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theredofoctober · 11 months ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER NINE: FOWL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the ninth chapter in the series. Author's note: the timeline of this AU is vague, being that some events in season two has happened, implied to be a year ago, but neither Will or Hannibal have been to jail.

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“So,” says Hannibal, pouring scarlet wine into Will's proffered glass. “How much closer are you to establishing the identity of the Silicone Lover?”

The three of you are in the living room, as is customary on Will's frequent visits. The men sit so near to one another as to be almost touching, sensual in the incline of each listening ear and dancing strand of conversation.

You, conversely, inch as far into a corner as you can afford to without reprimand, your fist to your chin, a flimsy artifice of feigned disinterest in their chatter.

By this time, you are sobering into shame of your despair in Will's grudging embrace. He, for his part, seems near sick with regret of it, swallowing and rubbing at his temples like a poet over some gloomy work. Not once has he looked at or spoken to you since you slipped, cringing, from his lap, but you know that he thinks of you, his contemplation extending outwards on a phantasmal limb.

Still, it is of his case alone that he speaks aloud, dredging words up from a cistern in himself with a halting effort.

“I’ve been so deep inside the Lover’s head that I could almost... be him,” he says, through a wince. “Not a place I’d like to be for long. He’s looking for the perfect doll. None of his creations so far have lived up to the idealisation he has in his mind. That’s why he uses the silicone, and cuts the abducted women down to size. He wants them small. Biddable.”

Will sips at his wine. A red bead of it is a winter berry on his lips before he wipes it away with his rough thumb, spoiling the brevity of its mite beauty.

“Either the Lover is trying to form the girl of his dreams,” he says, “or recreate someone that already exists who, for whatever reason, he can’t have.”

“So they are substitutes,” says Hannibal. “As several young women were for Abigail Hobbs. Could the girl on this new pedestal also be a killer’s daughter?”

You glance up at the mention of the familiar name, and Dr Lecter meets your gaze, granting you silent entry into the discussion. He's had half an eye on you since your collapse into Will’s bitter mercy, intrigued by your burgeoning alliance.

Evidently his antiphon is to consent where his friend would deny you, and though you know yourself a tool in Hannibal's craft you allow such use, sensing it may benefit your cause.

“The Lover’s attachment to his muse isn’t incestuous,” says Will. “Not by blood. She’s inaccessible either because his proximity to her would make it too suspicious if he abducted her, or because to ravage her the way he does his other victims would destroy her, and that isn’t what the Lover wants.”

“What does he want?” you ask, and Will starts, a furrow creasing his brow.

“I was talking to Dr Lecter,” he says, shortly; he doesn’t turn to address you. “Don’t interrupt. It’s rude.”

The urge to laugh has you twisting your lips in towards your teeth, afraid to release the sound, lest you crack his scarce tolerance of your presence. The cinder of Will’s palm across your cheek is charred in memory, the impulse of his anger.

Hannibal says, “Perhaps it isn’t that the Lover’s paramour cannot be touched, but that to consummate that initial contact is a frontier that could never be reversed.”

Coaxed back into debate, Will considers the notion.

“He’s afraid he’ll kill her.”

“Perhaps he believes he will have no choice. A wild animal, having fled from its menagerie, is often destroyed to prevent what it may unleash upon those it encounters.”

“The only danger she poses is to the Lover,” says Will, and drains his glass. “He can’t stand the thought of giving up his profession.”

Dr Lecter’s face tilts rather dotingly aside.

“If our murderer had his betrothed in his arms, then perhaps he would practice another trade. Killing is a mere formality to the Lover. A means of disposal, not his preferred indulgence.”

Hannibal stands to walk the length of the room; Will’s head turns with a near imperceptible movement to follow, entranced, through his scepticism. Unable to look away.

“Consider the labour spent upon sexual assault and mutilation,” says Dr Lecter. “The comparative carelessness with which the Lover evicts his darlings when he exhausts their use.”

“That carelessness is their punishment,” says Will, “for daring to be anything but her.”

You lean forward in your chair, scarcely cognizant of what you do.

“Who is she?” you ask, and Will grimaces, his visage taking on a tuberculous cast.

“I– I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t see her yet. She’s the only doll without a face.”

You are fascinated by the disquiet that has come over him, a reflection of what it is to wear the wants of killers until they feel almost his own. Hannibal, returning to his seat, decants another glass of wine, holding it in his own hand a moment as he examines his friend over the rim.

“How have your episodes been, Will?” he asks. “Have there been any more instances of you waking outdoors without knowing where you are?”

Hannibal’s gaze rests briefly upon you, and you realise, at once, that the topic has been raised partially for your benefit.

Will takes his glass with a terse fist, his eyes lowered.

“I’d rather not go into that while your patient is present.”

Patient. He is forcing distance between you, armouring himself against his illness, and your potential use of such knowledge.

Hannibal does not allow it.

“After all the ways in which you’ve held our guest, can you fairly exclude her from family matters?”

Will sneers, finally looking at you with as much ire as he can muster in his dishevelment.

“Is this a family?”

“No,” you whisper.

Hannibal says, “It’s becoming one. Time is required for the covenant to form.”

The younger man emits a sardonic laugh.

“If you say so.”

You find yourself struck by something far too like betrayal for your liking.

“Do you think she is a substitute for what might have been with Abigail Hobbs?” asks Hannibal.

“No,” says Will, firmly. “This is something else. I see the parallels you’re making, Dr Lecter, but they don’t align.”

Stung, you interject, “Yeah, because you wouldn’t have fucked this Abigail, right?"

The younger man almost writhes in discomfort, and shakes his head.

“No,” says Hannibal, coolly, more jarred by your coarse phrasing than by the question itself. “That wasn’t what she needed from us.”

The subtle emphasis on the pronoun discourages you from objection, being that you know what he has seen, in your house. What you have watched, while touching yourself in restless hours, your own hand to your throat.

“On the subject of your requirements,” Dr Lecter continues. “You don’t have to join us for dinner tonight, little one. I’ll prepare you a light lunch of seared fish and vegetables, and then you may retire from company early.”

Both you and Will turn to Hannibal, briefly united in your surprise.

“So we’re encouraging her, now,” Will says, and Dr Lecter chuckles, all loving indulgence.

“Far from it. Fasting can be practised in a healthy manner. Self-discipline need not be punitive. Our little one should learn this for herself.”

Considering the statement, you attempt, without success, to understand the machinations of his reprieve.

You cannot find it in you to thank him for the coal with which he has stoked the old flame of starving. But you are grateful for that fuel, no matter its source, and do not know which God of many to kneel to in acknowledgement.

Hannibal would think himself such a lord, with you and Will as his parishioners. Yet again, it may be that Dr Lecter is the churchgoer between the two men, the one who, as in your dream, may acquiesce, hands clasped, to a lover’s word.

“Am I allowed to do what he says or not, daddy?” you ask of Will, in the end, who tsks and all but flounces in defeat.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’m not qualified to oppose Dr Lecter’s care. But when you regret it, I won’t be there to comfort you.”

You no longer believe him. Like Jack, Will has a partiality for the vulnerable, and though he may deride your other qualities, he aches for you in your suffering even as he worsens its sting.

In the auburn night you attempt The Idiot again, tearing through one chapter to the next as hunger rides you like death on horseback, a test against the grindstone of will. You’ve gone longer than this without eating, before, a day or two on water alone, and only sips of it, at that.

But the new frequency of meals in Hannibal’s home has reawakened your appetite, and your gut wails in craving of all that you abjure.

You think of descending the staircase and asking sheepishly for an invitation to dinner, but you would rather see the grave than the humiliation of admitting such hunger before your jailors.

Sleep is an impenetrable country, food the geographic distance between you and its gentle hold. By two in the morning you’re marching the room, yearning to weary yourself beyond appetite. Knowing that after the assaults and the erasure of your outside self you haven’t the mettle to maintain the long walk as once you could.

As you do every night around this time you try your bedroom door, a routine of soothing repetition. Again you find it open, which you have known in your soul that it would be since Hannibal had made his golden offer to you that afternoon.

Surely this, like the time before, is an experiment in what you will do in the slumbering house. You daren’t try for an escape— Hannibal will start from his bed at the sound of a window shattered, a door forced at the lock, and will catch you, barefoot in your lace nightgown amidst the night damp of fallen leaves.

Perhaps, knowing this, he thinks you’ll creep to him or Will instead for want of a love of which they’re bereft. The notion of familial synergy is the absinthe dream that Hannibal chases, shared blood in the appetite of lust rather than parenthood.

You should remain abed, deny the doctor and his accomplice their entertainment. But hunger shoves you by both shoulders down the staircase, towards the kitchen door, and it lies open.

As in a fairytale you enter, thoughtless, moth-drawn to the flame that is food, in Hannibal’s refrigerator, prising back the hinge to reveal the luxuries within. Pretty displays of fresh vegetables and salad, labelled bottles of milk and cream, truckles of cheese, sliced meat—chicken, beef, ham—

You sway in the song of your hunger, attempting to bid yourself away with thoughts of how firmly you’ve stood against it, thus far, how strong you are, how in control.

In a moment your hand is on the shelf and unwrapping a pale slab of chicken, and then it’s in your mouth, and sectioned between your teeth, and swallowed. The taste of it isn’t chicken, but something else, and you don’t care until you see your face reflected in the refrigerator door, and realise the beast you are. What you have done.

You clutch your throat, attempting to calculate the calories—seventy, a hundred, a hundred and fifty, small numbers to a person not possessed by the spirit of disorder, but to you a devastation, the shattering of your sturdy fast.

It is Will and Hannibal’s fault, you decide, both having pinched you in a vice of brick with its store of feasts, intentional, evil. They have pushed you to break this vow of hunger you have made to yourself, and in that second of despair you thirst to be avenged.

Across the kitchen sits the knife rack, blades of ranging sizes and uses, each ground to a killing edge. You seize one from the middle and return to the stairs, pausing on the landing to consider the closed doors beyond.

Hannibal, you know, would overpower you with flippant ease, but Will, for all his protestations, is fragile. Breakable.

You approach his room and try the door handle with caution. Another left unlocked— fate has passed through the house before you, a goddess on gossamer feet.

In reverential silence you cross the room to Will’s sleeping hump on the bed and stoop over him, the knife raised in both hands, watching him twitch through unpleasant dreams.

In the dark Will’s face is corpse-like, ailing; you almost marvel to think this same man capable of the savage acts you’ve come here to kill him for. Perhaps his death will rinse you of the filth and pain that braids you into so gruesome a shape as you find yourself in. Perhaps his death will distract Hannibal enough that he tends to the cadaver rather than pursues you from his door—

You know not whether to slash Will’s bobbing throat or stake his chest, nor how hard to strike to ensure his death over injury. A mistake may be your end, not his, yet you lean with one knee upon the bed, the knife like a steel flame igniting the dark.

You contemplate how it will feel to kill, whether your form will throb with joy in excelsis, or if you’ll merely recoil, sickened by the blood, by the sounds and the many smells of dying.

But what of afterwards, when you have run, and Hannibal has turned to the police? He has the force in his pocket, and being that there is no mark of Will’s crimes upon your person you will surely be imprisoned for murder.

Tattle Crime will call gleefully of the act: “ANOREXIC CHARGED WITH STABBING RECLUSIVE SPECIAL AGENT IN SHOCKING ATTACK”.

Your family, your parents, stained and shunned for having raised a killer—

The reluctant knife withdraws, and you make to climb down off the bed. Disturbed by the lifting of weight from the mattress, Will stirs, muttering, then takes a seizing breath that jolts him suddenly awake. His eyes roll, glazed, before fixing upon you, a gothic figure in a pallid nightdress, holding a blade.

He tussles upright, rigidly alert. His expression is terror and fury, disbelieving.

“What are you doing?” Will demand, and snapping from the spell that holds you fast, you break for the door, thinking, even as you run, how few places there are in the house for you to hide that he will not find you.

Will follows in a sleep-numbed stagger, a corpse revived from the grave. He ought to be slow, but he is on you before you’ve gone further than the nearest corridor, shouldering you against a wall so hard that a shelf of ornaments jingles in ominous response to the collision.

You think nothing, only the animal blank of facing the bolt gun, the huntsman’s cur.

The knife rises, erect, between you, and Will folds your arm against the wall. His other hand wraps across your mouth, cupping your rising scream like the sea in a shell.

“Do you want Hannibal to wake up and find out what you did?” asks Will, in a coarse semi-whisper. “No? Then be quiet.”

His stare flenses the tallow darkness with a nocturnal literacy. He’s no longer trembling. The danger in him is well lived in, inherited from the killers whose minds he’s made his crown, and from his friend, in all his tutorship.

It’s what makes them so close, Will and Hannibal, almost one, synonyms of a pagan death.

You turn your jaw from your attacker’s hand and coax him down from his ire in a pleading moan.

“I’m sorry. I'm sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was upset. I don’t know why I did it. I wasn’t really going to—”

“Oh, I know you were never going to go through with it,” Will spits. “You’re not capable. Killing isn’t in your nature. You’re too soft for that. Aware of the consequences.”

He looks you up and down with a sour leer.

“You wish that you were a murderer. You held that knife and prayed for something to come over you, a holy, righteous need for revenge. But it didn’t. Couldn’t, because you don’t believe that you deserve to be released from what others have done to you.”

His grip squeezes your wrist, and you gasp into his hand, smothered by your own breath.

“Next time you pull a knife on someone, you’d better hope that you’ve gained enough self-esteem by then to see it through,” says Will. “I don’t plan to kill you tonight, but someone else might. Maybe that’s what you were hoping for, after all.”

He leans into you, curls falling in dark links across his brow. He smells of bed, the damp pelt of animal, and bottled scent. His white t-shirt is nearly black with night sweat, his stale breath metallic against you.

There is a joist of firm flesh at your thigh.

He likes this. The chase and capture, even the knife meshed between the bones of your slippery fingers and his, the knowing that he could make a gushing rose of your throat with the most delicate turn of it— he loves it all, the rut-hunger of all creatures that look death in the eye and survive.

You look sideways at the blade, and with leaden reluctance, Will turns to a nearby bookcase to set it down.

“Little girls shouldn’t play with knives,” he says, and you give a hysterical laugh.

“Hannibal isn’t here. You don’t have to try and impress him.”

The young man chuckles softly.

“What makes you think Dr Lecter isn’t trying to impress me?”

“I guess he is. He brought me here for you.”

Will sneers.

“An unwanted gift. You make it difficult not to be ungrateful.”

Mirroring the cruel twist of his expression you attempt to glide away from him, along the wall.

Will’s arm shoots out, blocking your path.

“Let go of me!” you cry, but your voice has no force to it, only mounting fear.

“You think I’ll just let you go to bed after threatening to kill me?” asks Will, incredulously.

“Why not? You deserve it. You even said so. And maybe you’re wrong about why I didn’t do it. Maybe I don’t want to be like you and Dr Lecter.”

Something shifts in Will’s expression, a murky wind of silhouette.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re murderers,” you spit. “You killed somebody. Garret something.”

“Garret Jacob Hobbs was the Minnesota Shrike,” says Will, almost defensively. “He killed and mutilated girls all over the state. His wife became his victim, and he slit his own daughter’s throat. I had no choice but to shoot Hobbs. I acted. It had to be done.”

“And Hannibal?” you ask, trembling in Will’s hold. “He’s killed before. I know he has. I know. Please don’t lie to me.”

For a beat you think that Will won’t answer, his eyes shifting to some point down the hall.

Then he says, “It was self-defence. A serial killer named Tobias Budge. He broke into Dr Lecter’s house. Would have killed him if Hannibal hadn’t overpowered him. How do you know about that? He didn’t tell you.”

“Self-defence,” you repeat, ignoring the question. “I bet Dr Lecter liked it. I bet you both liked it. That’s why I’m here. So whatever you feel when you murder people you can feel with me all the time.”

You grope along the wall for the knife, half-heartedly, knowing your captor will never let you take it. He pins your hand down with a scrambling clumsiness, damp fingers locked into yours.

“Is that how it feels?” Will snarls. “Like we’re killing you? Because it should remind you that after all you’ve done to your body you’re still here.”

Then, as he speaks again, he invokes your dream, as though by psychic synthesis you conceive the same thought at once.

“It should remind you that Hannibal and I are the reason you’re still alive.”

You let out a cry of fear, involuntary and absolute, and again Will binds your mouth with his palm until you taste the dirt of his sweat, and cannot breathe.

Suddenly the heart of shadow that is Will’s face is mud and thunder, and he lets go of your arms to rustle your nightdress to your waist in an tenor of cotton and ribbons.

You struggle and strain against the wall, knotting your legs over each other against him. With ease Will parts them again and runs two fingers beneath the trim of your panties until they are buried in your satin angst.

They move with skill, with spite, with will to wound; tears start from you like a spring from mountain rock, and the cruel young man observes as they fall without sympathy, still playing your cunt with his hand.

He does not strike you as a man that beds women often, yet he has done so, to know how to smith such pleasure from even unwilling flesh. You can do nothing but submit to him, a blót to such gods as have taken you to bleed.

Sensation, salt-sweet, unburdens you of pain, and you find you can only stand through Will’s hold upon you. Cannot speak, cannot scream, as he cuts his pleasure from you. Like a sorcerer beneath the waves he has stolen your voice, as well.

Will widens your legs with the jut of a knee, loosening himself from his undergarments as he may take some drill from its hellacious box. You stare into his eyes, begging, without words, for him to revoke his darkness. The dark stares back, the mouth beneath like something dreamt of by heathens in its fathomless cruelty.

“You’ve earned this,” says Will. “Take it with grace.”

He lifts your right leg and clips it to his waist, unlatching access to your heat. With his sneer close to your cheek he runs you through, his cock a barbarous girth to which you cannot acclimatise, cannot accept as a thing that must be.

The bones of your back bruise against the cool wall, and your breath, beneath Will’s palm, is a simian pant-hoot of woe and suffering lust.

You do not want him, but to be propulsed into this place without agency is your liberty: what you feel is his fault, and you come apart like a snarl of soot in the working of his evil.

Will’s hand impresses its print upon your hip. His mouth comes to the crook of your neck in a bite, a kiss, or something worse. His slim body snaps like a birch switch against you, and he opens your centre to his girth until your mind is a vapour of fright and climax, wetting your legs in the rotten release of it.

Your captor feels the quake of your orgasm and, in recognition, follows, his groan muffled by your neck, his frame a trap against you, shaking into stillness.

Then he steps away from you, turning his head as you rearrange your dress, oddly chaste.

You look at him in numb silence, unable to move from the wall without his word.

At last Will picks up the knife again and nods towards the staircase.

“Let’s put this back in the kitchen,” he says, “before Hannibal gets up and notices that it’s missing.”

You follow him downstairs, soundless as a wraith, close to his side, as though by hurting you he has somehow bound you to his flank. Will returns the knife to its rack with meticulous care, considering it for a long time before he speaks again.

“I doubt this’ll be the last time you contemplate murdering one of us. That’s as far as I recommend you go.”

You search yourself for the ability to answer him.

“Why?”

“Wolves kill their rivals' pups to keep them in check,” says Will, “and Dr Lecter is not above emulating that behaviour if he thinks it’ll keep you in line.”

As usual, you cannot tell if he’s being literal or not. You settle to nod, and Will glances around the kitchen, his eyes falling on the refrigerator door where a greasy smear remains in the autumn moonlight.

“Your handprints?” he asks. “So you stole food. Should have asked to join us for dinner.”

You lean against a countertop, your head hanging, truly ashamed.

“I messed up.”

Will picks up a hand towel and rubs at the door until your fingerprints vanish.

“You live here,” he says, grudgingly. “It’s not exactly a capital offence to eat from the fridge.”

“No,” you say, in a piteous wail. “I mean I shouldn’t have eaten at all. I gave in. I ate. No self-control.”

You see Will’s shoulders drop, and he says, with pained neutrality, “That isn’t true. You gave your body what it needed.”

Half-sobbing, you pull at your flesh through your nightdress, gathering up handfuls of skin.

“I don’t know why you even want to touch me. I’m so disgusting.”

“No,” says Will, and this time he speaks firmly. “You’re a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them. I don’t want to hear you say that again.”

He passes a hand across his face, an exhausted reflex.

“Go to bed, One,” he mumbles. “And tomorrow you’re going eat again. I’ll see that you do.”

The next morning, red-eyed over coffee, Will watches you attempt your breakfast. He makes no comment, only waits as you masticate each scrap of beetroot and artfully scrambled egg twenty times until the slow process meets its finish.

Hannibal turns Will an unreadable look across the table.

“You look weary, this morning,” he says. “I thought I heard you wandering the house last night. Was anything the matter?”

You drop your fork with a frightened loss of coordination, expecting to be handed over to him for further hurt. Yet Will only puts down his coffee cup, folds his arms across his chest, and says, quite casually, “She was hungry, just like I knew she’d be. She went looking for food. I sent her back to her room. Nothing to write home about.”

It’s only when Hannibal carries your dirty plate back to the kitchen that you look up at Will, softening your eyes against the flint of hatred within you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

An almost smile turns the edges of Will's mouth.

“I’ll tell him, someday. Just not now.”

