#verse: london calling

[morronescamila-a]

               the moment she saw him appear behind a massive group of passengers, she squealed and rushed over to him. she jumped into his arms and wrapped herself around him, “god, i’ve missed you so much. i needed you out here ASAP...thank you for coming.” she pulled away enough to press a kiss to his lips. once they broke apart, she dropped back to her feet and hummed, “come on! i have so much to show you -- so much to tell you. maggie’s already in love with someone. well, not already -- but they’re meant to be. i’m pretty sure they’re soulmates,” she rambled as she led him out to her rental car. // @luriddaze​

[fiepige]

Been curious about this for a while:

Cause I've seen it being called both New London and Old York and idk if one's the official name and one is fan made. Either way I'm curious as to which one people prefer

[byzcntine]

@dangerouswomxn​​ sent: ( sms ) : wanna do fake proposals at fancy restaurants for free food? ( emily @ jj )

[ sms to triple word score 45 ] ↦ a part of me feels as though i shouldn’t encourage this sort of behavior, but the other part of me is interested to see how people around us would act in the moment.  [ sms to triple word score 45 ] ↦ people always seem excited for those in moves/tv. [ sms to triple word score 45 ] ↦ do you think it’s always like that?

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob  {{xx}}

From the outside in, there might be more Horlicks nights than might be seemly. Some might argue that there are made up reasons for the too-long wakefulness, that they are cheating themselves out of sleep. Those people are only looking in from outside, are utterly myopic. They do not live with the every day reasons why she or Ron cannot find rest, when the mind is a buzzing hive of grief or anxious energy or a half a dozen other things. And sometimes, sitting round the table in robes and pyjamas, or sometimes just tee-shirts and boxers ~Ron's all the way around and sometimes she thinks she sees a sparkle once in a while in his eyes when she dons them~ or whatever makes them feel comfortable in terms of temperature and textures are concerned. Despite neither of them ever needing to lift a finger in their life, capable of hiring a staff that would befit the estates of royals, Ron and Beth are not the kind of people to take advantage of their situation. He opens the pub daily baring his poorly days or the odd wild hare that has him taking her away from the city, or out with his brother, attending to their other affairs. Those last times are the ones that she is usually keen to stay at home. It isn't that she doesn't enjoy some of the Kray Brothers' fine establishments, but the less time she spends around Reg the better. So after the forty-eight hour week she's put into the hospital and twice that put into the pubs and clubs, this is their moment. Their chance to check in with one another and reconnect. She isn't ashamed to admit she needs that. That she needs Ron. He is the force that keeps her grounded and holds her aloft. She hopes that it is the same for him. She doesn't mind those moments where instead of words he offers her what they call wingdings: nonsequitors, starts and stops, hand gestures and verbiage with no actual shape and purpose. Those are the things she loves more than she can tell him and she doesn't know why it should be so. Maybe it feels a little like a verbal kiss. An embrace she can lose herself in and gives her a chance to catch up with all that is said around it. She sits across from him, one sock-covered foot braced on either side of his own, a compromise she makes with herself when she'd much rather have them in his lap, head tilted affectionately. She doesn't see the dark depths of his gaze but rather watches his mouth as is her wont. She grins when he refreshes himself with his drink. Hers is mostly pulling double duty by warming her fingers as she keeps them wrapped around the cup. She isn't really prepared for his confession though she could, if asked by anyone else, tell them somewhat the same. The walls that may exist between them are so thin as to be made of glass. In ways she cannot explain to anyone who doesn't struggle within the world like she and Ron do. She knows that in many ways he has it worse off when strictly speaking of symptoms, emotionally they often fight similar but separate battles. But if Ron could be seen as a tank, unmistakeable in shape or form when the struggle became words, then Beth is a master spy. Most of the time she can pass for perfectly typical, perfectly normal as long as all she needs to do is look pretty and laugh at the appropriate time. And yet, they seem to understand one another better than any one else, he doesn't lie. There isn't the same exhaustion that could be heard in her brother's repeated pleading and nor the frigidity that comes from Reg's distance. His want for Ron to be the way he was before, an impossible and terribly painful dream. There isn't fear. Beth knows that is the name of one of his demons. He tells her of the way his mum and aunties were before. The double loss of Rose and his diagnosis has left a trench between his family and himself. Reg thrives on the terror a flat affect can have on those uninitiated. Ron's broad shoulders and his stocky frame paired with that less than strictly focused mien, the whispers of immense violence turns into something else. Something she's seen with her own eyes that Reg often weaponizes, without realising that it has a second and more insidious effect; it dehumanises his brother, turns the bright and beautiful soul she knows who loves dogs and has the softest spot for children into a unfeeling thing. Paints Ron with the brush the rest of the world already sees as justifiable. Does more damage than the disease, and feeds the phobia of every one who has to wear that diagnosis as a sort of scarlet letter. It's disgusting, and nothing about Ron's twin makes her want to flay him to the bone for it. What she doesn't understand is the why. Violet is far kinder in many ways than the Admiral. But Beth isn't blind. She sees the way Reg is doted on with love and respect, with a certain kind of admiration. As if the way he treats his wife ~like rubbish best left on the curb for the trash-men to come collect at best, and at worst...she's absolutely certain he's threatened to lay hands on the woman who is almost as small as Beth and a lot less confident~ but it is vastly different than the way she is with her youngest. Ron is coddled, yes. But aimlessly. She doesn't get quite as close. There are layers of worry in her eyes, anxious lines around her mouth and eyes when she tries to hold conversations with him. That arms-length wears on Ron until he starts to fray. She might argue with him on Pat. Big Pat Connolly is a dear man, gentle giant, a stalwart friend and champion of Ron's and she knows without a doubt or a problem with it that the man's the keeper of more secrets than she can imagine. The same could be said about Jayden Morgan, her own best friend. There might be things between them that she and Ron have forgotten, or missed details of, a hundred innumerable moments. She doesn't mind that. Ron needs a brother the same way she needs a sister, and their friends are hanai siblings. His next truth is one that hurts. She can empathise with this sliver of his inner-self. She's been honest with him about her own frailties, has built on its back some of their support of one another but she doesn't and more importantly won't speak of her own experiences. The thin faint scars along her forearms. The reason why sparks and lightning scare her into burying her face in his arm or back or chest. She has lied too, to her doctors, and only half confides in her therapist. She doesn't trust a single one of them to not be on the Admiral's payroll. Waiting to throw her under the bus for the slightest thing. She doesn't have words but nods as he speaks, reaching out and laying her hand on the table between them should he want the contact. But her heart breaks the way he says that softly. In that tone, which isn't really one, though the attendant gestures and glances do provide depth and shades, she sees a side of Ron she isn't used to. The longing for his most loved relative. Being separated unto eternity. When all your world hinged on someone and then...they were no longer there. She would give anything for one more minute with her brother. To hear his voice even if he was nagging, to hear his laugh deep and full-throated. To feel his arms around her while she dug a space for herself in his chest. Worse, she'd actually tried. Something Ron doesn't need to know. "I don' t'ink ya mad," she says finally. Of course she doesn't. "Wheddah part of ya illness or mebbe some consideration from source of all goodness...I'm glad she come an' see ya. Dat you get ya moments wi' her." She won't say she's envious, she doesn't honestly feel that way nor is she sure she could pay the exacting price that Ron does for every single moment he gains to his benefit. It would be more than disengenious for her to say so. But something that hits her hard enough to nearly steal her breath is how he talks of the changes in abstract. How that makes so much sense and provides her with the words she'd never been able to find to express how it feels, deep down. Doors between him and the universe opening. Beth has never heard silence. From time immemorial everything has been loud and she's heard every sound that isn't there, all the ones that are magnified to a point that she cannot make sense of words, of her own thoughts some times until they become too dark and too bitter inside of her head. To the point she doesn't even want to be part of that infinite chorus any longer. She squirrels the words away unil such a time when wintery deprivation make them needed. "Jus' because someone who love ya is gone from wha' mos' people can see an' hear, taste an' touch, don't mean..." Her turn to shrug, knowing he can most likely fill in the space. Her eyes sweep the rims of her lower lids and the hand on the table comes up to the side of her nose. Knuckle brushes the tip once, twice. "Mebbe...mebbe she one of ya beddah angels now, yeah?"

[trickstercaptain]

LONDON MULTIVERSE ARC.

This arc is heavily affiliated with Lucas ( piraticalwit / spynorth ) and his muses, and involves the game of cat and mouse that ensues between Jack and Beckett after Jack’s return to London. While Jack is forced to team up with the perpetual thorn in his side, Detective Killian Jones, Lucas North and Villanelle are employed by Beckett in order to forestall this attempted takedown of one of the most powerful figures in the British Establishment.

Jack is single ship in this arc with Michelle’s John Watson ( valorsworn ). This is the only romantic interest for Jack I will write within this specific arc, and will be referenced heavily in threads.

[0oolookitsme]

Piece of His Heart

Hii everyone, I'm back from my long hiatus!! Hope you missed me because boy did I miss YOU! <3 This one is a little emotional, a little sweet, and VERY Harry focused. Also, I was inspired to write this piece while listening to 'London's Song' by Matt Hartke, and trust me, it's a lovely song. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

Verse - Artist!Harry x Photographer!Y/n

Word Count - 1.0k

Warnings - Mentions of unplanned pregnancy, financial stress.

Harry and Y/n were students, and now, parents to a newborn babygirl as well. With all of the newfound emotions rushing through them, one thing he knew was that they were going to build this new little family slowly, and lovingly.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, at the overused fan moving slowly and creakily, with one of his arms under his head while the other one remained draped over his little baby's back. 

She was curled up on top of him, breathing softly, her little hands fisting his shirt. 

Daylight was pouring into the room through the gap between the two curtains, and Harry still couldn't believe that the little one sleeping away on his chest was finally here, after a worthwhile wait of a full nine months.

He still remembers the nickname he'd given her while she was still inside her mum's belly – 'Pumpkin' he had called her, and her little frame couldn't have agreed more with him. 

Full and round cheeks hung a little low on her face, her small mouth in a pout and eyes as circular as pearls, nothing if not the true meaning of grace.

Which is why he'd settled with the name 'Opal', grinning widely while Y/n had nodded furiously with tears in her eyes, saying how it was the perfect name ever.

His mornings suddenly became impossibly sweeter, something he hadn't expected since he had moved back in this childhood home with Y/n.

A few days ago, when he had laid his eyes on the bundle of sunshine for the very first time ever, a huge piece of his heart, if not his entire heart, had been taken right then and there. 

Sighing, Harry got up very carefully, wary of waking up the newborn and then, when he successfully hadn't, laid her on the two person size sofa – all that he could fit in the name of a seat inside his small art studio. 

He had just turned to get back to his awaiting Canvas, when Opal began mumbling. She was talking in her sleep, he realised with a smile growing on his face, making his dimples show up. 

Another piece of his heart was taken then. 

He wondered, each time that she slept, about just what she was dreaming up. On nights, he worried if she wasn't warm enough, wanted her to know that there was a blanket of stars above her – but he knew he could wait until she began talking to do that. 

Even though he couldn't afford the best, he was going to make this work. He was going to be the best father out there, give Opal all of his love, all with Y/n by his side.

Putting back down the paintbrush he had picked up because he couldn't stop thinking of her, Harry walked back over with his stool to sit and watch her. He crossed over the chair, his front against the chair's backrest as he rested his face on his arms, gazing down with a soft smile on his mouth. 

"I can't wait for you to grow up so that we can talk, you know? So, hopefully, you can tell me if this is where you'll always wanna be," he spoke, brushing away the unruly mop curls on her head. 

"And we can go to a place where you look at the light and it splinters," he sighed, moving to cover her up with a blanket. "Where there's plenty of gas in our car to last us the cold, cold winter," tears glazed over his sight, sniffling as he looked at her small figure lull to side as she slept – he almost let slip a chuckle. 

Right then, she took whatever pieces were left of his heart. 

Winter this year wasn't easy, but that wasn't to say that it wasn't the best one aside from the ones he had spent with Y/n. So much financial stress had come with the unplanned pregnancy, and now a baby. But he knew that the both of them could pull through the loans and make it out as a happy and healthy family, if they stuck together. 

Y/n’s dad, a single father, was a little bit bitter about the whole situation but had begrudgingly stepped forward to help out the two with handling the house, seeing as the both of them had to attend college as well as take care of the baby. He dropped off the groceries last weekend, along with the last minute new-born-baby stuff that Y/n had told him they needed. 

Even Anne stepped forward, letting the two of them borrow a room in her house for as long as they needed – likely until they could get back up on their own feet financially.

Currently, as Harry sat feeling overwhelmed with all of the love and other emotions rushing through him, he could hear Anne talking to Y/n down the hall. The walls weren’t the thickest and he could tell that Anne was sharing her own stories with Y/n, telling her about how she’d had Harry at a young age, and more. 

He’d heard it before, had even seen the two of them having this chat. So he knew that Anne, very likely, had Y/n’s head in her lap and brushing her hands through her hair, trying to console the woman high on hormones and the insurmountable number of emotions she must be feeling. 

Wiping away at his nose with the sleeve of his flannel, Harry blinked away the tears and pulled up a smile on his face again, trying to be courageous, for Y/n and their daughter. Because he knew that Y/n was doing the same for them. For the little family they were both going to build slowly and lovingly now.

"But I also want you to be this little forever, so that I can cherish you enough, yes?" He asked her, nodding his head when she mumbled something incoherent, something similar to ‘we’ll be fine, dada', Harry wanted to believe. 

