it made a fire which it did.

Sitting as close as he can, Hellboy sits by the fire again to get to work to warm up his fellow agent. After putting his hand directly in the fire for a few seconds, he rubs at her shoulders, arms, and neck to help give and generate heat. When this didn't make the faerie stir, Hellboy wracked his brain for anything else he could do to warm Swann up. He faintly remembers something about skin-to-skin contact being used in cases of hypothermia during the briefing before embarking on this job. Hellboy groans to himself at what he knows he has to do, but his resolve is steeled when looking down at the frozen fae woman in his arms.

Hellboy then starts unbuttoning Swann's jacket, enough so his left hand can slip down to her sternum, just above her breasts. He then starts rubbing counter-clockwise with the intention to generate heat to keep his partner's heart pumping. While not meaning to, as Hellboy was focusing on not overstepping his boundaries with the unconscious fae woman, he gets a glimpse of several stitched-up scars in the shape of claws peeking out from both sides of Swann's ribs. The large red man quickly looks away out of respect and embarrassment. He keeps averting his gaze from Swann as he holds her bare chest against his own bare chest with his beefy arms wrapped oh-so-carefully around her smaller form.

"I just know if you were awake, you wouldn't let me live any of this down. Right now, though, I wouldn't mind since it'll mean you're not dead."

Hellboy murmurs to the still-unconscious faerie.

The large red man sat there for what could've been hours, although there wasn't really any telling given how the sun seemed to barely have moved across the sky. Still, the fae woman didn't stir or give any indicators that she was still alive, not even a twitch. Hellboy knows he purposefully put off checking on the state of his only companion in the wintery landscape; which is why by the time the sun started to lower behind the horizon, he finally decided to grab one piece of metal from within Swann's pockets. Hellboy specifically rummaged for the most reflective piece before taking it out of his fellow agent's pocket and placing it under her nose. After a few moments that had Hellboy holding his breath, he takes the metal piece from under Swann's nose, finding nothing has changed for the metal not even the barest hint of steam.

"Swann? Swann? SWANN!"

Hellboy drops the metal piece to start shaking the unconscious, no, dead woman in his arms.

"Come on Swann! You know it's not the time to be foolin' around, Diyana! Diyana! Diyana please!"

After a few more minutes of futilely trying to wake Diyana up, the reality of the situation finally sinks in for Hellboy.

Diyana Swann is dead.

...

Hellboy may not have exactly gotten along well with the phooka, but he decided the best way to honor Diyana was to give her a proper burial. Well, as proper as he can with a six-foot deep grave, buttoning her back up in her coat, and placing a makeshift cross made of scrap metal. Hellboy has never really been to a funeral before so he doesn't know what exactly he's supposed to do. He spent a good part of his day just sitting at the foot of Diyana's grave, just twiddling his thumbs as he tries to come up with something to say, some nice last words, but nothing came.

Hellboy felt frustration bubbling hot in his chest and mixing in the heavy stone that settled in the pit of his gut. He wishes he could've done more to keep his partner alive, to not have let her down so badly. While he wishes he could've learned more about her, being stranded with Diyana gave him a glimpse behind the flirty and lofty persona of someone much more vulnerable, human even. Hellboy concludes that now, any secrets she hid, died with her, meaning he may never really know Diyana.

Hellboy curls up on himself with the two-way radio clutched in hand, the fire having gone out hours ago. He spends the next few days like this, slipping in and out of consciousness, only moving to eat some of the snow around him. Hellboy ends up staying in his curled position for so long that frost and icicles start forming all over him.

...

crunch

Hellboy slightly raises his head at the sound. What was that noise?

crunch

There it is again. The large red man turns his head in the direction of Diyana's grave in an attempt to pinpoint the noise. Could it have been some fallen snow? No, Hellboy reasons to himself. It's just hills and hills of snow all around him. Besides, he hasn't even moved from his spot to disturb any of the debris around him for days.

crunch crunch crunch

Okay, definitely not falling snow. In fact, if Hellboy's hunch is right, that noise is coming from-

Crunch Crunch CRUNCH

A muddied gloved hand pops from out of Diyana's grave, followed by another hand, then a muddied and snow-covered Diyana gasping for breath. Hellboy scrambles for the gun he swiped from the fae woman to aim it at the latter as she starts dragging her upper half out of her grave. He could only stare slack-jawed as his formerly, dead partner starts to sink a bit back into the loose snow before she starts to claw at the snow to get a good grip on the ground. Diyana's grunts and heavy panting helped snap Hellboy out of his stupor, making him rush to the faerie's grave to offer her his giant stone hand. She takes it, and Hellboy heaves against the snow and mud's suction around her waist to yank her out of the grave onto more stable ground.

Diyana crawls a few feet from the grave before collapsing on her back, taking huge gulps of air she's been deprived of. Hellboy stares down at her with his hooved feet on either side of her head, disbelief in his features. His, now-alive, partner lets out a few coughs before speaking in a scratchy voice.

"Why the fuckin' hell did you bury me alive?"

A long pause sits between them to the point Diyana thinks that the large man didn't hear her. She opens her mouth to repeat her question, but Hellboy finally answers her inquiry, gesticulating with his hands to hammer his words in.

"Why? Why? I thought you were dead!"

"Well, it's fierce obvious that I ain't."

Diyana then rights herself in a sitting position to stretch her stiff arms and crack her neck. She then starts to dust off the mud and snow on her.

"I-I checked for a pulse, and if you were breathing, you didn't have one, and you stopped breathing!"

"Technically, yes, I was dead for a few hours or so, but no, I wasn't really. Help me up, please?"

Diyana raises her arms up toward Hellboy, who obliges and reaches down to help the fae woman to her feet. It's clear that the long period of inactivity in the cold has affected Diyana's leg muscles, given how when she tried to take a step of her own, her legs wobbled before collapsing under her. The whole sight reminded her partner of a newborn deer taking its first steps. Hellboy helps her up again, but keeps an arm extended like an old-fashioned gentleman for Diyana to hang on to as she takes some shaky steps toward the now-extinguished firepit.

"You haven't answered my question, what do you mean you weren't really dead?"

"While my form is humanoid,"

Diyana gestures to herself with a free hand.

"... and follows most of the human anatomy rules, I made a few adjustments to it when I first conjured it, including hibernation for our sort of situation."

"You mean you were going under Torpor?"

The faerie woman nods.

"Aye."

Hellboy then proceeds to help his alive partner to take a seat near the firepit, carefully lowering her down in a sitting position before taking a seat next to her.

"And you're just now telling me this, why?"

Diyana at least had the decency to look sheepish. She places her tail in her hand and starts to pick at the mud still stuck to it.

"See here, Red, I really didn't mean to give ya such a startle,"

"Too late for that."

"... Either way, I was gonna say somethin' about it, but I suppose it slipped my mind."

Hellboy gives a few incredulous blinks. "Yeah, the fact that starving while in freezing temperatures leads to you becoming essentially dead to the world, is totally easy to forget about bringing up."

Diyana raises her hands up in surrender.

"Aye, aye, aye, I get it. But to be fair, I was a bit busy with other tasks at hand and I thought I would go into hibernation later."

Hellboy lets out a heavy sigh as he starts to slouch forward while rubbing a hand down his face and muttering under his breath.

"Goddammit lady..."

He then turns his head to look back over to Diyana with a softer expression.

"At least you're not dead. That's all that matters."

Hellboy recognizes the coquettish smirk that spreads across his partner's face and how her tail curls up in a tight "S" shape.

