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blackoutspoetry · 8 months

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CROSSROADS

GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

March 29, 2019

In a gentler reimagining of his life, John MacTavish might have had better prospects at the age of twenty-five.

If life had seen it fit, he would have stayed true to his faith, married a good woman and settled down somewhere in the Scottish highlands, not far from his parents. Not far from his roots.

He had the desire for it, really. He tried everything in his power to fit that mould. Before he’d even properly grown, he’d looked himself over and painstakingly cut away the parts of him that did not belong to that good catholic boy his mother raised, stitched on parts artificially outsourced that fit better.

He spent years curating the idea of John MacTavish. Close cropped hair, bright smile, perfect teeth. Always faithful, never curses, the good boy his mother raised him to be.

He’s not stupid, though. The body can be edited. Things cut off, sloppily sewn on, perfect teeth painted in place of those crooked ones he’d needed braces for, but the mind can’t be fooled into forgetting its own reflection.

He can paint himself in whichever light he wants, but he’s learned that some men are born with an intrinsic deficiency in their bones, a sickness.

So he honours that sickness, instead of plugging the rotting holes in his bones with cigarette butts and folded receipts, he lined his ribs with dynamite.

He rigged himself to blow the day he signed his name away, fresh faced, sixteen, already much too cocky for his own good. A bit spry, too much of a livewire for his COs.

Exactly the way they want a boy to be before they train him into obedience like a dog.

He didn’t mind that training. He’s gone through enough sculpting as a teenager to make him into the perfect blank slate to impose a soldier’s death wish onto, and once he’d managed to get into basic, he knew it was time to cut and carve those undefined muscles into the sculpted body of a strong man. A man who would make more of a difference in life than poster boy, skew teeth, watered down Scots MacTavish.

He’d always been a half assed, bastardised version of the boy he was raised to be, so maybe he could excel at being something else of his own choosing, if he willingly let himself over to the system and handed them the knife to take and stitch on as they pleased.

He abandoned all measure of value he used to have to his old life, but there’s still a lingering bit of that Catholic wisdom there, he still counts his blessings, he still prays for fallen friends.

On his mother’s insistence, he carries a small metal cross on a ball chain necklace, similar to the one of his dog tags, though this one had been around longer than the latter. He’d worn it since the day he signed those papers at sixteen, a small consolation to his distraught mother that could do nothing but watch as he turned himself into a pawn in a much larger, scarier game than she would ever be able to comprehend.

At first, he hated the way it itched against his skin, odd angles pressing in and leaving sunken reliefs in his chest when he slept at night, waking to a warning red mark pressed into his skin in that familiar cross shape. He hated the way it felt under his shirt, but he learned to love it as time went on, learned to stop seeing it as a tether to a past life after a while, and more of a reminder that there was something more than warfare out there for him, that there was something somewhere to come home to, for all it was worth.

He’d lost his religion as a teenager, but those first few years, all the lives he’d taken and the friends he’d lost on the way pushed him to find solace somewhere.

It's funny, really, how easy it is to hate something that once was a staple food of your childhood, how easy it is to shy away from what had seen you through your formative years. He’d abandoned it that day, with paper and cheap ballpoint pen and determination in hand, used the abandonment of it to draw a clear line in the sand to mark off where his youth ended and his adulthood began.

But then the dramatic irony lies in the journey back to the table, when the body has dissolved the muscle and destroyed itself in that fasting period. Because no matter how far you stray from your roots, the mouth is forever bound to the sweetness of that meal served in childhood, no matter how nauseating it had been in those days.

It finds comfort in the familiarity, and the taste once despised becomes closure, in famine, through hardship.

So even when he’s no longer willing to go on, he keeps that chain on, letting that cross sit next to his dog tags because he’s become accustomed to the comfort it brings him. His old life cast in metal, and his new life beside it, pressed into it in name, in rank, in blood type.

It is like this, with the weight those two chains carried leaning as a palpable feeling over his heart, that he has to make a decision.

He and a man he thought he might never see again, were seated in a booth at a small, packed coffee shop in the heart of Glasgow.

There are more papers on the table now and he scans them through once more, a second time, a third and waits for the waitress to serve them their coffee before he asks the man across from him a question that might have seemed redundant, but served a very specific purpose in his mind.

He made somewhat of a promise to his mother the last time he’d seen her, that he would avoid playing hero and running into fire when it could be avoided, and Captain John Price, the man that had arranged for them to meet here after years of not speaking, was asking him to do exactly that.

“This Makarov guy, he’s dangerous?”

Price chuckled a bit as he stirred sugar into his coffee.

“He’s dangerous, alright.”

“And no one else can do this?”

Price shook his head with a solemn no, but there must have been someone up for the challenge, someone that didn’t chain themselves too much to a past that no longer suited their lifestyle.

“There’s a few that might be up for the challenge, but it's been years and I haven’t seen a single soul be able to do what you do. They don’t call you Soap for nothing.”

That was perhaps only a partial truth, because Soap is sure he’s not the only sorry soul Price has ever had the privilege to see go to hell and back without crumbling under the pressure. But there was a reason for it, though, the name. That might be exactly why Price had come to him and not anyone else, though.

He knows how he is, he trusts Soap, and the fact that he needs someone reliable, that he knows will be able to do the job, tells him all he needs to know.

Price was eliminating margins of error and he needed someone he knows for certain won’t screw it up.

He’s not going to pretend that the implication doesn’t knock his ego up a notch, but he won’t say it out loud.

Still, he’s hesitant. If the man’s actually as dangerous as Price is insinuating, he’ll be breaking that promise, and if there was one thing he valued well over government orders, it was loyalty to his family, no matter how distant they were from each other.

“I’ll need a bit to think about it.”

“Well, you better make that decision fast, because the situation’s much more time sensitive than it looks on paper. If Makarov manages to achieve what we suspect he’s planning, we could be looking at a world scale disaster.”

“Shit,” Soap murmured, looking down at the dark swirl of his coffee and finding his own clueless reflection looking back at him. He needs to do this job, just this once, and then he can go back to honouring his mother’s wishes by trying not to get himself killed too eagerly.

As if that’ll hold up that long in this line of work anyway, but he supposes agreeing to it and sticking with it for as long as possible puts her mind to rest more than leaving it in fate’s hands.

Instead of looking at his unsure expression longer than he needs to, he dumps milk and sugar in and begins to drink it, despite how hot it is. He just needs an excuse not to make that decision this very second.

“Do you have anyone else in mind for the job that would be going in with us?”

It's a filler question, he knows this and he’s sure Price does too, but Price humours him with a proper answer.

“I have. Now, the information about this situation’s controlled to a tight circle, one that you are now a part of,” Price begins, he checks over his shoulder and around the space of the coffee shop to see if anyone might be listening in, but the mingling of the voices and the retro eighties track they’ve got playing on the speaker puts his mind at ease that no one is listening in at this hour of the morning.

Soap looked out the steamed window and onto the windswept street outside, raised his coffee to his mouth again.

“So far I’ve got two people on this. Unless you agree to this, I can’t divulge any names, but I’ve got someone overseeing the operation and another guy that goes way back with me, a lieutenant I trust with my life,” he goes on to explain in somewhat of a hushed tone.

Soap felt something in his chest tighten. Something about this felt off. Call it intuition or his sixth sense, or even divine intervention, something about this situation made it seem like this choice would have far more impact on the rest of his life than Price was making it sound like.

He owed his life to Price and in a past that wasn't quite as distant as he wanted it to be, he'd have jumped at this opportunity in a heartbeat, but he's stuck between two worlds now.

What he says here now would carry just as much weight and be just as legally binding as those papers he signed at sixteen.

But as the thought occurs to him, Price adds in a dire tone, “listen here, Soap. This guy, Makarov, he’s a snake.”

Soap looked down at the file again, the photo pinned to it. There’s a recognisable darkness in the man’s eyes, like he’s hollowed himself out to be a vessel for violence and it seems to seep from every pore in his body in a metaphysical way. On a surface level, he was underwhelming, but he knows that look when he sees it.

It's the same look he worries he’ll find one day in the mirror and it sends a chill down his back.

“He keeps himself hidden, but if you do enough digging you’ll find him tangled up with almost every single international shitshow that I’ve been working on over the past five years, some of them you've been a part of. He gets other people to do his dirty work for him, finances, executions, minor scale attacks on things that seem inconsequential, but there’s a pattern. He calculates everything to the fucking T. So I need you to know I wouldn’t be asking this of you unless I really needed to, and I am not sure I know anyone else who would be able to pull this off.”

Soap gritted his teeth and locked eyes with Makarov on the paper, looking up at Price.

"You're not giving me much of a choice here, sir."

"Course I am. You can choose to do this and save the life of countless innocent people, or, you can decide not to, and run the risk of this very moment being responsible for a child's entry into the foster system, the choice is yours."

Soap gritted his teeth, hand coming unconsciously to clutch at one of the two chains around his neck at a terrible attempt at grounding himself. He doesn't know which one it is when he says, "fine. I'm in."

Price gives a self assured little smile, tips his head in Soap's direction before taking a sip of his coffee like he's just landed himself a good deal. Soap doesn't know whether to be offended or impressed with himself at the idea that Price considered his compliance a win.

One again, he looks down at the papers on the table, frowning at the text, though his mind is reeling too much to really take any of it in.

"Just for the record, how off the books is this little charade really?"

"What made that idea come to mind?" Price asks, intonation flat, but still as though he expects what Soap is about to say.

Soap swept a hand to gesture at the space around them, all the way from the olive green back wall their booth was propped up against, across where the kitchen was behind a closed wooden door, the counter with the pastries in the glass cases and the empty tables by the windows. Even now, they're seated in a position where the security cameras wouldn't be able to properly pick out what they're looking at and they're far enough from the barista that she wouldn't be able to hear them either.

"Just have a feeling that discussing a high stakes op at the asscrack of dawn in a coffee shop with a man who's supposed to be on leave isn't exactly the proper way to go about things."

Price grimaced with a little bit of a shrug.

"Wouldn't say it's off the script, but if we're talking about records, I'd say half the things we discussed here won't end up in the mission report. So we're playing by all the rules, but we keep it off the table for anyone else to see. Never know if Makarov's got a songbird among our men."

This piqued Soap's interest. "You're worried about a spy?"

"He's Russian."

"Aye, that's a stereotype, sir." Soap raised an eyebrow as he down the rest of his coffee like an espresso shot. It doesn't have the kick he needs from it in order to settle the nerves in his stomach.

"Stereotypes are somewhat rooted in truth, sergeant."

"So when is this thing actually happening?"

"The 6th."

Soap's eyes widened. "That's almost a week from now. I'm still on leave until the fifteenth."

"Well you better make a plan to explain to your mother why you're heading back so soon."

Damn it. The chain itches against his neck.

"Alright then. Now that I'm on this, who else is in on it?"

Price lowered his voice. "As you expect, I'm not the top of the food chain here. If I'm going to be really honest with you, I'm only here to speak to you specifically because General Shepherd trusts my judgement."

"Shepherd?" Soap raised an eyebrow. "And your other man?"

Price looked a bit uneasy. "We go way back, I'm sure you've heard of him. Simon Riley?"

Soap shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell, sir."

"Well then, perhaps you'll know him as Ghost."

You can find it on ao3 here:

#soapghost #call of duty #fanfiction #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #cod #this fic is on ao3 #ghoap #the anatomy of starved dogs

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crepesuzette2023 · 4 months

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regarding your tags on the john/george side of your brain.. it all gets us eventually! I would love to see your take on their dynamic if you ever felt compelled to do so.

My sudden fascination with them is strongly visual so far (just look at this beautiful work of art, or this one, or this color photograph of them, and also these photographs of the Lennons/Harrisons vacationing together)—and my take on their dynamic is largely informed by vibes and daydreams. But there's something there! Let me try to verbalize:

Yes, there's the whole 'baby brother—hero-worship—George as Paul's pre-John—George as John's substitute-Paul' thing.

But what interests me more is the bond between them that starts to form in Hamburg. Or did it? To oversimplify grossly, the Exis fell in love with John and George, and less (least?) so with Paul. I'm thinking that John got his 'in' via Stuart—but why George?

Because of his bear hugs and his looks and hair and being hot to both girls and boys, yes. But his character must have played a role, too. George is the one who deadpanned sense into dull press conferences; he's the one who told Brian Epstein that Clive should treat him with the respect owed to an older brother; he's the one who wanted Ringo in the band,—and he played lead guitar from the start. That's some firm little...ego.

And the way he acted at school, too. His complete indifference to anything that didn't interest him...and his embrace of unconventional clothing, apparently worn for his own pleasure instead for effect. He was deeply unconventional and independently-minded, the way 'the quiet ones' often are.

At the same time, I don't want to walk into the you had to be truly very special in order to earn a second look from John Lennon trap (because if that's true, how do you explain Pete Shotton?). I think love and gentler hues were very much part of their dynamic. George's family background is as different from John's as possible. if George, coming from a big and stable family, didn't feel particular keen to start one on his own in any kind of hurry, it's because he's coming from a place of security: you don't need to build what you already have. (Maybe there's a link to George's ability to be a great collaborator with other musicians as well.)

I'm sure it also allowed him to be there for John, in an unobtrusive way, after Stuart's death. George also wasn't burdened by his dislike of Stuart (as Paul admitted he was), and could carry John's grief with him.

None of this comes even close to sketching a 'dynamic', of course. In the end, much of John and George's relationship was overshadowed by the relationships each had Paul—but perhaps this wasn't always the way. And maybe the resentment that appears to have haunted their later years together could have been overcome. Listening to George's bite during Anthology, I like to believe that.

I know very little about George, I admit. The Philip Norman bio has no substance. I understand there's a much better one by Graeme Thomson—an early entry on my next Christmas list... This post has some interesting quotes from Astrid Kirchherr about George.

#asks #George Harrison #John Lennon #casting in a shallow pond of vibes and daydreams

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c1tyhaunts · 10 months

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CHARACTER TROPES. Lilah Lyons

Age-Gap Romance: Played with and deconstructed in her whirlwind romance with Nick Virago. Their introduction was like the start of an enemies-to-lovers romance novel, with this older, established man wanting to woo an ambitious young woman trying to get out of town. However, after Nick's reveal of his demonic nature and more of his possessive and controlling behaviors slowly come to light. Their relationship becomes an exploration of unhealthy love & power dynamics.

Brainy Brunette: Lilah is a well-read academic who often quotes herself to be a "romantic"; both in the artistic sense and in a relationship sense. Catch her in a passionate rant about books, and she may even quote a Shakespearean line unprompted.

Broken Bird: Played painfully straight; after the death of her father when she was 18, this young girl found herself to be the victim of not one emotionally abusive relationship, but TWO emotionally manipulative relationships that attempted to play onto the gentler sides of her heart. Then having to leave her home with nothing in tow and having to build herself back up again? The girl has baggage.

Brooding Boy, Gentle Girl: Her relationships with Joaquin & Nick played like this; both men are stick-in-the-mud Earth signs who wear the "no fun allowed" sign. This can be seen as a deconstruction, however, given both of these brooding men are not good people at all, and want to own her rather than trade emotional support.

Daddy's Girl: When he was alive, Lionel was Lilah's best friend. She takes a lot of her father's advice to heart even after death. It's her great relationship with her father that helped her to realize her relationships weren't the healthiest.

Endearingly Dorky/Nerds Are Sexy: Her true personality; Lilah only plays the cool/fun girl persona as a shield to avoid getting hurt and to appease other's expectations of her. Getting close to her reveals her more rebellious, passionate, booky side that appeals more to her core than the "good girl."

Girly Girl with a Tomboy Streak: Visually, she's like a model; she dresses in the trendiest clothes, her skin is absolutely clear, her dark, copper-like hair swoops in all the right places, AND she has the mouth of a sailor. Despite Lilah's attempts to look like the untouchable good girl, she has a bit of a rebellious, messy streak behind her. Drinking, smoking, and breaking a few laws for fun? Sounds about Lilah.

Hair-Trigger Temper: Downplayed, but it is very, very easy to get under her skin; it's part of her impulsive nature.

Hidden Depths: The main purpose of her character; a focus on the girl that "everyone loves" and how the external interpretations affect her internal perception. Lilah has layers beneath the personas & the people pleasing, but it takes time to go deeper.

I Did What I Had to Do: Lilah's ultimate justification after she pushes Virago off the cliff. :)

In Love with Love: Her central character motivation, but also her fear. As a romantic by nature, she desires something more - a feeling beyond herself. But because her initial attempts have been met with varying results, Lilah finds herself stilted in her question for a love deeper than herself.

Love Triangle: Her dynamic with Nick Virago & Joaquin where she is in the middle of it. Ultimately ended with Lilah pushing Virago off a cliff and Lilah permanently ending things with Joaquin by admitting she never loved him as deeply as he did. Clearly, two different results.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl: A Deconstruction of the trope; to Virago & Joaquin, Lilah is supposed to play that said role, but she grows to destroy the mold they wanted to form her in.

Self-Harm: An interesting example that does become averted when Lilah leaves Potters; during her time there, she wakes up at 4am to participate in a nearly two-hour self-care ritual to make herself the girl of everyone's dreams. That does not help her psyche.

Stepford Smiler: The depressed type; on the surface, Lilah seems to have everything in the palm of her hand. Everyone's attention seems to be on her at all times. And that's part of the problem. Lilah feels forced to act like the perfect girl, despite how much it hurts her.

Wrong Guy First: Played straight TWICE; Joaquin seemed like a good choice until he grew insecure. And then after she breaks up with Joaquin, Lilah finds herself in the arms of a DEMON. The girl can't catch a break.

#▶⌜ch. lilah eve lyons⌟#▶⌜lilah lyons. lore⌟#This one was fun. I really enjoyed doing this #now to do Avian's last ahhh <3

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xoteajays · 1 year

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I have some piercings.. And I would like to have more too. So my ears, nose, lip and navel are pierced. But how many piercings would I get if given the chance. There are so many options to choose from though.

I should hit you with a rolled up newspaper over those puns. Seriously though.. I don't understand how people can enjoy puns. I hate puns.

I know nothing about bees. Other than I was stung by two bees in my whole life... One was when I was a child, there are bees that live under the dirt. Like underground. Carpenter bees? I was stung on my foot.

But I know about panda wasps though. Kinda. I have seen pictures of those insects before. And also the murder hornets too.

Exactly! When Rocky first formed White Rascals, you noticed how his mannerisms toward women have improved a lot. So there is a chance that Kizzy taught Rocky how to properly treat women - the one time I think Kizzy's useful. Rocky was unintentionally rougher than women... But he's a lot gentler now. So Rocky is a gentleman who can also give and take compliments towards women. Never flustered, but flattered.

Cobra's a different situation. People just seem to be so intimidated to try having a conversation with Cobra, so people never complimented him to his face. Maybe behind his back though. So he might have this more awkward reaction to being complimented. Maybe flustered too, but it depends on who could be able to give him flustered reactions.

Which High&Low boys do you think would like a clumsy girl? Because we know Rocky isn't picky about women. But what about the others?

Isn't it common knowledge? The smaller someone is, the angrier they are. My small body contains rage. I can get violent if I am really angry, but I'm never been in any physical fights. I do that too.. I can be a very mouthy person toward people who annoy, and I can usually stay calm enough in most situations. But the people who do not really know me are surprised when I snap at someone. I'm usually quickly annoyed by someone when they always make short jokes. Then they're done for.

Oh! The Peaky Blinders scene I sent you.. That was a scene when one guy threatens to cut off another guy's balls with sharp wires. I wanted him to do it. Just castrate him. "Above all else, a man loves his balls."

I love that scene! Well.. I love the entire series. But when the boys just ended up arguing in the parking lot, Gun calling Jin ugly for the faces he was making. Jin demanding an apology from Gun because of it.

And, of course, because they were both hungry for their ribeye meal.

Yeah. Meat is common in American, Australia, even Europe but not in Asian countries. I don't know why.. But I do know that some countries also eat other animals too. I won't get into that. But any exotic meats.

I can't comment. I've been a vegetarian since I was a teenager, so just no meat or fish for me. But I have got nothing against people who do. For me.. For the most part, it's how the animals have died rather than people eating animals and insects. Depends on what you're diet is.

So their fighting styles are balancing each other?

True.. I know Jin took one of the metallic bats from someone when he was in Choi's house. But, to be fair, he was completely outnumbered.. So he was just trying not to die. But definitely better with their hands.

And also in the underground alley where they were first jumped by all those men. Besides Ju, Jin tries to use weapons. But not really Gun.

Situations like this.. I'm a very contradictive person. Despite what you might think, I do respect people having their own opinions on things - everyone has a right to their own opinion. But, at the same time, I just have this urge to slap you around right now. What's wrong with you?!

Surprisingly, Black Sails isn't really a popular show despite what you'd think. And it's a short series, there's only four seasons in all. But.. How can you not like this show?! This show has everything that you'll really want in a series. I'm just slapping you with rolled up newspapers now.

The people who reblogged about The Worst Of Evil show are also the same people who post about Kpop musicians.. That would be how I'd know about the show. A lot of people are lusting after the SG guy.

Have you ever seen the show K2? That was an okay show. I think that plot could have been better... But that is where I knew Ji Chang-wook as an actor. That was my first role of him as an actor. So there's that.

I know the confetti party is episode three. And, I think, episode four is where events happen.. That's all I'm saying. I won't spoil anything just in case you might enjoy the show. But I'll find out whenever you really start watching the show again. So let me know what you think then.

I was actually searching through Netflix yesterday.. And there are also a lot of shows and movies with Park Sung-woong (Myeong-Gil). But I think it's so weird that he's in happier roles! Because the only role I do know of is Bloodhounds. I know he's a versatile actor. But it's a bizarre situation to see him as someone else entirely different.. A mind fuck.

I don't know about The Killing Vote so I can't comment on that, I have seen trailers for some of his other roles when searching through most of the shows and movies on Netflix. And it's so weird to see that too.

i wanted another lobe piercing, a septum piercing and a conch, but at this point my helix is still too sensitive to infection. which sucks. and is why i’m looking more at tattoos i like.

unground nesting bees are usually miner bees! they have cool, burrow-like nests! a lil like ants or rabbits! carpenter bees bore into timber for their nests, it makes them a bit of pest sometimes because they can dig into houses and it weakens the foundation.

i just think it’d be cute if cobra got blushy over a girl he likes being very blasé with her affection and complimenting him. just because he’s not used to it. the rest of the sannoh boys are teasing him about it, naomi is eventually telling them to leave him alone.

i think cobra would think a clumsy girl is cute, probably worry a little bit and stick close to catch her if she trips. murayama and hyuga would probably think it’s funny and tease her over it. murayama would piggyback her around if she tripped and scraped her knee or otherwise hurt herself.

let these boys eat well! and go to nice restaurants! so gun’s mum doesn’t have to cook for them because they eat so gd much.

i’m on medication that makes me have no appetite so i’m not a big eater in general, but i’m especially not a fan of steak. my family keeps commenting on me going vegetarian just because i don’t really eat and i do enjoy vegetarian meals. my local grocery store deli sells these great vegetarian burger paddies that i make knock-off okonomiyaki with.

yea bi and da min balance each other out, like a parallel to gun and jin balancing each other.

i think jin’s a little more adaptable than gun, just because gun especially prefers to use his fists. i’ve noticed gun’s throwing a lot of weapons tho. like the grate at the fish farm fight and the bat at the start of the ep7 building fight. jin might actually use a weapon, but gun’s just gonna throw it.

it’s not that i dont like it! i’m sure it’s good, i’m just slack. and tbf i thought it was longer than 38 episodes. i’m also not overly a fan of period dramas, i watch some but not a whole lot.

of course people are lusting over wi ha joon, he’s hot.

here’s what i have to say about the first episode of worst of evil. vague spoilers at best and mostly only about wi ha joon’s character.

it starts with a bigass fight scene and my loverboy wi ha joon being The Hottest sweaty mess with splattered blood on his face so. excellent start. love when handsome men are covered in blood.

speaking of men who look good in tight black clothes and gloves, he’s got me Staring™ while he’s fighting. he looks good as hell agshdkdlsl

all of his friends loving him and following him without hesitation? overkilling his ex-boss with a knife over his dead best friend? looking That Good the entire episode? he’s For Me actually. the villain can do villain things if he’s hot.

