#i love imagining their day to day routines n shit its so silly | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

asimplearchivist · 1 year

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‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ steven, unbeknownst to him, meets the love of his life at one of its lowest points. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader word count ☾ 15.7k a/n ☽ [gif credit] ⤏ aka my personal love letter to one steven grant (and myself, because I want to be loved like I love just once).⤏ i am going to be completely honest on this one, guys: this is a borderline self-insert fic that is 100% self-indulgent on my part bc i have felt like shit the last two months and want to treat myself. ⤏ i kept it as a reader-insert because a) some people (including myself) enjoy experiencing different ‘pov’s of reader-inserts, per se; b) it’s easier to be kinder to and romanticize myself when it’s ‘not me’; and c) i feel that it’s still vague/inclusive enough to be counted as a general reader-insert versus labeling it strictly as a self-insert/original character. i really only describe personality traits and the reader being petite, really (bc nothing comforts my 5’0” ass more than knowing i would actually be able to kiss the boys without craning my neck all the way back tbh). i use a few southern colloquialisms, too, just fyi. :) ⤏ typical moon knight fanfic disclaimer: I don’t claim to know very much about did beyond what I’ve gleaned from both the show, the various meta posts I’ve read on tumblr, and from other fanfics themselves, so please forgive and correct me on any glaring discrepancies/issues I may have presented here (or link me any posts that discuss more accurate representations of did, perhaps—that’d be greatly appreciated). some of the terminology/technicalities escape me. I tried my best to get their voices and characterizations just right, and I sincerely hope I succeeded bc they’re very special to me. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven met you, it was strictly by happenstance.

He had always considered himself a man with many friends. Although his routine was relatively simple compared to other Londoners who thrived in social settings and spent all of their free time anywhere but home to mingle and chase tail, he had familiar faces he saw frequently. He committed their names to memory when they’d give them off-handedly, he made a point to speak to them in passing even if he or they were otherwise occupied, and he kept a mental list composed of all the details he was able to glean strictly from observation when they didn’t readily volunteer the information.

Perhaps it was a little silly. All lot of them had trouble remembering him, sure, but he couldn’t hold it against them—tons of people had trouble keeping track of faces and people. Sure, JB never quite got his name right even after Steven had worked at the museum for a couple of months by now, but he was a busy man monitoring the security cameras all day long and stayed distracted (with his infatuation with otters, no less—as endearing of a trait as any for someone with a secret soft side). Donna stayed in a tizzy, always worked up over something beyond her control (Steven couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be dealing with the higher-ups trying to meet goals and attempting to exceed them). He didn’t really dislike them for it, even if it had grown rather grating as of late. (Even if it would only take them both a moment to look at his conveniently given and placed nametag.)

Crowley didn’t talk much, all part of the gig, so Steven didn’t hold their one-sided conversations against him, either. The gentleman with the broom cart (whose name Steven never had managed to catch, as gruff as he was) seemed only to ever respond with grunts. The security guards, the tour guides, the usual suspects on the morning and night bus rides…Steven interacted with them all, and they had enough good graces to acknowledge it most of the time.

Over time, however, as his dreams (or perhaps more aptly named nightmares) grew more vivid and more bizarre, as he seemed to lose track of time more and more (how exactly does one manage to miss an entire weekend when one isn’t a blackout drunk?), and as Steven’s anxiety led him into taking more and more precautions to make sure his self-diagnosed sleepwalking disorder didn’t strand him on the other side of London (again), it became more readily apparent that those people with whom he took such care to converse did not seem particularly inclined to return the favor. Sure, he’d accidentally nodded off a few times leaning on the other passengers in the morning bus, ran a little late at times getting to the museum (much to Donna’s ever-increasing ire), and maybe got a little carried away with his nattering when he got invested in something he was excited to share information about, but…would it really kill someone just to respond long enough to reassure him that he wasn’t virtually invisible?

It was one such morning after he overslept, convinced he was late, and worked himself into a right and proper state trying to get to the museum on time that he realized that it was, in fact, Sunday, not Saturday. Much to his bewilderment but proven by his phone, the museum stood barren and closed, doors locked and lights off. He stood at the entrance staring at his dumbfounded expression in the glass for a good five minutes, thoughts racing as he tried to recall anything about the previous day. There was no way he slept an entire day, right? He hadn’t been staying up too late trying to manage his disorder, even if he had been running a little tired lately.

His distress was punctuated by a fat, chilly droplet landing right on his nose. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold this year, leading to an abnormally wet season (as if rain could ever be abnormal in London, but the meteorologists remained convinced), and within seconds of Steven turning and trotting down the steps the skies parted and released their torrential downpour as if just to spite him specifically. Everyone else in the immediate vicinity, if they weren’t holed up in their cars or the myriad establishments bordering the museum district, already had their umbrellas up to shield themselves from the frigid onslaught, ambling along and circumnavigating the puddles lingering from the storm the night before..

Steven shrank into his coat, tugging the collar up and over his head as best he could as he crossed the street and aimed for the first building he saw with its neon, ivory OPEN sign glowing against the gloom—on the corner directly across from the museum entrance. The door was heavy, the handle cold enough he was surprised his palm didn’t stick to it, but he managed to pry it open and tumble inside.

A few people glanced up from their tables to give him a range of skeptical to humored looks before going about their business. Steven hedged to the side of the door in case someone else came in, dripping onto the old hardwood with no small amount of regret.

It was a coffee shop. Comfortingly warm against his numb face, he basked in the scents of espresso and sweets permeating the place. His attention was caught by the bookshelves on the wall to his right, and he was entranced—all until a barista slipped out from the kitchen and addressed him with a croon. “Oh, goodness, look like the weather caught you!”

Steven almost accidentally ignored you thinking that you were talking to someone else (for so rarely did someone speak to him in a tone that wasn’t irritated or dismissive). After his cursory glance in your direction, he did a double-take, realizing you were looking right at him.

“Yeah, I—looked at the forecast wrong, methinks!” he responded sheepishly (and he had—he’d been expecting Saturday’s overcast mist, not Sunday’s shower). “I’m makin’ a right mess, aren’t I? I should probably go before I warp the stain—”

“No! No, just wait a second.” You raised a placating palm before dipping below sight behind the counter. You emerged and rounded the corner next to the display case holding a towel, walking right up to him and offering it to him with a sympathetic smile. “I can’t count the number of times I thought I could beat Mother Nature,” you joked. “It sucks that it’s been so cold on top of it. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten sick.”

Steven accepted it graciously, muttering his earnest thanks as he went about mopping up his sopping curls. Once he’d wiped all the rain he could off of him, he handed it back to you. “Hope I don’t get one, neither,” he responded. “It just wouldn’t do to catch cold in the middle of all this, would it? No.”

You chuckled a bit, eyes glittering with mirth. “Maybe it’ll help if I get you something hot to drink?”

Steven glanced at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter, eyes rounding a little at the prices. He’d overspent on books again after payday, so he was having to be a bit more frugal this week than usual. “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble, I’ll just call a cab and get a ride home before it gets too bad.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assured him, wringing the towel between your hands. You hesitated only a heartbeat before you leaned in a little closer, smile turning a bit bashful. “I’ll make it on the house, how’s that sound?”

Steven normally considered himself one to give where charity was concerned, but he had to admit that the sound of something warm on his urgently empty stomach was divine at the moment. He cleared his throat, glancing towards the other customers still wrapped up in their own little worlds. “No, I couldn’t—wouldn’t want anyone jealous that they’re not gettin’ the special treatment, you know.”

“It can be our little secret,” you offered quietly, winking conspiratorially at him.

He blinked, heat creeping up into his face. “Oh, well. If you insist, then…just this once?”

“All right.” Your smile lit up your entire face, and you headed back behind the counter to deposit the towel in an unseen hamper.

Steven followed, training his eyes on the menu—the standard fare was reasonable, with alternative options for dietary restrictions. A lot of the custom concoctions did seem lovely, and he was a tad surprised to discover that they served breakfast and lunch, also—with vegan options, most notably. “Wow, I never even knew this place existed. I must’ve been walkin’ right by it this whole time.”

“Do you work at the museum?” you inquired, folding your arms over the counter and propping your chin up in your palm.

“I do, actually,” he beamed, though it was dashed a tad with his next confession. “I want to be a tour guide one day—you know, I’ve been studyin’ up for it and all—but they’ve got me in the gift shop. For now! They said they’d move me up with a new position becomes available.” They said that they would consider him for the role, but Steven clung to his hope that they’d soon realize how bloody good he’d be at it, as hard as he’d been working for it for so long.

“You always have to start somewhere,” you replied warmly. You gestured to the shop around you. “This is just to hold me over ‘til I’m finished up.”

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

Your brow rose slightly, but your smile didn’t waver. “How observant. Most people ask me how I got lost on this side of the pond.”

“It isn’t often I see Americans anywhere but in the more touristy spots,” he agreed, “but the university is quite prestigious. You must be very academically successful if you landed a transfer scholarship like that.”

“It took a lot of work,” you admitted, “but it’s been worth it. I never thought I’d do anything like this, and I would’ve laughed at you a couple of years ago if you’d told me I’d move this far away from home. I’ve never really been the traveling type, but I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

“What are you studyin’?” Steven inquired. An English major, perhaps—you struck him as the literary type with your articulation, despite your soft, southern drawl.

“Oh.” Your face darkened and you fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt—dark gray, warm flannel, with a silver astronomical design embroidered into the front. “Well. I went to a university back home and got a degree in writing—” Nailed it! “—but I was notified at graduation that I qualified for this so I thought why not? It’s a bit self-indulgent, really, as I’ve always been a history nut, but I’m, um…” You reached up and scratched the nape of your neck, glancing away as though embarrassed. “...focusing on Egyptology?”

Steven’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “No kiddin’!”

“Nope,” you confessed, a bit sheepish. “I picked up a book with pictures of King Tutankhamun’s treasures when I was three and I’ve been in love with it since. Maybe it’s a little niche, but it makes me happy—I’m taking other history classes, too, so I’ll end up with an Ancient History major with a minor in Egyptology—that’s just my main focus since I always wanted to be an Egyptologist when I was little. I don’t know that I could ever stand the heat, though, so I’m happy with writing in the comfort of my own home.”

“No, that’s great!” he raved, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a bit of a history buff meself! The museum has a huge Egyptology exhibit coming up next month, so I’ve been brushin’ up on it all. You know, in case I get to audition.”

“Oh, yeah?” you tried, emerging from your shell just a bit. “Do you have a favorite period?”

“New Kingdom, definitely,” he said immediately. His heart was thrumming, and he was trying (in vain) to contain at least the majority of his enthusiasm. “There’s just so much material to go through. All the texts recovered from Deir el-Medina fascinate me to no end!”

“Yeah, Paneb was a right bastard,” you joked. “He had the whole town stirred up all the time. But we’re not going to talk about Ea-Nasir.”

“Oh, yeah—imagine keepin’ all your hate mail for posterity,” he returned, strumming his fingers against the inside of his sleeves. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an Old Kingdom gal,” you said with a chuckle. “Pepi II’s letter about the pygmy won me over. Not to mention all the drama with Teti’s assassination. The workmen’s village at Giza? Oh, how could I pick one thing?”

Finally! Finally, it felt like Steven was talking to someone that spoke his language!

“It’s really hard to, isn’t it?” His stomach was starting to grumble. He cleared his throat, tamping down his anticipation just enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. He glanced up at the menu again, a little remiss with some of the unfamiliar choices—most of those displayed were coffee, but he’d been trying to curb himself off of it in favor of cutting out caffeine altogether for a better sleep schedule. “I, um…sorry, got a little sidetracked there. What would you recommend that’s decaf?”

“Oh, I love chai,” you told him. “Most of the teas we carry are decaf, though we do have decaf coffee, too. We’ve got all the usuals like chamomile, mint, Earl Grey…” You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve been avoiding caffeine since I was a teenager—it makes me antsy.”

“How do you normally take your chai?” he queried, curious.

“As an iced latte,” you said. “Cold foam, cinnamon, whole milk. I like it warm, too, especially this time of year, but there’s something about it iced that I can’t seem to part from—maybe that’s the southern upbringing in me.” You gestured to the equipment behind you. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yeah, sure! But with oat milk, please?”

“You’ve got it, darlin’,” you beamed, and set to work immediately. “I usually drink a small since it’s a bit sweet, that okay?”

“Certainly.”

Never would Steven have thought that he’d find such a deeply kindred soul a stone’s throw away from his workplace he’d never even noticed before today. He had to confess that he was charmed by you almost instantly. It had been a while since he’d met someone so engaging and open—not to mention generous and drop-dead gorgeous to boot! Ironic, really, that the foreigner was treating him more kindly than his native kinsmen. What did the Americans say about southern hospitality?

“Thank you so much,” he said when you returned with the cup and set it in front of him. “It looks great!”

“Go ahead and try it,” you suggested, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll replace it for you with something else.”

Steven had absolutely no intention of telling you to your face that he disliked your favorite beverage, even if he did decide it wasn’t to his taste—much less make you go out of your way to make him another free drink. But as he sipped the heady, sweet mixture the spices melted over his tongue. Despite being served cold, the flavors warmed his mouth and settled cozily into his belly.

“Oh,” he suspired, licking the foam from his lips, “that’s lovely. You’ve won a convert.”

Your smile was nearly blinding with delight. “I’m glad! It’s not for everyone, certainly, but those who do like it always seem to love it. No in between, I guess.”

Steven resisted the urge to suck the entire thing down, folding it between his hands instead as he committed more details of your appearance to memory. Your black apron was a bit big for your frame, dwarfing you a bit, but your sweatshirt did, too—your jeans were well-fitted but not snug. You were wearing very little makeup, just a touch around the eyes, but it emphasized your lashes like a fawn’s. While comfortable, if a bit plain, your ensemble made you seem like the epitome of homey.

“How long have you lived in London?” he asked after another delightful sip.

“Since the start of spring semester,” you said. “It was a big adjustment to show up at the tail end of winter, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now for the most part. I still get lost occasionally, but that’s why Google Maps was invented. I’d be up a creek without a paddle without it.” You leaned against the counter again, bracing yourself on the stained surface and gazing up at him as if there existed no other person in the world. “I live right next to the campus, but I work here to get away even though my scholarships carry most of my bills and fees. Ironic, though, ‘cause I don’t exactly consider myself a socialite.”

“You’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “Bit odd bein’ an ambivert, yeah?”

“I really only talk a lot when I get excited or when I’m with people I’m comfortable being around,” you confessed shyly. “I’ve been told I talk too much about stuff nobody really cares about, so I try not to bother anyone.”

“Now who on earth would have gone and told you that?” he pressed, heart aching all the while. How many times had he been told the very same thing, sometimes with less polite wording?

“Oh, not exactly like that,” you rectified in a hurry, “it’s just…you can tell, you know? When someone isn’t really paying attention to anything you’re saying. I usually get interrupted anyway, so sometimes I find it easier just to keep quiet.” Your skin darkened again, and cleared your throat as you dipped your face to conceal it with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went into all that. See? Rambling too much—words got away from me.”

It was like looking into a mirror—so much so that Steven almost felt a bit of deja-vu.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I understand completely—really, I do. Better than you might think.”

You raised your gaze back up to him, and he understood at once why the philosophers and poets both waxed so romantic on the concept of windows to the soul. He could see your tenderness, your diffidence, your sincerity all there in your jewel-like eyes.

“People talkin’ over you all the time,” he continued with a low murmur, looking down at the cup when the intensity of your stare grew too much—just like looking directly into the sun, “actin’ like you’re invisible or somethin’. Gets frustratin’, yeah? Couldn’t even bother to act like you’re there, could they? No. Seems like too much to ask.”

“Yeah,” you said somberly, but when Steven dared a glance up at you, your expression was one of complete understanding. Never before had he felt so seen. “It doesn’t help when you’re really not a people person to begin with.”

And now that Steven considered it more deeply, he realized that you were right—why did he prefer to stay home rather than go out? Keeping company with a goldfish certainly wasn’t an extrovert’s definition of a good time. Hell, the only reason he really went out of his way to engage with those on the fringes of his daily routine was because he felt it was rude not to because of constant exposure, not because he was itching to have the conversations themselves. He worried constantly that he’d overshare or annoy people, when most wouldn’t even think of it.

He let out a soft laugh, pressing a palm across his forehead.

You quirked a brow, your expression perking up just a bit at the sound. “What?”

“I just realized I’m not really a people person, either,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought all this time everyone else was just awkward at social interaction.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, and there was that ephemeral sparkle of mirth back in your eyes. “Well. Better late than never, right?”

“Right.” He paused, then set the drink on the counter to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, since you’ve been an absolute angel—”

“Oh, no, please,” you said, waving your palms at him in an attempt to dissuade him, “it was my pleasure. Finding someone else as big of a nerd about Ancient Egypt was tip enough, thank you. You’ve made my whole day.”

And even though his morning thus far had been an utter disaster, Steven believed that you had made his entire day, too.

“Well, all right.” He pointed a finger at you with a wry, toothy grin. “But next time you won’t be able to talk me out of it.”

“Next time?” you echoed, and the unadulterated hope in your eyes made his heart clench.

“Yeah,” he said, “where else will I be able to order the ambrosia of the gods? And nerd out about ancient civilizations? Not all baristas carry a double-edged sword like you do.”

You bit your lip, rolled the hem of your sleeve between your fingertips, and looked down and away. “Oh, stop it. It’s really just a hobby.” You gave him another cheeky smile. “But, if it would make a difference to you, since you seem the type…” You leaned in across the counter, and Steven found himself copying the action as though you had magnetized him. “...there’s a bookstore upstairs, too.”

Oh, bloody Nora, as if you weren’t already perfect enough.

It wasn’t until Steven returned home, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold that seeped into his bones after running from the cab into the apartment building, that he realized he hadn’t thought to ask you for your name. And he was normally so reliable about it, too! He kicked himself for it the rest of the day. He hadn’t even looked to see if you’d been wearing a name tag (pretty sure you weren’t, because he would have noticed it, surely), but he had been so disarmed by you in general that every other thought had flown from his brain.

After that, with the scribbled ingredients on the cup immortalized forever via a picture saved on his phone, he developed a fast habit of stopping by there at least three times a week. He had to rearrange his budget just a tad to ensure it did not turn into blatant overspending, but all the teas were excellent and the food was even better. Oftentimes he’d grab at least one meal from there one the days he did decide to go, which varied depending on how terribly he’d slept the night before. Most of the time he opted for lunch since he was afforded only a half-hour break and it was the closest spot to the museum. (The vending machines didn’t have much in the way of variety, vegan options notwithstanding.)

He learned your name the next time he saw you, which had taken a couple of separate attempts—evidently you’d been filling in for someone else for extra hours that dreary morning, as you usually came in for the closing shift during the week due to your morning classes, and typically were station in the bookstore upstairs, at that. You’d confessed that a lot of the part-timers were still inexperienced, and the staff oscillated so much that you had to juggle multiple positions throughout the week in order for the business to keep up efficiency.

Steven decided, at some indeterminate point a couple of weeks later, that you must be sunshine incarnate. Even if there was barely any daylight seeping through the brumous mantle looming over the sleepy city, you lit up the place with your warm smile, easy laughter, and gentle soul. He could spend countless hours talking to you, although he was usually only limited to the time allotted between him ordering and someone else coming in to do the same. After he got off work late after inventory (again), on the rare occasion that he’d missed lunch and needed supper, you gave him some of the free handouts the employees were allowed to take home and let him sit and talk while you locked the place up.

It was just so easy. Where he’d struggled to even introduce himself properly without making himself out to be a bumbling fool with everyone else with whom he’d interacted, fighting against an invisible current of perceived disapproval and rejection, engaging with you was as natural as breathing. You shared so many adjacent passions with him, the both of you had never once run out of topics to peruse. When either you or he would bring up something with which the other was unfamiliar, all ears would be given in total enrapturement. You got him. You understood him. It was such a relief to have finally found someone with whom he felt comfortable enough to natter on about the Edwin Smith papyrus for a solid thirty minutes without ever losing interest. Neither still had he stopped to imagine what it would be like to be so caught up in what someone else had to say, because you sure knew a hell of a lot about mythology, too—listening to your humored yet romanticized renditions of the tales delighted him to no end.

Your book recommendations were always impeccable, likewise—although you did primarily focus on fiction unless conducting research for your own books, your taste in storytelling relied upon well-developed, detailed, and impactful characters that carried the plot rather than the other way around. (You seemed to genuinely enjoy all of his recommendations, too, despite your general avoidance of nonfiction other than history, much to his relief.) You had a soft spot for romance, whether it was found in modern, historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi settings, and Steven took careful note of your mentioned favorite stories, scenes, and characters when he read them himself. You’d both even started annotating and trading books to exchange reviews, and your infectious adoration of certain authors and series decidedly did not help his book collecting problem—although you confessed that you shared the same issue (only to your bank account, though). The used section of the bookstore upstairs was his dream, really—he never thought he’d manage it, naively, but he was actually starting to run out of bookshelves in his flat.

You were fiercely intelligent, hilariously witty, and unbelievably kind—a breath of fresh air where London normally left him suffocated. You were the one ray of sunlight that could pierce the gloom that would encroach on the fringes of his mood no matter how badly he felt. Visiting you was the one routine that kept him grounded, even when he only seemed to lose track of more and more time as he went along—it kept him sane, seeing the way your whole face would light up like a supernova whenever he’d slip through the door. It made him feel normal.

So when a full month had flown by since your first meeting (a happenstance for which Steven would be eternally grateful), he found himself relying on your anchoring presence more and more. The occasions that he was waking up from sleepwalking in completely random places around London were increasing at a worrying rate. No matter how many additional precautions he added to his flat in feeble attempts to keep track of and prevent the episodes (each one perhaps sillier than the last), he never could seem to determine any rhyme or reason for them. His dreams (and sometimes they edged into the territory of nightmares) were growing more frighteningly vivid and visceral by the night, even if he was following every technique suggested by Google to help mitigate his condition.

The evidence was stacking up more rapidly against everything that he’d thought he knew than Steven could neither comprehend nor keep up with—despite thinking that nothing about him could ever be anything but ordinary, a small part of him was truly starting to wonder whether he’d somehow dodged a psychiatric diagnosis all of his life. He felt like he was going mad, watching the lines between what he’d thought were conjurations of his sleep-deprived mind and what he’d been convinced was reality inexplicably blurring beyond any conceivable recognition. ( Was he mad? Had he always been mad?)

Dreaming that he had woken up in the Alps with a frankly ludicrous series of events following shortly thereafter was one thing—the angry booming voice in his head notwithstanding. Discovering that Gus had been mysteriously replaced overnight was another (because there was no way he had regrown a fin—he’d double-checked every pet site reputable enough). Finding out that he had lost track of an entire weekend, accidentally standing up a date he didn’t even recall initiating in the process, almost pushed him over the edge—it had certainly dragged him to it, nevertheless.

Then the secret compartment in his flat, the burner phone and mysterious key, the countless missed calls from a stranger named Layla, who had sounded so deathly worried about whoever in the bloody hell Marc was…Steven didn’t even want to think about the second new voice in his, grave and severe and sounding a little too much like his own to be of any significant comfort, or the mummified apparition of a plague doctor, or Lovecraftian eldritch horror, or previously undocumented cryptid that suddenly decided to start haunting him, for that matter.

But Harrow was real. His odd little cane with the creepy, glowy eyes was real. The magic scales tattoo on his arm that moved without him flexing his arm and changed colors on its own was real. His followers were very, very real. That jackal, with the frothing, rabid, snapping teeth and the milky, glassy eyes and the malnourished, gangly limbs and the wicked, scrabbling claws and the deathly, musty stench was, somehow, terrifyingly real, despite having been invisible to the security cameras.

The security cameras that had captured Steven’s own grim scowl, resolute brow, and defiant, dark eyes—but it wasn't Steven, because he didn’t look like that, even though he shared the same face with the stranger on the footage.

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

Marc’s property damage, somehow having managed to kill the ghastly creature, if the lack of physical remains and other evidence indicated, and save his life ( ...their lives?) in the process—and at the very least, Marc had kept his word on that front—ultimately cost Steven his job. Several thousand pounds’ worth of property damage, in fact, which somehow Steven was going to have to be able to afford paying off (in increments, at least) to avoid legal prosecution—while also being suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed.

Bloody hell. The not-so-patient request to turn in his bloody nametag had somehow stung more than the pamphlet handed to him boasting the most excellent psychiatric care in the city.

(...He was mad, wasn’t he…? How had he not known? How had he missed all the signs?)

Left remiss with very few ears into which to confide, he spoke in Crowley, always the listening sort. He expelled his tizzied thoughts until he was able to regather them into some vague semblance of order, and decided his next course of action: to chase the one lead he had to hopefully deduce whoever Marc was. It seemed simple enough, although daunting. A simple image search would take him to the location associated with the logo attached to the keychain, perhaps the only source of answers to all the questions brimming in his harried head.

He wanted to know. (But should he?) He had to know. (...Did he really?)

Reeling with inconsolable stress, insurmountable anxiety, precarious emotions, and now the tumultuous internal debate of whether to delve into the affairs which Marc had warned him very explicitly not to, Steven turned to the only other person whose word he valued and trusted above all others in his immediate vicinity (save, perhaps, his mum).

It was mid-afternoon by the time he crept into the coffee shop, and fortunately it was vacant as a couple of university students breezed past him with paper sacks laden with books tucked into their arms and laughing raucously as they headed back out into the sunny spring day. Another barista was slumped behind the counter scrolling on her phone, so Steven knew you were stationed upstairs instead.

He picked his way gingerly up the winding wooden staircase, wincing every time his weight caused a plank to creak in protest. He avoided looking at the narrow windows for fear of seeing any more reflected shapes in them that he couldn’t control, eyes trained resolutely on his feet as he focused on regulating his harsh breathing in an attempt to manage his racing heart.

It was in this way that he ran right into you upon stepping into the bookstore proper. You carried a stack of new prints taller than your head and nearly dropped them all upon impact. Steven’s arms latched out to steady them and you, apologies already spilling from his lips before he could even think of a comprehensible reaction. “Oh, bullocks, sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been watchin’ where I was going— bloody hell, where’s my mind?”

“Steven,” you laughed breathlessly, recognizing his subdued voice and fluttering hands without even seeing him, “it’s okay! No harm done, see? Not a one dropped.” You lugged them over to the display table and set them down on the vacant surface with a soft grunt, swiping your sleeve over your shining forehead. “Whew! Updating all the new publications is a pain. My back’s killing me. I’ll definitely regret all this tomorrow.” You turned back to him, all sunshine and smiles with your terracotta sweater and the gold hoop earrings (clip-ons, he knew, because you’d never had them pierced) dangling amongst the loosened locks framing your face. “It seems a little early for your lunch break, Steven. Are you off today or have I just managed to lose track of time again?”

Your innocuous, innocently humored phrasing should not have sent him spiraling again, but…after the last week of hell that he’d endured, who in their right mind (because he surely wasn’t in his) could blame him for the already tenuous grip on reality he’d been clinging to with only whitened knuckles and sheer force of will?

Your expression fell instantly as tears welled more quickly in his eyes than he could reign them back in, slipping over his cheeks.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” he blurted, face burning as he reached up to swipe away the undeniable evidence of his breakdown—in front of you, of all people, Christ alive, he really was losing it—with the edge of his sleeve…to no avail. More tears followed immediately thereafter, blurring his vision, dripping from his chin as he ducked his head and buried his face behind his covered hands. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what’s come over me, I—”

There was a split second of silence on your end, though he scarcely noticed it but for his pulse raging in his ears and the deafening roar of his thoughts deafening him to any other sound. He barely registered your urgent call over your shoulder further into the bookstore, muffled by the harsh rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs faster than he could dictate. He was shaking all over, adrenaline coursing through him a kilometer a minute, and his knees were on the verge of giving out from beneath him.

The warmth of your fingers curling gently—always so gentle, you were—around his wrists provided just enough of a distraction to open his eyes again, almost afraid of what he might see. But as you tugged his hands away from his dampened face, standing so close that your clothes were brushing against his and your breath fanned over his face, your eyes drew him in and dragged his thundering thoughts to a murky but much more manageable muddle.

Your brow was wrinkled with worry, mouth set in one of the few frowns he’d ever seen on your otherwise sunny disposition (even when harassed to no end by customers of the ruder variety, although your customer service smile was, decidedly, much colder and not nearly as welcoming). Your eyes were brimming with questions, but you uttered none of them, only, “Come on, there’s a quiet corner in the back.”

Steven allowed you to lead him by the hand like a child through the winding, ceiling-length bookcases into a musty reading niche set up with a lounge chair and ottoman next to a window spilling golden light onto the floor and highlighting every mote of dust that floated through its brilliant stream. You guided him to sink into the chair with a light hand on his shoulder, adjusting the ottoman back to give you enough room to sit directly in front of him. Your knees pressed into his, and when he shakily extended his trembling, open palms with a desperate snivel most people would have found repelling, you only laced your fingers with his and squeezed his hands tight enough to let him know that he could do the same.

“What’s wrong, Steven?” you murmured, beseeching him with your fractaled irises—the sunlight was illuminating every last shade and striation of color in them, more brilliant a palette than the shade ever granted justice. It gilded the edges of your features and the sweep of your fawn-like lashes in gold leaf. “Did something happen?”

Boy, didn’t everything happen—all during one weekend, no less?

The broken, wet laugh that leapt from his lips didn’t startle you, but it did make him jump. He lowered his gaze to focus on your hands clasped firmly in his, studying the creases in your palms, the whorls and arches of your fingerprints on your fingertips, and the light, faded smattering of scars in between—all to avoid the magnetic intensity of your gaze. “What hasn’t happened?” he croaked, throat burning with the effort it took to speak without loosing the gut-wrenching sob clawing ferociously at the pit of his belly. “I can’t sleep, I ruined my date, I lost my goldfish, I managed to get fired from the most pathetic excuse of a job anyone could get for something I didn’t even do, and I think I’m quite literally going mad.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, feeling more tears slip out and trickle down his flushed cheeks. “Nothin’ seems real anymore. I can’t keep track of time. I’m seein’ things that would make an asylum patient have nightmares, but then it’s all comin’ back and tryin’ to eat me, and—” He clamped his mouth shut with a whimper, dropping his chin to his sternum to shut out the intrusive thoughts digging into the back of his mind. He unconsciously ripped his hands free from yours and knotted his fingers in his curls just to feel the ache. “—oh, God, I can’t—it’s too much, I—”

“ Steven, ” you said softly, hands threading through his arms to cradle his face and to thumb away his tears as you leaned in and nestled your forehead against his hairline, lips brushing his brow as you continued to murmur in a low, soothing tone that pierced through the noise like Apollo’s arrow, “it’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you—nothing’s coming after you in here, okay? Just our quiet, little safe place. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just a little, I know it’s hard to concentrate, but just try for me, okay? You can breathe between if you need to. Want to try? Okay. In…one, two, three, four…out…one, two, three, four. And again. That’s it. You’re doing so good, darlin’, just focus on me. Feel my hands? And my knees? The chair, your feet on the ground, my forehead. Smell the books, the candle, your cologne, my perfume? Hear the traffic outside, the music in the other room, my voice? Okay. Good. Look at me, Steven. Please?”

He raised his head, trembling still but not nearly as close to convulsions as he’d been mere minutes prior, and you interlocked your fingers with his once more to hold them between you as you drew back just enough to peer unflinching into his eyes.

“Good. There you are, darlin’.” Your gentle smile was as precious as molten gold. “You see the books, too?”

He nodded once, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Had you always looked so divine or was he still experiencing delusions?

…No. No, he couldn’t be, because there was nothing about you that wasn’t so blissfully, sincerely, relievingly real. You were just that ethereal. How had he never noticed it before?

“Okay.” You squeezed his fingers lightly. “Can you tell me one thing that you can taste?”

“My…my tea, from this morning. Ran out of oat milk so I had to drink it straight.”

“There we go.” Your expression tightened just slightly at the edges, scanning his own carefully. “Better? Just a little?”

“A bit, yeah.” He sniffled again, swallowing roughly and finally managing to look away. “Sorry about that. You know. For…breakin’ apart in the middle of your shop like that. You…you didn’t have to stop what you were doin’ just to give me a pep talk.”

Your brow furrowed. “Steven, you were having a panic attack. I wasn’t about to go back to sorting the BookTok smut table while you looked on the verge of collapse.” You shook your head slightly, as if in disbelief. “You wouldn’t have come to me for no reason, so I can take ten minutes to help you calm down. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken all morning and I haven’t had enough time to stop. I’ll be fine.” You squeezed his hands again. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’d fix it if I could.”

Oh, how he wished that you could. He’d let you do anything you wanted if he could just feel normal again.

“Do you want to talk more about it?” you tried gently, tilting your face down to gaze up at him through those utterly enchanting lashes. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, for whatever you need, whether it’s to listen or just to sit with you.”

He swallowed, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, it’s—just complicated, yeah? A lot to take in. I really don’t mean to be a bother, I just needed—”

“Steven Grant, you are not a bother to me.” You single-handedly stole the breath you’d helped him regain not minutes prior. “You can tell me anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I…okay.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, held it, and released it in a hiss from between his chattering teeth. “I’m…investigatin’ somethin’. It might be dangerous, I don’t know. But I’ve got too many questions to avoid it anymore and I…I’m scared. Terrified, really. Everything seems like it’s fallin’ apart and I’m losing grips on it the tighter I try to hold on.” He blinked away another fresh onslaught of tears filming over his eyes with no small amount of frustration. “I feel like it’s my only option, to move forward, you know? I just…wanted to make sure I’m not hallucinatin’ everything around me first.” And that was the reason he’d come here, wasn’t it? Because you never failed to make him feel safe and secure and human, no matter the storm.

You studied him for a long moment, considering. But instead of accusing him of being a loon, you only tipped your chin to seek out his gaze once more—and he, like a moth to flame, was inexorably drawn to it. “Do you want me to go with you?”

The offer took him by surprise, but he knew immediately that it shouldn’t have. You had a protective streak a mile wide—he’d observed it in your fierce defense of your coworkers against irate and lecherous customers alike, as well as the thinly contained fury you’d only had enough strength to withhold in all but your tone when he’d finally vented to you about Donna for the first time. As much as he’d like to see you rip out her cheaply applied extensions one by one until she cried, he had made you promise never to start a fight with her. That you would offer first to accompany him to a destination he’d unthinkingly labeled ‘dangerous’ before anything else, regardless of currently sitting in your workplace that demanded more of you than it ever should any single person, reassured him—but he couldn’t ask you to get involved. He wouldn’t, because it was dangerous—whatever was going on inside his head (and outside of it) was something he was increasingly suspecting was beyond the scope of his present comprehension. The last thing Steven wanted was to get you hurt, too, just by proximity.

“No,” he said firmly, and your brows rose slightly. “No, I don’t—thanks for the offer, I really appreciate it, but you shouldn’t…I don’t want you at risk.”

“I don’t want you at risk, either,” you pointed out softly.

“I…” Well, shit. “...I know. But I’ll be okay. I think. I know! I’m just going to take it real careful and just see, yeah? It’ll…it’ll turn out all right. Right? Yeah.”

Your grip tightened, and your gaze turned sharper than he’d ever seen it, even at your most agitated. Deadly serious, with no room for avoidance—as if he’d ever want to avoid you. “Steven.”

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

“If anything happens,” you told him slowly, “I want you to call me, okay?” He opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted him for the first time in the two months he’d known you. “I mean it. I’m not going to push my way into your business, but if you ever feel like you need help, do not hesitate to tell me. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he suspired. Why was his mouth dry all of a sudden? When had he started sweating? Was his blush as obvious as it felt?

You regarded him for another moment, scrutinizing his expression—perhaps for any traces of falsehood—before nodding and releasing his hands. You reached into your pocket and drew out your phone. “What’s your number?”

Steven recited it to you nervously, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. You typed it in, saved it, then sent him a message that buzzed in his back pocket. (He never thought that he’d get your number in a context quite like this .)

The lapse of silence continued, stifling in its weight, until your expression softened once more into something far less grave. “...Do you trust me, Steven?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Of course,” he breathed.

Your eyes were so damned deep, he’d drown in them willingly. “All right. Just know…whatever you need, okay? I’m just a phone call away.” You swallowed, then glanced away for the first time since he’d walked into you. “I don’t like seeing you scared. It scares me. ”

He was about to apologize on reflex, but the words died on his tongue. He noticed that you, too, had started to fidget with your fingers, rolling a wrinkle in your jeans. He reached out and laid his hand over yours, drawing your attention back to him. “Where’d you learn that trick? You know, the one about the five senses?”