"Hold on, were you actually concerned for lil' ol' me, Handsome? I didn't think you cared so much."

"I was concerned about going crazy on my own, but at least with you still alive I have someone to blame."

Diyana titters in amusement with the tip of her finger delicately placed over her mouth at Hellboy's deadpan delivery.

"And yet you went as far to give me a nice little burial."

"It's not like I could've just left your "corpse" on the ground like garbage."

The phooka woman gives a dismissive wave of her hand.

"I wouldn't get in a twist too much over that, when I actually die, you wouldn't have anythin' to actually bury. I'd just return to the earth one way or 'nother."

"What do ya mean by that?"

"You'll know it when you see it."

Diyana ends on an, in Hellboy's opinion, ominous note. The faerie woman leans in his direction before speaking.

"Mind if we huddle up again? I'm bleedin' foundered from just having to dig myself out of the snow since somebody buried me alive."

Hellboy rolls his eyes but obliges and places Diyana on his lap.

"Yeah, yeah, I figured. I would've let you anyways so need to rub it in."

"That's grand to know, Handsome."

Hellboy didn't need to see his partner's face to know she was grinning. "This is only because we're in this sort of environment, so this is a one-time thing."

"I have a feeling it won't be just one-time,"

Diyana gives another low chuckle that causes Hellboy to feel more warmth building up in his body than earlier.

"but in all seriousness, I should warn you given our current situation, I'll be falling back into Torpor in perhaps a few hours to a few days."

"Thanks for the heads up."

"Oh and Red?"

Hellboy lets out a hum in acknowledgment.

"When I do go into hibernation again, please don't bury me alive."

"Keep bringing it up and I might just be tempted to do so."

...

Diyana stares at the low fire while eating her ball of snow for the evening, cat-like eyes in deep contemplation. Over what? Hellboy doesn't have a clue, as he, too, finishes his snowball. He then wraps his arms around his partner and sets his head on top of her head in their usual position. Hellboy doesn't worry too much when he starts feeling a wave of exhaustion creeping on the edges of his mind, as even in this freezing climate, he doesn't quite feel the unforgiving bite of winter the same as everyone. He's about to doze off until he's interrupted by Diyana speaking.

"Do you remember our conversation about where we would go after this ordeal?"

The fae woman asks in such a low volume that, even when the larger red man gave a low hum in acknowledgment, he could almost write it off as something his sleep-deprived mind conjured. That is until Diyana kept talking, a little louder this time.

"You also asked why I'd rather mingle among our fellow human agents than head back to the Emerald Isle. The answer's simple, I can't go back there because, I was exiled."

Hellboy's eyes widen in surprise as exhaustion starts to fall away.

"Did ya do something extremely horrible?"

Diyana gives a dry chuckle.

"Depends on your perception of "horrible," but I didn't commit any crimes against humanity. In fact, it was because I tried assisting that I can never go back."

Hellboy shifts in his position to get a better look at his fellow agent's expression to gauge whether or not she's lying. However, a part of him already knew that was not the case.

"How was that deemed horrible?"

Diyana sighs in melancholy, her ears drooping to match her feelings. She then reaches out a hand to the fire pit, where the shapeless smoke rising from the smoldering remains starts taking on a humanoid form with a faint purple outline around it.

"Perhaps a bit of visual aid would help to explain."

Hellboy squints at the whispy figure his partner made, recognizing it to be a smaller model of the latter. He watches in quiet awe as Diyana begins to weave her tale with smoke and color.

"Hundred of years and many moons ago, I was the typical young faerie. I would run across the Isle's plains and hills to my heart's delight and play tricks on any passing humans on a whim,"

The faerie woman then waves her hand to make the figure representing her turn change into a horse, then uses her other hand to creature a human-shaped figure that mounted her back. Horse Diyana appears to snicker before bolting off into the air, running circles around Hellboy's head. The horse-shaped apparition then dumps the unharmed and discombobulated person to the "ground" before galloping off. The horse shifts back into a younger Diyana, who turns to spot an entire phantasm village complete with featureless and ghostly men, women, and children milling about. The smoke-made faerie climbs a constructed tree to watch the village from afar.

"Other times, in between playing tricks collecting trinkets, and shining baubles that caught my eye, I would spend hours observing humans and all their quirks. So fickled, many of them are, clinging to rules and then having to adapt to seemingly nonsensical new rules before deciding ta hell with them! Yet, I can't deny how fond I am of their creativity and ingenuity,"

With a flick of her wrist, the village becomes formless for a moment before splitting off into shapes consisting of heavy plows; musket rifles; mechanical clocks; wheelbarrows; a water mill; the spinning wheel; along with much more inventions that the large red man could only vaguely recognize from textbooks on the Medieval Ages. Hellboy can't take his eyes off of the smokey images as they move to reform and reshape the misty shapes into new figures, bending to Diyana's will as if she simply raises her hands. The images then solidify to show the younger faerie passing by non-humanoid figures working with hammers and anvils or on a loom, all to then raise their blades, chest plates, and robes in presentation.

"In that same vein, I would watch the goblins and hobgoblins taking the pretty baubles they collected to make splendid blades and armor for the fae kings and queens,"

Diyana then makes a fist that she brings down on the flat of her palm.

"BANG! CLANG! Went the hammers,"

The conjugated shapes of the goblins raised their hammers and smashed them against their anvils, with sparks somehow flying from within the smoke.

"WHOOSH! Went their great furnaces."

Smoke, tinged orange, surged from behind the figures before dispersing and adding to the weaver's loom; from it, they produce a long unbroken flowing stream of smoke that gently flutters in the air.

"How could I not also love watching the other faeries and queens create beautiful art resulting from all the dedication and intricacy equal to that of the goblin forgers? Eventually, I had enough of simply watching and decided to try crafting, but with my own twist."

Diyana then manipulates the smoke to depict her younger self using her hands to shape formless blobs of smoke before presenting them to changing crowds of faes, including ones with crowns on their heads.

"I would create enchanted clothing that not only was fit for royalty but for battle with layers of their robes and gowns doubling as an arsenal of blades or belts as whips and swords. Soon word spread of my talent, and shortly after, which were sought after far and wide by many kings and queen's courts, including their monarchs themselves!"

"Sounds impressive."

Diyana nodded in agreement without taking her eyes off the image she conjured of another goblin patting her younger self on the back while said self puffed out her chest and beamed in pride. With her focus diverted, Hellboy glances down at his fellow agent to find her pupils dilated and glistening. He then watches those pupils contract into thin slits and ball her hands into fists, the images darkening to match her change in mood.

"In my naive attempt to earn the praise and adoration of both human and fair folk, I tried to gift every human on the Emerald Isle items that I thought could improve their lives."

Diyana then makes a sweeping gesture to the smoke, causing it to writhe around before briefly stilling to create the items she then describes.

" Including mechanical bulls that would be more efficient in plowing their fields so they would not age nor become tired; small portions of lightning to help light and warm their homes; as well as clothing with pockets that are deeper than they first appear."

The fae woman clenches her hand into a fist, causing images, and the smoke disappears without a trace. When Diyana speaks again, her words are terse and have a venomous edge.

"Of course, the higher-ups didn't like that. They wanted to keep all the dwindling magic they could to themselves. When my mentor and the other royals learned what I did, they put me on trial. Heh, if you could call being chained up and forced to kneel while being scolded like a dog a trial. Even though, technically, by their own laws, I did nothing wrong."

Hellboy notices how his partner gripped her knees, causing the material of her gloves to creak. He's sure that if he could see her hands, the knuckles would be white from her grip.