#manna fic #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #dead dove do not eat

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dwarfsized · 6 months ago

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leetleblue fanfiction masterlist

hi! you might also know me as leetleblue over on ao3

thought it was time to collect all the links in one place, so ta-da! find my fic below the read more! as i update this i'll only indicate if something isn't bg3 because at this point it's all bg3 babey.

series:

the transformed tiefling (astarion/kira)

true colors shine in darkness and in secrecy (ongoing), the more straight-forward longfic, the game-events-rewrite except we get very involved in druid politics

Astarion grabs a fistful of her robes and hauls her closer, the full brunt of his terror and rage slamming back into the front of her mind. He demands, snarling, “Why didn’t you let me kill him? What have you done to me?”

eldath's mercy (ongoing), AU: different first meeting, Astarion stuck in a druid's grove

Astarion did have a plan to flee his Master. He'd take some gold and run for a merchant city and make a new, luxurious life for himself. Despite that, he ends up at the Circle of Calm Waters, surrounded by druids.

that's the kind of love ive been dreaming of (ongoing), dubcon, inappropriate use of the tadpole, dream sex.

At first Astarion was stuck in his trance, but Kira pulls him into a dream, instead.

astringent (oneshot, 2795 words) Post-Canon, Kira's sister comes to visit the Grove and YIKES.

In Astarion's opinion, there was nothing to recommend having siblings the first time around and—though he would never say this to his lover's face—there's precious little benefit to it when the siblings are Kira's.

ephemera (ongoing), AU: Kira is a ghost in the Crimson Palace.

Astarion assumes, when he sees the tiefling appear in the corner of the study, that he’s imagining her.

waltz with five eyes, two hearts (karlach/shadowheart/wyll)

ease (oneshot, 2189 words) Wyll-centric character study, pre-relationship, examining how isolated Wyll has been because of the Mizora of it all before the tadpoles

Wyll has gotten so good at small talk that when Karlach says, “Copper for your thoughts?” He ought to comment on how lovely the sunset is shaping up to be this evening or grin and ask if Karlach thinks Gale will put any vegetables in their dinner tonight. What he does say is, “Mizora.”

new steps (oneshot, 5277 words) Wyll considering his history with his father as they get ready to enter Baldur's Gate, with some early relationship stuff in there also for the triad.

Wyll had believed, in the deepest and most secret parts of himself that he’d dared not even think about for the last seven years, that he might get to return home hailed a hero.

other fic:

troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match (ongoing), Modern AU, Astarion/Auri/Kira

Auri expects the Ironhand Warehouse gig to change her life, at least a little bit. The vampire is a surprise.

innatism (explicit, no ships, 1996 words) Second Person POV, You are the Dark Urge and you are giving someone a Very Bad Night.

When Minthara said she would meet you to burn the Grove, you wanted to tell her yes and bathe in the blood of all those wet-eyed fools you’d promised to save. The word had formed on your tongue and swallowing it down had been bitter.

#bg3 #astarion/tav #karlach/shadowheart/wyll #tav: kira #leetlewrites #wip: that's the kind of love ive been dreaming of #wip: eldath's mercy #wip: true colors shine in darkness and in secrecy #the karlach/shadowheart/wyll series has at least one more story planned its just on the backburner for the moment #will be updated as i. update.#wip: troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match

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romanarose · 2 years ago

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Hii, i love your work! Could I request nr. 12 of the emo prompts? "I will follow you into the dark" with Marc Spector 🤌

hi!!!! thank you for your kind words! gonna make this a part 2 for dameronscopilot's ask, but to anyone who hasn't read it, all you need to know is the night before Marc had a nightmare.

This is pretty much Jake, Steven and Marc talking. Teared up a bit at this tbh. Italics is Marc, Bold is Steven, red is Jake

Jake might be a little OOC but I wanted him soft.

*************

Hey Marc, you there? Steven asked in the head space as he cooked diner

Yeah.

Listen, she called in her break from work, told me you had a nightmare last night-

Steven, don't

You don't have to talk about it, unless you want to, of course, but Jake and I were talking and-

Oh god, you had to tell Jake too?

Tranquila, Amigo. I get them too.

Marc sighed. Fine, what are you two conspiring

We're not conspir- Steven pinched the bridge of his nose before stirring the black beans We just want to help, Marc

We thought it might be nice if you spent a few days with her. I know how it is when the dreams have someone you love being hurt, it sticks with you. Might be nice to be around her, know she's okay.

And that way you can talk to her about how you're feeling, if you'd like.

No-

Marc, it’s okay, really

Marc hesitated. I don't... I don't want to take time away from you guys. She wants to see you.

She wants you to be safe and happy, Marc. We can each spend a little time with her, but it'll mostly be you. You don't... Steven considered his next words carefully. You don't really talk to us. And that's okay, you don't have to. But you talk to her more.

Steven and I talk to each other, and we're here for you when and if you're ready. Steven has been a lot of help to me.

And Jake's helped me, we'd like to be there for you, but we understand if you're only comfortable with her

Marc's ears perked up at that. He didn't know Steven and Jake needed someone to talk to, really. Jake he should've been obvious, with all he's seen, but he didn't even think of Steven. Sweet Steven who got thrust into his world of death of murder, fuck, he should've been paying attention to him, he should've been watching-

Relax, primo. The entire world doesn't have to fall on your shoulders. That's what Steven and I are for. We're all a team.

Lately I feel... I feel like I'm on the outside looking in. Again. Like you guys have a life with her and I'm just... here.

I'm sorry Marc, that's a difficult feeling. But she loves you, yeah? And so do we.

I want... I want to help you guys. I love you, even if I don't say it enough.

Steven heard the door open.

We know, that's the benefit of having the same head. And don't worry about us. Let's get you on the right path first.

"Honey, I'm home!" Your voice rang through the flat.

I don't know... I want to. I want help I just don't know how to start.

"Hello love! I'll be there in a moment."

Little by little, right? Let's start with that. Let us give you the body, and talk to her. Spend time with her, let her take care of you.

Marc took the body as you approached, wrapping your arms around his waist. "Marc?"

Marc couldn't help laughing a bit at that. "How did you know it was me, when Steven just answered you?"

“I always know” You turn Marc to face you as you hugged him. "Steven and Jake convince you to take the body?"

"Yeah"

You smiled. "Good. They want to help, you know, we all do, if you'll let us."

Marc took a shaky breath. "Yeah, yeah I'm… gonna try."

"Good" you kiss his jaw. "After dinner can I draw you a nice bath, with all my girly bubbles and shit? Some music and candles to help you relax?"

Marc resisted the urge the stiffen. The idea of being cared for so foreign to him. "Um, yeah, yeah you can do that." It sounded kinda nice...

I don't want to drag you guys down with me... Marc confessed

You wont, prometo. We're a team, always have been, even before we all knew it.

I'm scared, guys. What if I open the flood gates and it all just comes back? What if I get worse?

Then we will follow you into the dark, and be there to bring you right back.

****************

I hope you liked it!!!

Y'all can let me know if you want more shorts from this theme. I like the idea of the reader, steven and Jake trying to help Marc

#marc spector #marc spector angst #steve grant #jake lockley #Steven grant is a sweetheart #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fluff

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matchupwithshy · 16 hours ago

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A Late Birthday Present

[For @firedrakegirl ]

---------------------------------------

Happy Birthday Drake, I hope that you have another great year my friend!

(May you have dreams of possessive and sweet skeleton monsters.)

--------------------------------

Zero, an immense monstrous skeleton weathered with scars in the form of micro-fractures from his years as a Mafia member rising up through the ranks. His grizzled look is complemented by a single golden fang which adorns his maw as sign of him coming to be the Boss.

Drake, though appears meek the small Mage possesses perseverance, their soul will urge them forwards matter what. In spite of the odds stacked against her, will persevere and move forward. Shroud in a lavender light, their soul does have a small white crack in the middle.

Having only recently gotten hitched a few months back, which Zero pulled a couple of strings reforming his slew of dark and grungy henchmen now dressed properly. His best man one of these many now slick mobsters, course attitudes don't change overnight but its subtle how things were changing and now a few months since that dreamily fated day, they're celebrating Drake's first birthday together as a husband and wife.

Not quite used to it though knowing the need of cementing their relationship further, meant that Zero has to make some deals behind Drake's back. Having been hiding the fact that he has a very important present for Drake, a unique necklace that he commissioned from a monster Jeweler...

Granted, though for her benefit secrets must be kept yet in the eyes of a lover always appear... suspecious. The skeleton she'd once known and only recently married had gone cold on her, all things that might've been considered cruel but nessesary by the calculating and ruthless Boss Zero was... 'was' is the right term. In all of his days as a skeleton, there were many things he'd done to secure his status and bore many fruits, such as not openly giving Drake affection for genuine fear of not some simple ploy of some other monster using her but of actually losing his precious lavender.

Yet nothing is simple, with there being a duality of sorts struck since the months he'd started planning this covertly, Drake has been worried sick, burdened by her fear that she has done something wrong to push away her husband somehow. She'd already long since known going into this marriage he wasn't the overly affectionate sort, but this was different, Drake knew that trudging just past that façade was a kind caring skeleton who she clearly knows holds her very dear to him.

Yet to be a hard-ass for his job wasn't an easy task to handle... there was a balance Zero had to strike between loving his wife and maintaining his status between not just between his men, but in the face of allies, rivals, trade partners, and other adversaries he'd since amassed over the years. Questions fill her mind, causing Drake to worry over an incident though small felt rather significant. Solely because the last time they had been at a ball together, as part of a large meeting between various Bosses of other areas, she had forcibly grabbed ahold of his hand in front of one of his men, [**continue edit**] Drake has determination to talk to her husband tonight she has completely forgotten that it's her birthday because of how much anxiety has been running through her

#gift story #mafiafell #MF papyrus x oc #Zero x Drake #birthday gift #happy late birthday

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alokastrology1 · 2 years ago

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Is your mood affected by Waxing and Waning Moon?

The new moon and full moon are merely two of the monthly phases of the moon, although astrological energy favours those times. While the new moon is for making resolutions and beginning a new cycle with a clean slate, the full moon is associated with feelings of plenty, celebration, and, occasionally, restlessness. However, since the majority of our time is spent during waning and waxing moon cycles, it is essential to understand how to most effectively use their energy.

Know how the waxing and waning of the moon affects your mood? Get an online astrology consultation by the world-renowned Astrologer Mr. Alok Khandelwal.

Understanding the trends in the moon’s cycles, in the opinion of astrologers, is essential to working with the moon. Knowing the patterns leads to a thorough knowledge of what you desire and how to attain it. When we are clear on our desired emotions, we may apply those feelings to our dreams and produce soulful manifestations.

The moon has a 29.5-day cycle, which is some fundamental background information on the moon. In the first phase of the cycle, light is created (the waxing phase), and in the second phase, light from the sun is lost (the waning phase). Discover how to enjoy each person’s energy to the fullest below.

What is a Waning moon?

The phase of the moon’s cycle whenever it loses brightness is symbolised by the waning moon, which occurs after the full moon and gets smaller each day. You might feel the fading moon’s effect on your energies and emotions as the light begins to recede.

What takes place while the moon is waning?

In the early stages of the waning phase, it’s crucial to reflect on your accomplishments and reap the benefits of your labour. The practice of turning within and using your intuition starts with this. It’s time to change your routine and use your energy more gently to honour the chance for transformation. So as an alternative to Bootcamp, consider yoga or a long walk; consume warming and grounding foods; and preserve your energy.

Astrology says lunar energy is quiet, mild, and associated with retreating inside, and the dark moon phases invite us to heed our instincts and be in our bodies. Suppression of the emotional body results in stagnation, which produces pain points and obstructions. That’s why the fading moon urges us to reflect and release.

When the declining moon turns into the black moon after that cycle, this may come to a head. Water moon signs appreciate this energy because moon signs reveal our deep emotional worlds. The intensity of the black moon, however, also affects all other moon signs.

A waxing moon is what?

After the new moon, the moon waxes till the full moon. The energy of the waxing moon is described as overt, outward, and extending; it encourages you to step forward and complete the tasks necessary to turn your ideas become reality.

What takes place while the moon is waxing?

During this moon phase, we have more energy to take action around our aspirations and accomplish our goals. Spending energy honouring the cycle of mobility and expansion is crucial during this stage. As the moon rises, so do life’s obstacles to personal growth.

Therefore, when the moon is waxing, be aware of any physical impediments in your path and come up with clever strategies to get around them. Look for fresh answers to old issues and work hard.

Getting things done and finding the drive to bring about change for growth are the tasks at hand during the waxing phase. This is often linked to emotions that inspire you and give you a sense of strength and creativity.

Read Also:- What are the types of Kaal Sarp Dosha as per Astrology?

What stages of a waxing moon are there?

Gibbous and crescent are the two names for the waxing moon phases. A new moon changes into a waxing crescent, 1st quarter moon, and finally a waxing gibbous moon in that order. The moon is growing brighter during this procedure.

What connection do wax and wane have with one another?

The lunar phases of waning and waxing are opposites. The waxing cycle mirrors the key stages: the New Moon of possibility, the First Quarter of intent, Full Moon of power. The fading cycle enters the prosperous Last Quarter before returning to the possible New Moon.

The moon’s cycles, which go beyond just waxing and waning, are closely linked to the yearly seasons. The solstices are the furthest points and the equinoxes are the rebalancing ones, while the lunar phases behave similarly.

What represents the moon?

Since the moon has existed forever (or at least for 4.53 billion years), it has acquired significance that goes beyond what is immediately apparent.

Astrologically and astronomically, the moon has significance. According to astronomy, the moon orbits the Earth, tugging on the oceans to produce tides and reflecting sunlight as the Earth revolves around the Sun. The way the Sun appears to reflect off the Moon’s surface is constantly in proportion to what is visible from Earth. The near side image, which is entirely visible, is called the Full Moon, while the far side reflection, which is invisible from Earth, is known as the New Moon. The Moon’s dayside is involved in the other phases.

The moon's impact on mood:

The moon’s phases have a significant impact on mood since they are strongly associated with feminine energy and feelings. The Moon has an impact on your mood since it enjoys exploring the secrets of the heart. The Moon deals with the invisible, audible, and unknowable. While acknowledging the need for peace and seclusion, it yearns to engage and connect.

Which signs are most impacted by the moon?

Cancer is the sign most associated with the moon in astrology, and water signs are most impacted by it. Water signs are inherently sentimental, introspective, and reflective. Having said that, not all zodiac signs are affected by the moon. The Moon is creative; it is not linear. It fits well with the flamboyant signs of Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius since it is a component of the creative cycle. In contrast, the fire signs correspond with the waxing cycle while the watery ones do the opposite.

Earth signs, on the other hand, don’t align with the moon as well. Taurus, Virgo, and Capricorn don’t comprehend emotions, hence they don’t get along with the Moon. Gemini, Libra, and Aquarius are all air signs that enjoy going with the flow. Because of this, they may connect the mind (air) and the emotions (Moon). While air signs prefer the waning phase, earth signs are familiar with the waxing cycle.

Read Also:- What is the Significance of Durva in Hindu Tradition?

#affects the waxing and waning moon #best online astrology consultation #online astrology prediction #talk to astrologer #vedic astrology consultation #waxing and waning moon #waxing and waning moon difference #waxing and waning moon in astrology #asttrolok #astrology

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starlightsearches · 2 years ago

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Hunger Pangs

Had this idea a couple nights ago. Sometimes when I can't fall asleep I'll put on Pride and Prejudice (2005) and it made me think of falling asleep next to Eddie. If you enjoyed it please let me know!

Edward Nashton x Femme! Reader

Warnings: 18+ only, piv sex, free use, somnophilia, cockwarming, unprotected sex, cream pie, language, the whole thing is pretty tender.

The screen flickers softly, and Eddie tries to make sense of the movie playing on your laptop, the one you'd sleepily told him was your favorite. His eyes scan across the subtitles, since the volume is too low to hear the whispered words between the two protagonists, both so caught up in their longing glances they couldn't be bothered to enunciate for Eddie's benefit.

The letters all blur together, though. Nothing sticks, not when he's desperate like this. He's fighting to keep his hips still—a stiff ache emanating from his cock and eating away at his reason until the only thing he can cling to is the fear that he might wake you.

But your body’s so warm, curled against his chest. He'd climbed in beside you as soon as he got home from work, found you wrapped up under the covers of the bed you share each night, laughing softly over a story you'd heard countless times and characters you considered intimate friends.

There was something about it—something so domestic, as you pressed up against him, greeting him with a tired kiss—something that gave him hunger pangs he could not satisfy on his own.

His home was not this apartment, not the city that chewed him up countless times and then spat him out for his bitter taste. His home was and always would be you.

And he needed to be inside you. More than anything.

He prays for a sudden tone shift—a musical sting or a bit of shouted dialogue—but it seems the movie is as determined not to wake you as he is. You stay still, chest rising and falling steadily in time with the quiet melody, lips parted in a soft pout. He watches you in the flickering light of the screen.

Eddie feels sick that he could be this selfish.

He'll go to sleep, or try at least. He'll pray for some pleasant dream, something soft that might quell his hunger until he could have you.

Maybe you sense that on some level; your body shifts, pressing tighter until your hips meet his—hard cock pillowed in the cushion of your ass.

Eddie moans. Long and loud, the needy sound fills the space between your four walls. He covers his mouth with a fervent hand, but he's much too slow.

"Eddie?"

You breathe his name, turning over your shoulder, face dark in contrast to blue light of the screen. Eddie swallows, propped up on his arm still so he can look you in the eye.

"Yeah?"

You can still feel him through the thin shorts you're wearing, he's certain. With the gentle sway of your hips, he knows you know.

Your voice is thick with sleep, eyes blinking away the last traces of a dream. "You okay, honey?"

"I'm fine, dove," he whispers, encouraging you to lay against the pillow, brushing a gentle hand over your hair, "go back to sleep."

Your body twists against the sheets, turning to face him. He bites harsh lines into his bottom lip when the contact is lost.

You hum a little question, fingers tracing over the hard shape of his cock through the material of his sweats. Eddie let's out a gasp.

"You could have woken me up," you say.

He bites hard at the inside of his cheek, trying to maintain some composure. "I- I didn't want to bother you."

You just press him flat against the bed, shifting a leg over him until you're straddling his hips. Your body rolls languidly over his jutting cock again. His fingers twist against the sheets.

"You'll never bother me, honey. You can have me whenever you want."

"Really?" He just resists the urge to buck his hips against yours as you lay your head down against his chest, lashes fluttering closed against warm cheeks.

"Mhmm, whenever."

Your clothed cunt is resting right against the bulge in his sweatpants. He takes a chance—emboldened—pressing the tips of his fingers against the damp fabric, tracing your familiar folds until he finds your clit. "Like, god, like right now?"

You hum softly, burying your face in Eddie's shoulder, lips soft at his neck. He takes that as a yes.

Eddie slips his thumbs under the edge of your sleep shorts, soft skin brushing against his knuckles as he bares you from the waist down. You've got hearth-warm thighs; he lets his hands travel over the curve of your ass, dipping into the heat between your legs with chill fingers.

There's a quiet rumbling in your chest when he slides between your folds, just dipping inside your entrance. You're wet already, sensitive from sleep and dripping after the few tender touches he's given. Eddie bites hard enough on the inside of his cheek to draw blood, trying to keep quiet.

It's difficult work, shifting his sweatpants down over his hips far enough for his cock to slip out with your weight on top of him, but he manages, hissing a little at the cool air.

Whenever you want. Eddie wonders if you know what you've promised him. He can't think of a single moment he hasn't wanted to be inside you.

The head of his cock presses up against your waiting hole, and there's a little resistance as he slips inside with a quiet groan, fluttering contractions squeezing him just right.

He takes his time, has to take his time, thrusting in as gently as he can with a white-knuckle grip on your hips as you swallow him. He could cum just like this, from the weight of your body and the plush grip of your cunt and the soft puff of your breaths on his neck.

The muscles in his core tighten; he resists the urge, even if he knows his strength won't last.

Eddie thrusts slowly, but it’s still too much. He's unraveling, not just because of the sublime drag of your cunt around the head of his cock with each gentle shift of his hips. You trust him enough to have you at your most vulnerable. You've given him everything he could want and then offered more.

He feels your lips part against his neck. You moan a little in your sleep.

Eddie spills inside you with a sob, too overcome to be cognizant of how loud he is as the waves of pleasure ripple through him. He can feel his cum leak out of you, white strands pulsing from your swollen cunt as he fucks himself through the aftershocks, going until the red-hot burn becomes too much.

He's panting, a sticky hand at your waist, petting lazily over your spine. You hardly stir. Eddie's shaking free hand shuts the lid of your laptop, plunging the two of you into darkness.

He thinks he could fall asleep like this—cock still seated firmly inside you, eyes closed as he wraps you tight in his arms. He does, breathing easy, feeling safe. Feeling home.

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spideyjimin · 3 years ago

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spideyjimin's masterlist

key; ☁️ = fluff | ⚡️= smut | 🥀 = angst

⟶ marry me, yoongi ☁️ ; ⚡️

established relationship au

⏤ when yoongi decides to get married in vegas after all the fan’s comments on the vlives.

ONE-SHOT

⟶ first christmas ☁️

parents au

⏤ this year, you spend your first christmas as a family of four. nothing brings more happiness to your heart than seeing your husband, namjoon with your seven months old son, hyeon.

ONE-SHOT

⟶ plot twist ☁️ ; ⚡️

friends with benefits au

⏤ jimin loves you more than you’ll ever know, and you love him more than you’ll ever show. what a tragedy.