“I had really bad anxiety when I was a teenager. Had an acute spell for about six months straight that made me hate sleeping because the thought of waking back up to deal with it all over again the next day kept me up all night. I lost a lot of weight because my stomach stayed upset and I didn’t have an appetite at all—it took a long time to go back to eating normal afterwards because my stomach had shrunk.” You looked so vulnerable, uncomfortable with baring yourself just a little bit more to his sympathetic gaze, but doing it anyway—all for his undeserving benefit. He squeezed your hand, this time. “I did a lot of research at the time to find ways to mitigate it. Figuring out the biological basis of it helped me to rationalize my triggers and responses so I could understand how to manage it better. It’s fight, flight, or freeze at its most dire state—so once I learned that, I was able to talk myself down by convincing myself I was safe.” You traced the roughness of his palm, and a flicker of something passed over your face before he could register it. “That trick isolates stimuli so you can focus.”

“That…that makes sense. I’ll have to remember that one.” He cleared his throat quietly. He hadn’t known—you hadn’t told him any of that before, never had indicated that you’d had such a rough time of your anxiety that you so often made light of in passing. “I’m so sorry you went through that. It sounds horrible.”

“It was. But it taught me to be more aware of how my mind and body work, if nothing else. And despite all the hardships, I never looked for a way out, just…a way through. And I did get through it.” You sat up a little straighter, cleared your throat, and glanced through the bookshelves before you returned your attention to him. “Are you sure you don’t need me to…?”

“I’m not going to ask you to play hookey for me,” he told you, smiling and using what was hopefully a playful tone. It seemed to work, because the tension in your shoulders eased a bit. “I will let you know if I need you.”

“Promise?” you prompted, extending the pinky of your free hand.

“Pinky promise,” he assured, linking his with yours and marveling at how petite you really were, dwarfed by the breadth of him. He’d never really noticed that, before, either. (How had he not?) “I’ll let you know what I find out, yeah? Once I get it all straight in my noggin’.”

You nodded as you both stood and started to weave your way through the labyrinth back to the main area of the bookstore. “I’m holding you to that, Steven Grant. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be putting out a search warrant.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” he fibbed—just a little, because he hated seeing you worry like this. He’d evidently never really given you good reason to worry about him before, and he felt immeasurably guilty despite the comfort you’d brought him. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You flashed him a small smile, less enthusiastic than usual. “Now that you’re not working, we could actually eat together since my lunch break’s always later.”

Tentative, as though you didn’t want to send him over the edge again. He appreciated it more than you’d ever know.

“I’ll be here. Just give me about a fifteen minute heads-up so I can make it on time?”

“Will do.” As he approached the exit, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along the blade of his hand, arresting him on the spot. “Steven. Please be careful.” You glanced over at the other clerk with his back turned towards the pair of you, organizing the table you’d abandoned in favor of bringing Steven down from the brink. “I care a lot about you,” you confessed softly. “I don’t ever want to see you get hurt.”

Steven sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, folding his hands over his stomach on reflex. His body sagged and his heart puddled into the pit of his belly. “I care a lot about you, too, love. But you don’t have to worry about me gettin’ hurt—just think about the other guy! I’ll just give them the ol’ Grant one-two!” He shadow boxed to punctuate, and your quiet chuckle soothed his fluttering nerves. He stilled, then, and dropped his arms to his sides awkwardly. “...And thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…you know. Likely would’ve gone right bonkers, yeah?”

“You’re always welcome, Steven.” You hesitated, fists tightening, before you reached out to grasp his arm lightly, only enough for balance, and Steven’s rattled mind struggled to keep up with your hurried motion and didn’t catch up until after the fact—you leaned into him, all sweet perfume and warm softness, to press a chaste kiss to the dried, tacky tear tracks that would surely leave salt on your lips. You were back down flat on your feet and a full pace away from him by the time his mouth dropped open, and your embarrassment was glaringly obvious. “Take care. For me?”

“Of course, love,” he said softly, watching perplexedly as you nodded, mouth thinning, before you darted around behind a bookcase and out of sight.

Oh. You were shy.

Steven pressed his fingertips to his tingling cheek all the way down the stairs, stumbling a couple of times before he convinced himself to get a grip before he did break his promise and accidentally kill himself not two minutes after the fact. He floated through the coffee shop back onto the street, sinking his back against the wall, and closed his eyes to reclaim his breath.

The first genuine smile of unfettered delight he’d had in what felt like eons wormed onto his face, and Steven let out a dreamy sigh. He shifted, caught a whiff of your perfume, and realized that some of it still lingered on his coat collar. He resisted the sudden urge to bury his nose and to revel in it, clearing his throat and fishing his phone out of his pocket instead to start off his investigation by determining which storage company Marc’s key belonged to.

Your text waited for him, poised under his thumb. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Steven. Laters, gators! :)’

His cheeks ached with the widest smile he’d had in his life.

When the plane from Cairo landed at its destination in London’s biggest airport close at nine-thirty, well past dark, approximately two weeks later, Steven finds that he has never felt so tired in his (admittedly limited waking) life—even during the time of depriving himself of sleep in an effort to control his supposed ‘sleeping’ disorder. He’d…dozed, he supposed was the only way he could describe it, while Marc had fronted during the flight. Leaving Layla in Cairo had been hard on him (both of them, really), so Marc had needed some quiet time to himself.

Steven couldn’t quite find it in himself to blame him in the slightest.

Marc and Layla had finally squared things away after Khonshu had finally released them—both Harrow and…their relationship. While Layla finally understood Marc’s motivations for all his blunders (and him personally, more clearly than she ever had in their married life, sad as it was to say), they both agreed that it would be for the best to go ahead and part ways. Too much damage had been done, the foundations of their relationship fractured by all the secrets and half-truths Marc had kept, and he had shattered her trust with his noncommunication.

She did make it explicitly clear that the entire ordeal in no way stopped her from caring about him (and now Steven, she made sure to add), however—Marc’s relief had been palpable, even while Steven had kept quiet and to himself listening to them discuss everything in the dingy motel room they’d shared the previous night before he’d departed. They mutually agreed to keep in touch, because while Marc had freed himself (and therefore Steven) of Khonshu’s servitude, Layla was still working with Tawaret as her Red Scarab. Hurt though he was (with mostly himself to blame, he’d admitted), Marc was protective more than anything—and though Tawaret had wormed her way past his initial suspicions with her sincere desire and success in helping them crawl their way out of the Duat, historically he didn’t exactly have a healthy relationship with Ancient Egyptian deities.

He hadn’t spoken much to Steven since then, but Steven was okay with that. Marc was a man of few words, he’d learned, and Steven suspected that it was best to give him space—regardless of when (or if) he ever decided to talk about it. Steven would be there for him either way (figuratively and literally). He’d need to make sure to remind him of that fact when they were both a bit better rested and recovered from the world-ending battle that they had managed to win by the skin of their teeth.

Steven hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing Layla very long—and while perhaps some of his initial attraction to her could have been attributed to him inheriting at least some of Marc’s own memories, feelings, and familiarity via sharing the body, Steven was grateful that they could remain friends, at least—it spoke lengths of how close she and Marc truly had been, for her to still be willing to stay in contact despite everything that had happened. She’d made sure to send them both off with a tight, rocking hug for each of them, pressing a tender kiss to either cheek as they had seamlessly traded places per her request without so much as a shudder.

“Take care of him, okay, Steven? And you stay safe, too,” she’d murmured into his ear, her mirth belied by her melancholy. She’d paused, then reached up to adjust the lapels of Marc’s jacket lying crooked across his clavicle. “I trust you to do what I couldn’t.”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” he’d returned with a timid smile as she’d drawn away with sparkling eyes not only from fondness. He’d tried to ignore the stinging in his as he’d cleared his throat of the quiver that had threatened to creep into the back of his throat. “He’s a bit of a git when it comes to lookin’ after himself, yeah? But I’m kind of stuck with him, so…good to try to make the best of it, you know.”

“Thank you.” She’d seemed earnest in her gratitude, then, easing back another half-step. “For helping us. I owe you more than I fear I could ever fully repay.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” he’d returned easily. He liked Layla—perhaps, in another life, he could have loved her, too, if things had turned out different, or if Marc had given him the opportunity. Marc’s envious accusations at the dig sight hadn’t hit quite so close to home as to ever confirm such feelings in himself—she was still virtually a stranger, in spite of him fearing for her life and trusting her with his without hesitation—so while he ached to see things between her and Marc end like they had, all he could focus on was that he was thankful they’d had the opportunity to meet. “You take care of yourself, too, all right? Don’t get into too much trouble kickin’ tail and takin’ names.”

She’d let out a wet laugh at that, not-so-subtly swiping at her eyes. “I will, Steven,” she’d said, and then Marc had taken over.

Until now, anyway.

Steven understood completely why Marc needed some time to himself after all that—perhaps better than anyone. It was why he was extremely grateful that, once all the process of checking out and fetching luggage was done, Marc receded in silence to the back of their shared headspace and left Steven standing at the front entrance of the airport with a flagged cab waiting expectantly for him on the drive below.

He hefted Marc’s duffel a little higher on his shoulder, curling his hands around the strap, and descended the steps quickly. He settled into the back seat, wrinkling his nose a bit at the faint but pungent scents of sweat, alcohol, and puke lingering there.

“Where to, mate?” asked the cab driver, sounding as bored as Steven would admittedly be if he had to drive people dead on their feet home in such dreary weather as this—it had stopped raining, thankfully, but mist still hung in the air and puddles littered the ground, causing any nearby lights to glisten and glitter off the wet surfaces.

Steven hesitated.

He…hadn’t really thought this far ahead, admittedly. He realized with a start that he hadn’t been home since Harrow’s cop friends…lackies… whatever had snatched him under the guise of a real investigation and arrest. It was probably a mess after they had ransacked it. It would be a miracle if not-Gus was still alive. He’d be lucky if none of his nosy neighbors had broken in to pilfer his things.

Steven fiddled with the strap pensively, evidently taking too long for the cabbie’s thinning patience. “Hear me, mate? Where do you need to go?”

It was almost instinct, the way that the coffee shop’s address spilled from his lips with some embarrassment—embedded into his memory since he’d ordered rides there on his days off. The cabbie flicked on the meter and took off once he’d entered it into his phone, and Steven tried to suppress his flustered response at agitating the man because what harm had he caused by waiting a moment longer than what was considered punchy? Nothing. It wasn’t Steven’s fault that the man was irritable. (What cabbie worth his salt relied on Google Maps, anyway? But then again, what cabbie worth his salt couldn’t be bothered to order a deep enough clean after toting about what must have been the cataclysmic aftermath of one hell of a stag party?)

Seeing and doing everything he had in Egypt had given Steven a slightly different outlook both about people in general as well as himself. People were, mostly, harmless—unless they were trying to resurrect and put into power an entombed goddess of destruction, anyway—so what difference did it make that Steven existed in the same place and time as them? It didn’t give them the excuse to be rude or dismissive or critical. Plus…while they’d given up that fancy healing armor (and that rather snazzy suit, unfortunately), Steven could still defend himself if need be. He had access to Marc’s muscle memory now that no more barriers stood between their psyches—he’d held his own against Arthur bleedin’ Harrow quite well, if he did say so himself, thank you very much. He’d still have to get used to the motions, sure, but…never before had he felt more capable and assured in his own abilities. He had Marc to thank for that.

Even still, as he steadied his breathing and calmed his heart, Steven frowned and directed his gaze out of the window to focus on the streets rolling by outside. The coffee shop didn’t close until ten, and you usually didn’t make it out while locking up until ten-fifteen. But because Marc had left Steven’s phone in London (in his storage locker while getting supplies, Steven suspected), Steven had been unable to contact you at all. Given the domino's effects following him leaving the coffee shop in pursuit of Marc’s unit, he hadn’t had time enough to memorize your number (and believe him, under any other circumstances, he would have done so as soon as he would have had the chance). He’d promised you lunch the next day, as well as to check in to let you know he was all right, but by the time Steven had woken back up post-jackal boxing extravaganza, he’d had to deal with Marc’s…less than ideal interrogation techniques.

Things only had…devolved from there. Steven really and truly didn’t care to give any of it much more thought—not until later, when he could see clearly without his eyelids drifting shut.

Steven wrung the hem of the jacket’s sleeves between his fingers, worrying the inside of his cheek while he did so. Even throughout…all of that…Steven had found his thoughts straying inevitably—gravitized, perhaps—back to you, over and over, no matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate on…well, you know, saving the world. Even when he’d been distracted, and terrified, and fighting for his life, he’d recalled snippets of memory so visceral he’d glanced over his shoulder more than once to make sure he was just imagining things.

Your features drenched in sunlight like a goddess in your own right. Your eyes glittering as you tittered in genuine mirth at once his silly little jokes he cringed over every time he departed from your reassuring company. Your smile warming him inside as much as your meticulously brewed teas did going down. Your lilted, soothing drawl, the shape your mouth formed as you’d snowball into a lecture on how ridiculous all the internet conspiracies about aliens building the pyramids because the Egyptians were too primitive to accomplish such feats but the Romans were esteemed geniuses of their time with all their architectural novelties, the unfettered passion that brought such vivacity to your normally demure, soft-spoken demeanor.

He had missed you. Terribly so. More than he would’ve expected, but he was unsurprised.

You’d no doubt have loved to have seen Egypt with your own eyes—you’d confessed your daydreams about it to Steven on a couple of different occasions, had told him how long you’d wanted to take a vacation there to visit all the sights and witness them for yourself. You’d shared, mortified and only after some gentle prodding on his part, that you’d even constructed an itinerary, once, complete with hypothetical flight times, prices, and locations, hotel reservations and rates, eateries recommended by locals, starting from the delta and traversing all the way up to Abu Simbel, as well as every notable tomb, temple, and archaeological site or tourist spot in between. “Maybe one day,” you’d said, so wistfully yet despondently that he’d wanted for nothing more in that moment than to sweep you up and take you there himself.

At the time, he had pictured your reactions to Cairo, Giza, and Alexander the Great’s no-longer-lost tomb with perfect clarity—your excitement would have known no bounds. You would have stopped to inspect and decipher each artifact and inscription if you’d had time enough to do so, ecstatic at the chance to lay your hands on such marvels (respectfully, of that Steven had no doubts). Steven would never have wanted you involved in such close and constant proximity to danger, but he’d still imagined it for his own sanity. You’d been his lifeline, in a way—even with his fleeting, misplaced infatuation with Layla—the thought of not making it back to London, back to you, was what had kept him going at the most harrowing of points.

As partial as you were to the mythology, you’d have been beside yourself to discover that the deities so long thought fabled—for better or for worse—were as real as anything else in this odd little home humanity called Earth. He’d sooner throw himself back into the ravenous sands of the Duat than have you anywhere near that bloodthirsty pigeon, but then again Tawaret had been an angel by comparison, so…maybe you interacting with her wouldn’t have been too bad.

You were his first recurring thought whenever he’d wake (whether he had emerged to the front or from slumber), and you’d been his last thought when Harrow had shot Marc—panicked, screaming, terrified knowing he’d failed to keep his word. When Khonshu had forced the breath back into their lungs, Steven had nevermore felt such relief at proving himself wrong.

He’d convinced Marc to loan him a little spending money, after all was said and done, and had visited a secluded marketplace to browse the vendors’ wares. He’d found a little statuette of Djehuty hand-carved from lapis lazuli, about as long and as wide as his index finger, and while the merchant’s asking price had been outrageous (and because Steven had no talent for haggling, try as he might), Marc hadn’t scolded him too badly for shelling out the questionable stack of bills. It wouldn’t go far in the way of a peace offering, perhaps, but he could use it as some sort of proof if things didn’t go over well.

You weren’t naturally a skeptical person, though, he reminded himself. You had taken him at his word during his mental breakdown without even batting an eye. You valued honesty and communication above all else, prided yourself on your integrity, and Steven knew that you would at least hear him out and consider his (rather implausible) story before you rejected it.

Maybe he could still salvage this. Maybe he wouldn’t have to give Marc one more reason to blame himself for something he’d claim that he ruined. You were a reasonable woman, driven by logic and intuition rather than emotion and feelings. Steven had always admired you for that, for your tendency to avoid taking sides, to play devil’s advocate, to balance and weigh all options, thoughts, facts, and opinions before daring to formulate your own.

A keen little set of scales you were, weren’t you? Yeah. If only you’d have been there, somehow, to help sort out his and Marc’s mess—it likely would have gone a lot smoother and faster. (Maybe they would have actually managed to balance before it had almost been too late.)

“Most everything down this way is closed for the night—you sure you want me to let you off here? Or would you rather me take you someplace else?” groused the cabbie as he eased to a stop on the street corner (because of course—why would any cabbie worth his salt take a man to his requested destination only to offer a longer drive if but to rack up a higher meter?)

Despite Steven’s increasing indignation (he was firmly placing the blame on his and Marc’s shared jet lag because he was just so tired and he would never normally get so irate by a man doing his job, no matter how lazily), he hesitated. Only the security lights were visible through the sheer blinds drawn over the windows to conceal the interior, and he couldn’t make out your shape at the till or anywhere else, for that matter.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking to hope you’d still be there, or even on the shift for tonight at all. You’d probably worried yourself to death fretting about his sudden silence—no, scratch that, you definitely had fretted. Was he going to have to call the nearest police station to have them take down a missing persons report? Had you even filed one like you’d threatened to? Or had he inadvertently hurt you by what could in any other conceivable circumstance be taken as ghosting to the point that you no longer cared for his well-being?

The thought made his heart clench. It ached more than he might have been readily willing to admit. Oh, he had gone and messed things up royally, hadn’t he? The one person who’d actually treated him like a person (outside of Marc and Layla, of course) could very well hate his guts now. It sickened him, almost made him want to lock himself away in his flat and curl up under his duvet and hide for the rest of eternity.

But he couldn’t. Not on the off-chance you had recalled his concerns, had believed his worries, and still thought him innocent in the matter. Not if you were still waiting for him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” drolled the cabbie, muffled by a gargantuan yawn he didn’t bother to stifle. “I’d rather not sit here all night, you know.”

“N-no—I’ll stop here, thanks.” Steven patted through Marc’s pockets until he found his wallet, then rifled through the neatly organized mixture of bills until he found English currency as opposed to Egyptian—with enough for a decent tip, because Steven always tried not to be a knob. “You seem like you’re workin’ on fumes, mate, you ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleeping’s for the dead,” he deadpanned, and Steven let out a breathless little chuckle as he shuffled out of the cab onto the curb and watched it round the corner and out of sight.

If only he knew.

The air was warmer than before Steven had been carted off to another continent, a bit muggy as the humidity settled like cobwebs in his lungs. He grimaced and unzipped the jacket, edging closer to the windows to squint inside properly.

Still no signs of life. Steven rested his fingertips on the dribbled glass, dropping his head. Marc still had the storage key in the bag, somewhere—he supposed that he could try going and getting his phone, but that would run the risk of the business not being open at all hours and require that much more time to charge the blasted thing back from the brink. Perhaps he’d be better off to wait until the next morning to try to sort his life back out—he wouldn’t be able to stand staying on his feet for much longer.

“ ...Steven? ”

He stiffened, straightened in an instant, and turned to see you standing at the corner, keys still dangling from your fingers after locking up and coming around the back. An impulsive glance at Marc’s watch told him that you’d finished up early—it was ten on the dot. Your expression, bleached by the cold ivory streetlamp looming over your head, was slack in disbelief.

Steven—despite having rehearsed over the last two weeks what he could possibly say to explain himself, to apologize for his abrupt absence and radio silence, to entreat you to at least hear him plead his case, to beg for your forgiveness and to seek it by any means necessary just so he could talk to you again—fell terribly short of his expectations as the moment came…and went.

His greatest shortcoming, that: his seemingly endless supply of words failing him when he needed them most dire.

“...Hiya,” he said meekly, raising his hand in a shameful little wave—then groaned internally and resisted the overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands and pull at his hair in frustration.

Real chuffed she’ll be with a response like that, ol’ chap. Bollocks. I’m an utter pillock, aren’t I?

“S-sorry,” he floundered, face burning as you continued to stare at him with rounded eyes and a gaping mouth. You looked caught between fight or flight but trapped in freeze mode, every muscle in your body rigid as though the sight of him reviled you. His heart twisted, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. He’d be right pissed at himself, too. “It’s…been a bit much, the time I’ve had. I’m proper exhausted after that trip. Not that, uh…not that it’s any excuse, yeah? I’m just having a bit of a hard time not fallin’ asleep on my fee— oof! ”

You’d moved before he could even track the motion. Had he looked away or dropped his head and closed his eyes out of humiliation? Had he almost blacked out again even though Marc made no sign of himself known? Or was he just that tired and you were that fast on your feet? (Of course you were nimble, juggling books and drinks all day long at a breakneck pace. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?)

He supposed it didn’t matter in the end, really, because your arms were coiled around his neck to drag him down closer to your height, your face was buried into his (no doubt grimy) neck, and your hands were trembling as they gripped his nape and threaded into his matted, oily curls as though your life depended upon it. Your breaths were muffled and warm against his throat, as were the tears that smeared against his thundering pulse, and it took Steven an embarrassingly long time to come to his senses and return your vice-like embrace with his own shaking arms.

“You scared the shit out of me, Steven,” you sniffled into his collar like a secret, voice tight and hushed with the ferocity of your feeling. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Steven swallowed roughly, throat tightening and eyes filming over with the familiar hot sting he’d been doing his damnedest to hold down until he’d returned to the safety of his home—but he supposed that he already had, so what was the point in resisting anymore?

“I thought I’d lost me, too, love,” he whispered raggedly, his tenuous resolve crumbling like sandstone as he buried his face in your hair and crushed you against his chest as tightly as your clothes allowed. His tears finally slipped free of his eyes as he squeezed them closed in an effort to shut out the world around him. He could feel your heart hammering against his chest even through all his layers, your earthy perfume saturating his lungs, your inherent warmth seeping into him so like the sunshine you epitomized in his mind. You didn’t give any inclination of letting him go anytime soon, and he had no such intention, either. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you murmured, voice cracking with the strain of keeping yourself in check, pulling your head back just enough to peer up at him with a warbling smile. The hand on his neck slipped around to cup his cheek in your palm, thumbing away the wet streaks trailing towards his chin. Your eyes darted over his features, scrutinizing, as though you were committing the sight to memory—as though assuring yourself that he was really real, really there, really corporeal and not an apparition. “God, darlin’, don’t be sorry, I’m just—I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you safe? Are you hurt? Are you still in danger?” You mirrored your own touch with your free hand, cradling his head as though you held the entire world between your fingers, stroking the corners of his mouth in reverent reassurance. “Where have you been? I tried looking, asking around the museum, but nobody knew where you’d disappeared, and I—I thought—” You let out a sob from between gritted teeth, quivering despite his desperate grip on your upper and lower back. “—I feared the worst, after what you said the last time I saw you, and I tried talking to the police, but they thought I was crazy, and…I’ve nearly worried myself to death wondering where you’d gone.”

Nailed it. Unfortunately. Steven let out a watery laugh, biting his lip briefly before tugging you back under his chin so you wouldn’t see the conflicted emotions fighting for prominence on the limited canvas space of his face. “Oh, love, I’ve been to hell and back,” he joked quietly (one you wouldn’t get, not yet, and one he didn’t particularly care to explain), rocking you from side to side and anchoring himself with the weight of your body against his. “But I never stopped thinking about—about coming back. To you. Not once.”

Your arms slipped under his to squeeze him tight, slowly but surely soaking his shirt with your relief. Steven was uncertain how long the pair of you stood like that, getting progressively more damp from the mist and more chilled from the cooling breeze, and finally he withdrew enough to tenderly pat your cheeks dry with the hem of his sleeve. You laughed a little at that, a frail but joyous little sound, and Steven could hardly contain himself—but you beat him to it.

“You look exhausted, darlin’,” you said softly, face pinching a little as you took in his drawn features. He was sure Marc had sat up through the whole flight, as antsy as he was—the body hadn’t gotten sufficient enough rest in so long Steven was surprised neither of them had yet to collapse. The deep purple semicircles marring the heavy undersides of his eyes were sure to be sights to behold. You traced his brow, temple, and cheekbone with a featherlight touch of your fingertips. “You said you just got back?”

“Yeah,” he responded, eyes fluttering shut at your gentleness with a long sigh. “I wanted…I needed to see you. To let you know I made it back, and that I didn’t mean to shut you out, and…to tell you what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” you pressed carefully. “You’ve obviously been stressed about it. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable talking about.”

“I want you to know. It’s…it’s important. To me.” He cracked his eye back open, taking in the minutiae of your features, too—you seemed just as bad off as he was. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”

You gave him a sharp look, and your last reaction to a similar statement he’d made rang clear in the back of his mind without you even having to echo your response.

“You just seem tired, too, is all,” he said. “Didn’t want to keep you up any later.”

“I’ll stay up all night if you asked me to,” you told him firmly. “Whatever you need. I meant what I said.”

‘I’m here for you.’

“I…could I ask one teensy favor?” he started, hating how small his voice sounded. “Just this once?”

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

“I…don’t really want to sleep by myself tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “My place got broken into and…I’m not sure what it’ll look like when I go back there. I…I don’t want to be alone. Could I…?”

“Of course,” you said immediately, already reaching down and grasping his wrist. “You look like you could use a good meal, too—I’ve got some leftover minestrone that I could heat up for you. It doesn’t have any animal products in it.”

Oh, he could kiss you.

“I don’t mean to impose,” he prefaced, “but…that honestly sounds heavenly.”

“You’re not imposing. Come on. The bus will be making its stop soon—don’t want to miss it in case the rain starts up again.”

Steven allowed you to lead him along the street, perfectly content to allow you to guide him. The longer he went, the more difficult it was to stay focused. The late bus, one he’d usually been forced to catch when Donna had thrust him into inventory duty, was virtually empty save a couple of other night workers having finished up their shifts. You settled Steven near the back, setting him against the window and perching yourself in the aisle seat with a watchful eye directed towards the other passengers.

Steven found himself nodding off, forehead pressed heavily into the window, when your fingers tugged his wrist lightly. “Hey. Here, lean on me—I don’t want you to get a crick in your neck.”

Hardly conscious of it, Steven allowed you to direct with a cupped hand his temple to rest on your shoulder, sinking listlessly into your side. The press of your warm palm on his cheek remained as you murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too drowsy to recall anything afterwards besides the sweet scent of chai on your breath.

You roused him at the correct stop, and he managed to keep his wits about himself long enough to take in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. The university campus loomed on the other side of the highway, impressive in its splendor, and your flat was located in a nice but affordable gated complex that he suspected you’d chosen for convenience and security rather than luxury. Multiple other residences lined this side of the road, likely housing the majority of students.

“I’m on the top floor, but luckily they have elevators,” you murmured to him as you used your key card to buzz through the gate and unlock the side door to the main corridor. You led him through the place, let him lean against you while the mechanisms’ hum lulled him, and the first thing you did upon letting him into your apartment was have him sit on the loveseat. “Give me your feet.”

“Oh, don’t—you don’t have to do that,” he protested, even as you kneeled on the carpet and pulled one dusty boot up onto your knee to untie the laces. “Please, I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking, I’m doing,” you responded mildly. “Steven, you’re a blink too long away from going comatose—just let me take care of you, okay?” Your lips thinned for a moment, conflicted, before you dropped your gaze to your fingerwork before tugging the heavy shoe free and setting it to the side and reaching for his other foot. “I missed you. Let me do this, please.”

He had precious little will to argue, lesser so to refuse any sort of doting you might decide to bestow upon him. Steven Grant was many things, and a weak man was one of them. “I…all right,” he said softly.

“Good boy.” You patted the side of his leg with a wry little smirk that did funny things to his blood pressure, removing the other shoe, and leaving it with its twin. You stood, knees cracking, and made a placating gesture. “Wait here, I’ll be back in five.”

“All right,” he repeated sleepily because he couldn’t help it—his eyes were already falling shut again. He became dimly aware of an added weight draped over him, but it wasn’t until you came back and sank into the cushion next to him that he jerked back awake and realized you’d pulled the heavy knit blanket off the back of the couch over him.

“Here,” you said, pressing a large mug into his hands. “I know microwaved leftovers aren't as good, but I’ll be lucky to get you to down anything before you pass out on me. Again.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, drawing up a spoonful and blowing the steam off it. It smelled divine, and his stomach pinched and growled as though it, too, had wrenched itself awake.

“Stop apologizing,” you said, eyes twinkling. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Only kind of?” he tried, slipping the spoon into his mouth. A salty medley of flavors bloomed over his tongue and Steven was convinced he’d been sent to Aaru after all. “Oh…you never told me you were a king’s cook,” he mumbled.

“I am a bit proud of my cooking,” you chuckled. “I had…tweaked that recipe, to see if you’d like it, actually. I just so happened to have made it last night.” You glanced off to the side, briefly, towards the floor-to-ceiling window that lined the far wall and displayed the heart of London in all its twinkling glory. “Good timing, I guess.”

Steven ate as much as his waning patience could stand before propping the mug between his knees and tentatively resting a hand on yours draped over your thigh. You looked back to him immediately, the only light in the room spilling off to the side from the kitchen and casting all but the curve of your face in shadow. “There’s too much to explain in one night,” he began with a sigh, “and, honestly, it’ll probably take me a bit to work up to some of the…worse stuff. But I did want to tell you what I figured out about my sleeping disorder.”

“All right.” You shifted and contorted to face him completely, folding your legs crossed under you and lacing your fingers with his. “Did you get an official diagnosis, or…?”

He tried to ignore that in favor of staying undistracted. (It didn’t work very well, and he squeezed your hand back.) “Well. Sort of.” He recalled the certainty with which had (sparingly) detailed their ‘insanity’, the clarity with which the Duat had conformed to Marc’s self-perception as an institutionalized patient in an asylum. “It’s not a sleeping disorder.”

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

“I have…well. We have…” He sighed, ducked his head, and scratched at his hairline. “...Have you ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“I took a psychology class back home, yeah.” You frowned slightly. “What, like…Multiple Personality Disorder?”

“Yes.” Steven’s eyes were drawn to your hand, and he turned it over to inspect the lines of your palm with his blunt, callused fingertips (no longer a mystery why they stayed in such rough shape, he mused). “I’m, uh…well…it’s harder to…to say out loud, I guess.” He faltered, then, eyes flashing up to beseech your understanding. “I want you to know that we’ve worked things out as much as we could, so it’s a lot better than it was, but we’ve still got a ways to go, I think. Just—just know that we’re sound of mind, and neither of us would ever, ever hurt you.”

“Steven,” you said gently, realization slowly dawning in your softening gaze, “I never once had doubts about that.”

“I…good. That’s good.” He swallowed. He’d seen the stereotypes in popular media just like everyone else ever had, and while Marc had indeed hurt people, his remorse told Steven just how little he’d enjoyed it (that being none). “Okay. So…there’s this little American man that…lives inside my head, I guess. Marc Spector. Bit of a twit when you first meet him, but he’s not a half-bad bloke once you get to know him.”

Steven paused, waiting for a biting remark from the nearest reflective surface—but your offlined television remained passive. He let out a breath of relief.

Your expectant, patient silence spurred him on. “That’s what I thought, anyway—that he lived inside my head, that is. Just started poppin’ up out of nowhere, tryin’ to scare me off of figurin’ everythin’ out. Didn’t realize ‘til later that he was just tryin’ to protect me and being a real sorry arse about it.” Steven pressed the flat of his thumb into the crease of your palm, feeling your steady, calmed pulse thudding against his skin. “Turns out…I’m the one living inside his head.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t interrupt him.

“He had a rough childhood,” Steven continued, voice carrying over into a rush, “lost his li’l brother. His mum blamed him for it…did some things she shouldn’t have. Marc…developed an alter based on a fictional character from his favorite movie.” He let out a shaky sigh, dropping his chin to his sternum. “Doctor Steven Grant, debonair, world-traveled archaeologist extraordinaire.” He cleared his throat, voice lowering. “I think I may have fallen a bit short of his expectations.”

He had only learned the terminology in the snippets of time Marc let him front while he and Layla were still organizing things in Cairo, looking up articles to learn more about their shared mindscape.

“I…remember our childhood,” he said, much more quietly, “but not any of the bad parts. He let me keep all the good memories. I never remembered Mum except on the good days. Learning all this…was really hard. I never thought…I knew I had gaps in my memory, but I didn’t think…I never figured it out until the wall between us got broken down.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “When…when Mum died. I didn’t know. Marc couldn’t control it anymore, and…things happened. He moved to London, got me all set up with the flat and the job at the museum, and he was finishing things up so he could…I don’t know, fall to the wayside and not come out anymore? I’m not really sure how that works…if it would even work, like that.”

He didn’t dare look up at your expression. You’d fallen completely still and eerily quiet.

“So…yeah.” He was whispering by now. “I guess that makes me the fake identity.”

“Steven Grant,” you interjected, voice low and calm, “there is nothing about you that’s fake. I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again.”

He gulped, peeking up at your resolute expression. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked.

“You’re the most vibrant, thoughtful, selfless person I’ve ever met,” you said, gripping his hand so tightly he felt your pulse in each of your fingertips—he wouldn’t be surprised if your prints melded with his. “You have filled my life with more joy than I’ve felt in years. I give thanks almost every day that I had the privilege to have met you at a time when I needed you most.” You leaned in closer, eyes sparkling like the stars faintly visible on the horizon beyond your balcony. “For whatever reason that Marc Spector may have created you, he did a damn good job of it. You embody every positive trait anyone could ever hope to have. You are undoubtedly one of the best men I’ve proudly called my friend. And whatever you went through, with him or without, I have no doubt in my mind that you are integral to him, a part of him he idealizes. Even if you’re an alter, not the original owner of this body,” with this, you tapped his shoulder with your free hand, “you are just as important and just as precious to me for it.”

Steven thought he had cried enough, but his eyes betrayed him yet again. Only a couple of tears slipped free before you were smearing them away, steadfast in your presence, knees pressed into the outside of his thigh. He sank into your touch, shutting his eyes in relief.

“You can tell me as much or as little about the rest of it as you want,” you murmured. “And I apologize in advance for anything that I may accidentally say or do out of ignorance—but I promise you, Steven Grant, I will stay by your side as long as you’ll have me. No matter what.”

“Even though I’ve turned out a little crazier than you may have expected?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with such a feeble attempt at a joke—but the words came out a little bleaker than he had intended.

“You’re not crazy,” you stated, “you’re a survivor. Both of you. And I am so very grateful that you survived.”

Steven did not remember falling asleep after that. He did not remember you taking the mug back to the kitchen and turning the lights out. He did not remember you leveraging him longwise across your loveseat, a couple feet two short for him had he not already been curled up, piling multiple blankets over his lanky form and carefully slipping a pillow from your bed under his head. He did not remember you tenderly combing his unkempt curls off his forehead, gazing at him with love brimming in your eyes, and laying a lingering kiss between his brows.

He did, however, remember in perfect detail the sight of you slumped over in your recliner, facing him, wreathed in the most beautiful golden sunrise he’d ever seen in his life.

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #moon knight #steven grant #reader insert #steven grant/reader #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfiction #steven grant fluff #steven grant fanfiction

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homoose · 4 years

Text

Weird is Good

Summary: A story about two people tryna make it through the age of COVID-19 in a country where people are fucking dumb lmao. My hc is that Spencer would be like wtf at all these science-denying anti-maskers. Also, two teachers just tryna make it through quarantine and remote teaching in a one bedroom apartment (this is taking place during a mandatory leave/lecture cycle).

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: no warnings. reader is both a kindergarten teacher and a bruh girl with a pirate’s mouth. lots of Spencer x factz.

Word count: 3.1k

———

“We’re home for the next two weeks. ”

Spencer looked up from his desk to see Y/N kicking off her shoes, dropping her bag, and walking directly to the sink. “Starting when?”

“We get to go in on Monday to say goodbye to the kids and get any materials we might need. Then we’re home for two weeks. They’re calling it an early, extended spring break.” Y/N began her hand washing routine. As a kindergarten teacher, she’d always been a strict hand-washer. In the time of COVID, she had only become more zealous. She looked at Spencer. “Have you heard anything?”

“Since we’re so close to the end of the semester, the department head thinks they’ll try to finish out the year as normal.” He set down his pen. “I honestly don’t know. It will all depend on whether people follow the CDC guidelines. The spread of any virus is deducible mathematically, and SARS-COV2 is no different. Based on the outbreak in Italy prior to their lockdown, we can accurately describe its reproductive number, or Rt, to between 2.43 – 3.10.”

Y/N shut off the water and dried her hands on a paper towel. “In layman's terms, Dr. Reid.”

“The Rt tells how many people are infected by the contagious host,” he explained. “In the case of this strain, each infected person is infecting between two and three others. For comparison, the standard seasonal flu has an average Rt between 1.4 and 1.7.”

“So in other words, fucking yikes,” Y/N groaned. She moved to perch on the edge of Spencer’s desk.

“Indeed,” Spencer agreed. “We know how fast the flu can travel through an office or a classroom, so imagine if it was two times as transmissible. But it's also really important to understand that this number changes depending on the mitigations in place. Even prior to full lockdown, mask wearing and social distancing was somewhat common in Italy, so it’s likely the uncontrolled Rt is higher.”