"As the court decided my fate, I hoped I could rely on my friends and mentor, who encouraged my ambition, to defend me... I was wrong."

Hellboy looks back at Diyana, trying to gauge her thoughts, only to be met with a poker face that came from centuries of experience. The only thing to tell him about the pooka's internal state is how her tail twitched like an irritated cat. Diyana let out a heavy sigh, trying to push away the memory of how her mentor looked down at her chained form with disappointment and contempt etched deeply in his wrinkled face.

'If I knew you'd become a traitor to the wee folk, I would've never let ya step foot in my forge.'

She then takes a deep breath, her eyes burning with unshed tears. Diyana willed herself not to shed any before finishing her tale.

"After the court banished me from all of Northern Ireland, word soon spread of my... "treachery." No king or Queen's court would have me on their lands. Soon after, I was banished from setting foot in all of Ireland. So they put me on a boat with nothing but the clothes on my back, where it was decreed, I would never return to my homeland. Otherwise, I would suffer a slow and painful death before returning to the earth."

The pooka woman then leans back against Hellboy's barrel chest with her arms crossed over her chest. Without prompting, Hellboy wraps his arms around his partner, returning to their earlier position with him resting his chin atop Diyana's head. A veil of silence falls between them as the large red man contemplates and takes in what his fellow agent just divulged to him. Unlike when he buried his, presumably dead, partner, he's able to come up with a few words to say to her.

"... Do you ever miss it, your home? 'Cause for what it's worth, I'm glad to have you here."

Diyana feels her cheeks heating up and the corner of her mouth twitching, none of which Hellboy could see. Yet, he could hear the wistfulness in his partner's voice loud and clear.

"Aye, even with so many centuries have passed. I still long to run on its green grassy hills with the breeze in my mane; climb and rest in the woodlands, sometimes making small talk with travelers; drink from the marshes on a hot summer's day; pick blackberries in the brambles as a snack. It was once truly home for me."

"Do you miss anyone there?"

Hellboy catches Diyana's tail flicking in irritation out the corner of his eye.

"I doubt there'd be a welcome party much less a single faerie happy to see my mug. So they can all fuck their collective holes for all I care."

Hellboy lets out a chortle, which then breaks into a hearty laugh that proves infectious as Diyana soon joins in. A much-needed breath of alleviation both agents desperately needed.

...

Up high in the sky, miles the above the snowy landscape below is a chopper with the BPRD's signature logo on the side of the haul. Within the vehicle is Professor Broom and another agent accompanying the former in the search for Agent Hellboy and Agent Swann.

"We should be approaching the coordinates, Agent Muraro, but there's no sign of either of them so far."

Agent Muraro squints at the horizon, spotting what could be Hellboy's large figure crouched over.

"I think I see them or maybe just one, Professor. See something, anyway."

After landing the chopper, the Professor and Muraro approach the silhouette the latter spotted earlier. It turns out Muraro's initial assumption was correct as it became clear it was the two missing agents the closer they got.

"My word!"

Broom exclaims when he can make out more of the agents' states. Hellboy was hunched over with Swann's coat covering his back, although he and the coat were covered in snow and ice. However, the coat didn't do much to hide the large man's emaciated form, showcasing his prominent ribs and sunken cheeks. In his flesh hand was a similarly snow-covered hand-held two-way radio with some apparent modifications to lengthen the antenna. Similar to her larger partner, the faerie was covered in snow and ice with sunken in cheeks as a sign of starvation. Broom then takes notice of Swann curled up tightly in a ball in Hellboy's arms, one dirtied glove held over where his heart is and with both their tails intertwined.

...

Hellboy is the first one to regain consciousness, followed shortly by his partner, who's still in his lap. Diyana instinctively reaches for a knife strapped to her thigh when processing voices not belonging to her or her partner. When she opens her eyes, Broom and another man, another agent the faerie presumes, are standing on either side of her with a gloriously large campfire burning before her, melting the frigid chill from her bones with its searing heat.

"B-b-bruk Mor-r-rph..."

Diyana turns her head in the direction of Hellboy's groan, feeling his entire form shivering under her with both of them wrapped in a large blanket. She could feel his arms tight around her form trying to greedily take in her newly acquired warmth. Diyana opens her mouth to try and tell her fellow agent to ease up a little, but her words too came out as a jumbled mess.

" E-ee-ease u-upmh..."

"I think your lady friend is tryna tell you to ease up a little on her, kid. She's not a teddy bear."

The other agent speaks up for her. Hellboy glances down at Diyana before loosening his hold on her.

"Ssss-owy D-di-i-i."

Diyana gives a thumbs up to show all is good, not making any move to break away from Hellboy but opting to raise her hands toward the fire in front of them. Broom takes note of how at ease the two agents seem with each other compared to their usual quarrelsome interactions. Then again, he reasons, desperate times call for desperate measures.

The Professor then goes on to explain how the Bureau has been searching for Hellboy and Swann ever since they disappeared from the Ice Island for a little over six weeks. Finally, they had a lead when the U.S. department got word from Tokoyo that one of their whaling vessels picked up a BPRD distress call from the South Atlantic. Basically, the craft that took both agents ended up from the Earth's North Pole to its South in little time.

"...I can only speculate that the craft that brought you both here passed through the Earth, somehow. There are, of course, countless legends about the Hollow Earth, and hidden passages that connect one pole to another. I had assumed these to be metaphors for the hidden recesses of the human mind, but they may have a material reality. Perhaps those who constructed the craft had knowledge of such passages."

Swann then takes a sip from the hot cup of joe Muraro served her and Hellboy before handing it to the latter.

"Yer-rr... hmph... You're right the morans who had knowledge of the craft knew 'bout them and it's not too far outside the realm of possibilities for such passages to exist. We fae already use our own sorta of hidden passages to move from one place to another, however, while the Otherworld may be different in geography and built from the mortal realm it's still adjacent to it. I myself use but a fraction of them whenever I teleport."

Broom's eyes widen as his brows raise to his forehead.

"Fascinating, have you ever gotten a good look at these passages from within the Otherworld or this one?"

Diyana shakes her head.

"Nah, I don't really have to look, I more or less just know where I'm going when I'm in there."

"Genetic or muscle memory perhaps?"

"I would say more along the lines of the latter given I had years upon years of practice in regards to teleporting."

Muraro clears his throat to grab both scholars' attention.

"I have a question of my own for either you or Hellboy; what went on down here anyway?"

The man gestures with his head at the debris spread out around them. This time, Hellboy is the one to do the talking.

"Bunch of Nazis. Flying saucers. We took care of it."

Hellboy closes his eyes and takes a long sip of his joe.

...

EPILOGUE: Some Years Later

Hellboy and Diyana stand beside each other at the foot of a Queen sized bed with floral patterned covers and pillows. Hellboy glances between the bed to his fellow agent from the corner of his eyes.

"Um-"

"Let me stop ya there 'fore ya embarrass yerself. We can both share the bed. We're both fully grown adults, not some hormonal youngins."

"I guess you have a point."

Diyana then bites the bottom of her lip as her tail curls tightly on itself.

"But I wouldn't mind if you decide to have a ride with me."

"There it is."

Hellboy rolls his eyes playfully, not so surprised that's where the faerie woman's line of thinking went.

"In all seriousness, look at your sleeping options; we have one bleedin' bed set, there's a hard cold floor, and there's no couch unless you want to sleep on the small table and chair,"

Diyana gestures to the furniture placed right under one of the windows, giving them a nice view of the dense, snowy Norwegian woods with the sun dipping behind the tree line to bathe them in ethereal glow. A thick blanket of snow covers everything, including the only road leading to this middle-of-nowhere motel they're staying in. Hellboy then looks back at the bed before avoiding eye contact with his fellow agent.