And unable to help himself, he picked her up again, holding her flush against his exposed torso because he didn’t have the energy to button up his shirt and the skin to skin contact made breathing a little easier. 

"I'll love you tenderly," he whispered, pressing a kiss on her forehead. "I'll love you forever, and more, little pumpkin." 

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 1]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist

| mafia!Simon x fem!Reader - mild unwanted touching |

it wasn't easy living on borrowed time

wc: 4.9k

Six years later.

Sometimes, if you squeezed your eyes shut tight enough, you could pretend you were somewhere else.

The gentle hum of the dryers around you could be confused with the electrical whirring of the tube, and you could convince yourself you were traveling outside of London. Or maybe it was a spaceship taking you to some far off planet with strange plants that glowed as you weaved between their stems and leaves. The swishing of the washers could be mistaken for the sound of roaring waves of an ocean, and you could almost feel the water lapping at your feet while a small flock of seagulls played alongside you. 

But your escapism was fleeting, and you were always brought back to the cruel reality that you were nothing but a silly girl playing with string in a laundromat. Cat’s cradle was what it was called. It was a game no one wanted to play with you as a kid, because there was always something more interesting to do than play with string. But that was fine. It taught you the most important lesson you ever learned: keep your hands moving. If your hands were still, the humming of the washer and dryers around you might get overwhelming, or the buzzing of the cheap laundromat lights could drive you insane. If your hands were still, you might have thought too much about the unmarked envelope that sat in your lap and who would be coming to pick it up. 

However, the thing was, no matter how often you moved from the soldiers bed formation to the candles formation, every now and then you would end up with a knot in the center of the design. It was supposed to be a simple move, a gentle weaving of your fingers between the strings to get to the next section, but you always ended up ruining it somehow. Hands well versed in mistakes, no amount of practicing could erase the fact that errors were intertwined with your DNA. 

The noise of London suddenly grew to a thundering roar as the laundromat door opened to allow entrance to another patron. Eyes locked onto the string in your hands, you tried not to pay attention to the fact that this man entered without any clothes to wash. Of course you could assume he was there to pick something up, but you knew better than that. His footsteps were loud and overdramatic on the tile floor as he sauntered over to you and made his home on the bench next to you despite the fact that there were plenty of open spots elsewhere. 

Oddly enough, it wasn’t this man's close proximity to you that made you uncomfortable, though it certainly wasn’t pleasant, but it was the scent of him. It only got worse as he reached his arm behind you on the bench as if the two of you were friends, and it washed over you in a suffocating wave. It was his cologne. While it smelled expensive, he used it as if it was as cheap as water, and it burned your nose so fiercely your eyes nearly began to water. 

“You’ll have to show me how to play that sometime,” he said, disregarding any formal greeting. 

As you unwound the string from your fingers, you ignored the way his hand brushed against your thighs as he grabbed the unmarked envelope out of your lap. He was always touchy like that, as if the two of you had known one another your whole lives, and though he made your skin itch, you knew better than to say anything about it. Marco, your unwanted friend, was not known for his patience. 

“Maybe some other time,” you replied, which only made him chuckle. 

While you shoved your string into the pocket of your pants, Marco got to work on opening the envelope. A small wad of cash was stashed inside, and he eagerly pulled it out before counting it by hand. You dared a glance at him while he was occupied, though you didn’t find anything new about him that you didn’t already know. His style was just as simple and flashy as usual with acid washed jeans and several unnecessary decorative chains hanging from the belt loops. There were a few new scrapes on his knuckles, but that wasn’t anything surprising either. Though you didn’t know exactly what he did in his free time, you had a pretty good idea. 

“Perfect, as usual,” he quipped as he finished counting the notes. 

Marco stood from the bench as he shoved the envelope into the pocket of his jumper, stowing away all the money you had given him. You wanted him to leave. Wanted him to walk out of there without making a fuss and leave you be with your stupid game of string, but he didn’t. He always had something more to say. 

“Hey,” he said as he stood in front of you. 

He gently kicked your foot, prompting you to look up at him, which you reluctantly complied with. Marco wasn’t a bad looking man, though you still hated making eye contact with him all the same. Really, with a sharp jawline like that and eyes the same shade of grass, he could have been a model. Instead, he got caught up in the darker side of London, and unfortunately, so had you. 

“You’ve been pretty good at making full payments,” he commented. His eyes glanced up and down at you as if he could caress you with his gaze alone, and once again you found your skin tingling. No amount of good looks could erase the fact he was filthy and slimy just like usual. “My offer is still on the table if you find yourself having trouble, though.” 

He did it on purpose. Of course he did. It was a poorly kept secret that you weren’t really good at conversing with people, and eye contact never came easy for you. So of course he made you look at him before saying that to you. Maybe he thought it was funny. Maybe he just liked the fear that blossomed in your eyes. 

“No thanks,” you said, voice small. 

Shrugging, he took a step away from you while patting his pocket. “Alright. You know where to find me when your luck runs out, babe.” 

When he turned to leave you were finally free to cast your gaze back to the tile floor, and you found the grime there significantly easier to look at than Marco. Yet it did nothing to comfort the anxiety rising in your chest. Most days that feeling gripped your heart so tightly you swore one day it wouldn’t be able to pump at all, and still, you endured. As if you had any other choice. There was no flourishing in your life. There was no moment where you were able to sit and enjoy a cup of tea without something raging in your chest or mind. Because even in your laughter, even in your good moments, all you ever did was survive. 

It wasn’t easy living on borrowed time. 

Just when you had calmed your nerves, just when you were ready to leave that wretched place, your phone began to buzz in your pocket. In the process of fishing it out of your pocket, the string you had used to play cat’s cradle tumbled out with it and plopped on the floor. It stared up at you as if to make fun of you. As if to remind you that your only comfort was a stupid piece of string. Sighing, you reached down to grab it as you looked at the caller ID on your screen. 

“Hello?” you answered as you pressed the phone to your ear. 

“Hey! I just wanted to check in to see if you still planned on coming tonight?” the chipper voice of your friend, Row, hummed through the line. 

Row was probably your closest and only friend, and even through the phone you could imagine her sweet smile and the slight tilt of her head as she spoke. You had known her since you were a kid, and she had grown to become more of your sister than anything else. She always doted on you like a sibling, called you weekly, insisted that she saw you at least monthly; sometimes it was as if she was more of your mother than anything else. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you replied with a soft chuckle. 

“Good. Do you need a ride? John should be leaving work any minute if you want him to pick you up,” Row suggested. 

“No, that’s alright,” you insisted. “I’ve got a few things I need to finish up, so I’ll just take the bus over.” 

“Alright, but if you change your mind just let me know. I’ll make him turn around if you need,” she added humorously before pausing. “What’s that sound?” 

Confused, you glanced around the area until you remembered where you were at. The simple drone of the washers and dryers were just as loud as ever, and one of the various machines had just announced their finished cycle with a lovely little chime. 

“Oh, I’m at the laundromat,” you explained simply. 

“Well, alright. I’ll let you go so you can finish your chores,” Row said with a sigh. “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?” 

The smallest of smiles overtook your lips at her tone, and you nodded your head despite the fact she couldn’t see you. “See you in a bit.” 

When the line died, all the tension in your body seemed to melt away, but the strain in your mind only grew. All your social energy had already been expended after dealing with Marco, and you still had a dinner to go to. Usually your dinners with Row and her husband, John, were fine, but she informed you some of John’s work associates would be tagging along which meant more people to meet. Maybe you should have said no, or made up some excuse. If it had been any other day except that day, it would have been easier, but you never wanted to draw suspicion. Row could sniff out a problem like it was a bad wound. 

So you stood from that uncomfortable metal bench and slid your phone back into your pocket. The glass doors of the laundromat showed the hoards of pedestrians mingling about outside, and you found yourself swallowing at the sight. With a final glance around the area, you swiftly exited the building empty handed. It felt odd leaving a laundromat without any clothes to take home, but you never did laundry on the 25th of the month anyway. 

After a short stop by your apartment for a change of clothes, you found yourself on an uncomfortably crowded bus during the busiest time of the day. It would take you the better part of half an hour to make it to Row’s house, but that was alright with you. Despite the mass of fleshy bodies around you, all you had to do was stick your earbuds in, listen to music, and watch the scenery pass you by. It was grounding being the observer. Stuck in some sort of in between, only being able to watch, unable to be touched. It was safer that way. Usually. 

Eventually the concrete and glass buildings softened into something more colorful and natural. Golden trees waved in the chilly October breeze and you watched their leaves fall like raindrops where they covered the ground in a saffron blanket. When the bus finally reached your stop, you exited where you were greeted by the soft scent of old rain and wet leaves. That aroma continued to follow you as you walked down the cracked pavement towards Row’s house. Her and her husband were very well off and lived in a neighborhood that represented that fact well. Perfectly manicured lawns, pristine paneling, and fresh paint were the trademark features on every home you passed, which was loads different than you were used to in the city with chipped brick and peeling wallpaper. 

By the time you reached the house the sun had just started to dip below the horizon, and you could clearly make out the warm glow of the kitchen lights bleed through the sheer curtains that covered the windows. Several unfamiliar vehicles parked in an odd pile in the driveway, which consisted of rather pricey looking cars and even a motorcycle. Belonged to John’s work partners, no doubt. Even though you had showed up ten minutes early, it looked like everyone else had already arrived. Perhaps you should have taken that ride from John after all because the thought of walking into a crowded home with all eyes on you had you grimacing. But you couldn’t face him while your anxiety was still high from dealing with Marco. You would just have to grit your teeth and bear it.

After steadying yourself with a deep breath, you approached the door with as much faux confidence as you could muster before knocking. Over the years, you had gotten quite good at concealing the anxiety that often wracked your brain, and even when your thoughts got the better of you, it rarely ever showed on your face. When living with an untamable beast for so long, you had at least gotten good at yanking back on the leash. 

Moments later the door opened with a click and you were greeted by Row’s beaming smile. Boisterous laughter boomed behind her as she reached her arms out to embrace you. You fell into her hug with a slight giggle before she pulled you inside the warmth of the house. 

“I’m so glad you could make it!” she exclaimed as she led you through the entrance. “I know you’ve been really busy with work and all.” 

“I traded shifts with one of the other hostesses, so it’s not a big deal,” you politely excused. 

“Of course. God forbid they give you a proper day off,” Row chuckled. “But you came just in time! John and I just finished cooking, and the boys are all already here if you wanna grab a seat in the dining room.” 

You had been over at Row’s house plenty of times that you didn’t exactly need to be coddled anymore, and yet she still insisted on leading you through the kitchen and to where the others waited. Several dishes of food adorned the rectangular table, and it looked like the only thing that was missing was the main course which could be noted by a large, empty spot toward the center. Plates, cutlery, and glasses of water awaited at all six spots, three of which were already occupied by unfamiliar faces. 

Row made introductions simple and quick as the two of you took your seats. First, there was a man named Johnny. You vaguely recognized his voice as one of the louder ones you first heard when you entered the house, and he was just as smiley as his laughter would have you believe. A messy, flattened mohawk sat on his head, and several piercings adorned his ears with a silver glint. Then there was Kyle, a handsome man with an easy smile, he greeted you with a kind nod of his head. You couldn’t help but think about what a good complexion he had, but you opted to keep that thought to yourself. 

Then there was Riley. He was easily the largest, and frankly the most intimidating out of all of John’s other guests. Slight hints of tattoos poked out underneath his sleeves by his wrists, and there were a few faint scars on his face that lined up with the unnatural curve of his nose. There was an aura about him that you couldn’t quite place, but all you knew for sure was that when he looked at you with eyes so piercing and dark, your stomach felt odd. 

“Boys, this is Chip,” Row introduced

The ceremonious use of your nickname nearly made you cringe, and yet you kept an even face despite it. Really, you should have been used to it by that point. That name followed you around everywhere, even the cooks at work called you that. But that could most likely be attributed to the fact that they probably forgot what your name actually was. Either way, none of the men got the chance to ask you about it before John entered the dining room, ready to serve the main course. 

Dinner went just as you expected it to go. Everyone conversed around you while you kept your eyes on the food in front of you. Your reasoning for staying so quiet wasn’t because you were bad at talking, or didn’t want to participate; it was because your mind was still restless over the day's events. You would speak when someone asked you a question, or maybe give your input when prompted, but otherwise your mind always wandered back to Marco and that stupid laundromat. You could still feel his hand graze against your thigh, feel his arm around your back, still smell him. If it wasn’t looked down upon, you would have taken the string out of your pocket to distract yourself. 

The conversation was entertaining, at least. There was friendly banter between the men, inside jokes you didn’t quite understand, and several Scottish expressions from Johnny that were quickly met by Riley jokingly telling him to speak English. Even Row chipped in with her own fiery humor that left the boys poking fun at one another. Yet your attention kept returning to the large figure on your right. Perhaps it was the scars on his face that had intrigued you so much, or the small hint of tattoos that played peek-a-boo by his wrists, but there was something about him that drew you to him. So much so that you stared at him, something that he quickly caught on to. His eyes met yours for only a split moment before you quickly glanced back to your empty plate, embarrassed. 

“Price,” Johnny said just as everyone had finished their meal, “I heard you got a new pool table.” 

John wiped his mouth off on his napkin before he haphazardly tossed it onto his plate. “This your way of askin’ to play a round?” 

“Might be,” Johnny grinned. 

Chuckling, John stood from his seat and began to gather everyone’s plate, balancing them as best as he could on his forearm. “Alright. But I don’t want any of you muppets scratching up the felt, yeah?”