“Jesus Christ.” Y/N scrubbed a hand over her face. “We’ll probably never go back.”

Spencer rubbed his hand up from her ankle to the inside of her knee. “The good news is there’s nothing special about this virus compared to others in terms of how it spreads— it’s just aerosols. So if everyone wears their mask, we’ll be able to keep the spread low.”

⧭⧭⧭

“It’s safe to say that everyone did not wear their fucking masks,” Y/N snapped. She watched from the couch as Mayor Bowser delivered the news that DC Public Schools would remain closed for the remainder of the year. “This is crazy. I mean, I knew it was coming because people in this country are absolute buffoons.” She looked at Spencer, fingers pressed to her temple. “But holy shit, are we ever going to be able to go outside again?”

“With schools and universities closed, people working remotely, and lockdown orders in place, the Rt in the US could stay low. But masks have to be worn at all times, and social distancing has to be strictly followed.” Spencer pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I just— I can’t believe people are refusing to wear masks. The empirical, peer-reviewed data clearly shows—”

“This is ‘Murica, boy.” Y/N mocked. “Ain’t no tyrannical government gonna tell me what to do!” She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, your choice to abstain from social media is paying dividends to your sanity right now.”

Spencer looked truly dumbfounded, setting his newspaper down in his lap. “But that’s just it. It’s not just in social media circles.” He gestured to the article in front of him. “This economist just argued for ‘reopening’ the economy using the justification of herd immunity. Herd immunity can be a plausible option for less lethal diseases. But this virus is not like varicella—the chickenpox,” he clarified at Y/N’s raised eyebrow. He waved his hands around in exasperation. “Putting aside the fact that one facet of herd immunity is vaccinating as many people as possible, its success completely hinges on the Rt of a disease. If you model a population based on an Rt of 2.5, herd immunity wouldn’t be achieved until approximately sixty percent of the population has been infected. Consider that the US population is currently 328 million, and sixty percent of that is 196.8 million. The current mortality rate for SARS-COV2 is 3.06 percent. 196,800,000 multiplied by 0.0306 is 6,022,080. Over six million people would die. It's simple mathematics.”

Y/N let out an exasperated breath. “It used to be that simple math and facts were enough. Now you’ve got basement scientists who think they know better than actual, literal scientists who’ve spent their entire lives studying these things.” She ran a hand over her face and gestured at the news conference still playing. “How long do you think it’ll be before we’re both trying to teach from this tiny ass living room?”

⧭⧭⧭

“Goooooooood morning, kindergarten! It’s Friday, and no Friday is a bad Friday!” Spencer smiled. As he poured his first cup of coffee, he hummed along with Y/N and 23 six-year-olds as they sang their morning song. Observing fourteen days of remote kindergarten from across the living room had given Spencer a new appreciation for elementary school teachers, particularly Y/N. She sang, danced, conducted science experiments, held puppet shows, read stories, led art projects, and fielded questions for four hours a day— three hours less than when they were in the school building. He was exhausted by proxy.

But he was also grateful for the opportunity to watch Y/N in her element. Even though they were at home, she still got dressed every day in bright, patterned sweaters and dresses— her Ms. Frizzle attire, she’d told him once. She was able to channel her personality into a kid-friendly version that her students clearly adored, never afraid to be silly or strange to get their attention and keep them engaged during the long days. He worked from home whenever possible, strangely happy to have the background noise of kindergarten over his quiet university office.

...

“Okay, but where do I put the biiiiiiiiiiiig number?” Y/N made a wide gesture with her arms. “Ariah, where should I put it? In the big box, yes! But oh no, my small number needs a friend. My three is soooooo lonely!” Y/N drew her mouth into a pout. “DJ, how can I help my three not be so sad? You’re absolutely right, let’s put that two right next to him in our number bond.”

…

“I’ve been waitin’ for a girl to mute,” Y/N sang into the gold karaoke mic. “I said, muuuuuuuuuute, I’m blinded by loud sounds. No, I can’t hear the friend who’s tryin’ to talk.”

…

“Oh boy. Kev, honey, we can— we can see you. Kevin, Kevin, Kevin. We can see all of you. I can’t turn your camera off, buddy. You gotta— there we go.”

…

“Mute please, I need— I need everybody to mute, please. Oh my goodness where is that music coming from?” Y/N frantically searched for her index card with the picture of the mute icon, as the sounds of a highly inappropriate song blared through the computer speaker. “I know it’s so loud, guys. Why is my mute power gone?! This is why we need to make sure we keep our mute button on, kindergarten.”

…

“No sweetie, it’s not time to log off yet. I’m sorry, I know it’s such a long day. We have about an hour left. Do you guys wanna do a countdown? It’s the fin-al count-down! Do-do doo dooooo. Do-do-d-do-dooo…”

…

“Annnnnd, I should see all my friends on mute. William, hang on just a second. All my friends need to look at my picture, it’s an oval with a line through it… Okay, William, what did you bring to show us?” Y/N leaned toward the computer screen. “Grandma Kathy? O-oh, she’s— she’s in the—“ Y/N’s eyes widened. “Is that— is that an urn? Oh wow. Um, well, wow. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing that with us, William. Grandma Kathy, may she rest in peace.”

⧭⧭⧭

A week into Y/N teaching kindergarten from their living room, the university had announced its transition to online coursework for the remainder of the academic year. Spencer had to host his first zoom lecture, and he was absolutely dreading it.

“Spence, it’s going to be fine. It’s not like you’ve never been on a video conference,” Y/N assured him. She sat cross-legged on the couch, waiting for him to let her in to his practice zoom.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t running those meetings. I just showed up.” He squinted at the computer screen. “Are you in?”

Y/N barely resisted the urge to make a joke, knowing that Spencer probably wouldn’t appreciate the innuendo. “No, you have to admit me.”

“What do you mean? How do I do that?”

“There should be a box with a button that says admit.”

Spencer gestured at the computer. “Well there’s a bunch of boxes— which one should I be looking at?”

Y/N sighed and got up from the couch. “IQ of 187 and can’t find the box.”

Spencer dragged a hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn’t find this so difficult. I’m sorry you have to waste your time on this.”

“Hey, it was a joke.” Y/N grabbed his hand from where he was frustratedly pulling on his frazzled curls. “I’m sorry. That was mean and you’re already stressed enough.” She used her free hand to smooth his hair back into place. She scrunched her nose. “I love you and your limited technology skills. And honestly it’s kind of nice to have one thing I can actually teach you about.” She squeezed his hand, leaning over him to peer at his computer screen. “All right, let’s find that elusive admit button.”

When the day of his lecture rolled around, Spencer thanked all the atoms in the observable universe that Y/N had a break during his class. Within the first ten minutes, he’d managed to accidentally kick himself out of his own meeting and then somehow lose track of the screenshare button.

“No one can see me and I don’t know what happened to the screenshare option. It was there and now it’s just… gone,” he told Y/N.

She leaned over his desk, eyes tracking over the screen and mouse clicking around the desktop. “How in the world did you manage to block your camera?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even touch it!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand how it’s even possible to be this bad at this.”

Y/N bumped his knee with her own, pulling up his camera settings and preferences. “Relax. You can’t be good at everything. It’s a refreshing reminder that you’re a mere mortal like the rest of us.” With a few rapid clicks, Y/N unblocked his camera and located the screenshare bar. “There. Crisis averted. I’m just going to share your whole screen in case you want to toggle between application windows. So just be aware that they’ll be able to see everything. And then you just click here when you’re ready to stop sharing.”

When Y/N turned her head toward him to check that he understood, Spencer grabbed the side of her face and caught her lips in a kiss. Y/N smiled against his mouth, heart speeding up as he traced the seam of her mouth with his tongue.

“Um, Dr. Reid? Your um— your camera’s working now.”

Spencer nearly fell out of his chair, his cheeks about the color of the Leave Meeting icon. Y/N dropped her head, debating whether she wanted to laugh or let the earth open up and swallow her whole. She ultimately decided to compose herself, stepping back and giving a little wave to the sea of tiny, grinning zoom faces before slinking out of frame, miming sorry to one very mortified professor.

⧭⧭⧭

“Would you want to be our mystery reader next week?” Y/N asked, bookmarking the page of her novel and reclining back in bed. “You just have to pick a story to read. Oh, and think of four clues about your identity to give the kiddos.”

Spencer raised his eyebrow, continuing to read. “Any story?”

Y/N laughed. “Well they’re six, so maybe hold off on the Chaucer and Bradbury for now. A picture book would be preferable.”

“Did you know that the first picture book, Orbis Sensualium Pictus, or Visible World in Pictures, was published in 1658?” He looked up from his own book. “Czech educator John Amos Comenius wanted to create a book that would be accessible to children of all levels of ability. The educational theories he explored are actually still in practice in the field of early childhood education.” He turned toward her from his spot under the covers. “For example, when you have your students make a hissing sound and slither their arms when they produce the sound represented by the letter s? Comenius included an alphabet chart with various animal and human sounds representing each letter. He wanted to demonstrate that the incorporation of multiple senses could help increase learning.”

“I guess you don’t fix what isn’t broken,” Y/N mused. “300 years later, and we’re still using the same methods.”

“362, actually,” Spencer corrected.

She gave him a look. “Maybe we can save the Comenius for another time.”

“The genre of children’s literature encompasses some of the most profound and philosophical story telling of all time.” Spencer returned his attention to his reading.

“...So is that a yes?”

Spencer smiled. “I’ve got a book in mind.”

“And clues,” Y/N reminded him, snuggling down under the covers and reopening her book. “We need some fun clues, mystery reader.”

…

“Kindergarten, we have a very special mystery reader this week. Oh man, are you ready for the first clue? The mystery reader loves jell-o! Raise your little hand if you love jell-o, too. Okay, kindergarten, I see you! Lots of jell-o lovers in the house.”

…

“Okay, clue number two! Our mystery reader works as a community helper— remember we learned about all different kinds of community helpers; firefighters, nurses, police officers. But if the mystery reader could be anything, they’d want to be a cowboy! How cool is that?”

...

“Clue number three for our mystery reader!” Y/N sucked in a gasp. “You guys. The mystery reader can do magic. Oh my goodness, I am so excited for Friday,” she sing-songed. “Will they show us a trick? Hmmm, I don’t know. Maybe if you ask nicely.”

…

“Okay, my friends, the last clue. The mystery reader loves reading. They read every day, and they’ve been reading since 1983! Yes, that was a very long time ago.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Okay, any last guesses about who our mystery reader might be?” Y/N questioned.

“I think it’s your dad,” a little voice called out.

Spencer made a choking noise from where he sat, slightly off camera. Y/N laughed. “The mystery reader is decidedly not my dad, Keyshon. Remember I showed you guys the picture of him— my dad’s a farmer, so he’s kind of already a cowboy.” She clapped her hands together. “Okay, without further ado, drumroll please... Our mystery reader is…” Y/N pushed her desk chair out of frame to allow Spencer to roll in, holding her hands out. “Spencer!”

He gave a little wave, smoothing his hair, suddenly painfully self-aware and nervous about the opinions of two dozen six-year-olds. “Hi guys.”

“You’re the boy on Ms. Y/L/N’s phone.”

“Your hair is so fluffy!”

“Do you have a cowboy hat?”

“I like your sweater.”

“Can you really do magic?”

“What’s your favorite jell-o?”

“Whoa, okay, let’s remember our mute button,” Y/N, holding up her index card. “I promise you’ll get to ask Spencer all your questions after he reads the story.”

Spencer smiled at the excited faces beaming through the screen. “Yes, I’m on Ms. Y/L/N’s phone; I don’t own a cowboy hat, yet; yes, I really can do magic; and the red jell-o is my favorite.”

Y/N watched with interest as Spencer pulled out his book. He’d been secretive about his choice, so she was as curious as her students.

“This is one of my favorite stories. It’s written by Munro Leaf, and illustrated by Robert Lawson. It’s The Story of Ferdinand.” Spencer held the cover up to the camera. “Ferdinand is the bull here on the cover. This story was written in 1935, which was a long time ago! Okay are you ready?” Spencer looked out on a sea of thumbs up, turning the page to the beginning of the story. “Once upon a time in Spain, there was a bull, and his name was Ferdinand.”

Y/N smiled as she listened to Spencer read each page, recounting the story of the peaceful bull. He was an excellent storyteller, changing the inflection and expression of his voice to match each sentence. He held each page up for just the right amount of time, panning it so her students could see each detail of the black and white pictures. He added his own wonderings and exclamations here and there, and her students were decidedly enthralled. Her heart ached at how comfortable he was, how natural this was for him. She rested her chin in her hand, trying to keep her mind in the present— ignoring the persistent little mental image of Spencer as a dad.

“So they had to take Ferdinand home. And for all I know, he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly. He is very happy… And that’s The Story of Ferdinand.” Spencer closed the book with a soft smile. “I love this story. Ferdinand is a very special bull. What do you think makes him so special?”

“Ferdinand didn’t fight,” a little voice piped up.

“Yes!” Spencer agreed. “He practiced pacifism in the face of the persistent, ingrained militarism of his country’s culture.”

Y/N placed a hand on Spencer’s knee and gave a quick squeeze. “Right, Ferdinand chose not to fight, even though everybody else he knew wanted to.” Y/N winked at him before turning back to the screen full of kids. “All his friends thought he was kind of weird, but he just really wanted to hang out in the shade and smell the flowers, huh? Sounds pretty good to me.”

“He wasn’t bothered that the other bulls thought he was strange for wanting to be peaceful,” Spencer added. “Sometimes being different can be a good thing. The Story of Ferdinand reminds me that it’s okay to be yourself, even if other people think you’re weird.” His eyes met Y/N’s. “Because there will always be people who love and appreciate you for who you are.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #criminals minds self insert #dr spencer reid #professor spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #homoose writes

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beelspillowpet · 4 years

Text

Filthy Otaku - Leviathan x Fem!MC

Another thing I’ve been whipping up for when I hit 100 followers on this account~ I recall seeing a snippet from someone else about degrading Leviathan and I couldn’t help but dive into that topic more here~ I love our little Otaku snake boy so much ♡

Content Warning!!! Degradation kink, slight edgeplay, generally just being mean, but is still somewhat soft towards the end. MC is a female.

You didn’t need to hustle. Life in the Devildom wasn’t always easy, but one thing that kept you neck deep out of trouble was money. The Avatar of Greed let you in on a little secret; life down here in the Devildom wasn’t too different from life in the human realm. Get a little bit of cash to spend, you’ll have demons dancing in the palm of your hand.

What started as a little joke quickly devolved into a means of getting consistent cash. It was like a little daily piggy bank, spilling its contents for you to keep forever. You somehow never suspected the creepy Otaku to be the real pervert in the family; especially with Asmodeus right there.

After your shower, you felt clean and refreshed. Nothing felt better than pampering your skin after a long day. To get into nice clean clothes, and then crawl into bed to wake up the next day. Or at least whenever Lucifer woke you up. You still weren’t used to the day/night cycle, without a sun to tell you to wake up.

Now, though, you added something new to your shower routines. You slipped into your new pajamas, silky smooth. Asmodeus had wanted a pair like that for a while, and questioned how you got your hands on it. The others did as well. You gave a sly grin, “That’s a secret~” you purr. The secret was the Third Born.

You walked down the hallway in nothing but your robe. After knocking a few times, you opened the door without giving the phrase. You didn't need it. No one else came into his room at these sorts of hours. “Levi,” you say boredly. He sits up from his bed (bathtub, really) and removes his headphones. His face is flushed.

“I’ve got a new pair for ya’,” you smirk, reaching into the pocket of your robe to pull out your underwear. It was a pair you had just taken off before your shower. It only made sense that deprived freaks like Leviathan would be into this sort of thing. Using the underwear of pretty girls to jack off with, sniff, and do whatever else it is weirdos do with them.

Leviathan scrambled from out of the bathtub and over to you. His clammy hands reached for the used pair, before you snatched them away. Your other hand came out, curling the fingers and uncurling them.

“Grimm,” you instruct. “I want cash in hand, before I hand anything over. So go get my grimm.”

Leviathan nods, going back to his bathtub and leaning over it. You stare at him, admittedly a bit turned on by how excited he is to use a new pair of your underwear. He returns with a hand full of grimm, and another hand with your used up underwear from the previous day.

“I figured you might… want them back?” he tries, but doesn’t offer them with the grimm.

“No,” you say scoffed. “I don’t want my used underwear back. That’s disgusting.” he cringes a bit, but takes the new pair in place of his grimm. You step back and look him over once. He’s flushed, a bit out of breath, and very shaky. “You were just jerking off, weren’t you?”

He shamefully nods, not looking you in the eyes. You smirk. This might be your chance to try something out.

“You really are a disgusting otaku freak.” You spat out. He shuddered. “That one was free, by the way.” He lowers his head and steps back towards his bathtub. He had expected you to leave, but you just stood there, confident smirk on your face. “I want to try something.” you say. “I want to watch you sit in that chair,” you point to his gaming chair across the room. “Touch yourself. I want to see how a revolting freak like you gets off.”

He swallowed, his knees weak. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take already. He sat in his chair across the room, sliding down his pants to present his hardened cock. With both pairs of used underwear in his hands, he wrapped the silk fabric around his girth and stroked slowly. He was slow now, giving soft pants every now and then. You were getting bored quickly.

“Yank it already, god dammit. Or are you making love to my fucking panties?” You scowl. You’re almost running across the room now, going through his drawers. You know he’s got a toy or two hidden in here somewhere. If not for- aha. Your eyes land on his bathtub, where you know he keeps his Ruri-Chan body pillow. You pace towards it, reach inside, and pull out the body pillow. His eyes widen in fear, his hand stilling.

“W-what’re you-”

“I wonder if I cut a hole in her face and stick a onahole inside, would that get you off faster?” You muse. “Face-fucking your cute Ruri-Chan pillow for me. I bet you’d thought of doing it before, am I right?”

“N-not to R...Ruri-Chan, no…” he trembles. You raise an eyebrow. He must be lying, but you don’t press on it.

“Have you thought about me?”

The color in his face drains. Bingo.

You drop the body pillow back into the bathtub lazily, creeping towards him. “Stroke yourself, you pathetic bitch.” you sneer. As if he was a fully charged battery, his hand stuttered back to life. It was robotic, as if he were merely following orders. “That’s right. Mm, you’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Fucking me silly in your bathtub. On the floor. Against the wall. You’ve thought of doing horrible things to me, haven’t you, Levi?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “I-I’ve thought of you. Your body, d-doing lewd things t-to you, aah…”

“Tell me.” You cooed, right next to his ear now. “Tell me some of the things you’ve wanted to do to me.” You turned and kissed his temple. He choked on his own spit for a moment, stroking himself harder.

“I-I can’t…” he sobs. “P-please, it’s too embarrassing…”

“Tell me or I’ll never give you another used pair of underwear again.” You threaten. His eyes open and he jolts away from you, staring bewildered. “I mean it, Levi. I can just give my used panties to another sweaty, fat bastard. Someone somehow much less useful that you. But…” his eyes brighten, a distorted smile slowly creeping across his lips. “If you tell me… I might bless you. By taking your virginity for you?” you pout innocently.

He pants, squeezing his cock in his fist. “Re...really?! You’d let me-?”

“I don’t want you to speak another fucking word. Not unless it’s about what you imagine doing to me. Do you understand?”

“F-fucking your thighs…” he starts slow. He licks his lower lips before continuing. “M-making you were thigh highs and pushing c-cock…. Between them.”

“Am I only wearing thigh highs?” Your hands start massaging his shoulders gently. “You like when I touch you, huh? Even if our knuckles brush, it just makes you so hot and bothered doesn’t it?”

Leviathan let out a puffy sigh, stroking himself slower. You eyed his hand as he kept talking. Occasionally butting into his fantasies. Your touches roamed from his chest, to his neck, where you unceremoniously choked him for a few seconds. There was a time where you took to slapping him, and even thought of spitting on him. While you didn’t deny the fact that he would be into it, it still stopped you from going through with it. You weren’t an idiot; if you pissed him off somehow, he would tear you to bits. Maybe fuck you before doing it, though.

You stood up straight, hissing. “Are you edging yourself?” you question. By now he was a shivering mess, barely able to string words together. “Fucking loser. You’re so desperate for pussy. You’re wanting for me to open my legs like a cheap whore for you. You want to fuck me?”

“Y...y-yes… Want to… please you…”

You smirk. “Good boy. You might be worth something after all. Well then? Get up. Now.”

It took him a moment, stumbling out of his seat and on to shaky sea legs. You opened your robe and discarded it on the floor. “By the way,” you start, a smile on your face, a smile in your voice. “You’ll pay for this too, in the morning. Even more if you cum inside. Got that?”

With that, you sit in his chair and slouch. “Get to it then, you worthless sack of shit. Make me feel good. Make your mommy- your master- your precious senpai feel good. You think you can do that? With your pathetic otaku dick, you think you can please me?” You lift your knees up to your chest before opening your thighs slowly, a cocky grin spread across your face. You move down to your pussy and trace circles across your clit. He’s watching, cock in hand, hunched over like an animal.

Just like one, he pounces.

He barely shoves more than half of his cock inside you and you’re clamping down hard on him. You give a choked groan that dies somewhere in the back of your throat when he immediately starts thrusting in. His hips are moving at an uneven, wild pace. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving you empty, trying to suck him back in. Then he bottoms out all in one thrust, making your body spasm.

“Fuck!” You yell, nearly kicking him in the face. “Calm the fuck down!” He leans forward, now hovering over you. “Fucking freak! I said calm down!” he doesn’t listen, too wrapped up in the pleasure of your fresh, wet pussy to do anything else. One of his hands grabs your ankle, the other his supporting him against the chair as he pounds into you. His hips crashing into yours leaving a bruising pain on your ass. His balls slapping against your skin, and his harsh breathing reminds you of a fish out of water, gasping.

You grit your teeth and decide the only thing you can do is hold on and hope he manages to get some sense into him. Hoping was a stupid idea, especially for someone like Leviathan.

“Fucking stupid otaku,” you groan. “This is how you fuck a lady? This is how you treat her? Like a blow up doll?! You’ll never amount to anything. Absolute trash.”

He seems to hear just fine when you’re degrading him, because with each harsh word, his thrusts get harder. He’s practically dragging you against his cock now, pushing and pulling you. His hands find purchase on your hips and he quiets down for a moment, head dipping low. You can feel his clammy fingers tightening their grip before stars burst behind your eyeballs.

“Fuck! God you’re such a slut! Yes!” You’re squeezing down on him, clenching on to the chair for dear life. You were so busy insulting him that your own orgasm literally blindsided you.

There was a distinct growl that came from Leviathan, and he muttered in a dangerous tone. “Came on that cock, huh?” An uneven laugh followed. You could barely form words, still riding out your high while he continued with his frenzied pace. It wasn’t long after before you felt him spilling himself inside you. You contorted at the sensation, but with practiced ease, stilled after, allowing him to finish.

As he slowed down, still riding out his high, he let go of you. He muttered a soft apology as he began to pull out, stepping away. Your legs dropped to the floor and you sighed, content. You could still feel that distinct ache in your fingers from tensing on the chair so fiercely. “Fuck, Levi…” you pant.

“I’m s-sorry…” he stammers. He reaches out to help you stand, and when you get a steady footing under you, you sigh. “Do you need any help?” he asks, picking up your robe off the floor.

“No,” you smile. “I just need another shower is all. Thanks, though.” You didn’t feel like keeping the façade up. You were exhausted after that brutal fucking. You needed a nap.

It’s not like you were always mean to him. It was just strict business, and he didn’t seem to mind it. You treated him nice everywhere else. You never quite understood why he was so into this degradation kink, since he was such a powerful demon. But everyone is into their own thing, you guess.

#om!#obey me #obey me smut #obey me mc #female mc #obey me leviathan #obey me levi

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theyoungest-weasley · 3 years

Text

Bucky/Steve Imagine 1

Request: Heyyy request time! Stablished bucky x reader but steve is in love with her and maybe without realizing he takes advantage of bucky vanishing

“Hey. How you feelin’?”

Steve posed the question as if he hadn’t been too afraid to ask you such a simple question for the past week. All you’d done since Bucky disappeared was sleep and drink the water Steve brought to your room. You knew he was worries about you, and you knew he was hurting too, but the pain was so much you couldn’t even push through out of concern for your friend.

“Okay.” It was the most you could get out at the time, and the first words you’d spoken since you screamed Bucky’s name as you watched him disintegrate.

“I miss him too,” Steve began, “I know what you had was- I don’t want to make you feel-“

“I know,” you interrupted. It broke your heart to see Steve so broken and trying to keep it together for you. It was the type of person he was. He always had to be the strong one, the supportive one. You knew that on top of missing Bucky, it was killing him he couldn’t make it better for you.

“I’ll be okay,” you attempted to assure him, “I promise.”

You got up and walked over to hug Steve, and, when you did, saw that he’d began to tear up.

“I know,” you whispered as you pulled him close. Although the Captain was over 6 feet tall, he felt small in this moment. You held him for a minute before pulling away and holding his face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere; we’ll be there for each other.”

“Deal,” Steve smiled.

Over the next few months, you and Steve stayed in the apartment where you and Bucky used to live. You couldn’t bear to get rid of any of Bucky’s things, and you felt it brought Steve comfort to be in place that reminded him of his friend.

While time and Steve’s company had ever-so-slightly improved your mood, you found yourself often crying in the middle of the night. Bucky’s side of the bed felt big and empty. You desperately wanted to hold on to him, but you knew he was gone. On this particular night, you were wrapped in one of Bucky’s shirts. You always tried to be quiet, but the familiar smell of the love of your life brought back the fear you saw in his eyes during his last moments. The worst part, you felt, was how scared he was. Bucky had been to hell and back during his life, and you’d done everything in your power to help him heal and feel safe. You were always where he felt the most protected, and when he looked at you in those moments you were so petrified of losing him you didn’t even reach out to touch him- to comfort him. It wracked you with guilt and regret.

“Y/n?” You heard a whisper and a faint tap on your door.

You wiped your eyes and attempted to clear your voice, “Yeah? Are you okay?”

Steve gently pushed the door open, “Can I come in?”

You sat up, “Of course, what’s up?” You attempted to pull yourself together.

Steve sat on the edge of your bed, “Y/n, I’m okay. But... I hear you. I-I know you may want to be alone but, no matter the time you can get me. Lord knows the amount of times you’ve been there for me.”

You reached out and held his hand and let the tears come. Without saying a word, the two of you knew what each other were feeling. You turned to face Steve and lie down as he pulled back the blanket and laid next to you. He gathered you easily in his arms and pulled you onto his chest. He began gently brushing your hair back with the palm of his hand as you silently cried. All of the nights where you’d stayed up until dawn unable to sleep seemed silly. Steve’s steady breathing quickly brought your own to its pace, and the warmth of his chest and arms brought you to a deep sleep within minutes.

This quickly became your routine. You slept much better with Steve there and he with you. After several months of this routine, mixed with late night chats and midnight confessions, you and Steve had become closer than you’d ever imagined you would be. He’d told you about his family, how he’d grown up the runt of a large brood of irish catholic immigrants, and you’d told him about yours.

He’d spilled his heart to you about losing Peggy, and how he still visited her in her old age, and you confessed your guilt about Bucky’s death and bonded over your lost loves.

Steve ended up wearing Bucky’s t-shirts that were left hanging in the wardrobe beside his and your bed. He held your hand during the day and you brushed your teeth together at night. Steve wouldn’t lie, he was deeply in love with you. Of course, he wanted to help you grieve Bucky, but the lengths he went to to ensure you were okay were not motivated just by feelings of friendship and selfless kindness. He would do anything for you.

About a year after Bucky’s disappearance, you and Steve were sitting in your kitchen deciding what to have for dinner.

“Come on,” you begged, “you always pick where we order from! It’s definitely my turn.”

“No way! Just because Bucky was a pushover and let you pick doesn’t mean I will too!”

He’d meant it as a harmless joke, but it struck a chord with you. You thought of all the times you teased your sweet boyfriend into letting you pick movies and orders. You felt the tears begin and cursed yourself for being so sensitive.

“Oh, y/n,” Steve began to apologize, “I didn’t-“

“It’s fine!” you snapped. Steve reached out to you and you pulled away, “I said it’s fine, just leave me alone!”

“That’s not fair,” Steve was beginning to get annoyed, “you talk about him and laugh about old stories at 3am every other night but I’m not allowed to mention him at any other time? He was my friend too!”

“Oh, yeah” you rolled your eyes, “sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve demanded.

“I don’t think friends shack up with other friends girlfriends the second they die!”

“What? Is that what you think I did?”

“Oh please Steve,” you spat, “Don’t think I don’t see it now. You wear his shirts and sleep in his bed! You do all the shit we used to do- except fucking me. You swooped in the second he vanished and it took me a while to see it but you act like you don’t even realize it!”

Steve fell silent and you immediately regretted your harshness, “Fuck, Steve. I’m sorry I didn’t mean that. I’ve just been stressed and I do miss him-“

“No,” Steve interrupted, “no, you’re right. I-I’ve been ignoring it but it’s true. The fact is, I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since I met you. And you and Bucky started going and that was great. He was so happy and you were so happy and you both deserve the best. But after he died I felt like I’d lost him and I didn’t wanna lose you too. I guess I just let it happen and I should’ve stopped it. I can’t play house with my best friends girl and expect her to love me back. I’ve been horrible, y/n. I didn’t fully see it until just know, but I’m sorry.”

You stood there, shell-shocked trying to absorb everything. You would be lying if you said that over the time you’d spent together, you’re feelings for Steve had grown and changed. What used to be platonic admiration had grown to be something deeper. You missed him when he was gone. You feel asleep on his chest and spent the moments you lied there awake memorizing the feeling of his body beneath yours.

“I should go,” Steve said quietly.

He walked to your bedroom to grab his coat and shoes and you had a moment of clarity.

“Wait, Steve,” you followed him into your room, “I know that the way things happened worries you, but no one else could have been there for me. I know what I said but it’s because I’ve been feeling guilty because I-I love you too. Please stay.”

By this point you’d gotten close enough to Steve to feel his breath on your face. You were looking down at his chest, waiting for a response. The tension in the air made your hair stand up, and a moment passed before you looked up at him. You felt his hand on your arm and moved your lips as close to his as possible without touching them. You reached you hand up to his face and closed your eyes before finally kissing him. He moved both his hand so they were pulling you closer by your arms, and you pushed yourself on your tip-toes to get as close to him as possible before he moved an arm to your thigh and picked you up. He firmly planted you with you back on the bed and pressed your forearms down above your head on the mattress while climbing on top of you. You wrapped your legs around him and bit his lip. He moaned into your mouth and put his hands up your shirt, working his way to your bra. You reached down to his belt and began undoing the clasp as he ripped of your bra.

hahahah okay the rest is implied heavily i’d say. Ty for reading. I may perhaps do part 2 w after bucky comes back?

#bucky x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #captain america #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers imagine #marvel #avengers #marvel imagine #avengers imagines #avengers imagine #avengers x reader

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aonogifreactions · 4 years

Text

Yukio Okumura Alphabet Headcanons - [SFW]

a/n: its finally here! and suprisingly, its not 2am, lmfao- heres our fave problematic boi. he deserves love too.

Yukio:

A = Affection (How affectionate are they with an s/o?)

Yukio's quite affectionate! However, most of the affection occurs somewhere in private, rarely in public; but it's not like he doesn't like showing it - he considers it somewhat intimate. Yukio has no problem holding your hand in public or wrapping his arm around your waist, though.

B = Breath (What could their s/o do to take their breath away?)

Being yourself. Not acting like completely another person, whether its to just to fit in or to get an advantage in something. Even though it sounds kinda silly, he loves seeing you being yourself, the real you, doing what you like. It comforts him in a way, considering that he always had to change himself to either be an adult and take care of someone, or fighting his own demons. Since he always has to have a facade on, it's oddly satisfying seeing the person he loves the most being true to themselves and others.

C = Cuddling (Do they cuddle? If they do, how and when do they cuddle?)

In private? hell yes. anytime, unless he's doing some important work (well,, he still lets you sit on his lap nonetheless). Loves to cuddle, even if he's a bit reluctant at first, since he isn't really used to it. Whenever you cuddle, he always unconsciously intertwines his fingers with you - it's a habit he's developed as he got used to the other person's touch.

D = Dream (What do they dream of doing with their s/o?)

Similar to Rin - having a normal life. No satan, no Illuminati, just quiet and peace. Yukio also wishes to open up about himself and finally, leave any troubles and dishonesty behind. He feels guilty a lot knowing he's probably messed up too much and it's probably not gonna happen.

E = Effort (How much effort do they put into a relationship?)

He does his best! He has a great memory, so whenever an anniversary or bday approaches, he's already prepared. He also cares a lot, and it shows whenever he checks up on you - he acts kinda like a strict and caring mom, but that's just how he is. Questions about your wellbeing are always honest. Emotionally, he might be a little clumsy.

F = Fear (What do they do if their s/o is scared? How do they handle it?)

Outside is calm and collected, but outside he's panicking. He handles the situation pretty well, no matter if it's something serious or not. He asks if you're okay, if you need anything; if he hears "no", he kisses you on your forehead, sits next to you and pulls you closer to him, so you can wrap your hands around him and listen to his heartbeat. He doesn't say anything; instead, he plays with your hair and gives small kisses on the crown on your head.

G = Gifts (What type of gifts do they give their s/o? Do they want a gift in return?)

He's the jewelry type of guy. Whether it's expensive or something on the cheaper side, he likes both if it holds some kind of meaning. He loves buying you bracelets, sometimes he gets himself a matching one and wears it hidden under that black, exorcist coat. Doesn't really want nor expects to get a gift in return, and will have a hard time accepting one, but eventually, he'll take it. (and I mean, if you shove it in his hands and leave)

H = Hugs (Do they hug their s/o? How often?)

Hugging is a must, but in a very subtle way. Oh, you two greet for the first time this day? He side hugs you, placing a kiss on your forehead. Side hug works as a goodbye as well. Full-on hugs occur usually after a tough mission, if your life's been in danger or he feels particularly affectionate that day.

I = Intimacy (How romantic are they? Do they have problems with intimacy?)

He's pretty romantic, likes those cliche things, like giving you flowers or lighting candles for a special dinner for you two. Sometimes he cringes a lot because of that cheesy things, but it's really sweet, considering his personality. The only problem with intimacy is, well, his mind that at first, doesn't want to allow you to get to know his struggles. Since he's always self-loathing, it's really hard to get through that thick walls he's built throughout the years; He does actually open up eventually, but it takes him a lot of time - he wants to know that he can trust you.

J = Jealous (Do they get jealous? How do they act when jealous?)

Gets jealous only if you're "interacting too much" with people close to him - like Rin (sorry), Bon, or Renzo. Yukio just stares and, possibly, burns holes in the other person's skull. He'll place his chin on his palm, resting his elbow on the desk and.. just stare with no shame. If that person looks at him, he just smiles, but let me tell you, that smile is NOT a pleasant one. (aka "you better stop or else" kind of smile)

K = Kiss (Are they a good kisser? Do they like to kiss? How often do they try to kiss you?)

He's a decent kisser. I think he's kissed before, so he generally knows what to do and gets better as the relationship goes. Likes kissing, surprisingly! Often kisses you around your face, like on the forehead, cheeks, or your hair. Lips kisses, however, are mostly shared in private - he feels it's way more serious and intimate than any other kiss.

L = Love (When do they say they love you? How often do they say it? Do they prefer to say or show it?)

Yukio says "I love you" when he feels like it; it's not like he doesn't love you, it's just the way he is. Even though it's not often, he pours everything from his heart into these words. He's most likely emotionally vulnerable during this time, too - when his walls break down and he finally lets some of his struggles out, he always says that three words when he's done with his monologue. Sometimes however, you can do a random thing, and out of nowhere you hear him saying it too (just imagine eating marshmallows and hearing his "I love you", then looking at him with your stuffed mouth.. well-). He's a 50/50 guy - he knows he doesn't say that often, so he makes it up by trying to show it in different ways.

M = Marriage (Do they want to get married? If so, what kind of ceremony?)

Would love to get married! But Yukio being Yukio, thinks that who'd want a fool like him to spend their life with? with him? after all he's done? You won't accept his proposal, bet! When he's actually going to propose, he thinks "you only die once" (this proverb is so cursed-) and he's just gonna do it, thinking he's gonna be rejected. Would like a small ceremony, only with people he trusts the most and your families. (Mephisto is NOT invited, by the way.) ((yes, he's mad about it. hoes mad))

N = Night out (What type of dates do they like to go on? How often do they like to go on them?)

Home dates all the way! Or, if night walks are considered dates, they're his favorite. Walking through the city with a cold breeze, empty streets, and blinking stars above him - it's his guilty pleasure. There's no one to bother him, and the fact that he can share this feeling with you makes him feel fulfilled inside. If it's okay with you, he can go on walks like this every night (unless the weather sucks).