"Remind me again why you didn't just spring us for a nice hotel?"

"'Cause the nearest one is about 70 kilometers away from where we're supposed to find some fire giants and this motel is closer."

"Yeah, that checks out."

Diyana then turns her head to look at her partner with a teasing smirk and hands on her hips.

"Is the idea of sharing a bed with me that horrible?"

"Err no. No. It's just, usually we have our own beds and err well,"

Hellboy groans with his left hand rubbing down his face, his tail flicking on its own accord. Without another word, Diyana grabs the pillows and starts evenly lining them down the middle as a barrier. When she finishes, she turns around to face her partner, gesturing to the pillow wall.

“Better?”

“Uh yeah, yeah, much better. “

Diyana gives Hellboy a soft smile.

“If it’s any comfort, it isn’t too different from when we ended up around Antarctica.”

“Right, just without the threat of freezing to death.”

“There we go!”

Diyana then crouches down to reach into her carpet bag to pull out a manilla folder with some papers, including pages copied from old tomes and newspaper clippings pertaining to the fire giants. She hands this folder to her fellow agent for him to review.

"Imma freshen up in the jacks and slip into somethin' more comfortable. Could you review the file meanwhile?"

"Not a problem."

"Thanks, Handsome."

Diyana struts past her partner, briefly looking over his shoulder to blow him a kiss before disappearing into the bathroom. Shortly after, Hellboy hears the sound of pipes creaking and groaning, followed by the sound of running water. He then sits on the right side of the only bed before opening the file and taking out a printed page detailing the fire giants' homeland, Muspellheim. Hellboy is unable to focus on the paper to the point he finds himself rereading the same paragraph over and over again without actually taking really reading it, his mind entirely on something not giant-related.

'What would Di's version of "something comfortable" be?'

In his mind's eye, he could see the pooka in a lacey nightgown that stopped just below the knees and hugged her curves in all the right ways, extenuating her lithe figure. The gown has thin straps, displaying her collarbone and a tasteful peak of her cleavage. Hellboy can almost hear Diyana's flirtatious words while giving her usual coquettish grin before it turns into a sweeter expression, her body language relaxed and at ease. She then opens her arms, beckoning him to-

'NO!'

Hellboy's head shoots up from his reading, wondering where that came from. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he groans to himself, frustrated with himself for conjuring those images.

'Come on, get it together! You're not some horny teenager that loses it by sleeping near a woman, much less a friend. You're a grown-ass man that can control himself! You're just sleeping beside your friend, not sharing a marriage bed!'

Hellboy lets out a long sigh before placing down the file, deciding to head out for a quick smoke. He just got up from the bed before the bathroom door opened with a large cloud of steam pouring out into the main room. Hellboy watches as Diyana's familiar figure emerges from the steam, releasing a breath he didn't realize he's been holding in relief.

Instead of the alluring nightgown he imagined, his partner wore a blue-green sleeping shirt with long sleeves with ruffles at the end; the collar was covered in lace but in a way that completely covered her chest and most of her neck. Diyana's lower half matches her upper half with pajama pants that only expose her from the ankle down. Instead of letting down her loose ebony locks, her hair is confined in a silky purple nightcap. Hellboy notes the single pink hair curler set at the end of his partner's tail with an amused snort. Diyana rolls her eyes with a small smile.

"You finished reading up on the file?"

"Yeah."

The large red man then picks up the file to hand to his partner's outstretched hand. In the back of his mind, he notes something different from his fellow agent's usual attire but quickly rationalizes it to wearing ordinary pajamas. He then goes to the front door with Diyana plopping down on the left side of the mattress with file in hand.

"Heading out for a smoke. I shouldn't be long."

"Aye, Imma do some light readin' here before turnin' in. Just lettin' ya know so you don't mistakenly bury me alive again."

Diyana could only see the back of Hellboy's head as he let out a pantomime groan.

"That was one time, Di."

With that, he opens the door and heads out, not having to look behind him to see his partner's amused grin. Later that evening, after deciding his head is clear enough, Hellboy steps back into the shared motel room. He surmises he may have been out for some time, judging by how he found Diyana fast asleep, curled up in a tight fetal position.

After hanging up his duster, Hellboy tries to move as quietly as he can, trying to be courteous to his fellow agent. Of course, stealth has never been exactly his strong suit and the fact he's walking against a hard floor with hooved feet didn't exactly help. He tenses up and stops dead in his tracks when his partner lets out a groan.

"Sorry, Di."

Hellboy whispers to the faerie who, besides a twitch of an ear, didn't seem to react to his words. Diyana shifts a bit in her slumber when HB finally lies down on the other side of the makeshift pillow barrier, causing the mattress to dip under his greater weight and the springs to creak, causing him to cringe.

"Sorry again, Di."

"Mrrhhh..."

Came the faerie's only response before stretching a bit and nuzzling into her pillow with her hands gripping the soft material. Hellboy glances over and suddenly hit him about what seemed so different about his partner.

'So she can take them off.'

He takes a moment to look over Diyana's ungloved hands, almost feeling as if he's seeing something he's probably not supposed to. Yet, he can't stop his eyes from noting her short black claws or the faint scratch lines and uneven skin from scars that dot the skin, possibly from years of working with machinery and or in the clothing business. If he were to hold one of these hands, they're probably a bit calloused from centuries of labor. Would Diyana let him hold her bare hands, he wonders? Realizing he may have been staring too long, Hellboy is quick to lie down with his back to his partner and a giant stone fist hanging off to the side.

...

Dawn barely broke out from behind the horizon when Diyana woke up. She lets out a yawn before huddling close to the source of warmth in her arms, her mind in a sort of haze as it stood between sleep and consciousness. In the back of her mind, Diyana finds herself wanting nothing more than to stay surrounded by the warm cozy thing and its pleasant smell that reminded her somewhat of roasted peanuts. Yet the sound of light snoring has Diyana opening her eyes, filling them with crimson.

She pulls away a little to find the warmth she was cuddling is actually Hellboy. She glances away from him to find the pillows she set up yesterday scattered all over the bed, leaving nothing between them. Sometime during the night, he moved onto his back so his massive stone hand was still hanging off the side of the bed, but his left arm was wrapped around her shoulders. Diyana is on her side, tucked against Hellboy, with her bare hands pressed against her fellow agent's chest, one hand right over his heart. While their legs were still covered by the comforter, the faerie woman could feel her leg hooked on the inside of her partner's leg, their tails intertwined.

Diyana feels the back of her neck all the way to the tip of her ears grows hotter with each passing second, unintentionally giving Hellboy's tail a squeeze with her own. In return, the large red man gives Diyana a small squeeze of his own while muttering something too incoherent for her to make out. After spending a few minutes biting her lower lip to keep from screaming, she then takes a deep breath, willing her racing heart to slow down, which works, sorta. Diyana could still feel the prominent blush on her cheeks as she tucked her head back under Hellboy's jaw, the sound of his soft snoring in one ear and the sound of his heart beating strongly in another. She then closes her eyes, a small genuine smile on her face, and lets herself believe that, just for one moment, they're not merely co-workers and friends sleeping next to each other; instead, this is a-

'No. No, I just want to enjoy a few more minutes of shut-eye.'

Diyana fervently tries to convince herself before deciding to just let herself relax in Hellboy's embrace.