“Tell that to Garrick,” Johnny quipped as he nodded to the man sitting next to him. 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” Kyle mumbled. 

“What about you, Chip?” Johnny then asked. 

Surprised to hear your name, your ears perked up at the sound as you glanced at the men at the table. Clearing your throat, you offered them a sheepish smile. “Oh, I’ve never really played before.” 

“That’s alright. Riley’s a good teacher,” he insisted as he nodded to the man next to you. 

It was impossible to say no with so many eyes on you, looking at you so expectantly, hoping you would say yes. Even Row seemed a little interested in your answer, and you knew that if you denied their request she would just find some way to rope you into it anyways. You spared a glance towards Riley, who busied himself by taking a sip of his water, yet you were certain you saw his gaze flicker to you as he set his glass back on the table. 

Bashfully, you agreed, and you found yourself in the dim lighting of the garage with a pool stick in your hand. While Row and John cleaned up the mess left from dinner, Kyle set up the table where he racked all of the balls in a perfect triangle. Riley, who apparently was the master at pool, was the one invited to make the first shot. The crisp sound of the cue ball whacking against the others echoed off the dull garage walls, and the tight triangle had dispersed like buckshot across the table. 

One by one the boys took turns making their shots. Just like Johnny had teased previously, you learned Kyle really wasn’t all that great at pool, and you had to do your best to stifle your giggles at their teasing, because you knew that you would do significantly worse when your turn came around. In order to prepare yourself, you watched the others like a hawk as they took their turns. You noted hand placement, how they leaned across the table, how they eyed up their shots; all of it. 

Yet when your turn came, you didn’t feel any more confident than you had previously. You were on Riley’s team, which meant you were stripes, and your only saving grace was that the cue ball seemed perfectly lined up with one for easy pocketing. But when you attempted to position yourself everything fell out of place. The stick position felt awkward, and you couldn’t get it stable enough to make a clean shot. You were about to make a fool of yourself, you were sure of it. 

“Here,” Riley said as he leaned his cue stick against the table. 

His warmth suddenly engulfed you as he stood behind you, chest brushing against your back. It took everything in you not to boil alive under his touch as he guided your hands into position so that you could strike efficiently. Your guiding hand rested firmly against the table, and your grip on the stick was significantly more secure. Eventually everything felt more stable; everything except your mind. Riley’s close proximity had your diaphragm freezing, and you tried your best to ignore the way his breath fanned across your ear as he spoke. 

“Steady, yeah? Strike right here in the center, angle a little bit to the left,” he guided. 

Eventually his hands slid off of you and his chest was no longer at your back, but his scent still lingered. It was pleasant. There was a hint of some sort of cologne, but it wasn’t overwhelming, unlike Marco’s. There was the scent of tobacco mixed with the earthiness, though it was stale, and you noticed a slight hint of what you thought was leather. But you didn’t have the time to think about how pleasant it was, or how you could still feel the ghost of his hand on yours. Staying as steady as you could manage, you made your shot, and though it was wonky you still managed to pocket it. A series of celebratory whoops escaped the boys at your shot, and you found yourself smiling half with relief, half with triumph. Riley went for a more tame reaction, and he rested his hand on your shoulder to give it a tight squeeze. 

“Nice shot,” he murmured. 

Heat rose in your face at his touch, and you tried to swallow the warmth back into your stomach as you tapped your cue against the tip of your shoe. "All thanks to you, Riley."

For a moment, he was silent as he leaned over the table for his turn where thick fingers guided his cue along the table. Pudgy skin and muscles forced his shirt to tighten along his shoulders, and you stood there speechless as he hit his shot. He easily pocketed yet another ball before he straightened back up and turned his attention to you. His dark eyes, the ones that had caught you sneaking glances at him all night long, gave you a quick once over before he tilted his head slightly. 

"It's just Simon to you, sweetheart."

The rest of the evening went just as well as it could have. You and Simon ended up winning the game, no thanks to you, and it wasn’t long after that everyone began to pack up to leave for the night. It was strange. That buzzing heat that ignited underneath your skin after Simon helped you with your technique didn’t seem to waver at all. It was still just as strong when he left as it was when it first began to burn. Kind. Maybe that’s what it was. His touch was gentle and kind, unlike the insidiousness Marco usually tainted you with when the two of you saw one another for your monthly meetings. 

“You feeling alright?” Row asked.

The gentle hum of the car had nearly lulled you to sleep in the passenger's seat, and you found yourself humming in confusion at your friend’s question. It didn’t take long for the words to eventually register in your mind, and you nodded as you leaned back against the seat as you looked at the passing view. It had gotten well past dark by the time you were ready to go home, and Row refused to let you take the bus back to your apartment, especially with how cold it got during autumn nights. 

“Yeah, sorry. Meeting new people just gets a little exhausting for me,” you explained, though it was only half the truth. 

“I know, my sweet little introvert,” she teased. “But you seemed to get along with them alright. I don’t see much of Kyle, but he’s sweet enough. And Johnny, well, he can be a bit much most of the time, but Riley’s a good man. He’s been working for John for about six years now.” 

“Yeah, they were all very friendly,” you concurred. “Though Kyle is a bit better at pool than Johnny tried to convince me he was.” 

Your comment got Row to laugh and you found it quite contagious. Though the two of you were close, it felt like it had been eons since the two of you really got any sort of alone time together, and that realization seemed to hang heavy in the air between the two of you. After a small stretch of silence, she leaned her head to the side but still kept her eyes on the road as the car came to a stoplight. 

“What are you doing Saturday night?” she then asked. 

“Working,” you replied simply.

“Per usual,” she muttered. “What time do you get off?”

“Midnight, if I’m lucky.”

“Wanna come to the Halloween party they’re putting on at John’s club?” 

Every cell in your body screamed at the very thought of stepping foot into that place. You had been there a few times before, and each time it was because Row had practically begged you to go with her, and you learned that clubs weren’t for you before you even entered one. Even then in that car you could smell the sour alcohol and sweat, along with the blistering heat of bodies much too close to your own. 

“I don’t know…” you started, unsure of what excuse to give her. 

“Awe, come on Chip,” Row whined. “It’s been forever since we’ve had a girls night with just the two of us. Really, it’s been forever since I’ve really gotten to see you at all. You’re worrying me a little with how much you’ve been working.” 

Worry. Of course she was worried, you had given her every right to be over the last few months. Work had all but consumed your life, and it wasn’t all that rare for you to pull all-nighters in the name of getting a few extra hours on your paycheck. The last time the two of you had seen one another you had mentioned wanting to get a part time job on top of your other job, and you swore you nearly gave her a heart attack. You hadn’t exactly done anything to ease her mind since, either. 

Sighing, you looked away from the window and over to your friend just as the light turned green and she sped off through the intersection. “Can you promise me we’ll be home by one?” 

“How about one thirty?” she countered. 

You dropped your head with a sigh but hid the slight smile on your face as you glanced out at the street. “Do you promise?” 

“You have my word,” she assured. “We can even sit in the VIP section where there’s less people and better booze.”

Even though her words weren’t particularly funny, the two of you still chuckled together as if it were some inside joke. And yet, despite the laughter, some sort of odd pit formed in your stomach that not even a deep breath could vanquish. Whatever warmth you had felt tingling under your skin minutes ago vanished the very moment Row admitted she was worried about you. 

Of course she had every right to be worried about you. She was your friend, your sister, and it only made sense that she noticed the odd changes in your habits and nature. But worry often brought a second feeling with it; the want to help. Perhaps her dragging you out to her husbands club was her own weird way of helping you, but you knew there were greater lengths she was willing to go if it meant ensuring your safety and happiness. Maybe you should have embraced it. Any real friend or family member would, but the last thing you needed was someone trying to help you again. 

You knew all too well what that brought.

taglist: @datlilwrench @xxkay15xx @cutelibrariangf @talooolaaloolla @stargirl411

[starsjulia]

shattered dreams // leah williamson

a/n : i long angsty one i wrote a while ago, enjoy!!!

warnings : angst, pregnancy, essential tremor.

Essential tremor, also called benign tremor, familial tremor, and idiopathic tremor, is a medical condition characterized by involuntary rhythmic contractions and relaxations of certain muscle groups in one or more body parts of unknown cause.

---

The early summer sun streamed through the open window of their cozy London flat, casting warm rays across the room. Y/N sat at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys as she played a melody she’d been working on for weeks. The notes filled the room, rich and vibrant, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. It was a song she had written for Leah, capturing the love and joy they had found together.

As she sang the chorus, Y/N’s voice soared, filling the space with a sound that was uniquely hers—strong, emotive, and full of life. She could hear Leah moving around in the kitchen, humming along to the tune, and the familiar rhythm of their daily life brought a smile to her face. This was her happy place, where everything felt right with the world.

But as she reached the final verse, something strange happened. Her voice wavered, the note faltering as if it had lost its strength. She frowned, adjusting her posture and taking a deep breath before trying again. But the same thing happened—her voice quivered, not with emotion, but with something she couldn’t quite place. Frustration bubbled up inside her, but she pushed it down, chalking it up to a rare off day.

Shaking her head, Y/N moved her focus back to the piano, her fingers gliding over the keys. But now, the familiar movements didn’t feel as smooth as they usually did. Her hands seemed to tremble slightly, causing her to hit the wrong notes. She stopped playing, staring down at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.

“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as if to clear away the strange sensation. She flexed her fingers, trying to rid them of the slight tremor that seemed to have taken up residence there. But after a few moments, it faded, and she convinced herself that it had just been her imagination.

Later that night, as they lay in bed, Leah noticed the frown on Y/N’s face and the way she kept flexing her hands as if they were bothering her. “Everything alright?” Leah asked, her voice full of concern.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if she should mention the odd experience from earlier. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

Leah gave her a look that said she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached over and took Y/N’s hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “If something’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Y/N nodded, feeling a rush of guilt for not being completely honest. “I know,” she murmured, squeezing Leah’s hand back. “It’s nothing, really.”

But as the days went on, the symptoms didn’t go away. The tremor in her hands became more frequent, and her voice seemed to waver more often when she sang. There were times when she couldn’t hit the high notes that had always come so naturally to her, and it felt like her voice was slipping through her fingers like sand. She started to avoid singing certain songs, fearful of hearing the cracks and wobbles that had begun to plague her.

Y/N tried to hide her growing anxiety from Leah, not wanting to worry her. But Leah noticed the way Y/N would stare at her hands in frustration, the way she hesitated before picking up her guitar or sitting down at the piano. Y/N’s passion for music, which had always been the most vibrant part of her, seemed to dim slightly, and Leah’s concern grew with each passing day.

One afternoon, Y/N was in the studio, recording a new song she had written. As she strummed her guitar, she felt the now-familiar tremor in her fingers. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the music, but when she went to sing the chorus, her voice cracked and wavered so badly that she had to stop.

“Damn it!” she cursed, yanking off her headphones and tossing them onto the console in frustration. She sat there, breathing heavily, her mind racing. This wasn’t just nerves or tiredness—something was wrong, and she couldn’t deny it any longer.

Leah had been listening from the control room, watching through the glass as Y/N’s frustration boiled over. She pushed open the door, walking over to where Y/N sat, her face pale and her hands trembling.

“Y/N,” Leah said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Y/N looked up at Leah, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. “Leah… I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t control it… my hands, my voice… it’s like they’re not mine anymore.”

Leah knelt beside her, taking Y/N’s hands in hers. “We’re going to figure this out,” she said firmly, her voice steady even as worry gnawed at her heart. “But first, we need to see a doctor.”

Y/N nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. Deep down, she had known for a while that something was wrong, but hearing Leah say it out loud made it real in a way she hadn’t wanted to face.

---

The visit to the doctor was tense, both Y/N and Leah filled with a mix of dread and hope. The doctor ran a series of tests, his calm demeanor doing little to ease their anxiety. Y/N sat on the exam table, Leah’s hand firmly in hers, as they waited for the results.

When the doctor finally returned, his expression was serious, and Y/N felt her heart drop. “Y/N, the tests show that you have what’s known as essential tremor,” he said, his voice gentle but direct. “It’s a progressive neurological disorder that primarily affects your hands and voice. Unfortunately, it’s likely to worsen over time.”

Y/N stared at the doctor, her mind reeling. “My hands… my voice… what does that mean for my music?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighed, clearly aware of how devastating this news would be for her. “It will become increasingly difficult to perform fine motor tasks, like playing instruments or writing. As for your voice, the tremor can affect your ability to speak and sing clearly. We can explore treatments that may help manage the symptoms, but there’s no cure.”

The room seemed to close in around Y/N as she struggled to process the information. Her music—her life’s passion, the thing that had always been her solace and her joy—was being stolen from her, piece by piece. She felt Leah’s grip on her hand tighten, but it couldn’t chase away the growing despair in her chest.

“And the pregnancy?” Y/N asked, her voice breaking as she placed a hand on her stomach. “Will it… will it affect the baby?”

The doctor shook his head. “The condition shouldn’t have a direct impact on your pregnancy or the baby’s health. But as the tremor progresses, it may affect your ability to perform certain tasks, like holding the baby or caring for them in the way you’re used to. It’s something you’ll need to consider as you prepare for motherhood.”

Y/N felt tears welling up in her eyes, the weight of the diagnosis crashing down on her all at once. “But I… I won’t be able to hold my baby? Or sing to them?” she whispered, her voice filled with anguish.