O = Out of the Ordinary (What’s something they don’t normally do with/for their s/o?)

As silly as it sounds, he's usually against a nice, specific skincare routine. Whether you suggest giving you both masks, he turns that down. He thinks it takes too much time and ultimately does nothing to make his skin better. (psst, just beg him until he gives up and gets a tiger mask on)

P = Playful (Are they playful in a relationship? If so, how do they play around/mess with their s/o?)

He's quite playful if he's in a good mood. His only weapon is to tickle you whenever you expect it the least.

Q = Questions (Do they ask their s/o their opinion on things? Do they share theirs?)

Depending on what topic the discussion is about, he might or not ask you for your opinion. He does value your thoughts on things, but if it's something regarding his actions, he's very likely to listen to himself anyway. If it's about something more light-hearted or less serious in general, he's definitely gonna ask you. He himself shares his own opinion rarely, unless he's cornered.

R = Random (How spontaneous is their relationship? Do they do things on the spot or plan ahead?)

It's been planned ahead, at first, but given that his "adventures" with both the Order and Illuminati made things quite... messy, it's now considered kinda spontaneous. He, to be honest, doesn't want anymore to plan things too far ahead, not knowing if they're gonna actually work out or not.

S = Sleep (How do they sleep with their s/o?)

He's a switch! Most of the time he's the big spoon, sleeping behind you with his arm over your hip, but when his mental health gets worse, he likes being spooned. Before sleeping, he has a small routine with you - when you're lying in bed, he hugs you tightly to reassure both himself and you that you're still here for him and he's for you, safe and sound.

T = Trust (How much do they trust their s/o?)

Yukio's got a little bit of trust issues, at first. In the first few months, he won't tell any information about either himself, or Rin. If his s/o doesn't participate in exorcist classes, he won't even bring up the topic of being the son of Satan himself (so his schedule might seem a little bit sketchy). He's that kind of guy that believes his relationship won't last long, so he sees no need to tell any sensitive info that could possibly cause even more problems. As the relationship progresses and he realizes his s/o deserves to know and has put up with his shit to the current day, Yukio will slowly break the news, feeling extremely guilty.

U = Unique (What makes them unique as an s/o?)

Despite him bottling up his emotions and thoughts, he's a top-notch listener. Whenever something is bothering you, he's gonna ask if you wanna talk about it; he's gonna listen to it and give you the best advice he could possibly think of. He thinks something along the lines of "if I can't be helped, at least I'll help someone else that actually cares about me."

V = Vulnerable (How long until they can be vulnerable around their s/o? What are they like in this state?)

Very, very long. A whole ass year, if not more. His breakdowns are very violent - they start with him being furious - he's yelling, pacing around, and holding guns all the time; might also throw stuff, so in this phase, it's better to let him do his thing, instead of getting yourself injured and making him blame himself for more. The second and last phase is when he just kneels and lowers his head, dropping the guns on the floor and placing both of his hands on his face; that's when he starts sobbing, apologizing, and saying what's been on his mind all that time. He chokes on his sobs whilst talking, his entire body is shaking and when you come closer to him to embrace him, he throws himself at you and holds you like it's the last thing he's doing on this world.

W = Wild Card (Get a random domestic headcanon of the character of your choice)

On a happier note, Yukio's all ready to try out some basic, simple things you're interested in! You're baking? He's here to help you in any way he can - mixing, decorating. I headcanon that he's able to read extremely fast, so he might as well read any of the books/manga you like and talk about it later on. If you're an artist, no matter if the beginner or not, he's very willing to help you with anatomy, drawing certain parts of the body, or explaining them in detail!

X = X-Ray (What would they do if their s/o got injured?)

Surprisingly calm, unlike Rin. He's patched Rin up before, plus he has a meister in doctor, so he's familiar with it and is pretty skilled with his hands. If the injury is too much for him, he's gonna get you to the hospital.

Y = Yuck (Do they have any pet peeves about their s/o? Are there any habits that might bother their s/o?)

The only things that bother him are sticking nose in other people's business or forcing him to talk about certain things.

Z = Zeal (Are they passionate as an s/o? Do they want or like passion?)

He's trying his best to be; likes passion himself, but feels like he doesn't deserve a single bit of it.

Yukio edit isnt mine! credit to the author! <3 headcanons written by me.

#Ao no Exorcist #ao no exorcist imagine #blue exorcist #blue exorcist imagines #blue exorcist imagine #Yukio Okumura #yukio okumura x reader #alphabet headcanons #Headcanon #Pure #im sorry if its bad i dont think i can read yukios personality that well :(

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softbaby-tom · 5 years

Text

needy - t.h. x reader

summary: “Oh fuck, hold on, were you listening to me singing in the shower?” warnings: tooth-rottingly sweet and sticky fluff word count: +2.5 k

A/N: so this is my first ever one shot / fic in general, so please bear with me. Very special thanks to @worldoftom for being an amazing friend and editor for me. I love you to pieces! —————————————–

It’s half six and you’re impatiently pacing back and forth in front of the bathroom door, because you have to get ready for the dinner date with Tom’s family in two hours. Tom’s been hogging the bathroom for so long that it’s pretty much a case of “start now or you’ll be late” at this point - you just can’t wait any longer.

So, you mutter to yourself “fuck it, I’m going in,” and sneak inside the bathroom while he’s still in the shower. The second you stick your head through the door, you’re instantly greeted with the smell of his shower gel and a wave of hot steam coming from the shower. After a few seconds of adjusting to the new environment, you make your way over to the sink-area to collect your makeup bag, along with all the loose items scattered across the counters next to the sink, where you usually do your makeup. Most of the time you’re in either too much of a hurry or simply too lazy to put all the products back into the bag, where they belong. So, you just leave them out to easily use them again the next morning without having the trouble of rummaging around to find them.

It’s safe to say that Tom is often annoyed with the situation of all those items flying around the bathroom counters, but he never really gives you shit about it, either. He just shoves them all to the side, whenever he needs the space or is looking for something in particular. Over the past few years, you’ve come to know he’s a slightly more organized person than you are and that he likes everything to be neat and in its right place. You, however, find it more practical to have them at arm’s length whenever you need them.

In that moment, you realize that Tom didn’t notice you coming in, as you can hear him starting to sing. His sweet, velvet-like voice fills the hot, steamy air like a soft breeze at the beach on a hot summer day. You stand there in awe of his beautiful voice and close your eyes to drown out everything that could be distracting your senses and just enjoy the rare occasion of hearing him sing. He’s usually very self-conscious about his singing - even though you’ve told him multiple times that there really is not a single reason to be - so, with that in mind, you just know he’s completely unaware of your presence right now. You listen closer and start to recognize the song he’s singing.

… And I can be needy

Way too damn needy

I can be needy

Tell me how good it feels to be needed …

For a second there, you contemplate whether or not doing your makeup in the bathroom while Tom is showering is a good idea, but looking at the bathroom mirror completely fogged up, you soon decide to move the whole procedure to the living room. You look over your shoulder one last time to maybe catch a glimpse of his cute butt, but even the shower screens are fogged up to the point that it looks like they’re actually made of frosted glass. With a pout on your face and a chuckle under your breath, you turn on your heel and strut to the living room, your collected items shoved under your arms.

That’s pretty much the best place to work on your makeup, mainly because it has the best light, due to the massive window front. Sitting down on the floor with your legs crossed, you set the small stand-up mirror that you carried from the bathroom along with everything else on the coffee table, then twist your hair into a messy bun on the top of your head to get it out of the way. You study your reflection to look for any particular unwanted spots you may need to cover up. The silence seems unbearable as you work, so you pull your phone out of the right pocket of your joggers and open your favorite playlist to keep it playing in the background.

To start off your daily makeup routine, you cleanse your face with a cotton pad and some toner, rubbing it across your face to get rid of anything that might have accumulated over night. Afterwards, you take out your eye cream and moisturizer to prep your face for the layers you’re about to put on. In that moment, you hear the bathroom door opening and Tom walking down the hallway towards you and the sound of your music.

As he walks around the corner, you see him shaking his bum and swaying his hips to the beat of the song that fills the air, wearing only the jeans he is apparently intending on wearing for dinner and the towel he used to dry himself off, wrapped around his neck, both edges falling on his bare chest. You are once again thankful that your taste in music is similar to his, almost the same, even. You can’t imagine yourself being in a relationship with someone with a completely different taste in music, at least if they hated everything you ever put on.

A big smile starts to spread across your face seeing him like this. Remembering his little singing performance in the shower, your mind comes up with a devious plan to tease him a bit.

Keeping as much of a straight face as possible, you turn on needy by Ariana Grande - the song he was singing in the shower earlier - to test his reaction. At first, he looks confused, as if he's taken aback by the sudden change in tempo, stopping his movements mid-dance. He stands there frozen for a second and you realize that he might not have known the song he was singing. He must have probably heard you sing it to yourself, absentmindedly, a few times.

Collecting himself, he closes the small distance in between the two of you and sits down in the armchair across the coffee table. You feel his eyes on you as you proceed to put on your concealer.

“What did you just put on your face?” he asks completely out of the blue.

While buffing it in, you answer in a nonchalant tone, “It’s called concealer.”

“And what is it for?”

“Darling, it’s literally in the name. It conceals everything that needs to be concealed. Imperfections like dark undereye circles and blemishes and all that.” In a cheeky tone, you add, “You see, your silly shenanigans last night are pretty much to blame for these dark circles in the first pl-”

“Wait, what is this song again?” he interrupts you, one hand raised with his index finger pointing up.

You look up from the mirror and flash him your brightest smile, raising one eyebrow in an attempt to look mischievous as you answer, “Why, do you like it?”

“Yeah, I mean, I think so. It was stuck in my head the whole day, but I couldn’t remember where the fuck I heard...” Tom tilts his head and squints as if the pieces are falling together inside his head. “Oh fuck, hold on, were you listening to me singing in the shower?” he asks, his fist raised at the height of his shoulder, thumb pointing backwards.

To be fair, he should have been on to you the second you changed the song. Truth is, you're constantly trying to prank each other in some way or the other, always quick to call one another out on little things like that.

You can see a blush growing on his cheeks immediately. In a heartbeat, you get up from the floor and make your way over to the armchair he's sitting in. Cupping his face with both hands, you settle on his lap and look straight into his chocolate-like eyes.

“Listen, babe. I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you a million times again, if I have to. Don’t. Be. Embarrassed. About. Your. Singing. In front of me or anyone else. I love you, I love your voice and I love your singing. I love your snores, your grumbles in the morning when you’re still sleep-drunk and your mumbled monologues when you’re asleep. I could listen to all of it, all day and all night.”

To emphasize what you just said, you press your lips onto his, for a little peck, and you can feel him relax into your touch instantly as he brings his hands around your waist to pull you closer and prolong the kiss a bit more. He never seems quite satisfied by a mere peck on the lips. Before the kiss gets too heated, though, you pull away quickly, leaving Tom with a serious pout on his mouth. He looks like a puppy who's been denied belly rubs or his favorite toy right now, which is endearing on the one hand, but extremely annoying how it gets to you almost every time.

“Now, I really need to finish my makeup, otherwise we’re going to be late,” you say while attempting to get up from his lap, but he holds you by your hips and pulls you back down.

“What the—” you want to ask, but he shuts you right up by capturing your lips with his, holding your face in between his hands. After a passionate kiss, he holds you close to his face, foreheads touching.

With a serious look in his eyes, he practically whispers, “I love you, too. More than you know and more than I’ll ever be able to verbalize.” Shrugging, Tom adds, “Just needed to say that.”

You feel your face heating up at his words, always so flattering despite being so simple, then you breathe out, “I’m glad you did. Good talk. If you would excuse me, now?”

Tom raises his hands on either side of you in a surrendering movement, letting you finally get up from his lap so you can finish your makeup.

After asking a few more questions about the products you’re using, Tom stands up from the armchair and struts into your shared bedroom to put on the rest of his outfit for the evening. Just as he walks out, fully dressed and looking dashing as always, you finish your look by adding some setting spray. Don’t want to look cakey halfway through the evening.

“Okay, I think I’m good to go,” Tom huffs half-amusedly, eyes studying your whole face with a longing expression. “Wow. You look— wow.”

“I love how eloquent you can be, gorgeous.” You laugh, watching through the corner of your eye as he pouts at you in that almost-adult-like way of his. “Someone’s extremely needy today, hm?” you add, getting up from the floor and pulling him into you by a hand so you can place a flimsy kiss on his lips. “C’mon, let me put on some clothes so we can leave.”

When you come home later that night, you head straight for the bathroom to take care of your night routine. As much as you enjoy doing your makeup and the way it makes you feel more confident when you wear it, there is no better feeling than taking it off again at the end of the day.

You stand in front of the mirror, humming, taking it all off, feeling eyes in the back of your head. Looking over your shoulder through the mirror, you can see Tom standing by the door frame, already in his sweats, naked from the waist up, ready for bed, with the most doe-like eyes you’ve ever seen on him.

“What now?” you ask, grabbing the several makeup wipes and cotton pads you used to throw them in the bin beneath the sink.

“Nothing,” he says shaking his head and grinning. “Figured I’d watch you doing that, too. A full circle kind of thing, y’know?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say with a short huff. Next, you reach for your moisturizer and start applying it for the night. That’s actually your favorite part about the whole routine; feeling it sink into your skin, smelling the familiar scent because you’ve used the same one for so long that it always makes you sleepier, just from smelling it.

Lifting a hand up to his chest as though he’s offended, Tom gapes at you in the mirror before he turns around to leave for the bedroom. “You know where to find me,” he says over his shoulder, almost bumping into the doorframe on his way out, causing you to snort out a small laugh.

You finish off as quick as you can, shoving everything into the cabinet next to the mirror haphazardly so you can join him in bed while he’s still awake.

You find him lying on his side under the duvet, humming to himself a sweet melody you think you know from somewhere, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. So, you just slide under the covers yourself, snuggling up to him immediately. His arms come around your body by sheer instinct, too. There’s a long shared gaze into each other’s half-closed eyes, pinky fingers intertwined in between your heads, before Tom takes a breath in.

Before you know what’s happening, he starts singing.

I'm so in love with you

And I hope you know

Darling, your love is more than worth its weight in gold

We've come so far my dear

Look how we've grown

And I wanna stay with you until we're grey and old

Just say you won't let go

You’re pretty much in shock, unable to form any coherent thoughts, let alone to find any words adequate enough to tell him. Simply staring at him with wide eyes, feeling a subtle prickling in the corner, mouth agape at the massive vote of confidence he’s offering you right now, you listen to him in silence. He's rarely comfortable enough to sing in front of you, and the fact that he’s doing it right now sends a warm, tingling sensation to the pit of your stomach and tugs delicately at your heart. You’re still too stunned by his voice and everything he makes you feel that you cannot stop staring at him. Even if you were able to form a logical sentence, you wouldn’t trust your voice to be anything more than a croaky whisper.

Just as Tom opens his eyes again to look at you, a single tear runs down your cheek, falling onto the pillow. You feel his thumb brushing a second tear away before it falls, the words seeping carefully through his melodic tone, and with a deep sigh, you realize what he's singing.

"That song," you say, and you were right; it's nothing more than a raspy murmur. "It played at the restaurant on our first date, didn't it?"

“It did, princess. And you still look just as beautiful as you did that night. You know, I can’t ever take my eyes off of you,” he mutters softly, his warm words hitting your face and reaching your heart. “You’re just stunning - with and without makeup. You don’t even have to try. I just hope I’ll have the chance to look at that beautiful face for the rest of my goddamned life.”

You feel more tears stinging in your eyes and a lump building up in your throat, but you fight against them to pull off a smile and breathe out, “Always and forever... Promise?”

“Promise.”

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A/N: I’m so happy the teaser did considerably great and I hope you also like the whole thing. Feedback is appreciated and encouraged. Thank you so much for reading! i love you.

tagging some mutuals / friends and everyone who reblogged the teaser. Crossed out means I can’t tag you.

@worldoftom, @stuckonspidey, @hollandraul, @snowflakeparker, @farfromhaz, @mrhollandisart, @tomhollandsblog, @woaholland, @foreverherth, @screamholland, @humbledutch, @starkissedholland, @starksparker, @softspiderling, @tomhoe-lland, @cherry-holland, @thatweirdomimic,

#tom holland #tom holland oneshot #tom holland one shot #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fan fic #tom holland fluff #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fan fiction #fanfic #softbaby-tom #mine

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swiftlymoniquesblog · 4 years

Text

Perfectly Confused Angel- Part 14

A/N: Welcome to Y/N and Castiel’s wedding! I’ve spent the last several days working on this chapter because I firmly believe these two deserve a beautiful celebration of their love! I LOVE this picture of Misha and I think this would be how Cas looks on his wedding day! Photos and music will be linked throughout the chapter for special effects so please use them and please send in feedback; I appreciate it!

Word Count: 5,000+

Warnings: SO MUCH FLUFF!! Mentions of pre and post wedding sex, mentions of a boner, slight mention of nervousness and anxiety

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Castiel’s POV

It had been several months since y/n and I began planning our wedding. For years, I saw how humans put on weddings. In most cases, they were big, with lots of people and they were beautiful, with elegance and class and very extraordinary, all the way down to the smallest detail. But when it came to me, I never thought about the celebration, let alone marry a human. Our prophecy states that an angel can fall in love with another angel but nothing about falling in love with a human. Maybe because it was unheard of, but what did that matter? I met someone, who had been there for me through everything, the good and the bad, and she loves me anyway, and I decided to marry her. Heaven takes that kind of thing very seriously; I take it very seriously. It just happens that my bride is a human, is that so bad? I didn’t think so and she didn’t think so and that is all the convincing we needed. I remember the first time I met y/n’s parents; I don’t think they liked me. Her father yelled at me for being an “older man messing around with my little girl” and then y/n explained that even though I looked older than she was, I would forever look like this and one day, she would look older than me. That blew their minds and I remember thinking how most humans lacked an imagination. And after a lot of talking, heated discussion, and crying, her parents finally came around to accepting the fact that their ‘little girl’ fell in love with an angel. It was very untraditional and that worried me, but y/n reminded me that our entire relationship was unconventional and that was why we loved each other. She was very against a traditional wedding; no church for the ceremony. No, she didn’t want a wedding anything as anyone had experienced before. And that’s what she got.

It was early in the morning, on April 23rd, I had ‘woken’ up, to see y/n was laying next to me still asleep. I watched her like I always did, but I was seeing her in a different light. She was going to be my wife in a few short hours and everything will be different. I am no longer just myself; I will fully be committed to someone else. That’s something a lot of people take advantage of these days but to me and y/n, it will be cherished for as long as we live. She begins to stir then, and I couldn’t turn away. I know how tradition goes, the bride and groom are not allowed to see each other before the ceremony but we already broke that rule by sleeping in the same bed as one another, so I figured, this was just another tradition y/n didn’t want to follow.

“Good morning, Honeybee. Happy wedding day,” I say as her eyes flutter open and she looks up at me, a smile making its way on her face.

“Happy wedding day,” she says. “You know we aren’t supposed to see each other before the ceremony, right? Well, I guess she does care?

“Well, yes, but I thought you didn’t want a traditional ceremony?” I ask.

“Not all traditions are silly. I happen to like this one for the fact that I can surprise you in my wedding dress and not looking like I just stumbled out of bed,” she says, as an insult on how she looks first thing in the morning.

“The surprise I understand but I think you look beautiful first thing in the morning,” I say, leaning over to kiss her shoulder.

“You’re just saying that because you’re about to marry me,” She says.

“No, I’m marrying you because I say things like that. And because I love you wholeheartedly and I want everyone to be apart of us becoming one,” I say, a blush forming on y/n’s cheeks.

“Then, let’s go get married!” Y/N says, quickly pecking my lips before jumping up to grab her phone. I remain lying in bed, watching as she started her ‘usual routine.’ The smile that begins to play, kicking her into full gear to prepare for the biggest day of both of our lives.

“It’s a beautiful night, we’re looking for something fun to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you.”

“Of course, this would be the song you play on your wedding day,” I joke to her.

“Hey, I’ve waited ten years to be able to play this song and to be getting ready for my own big day. This is a BIG deal for me, okay?” She defends herself.

“I know it is but you do know it’s on our playlist for the reception, right?”

“It doesn’t matter, Cas! I’m going to playing this song on repeat, all day.” I smile at my fiancé as she dances around in her underwear while she brushes her teeth and washes her face. I couldn’t wait to wake up this way every day.

We both begin to get ready, not really caring about the other seeing the other, because we haven’t begun the wedding stuff yet. But I couldn’t help but think that we were missing something rather important.

“Hey, babe?” I call to her, to get her away from looking at her dress in its bag in our closet.

“Yeah?” She calls back but stays where she is.

“Don’t you think we should have some breakfast first?” I call to her and I hear her gasp before she comes out of the closet.

“How can we eat when we’ll be stuffing our faces at our dinner tonight? And our cake!”

“I know Honeybee, but that’s not for several more hours.”

“Well, what time is it now?” She asks.

“6:30,” I say looking at my phone before noticing the stunned look on y/n’s face.

“Damn, we got up early!” She exclaims and we both laugh.

“Would that be because you’re excited for today?” I tease her, knowing she most definitely was.

“No, not at all. It’s not like I’ve been waiting since the day we first met when you came down here from heaven, to watch over my best friends or anything. Nope, no excitement here,” Her sarcasm is very strong; she watches too much Friends. I laugh and go to kiss my soon-to-be-wife. Funny that I can’t stop saying that I’m going to be marrying y/n. But I’d like to enjoy a few more moments with her as my fiancé. We’ll never be engaged again so why not make it last just a bit longer?

I grab the phone from the nightstand on my side of the bed and dial the restaurant downstairs. I order a lot of food, making sure to order plenty of coffee considering we both will be up for a long time today. Of course, we order a lot of food, but we don’t care. We have a long day ahead of us before we’ll get to dinner. Y/N had come back to bed, crawling right back under the covers and snuggling up to me, a lazy smile forming on her lips.

“What are you doing, silly girl?” I ask her, looking down at her, pushing some hair that had fallen in her face.

“I just want to stay in bed with you, as your fiancé, for long as possible. I want to cherish the feeling of being your fiancé forever,” she says, looking at me with big doe-like eyes.

“That is an important thing, but I can’t wait to enjoy the feeling of having you as my wife,” I say as I snuggle in next to her, wrapping her in my arms and turning the tv on. As she flips through the channels, finding something to watch, a knock on the door pulls me away, and a disgruntled groan falls from y/n.

“My warmth!” She cries as I answer the door. A man in a tuxedo enters the room with a cart full of silver-topped dome lids. He takes each dome off one at a time and I can hear y/n running in to see what I ordered. Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns; all her favorites. And two pitchers of coffee with tons of cream and sugar, just the way she likes.

“See, this is why I’m marrying you, Cas. You always know how to feed me,” she says in all sincerity but I decided to poke fun at her.

“Oh great, so I’m only good for food. Okay then,”

“Okay you know that is not true at all. You’re also good for doing laundry,” she adds, going a bit too far with her jokes.

“That’s it, you’re going to get it,” I say to her before I tell the waiter that he can’t bring us anything else. As he’s leaving, I turn to y/n, pick her up over my shoulder, her squealing in the process, and tossing her on the bed. Just when she thinks that was all I was going to do as ‘her punishment,’ I ferociously begin tickling her.

“Cas!” Y/N screams as my fingers work their way all around her. I smile, loving seeing her so happy but also so helpless under my prodding fingers. She had no way of escape but I soon let her go after she apologized.

“Alright, so now that I’ve laughed so hard my sides hurt, can I please eat?” She asks, poking her bottom lip out like that of a child.

“Save the puppy dog looks to Sam. You got nothing on him. And yes, let’s eat,” I say, earning a ‘bitch face’ and no sharing from y/n. Guess I had that one coming. Two movies and a shit ton of missing food later, it comes time to get ready for the ceremony.

“Do we have to? Can’t we get married right here? I mean, it’ll be pretty tight but it could work. Any everyone can just stay in their pajamas,” she says, trying out that puppy dog look again and still failing.

“Unfortunately, Honeybee, we cannot have a wedding here. Believe me, I’ve already looked into it. Plus, you have that beautiful dress you’ve been dying to wear and you’ve been eyeballing it all morning. It’ll look better in the lighting from the venue I’m sure,” I make up some excuse for her to get ready.

“I’ll see you in a few hours okay? You’ll be just fine. Your Mom will be coming to get you and all your bridesmaids soon, too. You go have fun and I’ll be waiting for you,” I say, giving her one last kiss for the next several hours. Granted, it was only 10 am, but it was a good half-hour to our venue and then we still have to get dressed and people still have to start showing up. And there was some talk about a few ‘last-minute’ gifts from the mother of the bride and her bridal party.

“Okay, I’ll be the one in the white dress,” she jokes and grins, proud of her funny self.

“I sure hope so. And I’ll be one of the many guys in a tux,” I joke back and kiss her again. I grab my suit out of the closest in its bag and grab my phone and other necessities for the ceremony. Y/N had already turned up the music louder and was back to dancing and shaking her ass, knowing I was still in the room. Man, what I’m going to do to that ass later on. I shake the thought and head down to the lobby. When the doors opened, Sam, Dean, and Jack were sitting around in the lobby.

“Well, it’s about time you came down here!” Dean exclaims, throwing his phone down on the chair, before standing to hug me; Sam and Jack doing the same.

“Sorry guys, y/n and I got a bit…distracted,” I explain but it came out very wrong.

“Ah, pre-wedding sex. Nice work buddy,” Dean said, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

“Not that it is any business of yours, but that wasn’t what I meant. I ordered a nice, big breakfast for the two of us and we were watching movies.”

“So, no pre-wedding sex?” Dean asked, for final clarity.

“No Dean, no sex right now. Tonight, yes, but again, that isn’t any concern of yours so let’s not talk about it again, shall we?” I say, trying to hide the red tint on my cheeks. The thought of sex with y/n as husband and wife was very exciting for me. In fact, it started getting a bit too excited so I quickly had to shake the thoughts out of my head but that was a difficult task. The Impala was brought to us from a young man, who seemed rather impressed with the classic car we took all our adventures in.

“Thanks, kid,” Dean said as he was handed the keys and we all climbed in, driving off to the ceremony location. Following the non-traditional theme y/n wanted, our ceremony was going to be held in a place where too many weddings didn’t happen. For some reason, she decided to set up an arch, laced with red roses, on the coast of New York City, with the view of the Brooklyn Bridge behind us. The chairs were white and tied together by a ribbon with bouquets of red roses at the ends. The aisle was white lace, stretching over the grass beautifully, and separating the bride’s family from the grooms. But, considering my family was angels, I wasn’t expecting too many people on my side. There was a table set up off the side where guests could write little messages to me and y/n. That was one thing she was insistent on having; a jar of messages for when we have our first fight. I had laughed, knowing we don’t get in too many disagreements but she was stubborn and said that once we’re married, we won’t always see eye-to-eye. I shook my head as she set the jar up, and trusted her ideas.

“Wow Cas, this looks beautiful,” Sam commented, taking in the sight before him.

“As much as I would like to take credit for this, it was all y/n’s ideas. She was very hands-on with all the planning,” I say, thinking back to when we began planning.

“So, what did you do then?” Dean asked, poking fun at me.

“I approved or denied things,” I said honestly.

“And she didn’t kill you?” Dean asks, now chuckling.

I laugh a bit too; y/n could get pretty bossy. But she wasn’t when it came to wedding planning.

“No, she was actually very laid back and she valued my opinions, even used some of them, too. We agreed on everything that you see here, as well as the reception and where to go on our honeymoon,” I comment.

“Oh yeah, I’m going to want to hear about that!” Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows and getting an eye roll from Sam and me.

“Come on, Dean, let’s go see what we can help with. Cas needs to get ready,” Sam said, dragging his older brother away.

“Party pooper, Sammy!” He moaned but his mood changed as soon as he saw a pretty blonde.

I shake my head and begin to head inside the room we rented out in a small, no-longer operating, brewery when Jack caught up to me.

“Hey, Cas,” He says, falling in step with me.

“Yes, Jack?”

“I was wondering about this wedding thing, what’s it for?” He asked, mimicking my eye-squint and slight head tilt I would do whenever something confused me. He was pretty good.

“Well, it’s a ceremony that all angels believe in and God himself, wants for human beings. It’s a way for a couple to make their love known to all they come in contact with. That also signifies the rings. We place them on each other’s hands as a way to show others that we belong to someone else,” I explain what a wedding and marriage meant to me.

“You belong to someone?” Jack quips, adding more questions to his wondering.

“Oh, that’s just a saying. No one has or should have possession over another person, or angel in our case, but they are tied to the other, in spirit and physically. That’s what the honeymoon is. Making their love physical and finalizing their commitment to each other. It’s very beautiful, really. And both y/n and I take weddings and marriages seriously, while a lot of humans don’t anymore. One of the many reasons I’m marrying her.” I say, smiling at the fact.

“That sounds wonderful, Castiel! I hope to find someone like y/n and marry her; you’re very lucky,” Jack says, a look of hope on his young features.

“I am Jack, very lucky. I don’t deserve someone like her but you bet I am going to cherish being her husband for the rest of my days,” I finish my speech on why marriage is important as I get dressed in my suit. When I’ve fully dressed myself, I look in the long mirror that stood in the corner and fixed my tie. I began feeling more human than I ever had since I landed on earth, my heart racing as I thought of the events that were going to conspire in a few short hours. It didn’t take me too long to dress, but I knew y/n was nowhere near ready. From my understanding of human women, they take a long time to get ready for any kind of outing, but weddings, I’ve been told, take a longer time for preparation and most likely, y/n has cried a few times. Her “team” of bridesmaids have been helping her get ready, dress, shoes, hair, and makeup. I imagine her nails are done with a design special for the day, and her toenails probably match, too. She takes events very seriously, making sure her nails matched. I can just imagine how beautiful she will look when she walks down the aisle to me.

“Cas?” Dean asks, knocking on the door and entering the room. “Dude, you look sharp. Ready to start the rest of your life?” He asks, throwing his arm around my shoulders.

“You have no idea. Is she ready now?” I ask, knowing it was nearing 5 pm.

“Yup, she’s finally stopped crying, her makeup is perfect; she’s ready,” Dean says, a small smile forming on her lips.

“Have you seen her? H-how does she look?” I ask, running my hand down my arm as nerves began to rack my body.

“She looks absolutely beautiful, Cas. You’re one lucky son of a bitch, if I do say so myself,” Dean grins, clapping his hand on my shoulder.

I smile to myself and feel my nerves getting stronger as the minutes pass by. She looks beautiful like I knew she would, but I can’t imagine just how beautiful she looks today. I wasn’t nervous because I was marrying y/n, I was nervous because I wasn’t sure I would be a good husband. I knew nothing about it, being an angel and all doesn’t really teach you anything about it, but from what I’ve seen for centuries from other human relationships, I think I have a good understanding. I follow Dean outside to where the groomsmen would line up, as we all waited for the big moment. Guests were starting to file in and I noticed everyone stopped by our table to leave us messages. That itself made me nervous too; would we really fight that much? These thoughts are running through my head but then the moment had arrived; y/n was coming.

Music began to play and everyone stood up, turning to the back to watch as the bridesmaids and groomsmen walked up the aisle. Y/N had chosen a rather untraditional song to walk down to me but it kept with the theme. It an orchestra version of a song called Love Story by one of her favorite artists. She had played both versions of the song for me as were planning and I liked it too. I had said it was the perfect song for us to start our lives together. Just then, there was a long pause between bridesmaids and I knew it meant y/n was on her way out. When she reached the aisle, my heart dropped into my stomach. Dean didn’t do her justice when he told me how she looked; she was stunning. Her dress was breathtakingly beautiful. Covering her chest and down to her stomach, was nothing but silver rhinestones. Then from the bottom, the dress spread out in front of her and the rhinestones fell in perfect line with the rest of the dress. There was glitter spread throughout the dress and the train that followed her was just as detailed as the rest of the dress. Her y/h/c was wrapped on top of her head, tied together with a braid and a small tiara sat on her head with a veil softly covering her face. I could see her smiling wide, to all the people who had come to see her and I knew she was loving her moment. Her Dad had escorted her up to me and I had begun to cry when I saw just how stunning she looked. I couldn’t believe she was mine forever.

“Hi,” I said to her when she stood just opposite me.

“Hi,” she answered, chuckling through her own tears.

“You look incredible, y/n,” I say, taking both her hands in mine.

“And you look very handsome, Cas,” she said, tears slowly falling from her eyes. As if on instinct, I went to wipe the tears away but she stopped me because I wasn’t supposed to lift her veil until after the vows. I remember her telling me that so I knew why she stopped me, without her telling me why.

The preacher had begun the ceremony with a traditional introduction but that was all for the traditional aspects of the evening.

“Y/N and Castiel have written their own vows and chose to read them aloud today,” y/n was handed the microphone first and spoke her words from a few notecards she had written earlier. They were beautiful and I took note that not one person was left with dry eyes. Then, she handed the microphone to me; not needing any guidance with my vows.

“Y/N, when we first met, I didn’t know a lot about love or what it meant to love someone so deeply, but when I came here to look after the Winchesters, I wasn’t expecting to see you or to have really anything to do with anyone besides Sam and Dean but then, you had come in the room, and instantly took a liking to me. There were a lot of things I’ve had to learn and you were the only one who was patient with me, the only one who stayed by my side when I had gone to the hospital and ended up having to stay for two weeks. You know how to take care of me when I’m injured, you know how to make me laugh when I’m upset, you know how to comfort me when I’ve needed it. There isn’t any other person I even like being around more than you; my favorite little person. I promise to always be there for you when life gets to be too much for you and I promise to always find ways to show you just how much I love you. I can’t imagine any life without you and I know now, I will never have to. I love you so much, Honeybee, and I cannot wait to start the rest of our lives together,” I finish my speech and after a few closing remarks from the preacher, the words I’ve been waiting to hear where spoken.

“I now pronounce you, husband and wife. Castiel, you may kiss your bride,” the preacher said. I took the veil and folded it behind y/n’s head and brought her close to me by her waist, and capturing her lips with mine; the first of many as a married couple. Cheers and applause had erupted around us but all I could focus on was y/n. If there wasn’t a reception to go to, I would’ve stayed here and kissed her for the rest of eternity but I knew I had to let her go. We smiled at one another, then to everyone around us, before locking hands and walking back up the aisle with everyone blowing bubbles. There were also a few machines that had released bubbles into the air to add more than enough for a bubbly theme. A princess style carriage was waiting to take us to our reception; another touch added by y/n. We climb inside and say hello to our driver, waving to our friends and family as we took off. I scoot closer to y/n and whisper in her ear: “Now I do love this dress but I can’t wait to take it off you later on.” Her eyes had widened, not used to hearing me talk so low and almost “dirty” as some people would call it, but I really didn’t care what others said. Y/N’s reaction was perfect, especially when my teeth had gently grazed her earlobe. She looked in my eyes, seeing they had darkened a few shades of blue but I turned to look away quickly. I had to leave her with a bit of wonderment as we had arrived at the venue.

Inside, there were Disney inspired decorations for the wedding. There are still things that make y/n a child at heart and I hoped she would never lose that. She was adorable when she watched Disney movies and I knew she wanted a Disney theme for the reception. Everything from the centerpieces to the utensils to the food we served and the cake, Disney was evident in everything. Most of the songs we played were Disney theme or popular classic rock and pop songs y/n had grown up with. We danced the night away, ate plenty of food and cake, had our first slow dance, and y/n danced with her Father. We took plenty of photos and videos were taken for us to look at later. A table was set up for gifts and another one for more message’s guests could leave for us. This time, they were advice about having a marriage and children or recipes for us to use later on. The night had gone without a hitch and I was finally able to call y/n my wife. As the night came to a close, I drew more anxious for the big night that was waiting for us behind closed doors. I could barely wait to take that dress off y/n and to physically seal our marriage but it felt as though the ending dragged on. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it was time for us to go back to our room.

“Ready to go?” I ask y/n, who’s eyes had turned a bit darker themselves.

“Absolutely, husband,” she said husband in a lower tone, only for me to hear.

“Then let’s go, wife,” I say and pick her up, arms under her legs as I carried her all the way up to our room.

Another tradition y/n insisted on, was for me to carry her over the threshold of our room. I held onto her until I set her on the ground. Candles were lined everywhere, roses petals littered the bed, and music was softly playing. This hotel was really going all out for y/n and I and I couldn’t wait to take advantage of all it had to offer.

“Hey babe, can you help me with this zipper?” Y/N asked, turning her back to me so I could undo her dress.