When her fellow agent began to stir awake, the faerie quickly popped into the bathroom to get ready for a day of giant hunting. Back in bed, Hellboy fully stirs awake and looks over the collapsed pillow barrier.

A/N I have no regrets for making such a long piece! Stay weird, my fellow humans!

#Hellboy #mike mignola #Dark horse comics #My writing #Hellboy fanfic #Hellboy x OC #Hellboy/OC #Diyana Swann #Pooka #Puca #Phooka #Arctic setting #drabble #Dark Horse #one room one bed trop

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thegremlincrowsnest · 4 years ago

Text

A Slice of Cheesecake

Fatgum x poc!reader

CW: Slight breed kink, thigh fucking, mentions of vagina, slight anal play, creampies, mentions of daddy in a sexual way, kitchen and sex around food

Color Code

Orange: Fatgum

blue: Reader

Pink: Fatgums inner thoughts

WC: 1.7k

If you like my writing consider donating to my Ko-fi

You can also read this fic on AO3

Fatgum was definitely your favorite customer to bake for. Tips generously and an absolute beaut to stare at while you work. He always came past your shop on his breaks or days off just to watch you. “Ya know, I can always help fill those buns for ya sugar plum.” He would say with a smirk. You just giggle and shake your head as you continue to fill and dip your eclairs. You were finishing up some orders to deliver, and he offered to stay and help you out. You accepted his help with a smile as the pro-hero helped pack cupcakes, cookies, and pastries.

Everything was going great until you went to change. When you work, you wear chef pants, a plain t-shirt, and your apron. But for deliveries, your outfit was much. Much different. Fatgum couldn’t help himself as he stared, seeing your soft stomach peek out from your crop top. He has to hide behind your counter as you fix the garter belts from under your skirt. He groaned softly as he saw how your thighs bulge from the garter belt and thigh highs. Your skirt was absolutely sinful being so short, bending over. He got a glimpse of those soft pink lace panties. Walking around, he pressed himself against you. “Baby...I don’ know if ya should go out like that. Pretty thin’ like you could get devoured.” He says, deep voice low. His two large hands came to hold your wide hips. Groaning loudly as he saw his fingers sink into your love handles.

Looking up at him with big doe eyes, you smiled. “Oh~ well, I don’t have anything to worry about with a big strong hero like you, Taishiro~,” You say as you grind against his growing hard-on. You slip from his grip with a giggle as you finish packing up orders. “Ok, now let’s go!”

Walking down the street with you was a blessin and a curse for Fatgum. Seeing your thick ass sway in that skirt was torture ‘Little Nymph,’ he thought to himself. Going from customer to customer was easy enough. You were so sweet to each one, and he could only smile softly at you. Seeing you dote on each and every one. The sun was setting as you finished, and the teasing was getting worse. On trains, you were pressed so close to him, you smelled like sugar and warm spices. Your skin contrasted beautifully against his yellow costume as you held onto him. Brown, golden skin that he swore always shimmered in the sunlight. You both were able to finish earlier than you thought, so he decides to treat you a bit. You were already in the shopping district, and he saw how your eyes lingered on some of the displays. Laying a hand on your hip, he leaned down to your ear. “Would you like me to buy that for ya, Darlin?” He asks. You stifle a soft groan at how close he is; turning to him, you reply. “No! I should be treating you to something for helping me out today.”

His eyes darken a bit at those doe eyes you give him. Fuck, you look so cute. He stands up and looks around, smirking as he looks down at you. “Then I know how we both can win.” He says as he walks you down an ally, a hole-in-the-wall sex shop that you’re surprised the BMI hero would know of. As you both walk in, he brings you towards some expensive pieces. He tells you to pick out what you'd like as he sits down on a stool.

Watching you was a pleasure, watching you bounce around from display to display, skirt riding up as you bent down. He bit the inside of his cheek before he motioned for one of the employees.

You look up to see Fatgum whispering to one of the employees before looking back at you with a smirk. Picking a few sets, you walk up to him, face warm as you smirk back to him. He looks them over, letting out a low growl at the soft lace of one of the panties before nodding over to the employee again.

The walk back home was swift, entering your shop and making sure all of the blinds were drawn. Fatgum then pinned you against the front counter, licking and nibbling on your neck as he rubbed your clit through your panties. “Such a sweet boy for me...so tasty,” He says as he helps strip your clothes. He pulls out his favorite set along with a relatively thick butt plug. “If you’re ok with this, Darlin, I’d love to see you wear these while you bake me a little cheesecake, baby.” He says as he holds them out for you. You nod quickly, slipping on the lingerie and bending over to prep your ass. Before you can open the cap for the lube, he stops you. “Please sugah let me help ya.” He says as he pours lube over your hole. Groaning softly at how you clench around nothing. Gently pushing a finger against your hole, kissing down your back, he pushes one in. It takes a few minutes of him kissing your neck and ear as he stretches you out before sliding the lubed-up plug into your ass. You whimper at the stretch, your pussy dripping with arousal as he pulls up your panties. He kisses you deeply before patting your ass to the kitchen.

Cooking while being watched was something you were used to before, but with the current circumstances, your head was foggy. Fatgum would come up behind you to “help,” pressing the plug in your ass or groping your breast. Finally, as you placed the cheesecake in the oven with a water bath, you began prepping some toppings. As you began to whip up some cream, he decided it was time to push further. Pulling your panties down, he pressed your thighs together. Bending you over, he lifted you gently as he slid his cock between your thighs. Moaning softly at the heat radiating from your dripping center. Your head was spinning; you could smell his arousal mixed in with sweat. You desperately wanted to get on your knees and bury your nose in it. He was no better; wafts of your arousal filled his nose as the soft plushness of your thighs squeezed him perfectly.

You groan softly as you feel the head of his cock brush against your clit. Looking up at him, you whimper, “P-Please Taishiro. Fuck me, I can’t stand the teasing anymore.” You beg. In response, he spreads your thighs apart and presses you down onto the counter. He can’t help himself but allow his hands to wander over your soft skin, admiring every stretch mark, scar and blemish. “Fuck Baby Boy… ‘Ave I ever told ya how beautiful you are?” He asks as he undoes your top. You’re about to respond until you feel his large hands grope your breast. Kneading them gently, your body shivers, “N-No, but I could tell with how you look at me.” You respond with a soft smile.

He leans down and kisses you gently on the lips, cradling your face in his hands like you’ll break at any second. He lifts one of your legs up onto his shoulder, wrapping the other around his waist. You gasp, seeing just how big he is, almost 12 inches long; it’s slightly darker than the rest of him, it's as thick as a can of soda, and you briefly worry about how it will fit. “Don’t be scared, my little darlin’. I’ll make sure you feel really good.” He says as he presses the tip against your entrance. He leans down again, kissing you deeply as he begins to push in. You whimper and grip his shoulders, feeling the head of his cock push through your entrance. He stops and gently pulls out before pushing back in, reaching down to rub your clit as he works his cock. Finally, after a few moments, he's able to bottom out inside of you. Even with your soft stomach, you can still see the outline of his cock in you. He moans loudly, seeing it as well; pressing down on it gently, he begins a steady pace. His large, heavy balls slap against your ass as he grips your thigh with one hand. The other is near your head, trying to keep himself steady.

“F-faster Taishiro~ Please faster!” You moan out as you begin to pinch and pull on your nipples. He doesn’t protest; pressing your knees to your chest, he starts thrusting faster. His precum fills you up and begins to drip down onto the floor; loud nasty slapping sounds reverberate against the tile walls as he continues his fast pace. He’s grunting like a bull as he sees your breast and stomach squished under your thighs and his hands. You’re so soft and sweet and beautiful to him; he wants to take you home and spoil you.