Leah’s own tears finally broke free as she wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her close. “We’ll find a way,” Leah said, her voice shaking but determined. “We’ll figure it out, I promise. You’re not alone in this.”

But Y/N couldn’t hold back the sobs that tore through her. The future she had envisioned—of playing lullabies for her child, singing them to sleep, holding them close—was slipping through her fingers, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

---

In the weeks that followed, Y/N and Leah tried to adjust to their new reality. Y/N began working with a therapist to manage the tremors and explored different medications to help control the symptoms. But it was an uphill battle. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing.

The joy of their pregnancy announcement, which should have been one of the happiest times of their lives, was overshadowed by the relentless progression of Y/N’s condition. As her hands grew more unsteady and her voice more fragile, Y/N found herself retreating from the things she had once loved. She avoided the piano, left her guitar untouched in its case, and stopped singing around the house.

Leah watched Y/N’s light dim, her heart breaking for the woman she loved more than anything in the world. She did everything she could to support Y/N—attending every doctor’s appointment, helping her with daily tasks that had become increasingly difficult, and constantly reassuring her that they would find a way to make it through this.

But no matter how hard Leah tried to be strong, there were moments when the weight of it all became too much. Late at night, when Y/N was asleep, Leah would slip out of bed and sit alone in the living room, her head in her hands as she silently cried, overwhelmed by the fear and uncertainty of what lay ahead.

---

One evening, as Y/N sat on the couch, absently rubbing her belly, Leah joined her, sitting down and taking her hand. “How are you feeling?” Leah asked softly, her thumb brushing gently over Y/N’s knuckles.

Y/N sighed, leaning her head against Leah’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that I won’t be able to be the mother I want to be… that I won’t be able to hold our baby, or sing to them, or… or be there for them the way they need me.”

Leah’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Y/N’s voice, and she wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. “You’re going to be an amazing mother,” Leah said, her voice filled with conviction. “You’re so full of love, Y/N, and that’s what our baby is going to need more than anything. We’ll figure out the rest together, I promise.”

“But what if I get worse?” Y/N whispered, her fear breaking through. “What if I can’t… what if I lose my ability to even hold them?”

Leah’s grip tightened, her own tears spilling over. “Then I’ll hold them for both of us,” she said fiercely. “We’ll adapt, we’ll find ways to make it work. You’re not alone in this, Y/N. We’ll do this together, just like we’ve done everything else.”

Y/N nodded against Leah’s shoulder, though the fear still lingered, a dark shadow that refused to be banished. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were a lifeline Y/N desperately needed. She wasn’t alone in this, and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to help her find a way forward.

---

As the weeks passed, Y/N and Leah began to find a new rhythm, though it was far from easy. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing, but they faced it together, holding on to each other through the darkest moments. Y/N started working with a therapist, learning how to manage the tremors as best she could, and finding new ways to express herself through music, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

One day, after a particularly difficult session with her therapist, Y/N came home to find Leah sitting at the piano, softly playing one of Y/N’s old compositions. It was a song Y/N had written early in their relationship, filled with the joy and hope of new love. Leah’s fingers moved clumsily over the keys, and Y/N could see the concentration on her face as she tried to play the familiar melody.

Y/N stood in the doorway, watching Leah’s awkward attempts to recreate the music she loved. And despite everything, she felt a small, fragile smile tugging at her lips. Leah looked up, catching sight of Y/N, and immediately stopped, blushing slightly.

“I was just… trying to learn,” Leah said, looking a bit sheepish. “I know I’m not as good as you, but I thought maybe… if you couldn’t play, I could learn and play for you and the baby.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion, and she crossed the room, sitting beside Leah on the piano bench. “You’re amazing,” Y/N whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. “Thank you for this. For everything.”

Leah smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple. “We’re a team, remember?” she said softly. “We’ll find our way through this, no matter what.”

And as they sat there, side by side, Leah’s clumsy notes filling the air, Y/N felt a glimmer of hope return. Their future might be uncertain, and there were still so many fears to face, but they had each other. And for now, that was enough.

---

As Y/N’s pregnancy progressed, the reality of her condition became more and more apparent. Her voice grew increasingly unreliable, and the tremors in her hands worsened. Simple tasks, like cooking or writing, became difficult, and Y/N often found herself needing Leah’s help. It was frustrating and heartbreaking, but Leah never once wavered in her support.

One evening, as they lay in bed, Y/N felt the baby kick for the first time. She gasped, grabbing Leah’s hand and placing it on her belly. “Leah, did you feel that?” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

Leah’s eyes widened as she felt the tiny movement beneath her palm. “I did,” she whispered back, her voice full of wonder. “That’s our little one.”

The baby kicked again, and Y/N laughed through her tears, the sound filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. “I just… I want to be able to hold them, Leah,” she said, her voice breaking. “I want to be able to take care of them, to sing to them… but I’m so scared I won’t be able to.”

Leah wrapped her arms around Y/N, holding her close. “You will hold them,” she said fiercely. “You will take care of them, and you will sing to them, even if it’s not the way you imagined. We’ll find a way, Y/N. We’ll do this together.”

Y/N buried her face in Leah’s shoulder, clinging to her as the reality of their situation threatened to overwhelm her. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were like a beacon in the darkness, guiding Y/N through the fear and uncertainty.

---

As the months passed, Y/N and Leah prepared for the arrival of their baby. They attended birthing classes together, decorated the nursery, and talked about their hopes and dreams for their child. But beneath the surface, the fear of the unknown lingered, a constant companion that they could never quite shake.

Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when the tremors were so bad that she couldn’t even hold a cup of tea without spilling it. Her voice, once so strong and beautiful, had become shaky and unreliable, and she struggled with the loss of something that had always been such a fundamental part of her identity.

But through it all, Leah remained steadfast. She learned how to care for Y/N in ways she had never imagined, adapting to their new reality with a determination that only made Y/N love her more. And in those quiet moments, when it was just the two of them, Leah would remind Y/N that they were in this together—that no matter what happened, they would find a way to make it work.

---

The day finally came when Y/N went into labor. It was a difficult and exhausting process, but Leah was by her side every step of the way, holding her hand and whispering words of encouragement. When their baby was finally born, the sound of their tiny cry filled the room, and Y/N felt a wave of emotion crash over her.

The nurse carefully placed the baby in Y/N’s arms, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Y/N stared down at the tiny, perfect face of their child, her heart overflowing with love and awe. She had been so afraid that she wouldn’t be able to do this, but in that moment, all she could think about was how much she loved this little person in her arms.

Leah sat beside her, tears streaming down her face as she looked at their baby. “You did it,” Leah whispered, her voice filled with pride and love. “You’re incredible.”

Y/N smiled through her tears, looking up at Leah. “We did it,” she corrected softly. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Leah reached out and gently stroked the baby’s cheek, her heart swelling with love for her family. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re going to be an amazing mother, Y/N. I know it.”

As Y/N held their baby close, she felt the weight of her fears start to lift. Yes, her condition would be a challenge—there was no denying that. But in that moment, she knew that she could do this. They could do this, together.

And as she looked into the eyes of their child, Y/N made a silent promise. No matter what the future held, no matter how hard things got, she would be there for them. She would love them with everything she had, and she would find a way to be the mother they needed.

Because at the end of the day, that was all that mattered. And with Leah by her side, Y/N knew they could face anything.

---

Time passed, and life with their new baby became a mix of joy and challenges. Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when it was incredibly difficult. But they found ways to adapt, to make it work. Leah learned how to support Y/N in ways that allowed her to be the mother she wanted to be, even if it wasn’t exactly how they had imagined.

And through it all, Y/N never stopped singing. Her voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be, and there were times when it would shake or falter, but she sang anyway. She sang lullabies to their baby, softly and gently, her love for them pouring out with every note.

Leah would often join in, her voice blending with Y/N’s in a harmony that was imperfect but beautiful in its own way. And in those moments, as they sang together for their child, Y/N knew that they had found a new kind of music—one that was born out of love and resilience, one that would carry them through whatever challenges lay ahead.

They faced their future with hope and determination, knowing that no matter what came their way, they had each other. And that, in the end, was enough to keep them moving forward.

Together.

[trulyhblue]

Carded

Alessia Russo x Aussie! Arsenal! Reader

Warnings: Little bit of angst, fluff, coarse language, suggestive if you squint.

Masterlist

________________________

Alessia were a bit like Katie in the sense of your aggression — or, rather 'passion' as you put it gently — on the field.

Arsenal had a rocky start to the season, with a loss against Liverpool to being dubbed as 'second-halfsenal', as your fans and rivals alike found the comedy in your troubles. There was no technical malice behind the name, the girls would joke about it ever so often during training, but that didn't stop the hidden linger of doubt among the team. As the season proceeded, with the crucial derbies of both Chelsea and Tottenham, you started to notice how it was having a negative effect on your girlfriend.

You grew up in Melbourne, Australia, playing for your local club before being scouted by recruits when you were in High School. You joined Melbourne Victory at Seventeen, playing alongside your future Matildas teammates, Kyra and Courtney. The three of you went to school together, before graduating and parting ways. While they moved to the Sweden league, you chose to head to Bayern Munich, where you spent four years strengthening your skills and gaining wider international attention.

The move was incredibly difficult. You did not understand a word of German walking into your first day, and still struggle to communicate in the foreign language. It definitely helped when Lioness player, Georgia Stanway transferred from Manchester City, and you ended up spending a lot of time with the English girl.

Due to this connection, you had met the other Lionesses by association, one girl sticking out to you specifically.

You had properly met Alessia in a friendly match against your two National teams. It hadn't taken long for you to realise your feelings for each other, but the timing never seemed right. She was in Manchester, playing for United, and you were in Germany, both consistent in your hard work for your respective teams.

You both were called up for the World Cup squad, you playing as a regular starter in the Midfield. From your early career, you always had a deep-rooted chemistry with Kyra and Courtney, so the opportunities the three of you created set the scene for your forwards up front. It was heartbreaking losing to England in the Semi-finals, especially in a home World Cup. You remember how Georgia sat with you after the game, waiting until she knew you were okay before she went off to celebrate.

You reciprocated the kindness by watching the final, feeling upset for the Lionesses when the score did not turn out their way. The two of you wondered what the next step was for you.

You had trouble mulling over the end of your contract, knowing Georgia had just renewed hers. After the World Cup, the recognition of the public had a great turnout, and your agent was met with many expressions of interest.

When Arsenal's name popped up on that list, you knew it was a no-brainer.

You and Alessia had both transferred in the same week, Kyra a few weeks later. The blonde and you moved in together, having both no place to live and hit it off from there. Now, a few months in, you've never been happier.

"Alright girls, we can do this." You heard Kim shout from beside you. Alessia was holding your waist, fiddling with the hem of your shorts as the team huddled around each other.

"Go out and set the scene. First tackles, first corners, everything, alright?"

You were versing Chelsea, the London Derby, in a sold-out Emirates, and you could feel the nerves radiating off Kyra from in front of you. Kim was the Captain today, her Scottish accent shouting as both the starting eleven and subs hugged one another. The lead-up to this game was beyond stressful, the pressure of starting in such a critical game building on Alessia and you over the past few days. The whole ordeal was daunting, having not ever played in a derby of this significance before.

"London is Red, girls, let's go!" Katie shouted, earning the huddle to disperse as everyone took their starting positions.

You could feel the sweat compile over the creases in your hands, wiping them twice over before jogging to your place on the wing. You found yourself looking out to the crowd, waving at the group of fans chanting your name. Erin Cuthbert was quick to join your side, standing close by as the cheers grew louder in anticipation.

Alessia was upfront, watching you with adoring eyes. You offered her a tight-lipped smile, pursing your lips and blushing when she sent a toothy grin and thumbs up your way. However; the moment was short-lived as the referee was quick to blow her whistle, commencing the game.

It was apparent that Chelsea was not expecting the energy Arsenal brought to the game. Errors and miscalculated passes were being carried out left and right, the chemistry between both sides slipping beneath the heightening apprehension.

“I'm here!” You called, speeding along the wing as Katie hesitated on the other side of the pitch. The Chelsea girls had left your front wing open, crowding in the midfield, evidently oblivious to the mistake they’d produced. You heard Emma Hayes yelling to cover your end, but Katie had already seen you, crossing the ball to your end. Cuthbert was on your tail, trying hard to stub your sprint in an attempt to stuff you up.

Victoria was to your right, onside yet swarmed with about three defenders. Beth was not far behind; Chelsea defenders were swarming the box in a desperate endeavour to clear Arsenal’s attempt.

You had no other choice but to nimble the ball through Fleming’s legs and towards Vic, who helplessly maneuvered the ball through the maze of defenders before passing to Mead. Cuthbert had put her hands behind her back, using her body to shield Beth’s fake attempt at the goal. You watched with your breath hitched as Beth powered the ball to the goal, observing the swift motion of the back of the neck.

Alessia was the first to wrap your arms around you, holding you up, carrying you over to where Katie was gripping Beth for dear life.

The rest of your team celebrated around you, screaming among the thousands of people in the crowds, smiles etched on all your faces.

“You’re doing so well.” Less yelled, hoping you’d hear her praise over the booming echo of cheers circling the Emirates. She knew you heard her from the blush that spread your cheeks, making your already flushed face all the more flustered. Your girlfriend wrapped her hands around you, swaying you from side to side one more time before you patted her back and let go.

Her eyes watched your figure jog back to your spot near Cuthbert, who pushed her way into your shoulder before the whistle for the restart blew. You tried your best to ignore her antics, using your legs to propel you towards the ball.