I bring my hand up to reach the zipper right in the middle of her back and pulled it down slowly to show the lace panties she bought specially for tonight. The dress fell off her in one quick motion and she took the rest of her undergarments off. Turning to face me, her eyes stayed right on mine, and she almost looked angelic, much like some of my family members. I was surprised as many of my sisters and brothers showed up at the wedding but all left immediately after the ceremony. Y/N had gone to lay on the bed, moving the blankets and sheets out of the way and I stood, just watching her move. It was different seeing her naked before me as my wife than when we first slept together as just a couple. I was going to see her in this light all the time and it made the night, that much better. I walked over to her, hovering over her, and kissed her, my hands already going to work on her, hands running over her body and down to the places she was needing me the most. I got her completely ready before I had unclothed myself and joined her in bed. This time, was so much better than any other time and I loved it. The way our bodies moved with each other, fully becoming one, I cherished the moment but was pleased that I could do this for the rest of our lives. I get to love her every single day, both physically and mentally, and emotionally too. We were finally the same, destined to one another until our final breaths. As we both came down from our highs, we laid next to one another catching our breaths, before I looked over at her.

“I love you, wife,” I say, grinning like a madman.

“I love you, husband,” she says back and kisses me once more. I could get used to these new titles.

Tag List: @fandom-princess-forevermore @tloveswriting @forever-trapped-in-my-dreams @juju-la-tortue @thinkinghardhardlythinking @angeredcrow @to-my-beloved-fandoms-2 @markofdean79 @lilulo-12 @grace15ella @simpleb00x

#castiel #castiel angel of the lord #cas fanfic #castiel fluff #cas #castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel x y/n

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drangues · 4 years

Note

You can’t see it but I’m pointing and saying that you’re the one who gets me because I also love cheesy stuff. Also I’ve been a nerd over Many things in the past- Mythology, geology, psychology, computers, characters in a franchise I don’t like but I love This One Person, etc. Have I stuck with any of these things long enough to be Smart and Cool and Know A Lot? Absolutely not. But my anxiety dictates that I’ll annoy anyways. (Nyanon, 1/6)

Putting my annoyingness aside, the ones that are your favorites aren’t basic!!! They had an impact on you that makes you cherish them, and that’s important! My Neighbor Totoro is probably one of the most well known (and therefore “basic”) films they’ve released, but it’s super important to me anyways. But yes, the two of them would look adorable in the Ghibli style,,, I can even imagine them just. Dressing up as Howl and Sophie for like, a convention or something, it’d be great. (Nyanon, 2/6)

And listen he has to be doing Something with books!!! He loves them, and I feel like he’d love being able to restore or take care of them in someway, even if they are inanimate objects and it makes him feel a bit silly for being so attached. If he isn’t doing restorations or bindings, then he’s definitely a librarian. Also!!! Imagine that Kyouka’s little familiar was a gift from Atsushi,, Maybe it’s Byakko??? Like, tiny striped kitty Byakko. (Nyanon, 3/6)

I think that’d be cute, but it’s been a while since I’ve been able to watch Kiki’s Delivery Service, so I might be a bit off on how that works. And! I like to imagine that, when he’s turned into a wolf, his ability doesn’t work? Because Reasons, so he and an equally fluffy Atsushi often curl around and on top of each other, it’s adorable. Also imagine Dazai’s frustrations with his new instincts. He keeps wanting to immediately run after anything that moves. (Nyanon, 4/6)

He can’t stop chasing his own tail when it pops up, in and out of wolf form? And he doesn’t know HOW Atsushi avoids growling and making noises at Every Little Thing that bothers him. It’s exhausting and Atsushi is just vining with all of it. Anyways, onto another Scenario Concept: Atsushi getting to try out new hobbies! Because at the orphanage, all he could really do was read, but now that he’s out, he can try all sorts of things, even if he doesn’t end up staying with it. (Nyanon, 5/6)

Cooking and baking? I think we’ve already discussed that he’d Love it. Creating artwork? Not really up his alley, but he really admires people who stick with it! Singing and playing music? He’s a bit too shy to do it in front of others, but he likes listening. Just. Atsushi being able to figure what he does and doesn’t like with the help of the people around him. (Nyanon, 6/6)

ill tell you as many times as you want that youre N O T annoying im having Beef with your anxiety m8 pull UP and thank you uwu, ive been told that theyre Basic so oftentimes ill say “i know it’s basic-” to save the person from having to remark something negative about the movies SMH and im glad you find comfort in Totoro uwuwu (godammit now i definitely wanna draw atsushi and dazai cosplayers in a convention dressed as sophie and howl AAAAAAA)

atsushi very much loves books!!! kyouka would probably be chilling on the rooftop of the book store, old radio that atsushi found beside her playing some music (yes atsushi also likes to collect Old stuff and vintage stuff as well) and then she just thinks “HMMM I WANNA GO ON MY WITCH ADVENTURE NEXT FULL MOON” (which is in tWO days) and as she goes to tell atsushi that atsushi almost messes up the book hes trying fix because hes in SHOCK “kyouka? what do you mean? what should i do about the movie tickets then?” “Cancel them! im going!” *cue staring in cluelessness before snapping back into reality and scrambling after an already packing kyouka*

(i imagine that kyouka is an orphan like atsushi but she knows that her family is a lineage of witches cus she became an orphan when she was like. seven or six so she KNOWS and when she started living with atsushi he just supported her and her traditions)

and then atsushi calls the small circle of friends they have and tells them that “hey!! kyouka is going in two days!!” and theyre like oH SHIT NO WAY REALLY (i imagine its koyo, yosano, fukuzawa and lucy are the people that are in their circle of friends that see kyouka off)

while byakko is atsushi and kyoukas Cat he definitely gives byakko to her as hes crying and saying that she needs to have a friend from home before she makes new ones and kyoukas like “ill be Back dont worRY-”

KENJI IS THE BOY SHE MEETS AT THE TOWN SHE SETTLES FOR AND THEY ARE CUTE AND FALL IN LOVE IM SORRY AAAA- i just ship them okay they would be very cute

and then later on that night when kyouka is gone and everyone went home atsushi closes the book shop but then Somebody walks in and its the WITCH and they C U R S E him and he becomes OLD and hes like “i cant let everybody else see me like this” and FLEES to try and find whoever cursed him or however he can Lift this dumb curse cause he does not want kyouka to come home to change, he just wants her to comfortably come back and fall into her usual routines without much of a shock

and so he meets Dazais Moving Castle and i imagine chuuya being the angry calcifer and akutagawa being dazais quiet but Cant Say No underling (which is so CUTEEE) and they. its just. Yes. (chuuya is smitten but doesnt which is why he gives in to atsushi so fast that it surprises dazai) either way all that drama happens and now atsushi is back with a new boyfriend (read: husband), a same aged friend, and an angry former Flame which is Not what atsushi accepted but hey, kyouka is back with a heart filled with romance so she cant be too shocked at atsushi also being in love

sorry i went on a whole tangent there

anyways, werewolf dazai!!

dazai: how do you deal with this?

atsushi, dead serious: i ignore it like i ignore my hunger

dazai:

(wait side note do you think atsushi would unconsciously do stuff he doesnt realise that he just,,,,Doesnt need to do anymore?? like for example he’ll be like “ah i cant i gotta do all of this torturous work before actually letting myself relax” and then he’ll realise wait,,,,i Can relax now,,,why wouldnt i be able to .What Do U Think Nyanon)

PIGGY BACKING OFF OF WHAT I SAID THAT REALISATION WILL PROBABLY MAKE ATSUSHI TRY OUT NEW HOBBIES ! ! ! AND IT’S JUST SO CUTE

#anon #ask #ask anon #anon ask #nyanon #nyatsushi anon #bsd

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underthemoon-and-stars · 5 years

Text

Our Golden Rule ( Bucky X Reader )

Summary: You know that you’re no superhero, but dating one makes you feel like you can fly. That is, until he broke something, leaving you with a broken heart.

Note: I was heavily inspired by @softlybarnes story “gentle” so thanks for being such a good writer dear!! This was also written for our very own BatQueen, as she wasn’t feeling so swell at the time of writing. This is for you love!!

Warnings; fluff than angst than fluff!

-Selenophile

———————————————————

The night was cool. Not too humid, not too moist. Perfect weather for a Saturday in New York. Sparse lightbulbs hung from the night’s navy ceiling. The ones that were visible to naked eye flickered to the beat of a heart. Window watchers gazed upon the streets of Manhattan, watching drunks become expelled from the lips of exhausted bars. Some kept an eye out for their little rebels who were out past curfew. Others just wanted to make sure their neighbors arrived home safely. NYC is truly the city that never sleeps. Y/N can attest to that.

The toilet flushed with a fight. Icky green-colored vomit made its way down the drain. Usual contemplation of what actually happened to this disgusting bowel reaction would start right after the obnoxiously long flush, but tonight just wanst the night. Y/N had been throwing up all week. That thinking session was the least of her worries.

At first, she thought it was food poising from her job’s first annual Sushi Festival. A quick trip to the physician proved to be a waste of time. Her doctor eliminated food poisoning, as well as fever and pre-period sickness. She knew it wasn’t pregnancy as she hasn’t had sex for a while. But that was when it all hit her. She hasn’t seen Bucky in a while.

3 weeks to be exact. Slowly creeping to 4.

Hot, icky liquid ran up her throat again. The sink would have to do sadly. Body flipped 90° and ejected the gross reaction from the poor girl’s esophagus. Breaths felt heavier than normal. Her head felt heavier than a 18 wheeler. Y/N somehow managed to roll her hefty head off to the side. The water rushed down from the mouth of the faucet to clear out the vomit.

“H-hey, it’s kinda t-throwing up too” Y/N stuttered, followed by a sad chuckle.

Sadly, it slowly started coming together. This sickness was a side effect of missing Bucky.

The throw up. The sleeping trouble. The paranoid thoughts and cognitive disorientation. All because Bucky-

Bucky broke the golden rule.

It was a story come straight from a fairy tale. Y/N was taking her 30 minute lunch break in Central Park. Tiny feet carried that small body all across the park. She even decided to stop by the zoo. Red Pandas were her favorite animal, so playful and cute! When she arrived, she found someone cutier than a Red Panda.

Y/N knew his name from the papers. Winter Soilder. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Sometimes they’d call him Bucky, but more often it was an american disgrace. She couldn’t stop staring at the man. He turned his head slightly, totally catching her in the act.

“They say staring isn’t nice, yknow” His already deep and smokey voice had a very serious tone to it.

Y/N’s face morphed into a tomato “S-sorry...you’re-“

“A monster? A freakish killer? Dangerous and savage? Say whatever, I heard it all”

“-very pretty in person”

Y/N watched crimson rise on his cheeks as he chuckled softly. “You think?”

She couldn’t help but nod.

The only thing killer about him was his smile. It was really more of a sly smirk. It didn’t matter, it still sent her heart racing, her stomach flipping.

“What’s ya name pretty girl?” He asked, his tone more friendly.

“Y/N, I-it’s nice to meet you” She told him shyly.

“Pleasure is all mine. Just call me Bucky.”

They then spent the rest of Y/N’s break watching the red pandas. Shutting up was not an option for them. Even when parents told them to be more quiet, Bucky would crack a joke and Y/N would burst out in her happy laugh. At the end, they traded numbers and went out on their first date a week later.

She remembered how precious he looked. Those beautiful brown locks were slicked back, leaving his beautiful blue spheres of mystery open for viewing. That white shirt clung to his body tightly, leaving nothing to the imagination. Bucky was still nervous about going out, so they enjoyed a lovely night in at Y/N’s apartment. They ate, watched tv, and even danced to soft music from the 40s.

“You’re a cheeseball, Bucky Barnes” She remembers telling him.

“You agreed to it, I guess were equal”

In the span of two weeks, the two went on four more dates. Simple hangouts, but it made them happier to call them dates. A week later, Bucky moved in. SHIELD was in the midst of relocating their newly hired superhero. Bucky had no where to go, so Y/N joyously gave him a home. Only one condition, Y/N could officially declared them “a thing”

“A thing?” He asked her, shoving a case under their bed.

“Well youre not technically my boyfriend yet, but you’re not just a friend. A thing is basically dating”

His laugh lightened up the room. “You millennials and your weird terminology”

With a simple shrug, she shot him a smile and helped him with his boxes.

Those weeks became months. Things were going so well between the two of them. Bucky welded up the courage and asked if they could be boyfriend/girlfriend, and Y/N managed to be more brave and agree.

“Oh you just made me the happiest man alive, Y/N”

“You’re such a dork!!”

She giggled as her feet forgot what the floor felt like. Bucky behelded her like a young Simba.

Being in a relationship with a superhero made Y/N feel like she had all the power in the world. When she held his hand, kissed him gently ( by the way, their first kiss was magical. They were watching tv when Y/N snickered “wish someone would kiss me like that”. This of course prompted Bucky to trap her soft plush lips in his cracked, plump ones. It lasted a while, and she was speechless at the end ) or snuggled into his chest she felt like they were the most powerful couple alive.

Sadly, since Bucky was a superhero, he had missions to go on. At first, they’d last only 3-4 days. Y/N was okay with that. Once he came through the apartment door she’s kiss him until those precious lips were raw.

Then it became a week. Y/N would go a little further. He’d come home and she’d jump on top of him, full blown making out with him.

Once it became two weeks, she allowed him to her body. He took her virginity quicker than a kid who was sneaking a cookie. They snuggled up together, panting heavily. Their skin stuck together.

“Hey, Princess....” Bucky mumbled to her

“Y-yeah?”

“I love you”

Y/N gasped louder than she ever did before. Her body started shaking again, her face was bright red.

“I-I love you too” she mumbled back.

He stayed around for the next few days and went away for 2 weeks. That became routine for a while. Go away for 2 weeks, stay for a few days. He couldn’t make it home in time for your one year with this new schedule.

Bucky came home all bruised up and broken a day after though. Y/N lead him to the bathroom. Gently, she rolled her thumb over his face scrapes to remove the blood. He looked up at her, his once happy blue eyes seemed to be more exhausted

“Doll, I-“

“Bucky, you don’t need to explain. I understand”

“No, I missed our anniversary just to save a ungrateful world! I couldn’t even get you anything because I was too busy being beat up!”

Y/N rested a finger over his lips. He sighed softly, kissing her slim finger.

“James Buchanan Barnes, this world needs you. And I’m happy you’re out there saving the world. I truly am! I hate seeing you like this but you’re saving people. And I love you for that my dear!

Bucky looked down. His weary body fell into Y/N’s. She smiled weakly, running her fingers through his hair.

“How could I feel like I hero when I’m not one to my girl”

“I never said that silly boy. You are my hero”

“I’m barely here. I’m a disgraceful hero if any”

The both of you fell in silence. The New York City cars zoomed down the road. Beeps and honks. Screeches and screams of angry cars.

“Let’s make a golden rule” Y/N said softly

Bucky looked up at her. “What’s that sweetheart?”

“You can’t be out longer than 2 weeks. Once you come home, you stay home for a week. And you can tell the SHIELD boys up there I said so”

He laughed softly “I like you’re moxy love. It’s a deal. It’s our golden rule.”

And she couldn’t believe he just broke it. Gone for a month. No contact. No visits from SHIELD. nothing. Not a peep.

Her stomach thrashed around in her body. Vomit fought its way up. She swallowed it quiet bravely. She couldn’t believe he broke it.

Y/N was beyond heartbroken. Now tears roll down her soft cheeks. She ripped off the shirt given to her by the man who left her alone and broke the rule. She sat on the empty bed stripped to just a tank top and underwhere. She sobbed harder. Her body fought between anger and blaming.

Y/N couldn’t believe what was happening.

Did he leave her? Did he move on? Did he find another girl that didn’t demand him to be here at least once a week? Maybe he found a girl who could please him better then she ever could?

Hours passed. She couldn’t get Bucky off his mind. It only made her sicker. Y/N has never felt this sick before. She didn’t even realize it was already dawn.

The bedroom door creaked open. That handsome man ( well at this time Y/N didn’t think he was ) walked in.

Bucky’s eyes widen at the sight of you.

“Shit” He mumbled

“What the fuck happened to the golden rule asshole???” Y/N screamed. She couldn’t even help it at this point. Bucky couldn’t just easily be forgiven. “I MADE that rule for you because you wanted to be with me more !!! Now here you are, running around for a month not texting me a single word and just expect me to be happy you’re home??”

“Y/N...”

“No James I’m speaking!!!”

He cringed hearing his name.

“I am completely heartbroken....you said you’d never hurt me well guess what! You did! I have been sick non-stop, I can’t even think straight. I don’t even remember the last time I slept properly!! I was even contemplating burning everything you gave me to me!!”

Bucky stood there motionless. He listened to you.

“Where have you been asshole?? It better be a good fucking explaina-“

The boy went down on one knee. Y/N’s eyes widen and she gasped louder then she ever did before. Even louder than when Bucky confessed his love.

“Y/N...I am so so sorry. You know I would never intentionally break the rule. This mission changed me. I watched my life flash before my eyes, and I realized how I spent most of it without my perfect girl. I quit the superhero business. I went around the world looking for the perfect ring. And I found it”

He opened the box slowly to reveal the cutest ring. The band, decorated like a red panda. Y/N fell to her knees, covering her face.

“O-oh B-Bucky...”

“My true love, I am so sorry for causing you pain. But I’m here with you forever and always. Will you marry me?”

Y/N sniffled and collapsed into his arms.

“Yes, yes I will”

Bucky lifted up her face and moved into the perfect puzzle piece of her lips. His big hands rubbed her cheeks. Y/N relaxed. Her stomach relaxed. Every part of her body relaxed.

“I love you so much my little red panda”

She giggled weakly “I love you more my big red panda”

“Cheeseball”

“Shut up and kiss me again so I don’t have to yell”

Bucky chuckled “with pleasure”

Send all suggestions to the Inbox! 💌

Tags:

@birdandrose

#bucky barnes #bucky #winter soilder #white wolf #james buchanan barnes #james barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #marvel imagine #bucky imagine #marvel #mcu #marvel cinimatic universe #mcu imagine #sergant barnes

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ethereal-pluto-blog · 6 years

Text

I feel like shit today

I'm lethargic, slow, crying, and insecure. So yep ~depression~ has come to rear its ugly head once again.

But since I'm not into the whole anti-recovery thing, I'll give you some useful tips on how to maybe help YOUR depression that doesn't seem like a generic twitter self help thread. (Though I'll mention some things I found helpful and give explainations as to why.)

Talk to your therapist/counselor/mental health expert if available. Not everyone has the luxury of seeking professional help, but if you have the opportunity, PLEASE go to a professional. However be noted that it's often an experience to go through many different experts to find the one that matches your specific needs/ you like the most. Also keep in mind there are also online therapists ready to help if you're not big on one-on-one contact like myself, though often insurance is tricky. I put this one first because it might be the most beneficial for some, though not readily available for others.

If you have the strength, shower. Showering/cleaning yourself is a blessing in itself as it gives you a sense of detox. Though if you don’t have the strength or motivation, try some of this instead-

Utilize facewash and lotion. Particularly facewash that makes your face feel all chill and tingly, it makes you feel more refreshed. Lotions and cream will help you keep skin smooth.

Simply get wet with water, a quick 5 minute rinse in hot water is less of a chore than a full shower.

Dry shampoo will help with hair oiliness. Though if you don't have access just brush your hair and pull it/part it so it's out of your face.

Baby wipes. Baby wipes will cure yo soul. But seriously use baby wipes and rub them on your face, underarms, and genitals. A good rub down will help prevent you from feeling gross.

Splashing your face with cold water, it makes your pores tighten up and as a bonus it'll wake you up.

Utilize deodorant and vaseline. I haven't tried it out for myself, though if you put down deodorant and then vaseline on top it should trap the nice fragrant smell. And while you're at it you can put on cologne / perfume if you think you're getting a lil ripe, but if you want to smell like a fresh shower use ones that are labeled "shower fresh" or "baby powder."

If your lips are chapped, put on some balm shisters. (I don't trust the brand chapstick, I'm a conspiracy theorist okay I'm soRRy)

Change into some cleaner clothes. They don't have to be normal everyday clothes but at least change into new clothes, especially underwear.

Clean your fingernails/toenails. Clean under them, since random junk can get stuck up in there. Also clip them if they're too long for your liking.

Brush your teeth. But if you can't, use mints, gum, mouthwash, mouthspray, etc, or a combination of those. Anything minty will make your mouth tingle and feel fresh and clean.

Clean yo ears! Since probably nobody uses an ear vacuum (like you're supposedly supposed to idk I'm too broke for that shit anyways) just be careful using Q-tips.

If you don’t have any deodorant, try hand sanitizer! I'm not kidding. Put a dollop under each underarm, and let dry. Smells are caused by bacteria, so if you get hand sanitizer, it should greatly reduce smell.

Try to get some sun. Using the natural sunlight will help you absorb vitamin D. So open up the blinds and photosynthesize binches. Though it also helps to open up the window if you can, a breeze/fresh air blowing in with the smell of outside might even raise your mood. Though if it's currently shitty weather outside, try turning on your lights to match your circadian rhythm, so keep lights on during the day and dim it at night so it'll help with letting you be on a decent sleep schedule.

Feeling like there's no hope or that your future is going to be shit? Highkey me too, but here's what I do to combat that feeling.

It's corny, but I write a whole idealized future for myself. I write about my dream job, I write about my dream s/o, I even imagine the type of house I want to live in, the kids I'll have, what kind of pets I want to own. Etc. Although the economy is shit and no future is guaranteed, it's nice to put some positivity into light and show what I really want in life. I don't want to be some millionaire, I just want to be comfortably well off with a family and people that love me. And in all honesty a future like that isn't hard to obtain.

Even if you can't imagine a good future for yourself, imagine being a part of your friends or loved one's futures. For example, you know your friend who's dating this really cute person that you totally ship them with? Imagine being a part of the bridesmaids/groomsmen for their wedding when they tie the knot! Imagine your really smart friend finally graduating from college and you're at their graduation party giving them a speech! For me this really helps since I aspire to be drinking buddies with my best friend's future husband. (I'm rlly goofy ik lmao)

Feeling stressed about not doing anything? We've all been there. Try:

Doing work if you're due for assignments, though don't do it alone, if you can, arrange a group text/tutoring session/Skype call. If everyone is focused on getting something done then you'll be motivated to do it with them.

Though if you don’t absolutely have to do anything but want to do ~s o m e t h i n g~ I also got your back on this too.

Organize your inbox for your email. (Ik I'm lame)

Tidy/clean your room/any room if that gives you something to do.

Make your bed.

Cuddle someone/something.

Rearranging your stuff in your room, makes it feel like a whole remodel tbh.

Burn candles/incense. Don't ask just...trust me on this it can change the aura.

If you're religious, practice!

Take aesthetic photos of things in your room. Download VSCO and experiment with it. I also recommend Huji Cam and Afterlight. All are available for IOS and Android.

If you appreciate music- use YouTube and find some Playlists, or if you can, spotify premium will save yo mortal soul.

Like video games? Play some! Or if you're a brokeass like me, let's plays and walk throughs work well too.

If you got pets, pet them. Do it. Snuggle. Or if you love animals in general go and watch some vids on YouTube.

Build a fort.

If you're an artist or appreciate art- draw! Or you can watch animatics, animation memes, art channels, or follow artists on here or on Instagram and Twitter if you want to be inspired, or just observe.

Have a certain series you keep putting off? Watch! It! Netflix/Hulu that shit. Or cable TV works too.

Go on Wikipedia and just go on an adventure. Click from link to link and see where it takes you. Learn some weird new facts!

Read a new book.

Read the news/watch the news.

Write about a certain topic that you're absolutely fascinated about.

Watch movies!

Join a club/interest group. You can do this online too and it'll help meet people with similar interests as you. You can make new friends this way.

Give your friends a call/text. Having conversations will keep you occupied.

Self love aka masturbate. Or have (safe) sex with someone you trust!

Workout

Do some makeup/skincare routine. Even if you think you look bad just commit to practicing.

Sometimes it's just funny to go through and read some Reddit threads so be safe when surfing on there.

Stretch and move around! Dance if you wanna!

Do your hair/experiment in some new styles, maybe even dye it if you feel daring.

Have an icon you stan? Stan HARDER.

Watch iconic vine/rare vine compilations until you can memorize them.

Clean out your phone contacts of people that are irrelevant/toxic!! Out of sight out of mind! Don't hang on to them if they did you wrong. All the text conversations will just make you feel worse!

Actually cook your favorite food, cooking it will make you more dedicated to eating it and give you more of an appreciation for it.

Organize your closet.

Organize anything in your room/closet. Throw away things that you don't need or are too old to use.

Start collecting things, stuffed animals, pins, snowglobes, you name it.

Pinterest is addictive lowkey so try that if you're into that kind of stuff.

Write! Write a new story, write poetry, write about your feelings, write a letter, write fanfiction, express yourself.

Use Duolingo to try and study a new language to learn. (The owl will harass tf outta your email though but as long as you do like 5 minutes a day he won't bother.)

That's about all I can think of but feel free to add more for activities to dedicate your time to.

If you need to, because of your self image, don't go and stand in front of mirrors. If I stand in front of a mirror too long I'll end up scrutinizing myself and find a flaw after flaw. If you are specifically insecure about something with your body, look up models who have the same thing! Like if you're insecure about having vitiligo, look up Winnie Harlow! She's gorgeous! If you're insecure about being chubby, look up plus sized models! If you have a tooth gap, there's plenty of people like you! You don't have to feel ugly because of that when you have these awesome models rocking what they got.

Vent. You can vent to your friends, family, or even online. There are apps that allow you to vent anonymously to others without the fear of judgement. But if you can't do that, take a pen/pencil and write something down in your notebook. Though don't reread it to keep drowning in the negativity, once you write it, shut it. You can do the same on Google Docs online, once you write down everything, delete it. Don't keep trying to fuel your negative thoughts and bitterness, get your rant over with and be done. It's like a fresh start. (Plus on my Instagram spam account I always feel really silly looking at my old rant posts, so I usually delete stuff afterwards when I'm not feeling so in my feelings).

Don't expect recovery to be in a straight line. You'll have amazing days and also have extremely shitty days. Recovery isn't hoping to never experience shitty days, recovery is being able to feel the strength on those shitty days and know that they'll pass, and with each storm you'll be stronger than before. Don't push yourself to be flawless, because shit happens. But you'll make it through. And that's what matters.

And last but not least, seek emergency help if you feel like you're dangerously close to ending your life due to pain. Call the suicide hotline for support, because the pain can ease soon if you ask for the help that you need and deserve.

Not everyone that reads this is going to be like "wow this really helped me cope with my depression/mental illness!" But my goal was to at least try. It may not work for everyone unfortunately, but I hope that anyone dealing with a mental illness is on the road to recovering. Because I know how it feels. It feels sucky as fuck. But if this helps even just one person, then that's enough. I hope everyone has at least a decent day, and I hope that everyone's pain eases soon.

#depression #mental health #mental disorder #positive mental attitude #mentally ill #trigger warning #tw #anxitey #strategies & tips #tips #self love #self care #personal growth and development #road to recovery #recovery #remission #illness #i love you

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guileheroine · 7 years

Text

aubade

n. a love song written in the morning. The first and next and next time that Asami wakes up with Korra (canon compliant) 🌖 🌞 💛 / 5.2k / ao3

One

The first time Asami awakes next to Korra, it’s a result of the sensation of falling - of almost falling from the corner of the mattress because her friend is sprawled across a good three quarters of the cabin cot; she can tell because her elbow is somewhere in Asami’s side. Like a hypnic jerk, but very, very real, and thank goodness. The early rush of adrenaline already doing the job of the instant airship coffee that has begun her daily routine for the past week.

When Asami starts, a moment’s disorientation sees itself to a moment’s irritation, push that elbow away! But it only lasts a moment, because really, what did she expect? Two full grown women on this tiny bed. Her one at home was probably as large as this cabin. She should have made her bed on the floor, or asked Korra to, but then she hadn’t known that Korra would fall asleep here when her own room wasn’t much more than a metre along the hallway. Asami blinks into the dim headache of definitely not enough sleep. Had they stayed up so late? It hadn’t felt that way. Well. The energy has to go somewhere when you spend your day slumped around a meeting room table.

Her hand scrambles for Korra’s arm - she’s so warm? - and Asami lifts and moves so delicately the limb that she had seconds ago considered shoving away. Korra remains fast asleep; and somehow that is suddenly interesting, her first roommate, if you will, in so many months. Asami sits up, turns, and watches her for a second - the regular swell of her chest, flutter of a strand of hair against her mouth, draw of breath, so peaceful, the strange draw of that draw…

Ah. And then a second’s a minute, so she pushes her legs out of the covers and the image into her brain. (People just look lovely in such moments of serenity, these intimate circumstances to which she rarely bears witness, and what a lovely friend she has.)

She fumbles for a set of clothes and her toiletries with only one one or two glances back to the bed, and rushes off to the bathroom.

Two

The second instance is so similar and so nice that she wishes two could make a pattern. Except this time, Korra knees her somewhere in the kidney region and it’s the impact that wakes them both.

She holds her breath for the second that she knows Korra is registering the action, and right on cue she hears, “Shit,” hushed - a beat and then the most tentative “Asami?”; and that she isn’t prepared for: her name on a breath so cautious and quiet in Korra’s groggy voice.

“It’s alright,” she says, her own voice creaky from disuse, turning slowly to Korra and bracing her head against her palm. She watches Korra relax visibly and burrow back against her pillow, as if she’s ready to slip back into sleep. Asami folds her arm under head to prop it up further and smiles. “Actually beats having Tenzin knock on your door for a wake-up call.”

Korra tenses again, the stiffness of her body under the cover indicating a little more wakefulness than a moment before. “I woke you?! Sorry…” And she looks it, wide, stricken eyes and perfect pout.

Asami shakes the apology off, suddenly conscious of her own very sleep-soft, very makeup-less face. “You woke yourself, too.”

Korra looks her full in the face then, for the first time, smiling as she stretches. Asami draws the covers up over her own mouth, a little abashed at her own body’s unexpected lightness in the face of that smile.

“So, Ba Sing Se today,” Korra sighs and rubs her eyes. It’s the kind of thing she would say with gusto if she were a few more hours awake. “Can I ask you something?” She says suddenly, turning fully and mirroring Asami. Asami blinks to attention and she continues. “What do you think of that kid? Kai.”

“You’re wondering if we did right bringing him along? I have no idea,” Asami replies. Korra laughs a little, looking her way again with a rather sweetly appreciative eye. “I have no idea what a good kid makes.”

“Me neither,” says Korra. “Guess I’ll just have to trust my instincts.”

Asami shrugs, smoothing her hair into one fist and out from under her head, laying it away from herself where it won’t rumple any further. (She should really get into the habit of tying it up for bed.) “Mako’ll keep him in check. Or Jinora will.” She grins. “But kids love you, Korra. Trust your instincts for sure.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s enough to make them behave okay. I mean, you can tell Kai’s a loose one.”

“I know,” says Asami. “I knew a few like him when I was that age.” Korra leans forward curiously, airbending a few strands of the pile of Asami’s hair between them as she does. Asami swallows her start at the action (it feels...well, it feels almost like being touched directly, when the hints of air skimming her skin are so deliberately driven by another person.) “But it was kind of the opposite situation. Orphans don’t have anyone tethering them, and rich kids don’t have anything stopping them, if they’re rich enough. There was this one boy who said he would teach me how to bend earth and fire if I let him into the garage with the unreleased Future Industries motorbike models.”

“See, kids love you, too, Asami,” Korra ribs, and Asami clucks, rolling her eyes. “Did you let him in?”

Her silence and embarrassed frown says yes, and Korra ‘aw’s with her mouth, smirk turning to a genuine smile. Asami interrupts before she can tease again. “Not because I wanted to bend! It was his charm, you know,” she says resignedly.

“I wonder what I’d’ve done,” Korra muses. The covers slide off her shapely shoulders when she lifts herself onto her elbows. “I only ever - well, I only ever hung out with other kids when I went home to stay with my parents.”

“I always wondered about that,” Asami tells her, meeting her eyes and suppressing the weird urge to pull the covers over her again. Korra stops her airbending mid-hair swirl and tilts her head. Asami explains, “Like you being so... isolated. I thought I grew up kind of isolated, but I think some of that was just my personality!” She laughs. “I can’t imagine how it must have been for you.”

“Well, I just thought that was normal.” Korra resumes the absent bending, somewhat sober. “I was pretty young.”

“I know.” Asami says. “I read about you, about your training” - Korra perks up. “I didn’t really get why my dad didn’t seem that excited about hearing about the new Avatar,” she continues with a not quite rueful laugh, because not even that thought can ruin the ease of this moment, being here so relaxed in another's company when she was used to leaving bed as soon as she woke. “But I remember thinking it was so cool, and also being like, ‘is she going to be okay?’”

Korra begins laughing halfway through Asami’s sentence, but before she can reply, there’s a sharp knock on the door, and they both turn sharply in turn.

“Asami? Uh… guys? Asami, Tenzin wants to have a look over the itinerary with you before we land, to make sure we get on top of fuel and stuff when we get there…” It’s Bolin voice.

Asami gives Korra a guess-I-better-get-up sigh and calls out, “Thanks, Bo! Just a minute!” As she makes to sit herself up, her gaze stops on the ends of her hair still coiled in the air around Korra’s fingers. Their eyes meet over it.

“Sorry,” Korra says, withdrawing. “Your hair’s so pretty.”

Asami smiles. So are you. “No, it’s a mess in the morning.”

Three

She wakes on a couch the shape of a right angle, herself on the one leg, Korra on the adjacent, a tangle of blanket at the vertex where their feet (almost) meet. Korra is buried head to toe under a large green blanket.

Their bedrooms in Zaofu are separate, but last night they had talked long enough in this drawing room to fall asleep here. Asami glances around. Opal had seen herself to bed before she fell asleep, and Mako and Bolin must eventually have done the same. The couch opposite her where they had sat bears the signs of wear, goatrabbit-wool cushions ruffled, and the table between is littered with mugs, stemware and even a few ochoko cups.

Almost experimentally, Asami presses her foot into Korra’s through the blanket tucked under them.

“I’m not asleep,” comes the immediate response. It takes a few moments for Korra to draw herself out of her cocoon and sit up. “The sunlight hurt my eyes,” she explains when she emerges, looking, frankly, adorable with her tousled hair.

“You’re not hungover, are you?” Asami teases sleepily.

“Never have been in my life,” is the self-satisfied answer she receives.

“I bet. You’re so healthy,” Asami says, which sounds kind of silly, but she hopes cover of sleepiness will deflect any question about that. She reaches behind her to fluff her cushion so that she can sit up better, and smooths her blanket over her front.

Korra carefully follows the path of Asami's hands as they fix her makeshift bedding, before her eyes resettle on her face. “You sleep okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve slept in my office before, no different to this,” Asami assures, patting the couch. “You?”

“Fine,” says Korra, nudging Asami this time. The fleeting contact leaves Asami unexpectedly warm and she curls her foot under its cover. “Tea?” Korra continues brightly, springing off the couch with a burst of energy that defies her air of sluggishness moments before. She disappears through the doorway in the direction of Zaofu’s many mini-kitchens.

Asami sits up into a cross-legged position as she waits, her blanket pooling in her lap. Korra returns shortly with a slender, steaming pot held between heat-impervious hands. She pours from it into one of the few clean cups left on the table, handing it to Asami with a careful, rather unnecessary “It’s very hot,” that still doesn’t fail to warm Asami’s heart.

Asami takes a cautious sip as Korra plops onto the couch with her own cup. The flavour takes her by surprise. “Oh, wow, it’s… smoky.”

Korra grins. “Yup! I hope you like it. This stuff is huge in the Water Tribe. ‘Cause it feels so warm, right? I was surprised to find it here but Su has, like… a whole teashop.”

“I like it.” Asami holds her cup close and inhales deep, watches Korra smile with something akin to tenderness at the gesture.

“You can get it much stronger than this,” Korra continues happily, “and it’s perfect with fig cookies - I make ‘em good, by the way,” she proclaims, raising her brow.

“Do you? You should teach me,” Asami replies lightly. “I’m kind of a total failure in the kitchen.”

“I knew there had to be something wrong with you!” Korra delivers her quiet admiration so matter-of-factly that it catches Asami almost off-guard, as far as a compliment can. “I will, for real. You teach me to drive, I’ll teach you to bake. And cook, if you like.”

Of course, there are no cars to drive and little time to cook when they’re travelling a continent, but somehow the notion so ordinary, of Korra sharing her time and trust with her on matters so… everyday, kindles a warmth in Asami that’s almost exciting in its simplicity. She feels easy; what a rare feeling.

“Deal,” she says, smiling. “It’s only fair you’re not the only one making a fool of herself.”

“Okay, Asami, lesson one: no slandering the teacher.”

Four

Airship, again, en dismal route to the Northern Air Temple.

There’s a storm waiting on the horizon, waiting for dawn - and everyone is waiting under the stifling air; a surge in atmospheric pressure with every hour that ticks them closer to the Red Lotus.

Asami sleeps a few scattered minutes, and the moment she gives up on rest altogether is the moment that Korra slides into her cabin without knocking, still in day clothes. She opens her eyes onto her, and wishes she could close them again for the dread.

“Asami, can I talk to you.” A request, not a question.