⟶ fantasize ☁️ ; ⚡️

⏤ when suddenly, you share a naughty-naughty time with your coworker, the one with whom you’ve been flirting for months already.

⟶ sweet love ☁️ ; ⚡️

⏤ jimin is the father of your four-year-old daughter, moon, and he’s also your ex. an ex you never considered getting back to, but that wasn’t until you both found yourself being single again. watching a movie with moon every sunday became the perfect excuse to flirt together discreetly. a flirt that brought back ten years of sweet love.

↳ part of the dads universe

ONE-SHOT

⟶ beast ☁️ ; 🥀 ; ⚡️

established relationship au

⏤ taehyung doesn’t like your best friend, he truly never did. kibum has always been too flirty with you, something he never liked. but this time, seeing him flirting with you at his birthday party was too much, and he felt the urge to make you understand that you’re only his.

⟶ until i found her ☁️ ; 🥀 ; ⚡️

⏤ taehyung is your best friend, he’s been part of your life for as long as you can remember. his love life is a complete chaos. there is only one girl he has truly ever loved. that girl is you. but how would things turn out when he finds out that you love him back?

↳ part of the dads universe

SERIES

⟶ un cielo di perle ☁️ ; 🥀 ; ⚡️

⏤ taehyung doesn’t know how to love, he actually has never loved anyone, not even himself. he dreams of escaping this life, a life where he can do whatever he wants and where his parents don’t exploit him. his dream becomes a reality when he meets you; however, it comes with a challenge. at first, you hate him. but as the saying goes, there’s only one step between hate and love. and when taehyung loves, he can steal a sky of pearls for his lover.

ONE-SHOT

⟶ valentine's date ☁️ ; 🥀 ; ⚡️

fake dating au

⏤ Every year, on the 13th of February, your family gathers together to celebrate love, it’s your own kind of Valentine’s Day before the actual day. This year is going to be different because, for the first time in years, you’re single but your parents pressured you to find someone otherwise they’ll bring someone for you. Although you love your parents, and you know this comes as a caring act, you don’t trust their tastes. So, you propose to your coworker, Jungkook, to come with you to save you from embarrassment. But nothing goes as planned since both of you have feelings for the other.

⟶ only you 🥀 ; ☁️ ; ⚡️

established relationship au

⏤ after a traumatic event, your world flipped upside down, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. an emptiness that has been eating you completely for the past year, but in the middle of the chaos that has become your life, there has been one person who has never left you. the only person that can fix you. jungkook.

⟶ love in the dark 🥀 ; ☁️ ; ⚡️

forbidden romance au

⏤ being the heir of the empire his family built over the years was something jungkook never liked, all the constraints that came with it never pleased him. his entire life, he played the rebellious child, never listening to a word his parents would say. but marriage was a topic prepared since the day he was born, he has to marry a woman his parents will choose. no one else. so he has to love you in secret, or as he says, in the dark.

⟶ taxi ☁️ ; ⚡️

parents au

⏤ in which a simple valentine’s dinner turns into a very steamy teasing session in the backseat of a taxi with the father of your baby, jungkook

⟶ break up with your boyfriend 🥀 ; ☁️ ; ⚡️

college au

⏤ jungkook, the campus fuckboy, has decided to make you his next victim, but you’re far from being like any of his previous hookups. you’re not single. you’re actually in a very long-term relationship with baekhyun, the man you consider the love of your life. but it’s for sure something that won’t stop jungkook. he wants you, and he’s going to do absolutely everything to have you, even falling in love.

⟶ seven ☁️ ; ⚡️

⏤ jungkook never grows tired to be fucking you right every day of the week, and even more than once per day.

⟶ what was i made for ☁️ ; ⚡️

⏤ have you ever met someone with whom you instantly clicked? well yes, but never to the extent of how it happened with jungkook. in a matter of days, he made you feel like the prettiest and most special woman. right there and then, you understood what you were made for.

⟶ before you ☁️ ; ⚡️ ; 🥀

⏤ jungkook has taken a huge place in your life after he tattooed you, and you can’t even picture how life was before him. he has always been there for you since day one. but how will things change after you find out you’re pregnant?

↳ part of the dads universe

⟶ hot water⚡️

⏤ you’re on your honeymoon with your new husband, Jungkook, a man you’ve been in love with for years. you’re also in your ovulation period which leads you to constantly want to fuck your handsome husband.

SERIES

⟶ crazy over you 🥀 ; ☁️ ; ⚡️

rockstar au

⏤ after a year of being friends with benefits with jungkook, you decide to put an end to it and to start looking for love. only problem: jungkook is falling for you.

↳ part of the devil lovers series

⟶ timing 🥀 ; ☁️ ; ⚡️

exes to lovers au

⏤ falling in love with the right person at the wrong time but what happens when the time becomes right?

SERIES

⟶ the devil lovers 🥀 ; ☁️ ; ⚡️

rockstar au

⏤ “Devil Lovers”, one of the biggest rock bands of the moment, is composed of seven awkward lovers.

⟶ the dads universe 🥀 ; ☁️ ; ⚡️

⏤ in a world where these seven wonderful men became fathers.

#bts #bts masterlist #spideyjimin’s masterlist

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blindingdutchy · 3 years ago

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share | t.holland

{pornstar!tom x pornstar!reader}

summary: you don't like to share, but Tom's going to show you what happens to stingy girls on the playground.

word count: 10,663

warnings: i consider this a part two to switch. smut, little bit of angst, fluffy ending. language. explicit warnings under divide.

18+!!! minors stay away!

warnings: mean dom!tom, slight dom!fem oc, voyeurism, mff threesome, degradation, oral (m+f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up folks), orgasm denial, touch denial, slight bondage (hands tied only), jealous reader + arrogant tom, some daddy + sir kink

divider

There was a familiar ache in your core as you made your way into work that day. It was a sensation that shouldn't have embarrassed you anymore considering it was in your line of work to take a beating of the sexual sort, but your blood bubbled with fluttery shame anyways because you knew it was definitely not from any job you'd done. The handprints that lingered on your skin were Tom's, as was the throbbing between your legs.

Your coworkers had grown accustomed to the funny way you'd been walking; after all, it had been months of you turning up to the studio just like this. Aching all over, exhausted, and all flustered smiles as every little jolt of pain in your body reminded you of him. Tom really knew how to keep a woman coming back for more, to say the least.

Despite the tender way you were forced to move around, you were excited to get into work that day. You'd been working on a new project behind the scenes for almost a month already, and today you were finally meeting with your favorite director and photographer to start the ball rolling. This was what you'd been fantasizing about doing ever since you'd been brought into the agency--straying away from your dominatrix persona and onto a more personal, enjoyable path.

Priscilla was already waiting for you in the conference room, bursting with energy as she always was and chatting the ears off of Archie. The two of them were sliding a few of your scribbled mock-ups around, along with more than a few stills of your naked body, and nestled so deeply into a conversation that they didn't notice the click of the door as it shut behind you. Even clearing your throat couldn't break their concentration.

"Starting without me?" you questioned, loudly, and finally caught the glimmering eyes of Priscilla.

Priscilla was practically buzzing with excitement as she grinned at you, clapping her hands once before waving you over, "(Y/N), perfect timing! So, Archie and I were thinking about your ideas for doing a cam-girl style video--"

She chattered on and on, only pausing every so often to take a heaving breathe before continuing. The more she said, the more you realized just how much work the two of them had done without you--Priscilla was already pitching set designs and potential scenarios for each video, and Archie was doing his best to help you visualize the filmography he had in mind. It was pretty hard to keep up, but you had to admit seeing their passion for the project only spurred your own to burn a little brighter.

The project was something you'd been dreaming of for awhile. A solo series of videos in the iconic style of a cam-girl; just you, your camera, and whatever you felt like putting out there for the world to see. For so long you'd been afraid to even pitch the idea out of fear of being denied funding, and rightfully so.

You'd had to fight tooth and nail to gain the backing of the agency. It had been a month of pitching idea after idea, crunching numbers and screening all the statistics of solo work so that you could propose a target profit for the company. In the end, you'd gotten the green light--but there was a lot riding on this first video.

If you failed to meet the target you'd set for yourself, the agency would pull the plug on the project and you'd be right back to the leather outfits and whining men. The thought of it urged you to outperform all the standards you'd set for yourself. You were peddle to the metal, full throttle ahead, and Priscilla and Archie's sounding board of ideas were exactly the encouragement you needed.

Archie fiddled with some settings on his camera, instructing you on a few head shots until he was satisfied. "That's it!" he cheered, "You like it? Obviously we'll work on better lighting for the videos, and there'll be editing--but I think this suits you."

Peering over his shoulder, your heart soared at the work of your favorite camera man. "Oh, Archie! That's perfect... If you'd just shown me that I'd definitely think it was the real deal." you gasped, and he grinned at you cheerfully. "How about a lunch break before we get back to work?"

The two of them muttered some hushed agreements, nodding absentmindedly as Priscilla looked over the photos and they returned to the scatter of papers and film on the table. "Yeah, yeah, you go ahead, honey." Priscilla cooed, waving a hand over her shoulder carelessly before tilting her head and squinting her eyes at one of your drawings. "Oh, what do you think about--no, that won't do... but maybe?"

With a hushed chuckle, you shook your head at the two of them and backed out of the room quietly. It almost seemed as if they were more excited than you were, but your stomach was rumbling and you needed something to eat before you started chewing on paper like a goat. Only, along the way toward the exit you paused outside one of the studios at the sound of Tom's voice.

Peeking inside, you smiled at the sight of his mop of curls bobbing--the smile faded to a grimace as you realized he was in no position to talk at the moment. You trailed a little further into the room and shot a tentative smile to one of the crew members who nodded to you, no longer surprised by your presence. Many times before you'd sat in on Tom's filming days, as he had done yours, but never before had you seen him at work with his most frequent costar.

Her name was Melaina, a startlingly attractive woman with what you were fairly certain was the world's most perfect face, and she was the star of most of Tom's work. You had nothing against her, having run into her quite a few times at work and never being anything short of pleased with her sweet and charismatic aura, but man was it hard not to feel inferior as you watched the two of them in action. It was as if they knew what the other would do before they even moved, connected on some spiritual level that boosted their chemistry to an astronomical level.

Tom's body was glistening with sweat and oil, his eyes dark and hooded with lust as he towered over her. The muscles in his back, chest, and arms all rippled with every move he made and caught the light just right, and you found yourself shifting on your feet subconsciously as you watched. Your hands twitched with the desire to push that one stubborn curl out of his face as it slid across his forehead, heavy and sodden with sweat.

Melaina gave a breathy moan that had you swallowing down a lump in your throat, her hands raking down Tom's chest only for him to swat them away and pin them to the bed above her head, "No touching!" he snapped, voice booming through the cavernous room, and you nearly groaned in sync with his counterpart. Too many times he'd growled those words to you, just like that, and the heat between your legs throbbed at the memory.

"Please, daddy," Melaina wailed, "I wanna cum!"

For a moment you rolled the name around your tongue, pursing your lips as you pondered what it would feel like to call Tom such a thing. It didn't feel right though; a sour taste compared to the deliciously sweet way sir rolled from your lips. His low, devilish chuckle brought you back to the present as you focused on the scene before you.

With a long, drawn out roll of his hips, Tom leaned down to Melaina's ear and spoke, "Bad girls don't get to come, darling."

Oh, fuck.

Hearing that name, that one little word, spill forth from his lips in reference to someone other than yourself ignited a certain flame within you that you hadn't felt in quite some time. It was green; everything tinged green in your vision like the sickening tone of the clouds before a treacherous storm. Jealousy wasn't something you wore often, but hearing that was enough to sit the crown of envy heavily upon your head.

Almost as if he could sense it, sense your turmoil, Tom's head tilted back until he looked you heavily in the eye. Your jaw tensed as he continued to push his hips harder through Melaina's cries and pleas, fingers clenching into fists as you tried to get yourself under control. It didn't mean anything.

You and Tom were nothing but friends with benefits, heavy on the benefits and light on the friendship, and this was his job. Hell, it was your job too! It didn't mean a damn thing.

His eyes never strayed from yours as that familiar pinch formed between his brows, his entire body growing rigid. He was brutal with the force of his hips, his hands groping roughly at Melaina's perfect ass and his lips parting in a silent 'o' that grew wider and wider until--there it was. His eyes locked on yours, Tom thrust twice more as a gritted laugh burst from his chest and he stilled completely. She mewled beneath him like a vixen, arching off the bed and crying, "Yes, daddy! Cum for me!"

He knew. His haughty smirk, ticked jaw, and glinting eyes told you well enough that he knew exactly what you were feeling, all the bitter and envious thoughts swirling through your mind. He knew, and he was thoroughly enjoying the way you were rooted in place under the weight of all your jealousy, your eyes locked with his and unable to break free.

"Cut!"

The sound of the clapper snapping and the director's loud shout startled you out of the strange limbo of envy and hunger you'd been trapped in. Tom muttered something to Melaina with a flirtatious grin that made your gut twist, and she laughed loudly whilst slapping a hand across his chest playfully. Suddenly, you weren't so hungry anymore, nor were you entirely interested in speaking to Tom.

You were out of focus for the rest of your day at work, earning disgruntled and concerned stares from your two colleagues who were working tirelessly to perfect all of your plans before the test shoot the following day. All of your thoughts were consumed with Tom, though, and it left you feeling nauseous. Never before had you cared much at all that he was with other women, knowing it was just a day's work for him, but seeing him with Melaina had truly rubbed you raw in the worst way.

The ache between your legs didn't make your heart flutter for the moment. Instead, each time you moved wrong and felt that persistent twinge, it made bile creep up your throat and your face burn with a mixture of bitter emotions. It wasn't that you were suddenly craving more from Tom--because you weren't, and as much as you enjoyed his company you weren't interested in a relationship.

Inferiority was a hell of a bitter pill. That was the root of the green eyed monster that was steadily taking control of you; Melaina made you feel inferior, and you hated it more than anything. Clearly he found her to be a better costar than you, considering he'd not once requested you even after starring in your own special. That was the first strike.

But, was she a better lay than you? Did she feel better, make him feel better than you? Did she talk dirtier, obey faster, and mold herself into whatever he wanted better than you? What if you weren't the only one he invited into his own bed at night?

By the time you left work the sun was setting, hours had passed, and you were exhausted from your racing mind. Usually Tom would have come to find you after he finished filming, but he hadn't and that bothered you. You knew it was probably all a game to him, a way for him to get you all riled up and tease you for it, but you weren't playing. You didn't want to play his games today, and when he finally texted you that night you left all of his messages on read with an acrid taste in your mouth.

"Ready for the big day?"

A peculiar sense of deja vu washed over you as you opened your dressing room door to reveal Tom perched on the other vanity seat, a tiny smile twitching at his lips and a twinkle in his eye. You really should have expected him to be there considering he'd been eagerly talking about watching you film for days, but after ignoring him you were more than surprised to see him waiting patiently for you to arrive. The door shut with a dull click, and Tom watched you closely.

Whatever he was playing at, you weren't going to bite--today was a big day for you, and nothing was going to distract you from your work. "What are you doing here?" you asked, huffing as your voice cracked and robbed you of your attempt to play it cool.

He just chuckled, a hoarse and airy sound, and licked his lips, "You think I'd miss the chance to see my girl touch herself for hours?"

His girl?

The words swirled around your brain the entire time you got ready, Marlena eyeing you curiously as you twiddled your thumbs quietly and payed no mind to either of the two people in your presence. What the hell did he mean by that? Why did your heart go on the fritz at those two silly words?

"Are you mad at me, lovie?" Eyes flickering over to Tom, you grew hot under his speculative gaze. Head tilted to one side, brown eyes narrowed slightly, and lips puckered in a tiny pout that made you swoon, he asked, "Have I done something to upset you?"

In the mirror you could see Marlena fighting back a smile, looking between the two of you with quivering lips as she held herself back from interrupting the moment. "No," you muttered, dropping your eyes back to your fiddling fingers, "I'm just nervous."

You didn't have to look to know that Tom was smirking, the sound of his soft laughter cluing you into the fact well enough. There was that deja vu again, your mind traveling back to that first time he'd sat in your dressing room and asked if he made you nervous. Teasingly, he asked, "Am I making you nervous, darling?"

Rolling your eyes, you huffed, "No."

Tom's eyes were all over you the moment you stepped onto the set and dropped your robe into an assistant's waiting arms. Clad in a skimpy lace negligee with nothing underneath, it was understandable that he'd be quite enraptured--never before had you worn something so dainty for your work, nor had you ever worn anything quite like the transparent scrap during any of your visits to his apartment. Even you yourself were quite enthralled by the look of it, having admired your reflection in the mirror for ages before finally joining the crew to start working.

As you soaked up the warm, tingling sensation of his ravenous eyes trailing over every inch of your body, you slowly relaxed into his presence. All the thoughts of Melaina drifted away, and you were biting back pleased smiles each and every time you acknowledged his gaze. It felt nice; it felt like it had every time he'd watched you film before, only better because now you were finally fully enjoying your project.

He hung back beside Priscilla in front of the big screen which displayed all the different camera angles whilst you ambled your way around the set. It wasn't complete, but it was enough for you all to get an idea of what the final design should be. A queen sized bed with dark, silk sheets in the center of a warmly lit stage, piled high with pillows of all sizes--already you were imagining towering bed posts with chiffon curtains framing the beautiful space.

There was one camera posted at the foot of the bed which was to be the main view point for the video. Climbing aboard you shifted until your bottom was posted over the scribbled X and leaned back onto your elbows, your knees propped up and spread wide. "How's this look?" you called out, craning your neck to see Priscilla, Archie, and Tom.

"Slide up a bit," Archie bellowed back, "a bit more--that's it! Oh, fuck, that looks amazing."

Having slid up the mattress half a foot, your head fell onto the bed of pillows that were finally within reach. From your new vantage point you could admire Tom, and the sight of him was enough to already have your thighs dampening. It seemed as if he were unsure as to where to look, his eyes flickering back and forth from the blown up, pixelated version of you to the real deal hastily.

The angle was awkward, and no matter how hard you stared he never made eye contact. It was then that you realized he couldn't see your face, at least not the real one, and a certain thrill sparked within you. Trailing your fingers over your stomach slowly, you reached for the frilled edge of the fabric and bit back a giggle as he tensed all over.

Licking your lips in time with Tom, you shouted, "Should we get started, then?"

Within seconds the clapper was dropped, and Priscilla boomed, "Test one, rolling!"

It was strange having to force yourself to look into the camera, rather than avoiding it so as not to ruin the flow of a scene. But, after a few moments of running your hands over your body and trying to get into the right mindset, your mind drifted away from the crowded room and into your own personal bubble. In there, that secret place you escaped to, it was just yourself and Tom.

Your body heated as you pictured him in place of the camera. In your vision he was bare and glistening, just for you; sitting on his heels with his knees spread apart and his hands ghosting over his length languidly. So many nights you'd laid before him like this, aching and begging for his hands to take the place of your own.

"Show me what those fingers can do, darling." he cooed, voice silky and sweeter than honey. It was a stark contrast to the dark, all-consuming pull of his brown eyes that lusted for you greedily.

Breathing a little harder, you tugged the stretchy lace further down your chest until your breasts were exposed to the chilled air. Tom's eyes glimmered, his tongue swiping over his lower lip, and you desperately wished it were his lips wrapping around one of your pebbled buds instead of your clammy fingers. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second as you imagined it; reminiscing on the sensation of his hot, silky tongue swirling around your nipples and tugging them delightfully into his mouth.

It was incredibly hard not to cry out for him as you descended further into the scenario you'd created for yourself. Nevertheless, you swallowed down all the whimpers of his name that bubbled to your lips eagerly, instead whining soft noises that even turned yourself on. "Love those pretty sounds, (Y/N)." he always hummed down your ear, scorching breathe fanning all across your neck.

The facade didn't fade as you opened your eyes again with heavy lids that begged to fall shut again. You tugged hard at one of your rosebuds in sync with Tom's harsh pull over his cock, and your back arched as you gave a loud cry. He moved his hand faster and clenched his eyes shut for a second as he groaned, "Enough teasing, lovie, show me that perfect pussy. Wanna see you cum all over your fingers f'me."

You couldn't have agreed more. Your heat was hot and dripping, your thighs slipping across the sheets a little more easily as you pooled your juices onto the mattress longingly. Tracing your fingers over the swell of your chest and down your stomach, you peeled your flimsy gown back until it was all bunched up beneath your breasts.

Tom watched with baited breathe, held perfectly in sync with your own burning chest, as you teased your fingers all around where you ached to be touched the most. Just as you finally dipped the tip of your middle finger into the slick, a shuffle and quiet laugh shattered the vision of Tom. You huffed in frustration the buzzing in your veins dulled and your hand fell limp over your bare middle.

"Cut!" Priscilla shouted, and even she sounded frustrated as you sat up and ripped your negligee back down, "That was really good, (Y/N)! Wanna have a look?"

You did, but you could barely hear the words coming from Priscilla's mouth as you took in the scene before you. There was Tom, hands cupped over his crotch like they always were when he watched you film, but this time he wasn't watching you. Instead, he was entirely focused on Melaina who stood beside him with one dainty hand stroking his arm, the other twirling the skirt of her sundress lazily.