Turns out, Chelsea didn't like what you just did.

Erin followed you up and down the pitch, tugging your shirt everywhere she went. Whenever you tried to run forward and make a chance for your team, the Scottish woman would yank you back, locking her arm around your body, keeping you glued to the sideline.

Chelsea evened the score only a couple of minutes later. The sweat dripping down your forehead was enough to tell anyone how hard you were trying. Erin wasn't the only one giving you grief; Fleming was always a few metres away, darting through the midfield easily without you to worry about.

You were finally given the ball from a cross from Victoria, who mustn't have realised how cornered you were. You hadn't left the sideline in twenty minutes now. Fleming was now to your left, running up against you with Erin’s arm holding your waist. You struggled to keep the ball at your feet, the crowd watching in delight as the three of you battled it out alone.

You had managed to dart the ball between Jessie’s legs, causing an audible reaction from the fans, but it seemed that your face was too preoccupied with meeting the grass to soak up any type of honour you were receiving.

You felt the ground against your cheek, your body falling from stubs to the foot. You groaned at the instant pain up your leg, causing you to hold your shoe and roll onto your back. The adrenaline from the game made the pang bearable, but you knew the tackle was far from clean way before the whistle had blown.

“Oh, get up. What a fucking baby.” You heard Erin say, her Scottish accent full of malice.

“I didn't know Chelsea hired my Nephew.” An Irish accent quipped nearby. “Cause all he does is throw a tantrum when he doesn't get what he wants.”

“It was clean.”

“Oh, fuck off, you slimy t—”

You didn't get to hear the rest of their dispute, too busy nursing your foot with your hands. Steph had broken the two up, ordering Katie to run back to the other side. Sam Kerr was also around, kneeling beside you amidst the strain.

“You ‘right, mate?” Your Aussie Teammate helped you up, holding out her hands and rubbing your back as you regained balance. The Skipper had been your mentor since you joined the Tillies. The older woman was an idol of yours, and you looked up to her despite the few years between you.

However, you couldn't respond to Sam in time, for she was pushed away harshly by a certain blonde, her blue eyes reeling with anger at the sight of the tackle you endured.

“Stay away from her, Kerr.” She snarled, using her arm to support your weight onto one foot. You put your hand on her chest, shooting a silent apology to Sam, who shrugged nonchalantly before sauntering off.

“Y/N, are you alright?” The referee asked the yellow card still in her hand. You knew you had the power to play it over the top, but this game was everything to you. You didn't want to be subbed off any time soon.

But your girlfriend wasn't having any of it.

“She,” Less pointed to Erin, who was standing by a regretful Fleming. “Needs to be sent off for that. She's been harassing Y/N all game. It was obviously on purpose. Did you see it? It was stubs to the—”

“Lessi, stop, it's alright. I'm fine.” You swapped glances from your girlfriend to the Ref, who was still looking at you for reassurance in regard to your physical wellness. “I’m fine.” You repeated, and the whistle was quickly blown for a free kick, and a yellow toward Cuthbert.

Alessia looked down at you cautiously, eyeing your leg and the slight weariness in your step. “Are you sure?” She asked.

When you nodded, she jogged over to her position once more, sighing at your stubbornness as you prepared for your kick.

Ilestedt’s goal only a few minutes later sent all of the girls into a frenzy. You sprinted over to the Swedish player, jumping onto her back and kissing her head, laughing as you felt the rest of your team surround you in hugs and celebrations. The screams and cheers in the stands were phenomenal. No one expected the Reds to be beating the Blues so early into the game.

Erin was hot on your tail when Caitlin punted the ball towards you. You made the sprint down the line, your Aussie teammates Steph and Caitlin both yelling out for a pass. You were about to boot it behind you, where Steph was waiting for the assist when you felt your legs give out for the second time that game. The grass met your face, the power of the fall leaving you in shambles, the ball long forgotten by the time your hand shot up to the blood running down your nose.

Steph was by your side, forgetting all about the game still in play. Alessia had gained possession of the ball, holding it in her hands by the time you had sat up, the whistling blowing when the Ref noticed the amount of red spilling down your shirt.

“Move your hand.” Steph uttered, holding your face and using her own shirt to hold your nose. “It’s not broken.” You did as you were told, your nose warm at the contact of the ground, only slightly sore. She looked up to Kim, who you knew was fuming underneath her worried gaze.

“I don't want to be subbed off.” You said, and you saw Kim nod, agreeing before storming up to the Referee, who was talking sternly to Erin.

Beside her was Alessia, with her arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed into a furious knot, you watching in horror as a yellow card was shown her way. Katie had made it just in time to take her away, gripping the girl’s shoulders and guiding her towards you.

The medics had come on to see to your nose whilst handing you another shirt to change into. They assessed the blood, which was slowly halting, and declared that you had just knocked it. You told them you didn't want to go off, and with a nod from Katie and approval from the Referee, you stood off the field patiently before you were allowed back on.

During those painstaking moments, you pondered on what Alessia had said that made her get the yellow. You knew Erin was already on thin ice, and in yesterday’s training, Jonas had said that if given the chance, Alessia was to take the penalties. You knew the English girl. She was never much of a violent person on the field, choosing to stay calm and collected rather than angsty and irate when something didn't go her way.

But in games like this, where everything was on the line, it was hard to deny the apparent tension behind her actions. When it came to you, she’d sacrifice everything. For you, she’d take a million yellows if it meant sticking up for you.

You had sprinted up near Fleming when the girls ran towards your goal. The stadium stood in anticipation, the adrenaline of Arsenal’s streak pumping through their cheers. Alessia found the ball under her feet, her shot hitting the back of the net with a swish. You couldn't hear anyone but yourself, the pain and exhaustion from the half leaving your body the very moment you wrapped your legs around Less’s waist.

The girl held you up with her hands, holding under your thighs, squishing the skin just under your arse before putting you down. You laughed at her cheeky grin, relishing the private moment between the two of you before the rest of the girls stampede their way around you.

“LESSI RUSSO!” Beth screamed, hugging the two of you as she jumped in excitement. Arsenal were beating Chelsea — the top of the ladder — three-one going into the second half. If they scored once more, it’d be the Blue’s worst defeat in five years.

The thought was the utmost motivation.

You would be lying if you said you weren't surprised to find yourself walking back on in the second half. Your nose had stopped bleeding during half-time, but the ache was still attending when you made your way to the wing.

Just before you went out, you felt familiar hands grip your waist, pushing you against the wall of your cubby. You saw Alessia’s glare eye your kit and the way she licked her lips at the sight of your flushed countenance. Her starved eyes roamed your face. Your lips met hers in a hungry kiss, knowing the rest of the girls were in their own world as they prepared for what was to come.

“You’re playing really good.” You said, holding her biceps, your finger drawing circles against her skin.

Alessia hummed, meeting your lips again, nipping your bottom lip before pulling away. “So are you, baby. ‘Making me so proud, you are.”

The compliment went straight through you. Her eyes continued to linger on you as you walked back out onto the pitch. You swallowed any pre-existing desire you had for the girl as Jessie Fleming walked by your side, offering you a curt, determined smile, then going stone-faced.

The rivalry in the second half displayed by both sides was nothing in comparison to the anger radiating in the last forty-five minutes of the London Derby.

Katie and Caitlin both got cards in two minutes of each other. Lauren James, Chelsea forward, fifteen minutes later. Illegal tackles were thrown left and right, pushing, shoving, ploughing everywhere you looked.

Emma Hayes must've thought Erin would've been sent off if been marking you for another second. Jessie was a much cleaner opponent, but as the time ticked over, the end of the match and the taste of victory near, the Canadian found haste in her decisions, making a rather late decision in tackling you near the sideline.

“Fuck, sorry.” She spoke, and while remorseful, she seemed too engulfed in the loss to speak much truth. She took her yellow graciously but made no attempt to reconcile with you. She walked over to Sam, who gave her a scornful glare, making the younger girl cower. You took your time getting up off the grass, stretching out the tension in your hamstrings before straightening back onto your feet.

On her way over to you, Alessia shot the dirtiest glare she could muster towards Fleming, not realising that many fans would catch the interaction on their phones. She made her way over to you, kissing the top of your forehead, making no endeavour to hide her public affection towards you.

Your relationship with Alessia was extremely private. You didn't want the public to know every detail of each other, and how you lived day to day in each other’s company, but that didn't mean you didn't like to tease your relationship over social media every once and a while. The Arsenal girls were all for a photo dump on Instagram, and many of the fans had caught onto your close proximity in some of the photos.

One of them in particular caused the rumours of your relationship to form. It was in Katie’s dump, a couple of weeks after your move to Arsenal. A group of girls were all sitting together in a booth, somewhere in a random London pub, but there wasn't enough room, leaving you to sit on Alessia’s lap when the photo was taken. From there, everyone assumed the two of you were dating, and while neither of you confirmed anything, it wasn't a secret you were trying hard to keep.

The game proceeded and not long after, an easy penalty was given to your side after a Chelsea defensive miscommunication. It was Alessia who took it, and the crowd made deafening sounds of joy as the Reds crowded around each other in celebration.

You were beating Chelsea 4-1.

The feeling was euphoric. Nothing could beat the sour, everlasting annoyance planted on Cuthbert’s face. Nothing could take you away from the overwhelming happiness that overtook your body when the full-time whistle blew, leaving Arsenal in glee at the massive takedown on the reigning top-of-the-ladder.

Alessia was up against you the moment you met each other’s glance. She pulled you off the ground, spinning you around in circles, making you squirm and squeal as she tickled your sides.

“You did so well, baby.” She sounded, her breath tickling your ear. You shivered, trying hard to hold in your yearning. Alessia knew how to rile you up, hands coming up to glue to your shoulders, massaging the knots that had formed from the tiresome run you just had. You groaned at the relief. Alessia smirked at the whines coming from your mouth.

“All for me, baby?”

You hid your face in her chest at that, face red at her undistinguished connotations. She laughed, holding your chin, placing a quick peck on the side of your lips, pulling you back into her afterwards.

You waited until she was soaking up the silence, a small smile decorating your sweaty face.

“Did it all for you, Lessi.”

____________________________

[annakacoyett]

Gotham has its own set of nursery rhymes and holiday verses. Instead of 'I've got deadly nightshade', its 'I see Poison Ivy'. Around Christmas, Crime Alley kids would go around singing carols, but instead of 'Santa Claus is coming to town', its 'Red Hood's gonna chop off your balls'. Gotham kids don't really know the exact words to 'Ringa Ringa Rose', but they can sing 'Shady Shady Batsy' in their sleep.

Everyone knows the Court of Owls nursery rhyme. Children hold hands and chant 'Hey Riddle, Riddle' in the playground. Mothers and fathers lull their children to sleep with renditions of 'Hush Little Baby' and 'Rock-a-bye' that don't sound quite right. 'Mary had a little lamb' is something that is decidedly an outsider thing, because here its 'Harley has WHACK-a-WHAM!'. Theres no Old MacDonald, because the song is called 'Scaredy Scarecrow'.

Even the rhymes that share the same name and tune with ones from the outside is pretty disturbing, for non-Gothamites. Jack and Jill never had anything about chemical spillage, Humpty Dumpty sounds a little more cracked than usual, and the words to Eenie Meanie sounds like a diary entry made by an obsessive pedophilic stalker. 'Down By The Bay' is basically a step-by-step on what to do if you're getting kidnapped, and there was never a London Bridge- the road to Arkham Aslyum is called Arkie's Bridge for a reason. 'Wheels On The Bus' is less about wheels and more about tirejacking. Itsy Bitsy Spider isn't about a spider- but a vaguely alligator-human hybrid mutant that lives in the sewers.

Anywho I wanna read about Gotham nursery rhymes, because with the shit that goes down there, the songs are CREEPY AS HELL.

[morronescamila-a]

               “we’ve been invited back home. well, my home. back to london. by sage and maggie. asher’s already over there. would you wanna go?” she looked over her shoulder at mallory as she played with daria. “i miss home. i really do. dd! wanna go home? wanna go see grandad?” she asked and daria squealed and started jumping up and down. “i have enough to pay for the three of us. s’not first class, but...” she shrugged. // @luriddaze​

[fayes-fics]

Refuge

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (throuple)

Summary: Fluff fic. The boys tend to you when you are sick.

Warnings: none... this is just sick/comfort and fluff.

Word Count: 1.1k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill (see HERE) requesting a fluffy comfort fic with the Bridgerton brothers. This isn't set in the Lessons-verse, but is a similar set-up, where the reader is in an established throuple with A & B and lives with them at Aubrey Hall. Nonny, I hope this fits your wishes. Enjoy! <3

A bed is only a refuge when it's by choice.

That's the thought preoccupying your melancholic mind as you sit in bed, propped against a mass of pillows, staring out the window across the sun-drenched fields of Aubrey Hall. Wishing you could be outside, enjoying the sun's rays on your skin. Instead, you are stuck inside, boredom reaching new heights as you contemplate restarting a book for the third time. 

For the past two days, a stomach complaint has left you feeling weak and without an appetite, but also frustratingly unable to sleep, seemingly worse at night. Also, you never sleep well when separated from your loves—it is all a recipe for a maudlin mood. The doctor does not think it is contagious but recommended bed rest and a foul-tasting tincture you must drink twice daily. The Bridgerton boys are coming back from business in London today, and usually, that would signify a wondrous, sensual reunion, but your traitorous body has decided otherwise.