She sits up and offers her hands in one swift motion. “What is it?”

Korra walks forward and perches on the bed, sliding steady and warm fingers into hers. “I just… I can’t exactly be alone with my thoughts right now. And can’t sleep, obviously. I’m nervous.”

She sighs deep and the sounds settles straight and heavy in Asami’s own chest, instantaneous, centre of pressure. As Korra continues to stare back at her, disquieted and at once beautifully resolute, I’m scared, too is the second thing that springs to Asami’s mind, the second thing she presses back into her throat, the second least helpful admission she realises she might make right now. She moves back on the bed and pats the space in front of her.

“We can talk. Come and sit here.”

Korra releases her hands but keeps her thoughts for several hours, as Asami tries intently not to give in to praying for another quiet morning with her.

Five

A night after the first night that Kya’s ministrations allow for Korra to have company for longer than an hour or two, she gets her wish. Asami wakes on Korra’s bed at Air Temple Island, over the covers with Korra under and awake, not sleeping (still not sleeping.)

Asami reaches for the book she had fallen asleep on. She fingers the groove in her cheek and then the corresponding crinkle in the page. “Shall I read some more?” The curl of a thumb in the ends of her hair signifies permission granted.

But they don’t speak that morning.

Six, seven, eight? Ten?

Korra sleeps and Asami wakes in fits and starts. There are good days, bad days, worse days.

Bad mornings. “Asami! I can’t breathe -” Like ice seizing up her spine, a painful wrench from the oblivion of sleep straight to hyper-attention, skipping every pacifying step in between.

Some times the way empty consciousness blurs to sleep and back makes it hard to distinguish between them in the first place, and the only provable constant, point of clarity, is their togetherness in space; head or hands or hair touching.

“Asami. Get up! Get the Pai Sho board back out. I’m beating your ass for real today.” Good mornings.

Eleven

It doesn’t take more than a second to gauge what kind of morning it is, because Korra takes her wrist as soon as her eyes open.

Asami groans, “Oh, it’s early,” as she shields her eyes from the morning sunshine with one hand and braces into a sitting position with the other.

“Kya says we’re leaving earlier than I thought,” Korra says, with a sad little smile. “Will you do my hair? Like I used to have it before.” Before is a designation easily understood now.

Asami acquiesces and meanwhile Korra talks away, the best of signs, though her tone is subdued like always. And the best of signs wills Asami to try again: “The offer still stands, you know. I can come, too, if you like.”

When the head against her hand droops, she wishes she could retract her words. Then Korra states quite simply (and a little awkwardly, the way true candour tends to be), “I don’t want to keep you.”

So it’s a question of dignity, really. Look at me claiming your time when I have nothing of service to give in return. Which couldn’t be farther from the truth, of course, but Asami knows not to press the issue. Before she can deliver her understanding acceptance of Korra’s answer, Korra continues, all in a rush.

“But I appreciate it, Asami, I really, really do.” She turns in her chair as Asami lets go of the last tail of her hair, and her eyes are wider than Asami would have expected. “I appreciate you.”

Asami’s acknowledgment is the offering of her arms, because that’s the language they've become used to (not) speaking in, and how strange, howmuch, to hear her friend voice her feelings instead, no less voice the gratitude that Asami doubts she is even owed…

As soon as Korra hugs her, Asami comes to understand it as a goodbye hug, so she holds and lets Korra hold. “Seriously,” Korra is saying. “I love you. I love how kind you are always, even though you’re busy enough and smart enough to not have to be. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, and I love you,” says Asami into Korra’s shoulder, cuts these two thoughts loose long last from her throat like the wind floating over the bay outside. Really, that’s the gist of her feelings.

Twelve

But two years is not enough to cut the thought of Korra loose, of course it’s not.

She wakes with the thought sometimes, and it wakes with her; and once, she thinks, she wakes with Korra.

Asami stirs when the sound of a comfy little sigh prods against the blanket of her consciousness. When she follows the sound with a reach of her hand towards her right, the warm weight of an arm materialises over hers; suddenly familiar, suddenly a person, a person in particular. The arm curls around to pull its attached body closer to Asami, until she has soft hair under her fingers, belonging to the warm head pressed in her shoulder. Sunlight colours her eyelids golden, mirroring the brilliant warmth somewhere deep inside of her. That means it’s way past dawn, so Asami supposes she should rise in spite of her pleasure. She opens her eyes.

Then she wakes, late for work, without Korra.

Twelve

Three years and the thought still has her, but she’s somewhat guarded now. So when Asami does awaken next to Korra for the first time in a lifetime, she spends a cautious minute… checking.

She watches from the corner of her eye dark limbs that radiate warmth tangled in one of her spare blankets. Breath rising and falling under a crinkled blue shirt; a face she can’t quite see but hair grazing a shoulder - above the shoulder, and, oh, yeah, that’s definitely new so it can’t be in her head. After all, you can’t dream a face you haven’t seen - and, well, even if she has seen her, the hair makes her face a different face, right? -

“You okay?”

She turns her head to find Korra watching her. “Huh?”

“You were just being very still.”

“Yeah,” she says, exhaling a smile. “I’m fine, I just… Good morning.”

Korra laughs in reply, though Asami’s not sure what at. Then she sits up in that familiar, straight-to-attention motion. “It’s late, isn’t it?” She yawns with a glance at Asami’s table clock. 10.00 am.

“Yeah,” is Asami’s muted, monosyllabic reply, because now that she’s fully awake, fully secure in her senses, her heart is suddenly beating very hard at the sight of Korra (Korra!) sitting all casual in her bed.

“Have you been up long?” Korra says, lifting her hand Asami’s way in such a manner that Asami thinks for the briefest of moments that she’s going to slide it over her covered waist. But it remains hovering for a second, then curls in the narrow bed space between their bodies instead.

Asami wishes she could hold it. “No. It’s fine, we were up so late last night.”

So very late. I’ll drive you to the ferry, Asami had said after they had been roped into dinner at the mansion with an adulatory Prince Wu and a hundred of Mako’s family, but halfway there she was fighting the urge to take the turn for her apartment instead, and two-thirds of the way Korra had stopped abruptly in her account of her time in Zaofu to say you’re not working tomorrow, right, Asami? Which was, naturally, can I stay with you tonight? And then through several rounds of tea they had set to sharing, set to unpacking together piece by careful piece the months upon months apart. Korra had done much of the recounting, which meant Asami’s heart had done much of the aching. But when she hugged her goodnight at the end of it, Asami had felt something click into place again: Korra had a way to go, and so be it, but she was here within the reach of all the relief Asami had to offer once again, so she would receive it for as long as Asami could give (forever, incidentally), and that was that.

Presently, Korra stretches and yawns again.

“You sleep okay?” Asami asks to distract herself from the sudden urge to pull her back down into bed. Intrusive thoughts.

Korra grins. “Never better. Well, not in a good while at least.” She glances around after a moment. “I like your bed. I’d forgotten how hard the beds at Air Temple Island were.”

Rather than saying something rash like you’re welcome to stay here in response, Asami busies herself with climbing out of bed and getting dressed. Korra accepts her offer to use the bathroom first, so Asami unties her hair and begins to brush it through whilst she waits.

“You never wore your hair like that before,” Korra says upon returning, in reference to the ponytail Asami has just taken out.

Asami shrugs. “Yeah - it’s just better for work, you know…”

“No, I like it. It’s very, um, elegant. Very you,” Korra croaks in the direction of her hands, and it makes Asami smile, and wonder a little bit.

“Breakfast?” Asami says. “I usually just grab something and go, but it’d be nice to sit down with a real meal since you’re here.”

“I’d love that,” Korra says, one foot already out of the door towards the kitchen. “But let me make it for you.”

Thirteen

It’s something special, a turn of the tables, the first time Asami wakes from a nightmare next to Korra.

“Woah,” she hears, and feels Korra take her wrist and the small of her back at once and pull her quick and straight up like wheels skidding short; up in one motion out of sleep and out of her dread dream world. She’s held in that sitting position for a moment, whilst she claims her breath, once, twice, three times.

“Damn it,” she says, finds herself inexplicably on the verge of tears. “Sorry. Sorry, you need to sleep. It’s probably almost dawn.”

Korra wraps warm, firm arms around her and changes the subject. “Do you wanna get some air?”

Asami carries herself to the veranda and lets the cool night breeze waft over skin she wishes she could scratch the despair out of. The agitation of feeling inside of her is strange; grief-relief, a contrary combination that makes it hard to sleep. She’s safe, Korra’s safe, they’re all safe, technically speaking, and that’s more than she could have said mere hours ago. But the fresh anguish of her father’s death that she didn’t bear mere hours ago is one more thing that makes Asami believe she’s not supposed to make it out of things one hundred per cent; maybe she doesn’t deserve to.

Korra appears beside her a second later with a cup of water. After they both drink, she mirrors Asami’s position against the wood railing, pressing their hunched shoulders together. Warmth runs along the line of their touching arms like a golden thread and the breeze carries the scent of Korra about her.

It’s calming company.

At some point, she’s crying again. When she lifts her arm to brush the tears away, the movement alerts Korra, who looks at her for the first time in a while.

“Long day,” Asami murmurs, almost apologetically.

“Tell me about it,” Korra says, and puts her hand to Asami’s back, fingers light on the space between her shoulder blades. She lays her head on Asami’s shoulder, but before she settles there, there’s another first: Korra leans forward and presses a kiss against her cheek, warm and delicate. Then she falls back against her, eyes closed, heavy.

“Oh, Korra, you must be drained,” Asami sighs, her own head falling onto hers. “Go to sleep, okay? I don’t want to keep you.”

Korra gives a small shake of her head, still nestled into her, and responds with utmost certainty. “I want you to keep me.”

The words camp out in Asami’s head for the next two weeks.

Fourteen

They had held hands and arms and waists all day yesterday, and then talked the night away in their cozy, makeshift bed (something of a pattern by this point.)

The fourteenth time that Asami awakens with Korra it feels fresher, freer than each time before, like she’s teetering on the edge of something new; something pleasant that’s waiting for her to fall headlong into it, but not pressing her in the least. It’s fitting for her very first time in the Spirit World.

Asami’s hands are all to herself when she wakes up, but Korra’s sitting cross-legged right next to her, left knee nudging her blanketed legs.

She feels heat and light before she opens her eyes, and smiles as she shields her face. “It’s so warm.”

“Rise and shine,” says Korra happily. “I told you we wouldn’t need a tent!”

Asami stretches with a rather carefree groan. “I guess not. Well, good morning! Is it morning here?” She asks, turning onto her side as she looks up at the bright sky, evenly illuminated across its whole expanse. “I don’t see any sun.”

Korra shrugs and they both giggle. Asami considers her properly, takes in her bare feet, the pale blue shirt she’s changed into and the way her skin glows warm under the pseudo-sunlight, flecked here and there with the wispy blush blossoms of the tree they’ve camped by. “You look well-rested,” she says, reaching up to brush a few off her arm with the pads of her fingers. “What are you up to?”

“Tea. I brought your favourite.” Korra gestures in front of her to a small steaming pot and a pair of cups. When Asami turns her attention to them, she sees a tiny pair of eyes flash out from the second cup as Korra pours into the first.

Spirit? she mouths at Korra, who nods and taps the cup lightly. “Come out,” Korra calls gently. “Tea’s going in here…”

Immediately and somehow still tentatively, the creature hops out of the cup and behind Korra’s hand, peering up at her with a pleading little frown. “Sorry, Avatar Korra.” Asami watches curiously; she’s never seen a spirit so small, or so quietly deferential to Korra. Its eyes dart back to Asami for a second before it hides again behind Korra’s hand.

Korra laughs. “Hey, it’s okay. This is my friend, Asami.”

The spirit peeks out again, at Asami, then Korra, and back again. Korra retracts her hand slowly. It moves a teensy step forward, regarding Asami with a kind of wary curiosity.

“She’s very, very nice,” Korra encourages, and Asami opens her palm flat in front of her. “She won’t hurt you.” The spirit springs into Asami’s palm, not taking its blackbean eyes off her.

“Hi,” Asami says as Korra watches the creature watch Asami. The spirit repeats it back, barely audible, and then says a little louder, “I like your hair.”

They both laugh at that, and Asami lifts a lock of her hair into the creature’s tiny arms.

“Would you like to join us for breakfast?” Korra says sweetly. The soft, careful tone of her voice makes Asami’s heart flutter, even though her words aren’t directed at her.

The spirit nods shyly and climbs onto Asami’s shoulder. Asami sits up at last and Korra places a cup of tea in her hands, and then Asami watches her pick a up a piece of a strange silvery fruit from a plate on her other side that she hadn’t noticed before.

“What’s that?” She says.

Korra tilts her head in the direction they had come over the previous day. “It grows over by that lake. We can eat it! The spirits call it moon melon. Try some -” And she lifts the piece to Asami’s mouth. The flavour’s syrupy and a little of it drips down her chin - Korra catches it with her fingers; it feels like a caress.

Asami watches her lick them clean, nonchalant, captivating, and decides she’s going to kiss her today, if it’s all right.

One hundred and forty

She opens her eyes suddenly, immediately cognizant of the fact that the shift in the weight of this unfamiliar hotel mattress has woken her. Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the hint of light and her body to the clean cold of early, early morning.

“Oops,” whispers Korra, who’s reaching across over Asami to her bedside table. “Just wanted to check the time.”

Asami relaxes and pulls the cover over head. Korra lays back down with a soft “Sorry, Asami,” and pats the back of her head. “It’s three-thirty by the way. Hours more to sleep. But sorry for waking you.”

In response, Asami switches sides to face her and pulls her closer; it’s okay, honey, I don’t mind. She blinks blearily a few times as Korra burrows closer. The mellow blue of dawn-in-an-hour reflects softly on Korra's skin, casts it just visible. Just inviting. Asami cups and strokes her shoulder, then kisses it where it meets her neck, then her neck, and then one more time against the cold. It warms her considerably so she does it again, once in each spot.

“Okay, I get it," she hears Korra mumble laughingly, “you accept my apology.”

“Yes,” murmurs Asami, smiling through another kiss as she rubs her free hand across Korra's back, and then smiling wider at the welcome difficulty of having to talk and smile and kiss at the same time. “But since we're both awake now and you did wake me, I think it's only fair for you to kiss me back...”

Asami hasn’t kept count, but a hundred and forty is as pleasant and precious as fourteen (and so is almost every number between.)

∞

Her favourites are the ones where they awaken together and don’t have to separate for the next few minutes or hours, but the truth is that every morning is singular, even if for just a moment, because every morning brings its moment of cognizance: oh, here’s Korra. The feeling sticks, no matter where she wakes up or who makes the tea or how few her minutes to get dressed and dash are, and long after she’s learnt exactly how to cuddle up for optimum temperature and perfected the art of morning kisses that don’t smear lipstick, until there’s more salt than pepper in her hair and long after still, the feeling sticks.

#korrasami #korrasami fanfiction #old fic #the cheesiest thing i ever did wrote #**#spot the line from the everthere #(the song)

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peachhoneii · 7 years

Text

Kenosis (BATIM)

Fandom: Bendy and The Ink Machine Word Count: 17048 Summary: A soul must be emptied to receive the Lord’s will. No one knew this better than Susie Campbell. A/N: About my one and only Bendy story, and came as a surge to characterize Susie before Chapter 3 is released.

[AO3]

Susie positioned the microphone close to her mouth.

Amazed anything was heard with the projection area’s constant ink droppings plopping about, she smiled a toothy grin. She didn’t think to complain.

Her throat and head were clear, and when her lips parted to vocalize, she felt the lovely tingle down her throat, the sharp vibrations that followed every silly voice her vocal chords managed to create.

Opening her mouth and keeping it so was an important key to her success, she believed. Her teeth protruded awkwardly whenever she barked or chirped or sang an unbearably on-key tune. This was how the job went, how it was supposed to be.

The mechanics were altered during the transition, but voice acting wasn’t that much different from on-screen, or on sage acting. She believed the greatest challenge was getting viewers to feel, as well as hear, the range of emotions present in the characters' voice. They had to feel through their actions, fluid and blotchy, and their voices needed to carry their thought process to the viewers, be it silly or diabolical or simply mischievous.

As expected, their range of emotions was exaggerated reality. Warped to suit comedic and surreal necessities, this outrageous range was vital for the art’s survival.

That was hardly the point. When Susie stepped in front of the microphone, she knew what to do, who to be, what tone and timbre worked, and what volume was necessary to get the job done. Her smiles dimmed during work, as the process was more of a strain than one would expect, and her hands constantly moved in accordance to the script's detail.

Time was a pin drop in the back of her mind. She knew it continued, and she knew they were on a strict time schedule. On the other side of the recording room window, the others sat in silence as she performed. Their eyes, all male, targeted on her, and she kept her eyes focused on the right light above the window. Red during recording, always blinking, she let her gaze focus on that, and she breathed through her nose, holding it for her dancing tree segments.

Soon, the script reached its end, and the red, blinking light above the window dwindled. The recording finished, and she gasped lightly, letting her shoulders slag from the strain of the work. Staring into the window, she smiled softly at her audience, the only audience she would ever see, and walked out of the room to meet them. The routine was second nature to her at this point, and she nodded to them, their applause casual but genuine.

"You're doing great, Susie," Norman chimed at the head of the band. His brown eyes were warm and cool at the same time, and he carried a large, black case with him. She imagined his guitar, something he always seemed to carry even though there was rarely a chance to play, carefully held in its case, surrounded by black velvet.

Norman smiled the same smile he did whenever a recording session reached its completion. Aware the chances of another incident were abnormally high, completing whatever work they could was an achievement in itself, "Look at you, starting at the bottom, and now you're here. You're really out there, you know?"

His raspy voice had a kind quality she never thought it would possess the moment she met him. He was a tall man with a slim figure and a gleaming smile. One tooth was capped in gold, and his black hair was smoothed back with moss, giving it an additional glow that couldn't be seen in the poor light.

"It's more than I thought I'd be getting!" She leaned on the tip of her toes. Her left hand clutched her right arm awkwardly, "you know…on my first day I was so nervous, but there was nothing I could about it! If I wanted to get paid, if I wanted to keep working, had to bring out my best! Just gotta do it day by day."

Norman's laughter was as raspy as his normal speaking voice, "Yeah, day by day, sugar pie. It's all we can do, but day by day gets darker every time I come in," the glimmer in his eye lessened, and she followed his gaze around the music room where their music and voice recordings occurred.

She didn't discuss this with the others. Norman, his band, and countless others spent more than two decades at the studio. She knew two of them, aside from Mr. Drew, were present when the original studio developed, and that wasn't something that happened over night.

But as they walked, she found it difficult to reconcile what was and what could be. Large splats of black ink were smeared on the walls, the floors, and the projectors. No surface was spared from the substance, and though her recording had gone splendidly, the drumming roar of the ink machine over their heads warned very little of what she had recorded would be of use. This nonverbal warning's consequence was another recording session would be due soon, and the final project pushed to a later date.

Susie chewed her bottom lip, and turned to Norman, "We're still making it okay, I suppose," and she smiled a little, not wanting to let him know she was worried. After all, she was new to crew, and she had no room for complaint, "And besides, all of this new material will make Disney jealous, I tell ya."

Norman looked as if he wanted to believe those very words. The dark lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed him, "I certainly hope so, song bird," he sighed, "it'll be a miracle if we're not shut down before then."

Her expression must have written her thoughts clearly to him as he back pedaled immediately, waving his empty hand at her, "Now, now, don't get all worried because of me. Just ol' Norman shit talking, but we gotta be careful of how things turn out. We gotta be smart." He tapped the side of his head two times with a wink.

"I think we're all very smart," she grabbed a hold of the door knob, "but I think we have to make sure we stay talented. No ink machine is going to keep Susie Campbell down."

Upon opening the door stood a small, little man with a crooked grin on his face. Beside him was a bucket with wheels filled with soapy water, and on his side dangled a ring of keys of various sizes. Norman and Susie blinked at the man, then smiled, and then their laughter waned for speech.

"I thought you'd be outta here by now," Wally creaked as he rolled his washing bin, mop included, into the music room, "everyone else is leaving for the night."

"And you aren't?"

He turned too quickly for comfort, and he gripped his neck in response, "I don't know about you, Norman, but I'm a janitor. It's what I do, and I don't clean this stuff up before Sammy comes in later on tonight, then I'm outta here."

It was something Susie had grown used to. Every little thing was an opportunity for Wally to get out of here, and while there were close times when dismissal was evident, as in losing the keys for the fifteenth time, he remained their ever-faithful janitor. He didn't seem faithful as he dipped the mop into the bucket and let it splatter on the floor. The movements were the same. He would dip the mop into the water, sweep across the floor where the ink was most prominent, and it return it to the bucket. But this short observation proved that this method was less than efficient.

The ink merged with the water, and by time Wally splashed the mop back on the floor, it was a mix of inky, black bubbles. It was more liquid than it was before, and Susie covered her mouth at the sight. Wally's tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth, almost oblivious to the greater mess he was making. An idea came to mind, and she passed Norman, whose expression was twisted in similar sympathy and amusement.

"Wait, Susie," she heard behind him, but she didn't want to let this idea pass it up, "where are you going, wait, don't tell me?"

"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Norman!" By time she went up the stairs, he was gone, and she heard his heavy footsteps move towards the exit, that was helpfully free from flooding.

Sammy's office wasn't too far from the main music-recording room. She remembered it like she remembered the back of her hand. Not that she had been there often, many people were not given permission, but she recalled the day she was finally hired as clear as if it had happened only yesterday.

She had been nervous, and yet, oddly secure. She recognized her talent early on, and she needed them to recognize it too. And they had, in a resigned sort of way. They were short of staff, so many had quit due to the circumstances surrounding the studio, and others had retired, their wacky, light-hearted vocal chords had fallen to strain, weak and roasted. They needed new talent, and she was more than happy to supply.

Rounding the right corner, she practiced what she intended to say. Her thoughts were constantly a jumble of potential ideas, never closing in together, and connecting them would be delightful in throwing out her pitch. She would never go to Mr. Drew with this; she was lucky enough to be one of the few Sammy tolerated.

Standing in front of his office, closed for the night, Susie clutched the ends of her skirt in concern. Being in the back of the basement, the furthest side of the basement in her opinion, must have been a raw deal. Sammy didn't seem too troubled by it. From the open window she saw his hunched back hanging over his desk, eyes glued to a music sheet with a dull pencil in hand. At this angle she couldn't see his full face, but the motions of his grinding teeth told her she was nowhere near his present thinking process.

Pepper and salt stubble were speckled along his jawline. His eye sockets were sunken, dark crescents filling the space where skin existed, and Susie's stomach toppled. She could go in right now. He might not mind in the slightest. But common sense told her that when a man was doing his work, his profession, it was best to leave him be.

"After all," common sense reassured her, "it can wait until morning." Feeling more embarrassed than she could ever be had she gone in, she turned on her heels and started away. What a childish thing to do, she chided herself. An adult would have thought it through, and an adult she was, or she tried to portray herself as.

But as she started her way down the way she came from, a harsh tone called out to her, "If you're going to do all that to get to me, you should at least come talk to me."

Spinning around, she saw Sammy's face was no longer aligned with the music sheet, and he stared at her with the same impatience he afforded to all his subordinates. Upon looking at him, a bright smile chiseled on her face, and she nearly skipped into his office, not caring that he could see the full enthusiasm in every step.

"Joey, I'm sorry." She pulled a chair near him and patted her lap excitedly, "And really, this is something that can wait. You're doing a lot of work anyways, and I-,"

He raised a hand to stop her. He fished into his desk drawer and pulled out a lighter that was paired with the cigarette in his left hand, "Now, now, no need for that. I spend all my night here now, and I wanted to talk to you anyways."

"You did?"

He nodded, "It can wait," he nodded towards her, "what did you want to tell me?"

Susie flushed, and she tucked her hair behind her ear, "Well, I had a funny pitch that I thought of, but now that you've mentioned this, I think it takes precedence."

He shrugged casually, taking a strong whiff from his cigarette, "All depends on how you determine your worth, or the worth of what I have to tell you."

"Get on it with it, and tell me," she wanted to shout at him. She held onto her skirt like a lifesaver, and she felt her throat clog in anticipation. He smoked casually, closing his eyes in relief at every puff, and when he opened his eyes again, a short grin formed on his lips.

She would have thought it was handsome had she not been suddenly caught in a bundle of nerves, "Sammy," she teased tightly between her teeth, "what's the news?"

On his fifth puff, the cigarette was ready to ends its life. The bud was met, and Sammy stamped it roughly on the ashtray on his desk. He turned to her with a flaccid expression on his face, sunken so deeply in exhaustion that emotion as it was known couldn't possibly exist, "We've got a new character coming up, and I recommended you," he jabbed his finger at her, "to voice it."

"Okay."

"Okay?" His flaccid, blank look dragged into something more skeptical, "I've just gotten you a gig, and all you have to say is okay?"

"I voice a lot of characters, Sammy." She laughed softly, "It's just another one for me, but I can't say I'm not happy. I like the work."

Sammy, to his credit, didn't roll his eyes, but smacked his lips very loudly, "Yeah, whatever you say, but this isn't some background we're talking about."

"What do you mean?"

Going back to his desk, he opened one of the side drawers, and from there, retrieved a sheet of paper. Where she was seated she saw images scrawled messily on black ink, a name on the upper right corner.

"She's on the writing boards as we speak." He handed the paper to her, "Still modifying her look and character, but she's meant to work with Bendy. His Minnie Mouse, if you want to call it that."

Susie took hold of the paper carefully. The pictures drawn weren't completed. Six female figures were shown, all without faces, and of different body types. An hourglass figure, big feet and big hands were the direction they wanted to go with her, keeping it natural and consistent. In bold, sharp writing, a name was solidified, and Susie eyebrows perked.

"Alice Angel," the name rolled off her tongue delightfully, and the possibilities of what she would sound like floated in Susie's head, "the name's classy. Alliteration really fits too. Bendy is going to have a lot of fun with her."

"That's the plan." Sammy answered, "But we're trying to beyond Disney. She isn't going to be just a cute angel that Bendy's going to flirt with every now and then. She has to have star power, and seeing you've got the stuff, we're using you."

Susie stared at the concept art, and she returned her stare to Sammy. His smug expression told her more than she wanted to know, and her stomach flipped flopped. Alice was still a concept, not fully formed. She had no face, no voice, no character, an empty slate, and she stared at the scrawled pieces given to her. She felt the corners of her lips pull together, and a light bark of laughter slipped through, echoing on the office's creaky walls.

"Wow!" She gasped, and her arm to her waist, "I-I can't believe it, Sammy! Can you believe it? Mr. Drew really wants me to voice her. Wow, just, wow. Golly, wow!"

"I know." He admitted, "I didn't think he'd go with it at first. He hasn't been completely sane these past few months ever since," shaking his head dismissively, "either way, he approved it, so now that you know, you can prepare for whatever comes. I doubt he'll give you a warning when he wants to start recording."

"Thank you!" Returning the paper to him, he tucked it back into the drawer, and she saw the lines around his mouth grow dim, "Aw, shucks, Sammy, I can just hug you right about now!"

"Please, don't." But she had wrapped his arms around his back, pushing her face into his chest, and when she raised her head up to him, he sighed and wrapped his arms around her in return, "Congrats, kid, you deserve it."

"Sammy, you don't know how much this means to me."

"Trust me, I do." He stepped back, "I have to get back to work. These cartoony melodies don't write themselves you know."

Her heart was ready to burst. It could burst right in his office, and she would have died half-content. Leaving his office wasn't a problem, even with the ink machine roaring menacingly above them, and she pressed a hand to her chest, tears swelling at the corner of her eyes. This was more, more than she had ever dreamt of, and better yet, it was happening in real time. Her idea pitch fell through the void of discarded ideas. She would have more in the mean time, and she continued to the exit with her head held high, eyes filled with a new fire in them.

Mrs. Bornstein's Boarding House was a fifteen-minute car drive from LaughDrew Film Studios. Calling a taxi wasn't a pleasure her savings could indulge in, and besides, she told herself as she wrapped her sweater around her shoulders, the walk would give her time to process the news. Her thoughts stirred clearly whenever she walked, and trimming down her absurd surge of bouncing energy would give Mrs. Bornstein little reason to scold her.

Dinner started at eight and ended at eight forty-five. No excuses.

Summer nights were unusually cold. It was different from her youth, stuck in sticky heat at night, forced to throw her blankets on the floor. Tightening her sweater around her, she stuffed her hands deep into the pockets, and the sound of her light footsteps filled the darkened sky. In the distance, the boarding house came into view, and the upper and lower lights were on, signaling she hadn't returned too late. Dinner was already starting, she knew, but Mrs. Bornstein would have no reason to scold her aside from her poor timing.

Up the stairs she went, panting along the way, and she rolled her hand around the curved door handle. Through the glass portion of the door she saw quick movement coming down the stairs. Their skirts were laced in white and lavender, and their hair was curled, styled in the popular fashion. Susie patted down her clothes, straightened her sweater, and did what she could with her hair; aware the wind had done its work on it.

Her reflection was murky, rippled through the glass's design, and she breathed steadily, pulling the curved door handle towards her.

The women came down in swift formation. It wasn't mandatory for them to dress themselves as they did, casual formal, but they knew it would put their land lady in a good mood to see them tidied up. Seeing an opening, Susie fell in line behind a woman she knew as Martha, whose clothes and hair of lemon soap.

"I can't believe it," was whispered behind her, and her shoulders tensed, shooting straight up, "no, seriously, first of all you're late, and now, you're going to cut the line."

"You make it sound worse than it actually is," she whispered back, and made the turn at the doorway. The dining room was much larger than it looked from at a distance, and her stomach growled angrily at her, "Besides, I was at work, and work is important to me."

The woman behind her scowled, and she clucked her tongue to demonstrate her displeasure, "Well, yeah, work is all fine and dandy when they're not having scouts coming in and around."

"Scouts?" Fully turning her head, she grabbed a plate and took her seat, "Did they come for an inspection?"

Inspections were carried every other week. It was a method Mrs. Bornstein enforced to ensure the integrity of the boarding house. In other terms, she made it so that no young men were to be found on the premises. Many tenants had lost their room for those exact reasons, which meant their neighbors changed every other week.

Susie's back straightened as the servants entered from the kitchen, "I have no reason to be afraid. The last thing I would ever do was bring a boy back here," she sniffed quietly, "but someone did?"

"You sound like you didn't want to know."

"Nora!"

"Oh fine." Motioning to one of the waiters for the peas, she spooned them on her plate, "It was Cindy Marks. She had evidence of debauchery, or so they say. It's really hard to tell what's dirty and what isn't."

"Cindy?"

"Yes, I can show you her now empty room." Another wave for the hot rolls, and they smiled as they were placed carefully away from the mashed potatoes and Salisbury steak, "But enough about that, how about you?"

Susie tore a piece of her roll and squashed it into her mashed potatoes, "Nothing much really. It's all very busy, as you know, but I think they're starting to like me."

"I'd hope so. You've been working there for a month."

"It doesn't feel like a month." She went for the Salisbury steak next, slicing it in perfect squares, "With all the singing and dancing and so many other stuff. It just feels so heavy."

"It's show business for you." Nora smashed her peas with her spoon and scooped them into her mouth, "At least you don't have to be pretty to be a voice actress. All those makeup and dance lessons, honestly, I'd lose my mind."

Chewing her steak and bread, Susie chuckled, and quickly downed her food with water, "It isn't easy, even without the makeup and dance lessons, but I'm happy to be doing what I do. Besides, after dinner, I have big news to tell you."

Mrs. Bornsetin watched from her separate table. Her sharp eyes didn't miss a single thing, and she took note of every poor demonstration of table manners. Her sqwuaks, that they knew were the calls of displeasure, made the wince, but even she couldn't ignore her stomach pains. She ate quietly to the side as the rest of them chattered about their day, and what they intended to do for tomorrow.

Nora spoke with their neighbors, and Susie ate quietly, musing. It seemed surreal to think of it. Alice Angel, a leading character in her own shorts. That was the impression she got from Sammy, and she couldn't stop thinking of that impression, of what it entailed. The food was delicious, roasted and steamy, and the juices filled her mouth. But the more she ate, the less driven she felt to finish her meal. The sooner she went to bed, the sooner she would able to go to work the next morning.

"You don't think you can wait for me?" Nora cried to her as she went upstairs to their shared bedroom. Closing the door behind her she discarded her day clothes and found her fuzzy bathrobe and cleaning supplies, "Oh, this better be good, you know," Nora chirped when she spun out of the room a second time.

She returned promptly, taking a thirty minute shower wasn't easy when the shower was warm and comfortably, and Nora was propped in her bed with a magazine in her hands. The dressing table lamp was on, and seeing her in the door frame, she tipped her glasses down the bridge of her nose, waiting for a report.

"Well…"

"You were so excited to tell me the good news." She set her magazine aside and folded her hands on her lap, like a mother would at the end of the day, ready to hear her child's report.

Standing at the dressing table in front of the mirror, her reflection revealed what the shower's humidity had done to her hair. Her hair was naturally wavy, but it grew uncontrolled faster than she could brush it down. Using her best brush, she found a stool to sit on, and she parted her hair as she spoke in rushed, hushed tones.

"You know I've been doing a lot of background work, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I got a chance to speak to Sammy." In the mirror, Nora's confused shrug made her sigh dramatically, "You know, Sammy Lawrence, the guy who writes all the songs. Keep up."

"Oh, you mean your boyfriend." Nora grinned, "Oh, don't give me that look. He's very fond of you."

"Hush, now." Susie snapped without any bite, and she parted the other side of her hair, beginning to brush from that angle, "Sammy is my friend, but he spoke to Mr. Drew about a new character they're working on, y'know?"

"A new character? Don't tell me it's an angel character."

"It is!" Her milk white teeth showed, and she turned to her friend, hopping on her bed with her brush still in hand, "Can you believe it, Nora, they want me to voice her."

Arms grabbed a hold of Nora's neck, pulling her down, and Susie pressed her freshly washed face against hers, "Oh, Nora, I'm so happy. Got a job I love, and a new character! Alice Angel, he told me. She's probably gonna do some songs with Bendy."

"I can't say I'm not happy for you." Nora's arms were skinnier than hers but no less strong, and gripped her tightly as they lied in bed together, "This is a big shot for 'ya, especially if she turns out to have star power."

"I know." Rubbing against her chest, she felt her eyes growing heavy, "I just can't imagine they would've chosen me, especially after all those retirements. Golly, it feels like a dream."

"Good for you honey," Nora murmured, "this dream isn't playing by the book. It's real."

After hearing the click of the lamp, the room was spurned into entire darkness. Nora's breathing soothed her as she drifted far from the bed she slept on, and she trailed after blurry images waiting in front her. Her hands reached for them, grasping at their fitful tails, and she heard children's laughter. But when she went to chase after them, darkness had surrounded her. And she wasn't afraid.

Time was a component. It fluttered around her, teasing her with its potential, and she remained silent, quiet of what she had learned.

The mornings after when she arrived to work, she kept her silence. It would do her no good to confess what Sammy had told her. "Give it time," she calmed the worst case scenarios in her head, "if it all works out, they'll know."

The recording booth was readied in preparation for her. What did it matter that black spots decorated the podium spotted on the flimsy line sheet, now faded to a brownish yellow. Norman's band performed against the ink machine, blasting and fighting for control. The melody trembled, and the instruments dried in protest.

Time was all she ever needed. When her voice echoed in the recording booth, when the band finished their time and waited to listen, she thought of time, and how it would turn its hands towards her. She did not approach Sammy again about the subject. He had given her the needed information.

"Did you lose your keys again, Wally?" Having finished early for the day, Susie closed the door as the band started their beginning prep, "Or are you lost?"

Of the employees, Wally was the last of the original crew to surf top through bottom. His cleaning supplies were useless against the ink that seemed to overrun the place. Dressed in his overalls, he carried an oversized broom and dustpan in his hands. Surprise tightened his face, and the glazed gleam in his eyes wavered when she spoke.

"Susie? Ah, Susie, nope!" He swept the hallway eagerly, "Nah, nah, none of that. I don't think. I found my keys, told you I would, and now I'm coming down…sounds like Norman's picking up again."

"Yes, Sammy just finished a new sheet." Choosing to walk ahead, her long strides met with his crinkled pace, "Norman was upset for the suddenness, but he seems to have taken to the change well."

"And hasn't changed?" Wally barked, "First the ink machine, now donation, weird stuff."

Susie frowned, "I suppose it isn't exactly normal, but after everything that has happened," she scratched her wrist absent-mindedly, "we can only give him the benefit of the doubt."

Wally's hard gaze crystalized, and he jabbed a stubby finger towards his ear, "Benefit of the doubt, we've been giving him that! And look at us, got ink up to our ears!"

It was not an inaccurate observation. Susie had seen photographs of the studio in its prime. Shabby yet pristine, animators at their desk, hurriedly scrawling the finest of animation sheet after sheet. Now, the floorboards oozed black ink every other step. Pipes were recently installed to current the flow of ink the machine produced, but it caused more messes, choosing to squirt a kiss on any poor person happening to be near them at the time.