#tj answers #long post //#long post anon

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fatuilady · 3 years

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— 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐝𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 - 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠. (headcanons)

✦ word count : 2.6𝐤

✦ feat : 𝐆𝐍 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 , [𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭] 𝐚𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐨, 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭, 𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐜, 𝐤𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐚, 𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐨𝐫, 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢

✦ context : 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐝𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ~

✦ cw : 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐲, 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 (kaeya lol)

✦ note : apologies this one took so long, work had been swamping me ;-; ! quite long, pretty wordy, almost oneshots, but i hope you all enjoy anyway :)

𝖆𝖑𝖇𝖊𝖉𝖔 :

✦ This particular chalk prince is all too enthralled with delicacy. His very mantra is all about the fragility of life and creation, surely, you're no exception. He has a unique fascination with life and death, yet seemed to focus little on the precious moments between the cradle and the grave.

✦ Albedo is always gentle, shy and chaste when he embraces you.

✦ At first, he was unfamiliar with the sentiment as social contact had never been his forte, since he was in fact a wall of stone (or chalk?). He'd declined your open offer from his own inexperience, he failed to consider that it may portray him as cold, distant or unwelcoming.

✦ Soon enough, Albedo would begin to ponder how such a simple interaction could bring strong emotion to humankind, yet the more he dwelled upon it, the more he found his arms feeling empty. It was as if his hypothesis was proving itself wrong.

✦ Eventually, he'd come to terms with his growing curiosity, always one to initiate an experiment, he'd offer himself to return the affections - he was very glad he did.

✦ Albedo's coy nature would let him drape one arm around your shoulder, the other taking your hand. He'd wrap his soft hands around your own, placing his head beside your own. His hair would smell soft, newborn and clean, the scent of fresh cotton, baby powder and angel feathers beside your nose as he buried into you.

✦ The chalk prince unfortunately would struggle to find the time for such intimacy on the regular, but when he did find the chance to embrace you, he'd make them last as long as he could.

✦ Perhaps this still lingered from his limited understanding of social cues, but he'd hold onto you for many minutes, more than you could count on one hand. Taking you in his arms, he would touch you as if you were a blooming Cecelia, tenderly and lovingly. You'd return his care, cuddling him and wrapping both arms around his back.

✦ During his hugs, he'd also sometimes find himself tracing over your body with inquisitive hands. Albedo had never had the chance to properly appreciate your anatomy in such a manner before, but he quickly fell in love with your form.

✦ Albedo soon began to realise the adoration behind hugs; his adoration for you also began to grow. Slowly but surely, he actively began to seek out your displays of affection, whether to feel your warmth, play with the fabric of your clothes or caress your shape, he wasn't sure.

'Thank you... deeply, for sharing this moment, you... resemble a statue, I couldn't think of anyone better suited for such an embrace.'

✦ What he was sure of was that he had appreciated the beauty of life in the same way ever before than he did when he was swaddled in your arms.

𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖙𝖙 :

✦ The young adventurer is notoriously unlucky, his clumsiness an infamous curse that seems to follow him wherever he goes. It's precisely the reason he's very hesitant to come too close to you, for fear his awful fortune will wipe off on you. No matter how careful he seems to be, there's always something the archons never seem to be on his side.

✦ Instead of his bad luck rubbing off on you, maybe your good luck would rub off on him, at least, that's what you believed.

✦ Bennett was more than surprised when you asked for a hug, your request catching him quite off guard. He'd think on it for a moment, face painted in light pink as he reached for an invisible itch on the back of his neck.

✦ As the leader of Benny's Adventure Team, he'd find it fitting to stand alongside you, carefully tossing one of his arms over your shoulder. He'd snatch you closer with a squeeze, the marigold colour bandana he wore knotted around his upper arm tickling your chin.

✦ The hug itself would be friendly, full of total and mutual trust as you too curled an arm around his front and back. You'd both sway, beaming as laughing as he flashed you an appreciative thumbs up, the sunkiss on his skin making the clumsy boy hold the same warmth as a summer beach.

'I think you're my favourite adventure buddy, I must have been lucky for once to meet someone like you, traveller!'

✦ Bennett would hope to keep moving through Mondstadt with his arm around you. The idea was short lived, to say the least.

✦ As ever, his curse would catch him at the worst moment, a measly loose stone in the plaza floor catching his foot. Bennett tumbled, and so, you tumbled as well.

✦ The active boy would try his best to manoeuvre himself to catch you before you scraped the ground. You'd end up likely crossed over his lap, a compromising position, but it was all in good fun. You loved Bennett's antics, he brought excitement to what could have easily been a mundane life.

✦ Caught up in giggles, Bennett kept his arms crossed over you as he drew his head around to press both yours and his cheeks together. The moment was another perfect instance for a scrapbook, even some of Mondstadt's more grouchier personas sparing a chuckle for you both.

𝖉𝖎𝖑𝖚𝖈 :

✦ For a pyro wielder, Diluc Ragnvindr doesn't present himself warmly. Seemingly tired, uninterested and slightly callous, he concerns himself with practical matters when he is alone: economist by day, vigilante by night. Stuck in his ways, he'd see no purpose in day to day public displays of affection.

✦ This doesn't mean he dislikes contact in private, however.

✦ The common misconception would leave one to believe Diluc was a stone gargoyle, incapable and unwilling to act in any other way. Alone with you, he couldn't be further from it, in fact, in most cases, he's the one to initiate the contact, sometimes without even asking.

✦ When, and only when, perfect conditions are met does Diluc lets go of his tough exterior and ultimately boils down to a lovesick puppy. However, he much prefers to be alone alongside you, of course, in these endeavours.

✦ With nobody else in sight, he would be quick to start loving, his stature still ever strong as he discarded his gloves. The dark side of dawn much preferred to hold you with his bare hands to further lift your caring skinship.

✦ Diluc would wear a sincere smile, one of patience and relief as he drew closer to you. He'd wait for you to signal him with your own charming grin, and only then would he leap into the biggest, most tender bear hug one could conjure.

✦ Strong arms suffocated you as one hand rested on the back of your head, savouring the softness of your hair. The other would cross behind you and after a few compassionate minutes, he'd concentrate his strength to lift you up, up and further into his arms.

✦ If you would like to be put down, he'd place you gentle back onto the floor, releasing you slowly. The flaming hero would notice the mess he had made of your hair, tussling it back to it's usual shape with his fingers.

✦ Otherwise, you could wrap your legs around him, and whilst supporting you, he'd spin around and hold you tightly. Head against his chest, you'd twirl stray strands of his strawberry coloured ponytail in your fingers, relishing in the lingering scent of warm booze, sweet flowers and flecks of ash.

'I apologise for the wait, I'm glad you're still here, you know how dearly I treasure your touch.'

✦ He almost seemed a natural, more so than his love driven brother when it came to private intimacy, but truthfully, he still held small amounts of insecurity. His worry would be holding you too roughly, but the more you insisted you loved his hugs, the more the people of Mondstadt would notice him acting much more chipper during his day shifts at Angel's Share.

𝖐𝖆𝖊𝖞𝖆 :

✦ Smooth talking, smooth moving, smooth loving, there's nothing about the Favonius Cavalry Captain that doesn't radiate utmost self confidence. He acts on his own accord, conducting how he pleases. Still one for manners, he'd clear the water with you far in advance before laying on the next level of his flirtatious affairs.

✦ Kaeya Alberich is incredibly touchy, his behaviour consistent in public, private, wherever he happens to be in the same space as you. His hugs are amatory; romanced laced in the most teasing way.

✦ You could be communing with citizens of Mondstadt, researching in the library, helping sweep away stray leaves at the cathedral on behalf of a desperate attendee. Kaeya makes a habit of catching a glimpse of you as he patrols the city, making a discreet beeline to catch up to you.

✦ Regardless of if you were courting or merely on mutual acquaintanced basis, he'd know exactly which places to stir up when he hugged you from behind.

✦ The frostbearing swordsman would care little about an outside audience, and would enjoy it in true deriding manner if you grew flustered at simply the thought of being intimate in public.

✦ Kaeya would snake his arms around your waist, hands smoothing over the angles or curves. Afterwards, he'd lean into the crook of your neck to place a gentle kiss on your skin.

'I simply couldn't wait another moment, you're heavenly~'

✦ His hair, much like is brothers, would flow over your shoulder like a rich waterfall, scented with rose oil, glistening jasmine and chai.

✦ In private, Kaeya would be even more adoring, favouring a gentler approach opposed to his more teasing public affections. He'd love for you to sit between his legs on the couch, back rested against his chest.

✦ A master of fine swordmanship, he'd be oh so gentle, his touches feather soft, sometimes even so gentle you wouldn't even notice they were there. Regardless, he loves more than life to make a fuss over you when you hug, he loves to play with your hair, he loves to spin circles into your skin with careful fingertips, he loves to whisper every word you'd like to hear all with the intent of making the moment stretch for as long as it could.

✦ Kaeya knew he was free to share his love with you at any moment, but that didn't keep him from making each hug count, after all, he simply just adores the way you fit perfectly into him.

𝖗𝖆𝖟𝖔𝖗 :

✦ Razor is a curious soul, one of primal roots. Human intimacy is worlds apart from the care he shared with his Lupical, so he craves the best of both worlds. The wolf boy wants to learn, who better to verse him in human affection than you?

✦ When you'd ask him if he would like a hug, he was unsure what it was. He'd tilt his head to the side, clueless, but eager nonetheless. If he had a tail like his canine brother and sisters, it would surely be swaying side to side by now

✦ You'd find it adorable how he'd mimic your movements like a puppet, you raised an arm and he'd do the same.

✦ As you brought yourself closer to him, he'd hesitate slightly, his feral nature urging him to step away, but his human mind knew he trusted you, so he stayed in place and allowed you to cuddle him.

✦ When wolves displayed the same behaviour, it was one of threatening origin, normally the kickstarter of an incoming fight, but with you, he felt no threat at all. Admittedly, he seemed a little stiff when you engulfed him, not quite sure what to do with his limbs, he marvelled in place for a moment.

✦ Razor felt a flurrying heat collect in his face as he gasped, gradually relaxing his shoulders as he melted away into your embrace. He also might have felt his eyes sting a little with joyful tears, it was something new, surely, but the half wolf didn't mind it.

✦ He tried to sneak a glance at how you were holding him so he could do his best to replicate it. Hesitantly, he placed his arms around you in return, though they almost seemed to lag as he moved them. Once they were securely around you, Razor felt himself click into place and squeeze tightly.

✦ Gentle wind breezed over you, catching his distinct scent of earth, fresh rain and crushed berries. He seemed a little cold from the touch, but this was expected from somebody who spent his life outside in the roaming scape of Wolvendom.

✦ His hair, though mildly knotted in some places, truly did feel plush like a wolf's pelt, ideal to pat and stroke.

'You are...warm... Razor likes it, I will... stay, for a while'

✦ Razor had discovered two things: He now loved hugs possibly more than hunting, but what he loved most was your hugs specifically.

✦ He'd be more subtle, yet increasingly obvious in the future. Whenever the overgrown puppy of a boy would crave some attention, he'd shuffle close to you, raising his arms in the same way you did when you introduced the concept to you. Moreover, he'd be seeking you out a lot-

𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎 :

✦ A carefree and free flowing spirit by design, Venti is true to his element when it comes to hugs. He's a very affectionate boy, but in a more innocent sense. Always full of mischievous laughter, he appreciates the silliness and fun behind the little things.

✦ The windborne bard would be very open about hugs and public affections, often asking both if he could receive and give. When accepting his proposal, you'd get to see him close his eyes in delight, cheering to himself in a childish manner.

✦ He'd be all about the performance, being a bard and all gives him this habit. Laughter, singing, general sounds of delight, whatever he can conjure, Venti would beam with happiness from even the smallest contact with you.

✦ Venti would run and spring into you through the long grass strewn across Starsnatch Cliff, gusts of anemo following his excited behaviour.

✦ What's most humouring is the rather short boy propping himself up on the tips of his toes in order to better the hug, draping both of his arms around your neck.

✦ The bard would love to look into your eyes, placing a cheeky kiss on the tip of your nose. Another common practice would be cupping your face with one hand, holding it in his palm with nothing but adoration.

✦ Another curious trick of his involves his elemental skill. Charging it, he'd hold onto you tightly, chirping as you'd both lock into each other.

'Ehe, hold on tightly, I don't want you to fall!'

✦ In one single burst, you'd be launched upwards by a powerful gust, high enough to see all of Mondstadt in the unexpectedly strong arms of your favourite Archon.

✦ Brushing stray hairs that came loose from your hairstyle during the departure, he was something freeing, a breath of fresh air as you drifted contentedly to the delicate grass below.

✦ Everything about the old young bard seemed peaceful as you'd stay warm, knitted together laying down amongst the dandelions.

688 notes · View notes

anashins · 3 years

Text

Another Kind of Blackmailing

Title: Another Kind of Blackmailing

Pairing: Ten x You

Genre: (slight dark) romance, smut, tsundere!ten, fluff in the end

Warnings: toxic behavior, loooong fingering session, protected sex

Word Count: 4.163

Summary: Ten has always been a shadow in your friend group - that is what you thought. But when he demands sex in order to keep his mouth shut for something you have done that might ruin lives, you learn that he loves to stand out between the sheets.

______

His smirk was sly, the corner of his lips tilted up, but not radiating happiness. He was wearing an expression of which you couldn’t tell whether he was kind or the polar opposite. His dark hair was cut at the sides, the part on the top framing his forehead and giving him a touch of innocence which was emphasized by the sparkles in his eyes - but he was far from innocent.

It was his smile. His smile told you otherwise and betrayed his kind eyes.

His name was Ten. You knew him, more or less.

He was the best friend of your friend’s boyfriend, and apart from just getting a glimpse at him every now and then when you guys went out together, you basically knew nothing about him.

Ten had been introduced to you when your friend Hana announced her relationship to his best friend one night you had been out together with the whole clique. It had been a solemn, nonchalant and fun evening at the bar, everyone joking and fooling around, yet it was always Ten who stood out – in a very peculiar way.

He was always there physically, but at the same time, his presence was hard to be noticed. He was like a shadow, following his friends everywhere, and like a shadow, he had also behaved. He hadn’t talked much, had never made conspicuous motions or any other acts that stood out.

Ten always stayed in the background, smooth, calm and quiet – it was always like he wasn’t there at all.

So he surprised you even more when he had suddenly appeared in front of your apartment. You both had been out with your friends the night before and spent the majority of the night in the club. It wasn’t even midday yet and you were still hungover, even after a long, hot shower. The unwanted visitor had happened to appear right before you were about to go back to bed and relax for the rest of the day.

You didn’t know what to expect from Ten’s sudden visit. You stared at him, in surprise and slight shock, because out of all people, you hadn’t expected him to ever look for you. You had never exchanged any words aside from plain hellos and goodbyes. The rest of the time, he was a shadow for you.

However, now that his intense gaze was meeting yours, accompanied by that sly smile, you had the feeling that you were actually facing the real Ten for the first time.

“What do you want?” you asked, your grip tightening around the door knob as every possible reason for his visit flashed through your mind, but none of them actually made sense.Why would a boy you didn’t know suddenly seek you out?

“Well,” he started, and you wondered how soothing his voice sounded. Had you ever heard him speaking properly before? “Won’t you already know by now why I’m here or do I need to jog your memory?”

He grinned at you as you frowned, shifting his position as he rummaged through the pocket of his jeans. Shortly after, he pulled out his phone and unlocked it.

It was the moment in which he began to grin even wider that made your heart almost stop, and like a lightning that shot through your body, you suddenly knew what he might know as well. It was almost ridiculous how this event had been erased from your memories so fast. Probably because to you, it didn’t matter at all because nobody had seen it.

Or so you had thought.

“What if your beloved best friend finds out that you kissed her boyfriend?” Ten asked as he stared at his display, that damn smirk still lingering on his lips, and you wondered whether it would ever vanish.

“Look,” you started in panic. This was not possible. You had thought you could easily brush it under the carpet and forget about the incident, but things apparently turned out to be so much more complicated with evidence in the form of a picture now. “I can explain this. It’s not like how it looked. Actually—“

“Ah!” Ten lifted a finger and waved it to the right and left as though he wanted to chide you. “He is my best friend as well, and I can’t watch how everything will go downhill in his relationship because of you.”

“But that’s not true!” you protested and almost stomped your feet on the ground.

This Ten guy was mischievous and cunning enough to just jump to conclusions with only a simple picture as evidence. He didn’t even know the story behind it! It really made you scared of what he was possibly capable of with the snapped photo.

“I don’t need your poor explanations,” he returned, now sounding more serious than before, and it made you freeze for a second.

You didn’t know this guy at all, yet he possibly held your future in his hands. He could make your best friend and clique leave you and ruin a relationship if he only said one false word. He could twist and turn the story to make you the one who had behaved wrongly, although it had been the other way around.

If he was going against you, for whatever reason he might have, your life would break apart. Inwardly, you cursed at Ten because you and his best friend had agreed on forgetting about the incident and letting it pass.

“Why? What do you want?” you pressed through gritted teeth.

-----

Ten’s lips were surprisingly soft and warm on your neck, not rough and demanding at all. Yet, your body was stiff under his ever since he had placed you onto the bed. You didn’t make a move, because you wanted to show him that you were still mad over this whole situation, but against your expectations, he had been utterly gentle with you.

And you started to like it.

With a certain mindfulness, he had undressed you, and although you hadn’t looked at him, keeping your sight stubbornly to the ceiling, you had felt his hands moving under your shirt and surprisingly, they were soft as well, lifting your shirt up and undressing you without making you feel uncomfortable, not even the slightest bit.

It felt odd to be touched by a guy you didn’t know that cautiously, even if you overlooked the part that he wanted your body as a reward to keep his mouth shut. Though, you couldn’t go against him since that picture could destroy so many people's lives.

Ten was an asshole, was the first thing you had thought when he dragged you to the bed, and you wouldn’t have agreed on it if you hadn’t had one night stands before which made it probably easier to accept - or was it the mere thought that he was utterly attractive as well that you couldn’t resist to get a little taste of him?

Yet, regardless of how much you promised yourself not to enjoy it, not to give in, you still had built a certain affection towards the situation, towards him.

For someone who had blackmailed you into having sex with him, Ten was gentler, more attentive, more careful. He hadn’t kissed you on the lips yet. Instead, he had removed your shirt and pants without any hectic, but with ease, cautious as to not touch you too roughly or on the wrong spots.

Ten was now pulling down your bra straps, sliding them along your shoulders as his fingertips moved over your skin like a feather which made you shiver slightly while he removed your bra. You closed your eyes for a moment as he went down on you and placed your legs carefully over his shoulder. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and dragged the clothing down to have you fully undressed in front of him.

He took his time undressing you, and regardless of how strange the circumstances seemed, you grew comfortable with the way he treated you – not as an actual reward, a thing, but as someone to actually appreciate wholly.

When you opened your eyes, you were directly looking into his as his face was hovering above yours. It was then when you realized that he wasn’t a shadow in the back anymore, but someone who had now stepped out of the background and pulled you into his world where only the two of you existed.

His gaze wandered down for a moment and you couldn’t tell whether he was looking at a certain spot on your body or whether he was only thinking of something, but when he locked your gazes again, you could see a flash of insecurity on his cheeks in the color of rose.

You reached out your hands and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him a little closer so that the tips of your nose almost touched. It was strange that, besides the fact that this was all just a business, you grew a certain craving for what he was doing to you. Perhaps, you thought, perhaps this was not going to be so bad like you had imagined after all.

Ten himself was not like you had imagined, that was for sure. You had always ignored the shade, seeking for the sun, but now that he was enveloping you, there was no turning back. He was too intriguing.

“Kiss me,” you said, and as though Ten had only been waiting for your permission, he instantly locked your lips within a second.

It was not a passionate and heated kiss from the beginning, but a rather surprisingly mellow one with his warm lips on yours. You had imagined how they would feel on yours when he had caressed your neck, but the reality was so much more beautiful than your fantasies. His movements against your lips were slow and intensive, more chaste than lewd. As he deepened the kiss, he rolled his tongue with yours, passionate enough to make you crave for more.

You didn’t want him to stop – and he didn’t.

Where your hands had been on his neck before, you now tried to discover his body like a map, letting yourself get lost in the landscape. You trailed your hand over his shoulder, feeling every inch of his skin that was unexpectedly soft. His muscles flexed under your touches as you wandered with your hand down his upper arm, shifting it to his chest to let it rest there.

You could feel his heartbeat, fast and jumpy, and if he hadn’t been kissing you at this moment, you could have let out a chuckle. Was he nervous? For someone so cool and mischievous before, he was quite pantsy now.

But your last thought quickly vanished when he suddenly caused an intensive feeling to spread through your body that made you moan into his mouth shamelessly.

“Mhmm!”

You closed your eyes and grabbed onto his shoulders, digging your nails into his skin as you felt how his slender fingers glided further into you. He smiled against your lips as he parted from you. His movements inside you had made your breathing become irregular. All you could see was that mischievous smirk from before again, and you started to hate it once more, yet you didn’t want him to stop.

“More?” Ten whispered, his lips close to yours.

He slid his fingers in and out of you, slowly, to tease, then faster, to heat up things, your hot walls always welcoming him with a certain anticipation. Whenever he slowly pulled out, he expected you to make a sound in order for him to push them back in. Tit for tat.

“Yes,” you purred.

“More?” Ten repeated, his lips slightly brushing over your lobe and his voice seductively stroking your ear.

You bit your lip and nodded, telling him, “Yes, yes!” to emphasize that you truly meant it.

By now, you had already forgotten about the picture, about his reward – and apparently, he had too. As two of his slender fingers dipped back into you, you weren’t able to think of anything anymore but him. No shadow, no darkness, only pure delight.

You scratched his neck as he pushed his fingers further into your centre, causing you to gasp out of surprise and rapture. The only lifeline was his own body over yours as you held onto him, letting his movements make you drown in a sea of pleasure. He pumped his fingers in and out of you, sometimes so slow that it almost drove you mad and sometimes so fast that you thought you’d reach your peak very soon.

Ten’s expertise caused you to clench around his limbs, and it made you soaking wet with every move he conducted. You could also feel his own excitement increasing as he breathed irregularly against your ear, grinning in satisfaction as ragged moans escaped your lips.

“Aaaaahh!” you suddenly screamed loudly and opened your eyes widely as you grabbed firmer onto him.

He had found fun in playing with your clit, and you had brought your legs together over the sudden overstimulation on the sensitive bundle of nerves, but Ten reached down and spread you even wider for him.

“You said you wanted more,” he teased.

You turned your head aside and covered your mouth with your hands, muffling all the noises you were making as he played with your most sensitive spot. His thumb brushed over your clit, only lightly at first, increasing your anticipation for the former feeling even more. It was then when he started to pay special attention to that spot that you were having a hard time to hold back your moans.

He pressed his thumb on your mound, circling around the tip over and over again. He flicked your clit, caressed it with a certain pressure, and even used his other fingers to take it in between them and roll it tenderly to make the feeling of rapture more intense as you shamelessly spread even wider for him. With every motion, he had caused your orgasm to coil up in our groin.

As for now, you didn’t care whether your groans sounded shameful, you just let out every noise he caused you to make. You had grabbed the sheets to the left and right of you, entangling your hands in the fabric just because you thought you had to burst any time now.