Your blood boiled to life once more, but no longer was it out of desire for Tom. Pursing your lips, you called back to Priscilla, "No, let's just keep going." He was still engrossed in his hushed conversation with her, and you added pettily, "Might I remind some of you to be quiet on set!"

Melaina's stifled giggle turned the green hue in your eyes red, but you took a deep breathe and resisted the urge to roll your eyes. It didn't mean anything, it didn't mean anything, it didn't mean anything. The mantra echoed through your head as you did your best to keep your ridiculous envy at bay; Tom wasn't yours, nor were you his, and you had nothing to be jealous of.

You did, however, roll your eyes at the sight of Tom's devious smirk. It only widened at the action, and in spite of your wish to pretend he didn't affect you, your thigh clenched subconsciously. "Sorry, darling, we'll be quiet." he hummed, greedily soaking up the distasteful purse of your lips with his eyes.

It was harder to get back into the groove once the cameras started rolling again. Tom's image wavered in place of the camera, your mind clouded with all the conflicting emotions you were feeling, and no matter how hard you tried you just couldn't get back into that bubble. You pushed through, though, and picked up where you'd left off.

"Look at you," Tom simpered as your fingers dipped into your slick once again, your jaw slackening as you toyed one finger through your entrance, "absolutely dripping for me. Does it get you off to see me with another woman?"

What the hell was that? His words were like a record scratch in your mind, your fingers recoiling from your throbbing core in shock. Trying again, you changed your direction and drifted your fingers to your clit with a soft sigh. Closing your eyes to shut out his smirking face again, you rolled the soft pads over your bud and felt your lips part in a hushed moan.

How easy it would have been to keep them closed and push yourself over that edge with nothing but the sensation to edge you forward, but you knew that wouldn't make for a satisfying watch. So, begrudgingly, you opened your eyes again to the scene you'd created for yourself. Tom was sitting on the bed now, his legs spread wide before him to leave space for you between, and his length was laid against his thigh lazily. The tip was weeping and blazing red, a thick drop of pearly precum making your lips tingle with desire.

His hands wrapped around the footboard of the bed, gripping the solid wood so tightly his knuckles turned white and his arms rippled with unbridled strength. All that muscle, the sinewy, languid curl of hard muscle beneath soft flesh pulled taught in restraint; it was enough to have you drooling. Your fingers slipped easily from your swollen clit to your slit, and you dipped the tip of your middle finger inside with a choked cry.

Tom moaned back at you, his cock twitching as he flexed his stomach, eyes glued to the tight clench of your cunt around your fingers. "Fuck, lovie, do your fingers feel as good as mine?" he asked, "Does that pussy feel as good as hers?"

What the fuck?

Melaina's giggle echoed through the set, piercing the thickened air and startling you nearly as much as the wild turn your imagination had taken. Growling angrily, you slapped your hands onto the mattress beside you and pouted, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Sorry, I'm so sorry!" Melaina squeaked, sounding so genuinely apologetic it only irritated you further, "Stop it, Tom, you made me laugh."

Sitting up once more, propped up on your hands, you scowled fiercely at the sight of Tom's arm draped over her shoulders and his head dipped low to whisper in her ear. His eyes were trained on you, though, and you knew damn well that coy smirk that teased at his lips was meant for you alone. Melaina gripped the hand over her shoulder tightly as she stifled another laugh, eyes twinkling to match the beaming smile on her face.

Backing his lips away from Melaina's hair, Tom faced you dead on as his head cocked to the side playfully. Narrowing your eyes, you scoffed as he winked at you. That bastard! You flopped back onto the bed with a growl, wanting nothing more than to kick him off the set, but you refrained. You knew it would only cement what he'd already figured out within his head; it would prove that you were without a doubt, one hundred and ten percent jealous.

"How about we take five, everyone!"

You practically threw yourself off of the bed, snatching your robe from the timid assistant with a huff before stomping off the set entirely. What was he playing at? It was one thing for Tom to toy with you, but to purposefully throw you off when you were working? That was low.

Alone in the small room, you dropped your head onto your vanity with a loud groan of annoyance. So many new emotions were swirling around you, plaguing your mind and twisting your gut up into knots so tight you actually felt ill. You couldn't even begin to unravel the twisted mess to pick apart all the different things you were feeling.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and you didn't have to look to know who it was. "G'way!" you grumbled, hissing angrily when the door opened anyways, "I said--"

Tom crashed his lips to yours, choking your words and the muffled squeal of surprise that escaped you. Pushing his weight onto you and pinning you to the chair, he bit down on your lower lip until you whined pitifully, pulling away to look you heavily in the eye, "You ignored me last night."

"So? I wasn't feeling it." you retorted, the almost lie making your stomach flutter. "Is that why you're trying to ruin my test shoot? Another bullshit punishment?"

He gaped at you for a moment, his lips parting in surprise as he blinked down at you wordlessly. But, just as you were settling into the triumph of finally rendering him speechless, he sputtered a sinister chuckle and smirked. Clicking his tongue reproachfully, he tutted, "Are you jealous, darling? Is that what this little tantrum is about? Are you jealous of Melaina?"

The words of your imaginary Tom echoed in your ears, the thin flesh and cartilage heating up in embarrassment as you scoffed, "No, why the hell would you think that?"

Smirk widening, he leaned close to nuzzle his face into your ear as he hummed, "Mm, I think you're lying, lovie. I think you were jealous watching me fuck her yesterday, and today you're so bothered you can't even perform. Envy is a hell of a thing, wouldn't you say?"

His lips sucked on the tender skin of your earlobe, drawing the faintest of whimpers from your lips, and he released it with a dramatic suckle of a wet, sloppy kiss. He whispered tauntingly, "Did it make you jealous to see me cum for somebody else? To see me fuck Melaina instead of you?"

"N-no-- oh, fuck."

Tom's fingers dragged heavily through your folds, a gush of your juices immediately flooding into his open palm in response. His thumb rolled over your clit faintly, teasing the rapidly swelling bundle as he chuckled right into your ear, "Don't lie to me, darling."

That stupid name that he'd called her made you steel your resolve, stubbornly repeating, "'M not jealous, Tom. You can fuck whoever you want."

His fingers plunged into you to the knuckle, earning a loud gasp as your hands flew to his arms and clutched him tightly. "Yeah? 'S that so?" he asked, nipping the hot skin of your neck until you whined desperately, "Think I'd like a taste then, love."

This was certainly turning out far better than you'd expected. With a racing heart and a quivering breathe, you gasped, "Please, Tom." Tom's eyes narrowed at you, his expression hardening as he pinched your hip in warning. "Please, I want you to have a taste, sir."

He grinned, patting your cheek in a playful slap as he cooed, "There's my good girl. Spread your legs, darling."

Obediently, you eagerly spread your legs until your thighs were digging into the sides of your chair and shaking as you fought to keep them splayed so wide. The lace of your negligee was pulled taught and curled up over your hips at the movement, exposing all of you to Tom's greedy eyes. He licked his lips as he gazed down at his fingers still buried inside you as deep as they would go, flexing the two digits and closing his eyes as you cursed and clenched around them.

You crooned as he pulled them out and thrust them back in slowly, curling until the tips dragged over your spot lazily. "Please, sir, want your tongue, too." you pleaded, digging your thighs further into the seat as you rutted down onto his once again motionless fingers.

His eyes snapped open and he quirked his one ruffled brow playfully, "Yeah? You want my fingers and my tongue?" Tom dug the pad of his thumb into your clit deeply, pressing your button down and making your entire body spasm from the harsh stimulation, "I don't know if you deserve both, lovie. You're lucky you're even getting my fingers."

Whining, you threw your head back childishly and ground your hips into his fingers indignantly. He kept them steady, only slightly brushing your g-spot through your forced motion, and his free hand clamped down on your thigh in a bruising grip. "Please!" you begged, "Please, sir, I'll be so good!"

Your pleas molded into a shout as his lips closed suddenly around your clit, his thumb sliding aside to spread your folds open for him as he sucked at your sensitive nub harshly. Tom's fingers pulled out slowly before slamming back into you, his fist effectively punching your core and making you ache, but you moaned and begged for more. Each forceful blow pushed his fingers right into your spot, the tips curling to drag against your upper wall with every motion.

In mere moments you were seeing stars. Your stomach was tightening beyond measure, that coil winding so tight you feared you might break when it finally snapped, but you met each thrust of his hand with a jerk of your hips eagerly. His tongue flicked against your clit in rapid kitten licks, sparking your body to spasm violently each time. "I'm so close, sir!" you gasped, digging your nails into the armrest of your seat as your back arched in pleasure, "I'm gonna--"

With one last long, hard suck on your bundle, Tom pulled away from you completely. His fingers ripped away from your dripping slit and slid in between his glistening lips, that tongue swirling dramatically around the digits as he sat back on his heels much like he had in your imagination. Gaping, you huffed, "What the hell, Tom?"

He grinned devilishly, "Admit you were jealous, and I'll let you cum."

Sputtering, you spat out, "I told you I wasn't jealous."

"Mm, but I know you're lying, darling," he teased, eyes glinting playfully, "and I want to hear you admit it. You wanna cum all over my fingers and my tongue?"

You nodded hesitantly, swallowing the lump in your throat as you whispered, "Yes, sir."

He leaned in close, his nose brushing against yours and his lips ghosting over your own as he whispered, "Admit you were jealous."

Closing your eyes, you took a deep breathe. You felt hot all over with embarrassment, your skin burning and your blood boiling beneath, but fuck, you really wanted that sweet release that only he could give you. So, with trembling lips, you whispered, "I was jealous."

Eyes still closed, you jumped as his fingers brushed over your clit in a feather light touch. He pressed a slow, soft kiss to your lips that had you chasing him for more when he backed away and asked, "Are you still jealous?" One finger toyed with your slit, drawing a harsh line up and down your entrance as you resisted the urge to push further into his hand.

"Y-yes."

He chuckled, and your eyes snapped open as he backed away from you, his hand disappearing from your core. His eyes were dark in a ruthless stare as he stated, "You need to learn to share, love. Stingy girls don't get to cum." And, just like that, he retreated from the room leaving you staring after him in utter shock.

You weren't sure what you were expecting when you rocked up to Tom's apartment that night following his typical, "You up?" text. What you most certainly had not expected, though, was to find Melaina sprawled out on his sofa in nothing but a sheer negligee--nothing at all underneath. In a strange sense, you figured you should have seen it coming; what better way for Tom to torment you than to make you face the root of your jealousy?

"Mm, on second thought," you hummed, pursing your lips as you took in the woman's sensual form upon his couch, "I think I'll be going."

Turning to leave, you crashed nose first into Tom's hard chest with a muffled grunt of surprise. His hands crept around your waist in a lazy fashion, dragging the fabric of your shirt up until his warm palms found the icy chill of your bare skin. It sent a shiver down your spine, much to your own chagrin.

He pouted, jutting his lower lip out at you tauntingly as he leaned close to brush his nose along the high point of your cheek. "You've only just got here, darling," he mused, "I missed you last night. You left me all alone."

It was really pathetic how easily he broke through your walls. Despite your tireless efforts to re-stack each brick he knocked down, the feeling of his soft lips ghosting along the supple skin of your cheeks had those same cinderblocks crumbling to dust. A gentle kiss on the apple of your cheek, a fleeting peck at the slope of your forehead, one slow trail along the angle of your jaw--you were putty in his hands when his lips finally found your own.

Even as his tongue traced the outline of your lips, you desperately tried to fight his hold on you. Grumbling into his mouth, "I'm sure you could have found company elsewhere--"

Tom bit down on your lower lip, hard, and pulled until it snapped back with a loud pop that made you whimper. Yet, his eyes were tender in a way you'd never seen before as he gazed down at you longingly, whispering, "I wanted you, though."

Yeah, you were fucked.

Breathing a little heavier, you gave into your more animalistic desires in spite of the jealousy and irritation that still boiled deep within your veins. A childish, prideful part of you boasted over his words; he'd wanted you! Not Melaina, not anyone else, just you. It was utterly ridiculous.

Tom's brown eyes were warm, inviting, and curious as he waited for you to make the next move. You could see the questions bouncing around behind them; would you leave? Would you stay? But, there was a familiar glimmer of mischief buried behind the thick honey gaze that had you waiting for the other foot to fall.

Taking your lack of movement as an answer, a desire to stay, Tom pressed another kiss to your lips. Long, slow, and mind-boggling--it felt like your soul left your body with the way he curled his plush lips into yours. Already you were heating up, your body buzzing and growing hotter with desire in each second that passed.

You clawed your fingers into the hem of his shirt, scratching your nails along the flesh of his lower abdomen in a futile attempt to ground yourself. It was a frantic plea to him to hold you there, to keep you from floating away as his kiss took you to higher places. He gave a gentle hiss into your mouth at the sting, but pushed harder into your face as his hands inched higher up your back to toy with the band of your bra.

Fingers gently swept the collar of your shirt down, exposing your neck as fuller, softer lips ghosted along the line of the fabric. Wait--lips? Jumping, you reeled back from Tom's face with widened eyes to find Melaina blinking back at you, eyes blown wide with lust.

"What are you--"

Tom popped the clasp of your bra with ease, looking down at you with darkened irises. "Is this okay?" he asked, glancing at Melaina who was waiting beside your twisted, intertwined bodies for approval.

Her fingers swirled slow, tingling circles on your hip, lip caught between pearly, white teeth as she watched you with enraptured intensity. Two minutes ago, the word no would have spilled from your lips without a moment of hesitation--but now? Now, as your eyes lingered on the swollen, bitten lower lip that called for you to taste it; as you trailed them lower to admire the perfectly soft curve on every inch of her body, it wasn't so clear.

There was a supple rise of her chest with every breathe, hardened nipples poking through the transparent fabric of her dress. Rounded breasts upon a gentle, sloping waist, wide hips that certainly gave way to a perfect handful of ass and thigh, all leading the eye down the length of her sculpted legs. Melaina was like a work of art, and every inch of her that you admired sent tingles through your body.

Glancing back at Tom, you nearly moaned out loud. Her eyes burned the side of your face, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Tom's stare into your very soul. It sucked the breathe out of you and left you feeling dizzy, your vision darkening until all you could see were the artful angles of his face.

You spoke hoarsely, swallowing down the lump that formed in your throat, "Yes."

Tom's mouth parted against yours in an instant, his hot tongue slipping inside and making your eyes roll back as Melaina pressed her body against your side and latched onto your neck. Sucking, biting, rolling the soft muscle of her tongue all along each sharp nibble to soothe the tender flesh--it was an overload of sensation all at once. You didn't know where to put your hands as they both crept theirs all over your body.

It was impossible to decipher where one ended and the other began. Whose hand was that gripping your ass? Whose were peeling your bra straps down our arms under your sleeves? Who was slipping their thumbs along the waistband of your pants, tickling your hot, sensitive skin?

Moaning, you gasped, "Please!"

You weren't even sure what you were asking for, but Melaina quickly stepped aside to let Tom pull your shirt over your head as your bra fell to the floor at your feet. He admired your chest for a long moment, palms cupping the swell of your breasts as his thumbs rolled over the stiffened peaks of your nipples, earning a muffled groan from you. Licking his lips, he stepped back and waved the eagerly waiting woman forward.

As Melaina devoured your chest, you followed him with your gaze through heavy lidded eyes. He watched on with an indecipherable glint in his eyes, lips glistening with a mixture of your saliva and his own. Those long lashes fluttered as he dragged his tongue slowly over the plump of his lower lip, nostrils flaring in a sharp inhale as if he were tasting you all over again.

Her lips were wrapped tightly around your left nipple when he finally disappeared behind you, a shiver wracking your body when his fingers caressed the arch of your spine in a fluttering touch. Chest pressed warmly to your bare back, he dipped low to mix his own marks with the ones she had left behind. You dropped your head back onto his shoulder, lulling to the side to expose the entirety of your throat to him in submission.

When had he removed his shirt? The bare skin of his torso was scorching on your back, matching the heat of his tongue dipping in your collarbone in time with a twirl of hers around your other nipple. Fingers, hands, lips, tongues everywhere; your body was reaching its boiling point.

"Come to bed with us?" Tom's husky whisper directly into the shell of your ear had you whining, arching your back until your behind rolled harshly into his crotch. His length ground into you roughly, a quiet groan escaping his lips at the stimulation, "Fuck, darling, you like this?"

Weakly, barely able to focus through all the pleasurable touches to your body, you whispered, "Yes, yes, sir. Please."

You should have known it wouldn't last. You should have anticipated the shift in Tom's attitude, revealing his true intentions to you as he lead you by the wrist into his bedroom to find a dining chair at the side of his bed. But, you blinked up at him dumbfounded as he held up a silk tie before your face with a devilish grin.

Melaina stretched out on the bed with a hand between her legs, knees propped open wide as she touched herself lazily and watched you closely. Glancing at the tie, then the chair, and then Tom's arrogant smirk, you mumbled, "What is that?"

He just chuckled throatily, grinning as he hummed, "Sit in the chair, darling." You blinked again, frozen in place, "Sit, now, or I promise you'll not like the outcome."

Instinctively, your knees crumbled until you fell into the chair with a frown. He snatched your wrists roughly, twisting them behind the back of the chair until the backs of your hands touched and you whined in protest, "That hurts, Tom."

He pulled further, a sharp ache burning through the muscles of your arms as they dug harshly into the back of the chair. "Watch it, (Y/N)." he growled.

"Sorry, sir." you muttered pitifully, eyes downcast to avoid the amused smile on Melaina's face, "What's going on?"

Tom didn't answer you for a long while, taking his time to tie your wrists with the tie until he was certain you couldn't break free. Testing the restraints, you pouted as the fabric didn't yield in any way to your tugs. He hummed under his breathe in appreciation, though, stroking a finger up the length of your arm as he rounded to face you again.

Melaina sat up and leaned into the arm he reached out toward her, your gut twisting bitterly at the sight of her purring under his touch like a cat. "I told you, darling, that stingy girls don't get to cum." he restated his words from earlier, and your body burned with embarrassment, "So, I'm going to teach you to share. You're gonna sit there and watch me, and you're going to deal with it like a big girl. Understood?"

"But I--"

"Do you understand?" Tom hissed, eyes narrowing in a fierce glare that dared you to challenge him further. You couldn't miss the way his fingers twitched, the familiar sting of his palm on your behind ghosting over the skin in anticipation of impact. He remained rooted in place, though, leaning into Melaina's body that was steadily wrapping further around him.

Her lips were on his chest, leaving a flurry of angry purple marks that made you want to scream like a child. "I understand, sir." you grumbled, slumping into the seat.

He smiled, "Good."

It was as if you disappeared from the room entirely in that instant. He turned to Melaina, completely absorbed in her presence as his hands slid around her waist to grab fistfuls of her ass. Groaning, he squeezed the flesh tighter until she whimpered. Your own body ignited in shame and jealousy, fingers clenching into fists that tugged uselessly against their bonds.

The sound of their lips smacking as they kissed, wet and sloppy sounds that echoed in your ears, made you want to whine. How had it come to this, when only moments ago they were kissing you like that? Was this the only reason you were here?

You watched on with an aching core, racing heart, and sweaty palms as the heat intensified between them. There was that chemistry you'd witnessed on set--their movements so in sync it seemed as if they were connected spiritually, a perfect flow of seamless give and take. It was almost painful to watch.

The jealousy that tore you to shreds was not from a desire to be the only woman in Tom's life, though a selfish part of you did secretly relish in the thought. It was an aching, grotesque and petty desire to know that you were the best. You were jealous of the way he found pleasure in someone else, when all you wanted was to know that you were unmatched. You were jealous to feel his touch on your body, and some part of you was growing desirous of hers as well.

It was a purely physical sort of envy; no feelings attached. Or, at least that's what you told yourself. In some sense there had to be a sort of emotional drive behind it, but it was easier to tell yourself it was stupid pride instead of murky, confusing feelings.

Your eyes clenched shut as you bit back a huff of frustration. Melaina's moans grew louder, until she shrieked, "Please, daddy, wanna feel you!"

There was a smack and a rustle, and when you opened your eyes Tom had shoved Melaina flat onto her stomach. The skin of her still rippling ass was reddened in a blazing hand print, his hand rubbing over the mark soothingly. "You wanna feel daddy's cock, princess?" he growled, "Think (Y/N) deserves to watch?"

"Yes, daddy," Melaina murmured, "want her to watch. Want her to see how good I make you feel."

The green eyed monster in your head was stomping circles through your brain, screeching over the cruelty of the situation. Yet, you kept your lips pursed shut as you glared back at Tom with just as much ferocity. He wasn't going to see you break; you'd come out of this on top, you were sure of it. You weren't going to let him see that she'd hit the root of your jealousy right on it's ugly, rearing head with her words.

You scoffed, and he glared at you with a sort of intensity that made your legs quiver, but you faced his scowl head on with a ferocity of your own to match. You wouldn't let him see that she'd hit the root of your jealousy right on its ugly, rearing head with those words; if he wanted to play, then you were going to play just as hard.

Or, maybe you were just emboldened by the fact that he hadn't called her darling again. Either way, you stared him in the eye until he looked away from you with a clenched jaw and twitching hand. Your first, and only, victory of the night.

It was torture. He moaned as he pushed into her, eyes clenching shut and hands squeezing at her flesh desperately when he bottomed out with his hips buried into her bottom. Yet, you couldn't decide which method of suffering was worse; to keep your eyes opened or closed.