“Taishiro! Oh my god, I’m gonna cum!” You moan out as you feel your walls tighten around his cock. He grunts as he holds you close, face nuzzled into your tight curls as he wraps his arms around you, legs dangling off of his broad shoulders. “Cum for me, Sugah Plum~ Cum all over daddy’s cock” He grunts as he moves you like a fleshlight. “Daddy daddy daddy! Fill me up! Please fill me up!” You respond. He leans back to watch your face as he thrusts as deeply as he can before holding you down on his cock. He groans loudly as his cock twitches pumping you full of cum. His body shivers as he can’t help but continue to hump you gently as he breeds you. You don’t fight it, tightening your legs around him as your cunt milks him.

You’re both blissed-out, kissing each other sloppily as he humps you. Tongues and teeth clash together as you pant for more. “Y-Y/n, I love you, I love you please be mine.” He says as he reaches down to rub your clit, extending your orgasm along with his. You nod frantically as he licks and sucks on your neck, “I love you too~ Please mark me up, Taishi” You moan out as you feel his cock harden again.

You’re both startled by the timer going off. Not wanting to pull out, he holds you close to him with one hand as he maneuvers to get the cheesecake out of the oven. Placing it on the cooling rack, he looks down at you with a smirk. “I hope you have enough energy, my little cheesecake, cause I’m gonna make sure you reak of my cum for days.”

#fatgum x reader #fatgum smut #ftm!reader #fatgum #cernunnos writing #bnha x reader #what's cookin' good lookin'#taishiro toyomitsu #bnha taishiro #taishiro x reader #taishiro smut #poc!reader

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duskamethyst · 4 years ago

Text

spoiled.

a/n: i know i’ve been neglecting my hq bbs ever since i’ve watched bnha. this is my past work that i’ve deleted so some of you may have read this– the plot is still the same but i’ve edited some parts (it was dreadful because i don’t enjoy re-reading my work).

word count: 1.5k

genre: smut, nsfw

warnings: masturbation, thigh riding, overstimulation, face fucking

pairing: oikawa x f!reader

summary: bothering your boyfriend oikawa during his phone call may or may not be such a bad idea.

��uh... yeah?” oikawa speaks through the phone with his best bud, iwaizumi.

“n-no.. really, i’m listening.” he continues as his other hand tugs your hair just gently so he wouldn’t hurt you. your boyfriend relaxes further into the couch, eyes closed, throwing his head back and letting out a frustrated sigh.

you, on the other hand, are already bruising your knees on the carpet. tongue skilfully wrapping around his veiny cock, licking away his salty precum and deliberately teasing the slit of the tip. he groans lowly, brows furrowed as his eyes show no amusement while you stare back at him innocently (as much as you can despite having his cock inside your mouth) from between his thighs.

oikawa didn’t force you into this, you just thought it would be fun to embarrass him once in a while and getting caught doing such lewd things over the phone would definitely do the trick, right?

“hey, i’ll call you back. someone is desperate for cock.” he chuckles breathily. “not that i blame her, though.”

…or maybe it just feeds his ego more.

“OI– WHAT–” you hear the other shout through the phone, followed by a beep as oikawa quickly hangs up the call so he could leave no room for further arguments. the heavy pants rolling off from your boyfriend’s tongue should’ve given it away though surprisingly iwaizumi didn’t catch on, or maybe he just decided to shrug it off.

oikawa roughly grabs you by the back of your head and bucks his hips towards your face and sticks his cock further down your throat. the abruptness is making you choke and your nails are digging into his thighs but he ruthlessly remains to face fuck you with no intention to give you a second to breathe.

tears are prickling in your eyes as you work on your gag reflex and your scalp begins to sting from his grip. through oikawa’s half-lidded eyes, they display admiration and lust; having you between his thick thighs, balls slapping against your chin and your pretty lips wrapping around his throbbing cock like you’re aching for him and only him. he notices your hand reaching down to your already bare cunt for relief as you begin to relax and let him take control. you look so needy under him and it fuels his arousal more.

“you’re gonna be a good girl and swallow all of it, won’t you?”

you hum as a reply before his hips pick up the pace to push him to edge. oikawa lolls his head back, mouth parting with chants of ‘fuck yeah’s and praises before you feel his cock pulses and fills warm load of semen inside your mouth. panting, oikawa slowly pulls out his cock and smears your lips with a bit of his cum while you try your best to swallow the salty load and making sure not to spill a single drop.

“such a good girl,” he smiles approvingly before playfully tugging to a frown, “but i can’t accept what you did.”

“are you gonna punish me, sir?” you reply coyly, licking your lips.

“that shouldn’t be a question,” he pulls up his shorts and chuckles when he sees the disappointment on your face. “aw, how much do you want it, princess?”

you look up at him adoringly as your hands caress his muscular thighs, sending little shivers down his spine. “i want it so bad.”

oikawa taps his chin with his finger, humming as he pretends to think.

“but i don’t think you deserve it, cutie.” he coos. “all that teasing and only i ended up being the one to get off.”

“please, tooru? i’ll be good.” you plea innocently as you stand up and turn around from him before straddling one of your boyfriend’s thighs and putting your weight down for the pressure you need to soothe the ache between your thighs.

oikawa would be lying if his cock doesn’t twitch when he feels your wet cunt pressing against his thigh. but he’s a bit egoistic for his own good so he chooses to not act on it just to give you the punishment that you deserve.

“if you want it so badly, why don’t you do it yourself?” he challenges.

you begin to create friction in search of relief by moving your hips against his solid thigh. oikawa’s gaze is burning holes from your back, observing as you move before your juices slowly begin to drip on his skin.

“you’re still teasing me, aren’t you?” he groans. “look how hard you make me.”

a needy mewl escapes your lips when oikawa puts your hand on the erection hiding in his pants. his hands then snake underneath your oversized shirt to grab your breasts, rubbing and pinching your hard nipples which causes you to increase your pace from the stimulation.

“does it feel good, princess?” he leans and breathes in your ear, sending more tickling sensation to your throbbing clit.

“s-so good..” you answer in breathy moans.

“are you gonna cum for me?” he teases by lightly licking your ear, ushering you to be driven further to the edge.

you silently nod, focused on chasing after your high while your hand rubs his hard cock through the thin fabric and subconsciously causes oikawa to moan in your ear. oikawa leans down to nip on the sensitive spot on your neck and it’s just enough to send you to a state of euphoria with your pussy gushing and fluttering around nothing.

“dirty girl. you’ve made such a mess.” he snickers as your limped body leans back on his toned chest, legs partly spread with your juices spilling all over his thigh.

“you did such a good job but you can still take this fat cock, right, cutie?”

oikawa tugs his pants down just enough to free his cock before he easily shifts you on top of him to line your quivering hole against his cock. he spreads your legs with his and he holds you with one arm while his other hand rubs his cock against your wet slit, coating the tip with your essence that sends a jolt through your body.

“t-tooru... wai– ah!” he cuts you off by slowly sliding his cock inside your soppy cunt and steadies his hips underneath.

“thought you wanted it so bad.” he hisses at the warmth engulfing him and his hands wrap on the sides of your waist to hold you in place before he starts to thrust into you. your body twitches and you whine from overstimulation but the feeling of his throbbing cock deliciously brushing against your walls gradually becomes pleasurable and you find your toes curling as your orgasm begins to build up quickly.