Unfortunately, the poor persons happened to be the animators, and Wally, from time to time.

"And the offerings," scratching the side of his head, Susie winced at the white flakes that showered off his hair, like dwindled, saggy snow, "or as Tommy likes to call them, donations."

"Offerings?"

They stopped in front of the music department hall where the banner was laid out for everyone to see. Wally stared at her with wide eyes, "Wait, don't tell me you don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

He slapped his forehead and cursed, "Of course, you're not gonna know nothing being down here! Sammy may know, but he's keeping away from Joey at the moment. Still upset about the machine, y'know?"

"Yes, Sammy is not fond of the machine." Stretching, she sent Wally a straight stare through narrowed eyes, "But you haven't told me about these offerings, Wally, what are they?"

He knew more than anyone else on the crew, even though he scarcely realized it. It seemed to Susie Wally's inability to fully comprehend the happenings going on could be used to her advantage, and these offerings, as he put it, were known to everybody except her. She did not want to be out of the loop.

Her pleading stare drew Wally near, and he rolled his neck with a groan, "Now, don't you start the puppy dog eyes. You're as bad as Bendy himself!"

"It isn't like our little devil is going to pop out and scold us." She stomped her foot, "Come on, Wally, please."

"Quit your whining." He snapped, and scratching the back of his head, he sighed, "Look, if you wanna know so badly, help me clean some of this stuff up. It's in the janitor's closet down the way, you remember?"

Susie nodded, "I do. You need the mop, or another broom."

"Broom." He stared around the room and growled, "Makes no sense to even try anymore."

Going down the hall was no easy stitch. Her heels were slightly higher than they were before she moved to the city, and she was careful not to step through any loose holes in the floorboard. Ink swished through the pipes, a harsh swooshing sound rattled against the walls. The utility closet was on the right side of the hallway, and she did not have to walk very far.

"Everyone's been so nice to me," her heels skidded to a slippery stop in front of the utility closet, "can't say I can complain about this."

She opened the door and found the broom, but there was more to that. The room was larger than she expected it to be. Not as spacious as the music department hall, certainly not as large as the upper area. Stepping in, Susie grabbed the broom poll, and the door closed quietly behind her.

Unintentional, she reached for the door but pulled back at the last second. Shelves surrounded her, and although there was elbowroom, she felt confined. Gripping the broom, she grabbed onto one of the shelves to balance herself, and groaned when an oozy substance tied around her fingers.

"Oh goodness," grumbling as she straightened her posture, she pushed forward with the broom still in hand, and she reached for the ceiling light. A beaded string dangled in the darkness, swinging to and fro, and gaining her stance, she took hold of it.

"What the heck is that?" She hadn't realized she spoken until pressure formed around her hand, jerking her arm down, but it was a slight motion. A little bit of weight she would not have noticed if she had not been enclosed in the room.

Unsettled but refusing her nervousness to yield her, Susie pulled the dangling line down, and the light clicked on. The dull illumination filling the room did not settle her imagination, and she stared at the shelves, at the floor with wide, confused eyes. The broom bristled in the palm of her hand, and the splinters that dug through her skin. Her nerves throbbed at the pain.

Faded, black ink dressed her fingertips, and she closed it solidly, feeling the muscles tense stiffly, "I really need some reset," she whispered as she closed the door. Back pressed against the flat surface, her breath rattled in her lungs, and she let her heels click on top of the unsteady floorboards. They creaked underneath her.

Fearing Wally's thin patience, which usually resulted in unending complaints, Susie resumed her path back towards him when the pitter patter of nails scurried past her ears. Stopping short of another full step, she whipped her head to the other side of the hallway, feeling a rush of lightheadedness as she did so, and saw eerie light filling the empty passage. Almost identical to the utility closet's ceiling light, she felt familiarity rather than confusion, and assumed this to be the same with the majority of hallways in the building, upstairs and downstairs.

Watching the dust particles float listlessly within the illumination, a scene lacking in her earlier sightings made her pause, and she tilted her head. They were far more visible as they littered in the light, and they danced towards her, bouncing as close as the light would allow.

At the hallway's end, near the right corner, a light flickered against the wall. She could see its brightness at a distance. It dimmed then glowered then dimmed again, and without processing what she had chosen to do, she fell in line at its direction. The broom handle remained in her firm grip, and it dragged at her side, scrapping softly at the ink beneath it.

Susie did not know what she was intended to find there, and surely, there might have been reason for her to have this sudden fullness in the pit of her stomach. Enthralled by the sight, her senses did not detect the slight alternation in the lair's scent. It had transformed into a less ripe odor than what it was. It tickled the nerves her nostrils, and in response, her nose twitched in aggravation.

Tired of the broom, her fingers released its hold loosely, and the broom fell to the floor quietly. Around the corner, the strange glow brightened hotly, and the reason was laid out for her.

All walls in the building were now decrepit. A combination of materials meshed together to leave unknown stains and blotches on the wood, but what she viewed was an entirely different entity.

A Bendy cutout was propped upwards. Its back was not cut out, but not set openly so that it could stand on its own. She knew that was not the issue at hand. The Bendy cutout was one of many mass produced cutouts sent to theaters and rival studios. She had heard of them, a teasing jest to competitors, and she had seen more than enough down in the basement where a countless amount were stored. It wasn't the cutout itself but what stood behind it, or rather, what its body concealed.

She did not dare move the cutout, feeling an immeasurable pressure on her shoulders, and determined what image the cutout obscured. An encircled star, the recognizable triangle points stuck out beyond Bendy's body, was painted in black ink. Placed precariously on the floor below, the candle's melted wax sunk and stuck to the floor, and their dwindling flames glowed darkly.

The drawing and cutout were unusual together, and the candles, while neatly placed, were unnerving. But it was the objects spread across the span of the cutout, on the floor, that gave Susie pause. Little, tiny trinkets, a strand of hair, a discarded napkin, and an old, worn photograph that was wrinkled beyond recognition were lined in no particular order. It was neither unsightly but confusing, and Bendy's blank, disarming smile did no curb her confusion.

Stepping away, her eyes never strayed from the dancing devil, and she was ready to round the corner when she spun around where alarm stomped on her heart.

"Wally!" Her high pitched hiss echoed down the hall, "What are you doing!?"

His broom in hand, Wally blinked at her, then at the observance.

"Huh, ain't it weird." He said and went back the way he came from, "That's where our donations are going to."

Susie followed him eagerly, "What was that thing?"

Wally shrugged, "Joey's muttered some business about prayer circles, but I think it's all because of…you know," he huffed off his discomfort, and she said nothing more about the reasons.

"If it helps him," quietly said after a moment's time, "if it helps him feel better, then I can't complain."

"But it's weird."

"Yes, it is." She thought of an appropriate, tasteful word, but the words she thought of did not satisfy her, "I don't understand out of the ordinary, even with my voices."

"Out of the ordinary. You wanna call it that, go ahead," using air quotes, he smacked his lips, and stumbled back into the main hall, "I'm gonna call it weird, maybe crazy, and Sammy's getting on it too!"

"Now, you stop that," hearing Sammy's name spoke in such a way made her chest rise, and she frizzled at Wally, giving him her best, firm stare, "Sammy's always been nice to me, and if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have a job. Last I heard from him, he sounded perfectly fine."

Her reprimand did not warn Wally. He rolled his eyes and started back to sweeping, pointing to the other side of the hall where a pile of inky dust had collected.

"Go on and believe what you want," he said, eyes trained to the floor as he swept, "this place is going absolutely bonkers."

With a frown, she forced her snapping retort back. Wally was not a dumb man, and he was not a smart man. He spoke his mind freely, thoughts barfing as they came. These thoughts were not always spoken with the type of clarity others would have preferred, and it did not mean he always comprehended their meaning. And most importantly, hand gripping tightly around the broom handle, Sammy was nothing like Mr. Drew.

She hiked her skirt halfway up, and peeled away the stale cobwebs from the corners. Wally did not pay attention as her olive skinned thigh, dressed in beige pantyhose moved downwards, and she was mindful of its length, concerned if she moved the wrong way it would split.

"He's a very sad man, that Mr. Drew," she said to herself, and she plucked away an inky cobweb with her finger, "and there is nothing we can do about it. We've gotta make sure those cartoons are made in time."

"Yeah, but I don't think cleaning is going to help."

Gasping loudly, Susie glanced up, "Sammy, what-what are you doing here?"

She rose quickly off the floor. Acutely aware of the disarray of her hair and clothes, she flicked off random dust particles, and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. The broom lied forgotten in the corner.

"Was trying to find you?" A perfectly arched eyebrow quirked in vague interest, "What are you doing?"

"I uh…," she motioned at Wally on the other side, still sweeping, pretending his boss had not walked in front of him, "was helping Wally clean."

"Clean?" Sending Wally a hard stare, one the shorter man visibly flinched at, Sammy sighed and pinched his temples, "I came looking for you. Norman said you were around here somewhere, even after hours."

His hard stare reprimanded her for her refusal to go home, and the quirk of his lips told her otherwise. He was somehow relieved she had stayed. His slumped shoulders and dangling cigarette told her so.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." A faint flush accompanied her apology, "I wanted to help Wally, and now, I'm making more of a mess."

"Which is why you shouldn't sweep." He said nothing more, going off in the opposite direction that was not his office. Wally continued to sweep at a distance, and she stood helplessly, confused and embarrassed and a little bit excited.

He did not have to say anything to her. She knew it was her time, and she whispered a tender 'Sorry' as she hurried after him.

His feet dragged across the floor, mangling the boards underneath them, and his breath passed through his teeth as raspy, short clipped wheezes. The noises pounded on the thin membrane that made up her eardrum. She reminded herself that it could be worse. He could've started singing.

Quiet during their walk, he maintained a two stepped lead while she worked to keep pace. The hallways had grown cramped and fitting, losing its past magnificence. Her twiddling fingers refused to calm themselves, and she waited with a stuttering heart for any sign of speech. He preferred to initiate conversations as he initiated his songs, although he wasn't the conductor. As they deepened their path, further from Wally's casual sweeps, Susie predicted he wasn't in the mood for talk.

Sammy Lawrence refusal to speak made the silence bearable. Whatever crimes she had unknowingly committed had to have been minor. His guarded, sullen silence was tied to a draining exhaustion that made her heart ache for him. Its ache was similar, she recalled loosely, to the ache she once held for her father when she was a child. A tiresome, sluggish job was, and she watched on the outskirts, careful to maintain a clean house, a quiet house.

Joey Drew Studios wasn't a house, but it had become, in the past month, a home to her. Although the home was in disarray, there was no doubt in her mind of its positive influence. Watching Sammy from afar, his expression slack, dull even, and eyes grey, she felt no words come to mind. She knew whatever tricky voice she concocted would be useless on him, and having seen his rage, more of a dark fire that spurted in quick bursts, she was overtly cautious.

Ahead of her, his head bobbed up and down. His thumbs stuck out of his pockets, and his dragging feet did not go faster or slower.

"I've called you a cab."

Unable to make out the words the first time, she questioned his statement, and pulled back with a faint scowl, embarrassed by his generosity.

"You didn't have to do that."

"It's late. You're a woman, do the math." He kept forward, and smoke trailed from his head where his mouth was, "You're going home, and you're coming in for a test recording."

Her pale cheeks flushed crimson, and she forced her steps to match with his, "What do you mean test recording?"

They went down the stairs towards the exit. He did not look at her the entire walk, and the question appeared to irritate him as his flaccid lips suddenly curled in a crooked snarl. Her refusal to pull back in herself or to dismiss her question all together unnerved him. For him, the answer was obvious, but she stood there, waiting in pleading silence.

He said nothing to her. Opening the exit door, he pointed to the cab that waited for her at the curb. It's yellow body and head lights stood out in the late evening, holding onto its violet glow rather than its impending royal blue. Cool air rushed at him, and she straightened her sweater. Her wide, confused stare did not let him free, and she remained glued where she stood.

He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, stomping on it, "You really are stubborn, aren't you?"

"I'm stubborn about things I care about." And I care about you, she wanted to say, but she knew Sammy well enough the sentiment would not be appreciated, not in this moment.

He huffed. His dark eyes rolled to the side towards the drumming sound of the taxi cab's engine, "We're going to have a meeting in a few days. Short, Alice's final design has been approved."

"She has?" Her lips bloomed in an awed pout, "You mean, I get to voice her now?"

"It's a test." A recent rain left murky puddles on the concrete, and mist lingered in the cool, summer air, "Joey wants to hear you too."

"He does?" Her heart throbbed, clutched, and she could not tell whether fright or validation had struck her. For months she offered her voice, performed even for radio shows, and their compliments stroked her confidence. She purred for them, and when they released her, without reference, she shed no tears. Not a single drop.

Hearing those words, the touch of a man's strong hand tingled on her arms, and she stared down at the raised hairs on her forearms, goosebumps peddling underneath them.

"He likes the sound of the background characters." He opened the back door, "And thinks you've got the potential for a costar. Scripts are already underway for Alice Angel's debut."

Slipping onto the worn leather seats, she stared at him blankly, unsure of how to respond. His far away, sluggish stare told her an embrace would not be welcomed, and she shrunk away, forcing the door in her direction. Other sentences were uttered, sluggishly she believed, but she could not absorb them as she reclined on the seat. He stuffed a handful of bills into the driver's hand, pointing in the direction of where her home was.

"See you tomorrow." She heard in the distance, "And don't let the nerves get to you."

Forcing her head forward, her neck grew stiff from the effort. Sammy was not the type to wait at the curb, and she did not think he would have. As the car drifted ahead, the rearview mirror jumped, and its angle was pushed an inch to the right. There she saw him. Camouflaged in the night, another cigarette was lit between his lips, and he stood with a great crook in his back. His lanky form did not appear so out of place under the street lights, and his eyes, they came to her in vision, were locked on the taxi cab that drew further away from him.

What was it, Susie wanted to know, that caused her heart to leap, which caused her cheeks to flush? She folded her hands on her lap, and listened to the radio playing in the front.

"You work for Joey Drew don't ya?" The driver peered into the rearview mirror, "My kid loves Bendy. Can't get enough of 'im and Boris! Yeah, but as much as she loves the boys—she really wants a dame to look up to! Like Minnie and Betty!"

He smiled. His front teeth were missing, and the gap was immeasurable when he smiled. "My dad used to smile like that too," and her expression twisted into something similar to disgust but not quite. She could not reason why he had appeared in her thoughts, why of all moments, but as quickly as he appeared, just the thought of him, he receded back into her subconscious.

The cab pulled slowly to the sidewalk, and she left with ease. Her skirts blew against her knees, and she thanks the driver, cheerfully grinning at his gap-toothed smile.

"Don't worry, sir, I think your little girl is going to have a dame to look up to soon!"

The same gap-toothed appeared for a final time, and the window rolled up, obscuring it. But she saw it still, saw the lightness and sweetness, and she realized, standing on the curb as it sped off in the distance, that this was something she missed.

"I want to go places." Her chin ducked low, "What's so bad about that?"

Joey Drew was an eccentric, recluse of an artist.

Susie couldn't say how long this was, but she had accepted this as a part of her job. But by time the end of the month arrived, her reservations were teasing at the edge.

Her recording session started smoothly, as they often did, but they lacked the comfortable eyes of the band observing her. Even Sammy's usual lucidity appeared troubled in Mr. Drew's presence, and she understood why, even though she would never say it aloud.

For his eccentricities, there was nothing eccentric about him physically. Taller than Sammy, standing at about 6'5, his pepper-grayed hair was slick black neatly. His skin was swallow, with a tinge of yellow in it. His arms were crossed against his thin, broad chest. His weight loss was obvious, a combination of exhaustion and grief.

His thumb ran along the line of his bottom lip. In spite of his worrisome physical state, there was life to him. It was not larger than life, nothing excitable but anxious and unconstrained. It was a stark contrast to Sammy's annoyance and exhaustion. His glassy eyes stared from him to her.

Their inscrutable expressions followed her voice, and threatened to silence her vocal chords to their satisfaction. Delirium pounced on her nervousness.

Explaining how she succeeded in her performance, giving them what they wanted, was impossible for her. When the last line was spoken, when the red light fizzled down, she let out a weak little gasp, not realizing she had held her breath longer than she meant to.

Like statues they stood. Rain must have poured endlessly on them for she saw the creases and dark lines around their eyes and mouths. Wrinkles folded on their cheeks, and were pronounced on their furrowed brows. They did not share glances, mouthing sentences too quiet for Susie to hear, and her hands fell on the podium, the metal digging into her skin. Which face was harder to read? Which expression was crueler?

Susie tried to determine the expression she was intended to rely on. They did not want to be relied on just as they did not want to carry her on their shoulders. Something existed far beyond them, far beyond what their eyes showed, and she rolled on her heels, counting the seconds until Mr. Drew raised his hand for her to approach.

She walked quickly out of the recording booth. Standing in front of the two men, she laid her hands and arms flat at her sides, and pressed her lips in a needle like line.

Their gazes settled. They settled comfortably on her, and her pale cheeks grew hot under their combined stare.

"Miss Campbell," Mr. Drew said, "you have been working here for one month, haven't you?"

She sent a worried glance at Sammy, and saw absence in his face, "Yes, yes I have."

"And do you like it?"

"Yes, I do." She said with a nod, and her nails grazed her skirt's fabric, "Everyone is very nice."

"I'm glad."

"Me too." A scratchy cough burst through her lips, and she gasped hotly, forcing down the embarrassment with a creaky smile, "I'm sorry. I-you know how it is. Yes, I'm very happy everyone is so nice, and Mr. Lawrence is a great instructor with vocals."

A bushy though finely plucked eyebrow rose in disbelief, and Mr. Drew gave Sammy an incredulous stare. His dried lips parted gently in a smile, and that smile, Susie noticed, made him look twenty years younger.

"I see, Sammy. You're normally not so nice to up and starters." His returned to her, "He must really respect you then."

"I don't need you to speak for me, Joey," Sammy croaked.

"Ah." Smacking his lips, he dropped a hand on Susie's shoulder, "Of course not, I'd never speak for you, but your actions, yes, they are quite telling, aren't they?"

Susie refused to tense. Her sluggish shoulders were unmovable in his grip. While shivers danced down her spine, the faint sense of falling told her of the gesture's significance.

Was she dizzy? Yes, but she wasn't going to show it. The rest of her limbs felt like glue, heavy and sticky, and she hoped the heat didn't reveal too much on her blouse and forehead. Sweat beads dotted her forehead, and she felt the same on the dark curls under her arms.

"I…Mr. Lawrence is a great coach," she murmured softly.

"Sammy has always gone beyond perfection."

He was satisfied. His smooth, easy talk reassured her, but his gentle smile wasn't confirmation. It kept its innermost thoughts to itself. His eyes were salt fragments that tried to be gentle and kind, but couldn't match up. She tried to see the sincerity in his playfulness with Sammy. His strained, quiet voice led to a forcefulness of the same nature. Their banter might have been a regular occurrence in the past but had reached its peak some time ago.

For the sake of this interview, attempts needed to be made. They needed to united.

Sammy rolled his eyes, "We know she got the part. Let's show what else we've got to show her," and on a lower, aggravated note, "I can't afford anymore distractions, Joey. Deadlines are due, and people are talking."

"I see." He blinked at Sammy, "No, I do, but there's more important work to be done."

"I can get back to work." Feeling abandoned between the two men, she watched them carefully, waiting for any physical change her eyes could spot, "If it's what you want, there's no hurry for you."

"Why would we want that?" Mr. Drew asked, "You have to meet her first."

"Meet who?"

"I forgot how it is to be young and afraid," Mr. Drew chortled, and this sound truer to what he used to, or what she believed him to be.

"Alice." Sammy flatly confirmed, "We're going to give you a proper introduction."

Going upstairs crunched down her expectations. The Music Department Hall's recent relocation kept her confined to the basement for the past month and two days. This was not a problem to her, as the circumstances appeared to her to be a grand adventure compared to the other dull aspects of her life. As they moved upwards, the ink pipes trembled with exceeded vitality, and they traveled far longer than she originally thought. Her familiarity with the basement made her unsure of what was in store, and she maintained their quick strides, eager to see the world they belonged to.

"Make a right, kid," Sammy directed.

"A right?"

"We'll be taking the lift."

Her heart skipped a beat, "The lift?"

Rumors of the lift swarmed the lower floor, and most of them were ridiculous. Workers getting locked inside, stuck in there for hours, and returning different, drained of energy. The last part made sense when one took the time to think about it. Hearing she would be one of the person to enter the lift, her feelings were indescribable.

"I've been getting up in age, dear." Mr. Drew explained, "It makes it harder to go up and around like I used to."

Her embarrassment shown on her cheeks, and she coughed roughly, concealing her mouth with her hand, "I am so sorry, Mr. Drew. I didn't mean-,"

"No, no, growing old is a part of life we all must accept." He crossed his hand around his back, and she noticed the way his body bobbed left and right, not exactly balanced, "We grow old, we die, but memories remain. Our creations, Bendy, Boris, and now Alice, will live for us."

Breathing softly, she was at a lost of words, and when he looked back at her, she flinched at his stare. His deep gray eyes were not cruel, not nasty. A watery film threaded them as if his tears webbed around his heart.

An incredibly soft man, Susie observed, and one of the most distinguished animators in the world. His creations brought relief and laughter to countless of people, rising alongside Disney and Warner Bros. during the War, but when his eyes met hers, they were not kind. They were not cruel. A tenderness surrounded them, but their tenderness was not of the kind sort.

When he smiled, his face crumpled like paper, "That is a very wondrous thought, Mr. Drew," she lowered her gaze to the floor, "it's amazing how our actions and choices can affect others."

"And your actions will belong to them, Miss Campbell."

Hearing those words succeeded in stroking her ego in a way that even the most handsome man had failed to do, and she recalled the hours when slender, soft hands curved around her body, her neck and realized pleasure of that nature had never touched her until that moment. It was satisfaction, and her demure smile, afraid to rise too high, beamed.

"I'll be waiting in the lift whenever you're ready," Sammy called to them.

"I'm sorry," shaken, she scurried into the lift, pushing herself against the left side of the wall, "we should hurry. I don't want to keep you waiting."

Mr. Drew entered a slower pace. He stood in the middle of them, "Alright, lets do this. We can't keep Alice waiting."

The lift ride was short, as she expected it to be. It was larger than an average elevator, and Susie reasoned it was for the merchandise that was in constant production, or so she heard. The lights flickered on and off during the ride, and by time it came to its creaky stop, the knots in her stomach had reformed.

On their way to his office, Susie counted the amount of animator desks pushed into abandoned corners. Most of them did not raise their heads in question. She saw the familiar lines at the corner of their eyes and lips, and their unshaven jaws and cheeks sagged with exhaustion.

"Don't look at them, kid," Sammy warned, "we'll never hear the end of it."

"But they look so tired." She waved at one of them, whose face was still light enough to be considered young despite the greyness of his skin, "I can't not wave at them, Sammy. It'd be impolite."

"Now, now, Sammy, think as to why everyone doesn't like talking to you now."

"Sorry for being the person responsible for ensuring our deadlines get through!" He huffed beside him, "If it weren't for me, nothing would get done around here."

His mocking tone caused shivers to go down her back, and she looked to the animators, who must have heard Sammy's mild outburst.

They were aware of what was wrong with the place, but none of them had the gall to state it so bluntly, and to Mr. Drew no less.

Where she anticipated for Mr. Drew's demeanor to change dramatically, he merely shrugged his shoulders and chuckled dryly, "Now, Sammy, you know this is a process. You continue to do what you do best, and I will do my part."

As they neared the office, she noticed an unattended desk. Its differences did not vastly overwhelm the others, but the lack of body was noticeable. Separate from the others, it was tucked into another room they passed, pushed against a wall with a great whole forming next to it. The faded ceiling light revealed the dust stacked on its surface.

Spotting her intrigued expression, Mr. Drew grinned, "He retired some years ago. You may have heard of him at some point."

"If retired is the word you want to use," Sammy drawled.

"It is the word I want to use." Mr. Drew's voice was soft as a feather, and he stopped at the room's entrance, "And besides, it's where we're going to have our meeting."

Sammy frizzled, and his head shook in disappointment, "Really, why not go to the office? It's sensible, Joey."

"I don't mind." She walked behind them, eyes taking in every odd sight in the abandoned room, "It seems…rustic, as if we're traveling back in time. He was a friend of yours?"

"Yes, and when he quit-," a sharp look from Sammy to Mr. Drew told her there was more to the story than they wanted her to know, "he left behind a few sketches and concept art. Unfinished pieces."

"The others thought I should have thrown them away, but he was the best animator on staff." Picking up a yellow sheet off the desk, he stared at it with a fond smile on his thin lips, "It would have been a waste to discard them."

The room was cramped, comparatively larger than the animators' quarters. The office was left in disarray. The furniture was torn and ragged, the walls' paint started to chip, and a stale touch ruined the air, causing her nose to wrinkle in disgust. But it was fascinating to stand in there where the magic used to happen, and she took hold of the sheet he handed to her.

"Oh my." It was just a sketch. She had seen many sketches before, but the smooth lines, the vividness. It almost appeared to be a portrait rather than a cartoon, "Yes, she's absolutely lovely. Whoever designed this was very talented. It's such a shame he's no longer with the studio."

"That's our Alice," Mr. Drew grinned, and he picked several more sheets from the desk, "I had them sent upstairs when he originally departed, keeping them until the right time came. I've heard such great things about you, Susie."

"I don't think I'm that great." She moved to scratch the back of her head, then thought better of it, "I'm just so happy to belong to a great group of people."

"We are glad to have you, Miss Susie Campbell," there was the inexplicable ripple within his watery gaze. She could not describe it in normal terms, and knew there was nothing else to match it. In the decrepit office, pieced together only by thin threads, she felt a swell in the pit of her stomach.

She looked between the two men who held control over her career and future, "I will not let you down."

"I know you won't."

Sammy glared at Mr. Drew, "What do you want us to do now? Alice Angel's first short is due in a few months."

"That gives us enough time for the recording and music, Sammy," Mr. Drew replied, and he received the concept art from Susie, whose face hadn't lost its glow, "Susie can return to the recording booth. We left the scripts there."

Clapping her hands, she licked her lips, "Oh, this is so exciting," the fluttering sensation in her stomach tickled her, "I'm going to make sure I give Alice a really good voice!"

"Let her be sweet," Mr. Drew said.

"She can't be too sweet." Sammy reminded them, "She's part devil after all."

Seated in the booth, she brought the glass to her lips and slurped the beverage down. Not nearly enough to leave her with the wave of tipsiness she had adapted to, she smacked her lips bitterly, and swallowed the rest in one gulp.

"Impressive." Nora smirked and bit into a piece of bread, "I didn't think you had it in you, or anything else really. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." She ringed the glass' rim with her finger. Her eyes lacked their luster, the rich darkness that perfectly lined the rest of her face, "I'm tired, and there's no shame about it."

"I didn't say there was shame." Nora grabbed her apple cider and sipped it deceptively. Her lighter colored eyes searched for any clues, and were disappointed to find none, "I'm worried for you. You've been working longer hours than usual."

Her resting head rose in concern, "You've noticed?"

The olives at the bottom of the glass bounced excitedly. Her throat was dryer than she was comfortable with. Late nights were not unusual, and were an accepted method of winning the approval and respect of the staff. But this was the first time her late nights came with irritation, and this must have shown on her face for Nora's expression was sympathetic, concernedly so.

"It's hard not to tell, sweetie." Her milk white teeth matched her complexion, and she raised a glass to her lips, "Your eyes are dragging you down, and I don't think you've heard a single word I've said."

"I don't mean to."

"I know you don't." She reached for her hand, clasping it softly in the palm of her own, and Susie marveled at how sweetly soft it was. The nerves in her center giggled, and she grinned, laughing airily, "Just make sure you take care of yourself."

"It isn't like I'm not enjoying my job." This was the truth, and she said it freely, without remorse or bitterness, "They're still very sweet to me. Norman's always blows his horn when I come in, and…Wally always takes me around the basement. He's too kind."

"And Sammy?"

A twitch of her right eye disturbed the calm of her creamy skin, and her eyes fluttered to the dance floor. People danced to the band's music, swing to and for, and there was a rough gracefulness to their feet. Men flipped women, women jumped over men. It was no less a miracle that no one collided or fell as bodies steamed upon each other.

Her fingers tapped on the glass, and her lips brushed on top of the rim, "Sammy is doing well. He is. I can't say anything else about him, but Norman is tired. They all are."

Nora picked a cherry from her plate, "You have a choice, if it's too much for you. You can leave. You're pretty enough."

"It isn't too much for me."

"But what about that machine-,"

"I worked for this." Her eyebrows furrowed, "There wasn't anything for me on Sicily Island. My family was furious with me. I know they haven't forgiven me, and I know they never will. I can't get my Pops' eyes out of my memory, so angry, so stubborn."

"You came a long way," Nora said softly, ignoring the tightness in which Susie held the glass. Her veins' faded, blue tint peered through the creamy paleness of her skin, "You should be proud of yourself. You're working with one of the best studious out there."

Reassurance often soothed her. Her father's fury, the way he pounded on the walls and thrust a meaty finger at her, "You ain't going anywhere, lil' girl." His eyes were a watery, ruddy blue, and she sat at the sewing machine, abandoning him in mind with an equally watery gaze of her own.

He screamed, spat in her face as she sat at the sewing machine. Her mother was long dead. Her siblings were possibly alive out there, but they had been gone for so long it was like death had already taken them.

But her mind had been made up. She knew what she was going to do, and she knew when she was going to do. She let him scream until his voice cracked over its volume, and when he slept, having drunken himself into a euphoric dream where her mother lived and his other children remained, she crept from the small shack that she had called for sixteen years, home. There was not a lot to pack in her bag, and there was no question of returning.

She knew the distance would save her the trouble of having to explain herself to others. Her creamy pale complexion diverted dreadful questions that could have revealed her. Her dark hair and eyes, so brown they were regularly mistaken for black, led many to assume she carried Italian blood, and this was smarter, safer, than what the truth was.

Wanting to forget pushed her, and she grabbed Nora's hand, dragging the two of them to the dance floor. Lost in the songs and the body aligned with hers, her father's face and fists receded to the depths of her subconscious. They would return, she knew, and she waited for the flashing moments when they would. Their fellow dancers blinked no more than twice at them, the two, seemingly unmarried women dancing freely among them, and Susie doubted they would have cared had they been married at all.

Nora laughed as she spun around; fingers clamped around Susie's, "I don't want you to dry out!"

"You worrisome, little fay!" A flair of energy swept through her arms and legs, and she tossed her thick hair over her shoulders. Husky and thick, her normal voice giggled inconspicuously, and a defiant gleam masked over her murky brown eyes, "I can't dry out. I'm basically made of ink!"

"Damn you, Sammy Lawrence!"

"Aren't you afraid of him hearing you?"

"And you think he gives a damn?" The vein on his bald head throbbed. It pulsed right down the middle of his head as he lit his cigarette, inhaling it stiffly, "We'll wait until he's finished doing what he was doing."

Benny, one of the clarinet players, resigned himself to waiting, and sat with the others whose weary expressions matched his. Susie held a damp tissue, twisting it in and out, and chewed the side of her mouth. She was worried, but this worry was well known to her. It didn't ache, or burn, as this was routine. It was normal. The projector was turned on, and a tranquil voice was heard on the other side, whispering, weeping.

"Just give him a little time, Norman," she whispered, "just give him some time. He'll be okay."

Norman scoffed, "Okay if you wanna say it," he began to pace with smoke floating from the cigarette tip, "I have half a mind to tell Mr. Drew about this."

"And what he's gonna do," chortled Danny in the back. He lied on the floor with his long legs propped up in the air, "He's just as loony as Sammy."

"Don't say that, man." Benny groaned, "We need our jobs. They can always replace us."

"And you think they will?

"C'mon, he can hear us."

"And you think he cares?" Danny scoffed and looked away, "Deadlines aren't getting met, and the cartoons are barely pushing out. Johnny upstairs told me the animators are at their wits end, some of them have already signed their two week notices!"

Her stomach dropped at hearing it, "We shouldn't say these kinds of things aloud, not while Sammy's so near."

"What of it, Susie?"

"Leave her be, Dan," Norman warned. When the puff of smoke cleared, his stare was hard, icy even, and Danny's face reddened, turning away sharply with a huff.

"I didn't need you to do that."

"Can't let them take their frustrations out on you, kid." Norman leaned against the wall, listening to the projector and strange noises coming from it, "And you shouldn't either," his eyes rolled on each of them, the ones whose silence was often taken for agreement.

"Sent From Above did great though." Benny whispered. His stubby fingers plucked at loose strings near his belt, and when he looked at her, his thick eyelashes curled to hide his eyes, "My cousins love Alice Angel, and everyone's talking about it upstairs too, or that's what I've heard."

"Thank you, Benny."

The projector booth came to a sudden stop. Everyone sealed their lips, staring at the stairwell as boots as black as the ink that dripped on the floor came down the stairs.

"What are you doing here?" He clear speech was slightly slurred by an echoing that recently appeared. It slurred his speech, making it difficult to hear, and their bodies stiffened at the slight approach as he descended the stairs.

His skin grew rough, acquiring a grayish pigmentation, and his eyes had sunken completely into his skull. Their looks of concern and frustration made his lips part in a toothy snarl, and she noticed his normally square shaped teeth were filed angularly, sharpened to the top. He would have no problem in biting into tough meat, and Susie stepped back, feeling his eyes on her, a cold, listless stare that made her heart skip three beats.

"Are you okay Sammy?"

"Do you pray?" He asked, and searched their faces for the answer, "Tell me, do any of you pray?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Benny, please," Susie whispered, never taking her eyes off of Sammy.

Sammy didn't seem to hear him, and if he had, it didn't incite anger, just frustration, "We need our savior, and he needs to know we appreciate them. It's time for prayer, for all of us, so this scourge…so we can be protected."

Their silence and worried stares infuriated him. His gray skin flushed a dim, weak red.

"Weak minded sheep." He hissed, but his volume remained neutral. It took a haunting tone, and he shook his head, unable to understand their confusion, "Non-believers cannot dream of salvation, if they don't try to reach Him. He knows our hearts. He knows our souls, and He will preserve those choose to give their hearts to Him."

No one said a word. They stared in deafening silence, and he stared back, blinking at them, seeing them, but seeing right through them. Susie's heart sank, and Norman stepped in front her. Taller, broader, his rich eyes glared at Sammy, and he nodded his head towards the direction of his office.

Sammy's bleak glare was weak but strong enough to match Norman's, and Susie's finger clenched into fists at her side. What was she going to do? What could she do? They wouldn't fight, not here, not ever. Norman was a smart man, a much smarter man than most, and she didn't want anyone to get to get into trouble.

He took one stepped back, leaning on the heel of his shoe, and his tongue slipped over his false teeth, "Fair enough, my apologies for taking up your time, but when He calls, I must answer."

Walking away, he watched them for a while, and when he exited into the darkness, his eyes lingered on them. A feeling of unsettling, of cracking, of breaking, but she did not realize its nature then. She couldn't grasp its meaning, and she watched him disappear, wanting to reach for him instead of Bendy. But she knew he wouldn't reach back.

"He said Alice would be as popular as Bendy someday." She sat on one of the chairs. Her fingers trailed podium's metal, and she stared at the yellow music sheets. She couldn't read the notes, but she read the lines, each happy little word popped at her.

She knew the words. She had sung them more times than she could count. Their melodies swirled around her, became one with her, and she sighed sadly, watching the men pack their belongings. Her nails scratched her skirt, and the light in her heart fluttered weakly.

Norman packed the saxophones, passing the cases to the others with ease, "She's getting there, you know," he handed one to Benny, then to Tony, "all the folks are talking about. She's as cute as Minnie, but as devilish as Betty. Can't get better than that."

"Do you think we can do anything?"

"Can't do squat," Norman said, and he picked up another case, smaller than the others, "Sammy's gonna do what he wants to do, and there's nothing we can do about it."

"Shouldn't we try?"

Handing the last case to another, his sympathetic stare didn't go unnoticed. Lines cradled his smooth brown eyes, filled with warmth and hot foreboding. He was dressed in a loose fitting blouse and pants that were strung together by a tight, leather belt. He seemed older, less filled than he usually was, and Susie was surprised that this was the first time she had realized it.

He pressed his large hands onto her slim shoulders, forcing him to look at her, truly look, and she saw a mixture of sorrow, regret, and a third sensation that sent shivers down her spine, "Susie, you're a kind girl, a good girl. You can make it away from here, and no one would hold it against you."

"Norman, I know you're concerned, but I have to do this." She didn't want to admit what she had given up for this job, what she had offered for the sake of possibility, "I have worked hard for this opportunity, and I am not going to waste it just because the staff is getting a little silly down here."