Open, you had to watch his face contort with pleasure and the way he interacted with her eager, willing body. Closed, you had to listen to the sounds they made and feel the way your body reacted in accordance. You were dripping onto the seat, angry tears pooling in your eyes, and your arms were going numb from their restrained position.

"Eyes open, darling." Tom ordered, and you bit back the curse that bubbled to your lips. He watched you with hooded eyes until you met his gaze, immediately blocking you out again to focus on the messy, fucked out woman on his bed. She was wailing, and you were trying your best not to join in the chorus.

He was going an an unrelenting pace, each brutish thrust of his hips eliciting a strangled cry from Melaina. She was clawing at the sheets, incrementally crawling away from him until he pulled her back with a forceful tug of her hips. "Daddy, 'm gonna cum!" she moaned, breathless.

You squirmed in your seat, bottom sliding slickly over the wooden surface from how much you'd pooled into it. "Come on, princess. Cum f'me." he urged, voice strained as he rocked his hips faster into her. The sound of skin against skin mixed with the damp sounds from his force into her slick echoed loudly through the room, but it was unparalleled to the unrestrained scream the tore from her throat.

Watching with wide eyes and strained, clenched thighs, you gasped as Melaina arched into the bed wildly. Her actions were so over the top you'd have assumed they were theatrics, if it weren't for the way you could see her physically quivering with full body shivers. Fuck, why couldn't that have been you?

Tom pulled out of her roughly, turning on you and clambering off of his bed to lean over you. His hands wrapped around the arms of the chair tightly, the muscle of his arms rippling as he gripped it so tight the wood creaked. "Learned your lesson yet, darling?" he demanded, nose to nose with you.

Nodding desperately, you gasped, "Yes, sir."

He disappeared from view, Melaina still crumpled into the bed and spent as she breathed heavily. When his fingers brushed your wrists, untying them slowly, you nearly wept with relief. Finally, he was going to touch you.

Pulling you up from the chair, Tom gripped your chin firmly as his thumb tugged at your bottom lip. "Want me to touch you, darling?" You nodded, begging him with your eyes and whining when he chuckled, "You have to earn it."

He sat back on the bed, scooting until his back was propped against the headboard with his legs spread wide. Patting the space between them, he beckoned you forward until you were perched between his knees on your own. You yelped as Melaina crept up behind you, hands sneaking up the skin of your back until they rested lightly on your shoulders, but you relaxed into her touch as she pressed a feather light kiss to your neck.

As she nipped at the skin, blossoming a new mark amidst all the ones she'd left before, Tom grinned deviously. "Let's make a deal, darling," he breathed, "if you can stop yourself from cumming all over her tongue, I'll let you come on my cock."

You squeaked as her fingers dipped down the front of your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as she drew nearer to where you were aching for any sort of touch. Deep down you knew how hard it would be not to finish at any sort of stimulation due to how worked up and ravenously needy you were, but if there was a chance to get Tom where you wanted him then you were going to take it. So, you nodded, "Please."

Melaina pushed you forward until you were bent over, propped up on your knees and elbows. Tom's length was straining against his thigh, and he flexed as your slightly frantic breathing blew across the sensitive skin. He reached out a hand to caress your cheek before winding it to the back of your head, pulling you closer until you wrapped your lips around the tip.

You groaned in sync with him as you felt her blow a cool breeze on your clit, your legs nearly buckling as she forced them apart with her hands. Stars were bursting behind your eyes the very moment she drew a line through your folds with her tongue, but Tom's shove against your head kept you grounded. Focusing, you pushed forward until your nose was buried in his pelvis and he moaned loudly.

Her taste was still all over him. Pulling back until you only held his tip in your mouth again, you swirled your tongue around the head and parted your lips to let your spit soak down his length entirely. You looked up and blinked at him coyly, flattening your tongue under his tip and sucking hard until he clenched his eyes shut and raked his nails into your scalp roughly.

Going down again, you gagged around him and tears sprung to your eyes when he held you there. He was choking you, but you weren't thinking about air--all you could think about was how hard it was not to reflexively clamp down each time Melaina tweaked your clit just right, sending spasms through your entire body.

You were fighting hard to keep from going overboard, your stomach twisted up in knots so tight you felt compressed. Explosive, even. He was moaning above you, dragging your head up and down his length slowly, and there were shockwaves of vibrations in your core as Melaina hummed along with him.

Finally, as you took all of him again and squeezed his thigh with your nails digging in, Tom hissed and pulled you off of him. "On your back, now." he commanded, and Melaina jumped back just in time for you to hastily slide into position. "Fuck, need you so bad, darling."

His hands were hot as they slid up your thighs, spreading your legs apart until he could slip between them and crawl over your body. "Needed you last night, lovie, but you decided to ignore me like a brat." he growled, and you flinched as he dropped to his elbows over you suddenly, "Don't even deserve to feel me, you know that?"

"Please," you whined, "I'm sorry I ignored you, I'll never do it again."

Tom dragged his tip roughly through your folds, scowling at you when you bucked your hips into him, "Do that again and you'll go back in the chair."

You froze, and he hummed in approval before continuing his teasing. Up and down, up and down, up and down, he dragged himself over your entrance and clit until you were shaking with need. Each slow rock of his length through your folds was adding fuel to the fire raging within you, your eyes threatening to roll back from the surface level stimulation alone.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally eased into you slowly. You moaned breathlessly, clenching around him and fisting the sheets in a plea for him to just fuck you already. "Fucking love your cunt, darling," he groaned, eyes falling shut in bliss, "perfect little pussy, all for me. This all mine, lovie?"

"Yes, sir." you groaned, arching off the bed as he pushed deeper against you, "All yours."

He pulled back, dragging slowly against your walls until he slipped out of you entirely and left you feeling empty. But then he forced his way back in roughly, jolting you backward on the bed under the force of his thrust. Your lips opened in a silent yell, hands flying up to claw at his back desperately.

Tom's face dropped into your shoulder, mouthing open kisses into the skin that burned like fire. He picked up his pace with a steady, deep roll of his hips against yours that made you shiver all over. Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, trapping him against you as you gripped his shoulders heavily.

Your eyes were clenched shut in pleasure as you felt him continue to push roughly against that spot deep inside, sending sparks through out your entire body. The coil in your belly had already been strung so tightly you'd feared you'd burst at the first moment of contact, but you were doing your best to fight it off. You wanted this moment, this feeling of him filling you to the brim, to last forever.

But, Tom shuddered above you and moaned into your ear, "Shit, 'm not gonna last, darling."

He pushed deeper into you with his next thrust, grinding your hips into the mattress as he put his weight behind it. You yelped and your hands left his back to find his face, pulling his lips down to yours in a feverish kiss. It was sloppy, all tongue and clashing teeth, but it matched the desperate, animalistic rhythm of his hips perfectly.

That coil inside you was sparking now, fizzling with pent up energy just begging to burst. "Please, please, please, let me cum, Tom." you begged, and he groaned as you said his name, "Please, Tommy!"

With a sharp snap of his hips, Tom pushed off the bed on one elbow and reached his hand down to the apex of your thighs. His fingers met your clit harshly, swirling rapid circles around your swollen bundle as he stared down at you like a starved man. "Say my name again, darling."

"Tom!"

His fingers moved faster, harder, deeper in time with his thrusts that pushed you to heights you'd never felt from him. His eyes were clenched shut and his lips pulled back in a grimace, jaw clenching as his curls slid all over his forehead in a sweaty mess. He looked beautiful like that--all messy and fucked out, desperate to reach that high that you were pushing him toward.

Your legs were shaking wildly, and your stomach was burning as your muscles began to contract. It was the buildup to the explosive release, and you cried out, "Gonna cum, Tommy, yes! You feel so--oh, fuck!"

Wailing, you clamped your legs around his waist and squeezed your eyes shut so tightly it hurt. The coil snapped and you shrieked, his tip ramming into your g-spot over and over as he fucked you through your high. It felt like you couldn't even breathe, couldn't think, couldn't anything anymore. All you could do was feel him inside you, pushing through your pulsing walls as his fingers continued to rub your clit like a madman.

"Fucking--fuck!" he gritted, hips faltering, "Love it when you say my name, (Y/N). Sounds so perfect coming from your pretty lips."

You were desperate to get him there, feeling the way he was shuddering with each thrust as his body protested the exertion. "Tom, please," you begged, feeling the coil in your belly tightening up again, "cum for me. Wanna feel you fill me up, Tommy."

He slammed into you harder than he had all night, making your pelvis ache but you saw white. The world faded away as you burst into the crescendo again, your throat burning as you cried out loudly. Just when you were about to tap out and push him away because it was all too much, he rolled into you deeply and collapsed onto your chest.

So high in your own climax, you barely felt his cock pulsing against your walls as you milked him of every last drop. It was the warmth, though, that brought you back down to earth. The deep, warmth that filled you up had you sighing and sucking in air desperately, blinking up at the ceiling as Tom breathed heavily into your neck.

The two of you laid there like that for awhile, fighting to catch your breathe as your hearts raced against each other's chests. It wasn't until your vision finally cleared and you could breathe a little more freely, though, that a thought popped into your head, "Where did Melaina go?"

Tom laughed, his chest rumbling against yours as he nuzzled his face into your shoulder with a tender kiss to the sweaty skin. "Mm, don't know. She probably left."

"Oh," you muttered, "I didn't notice."

You hoped he didn't notice how you smiled as he hummed back, "Neither did I, darling."

Curled up in Tom's bed, you shivered as his fingers traced lazy shapes into the bare skin of your thigh that was draped over his own. On his night stand sat two abandoned cups of tea, growing colder by the minute, but neither one of you was in any hurry to reach for them. You were content to just lay there in his embrace, soaking up his warmth.

This was what you'd grown to love the most over the past few months of hooking up with Tom. The sex was great, the orgasms mind blowing, but the time spent just enjoying each other's company afterwards was your favorite part. It felt nice to just be close to him, to feel connected to him in a more domestic sense.

"You know there's nothing to be jealous of, yeah?" he asked, suddenly, and you craned your neck back to look at him curiously. His cheeks were reddened slightly as he peered down at you with tender, timid eyes.

Sheepishly, you shrugged, "It's ridiculous, I know."

He frowned slightly, but the crease between his brows melted as you blinked up at him with wide eyes. "Nothing you feel is ridiculous, (Y/N)," he stated, "and it's okay to be jealous. You think I never felt shitty seeing you with any of the other guys you filmed with?"

The flush on his face deepened at his confession, but you grinned. He felt it too? "Really?" you asked, trying your best to keep from giving him total puppy dog eyes.

"Really." he repeated you, snorting when you grinned wider, "And, you don't need to be jealous of anyone. You're the only one who ends up right here in my bed, like this. Only one I want to be here, darling."

You buried your face into his chest with a flustered giggle, and he chuckled as his arms wrapped around you a little tighter. In a desperate need to keep things from getting too serious, still raw over everything you'd felt the past couple of days, you teased, "Mm, I'm only here for the tea--Tom!"

He dug his fingers into your ribs, fighting through your squeals and slaps as you tried to escape him. Easily, though, he got the upper hand and rolled until you were pinned beneath him. With twinkling eyes, a mixture of emotions you couldn't read, he taunted, "Admit it, (Y/N), you're in love with me."

In love with Tom? Your mind went blank as you stared up at him, but he just grinned down at you. There was a little flutter in your belly, and his eyes sparkled a brighter at your shiver. He knew. He knew the truth.

"Nah, it's definitely the tea--"

"Why, I oughta!"

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helloalycia · 4 years ago

Text

The Wrong Lifetime – Four // Wanda Maximoff

chapter three | story masterlist | main masterlist | wattpad | chapter five

author’s note: I hope you all don’t mind the slow burn because it’s like my favourite thing and i promise things will get spicy soon 😂

Since my rather abrupt revelation about Wanda, I found myself racked with guilt.

Not because she was a girl – I couldn't help my feelings in that sense – but because she was my brother's fiancé. And every time he came to me, gushing about how great of a date they had or how much he was falling for her, the guilt hit me like a sharp pain in the chest, because I understood what he was saying. I felt the same.

And it didn't help when they would occasionally go on dates in front of me, and all I could feel was an unexplainable jealousy in the pit of my stomach. I had no right to feel like this when she was an engaged woman. Her naturally flirtatious personality was simply that: a personality. And even though we'd had a genuinely lovely day a week ago when she invited me to her home, it was no reason for me to think of her in such a way.

The next date on Y/B/N and Wanda's journey to marriage was at our house in the garden. I wasn't actually aware of it until I saw them sat on some garden furniture.

My mum wanted me to help her with some gardening and I found her kneeling by some plant pots, a fair distance away from Wanda and my brother. As I approached her, I glanced in the couple's direction, seeing them sat opposite one another and enjoying a selection of finger foods and tea. They were far away enough to have privacy, but close enough for me to make out their expressions.

"For goodness sake, Y/N," my mother said when I kneeled down beside her to help. "Do you have to wear those horrendous trousers?"

I rolled my eyes, sitting on the ground comfortably. "I'm curious, mother. Do you like anything that I do?"

She gave me a disapproving glance. "I'm only looking out for you, dear. That outfit is very... unladylike."

"Well, they're comfortable," I quipped, before grabbing a spade and getting to work.

"So are dresses," she pointed out, continuing repotting her plants. "And they're prettier, too."

"Considering I have to wear a dress all the time and that I'm in the comfort of my own home, I'm going to pretend you didn't just make me feel bad for wearing these."

She didn't say anything, but I could tell she wasn't happy. I didn't mind wearing dresses, but I would be lying if I said trousers weren't more comfortable. The only time I could wear them was at home when doing chores or simply lounging around. I'd make the most of it whilst I could, no matter what comments my mother made.

I wasn't afraid to get my hands dirty as I helped her repot the plants before digging into the soil and planting some seeds she'd bought this morning. My mother, despite adoring gardening, hated getting messy, so you can imagine the look on her face when I got soil all over my clothes.

"I wish you would act like a lady sometimes," she mumbled to herself, but I didn't let it faze me. It was all I heard, so I was used to it.

Laughter sounded from behind us and I risked glancing back, seeing Wanda laughing at something Y/B/N said. I rolled my eyes subconsciously before looking back to what I was doing. My fingernails dug into the soil with irritation, directed at them and also myself. Though, despite my irritation, I still had an urge to glance back at Wanda, and when I did she was looking my way this time. A mere glance on her part, but she directed a smile my way before looking to my brother again.

I'd like to say that was it, but I continued to steal glances of her as I worked alongside my mum, taking what I could get as I admired her from afar.

She looked stunning today, as she always did. Her long curls were left out, flowing over her shoulders and pretty green dress; I wasn't close enough to be able to tell, but I was sure that her dress complimented her eyes. A dark forest green colour with golden flecks, matching the deep green of her dress. Or so I assumed.

"They seem like they're getting on well," my mum said at one point, earning my attention. She was talking about Y/B/N and Wanda as she continued, "They make such a lovely couple."

I swallowed hard, nodding lamely. "They sure do, mum."

She gave me a sideways glance. "You know, your brother will be married soon and then it will be your turn."

I groaned quietly, knowing where this was going. There was no point trying to stop her because once she started, that was it.

"You can't just keep locking yourself in your room and writing stories," she was saying, but I attempted to tune her out which sometimes felt impossible since she had no off button and her shrill voice always managed to break through my bubble. "You have to find a husband. An actual person who you can marry and who can take care of you."

"I can take care of myself."

"Y/N, you know that's not what I mean..." but I stopped listening as she got started going on another ramble about the benefits of having a husband.

Instead, my eyes darted around the garden until they naturally gravitated towards Wanda. It was definitely the wrong time to get distracted by her though, since she seemed to be sucking some food off her thumb. As she did, her eyes found mine and she took that as her opportunity to wink in my direction playfully, hiding a smile as her thumb remained between her teeth. Y/B/N didn't seem to notice, as he was looking the other way, and I felt my cheeks heating up as I looked away quickly, remembering my dream.

She's going to marry your brother. She's going to marry your brother. She's going to marry your brother.

A stupid mantra that didn't work, but I attempted to drill it into my brain anyway.

"...and it would be nice to be able to do all the wedding stuff for you next time around," my mum continued to ramble, unaware of my flustered self.

The image of Wanda sucking her thumb was permanently engraved in my head and I struggled to wish it away. No more staring for today, I told myself, before getting lost in gardening again.

After ten more minutes of nonstop nattering about finding a husband for me, my mother excused herself to refill the watering can. I was grateful for her momentary absence, appreciating the silence and lack of guilt-tripping. Until I heard footsteps behind me shortly after, making me groan loudly.

"I'm not finding a husband right now!" I snapped, unable to take it any longer. But when I spun around to give her a piece of my mind, my mouth hung open like a fish out of water.

"I'd sure hope not," Wanda answered with a stifled laugh. "Then I'd have to share your company with somebody else."

Closing my mouth and standing up, I cleared my throat. "Sorry. I thought you were my mum."

She nodded, eyes roaming my whole body for a second, making me nervous under her stare. I hadn't actually seen her since my inappropriate dream and it was growing increasingly difficult to be so close to her without thinking about it.

"I figured. I just wanted to say hi," she said, expression softening as she met my eyes.

I was right about the dress bringing her eyes out more. A forest green colour, as I'd predicted.

"Hi," I said, giving her a small, nervous smile. "Erm, how is your date going?"

She shrugged, raising her hand to hold her forearm comfortably. "It's okay. It's wonderful out here, I'll give him that."

Relaxing into the conversation, my awkwardness fading already, I smiled in agreement. "Yeah, it is pretty."

A smirk appeared on her lips. "Yeah. So are the gardeners."

Admittedly, it took me a few seconds longer than it should have to realise she was talking about me. When I did, I felt a heat creeping up my neck and to my face and looked to the grass to distract myself. See, when she did stuff like that, it made me question a hell of a lot.

She chuckled. "So, gardening. Another dislike of yours?"

I shook my head, risking looking back up to her. "No, actually. I don't mind it. I'm just not a fan when it gives my mother an opportunity to discuss marriage."

Wanda's interested was piqued as she quirked a brow. "Oh? Your mother has suitors for you?"

I squeezed my eyes shut at the possibility, shaking my head. "I'd rather not ask, Wanda."

She let out a short laugh. "You've got time anyway. At least until Y/B/N and I are married."

I hoped she didn't see the involuntary wince I did at the mention of that. "Honestly, I'm not even thinking about that now... I'm nowhere near ready for that."

"Would you not want to get married?" she asked curiously, tilting her head to the side.

I sighed, looking around, unable to keep my eyes still. "I don't know, I guess? Eventually? But to somebody I love, not some arranged marriage just for the sake of it." My words sank in quite quickly and I straightened up, instantly looking to Wanda with apologetic eyes. "Bloody hell, that is not what I meant to say–"

"It's fine," she reassured me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I get it. And, well, you're not wrong."

I smiled halfheartedly, the guilt at my previous words still present. I could honestly say that I wasn't aiming that comment at her, but I wouldn't blame her if she took it that way.

"It's important to fall in love with the person you marry," she said, gaze locked on mine. "You have to learn about them, who they are. Their likes, their dislikes. Their personality. If they have a sense of humour or if they're as dry as cardboard. If they're into you as much as you're into them."

Nodding slowly, I wasn't sure what to say. My mouth went dry the longer she watched me, eyes dancing with an emotion I couldn't recognise. Then her eyes fell to my lips and my knees began to shake subtly, wanting to give in because of how confused I was.

"Y/N, dear, don't dirty Wanda's dress with your muddy hands!" my mum called, breaking the strange silence that had built between the brunette and I.

Stepping back with realisation (and grateful for the interruption), I wiped my hands on my shirt subconsciously, making a further mess of my already mud-stained clothes. "Sorry."

When I looked up, Wanda was chewing on her lip, eyes doing a once over on me yet again. It was moments like this when I couldn't tell if she was teasing me or if she actually had an interest in me, maybe, like that.

"Wanda, honey, let's get you inside," my mum spoke, approaching the two of us and looking to her.

Nodding, Wanda glanced at me once more, shooting me a sweet smile, before being led away by my mum. I breathed out slowly, knowing it was wrong of me to feel this way about her. But it was hard not to fall for her when she had so much about her that was interesting.

Her passion for art, her teasing, playful attitude, her sense of humour... and then there were the physical aspects, like her beaming smile, her luxuriant brown hair and her entrancing hazel eyes. She was literally perfect and my brother was one lucky man. For once in my life, I was actually jealous of something he had that I didn't.

"Y/N!"

Speaking of the devil...

"Y/B/N, hey," I said with a smile as he approached me with an extra jump in his step. "What's up?"

Grin on his lips, he smacked my arm. "Did you see, Wanda? Didn't she look stunning?"

The guilt was cutting real deep. "She did."

"I think I'm in love," he gushed, eyes rolling backwards with delight. "She's perfect, Y/N, you don't get it."

"I can imagine...," I mumbled, but he barely noticed, too lovestruck to realise.

"Every date I've been on with her has been amazing," he continued. "If we weren't already engaged, I would've proposed!"

I raised my eyebrows with surprise, definitely not expecting this. He'd made his attraction to her known since the moment we'd met her, constantly talking about how gorgeous she was, but he'd never sounded happier than he did now.

"Mum adores her," he said with a content smile. "Dad would probably marry her if we was thirty years younger. And you–" He looked to me gratefully. "You're making an effort and I appreciate it."