“you’re clenching down on me, princess.” he whispers on the crook of your neck as you tilt your head to the side, giving him space to plant chaste kisses on your skin. his hands wander around your body; one goes down to circle your swollen bud with his thumb while the other presses your mound as he continuously rams his cock inside you.

“y-you’re gonna make me cum.” you moan, hands tugging on a lock of his brown hair and eyes screwing shut, sensing the tip kissing your cervix with each of his deep thrusts and your lower stomach starts to tighten.

“yeah? you like that, cutie?” his pace becomes erratic, fingers flicking your clit and making your body tremble above him.

“yesyesyes. tooru–”

your walls convulse around his cock as he pushes you over the edge and your lips part open in a scream of his name as you are sent into an orgasm for the second time.

“that’s it, that’s it– hah– my pretty girl.” he breathes, hips jerking faster as he also feels that he’s getting close to reaching his climax. his pace starts to stutter and with one last snap of his hips, oikawa holds you tightly and fills you up with his cum.

chests are heaving, beads of sweat already glistening on both foreheads and his hot breath fans over your shoulder, planting chaste kisses before he pulls out his softening cock. you close your legs together and shift your body to the side, nuzzling against his chest and listen to his rapid heartbeat decline to its normal pace in silence before he speaks up.

“i love you but don’t you ever do that again or i’ll–” he caresses your hair while his other arm extends to reach his phone which he realizes he neglected for too long. it’s rather odd that iwaizumi didn’t call back some time later after he hung up, but he suddenly remembers that his phone has been on silent mode.

oikawa’s face drops when he brings the phone closer to his face. the screen lights up to show a string of notifications waiting for him. you glance at his screen and notice that he has 17 missed calls from the male with a bunch of curses in the text messages.

“he needs to find a girlfriend and stop bothering me.” he nags.

oikawa is definitely going to get an earful, but it’s all worth it.

#oikawa tooru #tooru oikawa #oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #oikawa smut #oikawa fluff #hq oikawa #hq smut #haikyuu oikawa #haikyuu smut #oikawa toru #toru oikawa #r; writes #oikawa

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harrywritingsbyme · 5 years ago

Text

Bored

Based Off Of This Ask

And This One

A/N: He’s back bitchessss🤪…and he’s filthy as fuck! And I’m sorry this one is extra extra late with a crappy ending lol...Enjoy🙃

You were finally finally getting your weekend alone with Harry. After almost two weeks of him being away for business, you were finally getting to spend some quality time with him. And it was going to be without any interruption. Since your best friend was was spending a long weekend with her boyfriend, you were going to be able to spend a long weekend with yours. You were so excited to see Harry that you had everything planned out. For starters, you had your bag packed the night before he was due home. It had all of the essentials: a couple outfits for when you two weren’t in bed having sex, two of your skimpiest sets of lingerie that you weren’t going to miss given the fact that Harry had a habit of ripping your lingerie off of you, and some toys. He had few at his house but had the funner ones that you both could play with. Now along with getting your bag packed, you also made a visit to the waxing salon you went to from time to time. Even though Harry could literally care less about whether or not you had any hair down there, you still liked to give him a little treat from time to time. So as a little welcome home present, you endured thirty minuets of someone ripping those coarse hairs away so that you could be nice and smooth upon his arrival. And to make sure that you were ready to spread your legs for him as soon as he landed, you got this done a little over two days before so that you could let your pussy rest a bit because once you were with Harry, you were going to be begging for a break. You also made sure to be right at the airport to pick him up so that you two could get your weekend together started.

Now since his flight landed in the evening and you were positive that he’d be exhausted, you weren’t expecting to do much that night. Once you two arrived home, Harry wasted no time getting himself and his bag upstairs before ridding himself of his clothes and taking a nice hot shower. Again, you knew for a fact that he was exhausted from his flight and the trip itself so you decided to let him unwind and take his shower while you unpacked his bag and got everything nice and ready for him to have a good nights sleep. After spending a good half an hour in the steamy cabin, Harry finally exited the shower and came into the bedroom where you were waiting for him.

“I take it you had a good shower.” You point out, taking in his more relaxed disposition.

“It was so good.” He hums, striding over to where you were sitting on the bed. Once in front of you, his hands go straight to your shoulders and up your neck to the sides of your face where he tilts your head back a bit so that you’re looking up at him. He then lowers his head before bringing his lips to yours. Besides the pecks you gave him in the car when you picked him up from the airport, this was the first real kiss the two of you shared in almost two weeks. You missed the feeling of his warm pillow soft lips moving against yours. Even though you missed the sex, you missed being close to Harry. You knew that you could call him whenever you needed him and he’d always answer, but you weren’t close to him the way you were in this moment.

“I love you baby.” He mumbles lowly against your lips after slightly pulling away from you.

“I love you too.” You mumble back to him before lifting your head up a bit to reconnect your lips with his for one final kiss. “Now get in bed with me!” You whine, pulling him down towards the bed.

“Have t’get dressed.” He laughs at your eagerness.

“Who said you needed to wear clothes to bed?” You quickly reply, leaving him no other choice but to dry himself off and hop into bed with you. “Now it’s time for your goodnight kiss.” And with that, you moved your body so that you were between his legs and you used your mouth in the best way possible to send him right to sleep. Just because you weren’t expecting to do much didn’t mean you were expecting to do nothing at all. How could you not take up the opportunity to not only pleasure him but to also help him unwind?! Not to mention the fact that you hadn’t touched him in almost two weeks.

Now even though this was supposed to be a relaxing weekend for you and Harry to spend some quality time together, Harry still managed to get holed up in his office. And even though you were fully aware and understanding of the fact that his job could be demanding at times, you still couldn’t understand why they couldn’t let him have a little bit of an extended weekend since they did have him for a straight week and a half. The one thing you did know in this entire situation is that you had to get him away from the work and into you instead. And you knew just how to do it. You checked in on him the first time right after you woke up and realized that he wasn’t in bed with you. When you did, you gave him a ton of kisses and an incentives for stepping away from the desk but he wouldn’t budge. All you got out of that was a kiss to your lips, a promise to give it to you real good later on, and the task of getting him another cup of coffee. At this point, you realized that you were going to have to make him step away from the work.

So after you deliver his cup of coffee, you make your way upstairs to put yourself together. After you get out of the shower, you throw on the perfect outfit (or lack there of to be completely honest) to get Harry to focus on you. Pulling from the bag you packed, you went for a cute little pastel thong that barely covered anything and was just there for the appeal, along with a tight fitting crop top that had “Daddy’s Girl” written across the chest. It was prefect. If this didn’t get Harry’s attention, you don’t know what what could. After doing a little once over and twirl in the mirror, you head back downstairs to try your hand once more at getting Harry to put the work to the side. Hopefully he got something done in the hour and a half you spent upstairs because you weren’t going anywhere without getting something from him. When you walk down the hallway leading to his office, you could hear him talking to someone on the phone but that doesn’t stop you from walking right into the doorway of his office. When you first walked in he could see you out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned around to fully face you, Harry was completely dumbfounded at your appearance. There was so much to take in!

“Daddy I’m bored.” You huff loudly, causing Harry to scramble around behind his desk, hoping that his colleague didn’t hear you through the phone.

“M‘ gonna have to call you back.” He says abruptly before hanging up the phone, keeping his eyes right on you the entire time. He then slides his phone onto the desk and pushes his chair out a little from the desk before wagging his finger in your direction, beckoning you to come over to him.