And Ten loved it. He loved the shameless moans you let out, your suffering cries and your struggles to breathe. He loved how your body twitched and fidgeted under his touches, how he could make you so weak, and how you were obviously demanding for more.

Ten then pulled his other fingers out of you fully, leaving you as a whimpering mess, and you shouted out his name again, disappointed over the loss.

“Ten!”

His fingers were now sliding up and down your wet folds, dipping into your core every now and then just to pay attention to your clit again. He glided over your centre, along your folds, and teased your sensitive nub even more by stroking over it rather firmly, yet still tender. And with every stroke, he was almost triggering your orgasm to explode, yet he always withdrew again to pay attention to your folds.

Ten lowered his head and kissed your cleavage, and this act felt so intimate to you that you began to savor every touch of his lips on your skin. Without neglecting his work on your lower area, he kissed down to your breasts, caressing the thin and sensitive skin around your mound for a longer moment with long and warm kisses before he moved further to your peaks.

Taking your nipple in between his lips, he sucked on it and slid his tongue over your tip, making it more sensitive to his touches by covering it with his salvia. Withdrawing his mouth, he blew over the spot, letting you shiver slightly due to the coldness before he smirked and started to plant kisses on you again.

His free hand trailed up your bare side, wandering from your naked thigh carefully and affectionately up to your stomach, rested there for a while before he further traced to your other breast. He cupped it with delight and massaged it fondly with his hand.

There was a certain carefulness that came along with slight firmness which made you glory his touches and kisses so much. This was surely not about a reward anymore, but about two people who actually craved for one another and wanted to give in to the pleasure.

As Ten withdrew, you knew that he was going to go the whole way now, avoiding to let you cum in his hands and truthfully, you preferred to share this moment with him inside of you.

“Do you,” he began and you nodded.

“Nightstand.”

He took off his jeans and tossed it to the ground, rolling the condom over his length and then laid himself back on top of you. His face was right above yours, and you two were smiling at each other.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and turned your position so that he could easily place himself properly in between your legs, now feeling him against your center. Yet, Ten still waited for a little while, keeping your gazes locked, and you couldn’t see what was going through his mind, but you just wished for him not to stop.

And he didn’t.

He pushed into your core, slowly and deliberately, sliding into your hotness bit by bit while your wet walls were anticipating the moment he’d fill you out to the fullest. You closed your eyes for the moment and stroked the back of his neck, feeling every inch of him gliding into you further and further.

When he was fully inside you, he didn’t start to thrust directly. Instead, he leaned in and kissed your lips once again. And once again, you were surprised by how attentive he was, not wanting your body only, but also wanting you to feel good.

His moves were deliberate, and although he had started off slow and sensual, the gentleness was now mixed with firmness and strength. You could only break the kiss to breathe for air and catch your breath when he pumped in and out of you in a steady rhythm.

“Please, don’t stop,” you pleaded, and with a pleasant grin, Ten nodded and leaned in to caress your neck, planting hot, wet kisses on your sides as the slight moans you let out reached his ear like a melody he grew to love even more with every tone.

His thighs slid along yours while he had his arms propped on either side of your head for support. His skin brushed over yours when he pushed out just to slip into your hotness again, your wet walls clenching around his length with every thrust that he conducted. And the stronger he went on, the more you were pushed back into the mattress, the sheets already wet and soaked from the act.

You wrapped your legs around his middle, letting out a pleased “Aaaahhh…” as you felt him a little deeper and a little more intense than before, hitting the right spots in this angle. Your fingers dug into the skin of his back as Ten rocked both of your bodies rhythmically, pushing you forward with every thrust.

It was to both of your liking, and you wondered how perfectly your bodies matched, how you didn’t need to go through a certain state of awkwardness to find the right rhythm and how everything had gone so smoothly from the very start.

As Ten’s thrusts turned a bit sloppier and his movements a bit faster, you could feel that he was close, and so were you. He reached out to grab the headboard, his forehead glistening with sweat as he hovered over you. When you shifted your position a little, you spread your thighs a little further and lifted your bum a little higher.

And then you let out a cry of pleasure as another thrust triggered your climax. You could still feel him moving inside you, his lower body sliding against yours and his burning kisses on your skin, but everything turned into a blur as your orgasm hit, making you lightheaded and causing you to experience the most blissful feeling in the world. You let out a long moan, rolled your head back and held onto him as the waves of pleasure almost washed your senses away.

Your body shuddered under his as you slowly tried to catch your breath, your legs giving in and nearly falling apart, yet you didn’t let go of Ten. His upper body parted from yours and he held his head low as he gave you another long thrust, burying himself deep inside of you and reaching his climax with a groan.

He fell limply on top of you right after, your chests heaving on top of each other as you tried to catch your breaths.

“There is no picture,” Ten then blurted out as he rolled off of you, leaving you in a surprise by this sudden confession.

“What?” you asked bluntly, not really comprehending what he had just said.

Unexpectedly, he pulled you on his chest, laid your head in the spot between his arm and neck, and dragged the blanket over you two to cover your bodies.

“There is no picture,” he repeated, insecurity swaying in his tone as he stared at the ceiling. “There has never been one. I watched you both from the very beginning. I knew that it hadn’t been your fault that he went outside shortly after you did, and I also knew that he had mistaken you for your best friend since your hairstyle is the same. The darkness only added to the confusion. Not to mention that he was a little bit more drunk than he should have been. I knew that it was only a short peck in confusion and that you scolded him right afterwards.”

As for now, you didn’t really care about the story behind this bluff, because everything he had said was true. There was nothing you needed to clear up anymore, but there was another thing that made you think ever since he had mentioned it. You got up and supported your position with your elbow on the mattress as you leaned in to him.

“You knew all this time?” you asked perplexed, but rather surprised than angry. “You have followed me?”

As Ten turned his face to you, you could finally see his slightly flushed cheeks. It was only a light shade of pink, but it was there and suddenly, you smiled.

“To confess… I have been following you all this time,” he explained with a shyer voice. “My eyes were always on you whereas you never seemed to notice me. I’ve never had the guts to approach you for a decent conversation apart from hellos and goodbyes. When you went outside all by yourself last night, I thought I could finally gather enough courage to talk to you. But I saw you with him and I got mad, I guess.”

So, this was it. He had always been a shadow in the background, but he had always been your shadow, following you with his eyes silently, but with much affection – whereas it had been you who had shut him out from everything, but mostly, from your own attention.

Behind the façade, Ten was only a shy guy who was probably awkward with people, a bit insecure and too shy to approach a girl that he liked. Behind that façade, Ten had been jealous that someone else could have taken interest in the girl he had laid his eyes on. His jealousy and madness had led him to act on his feelings - childish and catty as he had gone overboard with blackmailing you.

But Ten had never treated you wrongly.

His tenderness and carefulness had constantly proven to you that you could have stopped whenever you wanted him to, he had always been waiting for your own responses to his acts, never demanding too much.

Behind the mischievous smile, there was only a shy boy who wanted to get to know the girl he liked.

“Hey Ten,” you started after a while, and now it was you who wore that sly grin, “do you like me?”

And now, the redness coloring his cheeks couldn’t be missed that easily anymore. It was enough of an answer for you. With a laugh, you laid yourself beside him again, and with pleasure, he wrapped his arm around your middle and pulled you a little closer.

“How about a date later?” he muttered after a moment while he played with some strands of your hair.

With a smile, you answered happily, “That would be great.”

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incorrectbatfam · 3 years

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im new to this whole batfam thing! what are some popular headcanons and interpretations of the characters??

Anyone else, feel free to chime in.

1. Tim is a sleepless coffee addict

Canon basis: little to none, other than a couple instances where he's seen drinking coffee or mentions staying up late to work. He's human, and no human can conceivably do what he does on no sleep and unhealthy lifestyle.

2. Dick loves cereal

Canon basis: again, not much other than some one-off instances

3. Jason is a literature nerd

Canon basis: there's some substance to this one. We've seen him quoting Shakespeare and reading Austen on multiple occasions, and when he was younger he had a love of school and learning. Jason's overall a well-read and articulate guy, which also points toward a love of classics.

4. Damian loves animals

Canon basis: this one's well-established with parts of the narrative including why Damian loves animals so much—because they can't judge his past the way people do. He's got the most pets out of anyone in the Manor and has no shame showing his gentler side to other creatures.

5. Damian loves art

Canon basis: also true—after Damian's death, we see Bruce going through Damian's sketchbook and it's clear he's remarkably talented. There have also been other instances where we see him drawing or otherwise engaging in art.

6. Cass is the good girl

Canon basis: um... not much. I think Cass's "good girl" reputation is born largely out of stereotypes for Asian girls. In the comics, she is her own breed of chaos and fits in perfectly with the boys. (There was this one panel where she contemplated spitting in someone's face just out of spite but I can't find it.)

7. Stephanie loves waffles

Canon basis: though there's some, I'm not quite sure to what extent. We've seen her enjoy it on multiple occasions and it's said she even makes them better than Alfred (according to Tim).

8. Duke is the normal one

Canon basis: no. Just... no. Compared to the rest of the bats, sure, but that's only 'cause he's newer. But we're talking about a boy who formed We Are Robin when Batman went MIA. We're talking about a boy who jumped off a bridge into a river while running from cops. We're talking about a boy who canonically has PTSD because of the Joker, and who fought dangerous criminals before he had a grasp of what his powers are. On that note, he's also not the boring one—he's a fantasy nerd with a complex past who writes poetry, listens to heavy metal, took on the Riddler's challenge at age ten, and loves digging up dinosaurs.

9. Alfred is a flawless badass

Canon basis: he's portrayed as this butler deus-ex-machina getting the Bats out of sticky situations. In his backstory, he was a spy before working with the Waynes and thus has the fighting experience, and in the comics, he's seen dropping witty lines and overall keeping everyone in check. Which, alright, that's fine on its own. But the fandom tends to put him on a pedestal and believes he can do no wrong, thus ignoring the weaknesses and vulnerabilities that he, like any other good character, has.

10. Bruce is a lone grimdark vigilante

Canon basis: I blame canon. Fuck the comics. I blame the writers who only watched the Nolan movies and somehow that, of the eighty-plus years of Batman content, was the best representation of Bruce Wayne. If Bruce was truly meant to be a lone wolf, why go through the trouble of making all the Robins? Why create an extensive network spanning not just his family, but also folks like the Justice League? Why give him a love interest? I fully blame the DC writers for this angsty punch-drunk image, because they're so focused on hypermasculine badassery or whatever that they forgot what the Bat symbol really stands for.

#ask #anonymous #personal #batfamily #batfam #batbros #batboys #batkids #batsiblings #batclan #batman family #dc comics #tw food mention #tw swearing

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themaribatpit · 3 years

Text

Hanging by a Thread: Chapter 4

Rated M: DC canon-typical violence, suggestive threats, alcohol (drink responsibly)

Author’s Note: Thank you to @rebecarojas07 for calmly and patiently trying to explain American things to us in the comments of the last chapter.

Content Warning: Adrien/Chat Noir salt, mostly references to his actions in Syren, there will also be some Chloe and Lila salt. All for the purposes of making Marinette’s own self doubt and angst clear. This is going to be a very angst-heavy chapter, you have been warned.

Ships: Jason Todd/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Dick Grayson/Barbara Gordon (side ship).

Taglist:

@aespades, @neakco, @ladybug-182, @seraphichana, @zalladane, @luminous-carrot, @jayjayspixiepop, @cap-noodles, @livelifeauthorstyle, @thepaceperson, @moongoddesskiana, @vroomtaka, @laurcad123, @prettylittlebutterflie, @twsssmlmaa

Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

Chapter 4

On one of the nights she went out searching, Marinette found the Red Hood perched on a rooftop next to a gargoyle. A gargoyle that was probably looking a lot less serious than he was at that moment. There was no doubt as to how they found each other. It was how they found each other at the warehouse, at the dockyards, and now here on a rooftop. She slowly approached him from behind. “I know you’re behind me.” spoke the Red Hood without turning his head to look behind him. Ladybug froze as the Red Hood addressed her, as if he had eyes on the back of his head. Ladybug remained silent, unsure of how she should proceed, until Red Hood broke the ice. “Y’know I wonder, how you always seem to find me no matter what. It’s almost as if you have some kind of Me Detector.” Ladybug stuttered, trying to think of an answer. She grew silent and looked down. He looked towards her ”You don't have to answer, I figured it out. You can see the red thread that ties us together as well, right?” she nodded her head. “Only way you seem to find me each time. I’ve been able to see it for as long as I can remember, what about you?” He asked.

“Me too, I was always able to see it, and it went grey when you...” Marinette said, as if she still found it hard to believe that such a thing could happen to someone. “Did anyone ever tell you how I died?” he asked. Marinette looked away, as she tried to hide the look on her face. “Yes,” she answered meekly. She sighed and shook her head, trying to remember why she went looking for him at all. She took a couple of steps closer towards him. “What matters is I wanna help,” she said. “Why? You don’t even know half of what I’ve been through.” he growled, he turned to face her. His helmet was still on, but his low harsh voice made his emotions very clear at that moment.

“Then tell me,” she said calmly, “trust me I’ve dealt with people who gave into their negative emotions, I can help you.” She had come too far to give up now, and she wasn’t about to turn back over something that she could help him with. “Not like this,” he said, “listen to me when I say the boy you got matched with died that night. He died because he was an idiot, who got himself killed by a psychotic clown.” Was she supposed to turn back and abandon him now? Should she have just settled for someone else back in Paris? The answers were no and absolutely not. The person who stood before her might not have been the person she had imagined her soulmate to be, but she didn’t have the heart to abandon him now. She could help him, whatever it was she was sure that she could find a way to help him, maybe with Tikki and Plagg’s help. If what she was told about him was true, then he surely understood what they both went through in the past. They both became crime fighters at a young age, they were thrust into situations where the fate of their world rested on their shoulders. They were alike in a lot of ways that neither of them realised.

"Please tell me, let me help you Jason." she begged.

"Do. Not. Call. Me. That." He growled and stomped towards Ladybug, their faces mere centimetres apart. "So who was it that told you? Was it Dick? Babs? The old man?"

Jason knew it would take a lot more than that to push her away, but he had to. Even as Robin was still inside him, railing against the bars that kept that part of him caged. But he was dead in every meaningful sense of the word, and in his place was a cursed monster. For both their sakes, he was trying to keep Ladybug at arm’s length, he was nothing like the gaudy rogues gallery she dealt with back in Paris. A part of him wanted her help, but he doubted that neither she nor her fairy pals had any idea what they were dealing with. To top it off, she was probably already under the Bat clan’s protection. They weren’t even on the same side, so that added another complication into their already tangled bond. He looked up at her and there it was again, that wide eyed sad look on her face. Jason tried not to look at it for too long, no matter how much it made his heart ache to do so. “What would it take for you to leave me alone?” he asked, “Want me to cut my own foot off?”

“I’m not even sure it’s that easy,” she said “I was always told that it will stretch and tangle, but never break. That and it goes grey if one of us dies, that’s all I know.” “Look, I don’t wanna hurt you, Pixie,” he told her, “even I have limits.”. “Oh yeah? And what are they? Am I just small fry to you, is that it?” she asked, Ladybug looked away as tears began to form in her eyes. “Are you just disappointed to find out that I’m your soulmate?”

Marinette had come too far only to be told no, and no one has given her a clear answer as to why she couldn’t help him. It seemed to be something more than the fact that he was a crime boss. What brought her here in the first place was the fact that their soulmate bond had reignited. It was truly at that moment where the two sides of herself felt like they were merging. Marinette was trying to make sense of what everyone was telling her. There was a reason why even he was refusing to let her at least try to help him. Ladybug would have been able to fix this problem in no time at all, while Marinette was on a gargoyle adorned rooftop begging her soulmate to let her help him.

She barely noticed that the Red Hood was suddenly standing very close to her, she felt a gloved hand tilt her chin up to look at him. She was still looking into the two white lights in his helmet. “Do yourself a favour, and get as far away from here as you can.” he told her in a low but gentler voice, “I’m telling you this because you’re my soulmate, I don’t want you getting hurt because of me. You got that?” he let go of her and turned away, going back to the spot he was perched on. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” she said whilst on the verge of tears, and with a twirl of her yo-yo she swung away into the night. Jason tried to ignore the ache in his chest, he was telling himself that he had to keep her away from him. He was already used to not being trusted, but at that moment her sincerity and kindness were just too much for him. There were other people out there who were far more deserving of it. If she got too close to him, too close to the flame that was only stoked by the Lazarus pit, she would only get burned. He already knew he would never forgive himself if she got hurt, their soulmate bond would probably just end up adding salt to that wound. In a way he was starting to see why they were bound together, that’s what made it hurt even more. They were very different people, that much was obvious. Maybe the divine being that bound them together thought it would be funny in a “opposites attract” kind of way. Unfortunately for him, one of the things they had in common was that they were both very stubborn people. That became clear when he realised it would take a whole lot more to get her to stay away from him. Over the next few days, Marinette threw herself into her design work, trying to take her mind off of her encounters with her soulmate. Tikki was looking increasingly worried as she avoided talking about it, preferring to stay up all through the night working on her design projects. Her designs tended towards soft fabrics and pastel colours. It was possible this was an attempt to avoid thinking about a certain someone who wore a red helmet and was dressed in Kevlar and leather.

One night, Marinette got a text from Zoe, telling her that they were going out drinking with some friends. She invited Marinete to join her, and she thought a night out would help take her mind off things. As she looked through her wardrobe for something to wear, Tikki tried to approach her. “Marinette, we need to talk,” she said, looking over at Plagg who was more interested in devouring the slice of camembert that Marinette had given him. ”You’ve been busy lately, and I just wanted to know if you were okay.” she said.

“I’m fine, what’s there to talk about?” Marinette said flippantly, holding the two different dresses up to her body as she decided which one to wear. She didn’t want to talk about her soulmate, or even the mountain of work that she had just completed. She wanted to go out and have some fun with her friends.

“It’s just that you seemed distraught by what happened, we tried to warn you not to get your hopes up...” Tikki began. “I’m fine,” Marinette said in a harsher tone of voice, “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Marinette, it's probably for the best, we...”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it!” Marinette snapped, “I came all this way to find my soulmate, only to find that my soulmate doesn’t want anything to do with me. You were right Tikki, I should have just stayed home in Paris, is that what you wanted to hear?” Tikki looked to Plagg for help, but Plagg didn’t say anything in response. “Listen Marinette, maybe whoever tied you two together made a mistake. Maybe this Red Hood is right and it will only end in tragedy. ” “Choosing me to wield the Ladybug Miraculous, hell, choosing me as your Guardian could have also been a mistake. Did you think of that?” Marinette argued.

“That was different, you proved yourself to be worthy of the Miraculous.” Tikki piped up, “This boy...”

“What? I’m good enough to wield magic jewelry but I’m not good enough for a guy who isn’t Chat Noir?” Marinette argued. “No!” Tikki cried, “I meant that this person might not be worthy of you. Our magic, it did something to him, Marinette. I can sense it, I can’t quite put my finger on it but something is wrong here.”

“I know, I have spent my teenage years fighting people who have been turned into supervillains because of their negative emotions! Why should this be any different?” Marinette yelled. “I managed to do it mostly by myself, with a partner who would rather spend most of the battle joking around and getting in the way!” Marinette was getting heated, but she had far too much pent up emotion to care at that moment. “And the way he would go on and on about us being soulmates, I hated it. Now I hate it even more because now I know for certain that he was wrong.” Marinette recalled. If she was still in Paris, she might worry about an Akuma finding her in this state.

“You became a hero to help those people! It’s why you were suited to become a Guardian.” Tikki said. Marinette wondered what good those powers were to her now? What was the point in being a hero who couldn’t save people? “I wouldn’t know,” Marinette spat bitterly, “right now I just remember you telling me that I had to be the perfect Ladybug, and an even better Guardian.” It was true in a way, she already knew that Ladybug was perfect while Marinette was not. Ladybug was confident, strong, and smart, she was able to save the day with nothing but her wits and whatever tool Tikki gave her to improvise with. Marinette was the one who got bullied by Chloe and Lila, and Adrien did nothing to stop them. Their adoration for Ladybug added salt to the wound, at times it almost made Marinette despise her other persona. “You don’t mean that,” Tikki said before she turned to Plagg, “Plagg, say something, please.” she begged. “I mean, she certainly took it a lot more seriously. One time Chat Noir threatened to take off his Miraculous if I didn’t tell him a secret Ladybug was keeping at the time.” he said flippantly, before devouring the last of the cheese. “Only thing that stopped him was Master Fu showing up with a potion.” He recalled, there was a silence that followed. Plagg looked up and saw the two of them staring back at him. Tikki looked shocked by the revelation, while Marinette looked absolutely livid. “So I couldn’t do anything, step one foot out of line without you,” she pointed at Tikki, “breathing down my neck about being perfect.” she said in a harsh voice that was seething with rage, “Meanwhile, Chat Noir threatened to just toss the Miraculous aside and Plagg drew the line at being blackmailed into revealing a secret that was not mine to tell?” Marinette’s fists were clenched tightly, her knuckles were bone white, and Tikki was a little afraid of her. “Marinette, please...” Tikki begged. “No,” Marinette growled, as she took off the Ladybug earrings and slammed them into the Miracle Box. She didn’t want to hear what Tikki had to say to her at that moment. She was going to go out and have a nice night with her friends, where she wouldn’t have to think about any of this. She stuffed them back into the box, before she looked over at the pink and white polka dotted dress that was strewn over her bed.

There were two kinds of people who went to bars that didn't card: college students and legally dead people. Jason was in the latter group, and long before that, he knew the location of every bar in Gotham that wouldn't card him. Right now, he was trying to enjoy a few cold beers by himself. It was usually quiet, he could sit, drink and drown out the the memory of the sad look in his soulmate's eyes whenever it flashed in his mind. It was probably for the best, at least that's what Jason told himself. Even if she was a superhero herself, what worried him the most was showing her the full force of what the Lazarus pits turned him into. He didn't even think her fairy friends knew about that, the League of Assassins certainly didn't see it coming.

A small group of college aged girls made their way into the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, the group looked like they were about to form a rainbow. He heard a mixture of English, French and Italian bubbling from their little group. He looked over to see that among them, there was a brunette dressed all in black and grey, a blonde with dyed pink streaks in her hair, and a dark haired girl in a pink dress. They were a colourful bunch of people, probably Gotham University students on a night out. One of them went to go and get the first round of drinks while the others gathered round a table in a separate booth. Sometimes Jason would look over and his eyes would fall on the girl in the pink dress, who was now holding a glass of wine in her hand. He told himself it was because she happened to be facing towards him. If he stared too long, the blonde next to her might notice and point it out to her. So he looked away, taking a deep drink from his own bottle.

Zoe’s invitation couldn't have come at a better time. Marinette drank deeply from her wine glass, as she tried to enjoy herself and drown out the argument she had with Tikki. She took her role as Ladybug and Guardian of the Miraculous seriously, it infuriated her that the person she considered her partner didn't feel the same way. She tried to drown out the possibility that not only had Master Fu chosen wrong, but that whoever had chosen her soulmate had too. At the very least, her soulmate seemed to think so too. Maybe it would be easier to throw the Miracle Box into Gotham Bay and hope that it would take her memories with it.

By the time Marinette was a couple of glasses deep into her efforts, Zoe leaned in to whisper something to Marinette. "That guy's been staring at you for the past 15 minutes now." Zoe told her. Marinette was pulled from her thoughts, as she looked over at Zoe.

"What guy?" Marinette asked.

"Okay don't look now, but he's literally right in front of you." Zoe told her, "I'm sure he'll buy you another glass of wine if you bat your eyelashes at him." Marinette playfully pushed Zoe away. As she took another sip of wine, she looked over the rim of her glass at the guy Zoe pointed out to her. Across the room, she could see the guy had dark hair framing a very sharp and angular face. He wore a leather jacket, dark jeans and a t-shirt, he was certainly handsome, she'll give him that. She wasn't going to just walk right up to him and ask him to buy her a drink.