Oh, God, the guilt was overwhelming.

"Everything is going perfectly," he finished with a sigh. "I just– I can't wait to marry her, Y/N."

I smiled for his sake, but my insides were shrivelling up and failing me. I was a horrible person, wasn't I? What kind of monster falls for her brother's fiancé? Me. I'm the monster. But not anymore. I couldn't let this get out of hand. I had to do better.

I promised myself I'd do better.

—

Doing better was going well, I'd like to think. I mean, it had only been two weeks, so I couldn't guarantee, but I was no longer having... thoughts... about the Maximoff in question.

Yes, there was that familiar inkling of jealousy tugging away in my stomach whenever Y/B/N would talk about her, but I think I was getting better at ignoring it. I had convinced myself that my feelings towards Wanda were not true but merely a schoolgirl crush (which I wasn't allowed to have, but still) and that I'd get over it after some time.

I'd liked, maybe two girls in my life before her. The first being when I was a child, about five, and a girl in my class did something different to her hair. If I remember correctly, she always had one ponytail that sat at the back of her neck, then one day, she came in with two braids down her head and it really wasn't a massive change, but five year old me developed a huge crush on her. That was when I learnt that a girl liking a girl was not only forbidden, but viewed as a sin.

The second girl I liked was in my Literature class in secondary school. She was probably the first person I'd fallen for in a way that was considered more than a simple crush. Something about her way with words was so attractive to me, as was the cute smile she'd send my way whenever she'd be my partner for an assignment. I never told her how I felt for she only ever treated me as a friend and the last thing I wanted was to bring shame to my family for liking girls.

Those instances, and the fact that I regularly found myself admiring women in a way I found incapable with men, made me realise I was different and I always would be. And so, the chatter about finding a husband and getting married always scared me because I was afraid that I'd be stuck in a place that I would never get to be myself in. Even though that was the reality of most women anyway.

So, in addition to the fact that it was wrong of me to like women (though it felt anything but) and that the woman I liked now was my brother's fiancé, I convinced myself it was just a mere crush I had on Wanda. She was a pretty girl with an attractive personality and that was it.

Or so I thought.

"Go get your brother, Y/N," my mum said one evening. "He's in his study. Dinner is almost ready."

I nodded and headed to my brother's study across the hall. He was sat at his desk, focusing on something specific that he was writing and barely acknowledging my presence. I glanced around the room, taking in the bookshelves filled with manuscripts, both published and unpublished, and notebooks of ideas piled on desks.

I wasn't jealous of this place, I really wasn't. And I wasn't jealous of my brother either, even when he got credit for things I'd written. I was just angry and hurt that I couldn't have the some privileges he got, such as his own personal study to write whatever he pleased.

"Dinner's almost ready," I called to him from the doorway. "C'mon."

He didn't turn around as he answered, "I'll be with you, one second."

Curious to what had captured his attention, I pushed myself from the doorway and approached his desk. He had a lamp turned on, the yellow light lighting the page he was scribbling on. I peeked over his shoulder and saw him pause from writing, stuck in thought. It gave me the chance to read some words and I tried not to laugh.

"Oh my god, is that a love letter?"

Surprised at my presence, he covered the page with his elbows and leaned on them, looking to me with red cheeks.

"What? No, that's... no," he stumbled out, shaking his head.

Stifled smile on my lips, I looked to him with humoured eyes. "You have to let me read it."

He shook his head frantically, trying to play it cool. "I don't think I can do that."

Well, now I was really curious.

"C'mon, I've read pretty much everything you've ever written," I told him, perching myself on the edge of his desk. "Just a little read and I'll drop it."

Pondering my words, he slowly began to straighten up, uncovering the page. With a sigh of submission, he nodded to it, wordlessly giving me permission to look. I grinned, grabbing the page and holding it to the light so I could read it.

It was mostly ramblings – unfinished sentences, phrases, clauses – but it was all about a certain someone, a love letter as I predicted. It talked about this person's body and lips and humour and fingers and because I was so caught up in teasing my brother, I failed to realise that I was reading about Wanda. At least until it mentioned her accent.

My smile faded when I saw the way he wrote about her, with such passion and ferocity and– he was seriously in love with her. And it may or may not have stung a little because everything he'd written was accurate and I felt the same way. Well, not the in love bit, but pretty much everything else.

"So? Is it bad?" he asked nervously, and I lowered the page to see he was waiting for a verdict. "It's messy, I know. I was just journaling and then it kind of happened."

"It's sweet," I told him truthfully, offering him a reassuring smile.

His shoulders relaxed as I put the page back on the desk before him. "Thank you, Y/N." He paused, before glancing up at me sheepishly. "Now that you're here, you may as well tell me if there's anything I can do to improve."

I raised my eyebrows. "Why? Are you planning on giving this to her?"

He shook his head instantly. "No, oh God, no. That would be severely humiliating. I just thought you could help me for me. You always make my writing better."

I snickered, shaking my head with amusement. Behind the scenes was where I thrived apparently.

"Quickly," I told him as he held out the paper to me. "Mum is waiting for us."

He nodded obediently and I took the paper from his grasp, getting another look at it. Skimming it with my eyes yet again, I found the first criticism and pointed to it so he could see.

"This bit here," I said gently. "You talk about her eyes and say they're magnetic."

"Is that not good?" he asked with a frown.

"It is, it is," I said politely, not wanting to offend him. "But that's all you've written. You want to give the reader a reason to believe you. Why are they magnetic? What about them do you find yourself attracted to?"

He nodded, seeming to get it. Leaning back in his seat, he had a think. I waited patiently, curious to what he would come up with, but then he sighed defeatedly and looked to me.

"What would you write?" he asked, and I smiled with disbelief. It always ended up like this. Me helping him, challenging him with a thought, then him ending up using what I say.

"Okay, let me think," I said, crossing my arms and staring ahead. "Wanda's eyes."

"Here," Y/B/N said, making a gesture to placing something invisible on my head. When I quirked a brow of confusion, he added, "It's your thinking cap."

I rolled my eyes but laughed quietly at his stupidity, then tried to think about what to describe Wanda's eyes as.

It wasn't difficult to imagine them despite having not seen them in a few days. They were always bright, animated, lively. Whether it was green, blue or brown, they were irresistible and as my brother wrote, they were magnetic.

I breathed out, speaking from the heart without thinking. "When Wanda Maximoff looks into your eyes it's like she holds all of the elements in a single gaze. At times, they're greener than the earth itself, captivating and tranquil and daring you to look away. But then they're also bluer than the brightest of skies and darkest of oceans, deep and and liberating and easy for you to get swallowed up in."

A smile fell on my lips at the thought. She truly was something.

I continued slowly, "In the light, you can make out golden flecks, like the first sliver of the sun in Spring. It's hopeful and guiding and fills you with warmth. But what isn't obvious upon first glance is how tempestuous they are, like air itself. She's got a passion behind her eyes that is scary at first, but when you get to know her, you realise that it's a storm worth raging."

It went quiet when I finished and I zoned back into reality, Wanda's eyes blinking away from my mind in an instant. I pursed my lips and looked to Y/B/N with mild concern, realising just how much I'd rambled. He raised his eyebrows with surprise, staring at me.

"Y/N, that was amazing! How did you think of that?" he asked in bewilderment.

I shrugged, feeling my face heat up with embarrassment. "I don't know. I just thought about a random set of hazel eyes and applied my thoughts to it."

He smiled, impressed. "Amazing. I love it."

Grabbing a pen, he began to write furiously on the page and I stood up, dusting myself off.

"You sure that's not going to her?" I asked, still feeling fuzzy from what I'd said and hoping she'd never see it.

"Very sure," he promised, not looking up. "It's just for me."

I studied him judgementally. "Okay, well, maybe get rid of that part about her breasts then. It's a little creepy."

He looked up to me with a boyish grin. "I'm only a man, Y/N. Can you blame me?"

I rolled my eyes, shuddering at what he was implying. The mere implication of a thought of him and Wanda... nope, I didn't want to go there.

"I'll see you at dinner," I said, pointing a thumb over my shoulder. "Try to hurry, yeah?"

"Yes, I'll be right with you," he assured me, his hand moving in a flurry as he wrote. "Just writing what you said so I don't forget. Could be good for a future book, who knows?"

I forced a smile, humming in agreement. "Right. Well, I'll see you at the table."

He nodded and I left his room, letting out a deep breath. Just another day in the Y/L/N household.

—

Popping into town for errands was surprisingly not a task I found boring. If anything, I preferred it, using it as a chance to get away from my mother's incessant marriage-related conversations and my father's constant praising for anything Y/B/N did. Nowadays, it was also a way to escape anything wedding-related, which was a plus.

This time, I was only nipping out to return a book to the library, but my mum caught me before leaving and asked me to deliver some letters to the post office since I was already heading that way. Happy to prolong this outing as much as possible, I accepted the errand and headed to the post office after returning my book.

When I was there, an advertisement caught my eye. A chalkboard outside the store displayed a deal the train station were doing. I probably would have ignored it if it weren't for the mention of Blackpool.

2 FOR 1 ON BLACKPOOL TRAIN TICKETS THIS WEEKEND

Remembering my conversation with Wanda, I realised I hadn't actually followed up with her on my promise of taking her there to paint. She probably didn't even remember, since it was a while ago when we spoke of it, but the idea of going there with her made me excited. Was it stupid to get the tickets? Probably. But did I go inside and get them? Of course.

It was only when I got home did I realise how silly it was. Would she even want to go? What if she made an excuse to get out of it? Oh, this whole thing was stupid. I was overthinking it. Friends went on day trips all the time, it's wasn't a big deal.

To my surprise, when I poked my head into the living room to tell my mum I'd posted her letters, Wanda was sat on the couch with her. They were drinking some tea and having scones, chatting away. I'd called my mum before noticing, so when they looked my way, I clumsily entered and straightened up to make myself look presentable.

"Sorry, I didn't know you had company," I apologised with an awkward smile, eyes flickering to a smiling Wanda before looking to my mum. "I just wanted to let you know that I dropped the letters off by the post office."

"Perfect, Y/N, thank you," she said in response, before looking to the setup before her. "You can join us if you'd like."

I was quick to smile gratefully, though shook my head. "It's okay, you guys enjoy. I'll just be in my room if you need me."

My mum shrugged, sipping her tea, and Wanda watched me with a small smile, nodding in greeting, before looking away. I licked my lips uncomfortably before backing out the room and heading upstairs.

I was working on yet another manuscript that wouldn't see the light of day at my desk when I heard a knock on my door about an hour later.

"Come in!" I called, not looking up.

The door opened and I finished my train of thought before turning around, surprised to see Wanda walking into my room.

"Oh, hi," I got out suddenly, words falling from my mouth without me thinking first.

She smiled softly, stopping before me. "Hey. I'm heading home now, but I just wanted to say goodbye."

I stared at her, forgetting how to speak because she was wearing a lovely floral dress that complimented her figure perfectly.

"Oh, and I thought you might like these," she added before forgetting, then held out a box towards me.

Recovering from my initial stupor, I reached out and accepted the box, realising they were chocolates.

"I got them for your mum, but she said she's not a fan of hazelnut," she explained, and I looked up to see her looking elsewhere with a nervous smile on her lips. "You don't have to have them of course. I can just... eat them myself."

An amused smile tugged at my lips as I quirked a brow. "You'd eat them all yourself?"

She was very much aware of how silly she sounded, but she was adamant on appearing confident, so she nodded with certainty. "Yes... apparently I would."

Lighthearted laughter escaped my lips as I set the box to the side. She was trying to stand her ground, but then she sighed and began to laugh, too. My heart fluttered in my chest at the sound and I appreciated the crinkle by her eyes when her smile widened.

"Thank you," I said, settling on a smile as I watched her with amusement.

She nodded, smile of her own still present, before pointing behind her. "I'll, erm, go now."

When she turned to leave, I felt inclined to say, "Wait!"

She paused, turning around patiently, and I knew there was no going back now. Standing up, I grabbed my purse from the side and pulled out the train tickets.

"When I was out today, I saw that the train station were doing this deal on tickets to Blackpool," I started, hoping she couldn't see my hands trembling slightly. "And I remembered that I promised to take you so you could see the water." I closed my eyes, praying that this wouldn't be a mistake, before opening them and looking to Wanda. "We can go, if you'd still like to."

She raised her eyebrows, eyes glued to the tickets in my hand. No words were being said and my heart thumped in my chest with the realisation that I may have done something insanely stupid. Before I could even think to apologise, a grin spread across her face and her dazzling blue eyes met mine, freezing me in place.

"Are you serious? Y/N, I'd love to!" she exclaimed, then proceeded to launch herself onto me, arms wrapping tightly around my neck.

I gulped as she did, not expecting that reaction, but returned the hug by folding my arms around her waist loosely. She smelt really good, which was probably wrong of me to note, and I enjoyed the feeling of her so close to me, also wrong of me to note.

"Okay, well, the tickets are for this weekend," I said, desperately trying not to stammer when she pulled away. "I can meet you at the station in the morning. Eight."

Her eyes danced with excitement as she accepted the ticket I held out to her. I reminded myself that this was just a friendly day trip and nothing more.

"Eight," she confirmed, attempting to stifle her eagerness by biting her lip and nodding.

I swallowed hard, trying ever-so-hard not to let my gaze drop to her lips. Because then I'd think about kissing her and that was definitely not what I should be thinking about my soon-to-be sister-in-law.

Oh, God, I was screwed.

#wanda maximoff au #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #scarlet witch imagine #scarlet witch #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen imagine

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paulbunyanstatue · 3 years ago

Text

When Tim’s head finally dropped and landed heavily on Bruce’s arm with a small snore passing through his parted lips, the man understood patrol over Gotham’s twilight-shadowed streets was coming to an end for the night. Batman and Robin already stopped two attempted robberies and helped a small child find her parents after accidentally wandering away from a local gas station in the middle of a long overnight trip through the town. Tim was never as talkative as Dick on patrol, or even Jason for that matter, but Bruce noticed when he became particularly quiet just after the Gotham clock rang midnight. Bruce wondered if something related to his schooling was bothering the kid, but Tim just said they were fine when Bruce asked about the classes he was taking. Bruce then asked how Tim’s father was, wondering if the quiet demeanor was due to an argument at home, but Tim said he was fine too.

Bruce understood when Tim’s eyes slipped closed the first time, long past a blink and shown in a mimicking movement of the lenses of his domino mask. His chin slowly inched down toward his own chest and Bruce bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He found it hilarious that the kid could sleep anywhere. Bruce once found him stretched across Dick’s old gymnastic bars in the bat cave, mouth hung ajar and feet dangling over the edge. Alfred found Tim sprawled out across a pool table one evening. He and Dick had been playing but when the older stepped away to accept a work phone call, Tim fell asleep there. Bruce's favorite by far was finding Tim standing propped up against the desk at the bank, bo staff extended and acting as a support beam, while Bruce finished apprehending the robbers. Now, Bruce cleared his throat and pretended not to see when Tim’s head snapped up alongside the sudden widening of the gray lens. The second time Tim fell asleep on patrol that night, the child’s temple landed resting against Bruce’s upper arm and he glanced carefully at his gauntlet to see it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. The hour was earlier than he would normally call off patrol, but the idea of keeping Tim out of a bed for much longer felt heavy in his chest.

Bruce purposefully scuffed his boot against the edge of the building on which the pair were perched, climbing to his feet in the process and watching from the corner of his eye as Tim scrambled up on shaky legs. Bruce knew those blue eyes were blown wide underneath the mask with the surprise of suddenly being woken up. He guided Tim to the opposite edge of the building, momentarily considering they grapple to the neighboring roof to further wake him. But he dismissed that as exceptionally dangerous given his Robin had already fallen asleep twice that night.

Tim crouched down next to Batman, purposefully on his haunches in favor of sitting comfortably flat on the ground, and crossed his arms over his knees. Bruce was bored tonight, but he couldn’t deny he preferred it this way on the evenings that he was accompanied by a child. He still felt his skin crawl when they were forced to fight a violent rogue, particularly after Tim was trapped in a silo with Dick acting violently on fear gas. Bruce often thought back to that night and his cheeks flushed with shame. He despised the way he reacted, so caught up in his anger and terror that he made Tim feel small and like a failure. Alfred had given Bruce a sharp, furious look when he found out what happened during Robin’s rescue that evening. He gave Bruce the silent treatment and provided disappointed looks until Bruce relented and apologized to Tim in earnest.

After another hour of silence disturbed only by the tearing of tires along a road and one screeching car alarm sounding (which was followed by a muttered curse by the owner before the noise ceased and left an echoing of this disturbance in the quiet air), Bruce granted them both the opportunity to go home. Catching up on sleep would benefit him too, as it turns out. He knows he’s heard that enough from Alfred.

“Robin,” his gravely voice was only a hint softer than usual, even Tim had a difficult time noticing. “Come.” With a bitten groan, Tim stood up and stretched up toward the polluted sky, bending his back and yawning largely.

Like a cat, Bruce thought. No wonder Selena thought the kid was adorable.

“What’s happening, Batman?” Tim whispered, listening carefully for sirens. “Did you get a call?”

“No,” Bruce responded easily. “We are done for the night. The streets are gentle enough.”

Tim nodded in agreement. They did seem gentle enough.

They approached the edge of the roof and Bruce glanced down at the hard concrete far below their feet, and sudden terror filled his mind. This particular fear consisted of seeing Robin sprawled out on the sidewalk, so far from the roof and twisted on the ground next to a missed or broken grapple, was a near-constant nuisance in the back of his mind. Sometimes in the thick of his anxious dreams, he still heard the sound of Dick’s parents when they fell to their death before him, a sickening thud that echoed throughout the crowd. Today and standing next to one so tired brought that thought forward with a blow to his gut.

“Robin...” he began, a hesitant whisper that brought Tim blinking largely up at him. “I’m going to repel us both down, okay?”

Tim frowned at the notion. He hadn’t repelled with Bruce since his first few training days when he was still growing accustomed to the sensation of falling that flooded his belly after his feet left the roof top, save one instance in that silo when Tim’s grappling hook was broken. But other than that, Bruce had always trusted that Tim was able to do that himself. Tim was suddenly riddled with the fear that he did something wrong, something to anger Bruce. The man called off patrol early in the night and now he was ordering Tim not to use his own grappling hook. Tim warily looked out at the night sky and wondered if Bruce was planning on firing him.

The thick silence stood in companionship to the changes of worry dancing across the face before Bruce, and he tried to soften the lines tracing his own jaw in response. He could clarify his reasoning, and he even knew that he should do that to alleviate the tension and anxiety. He should tell Tim that he saw him falling asleep and this was simply a precaution, nothing more. But instead, he beckoned the boy with a glove and ordered, “Come.”

Tim’s heels begged to remain planted on the concrete roof, urging him to defend his place as Batman’s new Robin. But his sworn obedience pushed him forward anyway, nearer to Bruce. He tried to ignore the arm wrapping around his waist and the feeling of being pulled against Bruce’s chest as his feet lifted from the ground, but an embarrassed flush colored his cheeks anyway. The position was comfortable and he wished for this modified hug more often after having had the privilege of being held by the very person that he could never admit out loud to holding a parental position in his mind. But his stubborn brain reminded him harshly of the reality surrounding him. Bruce wasn’t his father, and Tim believed Bruce saw him as more of a business partner. Batman and Robin; Tim knew that from the very start of the arrangement.

Tim saw Bruce act fatherly toward his first two Robins, even during their time spent as “normal people.” He had witnessed Bruce hugging Dick and draping his arm around Jason’s shoulders at the fancy parties his own parents forced him to. He witnessed Bruce murmur jokes to his children who snickered in response and shoved him back playfully, and Tim watched as they shared food from a single plate and silently mimicked the ridiculous high society that surrounded them. Tim longed for that attention as he turned back to his own parents who hardly spoke to him during these parties. Instead, they waved toward him and bragged about his grades to other parents who also didn’t really care.

Tim wanted those hugs and shoulder drapes as well, as Bruce’s new Robin. But that was different, Dick and Jason were actually Bruce’s sons. And Tim was not his-

Tim’s feet landed on the solid alleyway stone, his heel dipped in a sticking puddle, and didn’t that suit his situation perfectly?

“Come on,” Bruce said again and Tim sucked in a deep breath through his nose. Bruce never wasted his time on patrol ordering Tim to follow. That was a mandatory expectation since his very first day wearing the dark cape and R across his chest. But he did follow, tailing closely behind Bruce until he slid silently into the passenger seat of the sleekly-hidden Batmobile. He buckled his seat belt as Bruce started the engine from his place behind the wheel.

“Batman,” Tim began, forcing his voice louder than the mere whisper he wished to produce. Bruce grunted in question. “Are we patrolling somewhere else tonight?”

“At home in a bed,” Bruce answered smoothly.

“And is something wrong with my grapple?”

“I sure hope not.” The same easy answer.

Tim bit his lower lip and thought, so Bruce doesn't care that he is ridding himself of me so soon after allowing me to join in crime-fighting. Ouch. Tim took another deep breath and silently worked on removing his domino mask, snatching the solution from the glove box and slowly peeling the corners from his face. When at last he was free of the mask, he stared out the window and watched the street lamps pass by with a pale yellow glow, seemingly taunting Tim throughout the long drive back home.