Just as you are sullenly picking up the book you completed that morning, there is a soft knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call, defeated, expecting it to be someone bringing you more disgusting medicine.

“Darling, we are home! My valet informs me you are sick. Why did you not send word to London? We could have cut short our business,” Anthony’s worried tone seems to inhabit his whole frame as he strides in and makes a beeline for you.

“Are you alright?” Benedict adds, appearing behind him, his face also a picture of concern, rounding the other side of the bed.

The wondrous sight of them tips you over the edge. A bloom of pleasure mixed with frustration that your reunion cannot be in the manner you would like. It breaks the dam of emotions you have been keeping at bay, all bubbling over into tears. 

“Oh my love, no, please do not cry!” Benedict implores and softly takes a seat on the edge of the bed, taking your hand.

Anthony hovers, worry etched into his face but seemingly unsure what to do. Benedict frowns at him and signals for him to sit on the bed, which he does after a pause, taking your other hand.

“I've missed you both so very much,” you snuffle between tears, your gaze pinging between them. “I am just so sorry to disappoint you - I am not in a fit state to celebrate as we usually would,” you offer quietly, feeling guilty and biting your lip.

“You could never disappoint us,” Anthony avows sincerely, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

“We have missed you too, my love,” Benedict strokes your cheek delicately with his free hand, swiping a tear that falls with his thumb. “But please, you are obviously sick; we only care about you getting better.”

“Yes,” Anthony nods brusquely, “what can we do to alleviate your suffering? Open a window? Or is the room too cold? Perhaps a fire? Do you need more pillows? Or less? Perhaps some more tea?”

A glow behind your ribs flares at their loving concern in their unique ways—Anthony trying to solve the problem, Benedict offering sympathy. It is just so them.

“I would perhaps enjoy new reading material,” you confess quietly. “I have read all the books here in this room at least twice over now,” you admit sheepishly.

“I will have the staff move my entire library up here this afternoon,” Anthony declares solemnly, a hand over his heart.

“No, no, please, just a few books will be more than fine,” you assure with a feeble giggle, more tears welling at his outsized gesture.

“I think what she most needs from us, brother, is us,” Benedict assesses, lowering himself to buss a kiss on your forehead—always the one to intuit your emotional needs more than you can yourself.

“Yes, please,” you whisper, almost ashamed of your yearning to just be held by them, your weakened state making you feel fragile and in need of strong arms holding you close.

Anthony instantly pulls at his boots and then swings himself around until he can lie next to you. “Of course, how did I not see that?” he chastises himself, his lips running a soothing line over your right temple.

Benedict also takes off his boots and does the same, and a feeling like warmed honey spreads behind your ribs as they each wrap an arm around your middle, snuggling into your neck and face. 

“Thank you so much,” you murmur, your tears drying with their comforting presence.

“No more tears now,” Anthony lectures, but with a gentle sweetness that is him willing you to feel contentment. “We are here to do everything in our power to ensure you are all better soon.”

“Indeed,” Benedict confirms.

“Could you possibly get under the covers with me?” your ask is timid.

“Oh, of course!” both exclaim and stand up just long enough to shuck their jackets and waistcoats, pull back the bedding and slide in next to you. The heat of their bodies is an instant balm, seeping through their shirts through the thin cotton of your nightgown.

“Darling, your body is cold!” Anthony exclaims anxiously as his hand slides over your belly.

“I have not been able to keep food down, so I am always cold,” you admit. “All I can handle is weak, cooled tea.”

“My poor love,” Benedict sighs into your hairline. He runs gentle kisses over your cheek. “Then we will just have to stay here and keep you warm now, won't we?” 

“That would be truly wonderful,” you sigh, closing your eyes, feeling a bone-deep relief to be back in their joint, loving embrace. Something feels missing when they must both be gone. One is bearable; both being gone makes you ache for them. “Thank you, my loves,” you murmur as you feel the pull of sleep finally taking you.

The boys share a knowing silent glance - all other things they may have to attend to can wait; paramount is you and your recovery - before settling into the pillows next to you. Their legs entwining with yours, their arms holding you, their solid bodies bracketing yours. 

You sleep peacefully for the first time in days and awaken around dawn to beautiful birdsong, surrounded by Anthony and Benedict, their breath skittering over your skin in repose. During the night, your hands have ended up laced together. You feel warm for the first time this week, and your stomach rumbles, the urge to eat raring for the first time in days. It feels like you have turned a corner, although your desire to leave the bed is close to zero, snuggling down into them both - your wonderful boys.

A bed is only a refuge when it's by choice indeed.

Both Anthony & Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @sya-skies

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob  {{xx}}

Having bipolar disorder for Beth is a lot like being forced to ride a roller-coaster that she never wanted to be on in the first place. Bouts of hypomania or mania is often a slow uphill climb, gradual increases in her confidence and well being. She hardly notices the shift. How bright her eyes become with their fevered glow, how pleasant and agreeable ~and some would say, easily led~ she tends to be, fascinated by everything and craving to ruin the experiences before her.  In those moments, she almost doesn't think she needs anything else but her current obsession. It takes a week or so for her mood to stabilise with the help of her medication, which she might liken to the top of the crest. She never really knows how long she'll have that steady view, but she does try to hold onto it for as long as she can. It's the next part that she absolutely loathes to the core of her being. The inevitable fall. It comes screaming fast. Mach Jesus as Jay or Andy would call it though she isn't the type to really blaspheme, the downward slide. Instead of the butterflies in her brain that flit from thought to thought, she's reminded of everything she's done wrong or is incapable of doing. Simple things that are easy even for children. How truly insignificant she is in the universe, how much better it would be if her brother had lived and she hadn't ever existed. Too much noise in her head, too heavy a heart to carry. All she can do is crawl into the deepest and warmest place she can find and try to sleep. If she's lucky, and that's rarer than hen's teeth, she can do so without dreams. There's nothing anyone can do. And there's some small part of her that reminds her to keep her distance as she changes her scheduled perscription. She doesn't want him to see her sick to her stomach, emptying its contents into a bucket. She doesn't want him to see her shivering and sweating in turns while everything aches. This isn't the Beth she wants him to ever really know. This isn't the Beth she wants to be. Guilt, her most constant and dutiful companion. She knows it had been bad. That she'd gone up and up and up and Ron had been left to watch from the ground ~the actual reality of their lives together~ and hold down the fort. She hopes he had no dismay, that he doesn't hold any harsh epiphanies; she hadn't been herself. And while Ron had been an absolute treasure, encouraging her to get some rest, she could only lay in the bed with Topper her companion but the tossing and turning was uncomfortable for both girl and dog. She comes creeping out of the bedroom on near silent feet. Her pale gold shadow following with a quiet tick-tack behind her. She settles under one heavy arm ~Ron can hold her down, keep her from floating away into the stars~ and greets him, or so she thinks. It may not have even been words. Sometimes just the bones of them, a softer and silkier version of his own subtle vocalisations she doesn't know for sure he realises escape him. He breathes for them both. She can hear that sound from deep in his chest, the source of it, like a hotspring burbling up to send warmth through her. To lull her with that non sound, his gravel and his care. Like the lullaby goes it makes her feel like she's being rocked in the secure hammock of his voice and her lashes flutter glacial in the slowness until they don't. She doesn't know how long she slept. Whether it was hours or days or centuries. When she stirs though, she can see the light from the window is slanted in a different way than when she dozed off. The settee was exchanged once more for the bed, and though the disorientation of that could have been a nightmare in and of itself, when she turns her head....she finds the wall of his chest. A page turns. He's reading. She shifts her gaze up.

"Hi."

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Extra-dimensional.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Spot x Reader (Spider-verse).

Word Count: 6.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle-Adjacent Sex, Prolonged Stalking, Psychological Abuse, Themes of Grief, and Kidnapping.

You were starting to think that your apartment might’ve been haunted.

The science-focused part of your brain was forced to look at the evidence, to acknowledge how many well-accounted-for articles of clothing and minor keepsakes had gone missing over the past few weeks, to count how many times you’d caught shadowy figures flickering in the corner of your eye, to take stock of all possible causes and admit that, tragically, a temperamental spirit was the only remotely plausible explanation, even if you had to use the term ‘plausible’ more loosely than you’d like to. It made sense – or, it made as much sense as invoking supernatural entities could, anyway.

On the other hand, the part of your mind that paid rent every month and vacuumed twice a week really, really didn’t want your apartment to be haunted and vehemently denied that ghosts – unseen, untouchable, unsolvable ghosts – were something you’d have to deal with a down payment like yours.

Both parts of your brain could agree that leaving a fully in-tact, as-of-yet unopened bank vault would be a weird thing for a ghost to do, though.

Teeth grit, still dressed in the clothes you’d worn to the memorial, you stood with one foot planted on its overturned side and another lodged in your carpeting, the end of a crowbar you’d borrowed from your loudest downstairs neighbor lodged between the door and the wall where a badly beaten mechanism bound them together. You’d already called the cops, as little as you wanted to do with them or the quote-on-quote ‘heroes’ who’d failed to save him, but the operator had laughed you off of the line and despite the hours you’d spent buried in the deepest trenches of any search engine that would have you, the only report you could find of a bank robbery had taken place in London, on the other side of the world. You’d considered, briefly, that grief had driven you to hallucinations and this was just the first sign of an upcoming downward spiral, but that idea had been swiftly vetoed when you’d tripped over the damn thing and decided it was very much, very unfortunately real. The idea to pry it open had come a few minutes later, after deciding that you probably had a legal right to anything to investigate anything that spontaneously appeared in your living room – ghosts or no ghosts.

You heard something snap, felt the reverberation of a fracture underneath your palms, but the vault didn’t budge. The only thing that changed was your crowbar – the bent claw replaced with a jagged, broken-off tip when you managed to dislodge it from the vault. You winced, swallowing back in an agitated grown. Trial One: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. So far, the vault reigned victorious.

You tried to take a deep breath, to count to ten and tell yourself that this was no different than a failed experiment, a half-baked test that just hadn’t gone your way, but you could still hear church bells ringing in the back of your mind, still picture two empty seats at the front of the chapel – one for Dr. Octavius and the other meant for the CEO of the Alchamax, neither brave enough to show their face. You weren’t even sure why you were so angry. It could’ve been the clipped speech delivered by a company representative who’d barely known him, the closed casket, the way your coworkers could barely bring themselves to meet your eyes despite your stunted attempts at making conversation through the knot lodged in your throat. It could’ve been everything. It could’ve been something else entirely. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. There were already tears streaming down your cheeks, dripping down your chin as you pulled the crowbar back and swung it into the vault’s door. The force of the collision rattled through your body, but you steeled yourself and did it again, then again, then again, until the smooth, black metal was dented beyond any hope of repair and your crowbar was warped and misshapen. Finally, when you were panting and breathless, when your hands threatened to cramp and your shoulders ached in their sockets, you drove the blunted crowbar into the vault’s door with what was left of your quickly draining strength. In the end, your aggression was rewarded with a metallic clang, the sound of something cracking open, and then, what was left of the vault door fell open – nearly taking out one of your feet before you stumbled out of the way.

You clenched your eyes shut, forcing out a ragged exhale and re-tallying your score. Trail II: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. Although the vault put up a good fight, the crowbar’s endurance ultimately persevered. Interference from external factors and researcher’s bias will be considered later on with the assistance of a glass of wine and a mediocre romcom you’ll cry your eyes out to.

Once you’d managed to dampen the lingering heat of your grief-fueled anger, you turned your attention to the bank vault’s contents – the fruits of your labor, the results of your little experiment. You weren’t sure what you expected. Jewelry, maybe, artifacts or century-old paintings some underground dealer had to ditch in a stranger’s apartment for reasons you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Part of you, the part of you that remembered the number written across your last paycheck, couldn’t help but hope for something simple; a disorderly pile of unmarked bills that you’d count and stow away and pretend you weren’t dying to waste. That part of you wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Neatly stacked in the overturned bank vault, only slightly disrupted by your attempts to pry it open, were stacks upon stacks of neatly organized dollar bills. Or, that wasn’t quite right, actually. They were bills, but they weren’t dollars.

You took one of the bundles in your hand. English pounds – sorted by color and bound together by paper bands toting a logo you didn’t recognize. Huh.

Maybe your next call should be an international one.

~

By the next month, you’d escalated from a vaguely haunted apartment to a full-blown spectral presence that you just couldn’t seem to shake.

Spectral presence. You still weren’t convinced it was a real term, but you’d picked it up after a conversation with one of your coworkers (former coworker, now, you had to remind yourself, one of your former coworkers) when you both stepped out of a quickly lulling group session and you’d off-handedly mentioned your little ghost problem. In the moment, you’d laughed and shrugged and promised to let them know if you ever called an exorcist, but the phrase had stuck, resurfaced the next time you couldn’t find the threadbare t-shirt you’d been wearing for the better part of a decade and cemented itself in the forefront of your consciousness when the aforementioned shirt reappeared on your balcony, a jagged tear running from the collar to the midriff and the hems eaten away to nothing. If that didn’t count as a presence, you weren’t sure what would.  

That was the first time your little ghost problem had followed you out of the house, but it wouldn’t be the last. You could practically feel it, now; constantly looming over your shoulder, constantly watching, constantly leaving little trinkets in places it knew you would be. If you could even call them that. They were more like… oddities – rings made of a kind of metal you couldn’t recognize, puzzle boxes you couldn’t seem to figure out, things that should make sense but just didn’t when you looked into them. The only one you’d been able to make sense of so far was a pair of glasses, one of the lenses sporting a hair-line fracture. You’d spent the rest of that day huddled in your closet, the door shut and the lights off. You considered that you could have a stalker, someone or something who loved you enough or hated you enough to follow you around, leaving things you didn’t want to see in places it knows you’d find them, but you didn’t know how a stalker would even start to get their hands on something like that. You didn’t know how anything of his could’ve survived that explosion, but you weren’t in a place to ask those kinds of questions, anymore.