"He looks all right," Marinette said, trying to ignore Zoe's raised eyebrow.

Just as the other guy was getting ready to buy another drink, Zoe saw her chance. She grabbed Marinette by the shoulders and pushed her towards the guy staring at her. As the two ploughed towards the bar, people stepped back to give them a clear path towards the man sitting by the counter.

Jason turned back around, curious at the ruckus behind him. Both Marinette and Jason froze as their eyes met, the two looked down to see the red string of fate. Zoe took this as a good sign, maybe this was love at first sight. As the two remained silent, Zoe nudged Marinette. When that didn't work, she dragged Marinette by the wrist and sat her down on the nearby stool. Zoe then gave Marinette a light tap on the shoulder, a wink and a thumbs up before going back to her group of friends.

#jasonette #maribat #maribat adrien salt #maribat chloe salt #maribat lila salt #ml x dc

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ohheyitsokay · 3 years

Text

home

part 10 of the ‘hey batter batter’ series

pairing: Francisco (Frankie, Catfish) Morales x reader

wordcount: 3k

warnings: so so soo much fluff. clouds and clouds worth. kissing, implications of sex (blink and you’ll miss it)

summary: it’s a Triple Frontier Baseball AU! Trust me, you don’t need to know anything about baseball.

In this chapter, you and Frankie finish the season and the summer, and know it’s only the beginning.

notes: thank you all so much for supporting this little story of mine! I genuinely am blown away by how kind everyone has been! originally I planned on this series just being a couple of one-shots set in the same universe, but it got away form me, and I can’t believe so many of you came along for the ride. some of those stories will come in time, but thank you thank you thank you to everyone who stuck around this long! all the love for all of you!

It was a beautiful day for a baseball game.

The sun was shining and for once your bones weren’t shaking with the rumble of the stadium as people stomped and cheered. In fact, the majority of the noise was from Frankie’s momma as she chattered across your lap to your grandfather. The two of them were discussing gardening and how well season was played, how proud they were, the best of friends. It was peaceful, almost, and most of the flashing lights and roaring crowds were away – it was the final game, a charity fundraiser, all fun.

You could see your catcher as he turned, looking at your section like he couldn’t help but search for you, and you smiled, heart as full and as warm as the sun on your shoulders. His curls were sticking out from under his helmet haphazardly, the pads on his shoulders and thighs making him even more solid, and it was a sight that you’d never get tired of. Combined with the smells of warm pastries, jalapeños and melted cheese, contentment settled into your soul like a hand in a glove, a perfect fit.

It was the of the ninth and they were playing well, encouraged by the cause and playing for the love of of the game instead of a paycheck. Behind you, you heard someone mention just how well Frankie had batted this season, and you brushed pan dulce sugar from your lap.

The players had told you last week after all the big games were done why Santi had offered to pay for you and James to fly to see their final games. At the time, it had baffled you how intensely they insisted, how eagerly the pushed it, and how your boyfriend had looked equal parts embarrassed and hopeful, but eventually you agreed, assuming you could get the time off from work. When the secret came out you laughed, shaking your head and rolling your eyes.

They had exchanged smiles and shrugged and shared knowing glances as they let you explain away what they knew was true. You were their luck.

The thought was long gone from your mind now though, as Ben was doing weird poses on the field, and you heard chuckles ripple through the crowds. Fans of him and the team alike were endlessly charmed, and you knew you’d catch comments about it for months to come. His brother was just standing, and still you heard dreamy sighs of Will’s name, and made a mental note to tease him after the game about his “blonde halo”. Whatever that meant.

Santi threw a perfect curveball, and when it landed firmly in Frankie’s glove, you heard a girl swoon, “That’s my man!” and the laughter of her friends, as they called her “Mrs. Morales”.

“No!” his momma was glaring over her shoulder tugging on your elbow, as if physically fighting them was a viable option. You tugged back, making soothing noises as she protested, “Mi frijol.” The sweet lady muttered something else and before your heart could latch on to what you could’ve sworn was something about the future and tu marido you moved on.

“I know, I know,” you were saying, when James leaned over, glint in his sweet, aging eyes.

“She’s right, honey,” he said, only encouraging his friend, and you grinned.

“He’s my boy,” she said again with an air of finality, “and yours."

Looking at your grandfather sheepishly, you pointed at your shirt and shrugged as he said, “Right again.”

You were wearing his backup Jersey.

Cheesy as it was, it felt good to have the little claim of his over your skin, and while it wasn’t obvious to everyone, you wore it with pride. Comments from his fans slid off it like raindrops on a tin roof, and while you apricated her inclusion, you didn’t need it to know he was yours, as you were his.

Jimbo leaned towards the woman at your side and whispered conspiratorially in her ear, and she settled, and you left it, enjoying their friendship. The day was too lovely for anything else, anyway.

Catch, catch, walk, look for his girlfriend, sit, swing, hit, run, walk, sit. Repeat.

Nothing so eventful happened the last few minutes of the game, and as the Will went out for his final bat, you felt a surprising wave of bittersweet nostalgia for all that had passed since the opening game, cold as an evening breeze.

Then the ball cracked against the bat, and the sound snapped you back, and you felt a fire under your breastbone, reminding you the best was yet to come.

Frankie’s mom finished her final cheers enthusiastically, all annoyance long gone, and she pulled you into a hug.

“Nieta is calling. Hug Francisco for me, hija, and I’ll see you tomorrow?” You nodded, squeezing her back almost as hard. You and Frankie were using his first real day off to babysit and get some quality time, and both of you were well aware this was hardly goodbye. You gave a gentler hug to your grandfather, who was going with her, whispering “Bye Jimbo,” as you kissed his cheek. He had conspired to let you stay out for the evening, and while you’d miss driving him home, you were grateful for the opportunity.

Seeing them safely as far as you could, your feet danced with excitement. Like it had been more than handful of times, they knew the path to the locker rooms, carrying you so light you were almost floating. When you slid into the waiting room, Frankie was already clean and looking for you anxiously. Maybe you should’ve given him a little wave from across the room, but you could do better.

You ducked away from his line of sight, and snuck around behind him before say, “hey, batter, batter.” He whipped around and before you could even register the grin on his face, he was pulling you against his chest.

“Hey yourself,” he said, and the two of you got one sweet, slightly needy kiss before you heard good-natured groans.

“It’s been like month,” Santi said, ruffling your hair as you stepped back, “Aren’t you guys done flirting?” You stuck your tongue out at him, wondering if you were fast enough to flick him in the forehead.

“Don’t bother,” Will said, his tone resigned but playful as he hugged you too. “Be happy he got her to stick around.” You pulled a face, and Benny laughed. They all knew by now that it was more than a summer fling, even Tom, who you realized hadn’t come out yet.

When you asked, they winced, and you dropped the topic, knowing they would tell you in their own time. Frankie pulled you back to him, his warm fingers lacing with yours as you herded them towards the door.

They were still working on things, still trying to figure out what their next steps looked like.

For now, you owed your baseball boys a dinner.

It had taken you a couple of times cooking for them to get the portions right. The Miller boys ate like they were hollow, and after a game was a testament to that.

Thankfully, you had more than enough this time, having been preparing their favorites for days with the enthusiastic help from Frankie’s mom, and begrudging help from his sister as a thank you to her hermano. The piled into your little space and ate gratefully, telling you about the game like you knew what they were talking about.

“Benny, why were you –” his deep laughter cut you off, and your hand shot out to grab Will’s wrist mid-throw. You had a rule against projectile food to keep them from squabbling like children at your makeshift dinner table. The dinner roll fell to his plate as Benny tried to explain, and Santi deadpanned.

“I was stretching, and I got distracted –”

“You were flirting with the entire stadium, Ben.”

“No! Well –”

It was warm and bright, eating dinner with them like a family, teasing and laughter filling the space like clear broth in the cool of night.

Frankie’s hand found your knee under the table.

The best part about these replacement-parties was watching them all try to help clean up. You were lucky professional athletes had fast reflexes, or you would’ve lost more than a few dishes to their shenanigans. They insisted, wouldn’t let you help, and things probably would’ve been put back correctly if you had, but it was great, letting things play out however they may. Maybe years and years down the road, you would tell a younger generation that you had some of the world’s most desirable athletes fighting in your kitchen over where you kept your dish soap refills.

And after, they would collapse in your living room, unearthing all the games from your shelves. One of your favorite moments from the summer was coming through thrift stores for games, ignoring the stare of jealousy and making ridiculous bets.

All the while, Frankie kept as close to you as he could, too busy watching you with wrinkles in the corners of his eyes to be embarrassed of his rambunctious friends.

When you and Will won the first game of the evening, he accidentally hit you in the face with the back of his hand as he flung his arms open in triumph.

It hadn’t hurt as badly as it would’ve if his brother had been the one talking with his hands, but Frankie had still thumped him in the back of the head before he followed you to the kitchen.

“Baby, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Frankie,” you laughed, but he was already taking the pack of frozen peas from your hand to press it against the lump forming on your temple. He was gentle, and the air shifted, like there was more on his mind than your minor injury. Brown eyes searching yours, you wished you knew what he was thinking.

“Francisco?” Your hands had settled on his chest but the moved around his neck when he moved the ice to ghost his lips over the spot. He didn’t answer for a moment, just setting the peas aside, and carefully trapping you against the counter.

There were noises of good-natured arguing coming from the living room, and you knew he was taking advantage of their distraction, carving a little pocket for the two of you in time.

“Te adoro,” his lips were almost hot as they pressed into yours. “I love you,” he said, so close you could feel the hairs on his upper lip still.

For the past month, your relationship had been fast, jumpstarting to serious and staying that was, but this was new. It was one thing, for him to tell you he wanted something real with you, wanted you to be a part of his life, and another to hear him say he loved you simply, without abandon. Still, you didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

He kissed you again, unhurried, and you almost couldn’t return it, you were smiling so widely. Your bump was long forgotten.

When the two of you came out the kitchen, the others had barely noticed you were gone and Ben immediately was accusing you of cheating, but Santi shot you a knowing smile.

There was a gap of time when a season ended, when Molly’s inbox was mercifully void of emails. It was a time when the chaos of her job slowed, for a bit before she began her work for the off-season, and she relished it with every fiber of her being.

This particular gap began wrapped up in sheets with Tom, her Tom, kissing and wishing the world outside was a simple as this, in the little bubble of her room.

She could always tell though, when his mind was no longer filled with her, and the other sides of him began to leak through the cracks. His eyes moved with urgency instead of appreciation his hands moved a little slower and then in sudden jerks, and when he trailed off mid-sentence, she sighed.

“You told them, didn’t you?”

He rolled onto his back; his gaze pointed towards the ceiling.

“Right after the game,” he confessed, and she sighed again, sitting up. If nothing else, for him, she had endless patience.

“How’d that go?”

Her love was silent, thinking only of the embarrassment and defensiveness that had reared in his chest. The tilt of Santi’s head, Frankie’s slow nod. He wished Benny had been disappointed, wished Will had thought it was a joke.

“They understood,” Tom didn’t add that he hoped with all his considerable might that they had reacted stronger, hoped they had told him not to, said they needed him to stay, but they hadn’t. It wouldn’t have been true, anyway. They were growing, going somewhere he couldn’t follow.

Her hand ran over his chest as it filled with air, stilling over his heart.

“It’s time,” one of them said, and the other nodded.

Counseling. Rehab. Retirement.

Slowing down to coach at a local college.

He clenched his hand into a fist, and then relaxed, palm falling open, upwards.

The love of his life kissed his forehead.

It was time.

The first stop of the day was with James, spending the morning helping him around the house. Before this summer, you had thought you were his favorite grandchild, but he had essentially adopted Frankie months ago, and already liked him more than you.

The little old man talked excitedly about baseball and lectured your love on enjoying his off-season. He dragged him into the yard, talking his ear off about the benefits of different teas and the importance of volunteering with youth programs, and you settled inside, throwing away expired things from his fridge. Their absence was your only opportunity for the chore.

Honestly, the two of you needed to leave sooner than later and you weren’t sure how much time you had.

“Honey?” You dropped a can of whipped cream from a month ago guiltily.

“Yeah, Jimbo?”

He eyed you suspiciously but seemed too excited to be deterred by you.

“I put this together for you!” He said proudly, and you noticed a flash of the same mischief from yesterday in his eyes. Your grandfather handed you a box, and made you promise not to open in until you left. You hugged the sweet man, and smiled when Frankie did, too, before saying your goodbyes, thankful beyond words for him.

If it weren’t for him, you were sure you wouldn’t be climbing into the truck of your boyfriend, and certainly not having the catcher’s hand slide into yours. When you opened the box, the gratitude didn’t shrink, but your embarrassment rose.

Frankie laughed so hard you thought he was going to have to pull over.

It was full of Francisco Morales merchandise, signatures and memorabilia ranging from his very first baseball card to his most recent bobble head.

Frankie kissed your knuckles for the second time since you climbed into his truck, which was silly since it had only been three minutes since you left his mother’s house.

He could feel your look, answering before you even asked.

“I’m good, just… I love you,” he said, unable to keep his eyes on the road when he said it.

“I love you too, Frankie,” you said, wondering what prompted him.

“Could we… would you want to get dinner?” He looked thoughtful and you laughed.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

Your hand was lifted to his lips again, sending electricity up your spine as he confirmed.

The two of you had a bag full of Anita’s best by the time you entered his home, and he still hadn’t told you what was on his mind. The two of you ate, sharing stories about the day’s adventures, helping his mother around the house and watching, Bianca, his sweet, tiny new niece. You had a great conversation with his mother, and despite her excitable nature, she surprised you by asking you about your boundaries and promising not to overstep.

Frankie told you about his hermana, and her slowly opening up to the idea of letting him help her out, not as charity but family, and letting him shoulder some of the responsibilities. You watched the warmth in his eyes as he talked and wondered how it was possible for a single person to feel so safe.

Eventually the talking slowed, and you found yourself half falling asleep against the stretch of his chest, is hands slowing their wandering paths.

“Love?” he murmured into your hair. You hummed in response.

When he didn’t say anything, your mind woke, and you pulled yourself up, and into his lap, straddling him.

He looked up at you for a moment before you felt him sigh against you.

“I have this baby,” he said, and you couldn’t help but smile at his phrasing. Santi always said it was melodramatic. “Do you… is this all too much?”

His expression mirrored that of your first date, and you told him the same thing as you had then.

That you would stay, as long as he would have you. That you would navigate alongside him, that you were happy to. This time, you added that you loved him, and you felt him shift under you, anxiety leaking out of him, allowing solid adoration to replace it.

Frankie said, “Thank you,” against your mouth, and like a prayer. In the dim evening light, you kissed him, and as his hands slipped under your shirt to hold your sides, he held you for the first time like you were real.

And you were, this was something that wasn’t going away.

For the first time in a long time, it was a perfect day for something new, and his heart was here, beating under his hands.

translations:

pan dulce: pastries

mi frijol: my bean

tu marido: your husband

nieta: granddaughter

hija: daughter

hermano/a: brother, sister

te adoro: I adore you

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179 @mrsbentallmadge @pbeatriz

hey batter batter taglist:

@icanbeyourjedi @studyofawearymind @hnt-escape @athalien @the-witty-pen-name @daffodin @sarahjkl82-blog @pintsizemama @anaaaispunk @pjkimrn @dobbyjen @stuckontheceiling

#francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #frankie x you #frankie x reader #triple frontier baseball au #hey batter batter #maybe i don't know people

72 notes · View notes

13atoms · 3 years

Text

Deep Focus: Chapter 1 [Tom Hiddleston x Reader]

Summary: Tom’s a successful porn director with a romantic streak which proves very popular with his female audience. His resident porn actress and business partner has been with him through thick and thin, the two of them growing completely inseparable, even as her own career starts taking off.

But working in such close proximity is intense, and burgeoning feelings threaten to complicate their professional relationship.

Mature, smut, porn director!AU, ethical porn production discussion, porn-star-and-coworker!reader. Friends to lovers, slow-ish burn. [7.7k]

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There was such a style to everything Tom wrote, everything he directed. A sincere passion that you suspected was always meant to be used elsewhere. You wondered if his craftsmanship was ever appreciated, on the other side of the screen, as strangers got hot and bothered watching each meticulously designed frame of his vision come to life.

Sure, it was porn. But Tom directed it like he could win an Oscar for ‘hot lifeguard pounded poolside’. This was his livelihood, his passion, and it was a damn shame he wasn’t award-season eligible.

The names would make you wince, as you saw them uploaded to the site, thumbnails and previews drawing in viewers by the million with their shots of heaving bodies and glistening sweat. Tom never called the videos such crass things. Not in his scripts. You would get copies titled ‘Romantic Night In’ or ‘Office Love Affair.’ He was a fan of sugar-coating what would be inside those innocuous white pages, a veneer of respectability which Tom insisted upon, regardless of how obvious the true nature of the videos was. But once the videos were sold, it was out of his hands. Your face contorted mid-faux-orgasm would be plastered across the site, and everyone involved would try and forget what happened.

Ignore the comments.

Keep moving.

You often wondered how Tom wound up in this place, with his sharply tailored suits and polished shoes, eloquent and educated, his words almost poetic as he directed mid-budget porn in hotel rooms and his studio day-in, day-out.

Then again, he never seemed particularly bothered by it. He gave each shoot his full attention, his full boundless enthusiasm and all the professionalism he could muster. You wondered how he balanced it, sometimes, the creative drive to press on with trying to be creative and shoehorn romance into films knowing that, ultimately, it was porn.

He had interviewed you like a real director might, talking about your life and experience and ambitions, almost apologetic when he had finally choked out ‘could you undress’, barely glancing at your naked form before he hired you as his first employee.

You asked him early on, while watching him try and assemble a fake restaurant-date set in the studio, complete with faux windows and an extra playing a waiter, why he bothered when three-minutes of good quality fucking footage would make him the same amount of money. He’d given you a strange smile, the wrinkles beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes, and shrugged.

“I make what I’d like to see.”

The words haunted you later, as your rather attractive co-star bent you over the white-cloth covered dining table and you allowed mewls and groans to escape your mouth without a second thought. Trying to avoid the muted blue of Tom’s eyes behind the cameraman.

Despite your reservations when you first started to work for him, Tom had won you over. His gentler, more romantic approach to pornography had a loyal following. Both of your pseudonyms garnered huge numbers of views across various platforms, and Tom was keen to cultivate a collection of female-friendly porn. Against all the odds, it was working.

And you loved working with him. He was a great director, and inspired writer, and a genuinely brilliant boss. He made sure you saw royalties, good pay, that everyone you worked with was screened and tested, always keeping you safe. Always.

Each time he called a wrap, passing you a robe and offering a meek congratulations on your performance, you found yourself more and more pleased you had wound up working with him.

“You really do have a talent,” he’d told you one day, distracting you as you discussed a new script in his office.

You were sat opposite him, Tom’s glasses perched on his head as he watched you read, your feet resting against the leg of his desk. You’d come in to your shared workspace to try some costumes out, to discuss new scenes, still recovering from a thoroughly exhausting shoot the day before. There were still light bruises around your wrists, and you caught Tom glancing at them worriedly each time your long-sleeved shirt slipped.

“I love that you’re such an actor,” he continued, hands tapping the desk as he spoke, “like, a real actor.”

Your eyes drifted across the script, scanning it with your bottom lip between your teeth. He always appreciated your input, wanting the ‘female fantasy’ in a lot of his work, and he’d timidly shown you some ‘student-professor’ script he’d been working on. He was like that, embarrassed in a way which you wouldn’t expect from a man with his considerable experience in adult entertainment. He was assertive, certain, even stern where it counted. But with just the two of you together, dancing around what was sexy and what wasn’t, he seemed desperate to avoid saying anything you might perceive as too ‘crude’.

“What do you mean?” you’d chuckled, still flicking through the first draft.

He only entrusted you with such early versions of his work – but that made sense. Your careers were symbiotic, tied to one another with an unspoken pact. He directed everything you were in, and you were in everything he directed.

It made sense.

“You don’t just… I don’t know. You never make my scripts seem silly. Or cheesy. You… you really try and make them feel real. I could write anything, and you’ll deliver the lines well. I was overseeing auditions earlier and... I just kept thinking none of them were you. I think you might be the best in the business.”

You rolled your eyes, offering him a disbelieving smirk, and he scoffed.

“I’m serious! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The weight of his words settled heavy in your chest, and you turned back to the script, frowning as you flicked through the loose-leaf pages. Tom fidgeted behind his desk, unhappy with losing your attention, but you ignored him.

“Here. If you want the fantasy to be believable, I think he needs to lock the office door. Make a show of it, you know. Cover my mouth,” you comment dismissively. Tom already has as pen in his hand, making notes. “It could be hot, maybe ‘Don’t make a sound or you can’t cum’, something like that. As if there’s other students in the corridor outside.”

Nodding, Tom dutifully wrote down your words, mouth slightly open in realisation as he listened.

“Don’t make a sound…” Tom repeated, and you felt yourself blush.

“Not… not that exactly,” you backtracked, “you’re the real writer! I just think, there needs to be some build up. A remind of the power dynamic. Him going straight to oral is a bit… fast. That could happen in any old plot, you know?”

You felt his eyes on you, looking up from the paper to spot Tom leaning back in his chair, a distant smile on his face.

“You really are the best,” he praised, “that’s great. I’ll do rewrites tonight.”

For a moment, you let his words hang heavy in the air. Then you blinked back at him, a slight frown pinching your forehead at his strange mood. He was calm, for once. Tom was usually a ball of enthusiasm, and you wondered if your dismissal of his words earlier had done something to hamper his spirit.

“It’s always easier to critique,” you dismissed, “I love the script, it’s great. I really think it’ll be good. Hot. Maybe I can wear a Britneyschool girl costume, or something?”

He frowned a little, pinching the bridge of his nose at the thought.

“No, weird. We’re going for University student, just… a nice pair of jeans or something.”

“Don’t they wear suits where you went, posh boy?” you teased, loving how it riled him up. “I’ll try and dress like a smart person.”

“You are smart, don’t give me that.”

You rolled your eyes, loving how you managed to fluster him, putting the script back on his cluttered desk as you reached for your bag. This was how your meetings always went, a few hours of notes, some teasing, and a hasty retreat once Tom told you the next shoot day you had to attend. You still had a few hours of social media to do for the last video you’d shot together, notes from Tom, and you lamented the sight of the sun setting outside of your shared office. You’d hoped for at least a bit of natural light today.

“I’m serious, you are!” Tom asserted, and you ignored him purposely as you shut down your laptop, preparing to take it home.

“Yeah, I know, whatever. Don’t work too late!”

“Rich coming from you,” he sighed, “it really doesn’t matter if we send that last edit late.”

“It matters to me! I’d quite like to get paid this week, you know?”

Tom sighed. The two of you tried to produce a couple of videos a week – one for Tom’s site and another to sell to a third party. It didn’t leave either of you with much free time, both of you left in the tiny office at all hours as you worked to keep up with demand.

“Very true. But I’d rather you got some sleep, you know I can help if you’re short on money,” he offered, shuffling papers on his own desk.

He was always quick to jump to an offer to help, and you tried to ignore the fondness spreading through your chest at his eagerness to look out for you. That gentle protectiveness which coursed through Tom was enough to make you melt.

He was one in a million, that was for sure.

“I’m fine, Tom. Thank you though, I’ll ask, if, y’know –”

“Do! Any time. Actually…”

Tom cut himself off, typing something into his phone, and your pocket buzzed with a notification.

“Get yourself a nice dinner.”

You checked your phone to see a transfer from Tom. It wasn’t a crazy amount, but too much for just dinner, and you huffed performatively as he grinned at you.