Not home, Tim reminded himself sharply. Even though he stayed there a few times overnight when patrol leaked into dusk and when he suffered an injury that required him a safe bed in Bruce’s sick bay and guest bedroom, it was not his home. Tim had a home and he had a living father, and Bruce wasn’t his dad. He crossed his arms protectively over his chest, sinking lower into his seat and purposefully ignoring the confused look it gained from Bruce. He watched the shadowed alleyways pass by as his temple fell back to lean against the head rest so he could only watch the streets pass them by. Tim did not notice when his eyes slipped closed.

Bruce finally pulled into the cave entrance and threw another glance toward Tim. The kid was still asleep and Bruce had to fight the urge to chuckle because the poor guy must have been exhausted to sleep through the bumping terrain that brought them back. He turned off the ignition and faced Tim once more.

“Tim?” He whispered, pushing back his own cowl. But the kid still didn’t stir. Bruce couldn’t bring himself to shake Tim awake, and he instead slid out of his own seat and glided over to the passenger side where he opened the door. He bent over and moved toward Tim, just about to slide an arm under his knees and the other behind his back when he quickly froze. What am I doing? His thoughts halted. This child already has a father, someone who specifically is not Bruce. He couldn’t overstep the barrier that sternly separated himself as a mentor from that of a parent, especially while Tim was positioned so that he had no say in the matter.

Sure, he had carried both Dick and Jason inside after they fell asleep either during patrol or the car ride after, but they were his children. Tim already knew Bruce adopted the two Robins that preceded him, but that knowledge itself wasn’t permission for Bruce to fill a similar position in his own life, no matter how much Bruce believed he needed and deserved it. Tim staying at Bruce’s manor several nights each week without so much as a phone call from his father was proof enough that Tim wasn’t receiving attention like one deserved.

But simply having an absent father was not an invite for Bruce to become his. Despite this, Bruce couldn’t leave him in the car to wake up cold and alone, and he definitely couldn’t wake up that face that relaxed so peacefully while dreaming. And so despite his screeching brain, he reached forward and snaked his arms under Tim, one under his knees and the other behind his back, and he lifted him up to rest against his chest. At the touch, Tim unconsciously moved closer, turning his head toward the warmth that held him, but he otherwise did not stir. This brought a smile to Bruce’s lips.

He carefully carried Tim toward the staircase leading up to the main house’s library, stopping only to flick the lights off. As he entered the manor, he was met with Alfred’s near-frown. It was an expression that meant he was awaiting an explanation for something that he already knew he would not agree with. Bruce shrugged carefully in response to the blatant disappointment at disobeying the one rule of 'no Batman and Robin in the main house.'

“He fell asleep in the car. I couldn’t leave him down there.”

“You could have woken him to change out of the suit first,” Alfred responded coolly, though Bruce noticed the man spoke in a hushed whisper to avoid senselessly waking Tim. Bruce gave him a pointed look and guided the man’s gaze down to the sleeping face below them, only chest-high to Bruce and with his cheeks puffed out with the exhales of the unconscious. Neither man could feign supporting the idea of purposefully waking Tim.

Bruce slipped past Alfred with a swear to clean himself up after he put Tim to bed, something that notably did not receive argument. He climbed the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle Tim too much during the ascent. Despite the efforts, Tim’s eyes cracked open at the top of the stairs as Bruce carried him toward the bedroom door that Alfred and Bruce knew as Tim’s room. His expression flickered from confusion to realization and frustration all in the span of one second. Tim frowned up at Bruce, face so disgruntled that Bruce was forced to swallow a laugh as he met the fierce gaze.

“I can walk.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he stated with a hint of humor still present.

“Bruce, are you going to fire me?” Tim’s voice was firm, a question of business leaving no room for his personal feelings that could so easily be hurt right now.

Bruce didn’t feel the need to laugh anymore; the urge was replaced efficiently with an ache of stabbing guilt. “What?” He whispered. His feet stopped carrying the pair forward immediately, and he was frozen on the carpet.

“I promise I can do better. I am really sorry.” The plea was in stark contrast to the hardness of his previous tone. Now apprehension and begging pounded heavily from behind his words, born deep in his gut. It was obvious Tim didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but he still hoped it would change Bruce’s mind. Tim looked down at the Robin suit he still wore and visibly relaxed a fraction, hoping that because Bruce hadn't already snatched it from him meant it wasn’t too late for Tim.

“Tim, what are you apologizing for?” Bruce asked, voice still hushed but presenting a hint of worry. He did not know what he had missed in the time between driving Tim home and now, standing on the second floor of the mansion and holding the child.

Tim’s eyes met Bruce's for a brief moment before falling and landing at his collar instead, while he threaded the corner of his own cape through shaking fingers. He stayed quiet for longer than Bruce was comfortable with, but the man waited in patient silence anyway while Tim wracked his brain for the thing he supposedly did wrong. “I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough, but I promise I will be. I will try even harder.”

“Tim,” Bruce began again, eyebrows furrowing and tightening his grip on Tim protectively. You have nothing to apologize for. You are already trying so hard and it shows with your excellent work. You are good enough and you have been from the very beginning because you are strong and brilliant and loyal and-

“Please don’t fire me,” Tim whispered before Bruce could spit out any of the overwhelming thoughts that cluttered his worried mind.

“I am not firing you. What is this about?” He asked, instead.

“Patrol ended early tonight, and you didn’t trust me to grapple down from that building...” Tim rambled softly, picking at his fingernail with intense interest.

“I ended patrol and grappled down with you because you fell asleep-“

“I didn’t fall asleep,” Tim snapped gruffly and Bruce couldn’t help the challenge in his fast-lifting eyebrow. Tim appeared sheepish as his cheeks colored, and he murmured softly, “I’m sorry. I promise it will never happen again.”

“You aren’t in trouble for falling asleep, and you aren’t fired. You were tired so we came home a little early,” Bruce stated firmly.

“What?” Tim stiffened, suddenly feeling very small while still clutched firmly in Bruce’s strong arms, who stood like a rock as though Tim’s weight was not a hindrance. “I’m not in trouble?”

“Of course not, sweetheart.” And now it was Bruce’s turn to freeze. He couldn’t believe he allowed that word to slip from his lips while speaking to Tim Drake, the child technically in his care as Batman and Robin, but one that already had a father. Tim was not another orphan in need of love and attention, waiting for Bruce to take him into his home.

“Oh,” Tim whispered, staring with pupils blown and cheeks darkening further. And against all odds, Bruce felt Tim relax in his arms as he returned his head to the man’s chest. With a deep breath of relief, Bruce continued his trek. “But, I really can walk now. You didn’t have to carry me.”

“I’m expecting you to carry me up all of these stairs next time,” Bruce responded easily, earning a small giggle.

“Won’t Alfred be mad about us wearing all of this stuff up here?” Tim murmured, lightly kicking his boot-covered toes and holding a corner of his cape up as clear evidence of their misdemeanor.

“Oh don’t worry about that, I already told Alfred it was your fault.” Bruce tossed Tim onto the bed-Tim’s bed, as it was in Bruce’s and Alfred’s minds. Tim saw the room as the guest bedroom because he didn’t know it was only ever occupied by him. He remained seemingly oblivious to the fact that Alfred had purchased posters of Tim’s favorite movies for the walls and Bruce lined the bookshelves with comics, novels, and figurines all for him. Tim noticed the items, but he assumed they belonged to Dick.

Tim landed on the mattress with a surprised burst of air forced out in the shape of a laugh. Where Dick would complain dramatically while wearing a smirk and Jason would bite back with a playful eye roll, Tim just giggled at Bruce’s antics. Bruce thought they were all three so perfect.

“Do you need to call your father?” Bruce asked, trying to sound passive though watching carefully as Tim toed off his boots and unclipped his cape, tossing them both to the floor in a messy heap. He worked hard to hide the bitterness in his voice regarding Tim’s distant upbringing, but it shone violently when he spoke in private about the matter to Alfred.

“Nah, he’s probably asleep, and he won’t want me to bother him. I’ll text him tomorrow,” Tim’s voice didn’t waver because this negligence was considered normal based on years of experience. Bruce swallowed a frustrated growl that threatened to break through with force and fury, and he turned to the dresser.

“Want clean clothes? We put some of Dick’s old t-shirts and shorts in here for you.” Tim’s chest thumped sore hearing that. Being offered Bruce’s child’s clothing seemed very personal, very loving. But Tim reminded himself that he was not Bruce’s son, though he often wished to be. He wanted from Bruce what he didn’t get from his own father, the things he saw at those fancy parties from afar, painfully apparent with the hugs and forehead kisses. The taste of it he had when he woke up being carried to the guest bedroom instead of left in the dark cave downstairs. Tim longed for that. Bruce didn’t notice his dilemma, and he continued muttering instead, “Most of it is Superman-themed because he is a brat...”

“But you love him,” Tim stated aloud, catching Bruce by surprise. Bruce had noticed that this particular one had a tendency to do that. He surprised Bruce when he admitted he knew he was Batman. He surprised Bruce daily with his impressive detective skills. He surprised Bruce now. The man turned toward him with eyebrows high, but Tim ducked around his look as he hopped off the bed and approached the dresser. The words sounded like a spoken fact but felt almost like a question to Bruce, and so he answered it.

“I do love him.” He confirmed as he watched Tim shuffle through Dick’s clothes before settling on a Mario and Luigi t-shirt and a black pair of shorts.

“And you loved Jason,” another statement-question hybrid as he slipped into the attached bathroom, closing the door and peeling his suit from his body.

“I will always love Jason,” Bruce answered firmly through the door. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

He winced as he said it. Another slip that sounded a bit too parental. Though he couldn’t deny the tug at his chest when he heard the faucet turn on and the sound of bristles against teeth whispered underneath the door.

And of course Tim had a toothbrush in his bathroom at the manor.

“Because they are your sons.” Tim stepped out of the bathroom moments later and walked to the bed, crawling atop and sitting on the warm duvet. “Your mishpachah.”

Bruce slowly approached the bed, tilting his head and drawing his eyebrows with concern. “I love them because I love them. They are my mishpachah and the rest is an added privilege. Is something wrong?”

Tim grinned widely in response and shook his head. “‘Course not, Bruce.” But something was wrong and Tim wasn’t sure how to voice it. “I was just wondering is all.”

The gut feeling deep in Bruce's abdomen poked him and whispered, he’s lying. Bruce hummed in response and gave the kid a scrutinizing look, eyes narrowing slightly. Tim just continued to wear a goofy grin, and Bruce reached out and dropped a hand softly to the top of his head. Tim giggled between his teeth and continued to watch Bruce with an interested look of his own.

“Tim,” Bruce spoke with a light voice, gentle and warm. “You know, you are also my mishpachah.” Tim’s eyes widened comically and his mouth clenched tightly closed. “Even though you don’t live here, you are my family.”

Tim bit at his lip, and he lowered his eyes for a moment. He thought of Dick’s clothes that he wore, his toothbrush drying in the bathroom, this bedroom that he always stayed in when he spent the night at Bruce’s. He thought of Bruce carrying him inside the mansion when he could have simply woken him up. Tim tends to sleep like the dead, or so his father told him, but if he were pulled out of the car by an arm, he would have eventually woken up. Finally, the corner of his mouth lifted in a shy smile, and he whispered, “Thank you.”

Bruce smiled with pride and continued, “You did an excellent job tonight, Timothy.”

“Timothy,” he parroted with a snicker. “So formal.” Bruce rolled his eyes and ruffled Tim’s hair with that hand that still rested on his head. He then stepped away from him while Tim slid under the covers and laid his head on the pillow. Gravity was already pulling his eyelids closed to sleep once more. “Thanks, Bruce. G’night.”

“Goodnight, Tim.” He had to stop himself from leaning in and pressing a kiss to Tim’s forehead. Because the kid already had a father, no matter how much Bruce wanted to fill that role. “Sleep well, ziskayt.”

Though truth be told, he already considered this child his own.

:) The rest can be found here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32502511/chapters/80612944

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qqueenofhades · 3 years ago

Note

Are you still taking prompts? We are thirsty and were hoping for “bite me” in a fivan vampire au. Pretty please? What’s that you say? That’s not on the list you shared? Um, oops? I said we are thirsty! 🤤

Ahaha, okay, I think this is going to do it for the prompts for now. I want to get back to working on PEL, and I have (mostly) given the people what they want. But before you hasten to my inbox to request more of this (which I know the Very Hungry Lot of you will do, and I love you so much for it): do know that this is indeed related to a larger project and this is just the first bit of it.

What is that project? Shh. I am not telling you just yet. It's a secret.

Belgrade, Kingdom of Serbia

June 1896

The summer evening is warm and purple, lit atmospherically by both the older gaslamps and the newfangled electric lights (there is a Serb in New York, a man by the name of Tesla, whose great scientific inventions and experiments with alternating current may soon illuminate the entire world), and the well-dressed crowd flows toward the café in a tide of rustling satin, silk, and velvet, ladies in evening dress and men in top hats and monocles. The establishment is the Golden Cross, in Terazije, a bustling neighborhood just south of Stari Grad, and the attraction is an exhibition of the marvelous moving pictures of the Lumière brothers – the first such show in the Balkans, and indeed outside of Paris, after they were first premiered in great triumph six months ago. Or at least, so it is for most of the attendees tonight. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky has a different task.

He stands apart from the milling throngs, well dressed in a high-collared coat and silken cravat, dark hair parted ruler-straight and face freshly shaven, a old golden watch tucked in his breast pocket and his shoes polished to a perfect sheen. While the people hurry past almost close enough to jostle him, they have a peculiar difficulty in registering that he is there. They sense something, yes – a cold breath on the back of the neck, a prey animal’s inborn reflex to warily search the shadows – but it never quite clicks. They continue on their way without being troubled in their own sense of reality, or ever realizing who – what – is standing there with them. It is just one of the odd, disjointed experiences that Fedyor has had to come to terms with, in the twenty-two years since he became a vampire.

By habit, he checks the horizon. These summer days are late and long, and Fedyor is still young enough that he can’t tolerate more than a few minutes of sunlight. It has taken years to be able to go out by day at all, half-thinking he had dreamed the waking world, become wholly one with the shadows and the night. When he emerged in the last gasps of afternoon, when he felt the golden warmth on his face for the first time in almost two decades, he wept. It still causes him vestigial pain, but not as much. Not so much that it cannot be borne.

He pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket and checks the name again. Then he puts it back and slips smoothly into the crowd. At the threshold, he feels that faint, telltale twinge, the knowledge of entering another creature’s territory without being explicitly bidden to do so. The Golden Cross belongs to the vampire king of Belgrade, who is rumored to be five hundred years old and a veteran of the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 (which, so far as Fedyor can tell, the Serbs have never gotten over losing to the Turks) and Fedyor is not interested in pissing him off. But therefore it is, by Conclave law, a place where all vampires in the city can freely congregate, so long as they haven’t committed some terrible crime. It also means that Fedyor may find the man he is looking for in here, and not have to cross into enemy turf.

A rich reek of wine and brandy, of hand-cranked ice cream in cut-glass bowls, of ladies’ perfume and men’s cologne, of sweat and starch and thrumming hot blood, rises into Fedyor’s nose as he inhales, as his senses have been honed a hundred times more acutely than what he was previously used to. He searches the crowded room, on high alert for another supernatural. Nothing, at least not thus far. But it is a delicate and fiddly bit of bloodsucker diplomacy for which he is here tonight, having to do with the rumor that a local group of creatures have formed a shadowy secret society called Црна рука, the Black Hand, with the aim of expressly interfering in human politics. This, of course, is strictly against the rules, and they need to be reminded of that fact. Fedyor would very much prefer not to fight an anarchist rebel vampire in the middle of a café crowded with oblivious humans, but the thought crosses his mind that this is an excellent soft target. The eyes of the entire city, the Balkans, the international art community, are fixed on this place tonight. If something went wrong – if the Golden Cross and all the souls within it were blown to smithereens –

Fedyor orders a drink at the bar – he has been promised that one day he will again also be able to eat human food if he craves the taste, but it will not nourish him – and sits down near the back, keeping a sharp eye out. Andre Carr, the Frenchman who has traveled from Lyon as the Lumière brothers’ representative, is setting up the unwieldy projector and barking at his assistants to be careful with the fragile, bulky spools of film, his mustache bristling in agitation. Fedyor gauges the mood of the crowd, the din of their heartbeats, their eager interest, their whispered gossip. Still no other supernaturals that he can sense, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not here. The vampire king and his underlings will have plenty of ways to conceal themselves from a relative child like Fedyor. As will the Black Hand.

He leans back in his chair and samples the whisky. Not bad, he thinks, though it’s been a long time since he drank human libations. It’s nice to be out among regular people, but he always has to keep strict watch on the part of himself that yearns to feed, that wants them to run, to fear, to fall. Fedyor has been a vampire long enough to control the hunger, to drink mostly from animals and space out his feeds on humans, to ask them for their consent or pay them for their trouble, but it’s still a struggle. He understands the urge that drives vampires to sequester themselves, to only live among their own kind, to keep drones and other willing human servants to feed from, so that you are not put to the trouble of chasing down a stranger and politely asking to bite them in the neck every fortnight or so, don’t get mixed up as to whether the mortals are your dinner company or just your dinner. It is a deuced bloody bother of a business. Fedyor always feels like an idiot whenever he tries.

Carr and his minions sort out their difficulties, and eventually the lights go down, provoking another eager murmur. Fedyor is not immune to the lure of whatever they are about to see, and he could have done much worse for a new home. He arrived here six years ago from his hometown in Russia, once his lack of aging became too difficult to conceal from his friends and family. Belle epoque Belgrade is a cosmopolitan, cultured world of stately opera houses and marble palaces, grand balls and gaslights, synagogues and streetcars, mosques and museums, bohemians and bordellos and broad balconies, telegraph wires and trolley cars and twisting lanes, churches and coffee shops in the Viennese style, with white-aproned waiters and colored mosaics and demitasse cups of Italian espresso. It is an ancient city, placed in a lethally strategic location at the confluence of two rivers, fought over in almost a hundred wars and razed almost forty times (and doubtless there are still more unmakings yet to come). Fedyor has found a place among the vampire community here, enough that he is trusted to deal with the Black Hand, despite his immortal youth. As to how that will go, well…

He watches the film with half an eye, impressed by the moving pictures just like his human counterparts, and then he feels it. The coldness on the back of his neck, the chirp of a sixth sense, the unshakeable awareness that he is being observed by a fellow bloodsucker. Though that term is considered somewhat dated and passé these days, mildly offensive. Vampires are eager as humans to participate in the scientific and industrial revolution, to concoct more enlightened regulations for themselves, to create an academic literature for their origins. There is talk among the sophisticated supernatural set of organizing an Academy for Preternatural Science, to hire vampire scholars, to establish a university. It’s a nice thought, if somewhat too ambitious (or so Fedyor thinks) for a race of beings that has only just decided that solving every problem with blood feuds to the death might not be the best idea. He wonders if one of those unreconstructed barbarians is behind him now.

Slowly, smoothly, so as to demonstrate that he is perfectly aware of being hunted, Fedyor turns around, and catches sight of the newcomer across the way. He is handsome – but then again, most vampires are, as it’s one of the benefits of the transformation. This one, however, is possessed of a roguish, rough-hewn attractiveness that seems genuine, still close to the face he wore as a mortal man, and not the eerie, glossy, imperturbable beauty that Fedyor sometimes finds so off-putting about his compatriots. This vampire is also wearing good clothes, and his overcoat is dark red, embroidered with curling black patterns. He looks at Fedyor, their eyes meet, and he nods once, half an inch. Game on.

Fedyor does his best to sit still until the lights come up, and the crowd claps rapturously and disperses to fetch more drinks and gush about the performance. Then he gets up and drifts toward a velvet curtain, slipping unobtrusively behind it. Back here, it is dark, dusty, and smells of candlewax and grease paint, the remnants of another performance, a conjurer’s closet. He steadies himself, turns around, and –

“Good evening,” the voice says, cold and curt. “I believe you were waiting to speak to me.”

“Yes.” Fedyor does his best to smile and appear charming and in command of the situation. “My name is Fedyor Kaminsky, and I am a representative of the Conclave. They have sent me here tonight in hopes of locating Ivan Sakharov, of the Black Hand. Is that you?”

The other vampire regards him flatly. His eyes are brown, as is his hair, which is cropped military-short and kept as sharp as his face. When he folds his arms, his muscles bulge, even through the sleeves of the well-tailored coat. “And if I was?”

“Then,” Fedyor says, “I am authorized by that same Conclave to deliver a warning to you and your associates that your current activities fall outside the bounds of the common supernatural law, and if you persist in pursuing them, there will be consequences.”

The other – well, he hasn’t denied it, so this must indeed be Ivan Sakharov – looks back at him with an utterly unimpressed expression. “Oh, so the Conclave found a new stooge to do their bidding? You’re a bit younger and fresher than the usual corpses those desiccated old tightwads usually send out after us, I’ll give you that. How long have you been in Belgrade?”

“How long have you?” Fedyor is almost sure he recognizes Ivan’s accent; they’re speaking Serbo-Croatian, but in both cases with a familiar cadence. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?”

That catches the other vampire by surprise. He hisses, baring a pair of white and very sharp fangs, and his eyes go briefly black. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Fedyor says. “But older than me, I think. Possibly quite a bit, though by how much, I can’t be sure. If we were to – ” he switches languages smoothly, in midsentence – “continue this conversation in Russian, would that be more to your liking?”