"It's more than silliness, Susie." Norman released her shoulders and scowled, "Some dark stuff is going on here, and I am not taking any risks."

"What do you mean?" She watched him pick up the last of his cases, stepping out of the orchestra room, and a feeling of dread went down her throat, "Norman, you can't be serious."

"I am, and so should you." He pointed his finger at her. He stopped at the door, staring at the area that had been his place of work for over twenty years. He lived, breathed his music, and did his best to transcribe Joey's words and notes into live music, "This place is not going to be the death of me, Susie Q, and you shouldn't let it be yours."

His sweet face drew tighter, twitching, and he shook his head sadly. She opened her mouth to stop him, to convince him this was a mistake, but the words didn't reach her tongue. The harder she tried to speak, the quieter they grew until he disappeared beyond the door, down the hall, leaving her in the orchestra room, alone.

Sitting there, she knew there were options. She had options. She could change things if she tried. Sammy liked her, and Mr. Drew, she wasn't sure what he thought of her exactly. But she felt he tolerated her for what she brought to the table.

The opportunity, Susie thought in the dusty, ink stained room, was not the complete truth. He knew about her, of what she truly was, and he never said a thing aloud. It was easier for men like him to spot women like her. Their kind was indistinguishable from the rest, but it required an innate knowing rather than close inspection.

He never discussed this with her, and she refused to broach the subject. From that, a unique bond had formed, and if the others had guessed, had suspected, they were kind enough to keep their silence. It was easier, yes, easier for her to work this job. This was her golden egg, and she wasn't ready to let go of the goose. And it was easier to tell him this, that she liked her job with its steady pay and behind the scenes star status.

"But there's so much more." Alice's face appeared in her thoughts. Her doe black eyes, silky black hair was all she needed to see.

With the microphone to her face, the sounds came naturally, and so sweetly. It was never too sweet just as it was never too naughty, and the connection she possessed with Alice, she knew the term was accurate, was one she never had with any other character.

"Alice and I are going places," she whispered to herself, affirming a belief she didn't know she had, "and one day, one day, she'll be as popular as Bendy. Heck, her popularity might shoot above him."

Looking at the clock, 8:30, the time for dinner had passed some time ago. The pain of hunger did not tackle her stomach, and she sighed, picking up her purse and sweater. Walking down the hallway, she twisted the gold band on her left, middle finger, her thoughts were in disarray.

His office was not far from where she walked. He was an odd man, strange even, and his demeanor had changed during the last two months. But his kindness hadn't wavered. He hadn't grown cruel or distant, and she spoke freely, happily, around him. In his presence, she felt safe. Her concern was for him, not her person, and being certain of this, pushed her towards senselessness.

"He won't listen to me," the sound of her heels clicking on top of wood echoed down the halls, and she stared ahead, lips fixed into a thin line, "but he may listen to someone else."

She had visited the outskirts of Mr. Drew's office on the day she was hired. No one was allowed upstairs without his explicit permission, and although she feared what he may have to say about her unannounced appearance, his calmness steadied her. He was a smart man, an intelligent and diligent man, and Sammy, whose aggravations with him were well known, held immeasurable respect for the man.

Instead of heading to the exit where the thick summer air called to her, Susie carried on towards the animators' studio. Ink did not have an odor, but rotting wood did. The further she went, the stronger it became. Her nose twitched in disgust as she rebuilt the building in her mind, remembering which turns to make and which ones to avoid.

Soon she neared the abandoned animator's office, his name familiar as it passed through her mind, and she thought, if for a moment, that she had seen his face somewhere. Mr. Drew's office was past this point, and she saw the staircase ahead, yellowish light flooded the stairs.

"Mr. Drew?" Laying a hand on the wall, she was surprised to see there was a slight crack in the door at the top, "I apologize for coming unannounced."

On the first step a loud creak stretched in the still air, and she swallowed thickly, "I understand if you don't want to talk to me, but I'm…I'm worried about Sammy, I mean, Mr. Lawrence."

She took another step. Its creak was shorter, quieter, and she ventured for a third and a fourth. Losing count of how many steps she had taken, her fingers slid against the wooden wall, unafraid of the splinters that pricked her skin. The sounds on the other side had stopped abruptly, and she saw movement, quick and fleeting, like a shadow disappearing into light.

At the door, she pressed her ear against its cool surface, and the soft scratching, the low mumbles ceased. Heart palpitations made her knees weak, and she counted down from ten, gathering the courage she knocked on the door while holding the door knob with her other hand.

"Mr. Drew?" She said clearly with a light tremor in her voice, "Mr. Drew, may I come in?"

"Of course, Susie, you're always welcome."

Opening the door, she expected Mr. Drew to be seated his desk, arms folded neatly over a small stack of unfinished sketches. She hadn't prepared what she was going to say, and decided to rely on her natural instinct that came through during the heat of the moment.

He wasn't there. When she stepped through the threshold, she visualized his slim frame and thinning, pepper grey hair. He appeared to have been there earlier. An oily cinnamon scent filled her nose, different from the stronger odors she'd grown used to. Unfinished sketches were abandoned on his desk, spread on different parts, and a cinnamon oil scent was draped over them, sweet and spicy. Keeping a safe distance, the discarded papers were a cool gray color, and on them, she saw shapes drawn on them.

On closer inspection, she recognized the star inside the circle, and she tilted her head for a better angle. It held her attention for a minute before she saw the photograph that had fallen near it. She hadn't meant to touch the frame, and she didn't realize what she was doing until she was staring the photograph in its face.

The photograph had been taken some time ago, but at which time, Susie could not determine. The colors were pristine, highlighting the woman's hazel, almond shaped eyes, and through thick curls of strawberry blond, she smoothed her finger on top of silver strands. Her lips were painted a lovely shade of rogue, and were curled into a mischievous, inviting grin.

Age lines had aged her gracefully, and Susie stood transfixed on her face, as if she wanted to come through and show her something special.

"It was taken two weeks before she died."

Susie jumped, pressing the photograph against her breast, and spun around to see Mr. Drew leaning against the door frame. His hands were in his pockets.

"Oh my word!" Susie gasped, "I am," she looked at the photograph and flushed, "I am so sorry, Mr. Drew. I wanted to speak to you, and – please, don't fire me."

"Fire you?" He chuckled weakly and limped in the room. Without nosy eyes, he had not reservations, and he made his way to her, glancing at the photograph, "No, no, I would never do that, Miss Campbell, far too valuable."

"I'll just put that back."

"What did I tell you?" He sat in his chair and sighed, rubbing his eyes, "You're in trouble, ma'am." His sunken eyes crossed to the framed photograph, "What do you think of her?"

"You're wife?" At a loss of words, his patience silence weighed on her. Her purpose did not slip from away, "Well, it's my first time seeing her. I had heard only through the grapevine. I didn't think she was so -,"

"Robust?"

"Drawing." Glancing at the photograph upright on the desk, she nodded in affirmation to the woman's dark curls and piercing but mildly teasing gaze, "You can see, no hear, the characters," she looked back at him, "she reminds me of Alice."

"Well!" His hoarse laughter was muddled under a sheet of pain, "She should. She was the inspiration."

Susie stared at him blankly, and her confusion raised his laughter, "Henry, my dear. He didn't think I knew, but I did. All he had to do was ask her."

"Ask her what?"

"Ask her out." His eyes glazed over. She was quick to realize that although she stood right in front of him, she was no more than stained glass, "She would've said yes. Henry was a good man, not always a nice man, but a good man. But he was shy."

"Was he now?" Henry was spoken of here and there, and hearing him confide in her about him was unheard of now, "I never got that from the shorts."

"Good." He grinned softly, "He wouldn't want anyone to know. Besides, he was a great animator, and she nearly lost her mind when she saw his original sketches. She gave him a big, wet one on the lips." He pointed to his lips and chuckled, "He was ready to faint, I tell you."

"She sounds wonderful."

"She was." His stare fixated on Susie, clearing away the fog that had settled in them, "And her voice, its range was immeasurable."

"So I've heard." And she had heard, seated in the movie theater, watching the cartoons dizzy and dozy about, and she and her friends could never pinpoint exactly when one she had given life to, "Betty Drew was my inspiration."

"But that isn't why you've come here."

"No." It was strange. It was not so unlike talking to a father, if her father had been that cooperative. His smooth voice was calming, and where she expected reproach for entering his office without permission, he changed the course with talks of his deceased wife, "It was about Sammy, Mr. Drew. I don't think he's well."

"You don't think he's well?" Flipping through the pages on his desk, Mr. Drew cocked his head to the side, "I must admit we have been overworking ourselves lately, and Sammy's work ethic has always been a little bit strained."

"He's pushing everyone away." She whispered weakly, "I believe Norman and more than half of the band has quit."

Mr. Drew's dim smile flat line, and his expression turned grave, "Well, that is serious. Norman's music conduction has kept Bendy alive for years, and we can't have Sammy running him off," he pushed himself to the right, "Isn't that right, Sammy?"

Turning around, Sammy stood with an ashen color on his face. His hands were hidden behind his back, and his eyes were wide, sunken completely into his skill. He sputtered for words, then shook his head, and he stepped in with a slight hunch in his back.

"What are you doing here?" He looked to her to Mr. Drew, and said in a darker tone, "What is she doing here?"

"Miss Campbell approached me herself."

"Why?"

"She was worried for you, Sammy," he explained firmly, and the look he gave him, that crooked stare, was one of an admonishing father onto his wayward son, "and hearing this, I am as well. Norman has left."

A low groan came from Sammy, and he stumbled onto the wall, pressing a skeletal hand on it for balance, "No, no, no, Norman, I wanted him gone. He was no good for this," his body sunk to the floor and tears dribbled down his face, "why are you hear, Susie, tell me why?"

Forgetting Mr. Drew behind her, Susie ran to Sammy, kneeling in front him. She grasped his hands and was frightened by how small, how weak they were, "Sammy, sweetie, Sammy, you have to listen to me. We're all worried about you."

"She's right, Sammy." Mr. Dre said behind them, but strangely, his voice echoed when it shouldn't have, "And after all, we have to believe in Him. Think of what He wants."

"I have!" Sammy hissed, and his eyes carried the same faraway stare Mr. Drew's had, "I have, and I have, and you don't think I've given enough. But she's…she's…they're too, oh," he rolled his head to the side and whimpered.

"Sammy, baby." She pressed her lips to his knuckles, "Listen, I know you're scared, but we can help you. We just need you to get up."

"No." Half-lidded eyes fluttered against a weak light, "No, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. It's cruel. I'm sorry, please, forgive me."

"Sammy, what are you talking about?" He wasn't a heavy man, not as heavy as he used to be, but he refused to move. She refused to move without him.

His watery eyes opened, looked ahead, and they were clear, Susie swore, and frightened. He worded something, trying to get her away, but his body was too weak, and so was his mind.

"We must accept His will as our own." A whisper clutched at her ear, and she was jerked away from Sammy. An arm wrapped around her throat, and her hands flayed about, nails scratching at the unusually strong hands, "And you will learn this, Sammy, all of you will."

A napkin was pressed against her mouth and nose. She kicked at his legs, but her feet seemed to sink. When she saw her hands, there were black, a black blacker than night, and what she inhaled, chloroform her mind supplied, caused an almost drowsiness. Soon, her kicks and scratches started to weaken, and the office, with Sammy in it, started to darken.

With her senses numbed, Susie slipped into a slumber so sweet, so kind that she feared she would never awaken.

"It could have been anyone else!"

"There is no one left. We tried and failed with Alice before." A sad, weak little voice said, "We cannot fail again. We will not fail."

Susie rolled to her side. Hearing returned first, and the voices, while audible, were terribly misshapen. Someone was crying, she thought, and a second person tried to comfort them, to dismal success. Touch pursued, and she gasped loudly, slapping her hands around to get a feel of where she was.

Wood, the floor, she was on the floor. But wait. The floor was not clean, something was scrawled on it. The lights were weak, dim, almost shadowed in the room, and she strained to see. Pushing herself up, black marking decorated the floor, and again, yes, in its entirety she understood. The pentagram mocked her as she lied unconscious on top of it. On her knees, she rubbed the back of her head and whimpered.

Where was she? She didn't know. It was another part of the studio she wasn't acquainted with, but that didn't matter. Standing up, seeing her shoes were missing, she circled in her confinement, searching for some kind of sign. The voices were too far away. She couldn't tell which direction they came from.

"I would not do that if I were you." Said someone from behind, and she turned around slowly, eyes clear and lips pressed in a confused but angered frown, "You could get hurt."

"What is this?" Her voice was quiet, still, and she was secretly impressed at the distance, "Where am I, Mr. Drew?"

"You are safe." He explained softly, "I know it appears cruel, but trust me, it is the only way for us to survive."

"Survive?" She marched towards him, and on the edge of the circle, an invisible forced pushed her back. Stunned, it was not enough to knock her off her feet, but one that warned against any future attempts of escape, "What is this?"

She heard his voice, but she could not see him. Where was she? There were no booths or windows from what she could tell, and she breathed harshly, forcing tears back into her eyes. What had she gotten herself into?

"We must make sacrifices." The voice echoed solemnly, and within the voice, Susie heard another, weeping, "His will is our will, and we must accept his divinity in our hearts, into our souls."

The floor and walls began to tremble. It all began to tremble, and somewhere in the distance, growls emitted from the darkness. The circle chimed, a soft bell, and sparks spun to reveal violet flames. She took a step and crunched down. Susie removed her foot, and her heart sank when she saw the picture she had stepped on.

"Lord have mercy." Horror spilled over the ruined sketch, "Please, no."

A mangled scream clawed up her throat, slamming out her mouth as black ink pooled in the circle. Trapped, there was nowhere for her to go, and with little mobility she possessed, she tried to push against the force.

In retaliation a hand, a claw with pointed nails sprouted from the circle's center, and wrapped around her ankle. The sketch still clutched in her hand she tried to free her leg, jerking and fighting against the claw when another, as black as its twin, grabbed ahold of her left.

It called for help.

One after the other, hands formed in ink stained her clothes, snatching at her flailing arms. A larger one, she presumed to be larger in her panic, wrapped around her waist, and hot breath slithered down her neck. Its texture was warmer than the ink, wetter than ink, and she whimpered as the weight began to pull her down.

Legs and lower torso completely submerged, she saw a light ahead. Her weakened grip discarded of the picture, and the picture was swallowed by ink. Using the last of her strength, she forced her arms upwards, fingers stretching as far as they could. The pale cream of her skin was drenched, but she made out their shapes.

Her fingers wanted to blister under the light. Let it bleed and peel, let them be touched, but in that light came a voice, a voice so light and feather soft it sent chills down her spine. It was not a voice but many voices, two voices tied in one, and she saw his face gazing down back at her. His sneer was masked under a perpetual smile.

"You have to believe, Susie."

Her mouth opened for a fraction of a second, and ink poured through, pushing through her pearly white teeth, slipping down her throat, sloshing into her stomach. The ink went wild at her lungs, and the voices squealed in delight above her. She gasped, choked, and gurgled. She flailed, splashed, and started to weaken.

He watched her from where he stood. He titled his head to the side, unable to comprehend her distress, and she supposed he couldn't, with him being a devil and all.

He waved goodbye. It seemed so innocent, so childlike he was in his cartoons. It made seeing him as he now was almost sad. If she could have waved back in return, she would have, but she couldn't see her fingers anymore.

Her fingers, along with the rest of her body, seeped silently underneath the puddle of ink, leaving only a faint, drying stain in its wake.

Her name was Alice Angel.

In a past life, she might have met him. In another life, she could have met him. In this life, she did not meet him, not yet.

He was felt. The moment he opened the door, Alice felt him.

As all of them were, her body was not what it appeared to be. It was not what it was intended to be, but she, unlike so many others, could alter her appearance at will. Not even Bendy demonstrated this sort of ability. His lack of control infuriated him.

He was an envious little devil, Alice thought, and it was expected, for him to be envious.

Bendy wanted him.

He was a smart man, an old, a kind man.

"He's a good man, not always a kind one," a soft, mature voice mingled in her head. It was rich, full, and reminded her of something warm and good, a hot cup of tea although she had no way of knowing what tea tasted like, "We won't let harm come to him. We will try."

Alice agreed. In the heat of their united resolve, sounds were eradicated from her mouth. They were shredded, tattered, and she blushed, remembering why she normally maintained silence inside the building. It was best to be quiet. Bendy was watching, and so was she. She knew what he was planning, and she had to stop him.

At least, she was not alone. A semblance of another person, not complete and whole, mingled in her head, and its presence was comforting. This did not stop Alice from weeping. Always, always, she felt there was more inside, more than one, more than two.

What Alice would have said to the mingling voice that lingered in her head, "I know he isn't nice, and I don't want him to die. We have to try." She decided to try.

Bendy was faster. He made it to the ink machine before she did. Alice was smarter. She was, and they knew it. She boarded the ink machine before he had the chance to strike, and how angry he was! He was angry, and he searched for Alice. Searched and searched, and when he could not find her, he found another.

Sammy was desperate, and a fool. Alice felt him die. His fear was palpable. It was like having your heart ripped apart, crushed in the palm of the killer's hand. He found Henry first. He hadn't realized that Bendy wanted him.

Her anger with Sammy would never sway. Her forgiveness wasn't amendable, and wouldn't soothe her wounds. His dormancy condemned. But she mourned him nonetheless, as Bendy knew she would. Disobedient children needed to be taught a lesson, she supposed, and this lesson was one of many.

She rubbed furious, black tears off her haunted skin, now falsely papery, rubbery under a coat of ivory.

"We cannot save them all. We have to persevere," the voice rich tone tried to soothe, and Alice smudged her tears away, angry she had fallen pretty to emotional weakness. It appeared her humanity persisted through pain and betrayal, and she spat ink onto the floor.

He escaped Bendy, and Boris found him. She was not sure how she felt about that. Could he be trusted? He was not like Bendy, and did not seek to harm others. He called to her through thoughts, and Alice knew the time had come for her to appear.

"Give him instructions, guide him," she whispered through the vents, through the inky puddles Bendy could not claim, "and lead him to me."

In the depths where her tomb lied, decrepit and forgotten, he would find her there, and she would look upon his face. In another life, she had loved him. In another life, she had known him. In this life, she needed him.

"What will I say," Alice asked, and she waited for the response, knowing its directions would be unfair but just.

"Oh, my sweet Alice," the voice that mingled in her head moaned bereft, "we tell him the truth, your old song will teach him."

"What if he doesn't believe me?" She did not like to disagree, but this was a thought she had since he arrived. Her broken wings, dressed in black, fluttered achingly.

The mingling voice grew quiet, and she knew this was a moment the voice preferred to be left undisturbed. Seconds passed before it returned, in a simple but austerely forgiving tone, "If that is the case, Alice, then you will make him believe in you."

#bendy and the ink machine #susie campbell #alice angel #sammy lawrence #joey drew #batim #batimff

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lady-thor-foster · 8 years

Text

Good Boy, Stevie // Steve Rogers x Reader (P1)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x POC Reader, a tiny bit WinterWidow and ScarletVision Word Count: 3.7k+ Warning: Language, fluff, Slooow burn, Sub!Steve, Dominant Reader Summary: Steve discovers he really enjoys you on top and in control. Pietro and Sam find out a little more about Bucky Barnes than they ever wanted to know. Wanda is a surprising supporter of *ahem* kinky things.

A/N: You really thought I was going to leave you hanging on ‘Oh Captain!’ like that? I’m not that sadistic. Okay…maybe I am but this story practically begged me to write it. Who am I to refuse?

Previously on Oh Captain: Good Boy, Stevie // Part 2

It’s been three weeks.

It’s been three weeks since you absolutely rocked the hell out of Steve’s world. Every moment alone he had he spent reliving the feeling of your grip on his jaw and your thighs around his waist. Every night he exhausted himself to the memory of you whispering ‘cum for me, Stevie’ in his ear. Every morning he had a raging hard on he spent way too way too many damn hours in the gym or on the track trying to work off. Passing you in the halls between mission briefings and operation updates and seeing that sly smirk on your lips wasn’t helping matters at all. He felt like he was losing his mind. He might actually be losing his mind. He didn’t know what to do anymore.

Steve had never been power hungry; he knew being Captain America was a great responsibility and he accepted it. He loved taking care of his country, fighting so that kid he used to be, that kid he still sees in the mirror, never had to deal with bullies again. He loved fighting to protect a nation of outspoken runts with a strong moral compass had a chance to change the world. But sometimes…sometimes he wished someone would take care of him. Then he met you.

Since that night, he’d been trying to get up the courage to talk to you. He wasn’t exactly sure how to approach you. Your collective responsibilities as Avengers and Agents of SHIELD kept the promise of a second date and the promise of ‘next time’ hanging in the air. What happens now? What if it wasn’t good for you? What if you changed your mind? What if you met someone else? His anxiety had been particularly brutal to deal with lately.

“You don’t understand, Buck. I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop dreaming about her. Stark was in the middle of showing me a new weapons defense system for the Compound and all I could think about was how good she felt around me. I’m pretty sure I accidentally called Nat by her name during training once,” Steve confessed. Bucky couldn’t help but snort at his best pal’s dilemma. They were currently in the gym (when are they not, honestly?) working off some steam from Bucky’s latest mission. Steve seemed so wound up over Y/N. Women of SHIELD had a particular way of wrapping a man around their pinkie fingers. Bucky understood that more than words could express.

“Oh-ho, Nat noticed. She’s never going to let you live that down, punk,” he laughed.

“Jerk,” he shot back, “What am I going to do?”

“Do about what?” came the voice of a very grumpy Sam Wilson. He leaned against doorway with a furrowed brow. He was exhausted; how he was still standing and functioning after the insanity of this last month was unknown to even the gods. He looked like hell. And considering he’d just finished running 10 miles at the orders of Captain America, he felt like hell too. Goddamn super soldiers.

“Steve’s all twisted up over Y/N. He hasn’t quite figured out how to talk to her after she fucked him silly,” Bucky replied, “You look like shit, man.”

“Yeah well, not all of us are lucky enough to have super soldier serum to keep us going after a 3 week long grueling mission in goddamn Siberia,” he snapped. Bucky chuckled wryly.

“Do you always use such fowl language at 7 in the morning, Sam?” Steve asked, laughing at his terrible pun. Sam shot him a dirty look.

“Give him a break, Wilson. [Y/N] is the first time he’s been laid in months since Sharon broke up with him. He doesn’t know how to cope with anything other than exercise.”

“Just because the Capsicle here was in hibernation for-fucking-ever doesn’t mean everyone else is as well rested. I need my sleep man!” Sam Wilson might have been a well-trained soldier but he was a man who took his sleep seriously.

“Language!” Steve chastised.

“Bite me, Rogers,” Sam hissed. Bucky just snickered at the both of them.

“Give him a break, punk. He did just come back from a 3 week long mission in the frozen tundra of Siberia. Let the poor man have a nap.”

Steve sighed. Maybe he had been working everyone a bit too hard. [Y/N] had him twisted in a bad way. Bucky was right: this was his issue. It wasn’t fair to make everyone else suffer just because he can’t get up the courage to speak.

“Alright, Sam. Go get some rest, you earned it.” Sam visibly slumped forward at the prospect of passing out in his bed. Mock saluting the two super soldiers, he all but raced to his quarters. Bucky’s amused snorts echoed through the gym. Steve couldn’t help but crack a wry smile.

“Do you want my advice?” Bucky asked.

“No. I’ve just been standing here venting about her for no apparent reason. Of course I want your advice.” Steve replied sarcastically. Bucky just chuckled at his best friend; dramatic was always Steve’s forte.

“Just talk to her. Isn’t that what you told me about Natasha? ‘Just tell her how you feel’?” Steve just looked at Bucky incredulously. Surely it couldn’t be that simple?

“Yeah, punk. It really is that simple.”

“After all these years, I still don’t know how you manage to read my mind like that.”

“I know you.”

“Alright, fine. I’ll talk to her. But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you,” he said. Bucky held his hands up in mock surrender as he backed away from his friend. Laughing softly, Steve watched him grin like a Cheshire cat and slink out of the gym.

If Steve was slowly going nuts over memories of the two of you, you weren’t faring much better.

You dreams were littered with depraved thoughts of Steven Grant Rogers on his knees before you. Your sadomasochistic brain kept conjuring images of him bound to your bed, ass up with cherry red cheeks. The sting in your palms was imagined so often, you could virtually feel it. You could still hear him whimpering underneath you. Your libido practically screamed at you to bed Steve again. Fuck.

Clint and Natasha caught you zoning out of meetings so much they started taking bets on how soon you’d get caught. (There were currently six hundred dollars in the pot.) Getting your hands on Steve again wasn’t just a want; he was your poison and antidote. Luckily for you, the universe was on your side. You couldn’t have known it then, but soon you’d be able to have Steve in every which way you so desired.

Today started out normally: morning workout, breakfast with whichever Avengers and agents were off mission, briefings, mission planning and debriefings, status updates and training then lunch. Following lunch, you oversaw new recruit training and finally you were done for the day. After cool down yoga and a hot shower, you liked to relax buy cleaning your guns and sharpening your knives at sunset. It was more than just making sure your weapons were always field ready; you’d discovered that tranquility of was found in repetition of routine. Cleaning and prepping your weapons gave you time to de-stress while keeping your hands busy.

You’d just finished loading the clip into your last gun and flicking on the safety when a tentative knock came at the door. The screen on the wall revealed a mildly nervous Steve bouncing on the balls of his feet. How cute. After giving FRIDAY the go ahead, your door slid open.

“Y/N!” he started, “I wasn’t sure you’d be in.”

“I’ve got a few of weeks of downtime and prep before SHIELD sends me on a two month mission with MI6 in London. You coming in or not, Rogers?” you asked. He grinned at you sheepishly and stepped into your room. FRIDAY closed the door behind him. You could feel his anxiety spike the moment the door shut. For just a moment, you could see the man underneath the serum clearly. Barely ninety pounds, adorable and shy around women; you ached to have him writhing beneath you.

Steve felt like he was nineteen years old again. His body might have changed but a part of him would always be that spry runt of a man who could appreciate a powerful woman. Something about the way you looked at him made him feel small in a way that he loved. Something about you made him feel like he could just be an unencumbered Steve and you’d take care of him. He wanted that. He wanted you.

“What do you need, Rogers?” you asked suggestively. You knew what he sought from you, you just planned to make him work for it. The double entendre wasn’t lost on him at all. His cheeks were tinged with pink; he refused to look you in the eye.

“I was wondering…if maybe…we could—I was wondering if maybe we could talk?” he asked. He could feel a brief surge of confidence; Bucky was right, telling you how he felt was the best course of action. He hoped. Double checking the safety on your gun, you put it back in your weapons cache. The pregnant pause blanketed the air around you as you made yourself comfortable near the foot of your bed. You gestured at the space next to you; Steve took his seat obediently.

“What’s up, Stevie?” At the sound of that otherwise simple nickname, his cock twitched. One of these days he’d start remembering going commando with you around was a terrible idea. He could feel his ears burning furiously.

“I want…you,” he whispered. He could sense you grinning like a cat that finally captured its prey; your smirk radiated satisfaction.

“Not everyone is lucky enough to have serum enhanced hearing, Stevie. Care to speak up?” It must have been something about the way you teased him…you suddenly found yourself inches away from mildly defiant baby blue eyes. His soft full lips were mere millimeters from yours; the sound of heavy breathing was the only thing heard.

“I want you.” The timbre of his voice sent shivers down your spine. As much as you wanted to mount him right there, you had to be sure this is what he really wanted. Snaking your arm up to his short hair, you curled your fingers and tugged his head back. He offered no resistance as you exposed his throat. The urge to sink your teeth into his skin and mark your territory was almost blinding. You could hear him breathing harshly; a quick glance to his lap revealed a ready and eager hard on. Was he…going commando? Fuck.

“And what is what you want…Stevie?” you purred. He closed his eyes briefly and groaned inwardly. You’d hardly touched him and he felt ready to explode. Opening his eyes, he met your gaze. He reached for your other hand and guided it to his throat, squeezing ever so softly. He groaned again. You bit your lip in effort to silence yourself. His large hand dwarfed yours around his throat, yet you’d never felt so in control.

“I want you…in control. I want this.” There was no hesitation in his voice. In fact, it was the most confident he’s sounded since he set foot into your room. Here he was: Steven Grant Rogers, Captain fucking America, gifting his willing and eager submission to you. You swallowed hard; goosebumps covered your skin. When you seduced him all those weeks ago, you never could have imagined this. You never could have even dreamed to imagine this.

Squeezing the sides of his neck softly, you watched his eyes fluttered closed. “Are you sure, Steve?”

“Call me ‘Stevie’, please,” he whined. That sound went straight to your core. Releasing his throat, you pulled his face closer. Flicking your tongue out, you nipped his bottom lip; the wetness in your panties was threatening to soak through. His breathing hitched at the feeling of your teeth sinking into his flesh; you were so tempted to lose yourself in his kisses. Unbeknownst to you, Steve could actually smell how turned on you were. Thank God for the super soldier serum. You let go of his hair and forced yourself away from his sinful mouth.

“Okay, Stevie. Before we do this, we have to set some ground rules. But before we can do that, I need to know how much of this you’re aware of. How much do you know about what you’re from asking me?”

He half rolled his eyes at the absurdity of your question. “I’m over ninety years old, I’m not dead. I know what I’m asking for, Y/N.” The snark laced in his tone irked you. He wanted to be cute. You gripped his jaw in your hand and leveled him with your gaze.

“Don’t sass me, Rogers,” you hissed. He gulped audibly and nodded. You freed his jaw.

“You’d be my first, but I’m not entirely new.” Cocking your head, you looked at him and considered the weight behind his words. You could work with this.

“Are you familiar with the color system?”

“Yes.”

“Recite it to me.”

“‘Green’ means I’m all good. ‘Yellow’ means slow down or I need a break. ‘Red’ means stop immediately,” he replied.

“Good. Are you comfortable with any particular titles?”

“I figured I would leave that up to you,” he murmured. His shyness was back. Why was it so endearing?

“This is as much for you as it is for me, Stevie. Do you have anything you’d prefer to call me?”

“I like ‘Miss’.” The fact that he could hardly say it without blushing sent goosebumps across your skin; he was so adorable.

“‘Miss’ it is.” You pushed him backwards onto the mattress and mounted his hips. His eyes widened at the sudden yet pleasurable pressure on his cock. Bracing yourself on your forearm, you ran a gentle thumb across his bottom lip. You could feel his heart racing in his chest, a mere echo of your own.

“You’re so pretty, Stevie,” you crooned. His cheeks stained pink under your heated gaze and soft praise.

“You think so, Miss?”

“I do. You looked so pretty underneath me last time. I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you again.” Despite your confident demeanor, a small part of you worried if you might have been too much for the good Captain. It pleased you so much to know that wasn’t the case. Steve tensed underneath you; he wasn’t sure how to explain that he’d spent the last three weeks with his cock in his hand imagining you having your oh so wicked way with him. Your watchful eyes didn’t miss a thing.

“Is something wrong?” you asked worriedly. When he didn’t immediately respond, you sat up and crossed your arms in front of you. If he changed his mind about everything now, you wanted to be prepared. Rejection was a bitch to deal with. Steve’s eyes met yours; the emotions swirling behind his gaze seemed to scream for understanding but you couldn’t grasp any of them.

“I need you to use your words, Rogers.”

“Stevie,” he corrected softly. You smiled warmly at the shy man underneath you.

“I need you to use your words, Stevie. Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“You are,” he whispered. You arched your eyebrow in confusion. Sitting up and pulling you close, he took a deep breath and continued, “I couldn’t get last time out of my mind. Every free moment I had to myself I spent thinking about you…about everything…I wanted. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Really?” you half whispered in shock. He nodded, eyes shining brightly. “And what do you want?”

“I want to be with you. I want to give myself to you, to let you take care of me. But I want to take care of you too, not just in the bedroom. I want it all,” he admitted.

You weren’t entirely sure how to process his confession. Excitement coursed through your body; he wanted an honest to goodness relationship? You’d been single for a good while and enjoyed every moment; you’d be lying if you said the prospect of having someone to come home to every night didn’t make you happy. What did you have to lose?

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay?” he asked, disbelieving.

“Okay,” you repeated. Steve beamed so brightly, you half wondered if he was actually radiating sunlight in your face. He was beautiful. Leaning in, Steve placed a tentative yet sweet kiss on your lips. Such a simple gesture stole your breath away. It was a kissed laced with the promise of something wonderful, loving and soul shaking. You pulled away, much to his disappointment.

“You know what this means now, don’t you, Stevie?” you said with a wolfish grin on your face. He shook his head in mild confusion. You reached up and fisted his hair in your hand; he groaned in pleasure.

“You’re mine.”

Steve wandered around the Compound with the most infectious grin on his face. Everyone was already used to a relatively sprightly Captain but this was next level. He had to thank Bucky for giving him that kick in the ass he so desperately needed. Talking to you, working out rules, kinks and establishing your relationship put him in the absolute best mood; his anxiety was long forgotten. Whistling a happy tune, he half danced around the kitchen fixing lunch. In the midst of his perky preparation, he missed Sam and Pietro strolling into the open concept kitchen.

“What’s got him so happy,” Sam whispered to Pietro. Sam was significantly less grumpy after getting so much needed sleep.

“Do you think its [Y/N]? He hasn’t stopped talking about her for weeks,” Pietro replied.

“Cap and [Y/N]? Seriously?! Man, what else did I miss while I was in Siberia? I’ll never forgive Tony for not keeping me updated,” Sam grumped. Pietro just snorted at him.

“Keeping you updated about what?” came Wanda’s lilting voice. The boys shushed her almost immediately. “What’s going on??”

With a finger to each of their mouths, Sam and Pietro pointed at Steve’s humming and dancing figure in the kitchen. Wanda turned a particular shade of scarlet. This did not go unnoticed by either of the other Avengers. Leading her to the living room space, the boys all but held her hostage on the couch.

“What do you know?” they asked simultaneously.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if you two aren’t the twins instead of me and Piet,” she said while trying to sidestep their invasive question.

“Don’t try and change the subject woman, spill the beans,” Sam ordered. Pietro’s intense stare on her face only made her blush deeper.

“Shit, it’s good isn’t it?” Pietro asked. Making a locking motion in front of her lips, Wanda just shook her head in protest.

“Oh shit! It’s really good! Now you have to tell us,” exclaimed Sam. She shook her head harder.

“What are we telling?” asked Steve as he wandered into the living room with his impressively massive sandwich. Damn super soldier serum. Everyone yelped in surprise. Steve chuckled while settling into his favorite recliner. For a bunch of well-trained spies and secret agents, they sure were terrible at not getting snuck up on.

“Oh, nothing really,” Pietro lied smoothly, “Sam here was just talking about how he wondered if Tash and Bucky were into really kinky sex.”

Steve nearly choked on his lunch in surprise. Of all the things to come out of the young Sokovian’s mouth, that one hit a little too close to home. Pietro yelped when both Wanda and Sam smacked him in the back of the head.

“Oh come on! You can’t tell me you never thought about it? She’s like freakishly flexible.” Steve just shook his head at him.

“On that note, I’m out. I do not want to think about whatever kind of freaky sex Barnes is having with one of the deadliest women I’ve ever met in my life. In fact, I don’t ever want to think about Barnes having sex. If anybody needs me, I’ll be in the lab with Bruce and Tony trying to get these mental images out of my head forever,” said Sam. The awkward tension he left in his wake was nothing short of legendary.

“You know? I think I hear Stark calling me? I think I’ll just--.” Pietro didn’t even finish his sentence before he literally ran away from any kind of continuance of the current conversation. Wanda laughed at their collective ridiculousness.

“Do I even want to know?” asked Steve, mid sandwich. Wanda sighed in resignation. He was going to find out one way or the other.

“If you must ask, they were talking about you and [Y/N],” she said softly. Recalling the events from less than an hour ago, Steve blushed furiously. Now was a really unfortunate time to remember Wanda was a telepath.

“How much do you know?” he asked without meeting her amused gaze. Wanda stood up and walked over to the recliner he was sitting in.

“Enough to tell you that I’m not judging you for any of it; we all need our escapes,” she patted him on the shoulder gently, “don’t worry, Steve. Your secret’s safe with me.” He released a heavy breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“Thanks, Wanda.”

“She’ll take really good care of you, Steve. You couldn’t have asked a better person,” she said approvingly. He met her gaze and smiled softly. Nodding at the hungry super soldier, Wanda glided into the hallway. The images playing in both Steve and [Y/N]’s head had gotten her a bit worked up. It was time to teach Vision a few new things.

Steve relaxed into the recliner, sandwich in hand. If he’d been told three weeks ago that he would willingly and eagerly submit himself to you, he’d have laughed himself into the sunset. He shivered lightly as the words ‘you’re mine’ echoed around his brain. In more ways than one, you’d completely captivated him. He was looking forward to tomorrow night.

This was going to be so much fun.

END P1

Previously on Oh Captain: Good Boy, Stevie // Part 2