Currently, you weren’t in a place to do much of anything. You’d spent most of the night before sleepless and huddled into yourself, and now, you were glassy-eyes and exhausted, staring down an aisle’s worth of produce blankly as you tried to ignore the chill fanning over the nape of your neck. You kept your tongue caught in your teeth, counting out the micro-seconds between one breath and another with a precision refined by years of measuring the time between stimulus and reaction, holding yourself stiff enough to drown out the unsteadiness. It’d pass, soon enough. It had to pass, eventually. You just had to—

Something brushed against the small of your back and you straightened, snapping over your shoulder and finding, predictably, nothing. You tried to write it off as just another figment of your stress-induced paranoia, a symptom of so many late nights and so little external stimulation, but any hope of calming your racing heart was torn away with you by the feeling of something settling against the curve of your shoulder-blade, then dipping lower, following the curve of your spine before sliding to your hip. It was a phantom sensation – cold and weightless, hollow and so close to intangible – but you could feel it clearly enough to recognize that it was pressing against you directly, frozen tendrils sapping the warmth from your skin without clothes to buffer its awful touch. There was something else to it, too, a sort of buzzing that you couldn’t seem to compare to anything but static. It burnt. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

If you’d been braver, you might’ve glanced down, tried to see if the fabric of reality had opened to reveal some terrible, eldritch thing, but you weren’t and it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut, to cross your arms over your chest and pray that would be enough to protect you from the thin trail of frigid, searing static slowly creeping up your side, drifting to your navel, following the curve of your chest until it was resting just underneath the base of your throat. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of. That it would hurt you, maybe, that the thing that was haunting you for months would realize it could touch you and take the next logical step. You didn’t want to die in a grocery store. You didn’t want to die at all. You didn’t want to—

“Do you mind, dude?”

The static disappeared, dissolving into the open air, and your eyes shot open, immediately finding a strung-out teenager standing next to you, awkwardly attempting to reach for something you must’ve been standing in front of. More out of reflex than anything else, you stepped back, muttering an apology under your breath before retreating out of the store entirely. You decided, when you were a block away and just starting to catch your breath, that you’d never be going back. You decided you were never going to think about what’d just happened to you again.

And, later on, when you realized that you wouldn’t be any safer at home, you decided not to think about your little haunting at all.

~ It was creeping up your spine, again.

“You’ve got more than enough experience for the position we’re offering.”

Lingering at the nape of your neck, pausing, then circling to your chest to trace over your collarbones.

“And I saw your resume, too – very impressive stuff. We’d love to have someone with your qualifications on our staff.”

It usually waited until you were alone, locked in your apartment or curled up under your sheets. It hadn’t touched you again in public since your first physical encounter – something you were thankful for and horrified by in equal measures. You didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was a conscious entity. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean if it knew what it was doing to you.

“There’s just one question. You mentioned that you were formerly employed at,” A pause, a polite smile that meant ‘depending on your answer, you might not be in my office for much longer’, “Alchemax?”

You forced yourself to smile, too, shifting slightly in your uncomfortable leather seat and hoping that would be enough to dispel the trail of frost now gliding down your chest. “Unfortunately,” you started, and your specter dipped lower, past your stomach and into the space between your thighs. You clenched your legs shut, then thought better of it and crossed them, but that did little to stop the chill now washing over your lap, fanning over the inside of your thigh. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it groping. “I wasn’t in that department, if that’s what you’re wondering. Our work was supposed to be completely theoretical. None of us knew what was really going on until – well, until everything knew.”

Your total rejection of autonomy appeased the interviewer, who rewarded your sacrifice by nodding his head and shuffling the papers on his desk before launching into some lengthy monologue about benefits and turn-over rates that you couldn’t bring yourself to concentrate on. Your crossed legs offered little protection. The entity’s touch expanded, infecting everything it contacted with that awful static and turning your skin warm, hyper-sensitive. A strange, alien weight fell onto your clit, pressing down harshly enough to earn a sudden gasp, to make you jerk forward and wrap your arms around your stomach. The interview went silent, his expression turning to one of sympathy-tinged confusion. “Oh, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just—” You tried to straighten your back, to brace yourself on the arm of your chair, but the entity dipped lower, two finger-like projections tracing down the length of your slit and you forced yourself to stand in spite of your unsteady legs. “It’s just been so humid, lately. I think I might need to step out and get something to drink—”

“Please, let me.” No, no, no. You needed to be somewhere else, to find a broom closet to hide in until this was over, but you couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain that all you wanted to do was get away from here and run farther than this entity would be able to follow you. You couldn’t say much of anything as you fell back into your seat, as your interview offered a curt apology and fled his own office before you could do the same. You might’ve thanked him, but you couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

As you feared, the entity seemed to know that you were alone. Its formerly ginger touch turned aggressive, dull fingertips (because they were fingers, you couldn’t deny it any longer, couldn’t claim this thing was as far from human as you hoped it would be) burrowing into the inside of your thigh harshly enough to bruise before pulling back and turning their attention back to your cunt, your clit. It was more than just the ghost of sensation, now – the pad of a thumb pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves and drawing loose, quick circles into your clit. Your body, senses dialed up by paranoia and defenses thinned by exhaustion, reacted instantly, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in your core as you dug your nails into the leather seat and tried to hold yourself still, tried to stop your stupid, stupid body from doing anything that’d suggest you wanted to be molested by a ghost.

You grit your teeth, to clench your thighs together, but your resistance only seemed to make it more aggressive. You felt a hand curl around your ankle and jerk your leg to the side, forcing your legs apart. It was quick to fill the empty space, three fingers pressing into your entrance as the heel of a palm continued to torture your clit. Whatever chill it carried, you were burning hot enough to balance it out, now, to leave you struggling to ignore the slick starting to dampen the inside of your thighs, the wet sounds that echoed off the blank office walls as two fingers slid into your pussy – only vaguely muffled by fabric still between you and it. Suddenly, the material of your dress-pants felt thin, transparent, and against your better judgement, you forced yourself to look toward the door. The interviewer had closed it on his way out, but it wasn’t locked. You doubted it was soundproof, either. If you were lucky, they’d be short-staffed, and no one would have a reason to pass this specific office though this specific hallway. And, if you weren’t…

You choked back a ragged groan as the fingers inside of you started to move, started to do more than just grope and tease and haunt. Rather than numb, rather than paralyze, the static seemed to tote a much, much worse side-effect. There was a sort of… buzzing vibration, a resonating tremor that made you want to lean back, go slack, and let the sensation wash over you. You couldn’t, though. Even if you forfeited the job, gave up on the idea of ever working in this industry, you knew you’d never be able to show your face in public again if someone walked in and you had to explain what was happening to you right now. That was, if you even could explain what was happening to you right now.

You caught the inside of your cheek in your teeth, biting down until you tasted blood. The digits quirked upward, rubbing against your pulsing walls before scissoring apart, stretching you open. There was no pattern to it, no method you could track and prepare yourself for. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it experimental. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it clumsy.

You could feel your face heating up, a knot of tension growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, but rather than sped up, push forward, force you further towards that inevitable ledge, the entity’s hand pulled back, rubbing one more careless pattern into your clit before falling away completely. You let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, letting one last disgusted shudder run through you before straightening your back and—

And forcing a palm over your mouth just in time for a tongue, wet and thick and cold, to run over your cunt, hauling you back to the edge just as quickly as you’d pulled away from it. It was rough, the texture too savage to be human, and so wet, the slick you’d been trying to ignore was immediately replaced with thick, freezing saliva. Even the length seemed designed to torture you – long enough to lap over your entrance and your clit in the same slow, aching stroke; to thrust into you and fill the space its fingers had left empty. Memories of a course on specialized biology resurfaced in the fog of forced pleasure and helpless confusion, something about the evolution of a giraffe’s tongue and then, in another lecture, of the practice of masturbation among dolphins as a marker of their intelligence. You’d hated that fucking class. You hated that you were thinking about it now, instead of doing anything useful.

Its tongue was wider, more flexible than its fingers had been. It didn’t have to stretch you open, no, not when it was big enough to keep you full as its tapered end curled and probed against the walls of your cunt. Two fingers pressed into your clit, drawing loose patterns while its tongue split you open so gracelessly, so brutally, it almost circled back around to feeling good. You didn’t try to stop yourself from grinding into it, anymore, letting your legs twitch and your hips buck freely as it worked, as it tore you apart with all the care of a predator gnawing at slabs of raw meat. Every scrap of your limited energy was devoted to keeping yourself quiet, to stifling the needy whimpers and little whines that managed to escape despite your best efforts to silence them. That terrible buzzing seemed to grow stronger, now intense enough to send pulsing jolts of pure electricity from your pussy to your core, and you doubled over, blunt nails biting into your own skin as that thing finally shoved you over the side and brought your body to a trembling, blinding orgasm.

It nursed you through your climax, and as the euphoria faded and the aftershocks dulled into sharp, searing pangs, you managed to speak, your voice hushed and shaking for reasons that were entirely beyond your control. “Go away,” you forced out, praying that your interviewer had left the building, that there had never been a research center here at all and you were just sitting in a condemned building crying about nothing because grief had driven you insane weeks ago and you were just too lost in your own delusions to notice. “Please, go away.”

There was a second of hesitation, a lingering chill against the inside of your thigh, and the entity chose to show its first sign of mercy and finally, finally leave – its cold tongue lapping over your cunt one more time before disappearing completely. You had a second to pull yourself into a more dignified position, another to make sure you didn’t look like someone who’s just gotten finger-fucked by a ghost in the empty office of a higher-up who had to already think you were some mad-scientist reject before the door swung open, your interviewer stepping back in and smiling at you as if nothing in the world could’ve possibly been wrong.  

His eyes flickered over your hollowed expression, your wide eyes, your unsteady posture as he handed you a lukewarm bottle of water. You could only wonder why it’d taken him so long to get. “Are you…” A pause, a slight wince. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “…feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” you said, your voice hoarse, barely audible. You managed to brace yourself on the arms of your chair, pulling yourself upward and leaving the bottle forgotten in your lap. You didn’t want to drink anything. Not until your hands stopped shaking, at least.

“I think we were talking about my qualifications?”

~

You got the job, despite everything. They asked you to start as soon as you could, but you’d made your excuses, cited a half-remembered clause that’d come with your suspension package and got whoever was in-change of that kind of thing to hold the position for another month. You couldn’t imagine willingly stepping back into that building again, not yet. You couldn’t imagine doing much of anything, not when he still hung over your life like the smoke of a funeral pyre.

It'd been a bad idea, looking back on it. You should’ve worked harder to get yourself out of your stifling apartment. You should’ve done more to keep up with the friends you’d pushed away after the incident, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself socially isolated and alone. You should’ve left town. You should’ve fled the country.

You should’ve done everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up where you were now, facing down the thing that was currently standing in your bathroom doorway.

Your ghost, you figured – even if it’d been weeks since you genuinely thought you were only dealing with a run-of-the-mill haunting. It looked… blurry, for lack of a more creative descriptor; the white, chalky outline of a humanoid figure standing sharply out against the entirely black background. If it had a body, it was lost in the shadows of the hallway beyond, the shadows it’d created when it appeared out of nowhere and took every light bulb in your apartment out with a single pulse of extra-dimensional energy. Right now, the only source of light was the phone you were clutching in your right hand, your left similarly preoccupied, busy keeping your suddenly very, very thin towel wrapped around your torso. It probably didn’t matter. As far as you could tell, this thing didn’t have eyes, let alone genitalia.

That was what the rational, scientific part of your brain said, at least. The rest was replaying the memory of the way its hand had felt as groped at your thighs and couldn’t seem to comprehend much else.

You half-expected it to lunge at you, or rather, to creep at you, to disappear and reappear just outside of your peripheral, too far to see but close enough to sense. In the end, it only had to take a step forward, its movements slow and jerky, as if it wasn’t used to carrying its own weight just yet. Did it even weigh anything? Could you weigh something that clearly wasn’t supposed to exist? It didn’t really matter. You already knew it could touch you. You already knew it could kill you, if it wanted to.

Another step, then another. It closed the distance between you easily, coming to a stop less than arm’s length in front of you. You could see it more clearly, make out a smear of color in the void, like light catching on an oil spill. The white lines that bordered its form were moving in a way you hadn’t been able to make out from across the room, too; trembling and shaking, constantly shifting as if it was only ever a second away from falling apart entirely. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be tempted to reach out, see what happened when you made contact with it, rather than the other way around. If you weren’t so afraid, you might’ve been able to do anything.

It lifted a hand, reaching towards you with those same unnatural movements. Its fingertips brushed over your skin, painting a strip of frost across your cheek, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You couldn’t hear the buzzing, but then again, it might’ve just been a sign that you’d already gone deaf with fear.

You opened your mouth, but speech was hindered, your internal monologue limited to a never-ending mantra of ‘go away go away go away go away go away’. Eventually, you managed to spit something out, even if your voice was barely above a whisper by the time it reached your lips. “I don’t want you here.”

There was a second of stillness, of silence. You started to wonder if you’d made it angry, if it could be angry. You started to wonder if it could understand you at all.