Ivan Sakharov eyes him icily. He must know that if he speaks their native tongue, he risks giving away his age by the style of his grammar, or perhaps his place of birth, and that is dangerous information for an unknown quantity to hold over you. There is a whiff of the emperor’s court around him, or perhaps the empress – does he hail from Catherine the Great’s day, Fedyor wonders, or earlier? There’s a long, crackling pause. Then Ivan says in brittle, too-correct English, “Or perhaps we should converse like this?”

Fedyor inclines his head, accepting that he has – for now – been outmaneuvered. They still haven’t taken their eyes off each other, standing close together in the dim velvet-draped shadows, near enough that if they were human, they would feel the other’s heat. There’s nothing but the faint wintry chill of unliving flesh, though a certain hunger rises unbidden in Fedyor’s stomach nonetheless. Then he says, “This does not have to be difficult. Cease your lawlessness and tell your friends to do the same.”

Ivan takes another step, close enough that their noses almost brush. “The Conclave has no power over me, Fedyor Kaminsky.”

“Do you want to test that?” Fedyor breathes, struggling to keep his focus at the other vampire’s threatening-but-thrilling nearness, the way his blood is singing under his skin in an entirely different way than he expected or frankly, that he wants. Just because Ivan Sakharov is annoyingly attractive (and also Russian) does not mean that he is not a dangerous, war-mongering, secret-cabal-plotting megalomaniac, and Fedyor does not need that sort of nonsense in his life. “If you did, I would, of course, be authorized to place you under arrest.”

Ivan looks at him goadingly. “I would like to see you try.”

Oh, so he is indeed one of those immortals (read: the kind who really need to experience mortality just to be kicked very hard in the balls). Fedyor struggles to contain his irritation. If he shows that this handsome bastard has gotten to him, this will only get worse. “If you promise to desist,” he says, “the Conclave will drop this matter and consider it closed. You and the rest of the Black Hand will not be subject to further investigation. That, or – ”

“How do I know that you are even from the Conclave? That you are who you say?”

“Why would I lie about it?”

Ivan shrugs. “I want proof.”

Fedyor grits his fangs. “What do you expect? A badge?”

“No. But I will accept your blood.”

That catches Fedyor off guard. Not that it should, necessarily. Since vampires can sense the thoughts and feelings of the creature that they’re feeding on, it’s a quick and time-tested way to prove that there is no funny business going on (or at least, no business that is funny beyond the usual). The obvious difficulty, however, is that it requires a possibly unfriendly rival to bite your neck or at the very least, your wrist, and one can understand why there would be a natural hesitation to yield one’s neck (Fedyor happens to be rather fond of his) to the clutches of the likes of Ivan Sakharov. But if he says no, he looks like he is weak or that he has something to hide, that he doesn’t trust Ivan or regard him as an equal, and the already-febrile situation with the Black Hand will only get worse. As bluffs go, Fedyor could call this one. But it would be very risky, and if it blows up in his face…

“Very well,” Fedyor says, chillingly correct. He pulls aside the collar of his evening coat and tilts his head, exposing the side of his throat. “Test me all you like.”

Ivan looks at him with something that makes that thing in Fedyor’s stomach rise up again, hot as an ember left burning in a brazier even when all the other lights go out. He hasn’t been warmed like this, not even by the sun, ever since he was turned in 1874 by a vampire named Dmitri Karamazov. He does his utmost to force it down. If Ivan bites him and senses that –

There’s a final pause, soft as tissue paper, fine as crystal. Then Ivan steps forward, looking almost impressed, as if he expected Fedyor to find some reason to back out. He flexes his jaw, bringing out those two impressively white and sharp fangs again, and reaches out, gripping Fedyor’s waist with his big hands and drawing him somewhat closer than is strictly necessary. Then he whispers, “As you wish, Conclave whore,” and bites.

He’s not entirely gentle about it, not that vampires usually are and not that Fedyor wasn’t expecting it. But all at once, as Ivan sucks at him, his mouth pressed hungrily to Fedyor’s neck, wet and raw and savage, Fedyor goes weak in the knees. He’s been fed on before, tested before, and this is different from any of those. He utters a mewling noise of need that he is shocked and deeply outraged to hear from himself, pressing still closer, knocking Ivan a few steps backward into the wall. His hands come up, seeking purchase on the other’s broad shoulders, a smoky curl of desire rising through him like rich incense. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Mmmgh. Yes. Like that. Yes.”

Ivan doesn’t answer for obvious reasons, since his mouth is otherwise occupied, but Fedyor can feel the little frisson of pleasure that travels through him at those words. That takes him aback. Not that he should rush to generalize, since most vampires are fairly flexible in their intimate preferences (you don’t live that long without wanting to sample everything that is on offer, carnally speaking) but for some reason, he just assumed that this tough, frightening, hard-as-nails secret anarchist supernatural idiot wouldn’t be inclined to gentlemen. Not that Fedyor is necessarily objecting. This feels far better than it has any right to do, considering that it started out as a naked challenge to his veracity. Agh, fuck, he should not think about naked. That makes the arousal burn even more hungrily, as he arches his back and presses himself wantonly against Ivan and knows that he’s hard as a rock and that this utter menace can definitely feel it. Ivan is in no hurry to pull away. He drinks for a few more seconds, past when there can be any reasonable doubt that Fedyor is telling the truth, and then slowly, deliberately breaks contact, fangs still half in Fedyor’s throat, as he withdraws with luxurious leisure. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and growls, “Ah.”

“Yes, ah,” Fedyor says, trying not to stammer, as pulses of hot and cold rush through him from head to toe. “Are you satisfied?”

Ivan gives him a wicked smile, drops of Fedyor’s blood still glistening heart-scarlet on his lips. “Maybe.”

God almighty, kill me now. Difficult, of course, when one is – strictly speaking – already deceased. (And now deceased in a different way, which makes it two kinds of dead at once, which makes Fedyor a prodigy.) He wants to ask if Ivan will perform the customary service of licking the bite wounds closed, but he’s also afraid that he may physically incinerate if Ivan does so, and since fire is rather famously one of the only things that can harm vampires, it is better not to take the risk. Instead, Fedyor pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at his throat, with as much casualness as he can muster. “Well,” he says. “You’ve had my word, Ivan Sakharov. Will you give me yours that you will bring your illegal organization to an end and return to the rule of Conclave law?”

Ivan looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the too-tight fit of Fedyor’s pinstriped trousers. Then he leans in, so close that Fedyor truly does think they’re about to kiss and momentarily blacks out, and whispers against the shell of his ear, “Absolutely not.”

And with that, and no more than a rush of air, he is gone.

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #fivan #fivan ff #anonymous #ask #my god i'm so predictable #(we are all predictable)#but also yes

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sidespromptblog · 4 years ago

Text

If It Were In My Hands: (2/2)

One

Warnings: Janus gets angry during this chapter, mentions of possible violence, mentions of nightmare, past use of the dark used as punishment, mentions of verbal threats, angst, and hurt/comfort.

Summary: Virgil has a nightmare about what he said to Logan in a fit of fear and anger when Remus was making himself known, but was a nightmare all that it was?

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 2404

“What were you thinking?!”

It wasn’t often that Janus found himself both losing his temper as well as shouting, but when it came to instances like this… the only thing he felt that he could do in order to get his point across was shout until his voice went hoarse. At least he’d be listened to that way, and it seemed Remus very much needing someone to shout at him right now.

Especially after the stunt he had just pulled.

“What were you thinking?! Sending Virgil that kind of nightmare, and making him go through that kind of panic attack!” His coffee cup slammed against the counter so hard tat he was sure that it was going to shatter. Janus turned his blazing eyes towards Remus as he gave the creative side his full, but very pissed off, attention. “Are you fucking crazy?! We’re trying to get Thomas to LISTEN to us! Not to be scared off because you sent Virgil a nightmare about him fucking strangling Logan to death! If he finds out you made that nightmare and sent it to him it's over for all of us!” Janus raked his gloved fingers through his hair tugging angrily at the ends, forcing himself to take several breaths so that he wouldn’t explode again.

Remus clenched the fabric of his sash tightly, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to keep his eyes down and not looking at Janus’ freak out.

There wasn’t much he could say to make the situation better, he’d known the moment that he’d done it that Janus would be pissed beyond belief. But he had to do it, he just had to. Even if Janus didn’t understand his reasoning.

The sigh that came from Janus made Remus flinch, he already knew how hard Janus was working and all of this was just one more thing that the dishonest side would have to work around in order to get anywhere close to being accepted by Thomas and the others. It made his guts churn with guilt, to know that he had inconvenienced the other side in the way that he had, but… he’d had to.. he just had to.

“Tell me Remus,” The side in question couldn’t help but to flinch yet again and tense up at the cool collected tone of the other side, even if Janus had never hurt him in any kind of way… everyone had a breaking point. Virgil’s threat towards Logan was proof enough of that, and Logan was supposed to be his friend. “What exactly was your thought process when you decided to do what you did?”

Janus sounded calm now, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

It was like the calm before the storm.

But in the very least, Janus was giving him the chance to explain himself, that was more than anyone else had ever done. It ignited a little spark of hope inside of him, hope that perhaps Janus would understand where he was coming from and not immediately disregard his thought process as crazy or just plain wild. He had a method and he had a reason, it just… wasn’t a reason that many other people would understand without the proper context.

Janus’ raised eyebrow urged him to begin, for fear of losing patience.

“I didn’t make the nightmare,” Remus blurted out, desperate to make the other side understand all at once. Janus’ quick blink of surprise urged him onwards. “It was already a nightmare that existed in a mind space from one of the others, I had nothing to do with its creation. I swear! If I had made it I wouldn’t have sent it to Virgil anyways, I would have just kept it on my side of the imagination, or sent it to Thomas like last time. I promise.” Once the words began he couldn’t stop them, he felt as if he were begging Janus to believe him, as the words all came out in one heavy flow of ramblings. Screw whatever he had practiced saying…

It was true, and the chances of Thomas even remembering a dream like that was slim to none.

Janus slowly raised his hand, a motion for Remus to stop for just a second and to slow down, and without even thinking Remus slammed his mouth shut almost immediately.

“Then..” The dishonest side slowly began, his temper sinking into oblivion the more that Remus had been explaining himself. The knowledge that the other side hadn’t made the dream helped a little, but the fact that it existed at all made him more curious than anything. A dream like that… It needed trauma, and more than anything.. broken trust. “Who did the dream belong to, if you did not make it?”

That was the real kicker, and Remus hesitated to answer as his gaze once again shot down to his shoes. He chewed the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, anything instead of immediately having to fess up to the truth. He knew that Janus wouldn’t like it, even if it was one of the light sides that the dishonest side had clashed with being the epitome of self preservation meant that Janus was always worried about their health.

Mental or otherwise.

Janus wouldn’t like what he had to say about who the nightmare belonged to, much less the circumstances of how such a thing could ever come to be. Remus usually didn’t involve himself in homemade nightmares, unless it was truly horrifying ones that he knew they couldn’t handle. The nightmare he’d seen was way more than that, just the fact that it had messed Virgil up as badly as it did meant that whoever else it was meant for… it would have made them end up so much worse. He knew this, and Janus knew this as well. Which was why...

Even he would have preferred the lie to what he knew for a fact.

Janus’ pristine shoes made an audible clicking on the tiled kitchen floor as he closed the distance between himself and the other side, his approach was carefully slow but also very determined. “Remus.” He gently asked worry coursing through his veins like a gushing river, as he placed his hand on the creative side’s shoulder. “Who did the dream belong to?”

Remus’ nails bit into the palms of his hands as his eyesight became blurry for a moment and his breathing hitched, for a moment he contemplated shaking his head at the question in order to deny it. It was unlike him to get upset about a nightmare, let alone one that he had no business in. But this one… this one had made him upset. Upset enough to the point where he’d acted without even considering the consequences that Janus had reminded him of. It wasn’t like he could hide his true emotions from Janus, he’d always told Janus everything that had gone through his head without so much as a mental filter to be found, and this.. this was no exception. Janus deserved to know, especially if he was going to be going back and trying to get Thomas to listen to them. He needed to know what he was going to be up against, especially when it came to Virgil.

His mouth tasted like iron, and the words laid heavily on his tongue.

But regardless… he spoke them.

“It was Logan’s…”

The admission rang hollowly in the air, and on his shoulder he could feel Janus’ hand stiffen.

“What?” Janus rasped the single word out, a flurry of emotions passing over his face in an instance before finally settling on abject shock and horror. His eyes reflected more though, as his grip balled the fabric of Remus’ shirt. “Why?” He asked confusion flitting through him, “What on earth could have caused Logan to have a nightmare about Virgil taking his very life?!” He ranted to himself, shaking his head repeatedly until he was feeling dizzy. “What?!” Janus repeated again his confusion not alleviated in the slightest. His lips had curled back into a snarl revealing one fanged tooth that stood out among the rest, this time there was a layer of rage coating his voice that Remus had only heard in very rare occurrences.

This kind of rage didn’t even come close to the anger he’d felt when Roman had chosen for Thomas to go to the wedding.

But this time it wasn’t rage directed towards Remus.

It wasn’t directed towards anybody.

Remus caught Janus’ elbow as the dishonest side attempted to pull away, instead of keeping him standing though he directed him towards the living room where they could both sit down. Janus seemed to fold in on himself the moment that he’d seated himself, his fingers rubbing at his brows as he focused his gaze on the floor, keeping it there. Remus could tell that there was a cocktail of emotions stirring inside of Janus, after all, he’d felt very much the same way the moment that he had caught the nightmare before it had ever gotten close to Logan. At first he hadn’t been sure as to why he had stopped it, he’d caught it as if it were pure instinct. It had only take him a moment to realize…

It was thanks to Logan that Thomas had started to understand Remus, it was thanks to Logan that he was scary to Thomas anymore. Thomas could understand him, and understand what he did more thanks to the knowledge that the logical side had.

Without him… Thomas would still be pushing him away instead of letting him stay close.

Logan had made his step closer to acceptance that much easier, and he had even done the same for Janus. All by explaining their core, and how they worked to benefit Thomas, instead of hurting him like he’d been led to believe.

Logan had helped them.

Even if said side didn’t realize it yet.

So it had been almost instinct to protect the logical side in the very same way that he constantly protected Janus from his own nightmares. But to see just what the nightmare was about… it had made his blood boil with the kind of rage and righteous anger that he hadn’t felt in several years. So…

He’d done something about it.

Remus thumped his hand on Janus’ back, awkwardly trying to soothe the other side out of whatever turmoil he was going through. “I…” Remus felt like his tongue was trying to stick to the roof of his mouth. “Before I revealed myself to Thomas, Logan was trying to explain what I was to Thomas. And Virgil… he was… angry.” Remus wanted to groan and thump his head against the coffee table, but kind and gentle in both words and touch was most certainly not his thing. “None of the other sides really wanted to intervene, because well… it was Virgil. And Virgil was still freaking out from the thoughts I’d thought up for Thomas, and he… threatened Logan.”

Janus’ head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Remus’ with a blazing fury that made Remus’ skin itch and crawl, as if he’d released a herd of bugs into it. That look made him want to inch away and put something between them, so that whatever Janus did… the damage would be minimal.

“What did he say?”

Remus blinked in surprise at the sheer calmness of Janus’ voice, “Huh?” He dumbly asked.

“What…” He whispered in a soft growl, “Did. He. Say?”

Janus had straightened up, readjusting his gloves and caplet as he did. He looked like the moment he found out his answer he was going to go right out there and give Virgil a good walloping. Regardless of how slow he wanted to take things or how he wanted to win the others over, he knew that Janus would make good on that. Threats weren’t exactly something that Janus took very lightly, especially being a side of lies and protection for others. Those threats always struck very differently with him when he could tell the truth behind the words that always came spewing out, and one way or another…

There was always a little bit of truth behind the falsest threat.

Remus honestly wasn’t sure that he wanted to tell him if that’s what was going to happen, and especially if that was going to be the case with Janus’ clenched fists that promised some kind of violence. He didn’t want to be the one who would have to hold Janus back from giving Virgil a different kind of dark circles, and he honestly didn’t trust himself enough to not just let it happen and for it to ruin all of Janus’ future plans that he’d been working so hard on. If he did tell Janus... and if he let him walk out that door without looking back… there was no telling what would happen. His shifting Logan’s dream to be Virgil’s had been dicey and troublesome enough as it was, but for Janus to go out there and give Virgil a punch or two… it would just serve to bring back the dark days for them.

Everything would be ruined, and they’d be stuck in the dark forever this time.

There would be no chance at light.

Remus shuddered at the mere thought of being trapped in that kind of darkness again, he didn’t want that. The screaming, the broken voices, and blindly feeling around trying to find the others so that he could know that he wasn’t alone. Janus shivering alone in the darkness, with Remus and Virgil trying as desperately as he could to warm him up so that he wouldn’t go under like all of the other darks that they had lost along the way.

No.

It wouldn’t matter to Janus if Virgil had apologized, the fact that he’d made that kind of threat to begin with was enough.

For both of them.

“You can’t.” He finally said, trying desperately to keep the soft and squishy emotion out of his voice. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t give two shits, and I’d tell you anything you wanted to hear, especially if it pertained to Virgil getting his shit rocked. But… No matter how angry you are, you can’t do anything. We have to keep going according to plan.”

Janus’ gloves gave a faint squeak the more the clenched his fists, it was hard for Janus, once he got riled up it was so hard to get him settled back down until something had been done about it. But regardless, the dishonest side forced himself to take in several deep breaths, his jaw was so tense that Remus could see the muscles bulging out with the concentration that it took to not do anything rash. His leg bounced in place, desperate to burn off whatever energy that was trapped inside of him.

Remus’ hand remained on his back, “We have to keep according to plan,” He softly spoke again, giving the other side something to focus on at least. He hated this, he hated being the voice of reason. But someone had to do it, especially if Janus was the one flying off in a rage towards someone they had promised not to touch. “You’ll take Virgil’s place after the wedding, when Thomas is all in a tizzy and-”

“No.” Janus spoke for the first time in several long and agonizing minutes, his voice was cold and dangerous. It sent shivers up and down Remus’ spine, as Janus’ seething eyes locked onto his. “I won’t be doing that.”

In a grand flourish Janus stood, and for a tense moment Remus was sure that he was going to have to body slam Janus to the floor so that he didn’t go after Virgil right then and there. Instead however, Janus spun around his caplet flowing behind him as he booked it for his bedroom, the door remaining open behind him as the other side disappeared into the darkness of his own room. He was gone for several long minutes, where Remus could hear him rifling through something, oftentimes accompanied by a few soft curses that even he was initially surprised by. It was at the ten minute mark that Janus finally left his room, sprinting out with a handful of papers and his pocket stuffed with several red pens.

The rage that had once radiated off of Janus seemed to be dying down, as if having those precious moments to think in his room had cooled him off a little.

Remus was dearly thankful for it.

“I won’t be taking Virgil’s place this time,” Janus hurriedly blurted out scattering the papers all over the coffee table so that Remus could lean over and see what changes he was making to his plan. “I’ll take Logan’s place, it’ll save him from being ignored from the others and myself like last time. And given the fact that I’ve been watching him long enough to properly know his mannerisms, and with Roman’s most helpful notes I’m sure that I can successfully take his place, At least without the others catching on for too long, or until it’s time for the final reveal.” Janus’ hand moved in a blur as he crossed out several things, and scribbled a few more on the many papers he had.

There was a look of zeal in his eyes, a look that Remus much rather preferred compared to the look of pure rage he’d once had.

“What about Virgil?” Remus almost hesitated to ask, for fear of making that anger resurface once again. But Virgil would be the most suspicious out of all of them, all things considered, especially given how clingy he had been to Logan that night after the nightmare he’d suffered. He’d notice almost immediately that something was up with the logical side, especially if Janus had taken his place and acted even the slightest bit off from how Logan normally was. “He’s gonna know, he’s got like… a nose for you and everything.”

That much was almost certainly true.

Janus went silently for a moment, as he chewed the end of his pen. His eyes scoured the papers he’d laid down for some kind of hint as to what he should do about the biggest problem to his answers.

And then his eyes shifted over to Remus, and lit up like lights on a Christmas tree.

“You!” Janus shifted his entire body to face Remus. “You distract him, keep him with Logan and distract the both of them for however long that you can. Tease him about his eye shadow, or just about anything. So long as he and Logan don’t distract Thomas for a good couple of hours, then we’ll be in the clear.” A brilliantly devilish look lit up Janus’ face as he squeezed his pen so hard that Remus was sure that it’d crack any second now. “I’m going to make sure that something like what happened to Logan never happens again… The more that we’re in the picture the more that we can shut that kind of thing down for good.”

That and finally being listened to by Thomas always had its perks as well.

But having Logan as an ally… that would be invaluable to what they needed to do for Thomas to start on a more mentally healthy lifestyle. They would need Logan and his research, and… they’d listen to Logan at least too.

No threats.

Remus could sense the truth in Janus’ voice, the pure and utter conviction that he had to make sure that Logan wouldn’t be hurt by Virgil…… let alone any of the other sides.

“Yeah.” Remus nodded, placing his hand on Janus’ shoulder to give it a firm squeeze. “It’s not going to happen again…”

With that being said, their plan was in motion and their hope for the future as well.

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