“No! Don’t be ridiculous –”

He barely made more than you, and you were certainly doing perfectly comfortably.

“Royalties are really good this month. That old break-up sex video is trending again, apparently.”

You smothered a smile. It was hate-fucking, as you’d told Tom a hundred times. That was the title. You could still remember the look on his face the day you’d filmed it, his twitchiness, the unknown male actor who had slightly scared both of you with his sheer size as he stepped into the studio. The male star had fucked you like you’d broken his heart, hands on your neck and hips bruising yours as he pounded into you, and you’d be a little alarmed at how little you had needed to act in his domineering presence. He’d been muscular and tall and assertive, almost injuring you with his enthusiasm, and the shoot had ended with you a sweaty mess, struggling to walk, eyes watery.

You had ached from the moment Tom helped you up from the bed, a protective body between you and your costar as you watched the man collect his clothes and his paycheck. The footage had been great, you’d watched Tom edit it, but it had been your first taste of Tom’s protectiveness. The actor had never returned, and Tom had bought a hot water bottle for the office, pressing it into your lap as he brought tea for the pair of you, loathing how you winced as you moved.

He’d taken you out for dinner that night to celebrate a good edit, but you knew the real reason. That neither of you wanted the other to be alone. It had been a lovely evening, a restaurant then a bar, without a break in laughing conversation the entire night. It hadn’t been a date, but if it had been a date, it would’ve been the nicest date you’d ever been on. In those moments, you wondered if Tom was really cut out for the industry. If you were.

As much as Tom hated the film, it was hot. It had propelled your studio into the spotlight, and it paid a significant chunk of your rent.

“Thank you,” you smiled to him, wracking your mind for anything else that needed discussing before you headed home.

Maybe you’d get takeaway. That would be nice.

Tom cleared his throat.

“What are we shooting tomorrow, by the way?”

You looked up at his words, frowning a little at the realisation you hadn’t been given a script yet. It was unlike him, to be so unprepared. Usually everything was organised weeks in advance. With a glance at the shadows under his eyes, you decided not to tease him about it.

“We’re shooting tomorrow?”

“This week… we’ve only got one video. I was just thinking something simple, I haven’t called a costar yet, but we don’t have to if you don’t want to –”

It was your paycheck on the line as much as Tom’s, and you wondered how the hell you’d forgotten.

“Do we have a camera crew?” you frowned.

“No, not yet. I can call though. Or I could just do it myself, if we’re not doing anything too complicated?”

You thought for a moment, leaning against the open doorframe as Tom started to pack up his own desk, nimble fingers tapping across his keyboard.

“Solo?” you suggested, stifling a laugh as Tom blinked and tilted his head to face you.

“I missed that, love?”

“Solo. Like ‘hot female solo’ or something?”

He smiled slightly, closing his laptop lid.

“That’ll do well, I’m sure. Do we need anything costume-wise? Props?”

Toys. He meant toys. You smiled at his refusal to call a spade a damn spade.

“I’m sure we can find everything here. It’ll be nice to do a simple shoot for a change,” you enthused, holding the door for Tom as he moved to turn off the lights, lingering nearby as he locked up the office.

“Yeah. Single-shot, no camera-man either.”

“Cheap,” you sighed, as though it was the sexiest thing in the world.

You did the books, and avoiding having any more costs this month sounded great.

“Yeah,” Tom smiled, falling into step beside you as the two of you left the warehouse studio.

He looked ready to say something else, but changed his mind. For a second the two you stood by the exit, words trapped beneath your closed lips as the early evening air enveloped you.

“Do you need a lift home?” Tom finally offered.

“No. No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, yeah. Usual time. Twelve?”

“Perfect.”

He reached an arm out, ready for you to walk into his embrace, and you froze. The moment was over as soon as it started, his arm retracted, and you could only stare. His hand found the curls at the back of his head, scratching there, a blush dusting his cheeks in the harsh fluorescent lights of the car park. You could kick yourself as you watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, the clench of his jaw. He felt awkward. You contemplated hugging him, but the moment had passed. Instead you rocked on your heels for a second, before turning to leave.

“Bye, Tom!”

“‘Night! Look after yourself, don’t forget dinner. I’ll see you – ”

He cut himself off as you walked too far away, and you could have kicked yourself for the sadness in his final syllable. You sighed as your feet fell against the pavement, your whole walk home haunted by the awkward shuffle of Tom’s hands as he went to hug you goodbye.

You were surprised by how difficult it was to brush off that awkward memory. As you ordered and ate dinner, you were reminded of Tom with every bite, that he’d snuck aside part of the company’s petty cash budget to give you dinner. That both of you had gone home, separately, to separate empty houses and empty beds.

Had he wanted to go for drinks? Wanted company? You had come to accept a long time ago that the man was your closest friend. He would be the person you called in an emergency, a shoulder to cry on. You liked to think he’d lean on you the same way.

Despite that, you spent limited time together outside of a professional context. You never met up on weekends, or casually called. Of course you didn’t. He made a career out of seeing you naked, watching you fake orgasms for other men. As you readied yourself for the day, you reminded yourself that of course, he would be nice to his only full-time, very lucrative actress. To his business partner.

As you’d queued up the company’s social media posts the night before, you could only think of Tom behind the camera, orchestrating each photo and clip you uploaded.

You couldn’t help the grin which split your face as you walked into the studio, bag flung over your shoulder, overpacked with everything you thought you could possibly need. Tom greeted you, emerging from his office with a smile.

Before you could overthink it, you walked into his arms, giving him very little choice in the matter as you greeted him with a hug. In his surprise you felt his body stiffen, his arms slowly wrapping around you, and you were momentarily gobsmacked by the muscular form he seemed to hide behind those suits.

He was a little more dressed down today, smart black jeans and a button-up white shirt, unruly hair sticking up like it did when he forgot to brush it. He looked better than yesterday, like he’d had a good night’s sleep.

“Good morning,” he chuckled, bemusement clear in his voice.

You pulled back from the hug, a little embarrassed at the affection until you saw the smile stretching across his face, reaching his eyes. Suddenly the previous night, worrying you had inadvertently rejected him, seemed to be erased.

“Morning! What have you got for me?”

The studio space was cleaned, but empty. The camera stood in the corner as Tom lead you further into the room, his office door open to the side of it, and you frowned at the emptiness of the space.

There were tape marks on the floor where sets were usually assembled, conspicuous without the usual hive of activity buzzing around some piece of furniture you would be thrown onto or fucked against. There was nothing.

“I didn’t know what you wanted to do,” Tom was saying, his gentle voice booming in the empty space, “we don’t have a script or anything so… I’ll leave it to you.”

You bit your lip.

It was more freedom than you were used to, less direction, less to build the fantasy where you could forget you were ultimately in a warehouse with just your business partner. It was… nothing. Tom said your name quietly, and you nodded, stepping back to assess the space.

“I’m just thinking,” you reassured him.

Had the studio always been this quiet? You tried to remember a shoot day where it had been this silent, this calm, without the stress of lighting people or cameramen or scripts being thrown around. You could hear every step Tom took as he walked towards the camera, the wheel-mounted tripod creaking as he moved it across the floor, checking batteries and SD cards while you stood in place, your bag still hanging from one shoulder.

Noticing your frozen stance Tom frowned across at you, nothing but gentle concern in his blue eyes and the fine lines around them.

“I was thinking something kind of minimal, maybe cosy?” he offered, “Maybe an armchair? Something like that?”

You thought about it for a moment, crossing to the corner of the room to finally set down your bag.

He was finally getting into ‘director mode’, growing more energetic by the second.

“I’m thinking we just frame it on you, no distraction. Single take, if we can.”

You nodded silently as he crossed to the storage cupboard he’s overeagerly labelled a ‘props department’. It was stacked high with fabric and furniture and lingerie, tubs of various exotic sex toys near the door. Tom stepped straight past them.

There was a mattress in the props room, materials to build a bed, and you pondered on the idea for a moment.

“We could keep it really simple, maybe?” you suggested, “Find a warm background. Or just use white. Try and get one twenty minute shot, or something.”

You reached for lube without thought, collecting the near-empty bottle of body oil beside it too, as you perused the options in front of you.

“Remind me to buy more of that,” Tom mused, sparing a glance to the bottles in your arms before standing beside you to peruse the options.

You nodded silently, your free hand rifling through bagged silicone toys, slightly in a daze as you picked out a few options. There was a slight blush dusted across Tom’s high cheekbones as he turned to see your arms full of dildos. You smiled as it took him a second to find words, and wondered how the hell he’d chosen to start a porn studio in the first place.

“Colour co-ordinated,” he commented, and you smiled, picking out yet another pink toy from the pile.

“Naturally,” you smiled, “I think that’s everything? Could we drag a mattress and pillows out?”

He nodded silently, already moving to manoeuvre the double mattress leaning against a wall in the props room. You rolled your eyes before helping, knowing he was being a gentleman, or whatever he called it. You called it putting his back out.

He rejected your help, so you grabbed as many pillows as you could, following him back into the main studio, privately smiling at the dramatic grunts he made trying to move the mattress. He tossed it to the ground with a grunt, shoving it into the corner of the room, before pausing again.

You dropped everything down on to it, toys, lube, pillows and all.

And then both of you waited.

It was so strangely intimate, just the two of you in the room, the strange nature of your relationship weighing heavy after last night’s miscommunication. Suddenly there was nothing you wanted to do less than take your clothes off.

“White sheets?”

“Hm?” you hadn’t processed what Tom said, too wrapped up in your own world, frowning down at the bare mattress.

“I was thinking white sheets.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

He was off, assigned another task, and you almost envied his distraction as you slowly sorted the pillows how you wanted, gathered the toys absentmindedly. Before Tom came back from the props closet you made yourself scarce, catching sight of his slim outline through the doorway. Facing away from you as he rummaged.

In the single bathroom of the studio you cleaned anything that would be going inside of you, avoiding your reflection, trying to shake off the odd nervousness coursing through your veins.

Why? It had been years since you felt this way before a shoot. Before you’d met Tom, even. Sure, shoots could be exciting, exhilarating, intimidating, but this self-consciousness, this self-doubt… it had come from nowhere.

You pressed your forehead to the mirror, closing your eyes, breathing deeply. The tap running sounded like a waterfall, the silicone under your fingers felt alien, the air almost claustrophobic as you wondered what the hell was wrong with you.

Tom was done making the bed when you got back, frowning at his phone until he heard you re-enter the studio space, quick to look up and see if you were happy with his set. You felt hyper-aware of him, of every movement he made, a clean towel and toys cradled in one arm as you took in the space. It was a simple premise, just a clean fitted sheet pillows in a corner, a clear space for you in the middle. You knew it would look good on screen. You knew this was an easy job.

You felt sick to your stomach.

“Do you want to face the camera? Or kind of, not acknowledge it?” Tom asked, speaking again as you forgot to reply, too caught up in your own mind. “Maybe if you ignore it that’s more… voyeuristic?”

“Sounds good,” you responded, kneeling to prepare your space. This was autopilot, your day job. You could do this.

“Right.”

He sounded a little put out by your response, but moved the camera anyway, switching to a knee-height tripod. You stood, stepped back to give him space, and frowning at the sudden headrush. You blinked, catching yourself staring at the flex of his arms as he moved the heavy equipment. You didn’t realise how long you had been staring into space until Tom called your name a second time, crossing into your personal space.

“Are you okay?”

Tom’s voice was so soft you wanted to cry, fingers hovering beside your bicep, his gentle eyes demanding for you to meet them, daring for you to lie while his face is so close to yours.

Somehow, the guilt of his worry made you feel worse.

“No, I’m…I’m being stupid. Sorry, just tired.”

“Did you not sleep well?”

“No, I, uh, I slept fine. I’m not sure. Just not really feeling it.”

His face fell, but you knew he wasn’t disappointed in you. He thought he’d done something wrong. Immediately you were talking, doing anything you could to soften his guilt.

“It’s my job, though. I can do it. This is great Tom, I think it’ll be a good shoot.”

“Sweetheart –”

You sighed, eyes falling to the mattress, before forcing a smile.

“Let’s get this over with!”

He looked like he wanted to argue with you, but you forced yourself to move, pulled your feet from the floor with far more effort than it ought to take. There was some comfort in rummaging through your own bag, that piece of home, something private from the studio. You found the vibrator you’d brought, a pink bullet you used almost exclusively at home, fully charged that morning. Behind you, Tom snorted in amusement.

“Nothing here is ever charged,” you shrugged off his stare, knowing damn well you didn’t have to explain yourself.

You wanted to explain anyway though. Just in case, Tom thought anything he did wasn’t enough. He seemed perfectly fine with the criticism, though you knew he was making a mental note. He always did, then you had something to say.

Trying not to make a big deal out of it, you stripped to your underwear, folding your clothes neatly and being careful not to show any self-consciousness in your posture. You’d never been ashamed or embarrassed before now, and you weren’t about to start. Even if it was just you, and a very well, fully dressed Tom. Vibrator clutched in your fingers, you finally sat on the damn mattress.

He was the other side of the camera now, somehow both distant and a few feet away. You found yourself staring at your body in the monitor, just watching. Tom’s voice broke you out of yet another daze, and you wanted to pinch yourself. Why couldn’t you do it today?

“We don’t have to do this today, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay I just… I forget it’s just us sometimes, you know? There’s such a production and so many people and at the end of the day…”

Tom smiled, a relief on his face that told you he had been feeling it too. That this was weird.

“I know what you mean. If you’re uncomfortable…”

“Just give me a second to warm up, we need to make something, after all.”

You stretched, not really sure why, moving a little around the nook Tom had created, shuffling pillows and practicing where you wanted to lie back, watching a monitor as Tom played with a soft lighting, twisting and turning to find the most flattering angles you could.

As he shuffled things around, Tom nodded to the spread of toys you’d set out. You’d added your vibrator to the pink line up, perfectly organised on the white towel.

“Do you want those in shot?”

You shrugged.

“Might be hot?”

He nodded silently. You moved the toys in to the frame, trying to blink away the cloud which had settled in your mind. The world felt foggy, your arms like they were moving through treacle, and you knew Tom had noticed.

As he prepared two directional microphones, you tried not to feel claustrophobic. The audio from the microphone he was pointing towards your pussy would be almost grotesque, and you fought not to shuffle further from it as you imagined Tom listening later, headphones in, as he balanced the levels between your moans and the wet sounds of you fucking yourself.

Fuck.

Why was this so different to a regular shoot?

You’d done solo shoots before. With Tom. And half-a-dozen other crew, you reminded yourself.

You caught sight of his curls above the monitor, face serious as he set everything up.

“Speak?”

“Testing, testing,” you spouted off nonsense until he offered you a thumbs up, happy with the audio.

Then there was nothing else to do.

He stood, looming over the equipment. And you looming over you.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, smiling at your frown. “You’re in charge here, I’m just the camera guy.”

You rolled your eyes, knowing he was trying to put you at ease.

“You’re the director,” you reminded him, knowing how he preened himself under the title.

You were impressed that his eyes had only roamed down your body once as he took in the shoot, glancing at the indulgent layout of toys, double checking the monitor, one headphone in. He had that stance he always adopted when he was directing, and you knew it was his favourite moment in any of this. The moment everything was pinned on him.

It happened so quickly you almost missed the moment he knelt down, blinking in surprise as his face remerged at your level beside the camera.

“Then my direction is: enjoy yourself. Forget I’m here. Let’s show them something real.”

He must have seen your shock, because it made him smile.

“Real?” you questioned, and he nodded firmly.

“I’m serious.”

For a beat, both of you were silent, his eyes meeting yours over the body of the camera.

“If you can,” he offered, “I understand it’s not always…”

You interrupted him with a hand, smiling your understanding of what he was saying, and dismissing it in one motion. The silence dragged on, and you decided to push this forwards. If you were done by lunch, Tom would probably insist on taking you somewhere nice.

“I don’t know if I should use – ” you ghosted a finger across the biggest toy, worrying a bottom lip between your teeth, “Simplicity might be key.”

“Do what you want, darling. What feels good.”

You nodded mutely, and for just a second you saw doubt flicker across his face. This was new territory, and even you weren’t sure if this was a step too far.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah. If I’m… actually… it might take a while. Let me know if I’m taking too long.”

“Take as long as you need, darling. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Tilting your head at him a little, you realised abruptly just how intimate this was. Moreover, that you wanted it anyway. That you were about to make him watch you cum. Make him hear you, smell you. He couldn’t touch, but he could watch.

And that was enough for you to perform.

Tom gave you a countdown, red lights peppered your field of view, and he was recording. He had taken a seat on the floor behind the camera set up, one headphone in to monitor audio, waiting.

You stayed sat up, back arched a little as your hands began to caress you own body, keeping on eye on the monitor while your face was out of the shot. You rubbed along your thighs, across your stomach, teasing at the lace of your bra and the elastic of your underwear each time you passed them, trailing your fingertips. It didn’t really feel like anything, doing this to yourself, but you knew to tease the camera. Tom would cut out anything too slow.

Your gaze remained firmly on the screen as you began to make your touches firmer, more deliberate, dragging lines into your skin and flirting with the camera. You admired the soft skin of your breasts as you started to shift your bra, enjoying the stiffening of your nipples in the monitor until –

The screen went black, and you immediately glanced at Tom, frowning as you lost the visual of yourself. He met your questioning gaze sternly, eyebrows furrowed, and you remembered his direction.

“Enjoy yourself.”

With nothing left to look at you closed your eyes, feeling the blood rushing to the surface of your skin, the sensitivity of your breasts as your fingers idly danced across them. You shoved your bra down unthinkingly, wanting to feel more, rubbing at the heaviness of your breasts and wincing as you enjoyed the pleasure and pain of pinching at your nipples, teasing them to attention. You glanced your nails across them, feeling it in your core. You didn’t want to wait anymore. Fuck the cameras.

It was hard to let to, to stop the delicious feeling of your fingers on your own breasts, but you forced yourself to free one hand, shoving off the bra, desperate to feel yourself without it. You knew you were grimacing, it wouldn’t be sexy, but you didn’t care. That was Tom’s problem.

You needed to touch yourself.

One hand reached below the waistband of your underwear, seeking out your clit, guided by a familiar ache. It was all you could focus on, your other hand forgotten, cupping your breast, the sensation vague and lost as your fingers found your clit. The sensation overwhelmed you as you shifted the hood, your body beginning to produce wetness. The room was a little cold, the air relieving against the heat of your bare skin, making your nipples peak as you leant back into the nest of pillows behind you.

You felt your stomach tense, a bolt of electricity tensing the muscles up and down your body as you brushed across your clit a little too hard. Your middle finger probed your pussy experimentally, slipping inside of you, quickly joined by a second as you played with the wetness there.

One, two, three pumps of your fingers inside you was enough for you to gasp, your eyes still closed against the bright lights as focused on nothing but feeling. No more fucking around.

You reached for your vibrator, hand knocking against the thick silicone toy lined up beside it, writhing as you pressed it against the fabric covering your clit. You cycled through the settings as fast as you could, still desperate for more stimulation.

More. It was on the highest setting. You wanted more.

Without moving the vibrator you shoved your underwear off, huffing as you kicked them away, not caring where they landed. The tip of the toy nudged against your clit exquisitely, and you froze.

There.

You thought about Tom watching you. The hot blood coursing through your body, the line up of toys just waiting to be shoved inside of you. The sensitivity of you clit as you held it against that perfect point. The air against your dripping, aching pussy. The muscles starting to clench, the rhythm of your body. Building, building, you didn’t fight the feeling.

This was what you wanted.

That warm familiarity of the vibrator on your clit, the runaway train of your thoughts, it was enough to drive you over the edge. You hadn’t realised the keening, groaning noises you were making until you heard them, pleasure leaving your lips as an afterthought.

You felt empty.

Blindly you reached out, sticky fingers finding the shaft of a toy you wanted, a smaller one you could take right now. A dollop of lube in the palm of your hand was all it would take, a few pumps of the toy enough to coat it, the excess lubricant smeared on the sheets. You didn’t care. Not your problem.

Without conscious thought, you were still rubbing yourself, two fingers absently making circles against your clit as you fidgeted to be able to take the dildo. You didn’t bother preparing yourself anymore. You were wet enough, and you wanted the stretch.

Needed it.

Needed to feel full.

You shoved the toy into yourself, gritted teeth and your spare hand grasping at your breast, giving the nipple a sharp pinch to interrupt the overwhelming feeling of that silicone pushing inside of you. Your walls were stretched open, a gasp reaching your ears as you felt a nudge against your cervix.

It wasn’t enough. You felt wild, desperate, as you sloppily pulled the toy from yourself and shoved it back in, clenching down and still needing more.

Your fingers found a larger toy, arousal and lubricant smearing across your body as you discarded the dildo which you had just been fucking yourself with, leaving it somewhere on the mattress, forgotten in favour of the bigger option. It was thick. Maybe, in your right mind, you wouldn’t have considered it. But instead you coated it in lube, squirting the clear liquid on to the tip and rubbing it down the toy, focusing on nothing but the need pulsing through your pelvis.

On the emptiness inside you, begging, pleading to be filled. It hurt, how much you wanted to be stretched out, to feel something pounding into you. You felt animalistic, desperate for anything. The last of your conscious thought was occupied by the need in your clit, the demand for friction, and you just didn’t have enough hands. It was impossible to think. When you finally sank down on the fake cock, leaning back, legs apart, gaze focused on nothing but your own swollen pussy, it was a relief. You gasped, then sighed, pushing another inch of the toy inside you. You felt stretched already, split in half, but you kept going. With each thrust, you took the silicone further inside of you until you felt the dull ache of the toy going too far.

Finally, that emptiness felt sated, and you stayed still, too stuffed to risk moving and too blissed out to care.

But you needed more.

Each bear down made the toy threaten to shift, and you didn’t have the brain power to thrust and pay attention to your aching clit. You moved gingerly, grabbing a pillow to straddle, holding the toy inside you as you hunted for your vibrator.

You couldn’t even lean too far to reach it, you were so full it ached. And it was delicious.

With the smooth plastic finally in your hand you leant back, ready to bring yourself to another orgasm. With a blink, you realised there was a tear tracking its way down your cheek, and you smiled to yourself.

And then you accidentally looked forwards. Your eyes met Tom’s. The camera. The lights. The switched off monitor.

You wanted to cry.

He was watching you directly, with those sharp blue eyes, one finger resting along his jawline, his usual calculating, wide stance replaced with one knee hugged to his chest as he sat on the concrete floor. He was watching you.

You. Stuffed full, straddling a pillow on the bed Tom had fucking made, covered in a mix of lube and your own arousal. That strange feeling from earlier came back full force.

God. He had seen you actually come. Without acting or cheesy lines or clever angles to hide the worst of your O-face. You could pretend to come, tell your male co-stars what a good time you’d had, follow direction, anything. But this was too real. And it was just you and Tom. In the corner of a huge studio, bright lights and cameras and –

Had he called cut? You wouldn’t have heard. Did he realise you’d lost control? That you had forgotten you were supposed to be acting and been so desperate and –

“You’re doing amazing.”

You smiled at him weakly, gasping as the toy inside you nudged your cervix as you fidgeted. You didn’t realise that you were awaiting direction until he spoke.

“Another one?”

His voice was a little throatier than usual, though you supposed he’d been quiet for a while. His eyes kept drifting from your face, and you wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as you did.

You nodded silently, closing your eyes, listening to the increasing pitch of the vibrator as you turned it up to its maximum setting.

The minutes stretched on as your orgasm built, little raises and falls of your hips accompanying that insistent buzz of your favourite vibrator, the toy inside you starting to ache as it stretched you apart. It was impossible to forget that Tom was watching you now. That his piercing gaze was on you. As a matter of professionalism, you tried to avoid looking up. You ignored the camera, fucked your body in the way you knew it would respond to, only half-faking it as you came a second time.