Your makeshift flashlight wavered, sputtering a few times before giving out completely. You scrambled to turn it back on, to not be left alone in the dark with a monster, but your apartment flickered back to life and you found yourself standing alone, the entity having blinked out of reality in the time it took your eyes to adjust to the light. The only proof that it’d been there at all was your dead phone and how violently your hands were still shaking.

You considered leaving your apartment. You considered leaving the city – renting a car and driving as far as you were able to. You’d sleep in whatever shady, cheap motels would have you, start a new life across the country with only your meager savings and multiple PhDs to keep you afloat. You’d change your name. You’d get away from here, away from it. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, now that the infestation had spread to your sanctuary, too.

You took a shuddering breath, then set your phone down and let your towel fall away. You didn’t bother getting dressed before climbing into bed and curling up underneath your sheets, hoping in-vain that your comforter would be enough to hide you from any unseen voyeurs.

Some part of you must’ve already known that it wouldn’t.

~

You couldn’t remember waking up.

You must’ve, at some point. But, if you had, you would’ve remembered being brought here, would’ve been able to recognize the feeling of countless hands wrapping around your wrists, your ankles; countless mangled tendrils tangling around your fingers and dripping down your arms, snaking up your legs until you were entirely at its mercy. The numbers didn’t add up. There were too many hands, too many moving parts, too many things for your confusion-addled mind to keep track of. You couldn’t seem to figure out if you were suspended mid-air or if the gravity was different, if you were genuinely as weightless as you felt. That, more than anything, fueled the growing nausea twisting in the pit of your stomach, the growing sense of wrongness that threatened to tear away what little stability you had left. What little sanity you had left.

You tried to look past the awful things wrapped around you, to ground yourself with something beyond shifting colors and distorted limbs, but whatever pocket dimension you’d been dragged into didn’t offer much comfort. An expanse of white stretched on as far as you could see, only interrupted by free-floating pools of pure darkness; drops of ink spilled across an otherwise blank canvas. Occasionally, the landscape would waver, leaving you in a pure void broken up by streaks of colorless flesh that’d burn themselves into your sight and linger as phantom visions for seconds after the false reality corrected itself. Even the feeling of its skin against yours was off-putting, unsettling, lacking the warmth that would’ve accompanied the touch of anything human. Where there should’ve been comfort, there was nothing, a total absence of life and familiarity to a degree you’d never experienced before. Where there should’ve been intimacy, there was strangeness, and you’d never taken well to strangeness.

A pang of pure ache ran from your cunt to your core, a sort of numbing electricity that made your legs twitch and your body seize. Right, you’d managed to forget. It was touching you, beyond just the hands shackled around your wrists and ankles and the amorphous tendrils laving over any part of you they could reach. Two fingers kept your pussy spread open and vulnerable while a thick, tapered tendril thrust into you at the kind of idle, languid pace that was simultaneously infinitely merciful and too agonizing to put words to. That was one of the only things you could feel – the agonizing stretch, the tight knot of tension sitting in the pit of your stomach. If you’d been able to move anything beyond your eyes, you might’ve gagged. If your body had been something tangible, something real, you might’ve felt sick.

The tendril curled inside of you, and every fiber of your being seemed to wither. Struggling was pointless, but you still had to try, thrashing against your restraints, digging your nails into that obsidian flesh and praying to whichever deity would listen that it wouldn’t think to fight back. Fortunately, your blunt nails and weak thrashing didn’t seem to faze it. You weren’t sure if it knew you were there beyond some unconscious tactile sense, like a freshly triggered venus flytrap closing around its victim. You weren’t sure which was more horrific – the idea that there was some sentient, self-aware being knowingly and decisively doing this to you, or the passing thought that you’d just been caught in the mouth of some mindless creature that happened to like the way you tasted.

You decided not to think about it. You decided not to think about anything. You decided that, if you kept your mind totally blank, if you refused to count how many times you’d caught a lingering shadow in the corner of your eye or felt a stray hand brush against the small of your back, if you refused to feel its disembodied tendril filling your cunt, then none of this was happening, then you weren’t trapped in an plane of endless nothingness and you weren’t being fucked by the monster that’d been haunting you for months, now. You clenched your eyes shut and promised yourself that you couldn’t feel its dulled tip rubbing against that sensitive, softened spot inside of you, that your hips didn’t buck as another hand appeared from a puddle of kaleidoscopic ink and pressed three fingers into your abused clit, that it didn’t matter if warmth was starting to pool in your core because it couldn’t matter.

Ignoring it wasn’t an option, though. It wouldn’t let you ignore it – its pace changing, speeding up, getting rougher as you failed to stifle your reactions, failed to swallow down the little gasps and moans that slipped past your parted lips. It was almost brutal in its unyieldingness, fucking into you with enough force to bruise as you writhed and scratched and screamed. There was no remorse, no care, just its forceful affection and your body’s response. Another tendril wrapped around your midriff, another hand falling to your chest, and you let out a long, wordless cry. The entity reacted immediately, the blunt head of a tendril forcing its way past your lips and lodging itself in your throat, forcing you to gag around its bulk. It smelled like ozone – fresh and thrilling and terrible all at once. It tasted organic.

This one, mercifully, didn’t seem to want to hurt you. It seemed content to explore you, to twist around your tongue and prod at every corner of your mouth. Still, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chest as you attempted not to choke, as you tried not to let the deformed mass fucking into your cunt tear you apart. Your vision was distorted, blurred and darkened around the edges, but you forced yourself to open your eyes, to stare blankly at the new well of ink forming some indescribable distance above you. It was bigger than the others, soon interrupted by a border of white appearing in the darkness, the shape wavering, sketchy, like chalk line drawn with an unsteady hand. Eventually, you made out a shape not unlike the one you’d seen in your apartment all those weeks ago, the ghostly entity that’d barely had to lift a finger to terrify you. This one was different, though – harsher, flitting and flashing in and out of existence faster than you could comprehend. If it’d been a breath away from falling apart the last time you saw it, reality was struggling to hold itself together around it, now.

A head emerged from the darkness, then a neck, then the entity’s broad shoulders. A hand materialized, extending from the pull of darkness and reaching towards you, towards the mess of dark matter and appendages that now all-but entirely encompassed your form. Its fingertips brushed against your jaw, then cupped your cheek, it’s touch careful, ginger, cautious. As if it was trying to be gentle with you. As if it was trying to be loving.

You’re not sure what part of your exhausted mind made the connection, which piece slid into place first. You let your head lull to the side, your jaw fall limp around the tendril in your mouth. You grunted, a premature attempt to speak that it could separate from all the other meaningless, ragged sounds that’d been forced out of you by its invasive touch, and the tendril pulled back, wrapping loosely around your neck. It still took you a moment to find your voice, but you managed to spit out something nearly coherent.

“…Jonathan?”

For a moment, the hands wrapped around your limbs loosened, the tendril attempting to split you in two faltering and before going still.

Then, there was a resounding, resonating purr that seemed to emanate from every corner of the micro-dimension. When the tendril started to move again, it thrusted into you with twice the force, twice the mania. This time, you didn’t have to pretend. You were floating on air, your thoughts blank and your mind empty – your body numb and unfeeling. This time, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.

This time, you didn’t even bother to try.

[artistmarchalius]

British Terms of Endearment ❤️🤍💙

Here’s another one for all the Spider-Verse and Hobie fanfic writers!

Terms of endearment are handed out fairly liberally in the UK and aren’t restricted to people you actually love. You can hear them from all sorts of people, from your very best friend to the person delivering the post. There’s a lot of words to use to be friendly or show someone you care for them.

So here’s an assortment of British terms of endearment! Let’s get started:

Terms of endearment:

Love/Luv - It’s fairly common to use this term of endearment with strangers, it’s not strictly reserved for loved ones. An employee at the garage might ask you “What tires do you need, luv?” or the person working the checkout might say “That’ll be £23.95, love.”

Because of how common it is in everyday conversation, it’s easy to keep using it with the people you do love.

E.g. “Anything for you, love.” Or “Hey there, luv. How was your day?”

Lovely - Used similarly to “Love/Luv”. It’s very common to put “my” in front of it.

E.g. “You alright, my lovely?”

Duck/Ducky - this term is used more commonly around the Midlands of England. I’m adding this to the list because I love it. It’s common to put “me” in front of “duck”.

E.g. “Ducky, come look at this!” Or “Alright there, me duck?” Or “I’ll get that for you, duck.”

Pet - this term is more common around the North East of England. Using this term doesn’t mean you think of the recipient as a pet, it’s just cutesy.

E.g. “That’s okay, pet.”

Sunshine - although it is an affectionate word, I’ve personally seen it used more sarcastically or threateningly. Imagine, you’re watching TV and an East End gangster has come to intimidate someone who grassed them up. It’s dark, they walk menacingly through the door and greet them in a low, gravelly voice: “Hello sunshine.”

It is still used affectionately though. E.g. “Nice to see you, sunshine!”

Treacle - from the Cockney rhyming slang “treacle tart” meaning sweetheart.

E.g. “You alright there, treacle?”

Sweetheart - for those that don’t want to use/don’t know about “treacle”.

E.g. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Princess/beautiful/treasure - these are some East End/Cockeny terms of endearment used typically by the working class and usually towards women. It can feel a bit condescending to be called this, but it’s meant in an inoffensive, friendly way.

E.g. “Thanks for the help, princess!” Or “Nice chatting with you, treasure!”

Dear - Used more by older people. This is another term you might hear from a stranger, especially an older one. Younger people tend to use it more when they want to sound a bit more old timey or posh, often in a comical way. E.g. “Yes, dear.”

It’s more common to hear it used in regards to saying that someone “is a dear”, either in response to being kind or asking them to do something kind. E.g. “You’re such a dear!” Or “Would you be a dear and fetch me my slippers?”

Darling - This is more of an upper class term of endearment, however it can also be abbreviated to “darlin’”, which you might hear more often, especially if you’ve ever been in a London taxi. Like “lovely”, it’s common to put a “my” in front of it.

E.g. “Darling, I read the most ghastly thing in the newspaper this morning.” Or “Alright then, my darlin’, where are we off to?”

Baby/Babe - these are used commonly around the world and we use them here too! In Essex (just east of London) you’ll more commonly hear the other alternative “Babes”. This would be in reference to one person rather than being a pluralisation of “Babe”.

E.g. “Love ya, babes!”

Poppet - often used in reference to a young child or a girl. Can also be in reference to someone sweet.

E.g. “Here you go, poppet.” Or “Don’t fret, poppet, it’ll be alright.”

Mate - interchangeable with “friend”. You can use the term with strangers and friends alike.

E.g. “You doin’ okay, mate?” Or “Shove off, mate!”

Insults: as it most likely is in many parts of the world, it is quite common to jokingly use insults as terms of endearment. I’m talking swear words, creative insults and normal/silly words used in the tone of rude words (an example for the last one: “Stop throwing socks at me, you gammy sausage!” Or “Leave it out, you splunky wimble!” used affectionately. Although you can preface with a swear to make it more spicy). This is probably really obvious but I still wanted to point it out since a lot of the other items on this list can be used with strangers, but this is only done with people you’re close with. I shan’t write any of the rude words here, I aim to be family friendly, but if anyone wants to double check if an insult can be used affectionately or if you want to create a British sounding non-rude/normal word/silly word insult but you don’t know how, don’t be shy, you can send me an ask or a message! I’m happy to proofread!

Words relating to love/romance/feeling amorous:

Fancy - to have a crush or to like someone.

E.g. “I fancy him!” Or “She fancies Justine’s older sister.”

Chat up - to flirt.

E.g. “He was chatting up some girl at the bar.”

Fit - attractive.

E.g. “She’s well fit!”

Peng - attractive/appealing. It’s more frequently applied to people but things like food or clothes can be peng too.

E.g. “He’s well peng!” Or “Those shoes are peng!”

Lush - attractive.

E.g. “He’s so lush!”

Bang tidy - someone who is extremely attractive/sexy. It can also be used to describe something that is of very good quality or beauty.

E.g. “She’s bang tidy!”

So there we go, an assortment of terms of endearment used in Britain! I’ve primarily stuck with terms used in and around London, the South and the South East of England since that’s the area that Hobie would probably be most familiar with. A lot of these terms are also used in America and other parts of the world, so if you’ve seen something here that you already use (and aren’t a member of the UK) then just use this as confirmation that we use the word here too. I’m not trying to say that these words are UK exclusives.

I also want to point out that when you or someone you don’t know uses overly familiar language, it can sometimes feel condescending or uncomfortable. Just because it’s common here, doesn’t always mean it’s appreciated. I don’t want to give the impression that every Brit says they love each other and every other Brit is happy to hear about it. Everyone has their own preferences.

I hope you have found this helpful or at the very least somewhat entertaining. Once again, I’m not an expert, I just want to share the information I have in the hopes that it will help or entertain someone. If you want more British slang info, check out my Cockney rhyming slang post here and my British police slang post here! Let me know if there are other areas of British slang you’d like to hear about!

[samheughanswife]

Sam used Steve Cree to deliver a message to remind and update the OL verse that Graham, ( can we be adults and not call him Grandma - it’s so puerile we are adults) is an embezzler.

The premise is what’s worse, an embezzler or a man who pays a hooker to walk beside him in central London for a photo op? A play that was a honest transaction between consenting adults.

Thinking outside a very narrow prism that is this arena is this a clever move to reputational reset and a start to redress other outstanding issues?

Did Sam skip the Con to give Steve the room to drop that bomb?