In an instant, you’re following his nonverbal instruction and your making your way over to him. As you’re walking over, Harry takes you in. Aside from the lack of clothing, Harry couldn’t get enough of your body. He couldn’t get enough of your figure. Your hips were perfectly rounded and full and your chest was absolutely abundant with your breasts. When you round the desk and step in front of him, you don’t even bother to stop and wait for a direction. You just go right in and you straddle Harry before sitting yourself right in his lap. Instead of saying anything right away, you decide to wait until you’re spoken to. That’s the least you could do since you already broke two of his rules.

“You’re so lucky I could use a good fuck right now.” He sighs, finally breaking the silence while continuing to look your body over your body. Now that you were sitting down, he could see the string like waistband of your panties digging into you fleshy hips, and he could see your pert nipples pushing right up against the thin material of your t-shirt.

“What would happen if you weren’t daddy?” You “innocently” inquire, lifting yourself up a bit just to move yourself but higher up on his lap before plopping yourself back down onto him.

“Well luckily for you, I’m always in need of a good fuck from this beautiful body of yours.” He begins, removing one of his hands from your fleshy hips up to your chest to latch onto one of your ample breast’s through the thin shirt you had on. “But when I do punish you, because all brats deserve punishments, I’m gonna make sure you learn your lesson.” He says simply, continuing to fondle your breast.

“What are you gonna do to me daddy?” You press on, beginning to move yourself back and forth right against his cock.

“Now what’s the fun in me telling you my plans? All I’m gonna say is that unless our safe word falls from that pretty mouth of yours, m’gonna use you any way I want, and m’gonna do anything I want to you.” He explains. “How does that sound?”

“Sounds amazing.” You moan, continuing to push yourself back and forth against his now completely hard cock.

“I figured you’d like the idea of being my personal fuck toy.” He chuckles smartly as you bring your face down to kiss at his neck. “But I do have to say, even though you’re such a little brat, you definitely make up for it in being the perfect little slut f’me.”

“Mhm, just for daddy.” You hum, keeping your mouth against his skin. As you continue kissing at his neck, you continue moving your hips against him as well. You also pull his hand that was squeezing at your hip down between your legs.

“Does my little girl want daddy’s cock?” He asks “surprisedly” when he feels you pull his hand down to touch the puffy mound between your legs.

“Yes daddy.” You moan against him when you feel his fingers poking at you through your panties.

“I guess I can let you have your way since I’ll be spending the better part of the day teaching you a lesson.” He rations, removing his hand from your breast and using it to grip onto your throat and pull your face from his neck before lifting you up and onto the desk in front of him. He then pushes his seat back some more so that he can stand up and tower above you. He quickly clears the space on the desk behind you before swiftly removing the tight shirt from your body and returning his hand to your throat, pushing you to lay back. Instead of wasting anymore time, Harry brings a hand down to your panties that were extremely close to just snapping and just rips them off your body, leaving you completely naked in front of him. His eyes travel all the way down, from your breasts to the area between your legs, each time taking a moment to touch and feel your soft body in his hands. When he makes it to the area between your legs though, Harry immediately crouches down to be at eye level with your cunt. “Oh sweetheart” He begins, taking in your bare cunt. “Look at you.” He admires, bringing his hand back there to feel how smooth and bare you were. The area was a sticky mess since there were not curly hairs for your arousal to cling onto. Even though he loved when you had your hair down there, he couldn’t get enough of how messy it got and how good it was to really feel the plump lips of your pussy in his mouth. He also liked to lick your arousal from your thighs. After staring and petting the smooth area, Harry finally brings his mouth to your cunt and goes straight into licking up and down your folds.

“Daddy! Feels so good!” You moan incoherently, feeling him eat into you like his life depended on it. Not only would he lick into you, he’d also suck on your swollen and oh so sensitive bud, and slightly sink his teeth into your thick pussy lips.

“Oh my- you are so delicious.” Harry moans from between your legs, savoring how amazing you taste. No matter how many times he licked into you, Harry would never get over how good you tasted on his tongue. “I could eat this pussy of yours for the rest of my life!” He exclaims, continuing to eat and marvel at your cunt. “You even look perfect too.” He says, pulling his head back to stare at your mound. “It just swallows up everything it touches. Your panties, my fingers, my tongue, my cock…” He continues on, taking in how pretty and puffy your pussy was for him. He always knew how meaty and utterly delicious your cunt was, but seeing it bare and as a result being able to get a better view of you made it even better.

After a bit more oogling at your mound a bit longer, Harry finally goes back to eating you out. He uses his fingers and mouth to drive you wild, fucking you with two fingers while he either bites into your fleshy lips, sucks on your swollen little button, or licks into you. As he continues, you are gripping onto your supple breasts and letting out the biggest moans as Harry pushes you to a release. The way he was raving about your pussy and ravenously eating you was absolutely insane and it pushed you right into your release. Your moans echoed through the room as you let go all over Harry’s tongue to which he made sure to lick up every last drop before standing back up.

“Oh my goodness doll!” He coos, looking down at your now limp body below him. “You look like you’re even more of proper little slut for daddy now.” He admires, properly taking in how loopy you were now and your heaving naked body that was spread across his desk. “Wish there was a dildo in here for you to choke on but your panties will do I guess. I’ll just fuck your mouth myself later on.” He sighs, reaching for the ripped panties he sat on the desk moments prior before pushing them past your parted lips and stuffing them into your mouth. He then pushes his pants down his legs to reveal his rock hard cock. Without wasting anymore time simply staring at you, Harry gives his shaft a couple tugs before guiding himself into you. “Fuck princess!” He loudly groans, finally feeling your walls engulfing his cock again. “Y’cunt always swallows m’cock perfectly.” He grunts as he watches himself disappear into you.

While Harry was losing his mind from how good your cunt was, you were a whimpering and quivering mess. He’d made you cum less than five minuets ago and he was already pushing his cock inside to fuck you. Even though you loved feeling his big cock stretch your tight walls to fit, your pussy was incredibly sensitive from his mouth. So you could already knew that you’d not only be sensitive, you’d also be sore. Which was exactly what Harry wanted. Once he was balls deep inside of you, Harry immediately began pounding into you. His eyes were trained on your breasts that were bouncing freely on your chest with every thrust of his cock down into your quivering cunt. He could feel your walls squeezing him with every thrust and he could feel himself hitting the deepest part of you over and over again, slamming himself into the pit of your stomach with every thrust.

“That’s it babydoll.” He growls, releasing one of your hips from his hand to wrap it around your throat. “Take daddy’s cock all the way up into that little tummy of yours.” He continues, keeping his eyes locked on your glassy ones. “M’gonna cum in there too. Want you t’be completely filled up by daddy.” He pants, feeling his already bubbling release begin to intensify. “Feel you squeezin’ m’cock, wanna cum again for daddy?” He questions through a pant. Since he was practically pinning your head to the desk by means of his grip on your throat, you could only give him a faint nod yes and a whimper. “C’mon then baby, cum with daddy.” He grunts, continuing to send more sharp yet staggered thrusts into you as he starts to feel wave of his release begging to overtake him. From the way he was gripping onto your body and shoving his cock deep inside of you, you weren’t able to stop yourself from squirting all over his cock and going numb from the waist down. Your seismic release from earlier doubled in size and just crashed down onto you. The same with Harry, his release crashed down onto him, resulting in rope after rope of his cum pouring into you just like he promised.

Even though it took a little while for you guys’ weekend to get started, neither of you would have it any other way. Just based off of this round alone, you and Harry immediately knew it was going to be a very long and pleasure filled weekend.

Masterlist

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