You moaned and groaned and gave the camera an indulgent few seconds of overstimulation, the vibrator pushed against your clit to make you writhe and shake. You pulled yourself off the dildo in a mess of arousal, played with yourself, showing off how stretched out you were.

Fingers swirling in the arousal inside of you, you sighed in relief when Tom called, “cut.”

Dropping the toy, you pulled your legs together, ignoring him for a second as you took deep breaths. Taking stock of your body, the residual pleasure and pain and stickiness. A lot of stickiness.

Tom took pity on you, shifting a softbox so you had a clear path out of the corner you were hemmed into.

“Go and have a shower,” he told you, the most softly-spoken command you’d ever heard.

Nonetheless, you followed orders. On weak legs, you indulged in as long as shower as you dared, cleaning up and then just… waiting. Trying to avoid the real world. When you finally opened the door, wrapped in a robe, you found your clothes folded outside. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but you thanked the universe for him anyway.

When you re-emerged you were fully dressed and feeling a lot more like yourself again. And, actually, quite proud of yourself. Tom’s busyness told you everything had been recorded properly, equipment moved and the mattress bare, leant against the wall.

“All good?” you asked, more to announce your presence than anything. He stopped moving, offering you a gentle smile.

“Perfect! I think it’ll be great. Do you want to go get lunch somewhere? To celebrate?”

Predictable as anything. The thought made your heart swell with fondness for him, his head tilt and excitement, his strange place here.

“I think I’ll just go home,” you tried to smile apologetically, but you could still feel the ache inside you, the dull oversensitivity of your clit against your underwear.

The embarrassment and excitement fighting in the fit of your stomach.

Tom nodded, clear understanding on his face. He held the door for you on the way out.

“Are you coming in tomorrow?” he asked, quietly, like you might run off if he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

Your bedroom fell silent as the vibrator stopped, the battery finally flat. You whined in disappointment, desperate for another orgasm. Your fingers replaced it instantly, rubbing, desperately pulling more wetness from the arousal weeping from you, but you were too oversensitive.

Panting, vision blurry, your thighs aching, you blinked away tears. You glanced at the nightstand. Tom hadn’t text you.

When you woke up the next morning your phone was dead. You’d forgotten to charge it last night, and leaving it in your room to charge offered a strangely peaceful morning. You had a few hours before you would be expected at the studio, and no work to do before then.

You indulged in spending time getting ready for the day, making a decent breakfast, doing a few chores you’d been putting off.

Processing what had happened yesterday.

In the clear light of day, you wondered if you ought to be embarrassed for the way you’d completely lost yourself at the shoot. The more you thought about it, the more you thought about it, the more you rationalised at you’d just followed Tom’s direction. Done what he’d asked. It had been intense, for sure, but you’d done what he’d asked. If anything you regretted the moment he’d had to speak, losing your nerve. You hoped he didn’t want pick-up shots today, you weren’t sure your body could take any more.

You thought about the night before, clearing up the scattered clothes and charging the vibrator you’d left strewn beside your bed, more ashamed of the images which had been conjured by your overactive imagination in the late-night privacy of your bedroom. You hated that everything you imagined was involved blue eyes. Distinctive curls. Pulling buttons from smart shirts and kissing along sharp cheekbones. Poor Tom. He didn’t need you overstepping that mark. And yet when you had closed your eyes, imagined you were under those lights again, all you could imagine was Tom. His creative gaze. Listening to the smoothness his voice leant to everything he said as he instructed you even more intimately than usual.

As you switched your phone back on, you forced the thoughts from your mind. They couldn’t follow you to the studio. The two of you had built something good. Something successful. The studio was doing well, you were both saving money away for the future, building your brands. You couldn’t screw that up now by imagining him like that. He trusted you. You trusted each other. Relied on one another.

You wondered if he ever fucked other actresses.

#lord forigve me for i have have rpf x reader #13atoms #fic #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fic #tom hiddleston imagine #this is a weird one #i think 2 more chapters maybe #lmk what you think!

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saffron-nova21 · 3 years

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X. Meeting the Team Pt. 2

The Next Chapter Masterlist

< Previous Chapter • You Are Here • Next Chapter >

Warnings: Strong language, a depiction of a panic attack and the reader's panic, mentions of Oikawa having a knee injury and panic attacks, reader yells at Kuroo.

A/N: By the way, please don't hate me for giving Kuroo a Camaro, I know literally nothing about cars, I'll call myself out so you don't have to.

Stepping out of Kuroo's sleek black 2013 Camaro, your eyes look at the large gym, the sound of volleyballs hitting hardwood floors bringing back memories for you. Glancing out of the corner of your eyes, towards your taller friend, you remembered the last time you'd walked into an unfamiliar gym. You'd met people who you'd made life-long friends with and he'd helped you get out of an awful situation.

Kuroo, Kenma, Lev, and... Well, really, the majority of the Nekoma High and Fukurōdani Academy volleyball clubs... They'd helped you realize when you needed to put your foot down and start looking out for yourself, rather than worrying about stepping on people's toes. While yes, you had lost two of the most important people in your life, by doing so, you also met quite a few people who truly were looking out for you and your happiness.

Did you hate Atsumu and Suna for the way they treated you? No. They both did a lot of damage, through their words and actions. But, at the end of the day, you'd all been so much younger and you weren't going to waste the rest of your life, hating people who weren't even in the picture, anymore. Or so, you thought.

You didn't ever intend or want to see them again, after the emotional turmoil they'd put you through. Little did Kuroo know just how badly you would respond to seeing them again.

"Are you going to stand there and keep reminiscing over when you met me, or are you going to walk inside and make some new friends?" The teasing smirk on Kuroo's lips only reminded you of the fact that even though he was pretty much a mother to you and Kenma, he was a teasing asshole. He knew how to press all of the right buttons and it would never fail to piss you off.

Walking forward, Kuroo walks forward and grasps the handle of the door, opening it for you. You don't hesitate to begin walking into the gym, flipping Kuroo off on your way. "You talk to me like a preschooler, y'know. And you wonder why Kenma calls you mom behind your back."

Stepping into the gym, you were in awe of your surroundings. Sure, this was an Olympic-level gym, but it looked far too pretty and clean to be a place for as grueling a training regimen as you could assume these athletes were put through.

What you were most pleased to find was that it didn't reek of sweat and floor mats. Instead, it had an almost fresh smell to it. It was partitioned up into three different rooms, as far as you could tell. The largest room was the one you were standing in currently, a weight room; different machinery is scattered neatly around the room and you notice that several ceiling-to-floor mirrors are lining the walls for the boys to observe their form while they work. Across from the door you'd just entered through was a wall of glass, which you could only hope was reinforced, and on the other side was a true volleyball gym, where you could see a few people working on their spikes, even if you couldn't quite make out who they were yet. The last room was closed off and much smaller than the other two, so you assumed it to be where the showers and changing room were located.

"Your highness!" You hear a familiar voice, turning to see Iwaizumi approaching you with a snarky grin, a small white towel hanging from around his neck. He wore a sleeveless grey shirt, only bringing more attention to his defined biceps. Sweats drip down his temple and you find yourself a bit embarrassed when you notice his lip still shows signs of the damage you'd done, the day prior. "So kind of you to finally join us."

Despite the lack of a real smile on his face, one of your own tugged at your lips, knowing that he was only teasing you. "You know, Iwa, you could always just admit that you missed me." Sending a wink his way, you notice that a few of the men are stopping what they're doing to look towards you, their attention captured by how loud Iwaizumi had previously been.

"Baby owl!" You can only brace yourself as you hear the former captain shout to you, knowing he was one for hugs. You didn't quite expect to be scooped up off of your feet. Laughter escapes you as Bokuto spins you around, practically bouncing up and down in joy that you were here. "You missed my spikes, earlier! They were so good, they were so good! They even would have made Akaashi proud!"

As Bokuto places you back down on the ground, some of the other boys are starting to approach, a few looking concerned by the way you gripped Bokuto's shoulder to steady yourself. And though you weren't paying attention to who it was, the three who'd been in the area of the gym and net had entered the weight area and gone for their towels and water bottles.

After you manage to shake yourself out of your dizzied state, you look at Bokuto with a smile. "Yeah, Bo? Well, you'll have to show me some more, later, yeah?"

Feeling a hand on your shoulder, you spot Iwaizumi staring at you, brows pinching together in slight concern for your wellbeing. He places a bottle of water in your hands, before looking a the excited, silver-haired volleyball player, "Let's be careful, Bokuto. It's only their first day."

"They're looking a little dizzy, Bokuto. You might want to refrain from doing that in the future." The deep voice catches you off-guard, eyes flicking towards the very, very tall, scary man, now standing beside Bokuto.

He wasn't just tall, but he had quite a lot of muscle to his frame, giving him the build of a fucking giant. With wide eyes, you look him over. Despite his size, upon closer examination, he seemed a lot gentler than you might've previously mistaken him for. Kind eyes like that didn't belong to someone who would snap you in two... Right? Your eyes move away from his face, trailing down his body. From strong-looking biceps to defined thighs, the man seemed like a machine, more than anything. He couldn't actually be real, right?

"The fuck are you guys feeding him? Holy shit, hi there, B-F-G." You nod towards him, "Is your hair green or brown, because I'm looking at it and I'm gonna be honest, it's confusing me about as much as that Karasuno kid's did. Holy shit, I think I'm haunted by those memories." A mock shudder runs down your spine.

While Bokuto and Kuroo are used to your trailing off-topic, Ushijima looks confused, the poor thing. "What is a... B-F-G?"

"Big friendly giant. It's what they used to call this tall-ass first year who went to volleyball club with us, as well. You should feel special, Ushiwaka."

"Oh my fuck, Yaku, is that you? You got taller! That's criminal. You were my short king!" A pout graces your lips, while you step forward to give your old friend a large hug.

While Yaku hasn't found himself looking an insane amount taller, he did gain a bit of height since his time in high school. He stood in front of you, a hand resting on the back of his neck and his shoulders drawn back. He'd always had this feel-good, confident aura about him and it was something you'd always deeply respected about him. It was good to see that hadn't gone away.

After a brief hug, Yaku opens his mouth to speak, only for Kuroo to beat him to it. "I thought that was Kenma?"

Sighing, you roll your eyes. "I had to put Kenma in a different bracket, or else he would very easily surpass all of you in everything. I mean come on now, this is Kenma we're talking about," you muse with a self-satisfied smirk, making Kuroo raise an eyebrow.

Though, unbeknownst to you were the thoughts going through Kuroo's head. If only you knew why Kenma did all of the things that he did for you.

"I'm so excited to be working with you guys," a grin makes its way onto your lips as you clasp your hands together in front of you in excitement.

The smile that spread over your lips was contagious, even making Ushijima crack a small smile of his own. Out of anyone Kuroo had known, even with your aggression and the talking you'd do when you got excited, you were one of those people who people couldn't help but find themselves drawn to. And none of the men in the gym were able to quite explain why they found you as endearing as they did. Maybe it was the fact that you most certainly had no filter, whatsoever.

Bokuto places his hands on your shoulders, looking at the others on his team, "They're such a good player, guys! They could have gone pro if they wanted to! They have the best jump-float I've ever seen!" His loud bragging unknowingly catches the attention of the three final members of this group, who'd been caught up in conversation and getting a drink of water.

Yaku juts his chin out a bit and if you hadn't known him as well, you'd have thought the look he gave you was downright scrutinizing. But, being the person you were, and him being the person he was, you knew that he only took Bokuto's words as a challenge. "Oh yeah? Then that should be good practice for our receivers and I."

"If you needed service aces to practice on, you could have just asked, Mori! I wouldn't have minded helping you out, outside of my work hours." You smile as you look towards the libero, "I've been needing to get out of the apartment, for a while. Even Kenma can only handle so much of my dumbass."

Ushijima's curiosity gets the best of him and he cocks his head to the side, wondering what profession you'd chosen, rather than a career in volleyball. And so, yet again, Yaku is beaten to the chase, Ushijima speaking before the smaller man can get his mouth open. "What do you work as?"

"Youtuber some days, but twitch streamer, more often than not." Shrugging your shoulders, you continue to smile, "My roommate got me into it, actually, and from there, it became a profession for the both of us. Though he's got a dozen other jobs as well, it's pretty amazing."

A hand comes to ruffle your hair and after quickly identifying it as Kuroo's you lean into the display of affection. "We're talking about you, not Kenma."

"Speaking of," Bokuto speaks, even though it has nothing to do with the topic at hand, and his hands come up to guide your shoulders in the direction of the gym, "You need to set for me!"

Iwaizumi raises his eyebrows, looking impressed, "You can set, as well?"

Nodding excitedly, you dive into an explanation, stopping before Bokuto can steal you away, "Yeah, I play a lot of different positions, actually. My ex-boyfriend was a middle blocker, my childhood friends were a setter and a spiker, and my older brother was an outside hitter - plus, he was amazing at defense, so he helped me a lot with perfecting my service aces when I played in high school. So you can say I was always a well-rounded player."

"Not to mention that you and that ex-boyfriend of yours were almost unbeatable, together. Almost." A warily familiar voice came from behind you, making you look back and grin from ear to ear.

The germaphobe had hardly changed, since high school. He was as tall as ever with a good build to him - only befitting for a volleyball player. As well kept as ever, he stood in front of you, reminding you of the number of times you'd ended up facing him across a net, years before. Though, unlike back then, now you were able to look towards one another for a friendship rather than a healthy rivalry.

"Why if it isn't Sakusa Kiyoomi. It's been forever!" With a questioning glance thrown your way by none other than Bokuto, you explain. "When I was at Inarizaki, we played against Itachiyama all of the time. Kiyoomi and I traded numbers after we bonded over our hatred of large crowds."

Sakusa lets a small uncharacteristic smile slip onto his lips as he glances towards Bokuto, "We haven't really kept in contact, but they'll be a welcome challenge, on the court, again."

"Is that a certain germaphobe of ours... Smiling? Omi! I didn't know you could do that! I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks!"

That voice. Why was he here? Your body goes stiff underneath Bokuto's touch, making the large male draw back to check on you, eyebrows pulled together in concern, until he spots what, or rather who you're staring at.

Because there the two are, standing in all of their glory. Suna Rintarō and Miya Atsumu. They didn't look all that different from the last time you'd seen them. Even though, it'd been what? Nine years?

By the way you go rigid, Suna's eyes drop to the floor, almost guiltily. It had been nine years and you still hated them. Though, he supposed they both deserved it. When you'd told them that you were leaving Inarizaki, they made your life even worse than what it had been. They gave you absolutely every reason to leave, rather than try to convince you to stay.

Before anyone can say anything, you catapult yourself into the air in an attempt to flee the building, much resembling a cat. You just, bolted in the first route you saw working and that was apparently through the air. Kuroo had to jerk you into his chest before you could face-plant to get you to calm down for a second. Sakusa narrowed his eyes as he looked between Suna and Atsumu - had they really been so awful to you?

"I quit. I'm not gonna do it." Your words sounded childish, you knew that but you didn't care, shaking your head as you pull yourself away from Kuroo, having half a mind to leave and not talk to any of the men here ever again. Well, more two of them, than anything else. Though, as you pull away, it dawns on you: was this why he had been so dead-set on you coming to 'help the team out?' With this question in mind, you turn around to face Kuroo. "Did you know they were going to be here?" When he doesn't respond, you feel your breath catch in your throat. The air you were breathing felt heavy inside your chest. He couldn't do that to you - he wouldn't. You flex your hands a bit - everything wasn't actually crumbling. Just remember what Kenma said... Breath...

You can't find the words or guts to continue until he reaches for you, anger quickly rising. What made him think he had any right to comfort you when he'd put you in this situation? "Do you not remember any of what happened in high school? Do you not remember how he," pointing a dramatic finger at Suna, "manipulated me? How bad he hurt me, more than once?"

"Do you not remember what he let happen?" After pointing towards the faux-blonde briefly, you drop your hand back to your side, "Oh no, I forget, you weren't there to see the damage they did, right? Because you went off to University and forgot all about Kenma and me, until we got out of high school, as well, right? Right?" You were hardly able to speak, trying to catch your breath in between words. Your voice was growing faint and strained, due to your lack of oxygen in your lungs.

You knew that everyone's stare was on you, only worsening your panicking. Your hands come to your shirt, wringing the ends of it as you try to ground yourself. But you couldn't stop. You just kept talking, needing Kuroo to understand why you were angry, why you were upset. He needed to understand what you were feeling and what he had done.

"You left me, with strangers, in a big city, after promising me it would all be okay. I wasn't welcomed back with my grandmother and brother, after the falling out. But did you even bother to check up, once, after you left? Did you even care, after promising me it was going to be okay? Come on, give me an answer, huh?" You weren't quite sure what brought up all of these old feelings. Maybe it was having to see the two that caused you all of that distress. "Fuck you, Tetsurō."

Kuroo couldn't deny the fact that he was surprised by the way you lashed out at him. He was wondering where all of this anger had been, years ago. Why hadn't you or Kenma ever said anything to him about this? He was fumbling, no words would escape him, no matter his efforts to get something out.

An uneasy silence hangs in the air for a few long moments, everyone looking between you and the former Nekoma captain. Truthfully, you'd never really dealt with everything that had happened, emotionally. You just kind of shoved it down and distracted yourself with being at a new school and video games.

"Bokuto, take Miya, Ushijima, and Suna and go and practice on the court, for a while." A firm voice saves Kuroo from having to respond, making everyone look towards the athletic trainer. "Yaku, I think you should escort Kuroo out. I'll take Y/N home, today." Iwaizumi walks over to you, looking at Sakusa, "Go get me a cool, damp towel, okay?"

You aren't quite sure if Kuroo leaves willingly, or if Yaku has to force him out, but you don't really care, at the moment. Iwaizumi places an arm around your shoulders and brings you over to a bench to sit on, uncapping a water bottle for you. He crouches down in front of you and hands it to you. "Hey, look at me. It's going to be okay, can you focus on breathing for me, right now?"

You weren't crying, were you? Why was it so hot in here? Why couldn't you just calm down? Everyone was looking at you, weren't they? Had you acted irrationally? They were going to hate you for being so dramatic, weren't they? So much for a good first impression with the boys...

"Did you hear me?" Iwaizumi's voice cuts through your thoughts, making your eyes shift to his. Without a word, you move your eyes back down to the water bottle in his hands, "Breath, Y/N."

Easier said than done. "Al -," you swallow shakily and nod, "Alright."

You move your eyes away from him - bad idea Y/N. When you spot the men glancing over at you while they distractedly get to work, you don't quite register that they wanted to check on you, because they were worried about you, mistaking it, instead, for judgment. You opt for closing your eyes, tapping your fingers together rhythmically to help you calm yourself down.

Looking you over, Iwaizumi is reminded of all the late practices that he would find Oikawa collapsing from exhaustion or due to his knee injuries. Though, Oikawa only got this bad when he held the weight of not making it to nationals on his shoulders. Was this a panic attack that you were having, like Oikawa use to have? Or was it something else? He noticed you reach out to him, after a moment of his thinking, and he offers you a hand, silently nodding when you flash him a grateful, weak, but grateful, smile.

Slowly, your breathing mellowed out and the tears pricking your eyes slipped down your cheeks, your head hanging as you attempt to withdraw your hand from Iwaizumi. Though, your eyes move back up when he gently grips your hand, holding it in his, still. It isn't long after that when you feel nimble fingers grip your chin, tilting it up so that Sakusa can gently pat your cheeks and face with the cool cloth. You knew he didn't like touching people much and you were tempted to tell them that they didn't have to do this for you. But their touch was so gentle and their presence so calming that you couldn't bring yourself to open your mouth.

Instead of saying anything, you relax against Iwaizumi and Sakusa's touch. Normally it was Kenma who'd be doing this for you, just as you'd do it for him, but Kenma wasn't here, right now. And you were left to depend on yourself and these very kind, very gentle men.

It doesn't take Yaku long to make his way over, sitting on the bench behind you and gently rubbing circles against your back. "You okay there?" He asks you after a few moments of silence.

Letting out a breath, you open your eyes and nod. You pull your hand away from Iwaizumi and pull your head from Sakusa, turning from them, "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

Though, you aren't expecting Sakusa to grasp your chin once again and tilt your head in their direction again, "You aren't and we all know it, so cut the act."

Yaku sends a glare towards the taller man, "Sakusa!"

"What?" He snaps back. "I'm right, aren't I? They're not okay and they have every right to express it."

Iwaizumi sighs and looks at you, ignoring the other two, "Drink some water, okay? Look, after today, you don't have to return, I think we'll all understand if you don't want to... But, and you can ignore what I'm about to say if you want, I think that you need closure. Even if that comes from just having to tolerate occupying the same building as them."

Glancing over his shoulders, you find Suna and Atsumu both glancing in your direction. They looked so guilty... Why did you care? You frown and give him a shrug, "Whatever..."

Looking at you, Yaku nods slowly, "We'll try and keep you away from them, alright?"

After a nod of confirmation from Sakusa, you sigh and take a sip of the water bottle Iwaizumi had offered you. "Okay. Fine, yeah, I'll... I'll keep helping out." You confirm. "But, I'm going to bring Kenma for the next few days, just to make sure... This doesn't happen again." Gesturing to where the three sat, doting over you, you lower your eyes again.

"Whatever is going to make you feel most comfortable," Iwaizumi tells you, bringing a hand to affectionately ruffling your hair, watching the way you immediately lean into the affection.

"Let's get to work, what do you say, Y/N?" Sakusa hums, tone surprisingly gentle with you.

You finally stand up, capping your water bottle. "Yeah... Yeah. What can I do for you boys?"

Kenma and you both have a history of having panic attacks and you both are very good at calming one another down, due to your years of experience.

The boys might have just met you, but they all quickly developed this sense of 'I need to protect them' after what happened in front of them.

Atsumu let someone blackmail you, while you were both in high school and Suna continuously used you for his own amusement after he lost his memories and before he got them back. And they both said hurtful things when you announced you'd be leaving.

I am so sorry for how late this was, honestly. I just couldn't get it written how I wanted it. And even still, I don't really like the end result. But no matter, here it is, now, I hope you guys enjoy it. I hope you guys are having a great day, as well! Remember, sweetheart, I'm proud of you. You deserve to eat, get a good amount of sleep, and drink some water, I am so proud of you. Have a great day, alright! I'll have another chapter out tomorrow 🤍 I love you guys.

General Taglist:

@kookie-doughs @halesandy @ermahgerd-larry-and-ziam @its-the-aerieljeane @onlyonew @kac-chowsballs @saltylettuce @thathoneybee3 @daninaninani @akkeyomi @vintagexparker

The Next Chapter Taglist:

@anime-meme-sanctuary @nachotrash @haijkk @maadaaaa @prettyinblack231 @sakusasimpbot @kellesvt @bebetiny @ash-levi @calumsfringe @z3ld4 @erinoikawa @bandaged-despair @chaseyui @atria-avior @just-that-bi-girl @one-simp-more @hxked @universalmay @himboos

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

Dreams, Chapter 18

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 18

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4326

Summary: Dean gets a better sense of what Sam and the reader’s new life is like.

Warnings: FLUFF, swearing

Barbie opens the door with an honest to god plate of pigs in a blanket as though she just had them going and you have to remind yourself you’re in a dream. “What a nice surprise! Come in, come in. And who’s this?” she asks, hugging Sam with one arm while holding onto the plate and offering for you to take one. It’s as buttery and salty as you ever could’ve hoped.

“This is, uh, this is my brother Dean.”

“Well hello, Dean! What a handsome pair you two are.” She offers the plate to the brothers. Dean grabs two with a pincher, tossing both in his mouth. Sam politely takes one as Barbie yells over her shoulder. “Mike, we have company!” She motions for you three to follow her into the house and Sam has to practically clothesline his brother to get him to take his shoes off before he trails blindly after the plate full of sausage.

Mike stands up from one of those leather armchairs, folding back the magazine he’s reading to greet Sam with a bear hug. “This is my brother Dean,” Sam offers as Mike hugs you with decidedly gentler back pats than he had for Sam. Dean holds his hand out as if to shake but Mike curves his big paws around Dean’s shoulders and pulls him in for a hug with enough force that Dean almost falls into him.

“You didn’t say anything about a brother!” he bellows to Sam over Dean’s shoulder.

Sam and you both freeze, and you can only speak for yourself but you suspect Sam is also worried Dean will be upset to hear that. Instead, finally released from Mike’s binding embrace, Dean rocks back to holding up his own weight with a big smile. “Crazy private, these two, right? You’d think they were in the witness protection program.” For another second you’re worried about how you’ll do damage control, how you’ll talk to them about Dean after this, and then you remember this isn’t actually Mike and Barbie, they won’t actually remember anything.

Mike leans into Dean conspiratorially. “You can say that again. Now, what can I get you three to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having works for me, sir,” Dean answers, charming as ever with his most clean-cut smile.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” Mike laughs, heading over to the kitchen where Barbie is fiddling with something in the oven. He fills a row of pint glasses with dark beer out of a growler you know is the extremely strong beer he brews himself and hands one to his wife with a kiss on her cheek, motions for you and the Winchesters to each take one. “To a pleasant surprise and finding out there’s another man in the world like Sam.”

“I think you mean another man like me,” Dean says cheerfully as you all clink your glasses together.

“So you’re older?” Barbie asks, handing Sam a stack of plates to go make the table with.

“Four years, yeah. It was easier to tell when I had a foot on him.” Dean reaches up to ruffle his baby brother’s hair, and Sam generously waits a half-second before swatting his hand away with a sheepish flush.

“A foot? Really? I wouldn’t have thought anyone would ever have had a foot on this behemoth,” Mike laughs, catching Sam with a jokey punch to his bicep when he comes back for silverware.

“Oh, yeah. Sam was a little squirt until he was like 17.” Dean continues.

“How’s Luke’s basketball team doing?” Sam asks, color rising in his cheeks and desperate to have the focus shifted off of himself.

Barbie grants his wish with a knowing smile. “Going to the playoffs! He’s very excited.” She hands Sam a huge bowl of salad to carry to the table and takes out a hot casserole dish from the oven.

“They do playoffs for middle school?” you ask, about to trail into the dining room after Barbie with Sam and Mike like a chain of ducklings. Dean stops you with a hand on your arm.

“It’s going to make it weird if you’re not yourself with him,” he mutters, low so the Kaisers and Sam won’t hear. “I’m okay, kid, I promise. This is…awesome, but I know you’re holding back. You don’t have to.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You touched Sam more when I was topside and we were together. You’d think he has leprosy the way you’re dodging him now.”

“Dean, we’re always going to be togeth—”

He rolls his eyes in frustration. “Okay, fine, yeah, we’re together now. But you know what I mean.”

You bite your lip. “I thought they’re just my mind’s projections, who cares if they think it’s weird.”

“Babe.” He holds firm, his gaze steady.

“Jesus, Dean, it is weird, okay? The whole thing is bizarre!” Your whisper has turned into a bit of a hiss and he glances to the dining room to make sure you haven’t caught anyone’s attention.

He wraps his fingers around your hand and swipes an arc into it, looking down as he does. “I know it is, I’m sorry. Can you try, just a little bit? The whole thing is only going to get less awkward if we keep at it.”

“Fine, yeah. I’ll try.”

Dean holds your eyes for a moment, not seeming to buy it, before staring back at his feet. “For you it’s a dream but this—this is the closest I’m going to get; to being part of your lives. I just—I just kinda want it to be as close as it can be, you know? If you’re acting different then it’s not really—”

“Understood.” You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat, willing it to dissolve, not about to keep feeling sorry for yourself when he’s clearly putting so much aside to be present.

Too quickly for you to react Dean lifts your hand to his lips, and the warmth of the kiss on your skin sends a shudder through you. He follows you into the dining room, where Sam and the Kaisers are about to sit down. You grab the seat next to Sam, leaving the head of the table opposite Barbie for Dean as the new guest.

“You okay?” Sam asks, quietly enough you’re sure you’re the only one who can hear it.

You squeeze his thigh reassuringly under the table. “Yeah, definitely.”

Dean catches your eyes to give you a meaningful look that makes you swallow again, and before you can think about it you’re sliding your hand around Sam’s neck, looping him down to kiss him on the cheek. Sam’s cheeks flush pink as the corner of his mouth tries to tug into a smile and it’s so impossibly cute that you’re not faking your subsequent smile for Dean’s sake.

Both Barbie and Dean smirk thoughtfully at the two of you before pretending to be engrossed in the salad she’s passing to him. “So, Dean! We heard your families were friends before these two got together; was it one of those things that you always knew was going to happen?”

Sam chokes on a sip of beer, trying his best to cough with his mouth closed to keep the sputtering to a minimum. You think you’re probably the only one who catches the flair of joyful ribbing behind Dean’s eyes as he pretends to be concerned.

“Aw, I remember my first drink. All good over there, Sammy?”

His little brother strains to stop, his voice sounding as rough and cracked as if he’d spent 50 days breathing sand. “Yep. Wrong pipe, sorry.” He gives a closed-mouth smile of reassurance to his hosts that makes him look like a kid.

Dean turns to Barbie, smile smooth and charming as anything. “You know, it’s funny you ask that. When we were younger, I was the one with the crush on her.”

You probably should’ve guessed Dean would pull some kind of jokey shit like this but you’re still thankful that the Winchesters aren’t sitting close enough to kick each other’s legs under the table. As it is, you give a grin you hope seems warm and not tense.

Mike finishes chewing a huge bite and nudges Dean’s arm with his elbow playfully. “I hope there’s no jealousy there.”

“Ah, you know how it is. You grow up, things happen.” And if that isn’t the damn understatement of the century. “Couldn’t ask for a better girl to take care of my baby bro.”

“Well I think that’s pretty damn sweet. Barb’s sister hated me until I drove to Wausau on Thanksgiving Day to change a blown-out tire for her. We’d already been married six years!”

Barbie rolls her eyes across the table at Sam, mouthing “not true,” with an easy smile.

“I think that’s worth a drink,” Mike emphasizes, raising his beer. “To the best girl for—what’d you call him? Somehow I can’t imagine He-Man over here ever being a ‘Sammy.’”

You raise your own drink with everyone else and Dean catches your eye with an iridescent twinkle as he repeats the toast. “To the best girl.”

The rest of dinner is the exact emotional and literal comfort food you always get from the Kaisers, a respite from the world in the best way. As you had suspected he would, Dean gets along perfectly with them, falling into a good-natured ribbing of Sam borne of admiration with Mike and charming Barbie within an inch of her life. Dean tells stories about Sam as a little kid that you know are really far more embarrassing than the version he shares, and hearing Dean edit to idealize Sam for the Kaisers even as an eight year old makes you want to melt into the floor.

You pretend to be tired too early in the evening, feeling selfish and wanting the boys all for yourself. Being handed a Tupperware of leftovers reminds you this isn’t real; the futility of carrying them a flash in the evening that you’ve otherwise forgotten won’t last.

Standing in the doorway, Sam’s already on the porch when Barbie stops Dean as he’s following you out. Quietly, trying for privacy, she says to him, “Honey, I am so glad we got to meet you. We worry about these two being all by themselves, but knowing they’ve got you looking out for them is going to help me sleep a little more soundly tonight.”

Dean covers her hand where she has his arm and looks at her with soft doe eyes. “You have no idea how much I could say the same to you.”

They hug for a beat longer than necessary and then Dean’s right at your side, trailing after Sam’s long legs down the road to your cabin.

It’s hard not to think it’s purposeful, Sam going ahead to let you walk with Dean on the way back. Dean flicks a side of his jacket away from his body and you slide in there like you always did, warmed by the pre-contained heat coming off of him and giggling when he kisses the top of your head. “Man, I guess some things never change,” he murmurs, breath spilling over your hair. “You even move to the damn arctic and still don’t get any warmer coats.”

He’s feeding you the intro to an old script but you don’t have the heart to tease back, just snuggling up to him and walking to the cabin together feeling the familiar way the muscles in Dean’s side move against you as he does. Sam doesn’t even look back and it’s so unlike him not to check that you’re there that then you know definitively he’s giving you a moment together. “I miss you, baby.”

“Kid, I’m right here.”

You peer up at him. “Don’t be a dick.”

He glances down at you bundled against him. “I miss you too. But I see you guys all the time; it’s like nothing changed.”

The reflex to laugh bitterly doesn’t fit the moment but you can’t stop it. “Right. My mistake.”

His jaw muscles tighten to a ball for a whisper of a beat. “I need you to fucking work with me here, babe. I know this is not ideal but it’s so much more than anyone else gets and I gotta be honest, you’re being kind of a bitch about it.” You kick your eyebrows up on your forehead, both disbelieving and challenging. Dean realizes the mistake borne of his frustration immediately. “Not a bitch, that’s not what I mean, sorry. A baby. You’re being a baby.”

“A baby?”

He stops you both. Sam’s already about halfway up the driveway. “Listen, I know that you’re—I don’t know, mad. At me for not being here, the way things happened, whatever. But it’s done. It’s over. No one else in the fucking world gets this, gets to have it both ways, visit like I’m just a town away. You get to see me, I get to see you guys, pretty much whenever we want.”

A few tears start collecting in the wells of your eyelids, indignance or grief or both. You try to blink them back but when one falls, lightning fast and stupid like Wil E. Coyote running out over the edge of a cliff, Dean brushes it away with a swipe of his thumb. “I get it. I miss you too, all the fucking time. I miss the way things could’ve been; I miss shit I didn’t even have, you know? I miss this fucking cabin, believe it or not—I—we all could’ve lived in a cabin like this together. We—maybe we could have had kids or something, couple of little girls to braid Uncle Sammy’s hair, the fuck do I know? But at some point I had to accept what I do have, and you do too.”

You look over his shoulder, not wanting to meet Dean’s eyes or the truth that’s there. He’s right, but that doesn’t make the bottomless pit of greed for more of him go away. “Sam’s going to be waiting for us.”

“Don’t deflect. It doesn’t have to be this second, but you have to get good with this. Today—tonight, whatever—was pretty damn near perfect and you’re upset because you want something that doesn’t exist.” He flicks his gaze up the driveway to confirm it’s empty; Sam’s already inside. His jaw is still tight but his eyes are tender and fuzzy, the same way he looks when he’s tired. When they lock onto yours, you can feel them sear straight into you, heating you up slow like an Easy Bake oven. “But right now you’re going to kiss me like it’s the first time. Then we’re going to head in, and you’re going to act like I know you’ve been with Sammy, sappy freaks that you both are, I’m going to have a few drinks with my brother, and we’ll tell the same stupid stories you’ve heard a hundred times.”

That’s finally enough to make you chuckle and you venture an arm out of the protective embrace he has on you to take his chin in your hand, thumb on that perfect indent as you catch Dean’s lips with yours. It’s soft and delicate, a thank you and a reminder and a memory at once. His lashes catch a shadow when he opens his eyes, and you hold them for a long second. “I thought you said like our first kiss—you didn’t even try to jam your tongue down my throat.”

Dean rolls his eyes through a smile and a part of your mind flares with victory knowing you’ve made it past the bramble patch of emotion. “I was like twenty, can’t blame a guy for trying. You couldn’t have been that mad; you still let me get under your shirt the next day.”

You laugh hard, letting it ring out along the driveway as you tug Dean to the house with your fingers interlinked in his.

Sam is pouring a few fingers of bourbon into three little juice glasses when you walk in, and you grab one right off the counter without breaking your stride, tossing it back and offering it to Sam. “Hit me.”

He smirks and obliges as you slide a hand to his lower back. There’s a half beat of hesitation before he leans back that inch or two into your palm like he always does, but what’s more important in that moment is that he still does, and without flushing. Sam and Dean both grab their glasses and you don’t remember the last time you’ve done this many toasts in a night that weren’t at the bar following a Packers win.

“To you two morons finally figuring this shit out,” Dean says, raising his glass.

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam grins. For a beat you can see in his eyes the unbridled admiration he has for his brother, the complete devotion and deep grain of grief he’ll never be free of even if he can see Dean like this every day for the rest of forever. You wonder if you had truly realized the way it flared in his eyes before everything. All three of you sip at your whiskeys together, and you have to fight to keep your mouth closed through a petite yawn.

Sam tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear and lets you lean into the wall of his body, wrap your hand around to his side. His hand moves to envelop your shoulder, thumb swiping absentmindedly back and forth. It’s nothing, genuinely less physical affection than you used to show Sam most of the time when you and Dean were two halves of a living couple like he’d pointed out to you earlier, but the most important thing is that it feels okay. More than anything it feels like being at the bar, the ‘aren’t they so cute’ on Dean’s face the same one that you get at work only made different by how much you wish you were somehow able to tuck up under Dean’s arm at the same time.

A couple drinks and a while later you’re sprawled on the couch, head laid back on the armrest. One foot is tucked under Sam’s thigh where he sits next to you and one rests on top of his lap, a large, warm palm gently wrapped around your shin. The living room—area in the non-bedroom-or-bathroom-space in the cabin where you’ve put a couch, armchair, and rocking chair you’ve grown fond of, really—is small enough that Dean’s knees, extended and one crossed over the other where his feet are on the coffee table, are right by your shoulder, absentminded slow rocking of the maple chair he’s on not quite matching the pace of the hand he has playing with your hair. You’re close to drifting off, and isn’t that weird, that you would get sleepy in a dream, but listening to Sam and Dean is so relaxing. They’re talking about the few weeks they stayed in Bar Harbor as kids, running around Acadia National Park like it was their own personal playground and swimming in freezing cold Atlantic waters, creating all kinds of imaginary games in spite of even Sam being maybe a touch too old for it, by then.

It’s warm; Sam has put a couple logs on the fireplace, trying to hide how eager he is to show his brother all the repairs he’s done to the cabin. More than that, you realize suddenly, it finally feels like home, Dean’s appraisal the baptism that it needed to make you feel safe enough here to approach sleep so casually without Sam’s body as physical protection. Dean’s hand wraps around to cradle your head and he leans over to whisper in your ear. “It’s okay, you can fall asleep.”

You shake your head loose of a little of the drowsiness. “No, I—we’re in my head, it’ll be over if I—” you murmur, waking up even more as you talk.

Sam’s hand moves up and down your shin reassuringly. “It’s okay. We have a greenhouse filled with dream root now, we can come back all the time.”

“Well, not all the time,” Dean amends. “You guys have to get out there, not become sleep junkies. Once, twice a month or something.”

“Oh good, a standing appointment. Like the dentist,” you say, rolling your eyes around a bitter smirk and killing the rest of your drink. Sam smiles softly and looks up at Dean, silently willing him to be the one to argue with you.

Dean takes the bait, sliding his hand out of your hair to prop his elbows on his knees. You sit up straighter to be able to fully see his face.

“Babe, come on, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Sam and I have seen what happens to people who get hooked on this shit, take it every day. It’s a risk to do it even every couple weeks.”

“You haven’t even explained to me how this works—do I have to decide to wake up or will it happen by itself?”

“It’ll be a natural transition if you don’t consciously decide to,” Sam offers, voice quiet and smooth like you’re some victim’s family member he’s trying to soothe. You let him do it, stop yourself from rankling defensively and appreciate for a second how nice it sounds, how comforting it really is. “Most likely it’ll get easier to control it with a little practice, but I think Dean’s right, if you go to sleep that’ll probably do it a little more, uh, gently.”

Sam’s eyes reflect the firelight as they do every time he sits in that spot on the couch. He looks warm, looks calm and whole. You can see right away that he needs you to be the one who’s struggling to let go—maybe partly for Dean, who’s eviscerated every time he sees his brother hurt and has always been, but also for himself, for the way he’s telling himself this is enough. Though you were the one who’d threatened Dean, Sam had undoubtedly gotten closer to following through—following Dean—both actively and passively. You loved Dean, but Sam in many ways was Dean, just like Dean was Sam. Inextricable in the parts that really counted and that was the point, why you would’ve mainlined dream root swamp ass tea until you withered away like a rat choosing a pleasure button over food to see them both. They were each perfect alone, Sam and Dean—different and perfect—but together they were the sun and the moon, the entire universe inside one Impala.

It’s easy to let him have it. Sam deserves so much more than this small mercy and you are struggling, want desperately to have been put in some kind of coma together in this little play-pretend world where the food’s always exactly what you want and the time passes inconsequentially if at all.

You wipe a tear off your cheek that you hadn’t felt fall, can tell before you open your mouth that your voice is going to falter. “Couple weeks, right? You promise?” Sam and Dean nod in tandem and you try to drink up every drop of it, try to ignore the shade of sad-desperate behind both of their eyes. “And it’s going to be the same? No one’s going to like, forget or anything? Is this like Groundhog Day where you’ll have to be re-introduced to Barbie and Mike every time?”

Dean’s eyebrows screw up in thoughtful empathy. “Pretty uncharted territory here, kid. I hope not, but I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”

Sam reaches over to take your hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “It’ll still be us, though. That’s the important part, right?”

You nod tightly, feeling small and stupid ironically like a kid trying to fight off bedtime. It hangs in the air for a beat.

“Catch you losers later, I guess,” Dean smirks, standing up and offering you a hand. Like he’s heading to his house on the other side of the block you reach up for a hug, only momentarily surprised when Dean foregoes the hug to slip a strong hand into your hair, cradling your face for a kiss that’s somehow bruising and tender as he presses your lower back to weld yourself to him. The feeling of his lips steals the breath from your lungs and you barely have the presence of mind to realize you’re blushing, getting dangerously close to making out just a step away from Sam. Dean, cocky asshole that he is, winks at you as he draws back.

When you turn back to Sam, he’s—he’s rolling his eyes through a smile. With a start you realize it’s exactly the same long-suffering playful tolerance he’d have catching you stealing a kiss during a case and that thought alone is a buoy as Dean pulls Sam down to tuck into his arms, that same eternally-little-brother hug that has always made you smile. You look down at your feet, giving them a second to share a few of those ever-indecipherable looks.

“Do you guys want to just stay out here maybe? I can ‘go to sleep’ or whatever in the other room? Feels a little weird to just sit here and have you both staring at me,” you offer with air quotes.

Sam’s eyes are earnest and reassuring when he meets yours. “Whatever makes you most comfortable. Do you want me to, ah, also…?” He tosses a casual thumb over his shoulder to the bedroom.

“I’ll be okay, I think. Thanks, though.” You rock back on your feet awkwardly. “Um, goodnight, I guess.”

“See you soon, babe,” Dean says, and it’s not hard to see the sweetness under the casual affect he’s trying on.

“See you both soon. Love you, morons.”

You don’t remember falling asleep, but then you wouldn’t, because in reality you’re waking up.

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 19

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el-michoacano · 3 years

Text

I Saw the Dead, Small and Great

It’s finally posting day for the @tltbb and I couldn’t possibly be more excited! What a great time this has been! Shout out to the event hosts, and also to @queensabriel and @melli4uhbees, who have been the best artists a girl could ask for!

Summary: Once upon a time, many, many years ago, Harrowhark's great-great-grandmother, who had herself lived an unnaturally long life, told her that their family was descended from that one wicked snake that haunted the Garden of Eden, that the family Nonigesimus were more serpent than man. At the time, Harrow had thought she was joking, just a senile old woman weaving mindless tales. She knows better now.

Trigger warnings: Suicidal thoughts, lots of talk of death.

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1 Is your soul prepared?

Harrow isn't sure how the sign got onto her property. It's been there for years and years, the nails rusting, the white paint chipping, the wood rotting beneath it. The sign is as tall as she is, and double as wide as she can stretch her arms. It's sinking into the mud, though, like everything else in this damned place, standing crooked enough that it might just topple over in a strong breeze.

Is your soul prepared?

The words were wrought in bright, angry red once, but they're an ugly brown now, the color of old blood. It's oddly fitting.

Hooligans, Harrow thinks, but she can't be sure. The sign is large, and its post is set deep into the soft earth. Would just any rowdy local boys be able to do such a thing? Would they have any inclination to pass on such a message? She'd been the target of their little pranks before, but such an effort from boys who hadn't the cleverness to not wet the front of their trousers when they took a piss? It seems unlikely. They’ve always been more the type to leave dead animals hanging on the gates. The sign is too civil.

It was the church that planted the sign, she's sure. The Ascension Parish Southern Baptist Church had been after her for years, all the way up until it had caught fire and burned to the ground in 1912. Fingers had pointed at her for that, too, and even now, she occasionally wakes to find God is watching or Repent now! or Open your heart to God! painted across the front gates.

Removing the paint gives her something to do, she supposes. Is it really so bad?

Is your soul prepared?

Harrow has considered removing the sign more times than she can count, but it's not as though any other living soul sees it. Why bother? It's not as if her family's sinking home is the only site of such signs. There are others like it scattered all over the bayou, ones of this seemingly standard size, smaller ones tacked to chain link fences, even huge billboards. God sees all, they proclaim. Jesus saves. Hell is real.

Of course Hell is real, Harrow thinks with a roll of her eyes. She lives there, after all.

Hell's End is the name of this area, a name given by her great-great-grandmother when the family had first arrived in the States all the way from New Zealand. It was to be the end of their long and dangerous journey west, the start of their Heaven on Earth. How wrong she had been. How wrong they had all been.

Harrow is one of the very few who dare to come near this part of the swamp now. The brackish waters part around her feet, and the heels of her elegant boots leave no prints in the mud. The gators go scurrying away at her approach, and high in the moss-draped trees, the cicadas fall silent.

The snakes, though, make no move to flee. They watch her with their bright, slitted eyes, and they bow as best as they can. She is one of them. She offered an apple to Gideon, and another to Alecto, apples of forbidden, carnal knowledge. She is the snake in the Garden of Eden given human form, and she is the mistress of this particular bayou.

Once upon a time, her great-great-grandmother, who had herself lived an unnaturally long life, had told Harrow that their family was descended from that one wicked snake, that they were more serpent than man. At the time, Harrow had thought she was joking, just a senile old woman weaving mindless tales.

She knows better now.

This wickedness is in her blood. Her parents had tried to fight it, but Harrow has long since given in. There's no use in trying to deny who she is.

The wickedness is as much a part of who she is as the swamp is.

The Nonagesimus family have always been the masters of this bayou, back since the 1750s when the house and its great iron gate had sprung seemingly overnight from the mud. That was centuries ago. Harrow isn't sure of the year anymore, but she is certain that it's high summer now. The children should be catching fireflies and the old biddies should be sipping sweet tea on the porch while their husbands talk about the weather, but Harrow is the only Nonagesiumus left in all the world, and the sinking mansion sits quietly in its watery grave, waiting to claim her as it has all the others.

Her family is long gone.

Harrow, with her twisted magic and her unnatural tastes, is all that remains of her once-great, once-powerful family.

The irony of it is enough to choke her, to send her hundreds of dead relations a-spinning in their graves. Or spinning in their coffins, at least. There are no graves here.

Though the closest towns are lively and New Orleans isn't terribly far away, there is no music in Hell's End.

There was, once upon a time, a lovely harpsichord in the parlor, but Harrow used it as firewood ages ago. Her mother had been an accomplished player, and she had taught Harrow to play, too, but Harrow couldn't bear the sound. Even in dreams, it breaks her heart.

There was an old gramophone once, too, but it met a similar fate. One too many times, it had come alive in the night, likely by Pelleamena's hand, and Harrow had thrown it from the top gallery. She still steps on its splinters from time to time.

The closest thing Harrow can bear to a song now is Ortus's low humming, though she's not sure it's a hum at all. It's a purr, almost, like that of a cat, a soft, comforting sound. It's the sound of his aura, she thinks, gentler than ever in death.

On occasion, she joins in on the hum, letting it rattle its way up her throat and down through her chest. It's a tender, deep sound, and she worries sometimes that it will shake her apart if she lets it.

Sometimes she thinks she wouldn't mind shaking apart. She could sift her way down through the warped floorboards, down into the manor's sunken foundation and even lower, drifting down, down, down.

Maybe she'll sink all the way into Hell. Maybe Alecto will be waiting for her there, her dark, dark eyes full of longing and anger. Gideon won't be there, though, Harrow knows. Hell is the last place Gideon belongs.

Harrow, though, belongs there. A witch, a homosexual, a murderer. Where else would she belong?

The wicker chairs set out behind the house are sinking and rotten, but the ghosts don't favor the back, and so Harrow often finds herself sitting there in the low evening light. Her legs are crossed at the ankle, her wide-brimmed hat pulled low, a book resting open in her lap, though it's too dark to read it now.

The mosquitos are a choking cloud this time of year, buzzing thick in the air, carrying diseases on the wind. They have taken too many of Harrow's kind already. She swats at them with her lace-gloved hands, but they're never deterred. Stubborn things, she thinks. They're the only swamp creatures that don't seem to fear her.

It has to do with her blood, she's sure. There was wicked magic in her veins from the day she was born, and they can smell it, even now, long after she's been bled dry. Though they hover around her like a plague, there's nothing left in her for them to drink. She used it all up trying to bring back her parents, her family name, her old life, her dead lovers.

But they're all gone now, and her magic can't bring them back. Not in any way that matters.

Her parents are gone, interred in the grand white marble mausoleum out behind the house. It's sinking into the swamp, like everything else is, a few centimeters every year. The doors can barely be opened now. When Harrow dies, there will be no way for her to join them in the tomb. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe she doesn't deserve to be with them. They certainly wouldn't welcome her, not after all her disastrous attempts to bring them back.

She doesn't deserve to be with Gideon in death, either, though no one to this day seems to know exactly what became of her. For all Harrow knows, Gideon is in some gator's belly. Had been, anyway. No one has seen her in decades. No one is even looking anymore. Not even Aiglamene is looking anymore. Gideon was murdered, Harrow is certain, likely by the church itself. The worst things always happen to the best people.

And then there was Alecto. A predator, yes, but Harrow's predator. There isn't a day Harrow doesn't regret drowning her, but there was nothing else to be done about her. She was mad. She was inhuman. She was everything Gideon wasn't, and Harrow had taken comfort in that for a while. But Alecto had ripped poor, sweet Ortus limb from limb in a fit of rage, and her drowning was a far easier death than she had deserved.

Alecto sits on the fence at the edge of the property most days, her dark, empty eyes staring off into the distance.

On particularly gloomy days, Ortus joins her. Even dead, he can't bear to be alone. He's more a great mass of shadow than a true figure, weak even in death, but Harrow would know him anywhere. Her heart aches when she sees him. The sad, tremulous smile he gives her makes her want to die.

But after all she's been through, is there anything that doesn't make her want to die?

Is there anything in the great, wide world that makes her want to live?

If there is, she hasn't found it.

At this point, she doubts it exists at all.

She doesn't live now, anyway. She just survives.

Slowly but surely, the Nonagesimus house is sinking into the mud.

It's been sinking for years, of course. It started the day Harrow's parents died.

Died.

It's too gentle a term. They didn't pass away in their beds, old as the hills, their souls well-prepared, as parents should. They didn't go peacefully. They didn't just die.

Pelleamena and Priamhark hung themselves from the high branches of the cypress tree that had been growing just inside the gates since before the gates had even been erected. Harrow had been the one to find the bodies, the one to cut them down, the one to lay them to rest in the family mausoleum.

Her being the one to read their note was by far the worst of it.

You bring shame on us, it had said. It had been scrawled in her mother's elegant handwriting, and her father hadn't even bothered to sign it. Harrow often finds herself wondering if he even read it, or if he had found Pelleamena's body before Harrow had and followed his wife to the grave of his own volition.

It was Harrow's fault either way, and to this day, after all these decades, she carries the weight of it on her back. It weighs so much that she can barely stand upright, hunched like an old woman in her wanderings. She would be an old woman, were it not for her magic. This eternal life is her punishment, and she deserves every single second alone.

Her parents were ashamed of her, and probably had been for most of her life. Even as a child, there was something wrong about her. They had tried and tried for more children, but alas, she was the only one to make it to birth. Their only daughter, they whispered, the blood witch. Their only daughter, the necrophiliac. Their only daughter, the homosexual. Their shame had driven them into the arms of Death, and their precious child had played witness to it.

She should have seen it coming from a country mile away, but she hadn't. She had been too busy trying to resurrect Gideon and kill Alecto to notice their downcast eyes and trembling mouths. She hadn't noticed how they had wasted away until she was cutting them down from their twin nooses.

Harrow supposes it doesn't matter. Even dead, her parents are with her now.

They stand silent most days, pacing the sinking house's top gallery, staring out over the swamp with their dark, sunken eyes and their sewn-shut mouths. Dead men, after all, tell no tales. She's made certain of that.

Though they can't reply, not in words, she does talk to them sometimes.

Today, though, she's more focused on the foxfire darting through the trees. This is no swamp gas, she's sure. She's intimately familiar with that particular sight. Instead of the usual blue, this light is violet, and it moves slowly, ambling through the trees without a care in the world.

There's someone down there, Harrow realizes.

The question is, is this person living or dead?

It isn't alive.

Harrow isn't sure if it's human, but certainly is not alive.

She meets it outside the iron gate, her hand resting against the metal, as if its narrow bars can somehow protect her from this strange half-dead girl.

"Hello," it says. Its smile is sharp and fanged, its voice a rasping whine, like dead tree branches scraping a window during a storm. It takes Harrow's hand in its golden right one, presses its soft, bluing mouth to her knuckles, and Harrow can feel the coolness of it through the lace of her gloves. It's prettier than it has any right to be, despite its wasted appearance and its pallid skin and the deep, dark shadows beneath its eyes. "Have you been waiting long?" it asks, catching her eyes with its own.

Waiting? Harrow doesn't wait. She takes. The only thing she's waiting for is death. Perhaps, she thinks, this is Death. "Who are you?" she asks, slowly, stupidly. Her voice is rough from lack of use, the croak of a frog more than the voice of a witch. It's oddly fitting.

The other woman, tall and pale as a ghost, laughs at her, and the sound is the knell of church bells ringing on a foggy morning. They're funeral bells.

Hear the tolling of the bells -- Iron bells! Harrow thinks. She pulls her hand away, wraps her arms around herself. What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

It asks, its voice low and seductive, "Who do you want me to be, Harrowhark?"

Harrow bristles. No one has called her by her name in years. She doubts anyone even knows her name anymore. Only old Aiglamene would remember, if she even remembers anything. This time, Harrow asks, "What are you?"

The eyes roll. They're a ludicrous shade of purple, striped with blue and brown, deep-set and heavy-lidded. They're inhuman. "I'm no one," it says, then approaches her, reaching a hand toward her face. Harrow doesn't flinch, even when the soft fingertips and sharp claws brush her cheek. "And yet everyone knows me." It moves closer, and Harrow can smell it: Musty, powdery, with something sweet underneath. Something terribly, deathly sweet. "Everyone faces me."

It's the smell of rot, Harrow realizes. "You really are Death."

It leans closer, brushes its mouth against hers. It agrees in a voice like shattering ice, "I really am."

"I've been waiting for you for years." Harrow feels strange saying it, but she can't take it back now. She feels stranger still letting this creature into her home, but she can't take that back, either. Why would she want to? Death is the first physical guest she's had for decades. It's been all ghosts and vermin for far too long. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Death says, its eyes roving as it steps into the manor, stepping gingerly through the puddles in the foyer, its feet bare. It's dressed all in white, its long skirt trailing on the floor, the hem damp and muddy. It wears only a camisole on top, the straps thin and hanging off its bony shoulders, short enough that it leaves a few inches of its midriff enticingly bare. Harrow startles at that: She hasn't been enticed in decades. She startles again when she realizes how utterly human it is to feel enticed. Perhaps she's still human after all. "I keep a very busy schedule."

Harrow has the distinct feeling that that isn't true, but she doesn't dare say so.

Death itself has come to her.

It's hard not to feel special in the wake of it, and she swallows down a wave of pride. Pride. She hasn't felt that in ages, either.

"You really live like this?" Death asks as it steps into the parlor, the damp rug squelching obscenely under its bare feet.

This room had once been grand, but now, it's little more than a shadow of its former self. A ghost of itself, like its mistress. The walls are lined in ceiling-high shelves full of moldering books and pretty little treasures, the Persian rug unwinding at its edges, the lovely chaise discolored and misshapen from years of sweat and sitting. All the furniture in the house is in such a state. Harrow can't find it in herself to be embarrassed by it anymore.

Death takes a seat on the chaise, kicking its bare feet up onto the far end, its delicate ankles crossed one over the other. Its skin is so pale that the worn navy velvet makes its veins all but glow.

It's otherworldly, and Harrow comes to sit in front of it on the warped wood of the floor. She arranges her skirts carefully, keeping her tattered slippers hidden under her equally tattered hem. Had she known Death was finally coming for her, she would have dressed better. "Why are you only here now?" she asks, an unfamiliar desperation in her voice. Of course she's desperate, she thinks. She's been waiting since before the turn of the century. She's been waiting longer than most people get to live.

"I told you," Death says, picking at a loose string on the arm of the chaise. A bit of the piping comes off with it. "I've been busy." It glances up with its ludicrous eyes, meets Harrow's gaze, holds it fast. Harrow feels caught in their depths, like a fly in a glass of sweet tea. Sweet it is, though. "And I thought you would have come to me on your own by now."

The following morning, Harrow wakes alone, still dressed and still exhausted.

She's disappointed, but she can't bring herself to be surprised. She's poison, after all. Even Death itself can't bear to be around her. She can't say she blames it.

She's still on the floor in the parlor, the chaise empty, but it still has that smell clinging to it: Musty and cloyingly sweet. Like violets, Harrow thinks again. Death has eyes like violets. Who would have guessed? Certainly not her.

She had always imagined Death as a skeleton wrapped in a black robe, a scythe at its side, its eyes empty black pits in its skeleton face. Death didn't look like a girl, but an ancient being, rotting away from the inside. She had had a nightmare, once, that Death had come to her in the guise of her long-dead aunt, Glaurica. In the dream, Harrow had very nearly taken its hand.

She had never feared Death. Even now, having met it in person, she doesn't fear it.

Death was the first real companionship she had felt in ages.

She thinks this even as her mother crosses the room. Pelleamena is dressed in the same long, trailing black dress she wore on the eve of her death, her long black hair pulled into a braid that hangs heavy down her back. It looks eerily like a rope. She's reaching for a book on the ceiling-high shelf, but her hand goes right through the spine, and she pulls back, staring through her transparent fingers as if it hasn't happened a thousand times over.

Harrow watches her, silent as a stone.

Even in death, they barely acknowledge each other.

Priamhark, as much as the ghostly thing that wanders the house is Priamhark, is less dead. When Harrow watches him, he watches her right back.

"Father," Harrow says to him as he paces the gallery.

He doesn't speak, Harrow has made certain of that with her postmortem sewing, but he looks at her, and his dark, dark eyes are gentle.

They stand together, his lighter-than-air hand over hers on the gallery's splintered railing, and this night, the swamp is dark.

When her parents killed themselves, Harrow called the police.

Hours passed.

No one came.

Pigs, Harrow had thought.

She's been alone ever since, save Death and the ghosts. Even Aiglamene has stopped visiting.

Harrow doesn't mind being alone most of the time. It's the peaceful nights that get her.

In the quiet, under the singing of crickets and the rumbling of the gators, she can hear Gideon's voice. Gideon, asking, You really gonna wear that? Gideon, calling her baby. Gideon, begging for her touch.

From time to time, it's Alecto's voice in her head, whispering songs and poetry and utter nonsense. Too much of her voice, and Harrow is certain she'll go mad. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee, Alecto sings in her whispery, water-logged voice, and the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

Now, though, it's Gideon's voice nor Alecto's she hears.

The air is hot around her, humid, and Harrow loses herself in the fantasy, her black eyes slipping closed. Her chewed-down nails rake against her skin, and she imagines a golden hand in their place. She imagines bluing lips at her neck, too-sharp white teeth sinking into her neck. She imagines the cool, meager weight of Death above her. It's Death's voice she hears, and in its creaking hanging-tree voice, it whispers, Come.

Harrow does.

You bring shame on us.

Though her mother hasn't spoken in half a century, Harrow can still hear the words in her voice. She had a lovely voice, Harrow's mother. It was elegant and soft, almost musical. Her words always came slowly, carefully selected before they passed her lips. The note was probably exceptionally well selected. Short and sweet.

The note is tucked into the neckline of Harrow's gown, the paper tucked against her heart and tinged yellow from years of sweat and tears.

Harrow can't bear to be without it.

It's her cross to bear, and she must bear it alone.

It's a full week before Death shows itself again. Harrow finds it in her room, stretched out on the molding canopy bed. The canopy is less lace now than Spanish moss, the covers mildewed and practically falling apart. Death doesn't seem to mind. It looks perfectly at ease, its hands joined behind its head, its right leg bent, the other tossed over its knee. It was humming to itself, its pale foot bouncing along to the rhythm.

Harrow can hardly believe that it's back.

Death's voice is an undignified whine when it asks, "Did you forget about me, Harrowhark?"

How could I? Harrow doesn't say. She does say, "I tried to." It's not entirely true. "I thought you'd abandoned me again."

"Abandoned you?" Death looks almost offended, its golden hand coming to its chest, clutching invisible pearls, but its laughter is high and sweet, bouncing off the crumbling walls like birdsong. Harrow represses a pleasant shiver at the sound of it. "Harry, my love," Death says, smiling with blue lips and too-sharp animal teeth, "I have been beside you since the day you were born."

My love? Harrow's cheeks go warm, but she ignores it, asking, "Since I was born?" It seems impossible. It also seems impossible that Death exists as a person at all. She's been surrounded by impossibility for as long as she can remember. This shouldn't be so surprising. "How could you possibly have time for that?"

"There are half a million Deaths," says Death with a wave of its hand. It wears lacy, threadbare gloves, and its cuticles are bluish, its nails chewed short. "This is just the area I chose to cover," it's saying, though it doesn't sound at all interested. Harrow wonders if it's even capable of interest. "There are fewer people here, less work. I can just hover most of the time."

The dark cloud of Death follows us, Harrow's grandmother had once told her. It seems she was right. Harrow can't quite believe it, even now. It's a curse, her grandmother had told her, and we deserve it. "Why me?" she asks.

"Why not?" Death shoots back. It holds out its arms, and against her better judgment, Harrow climbs into bed beside it, letting it enfold her. The gold of its skeletal right arm is chilly through the worn lace of her dress. "You Nonagesimus types are my favorite. You always come to me so willingly."

Harrow props herself up on her elbow, meeting Death's eyes with her own. "You know my family?"

"All the dead ones," Death says with a shrug that sends the strap of its camisole slipping off its shoulder. The veins just beneath its icy-pale skin are especially visible there, and Harrow lifts a hand to trace them. They have a green tint to them, and she wonders if there's blood in them at all, or if this iteration of Death has algae and swamp moss in its veins. "I gave the kiss of death to your father, and to your mother, and to Glaurica, and to sweet Ortus." Death ticks off each name off on its spidery fingers. Then it looks down at Harrow, one colorless brow lifting. "And then there was Alecto." Harrow feels the blood drain from her face, the breath fleeing her lungs in a single second. "She wasn't one of you, was she?"

"She could have been," Harrow says, softly, "eventually."

"You sent her to me gift-wrapped, didn't you?" Death doesn't sound at all bothered, and it slips its fingers beneath Harrow's chin, forcing her to look it in the eye. "It had been so long since I received a sacrifice like that. Your people don't offer tribute like they used to."

"Our magic isn't what it used to be," Harrow says.

"I wonder why," Death says. Its smile fades, though, when it asks, "You're how old? I'd say your magic is working just fine."

Harrow's lips threaten to smile, but it never comes. She says, "It's impolite to ask a lady's age."

Death itself laughs at her, songbird-sweet. "All you want is to die," it says, sounding bemused, one brow lifted in a match to the corner of its mouth, "and yet you'll live forever."

"For far too long, anyway," Harrow agrees, shivering when Death's golden hand slides into her hair, carding carefully through choppy black locks.

The silence that falls then isn't silence at all. Outside, the wind is in the trees and in the water. The cicadas are singing. Birds call to one another. Harrow's heart is beating a mile a minute, pounding in her ears. Death's heart isn't beating at all.

Softly, its voice almost a purr, Death says, "Did you know you've been dying your whole life?"

Harrow scoffed. "Isn't everyone?"

"Where did you go?" Harrow's voice is soft and plaintive, and she hates it. She's straddling Death's waist on her bed, its pointy hip bones pressing into the backs of her thighs. It feels like too much too soon, and it's far too intimate, but she has no intention of pulling away. She could stay like this forever.

Death presses its fingertips, both the flesh ones and the golden ones, into Harrow's hips. "Someone needed transporting," it said with a shrug of its narrow shoulders.

"You do that?" Harrow asks. Her hands are resting against the flat plane of Death's stomach, her fingertips tucked just beneath the hem of its camisole. "Transport people?"

"I transport souls," Death says. Its eyes are on Harrow's, searching for something in her black gaze. "This one was the last one in the area, save you."

Harrow's unkempt eyebrows draw together, her eyes flittering off to one side. As far as she knows, she's the only person still living in the area. She asks, "Who was it?"

Death, strangely, hesitates. "An old woman called Aiglamene," it says, and there's a strange weight in its voice, as if it knows how much Aiglamene meant to Harrow once upon a time. "Must have been a hundred and twenty years old." Its hands slide down to Harrow's thighs, its thumbs coming to rest in the creases of her knees. "Maybe even older than you."

"By a bit," Harrow agrees, doing her best to keep the sudden numbness out of her voice. "I didn't know she was still here."

"Keeping an eye on you," Death says, "from what I can gather."

And now she's gone, Harrow doesn't say, but the words fill her chest. It hurts.

"You should have seen her automobile," Death is saying, sounding almost mystified. Its hands are joined behind its head now, its eyes distant. "Such an incredible machine!"

More to herself than to Death, Harrow says, faintly, "I've never seen an automobile." Gideon had one that she was immensely fond of, but she hadn't trusted it on the marshy roads of the swamp. Alecto, old-fashioned thing that she was, chose to simply walk. It had made her disappearance so much easier.

"You're so behind the times, Harry," Death chides, though there's amusement clear in its voice. "You should come to town with me." It gives her a sly grin, looking very much like the fox that managed to break into the chicken coop. They're both foxes, Harrow realizes. "The things I could show you..."

"No." Harrow says it far too quickly, and her eyes dart off to the side, embarrassed. "No, I belong here. My magic ends here. I would age fifty years if I ever left the swamp."

"Shame, that." Death doesn't sound particularly bothered. Instead, its hands come to Harrow's thighs again, pushing the fabric of her skirt immodestly high, up past the tops of her stockings. It takes everything Harrow has to keep from pushing her hips into the touch. "But there are so many things I can show you right here."

The next time Harrow wakes, she isn't alone.

She's on the great bed in her room, Death's arms wound tight around her and holding her close. Her chest is pressed to Death's side, its skin bare and cool to the touch, devoid of breath or a heartbeat. It's eerily still. It's not Harrow's first time in such close contact with a corpse.

Outside, through the thin curtains over the balcony doors and the windows, the light is thin and greyish, either dusk or dawn, but certainly overcast. There's a storm coming. Harrow wonders if Death will simply sleep through it.

Death, unsurprisingly, sleeps like the dead. All through the night, it didn't move even once.

Was it only all night? It could have been years, for all Harrow knows.

As she lays quiet in Death's arms, she's surprised to find that she doesn't mind that idea. Let her dream her life away in the arms of Death. There are worse fates.

Just inside the door of the sinking manor is an antique dark wood table. On top of it is a crystal vase filled with flame-orange roses.

They were a gift of Aiglamene, given shortly after Gideon vanished in a rare gesture of comfort.

They are the single thing in the house that isn't rotting.

Harrow stands before them, staring, willing life through them.

Death stands beside her, watching quietly, its arms crossed over its chest, its head tipped curiously to the side. "I can feel their age," it says, its voice soft and thoughtful. "How long have you had these?"

"Decades," Harrow says. She plucks one from the crystal vase and tucks it behind Death's ear. Immediately, the life leaves the petals, and even when Harrow touches the petals, she can't revive it.

Death says, softly, "Are you afraid, Harrowhark?"

"No," Harrow says, and is surprised to realize that she means it.

"Good." Death steps behind her, wrapping its arms around Harrow's waist, resting its pointed chin on her shoulder. Its skin is soft and chilled. "With old Aiglamene gone, my attention is all yours."

The smell of violets mingles with the scent of roses, and Harrow realizes there's nothing she wants more.

"How do you do it?" There's something like awe in Death's voice, its head tipped to the side, a chipped tumbler half-full of decades-old scotch in its golden hand. "I'd lose my mind if I had to stay here all the time."

There's no derision in its tone, and Harrow says, "Maybe I have."

"Suppose you wouldn't know if you had," Death says, taking a long sip. "You could be dead right now, couldn't you? Would you even know the difference?"

She isn't dead. She may be dead inside, but she still feels. Harrow feels the chair she's sitting on, threadbare and creaky as it is, feels the warped wood beneath her bare feet, feels the coolness of Death sitting beside her. She would know, she tells herself.

She doesn't quite believe it.

Death goes out sometimes, wandering through the swamp and into the towns.

Harrow watches it leave from the iron gate, Ortus at her right, Alecto at her left. Her parents keep close, too, sewn-lipped and sullen.

Even with the ghosts, Harrow is alone, waiting.

Her life has become a waiting game, and she finds she doesn't mind, because she knows she'll never be alone for long.

Death always returns to her, sometimes with a man to sacrifice or a woman to seduce, sometimes with a butchered gator or a pot of jambalaya it found God-knows-where. It rarely comes to the manor empty-handed.

Death is courting her, Harrow realizes, and for the first time in decades, she smiles.

The courting is gentle. Death often is, isn't it?

It comes softly, like sleep, darkening the edges of the world and drawing it all in close.

Death steals the very breath from Harrow's lungs, pinning her flat against the wall. Its blue lips are pressed to her nape, its golden hand resting lightly around her throat, its spidery flesh hand at her hip.

Its voice is soft when it says, "You were made for this."

Made to be used by Death itself? Made to cater to Death itself? Made to be a lover to Death itself? The answer is obvious. "I was," Harrow agrees, her voice nearly lost in her heavy breathing. "I am."

Harrow spends her time in the arms of Death itself, now. But is that any different from how she lived before?

At the end of a long day, she waits beside the rusting gate, waiting for her deathly love to return to her.

The branches of the too-familiar cypress shake above her, Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. She presses a hand to its rough bark and wills it to live. Like the roses, it must live. It's a monument now. This tree is her old friend, known all her life.

As is Death, approaching through evening fog, violet eyes shining in the dark.

Being in the company of Death is better than being alone, Harrow supposes as Death's arms wind around her, pulling her close. Death's lips are blue and chilled against hers, but she melts into the feeling of it, as she always does.

As they walk back toward the sinking manor, they pass the old sign. Is your soul prepared?

Death trails its golden, skeletal fingertips along the top of the sign as they pass, and the wood is immediately overtaken by mold and mushrooms, the paint flaking off in great chunks.

"Is my soul prepared?" Harrow asks as they walk in the dark.

"Oh, Harry," Death laughs. Its glowing eyes turn to her, hypnotic and bright as lightning bugs. "Your soul has been ready for me since you were born."

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