Tumgik
#I'm usually really bad at making cloths wrinkle
luveline · 1 month
Note
I love love LOVE the writing you've done for Spencer Reid!!! I'm practically living off of it at this point. I was thinking since we All love Spencer wearing glasses, what if the roles were reversed and HE was the one getting flustered after seeing reader in glasses for the first time?
thank u!!
“Where is she?” 
Spencer doesn’t have to look to guess what ‘she’ Morgan is wondering after. “She texted. She woke up late.” 
“Late? Is that BAU approved?” Morgan asks.
“I think her phone is broken.” 
Emily shakes a hair tie down her hand. Morgan holds her compact mirror open for her. “She’s not the only one running late. I swear the night gets shorter every time I fall sleep.” She wrinkles her nose, collecting her hair into one hand behind her head, wrapping her tie around in an impressive, painful looking ponytail. Morgan passes her a comb. She neatens up her bangs. 
Spencer’s head finally lifts at the sound of your hasty entrance and following apologies, “I’m sorry, shit, oh, sorry. I’m really sorry, Anderson, I’ll make it up to you,” you say, hidden behind Anderson’s tall stature.
“That’s okay, L/N. Hey, what’s with the glasses?” 
Spencer squints, willing Anderson to move out of the way. “It’s a long story,” you say, shuffling past Anderson to hurry to the front of the bullpen. Spencer locks onto your face,. His hands fall into his lap. 
You’re wearing clear-rimmed glasses with metal legs that slip down your nose the closer you get, your makeup lighter than usual, and your clothes a repeat of what you wore yesterday, though he’s probably the only person who’d notice. He barely gives your rumpled blouse a second glance, too distracted by your hand, your fingers as you push the glasses up the bridge of your nose. “Is Hotch in yet?” you ask hopefully. 
“He’s been here since five,” Morgan tells you, double-taking when he spots your new accessory. “Oh my god, you’re adorable.” 
You raise a hand between you both to hide your face from his view. 
Spencer gets out of his chair. “I was really hoping he’d be late too,” you say, turning to Spencer with a gentle pout. “It’s like wishing to win the lottery, I guess.” 
Holy shit. He’s breaking a sweat. There’s heat gathering at the base of his neck, worse when you push the glasses up again, your eyes shiny and wide-pupiled behind them. “You’re wearing glasses,” Spencer says.
“Oh, I know, I kept that secret, huh? My left contact got all dried up and I figured I didn’t have time to mess around, so you’re forced to suffer me like this.” You put your hand bashfully under your chin, a cherub posing. “I look like an old lady.” 
“No you don’t.” 
“I do, I look aged.” You put your bag on the floor by his chair and brush your hands down your clothes. “Spencer, it’s hopeless. I look like I slept in it. Maybe my glasses are atrocious enough to distract everyone.” 
“They’re not atrocious, you look beautiful.”
He immediately breaks eye contact to stare at your shoulder. Why did I say that? he thinks. Why do I talk so much? Heat fills his cheeks in a matter of seconds, but he holds his breath rather than let it out, totally frozen. 
Emily’s laughing as you step forward, hand out to touch his arm. You tilt your head to one side and Jesus, he wasn’t lying, you make his heart stop just looking at you. “You think so?” you ask softly. 
You aren’t laughing. Spencer nods, a tight up and down. 
Your lips press together in a shy smile. 
“They’re both as bad as each other!” Emily whisper-shouts. 
“What’s the matter, Reid, cat got your tongue?” Morgan asks. 
You push your glasses up your nose again, still smiling to yourself, so Spencer doesn’t mind his humiliation. You don’t call yourself atrocious again. If anything, you glow.
1K notes · View notes
santacoppelia · 7 months
Text
Putting the Meta in "Metatron"
(couldn't resist the pun, sorry)
Ok, this has been tickling my brain for a while. I've been thinking about how The Metatron designed his role and discourse specifically to manipulate Aziraphale into the end result we saw in the last minutes of S2. I become obsessed with it because… well, I'm a bit obsessive, but also because there were many really smart writing decisions that I loved (even when I despise The Metatron exactly for the same reasons. Hate the character, love the writer). If you haven't watched Good Omens Season 2, this is the moment to stop reading. Come back later!
We already know that in Book Omens, the role of Gabriel in the ending was occupied by The Metatron. Of course, the series introduced us to Gabriel and we won a lot by that, but I feel that the origins of The Metatron should be considered for any of this. He is not a "sweet old man": he was the one in charge of seeing over the operation of Armageddon; not just a stickler of rules, but the main promoter for it.
However, when he appears in the series finale, we first are primed to almost pass him by. He is in the line for buying coffee, using clothes that are:
obviously not tailored (almost ill fitted)
in dark tones
looking worn and wrinkled
This seems so important to me! All the angels we have seen are so proud of their aspect, wear clear (white or off white) clothes, pressed, impeccable (even Muriel), even when they visit the Earth (which we have already seen on S1 with all the visits to the bookshop). The Metatron chose a worn, comfortable attire, instead. This is a humanized look, something that fools all the angels but which would warm up someone very specific, can you guess?
After making quite a complicated coffee order (with sort of an affable and nervous energy), he makes a question that Crowley had already primed for us when asking Nina about the name of the coffee: having a "predictable" alternative and an unpredictable one.
This creates an interesting parallel with the next scene: Michael is discussing the possibility of erasing Aziraphale from The Book of Life (a punishment even worse than Holy Water on demons, because not having existed at all, EVER is definitely worse than having existed and ceased to exist at some point) when The Metatron arrives, interrupts the moment and signals having brought coffee. Yup, an amicable gesture, but also a "not death" offering that he shows clearly to everyone (even when Michael or Uriel do not understand or care for it. It wasn't meant for them). He even dismisses what Michael was saying as "utter balderdash" and a "complete piffle", which are the kind of outdated terms we have heard Aziraphale use commonly. So, The Metatron has put up this show for a specific audience of one.
The next moment on the script has Metatron asking Crowley for the clarification of his identity. Up to this moment, every angel has been ignoring the sprawled demon in the corner while discussing how to punish Aziraphale… But The Metatron defers to the most unlikely person in the room, and the only one who will push any buttons on Aziraphale: Crowley. After that, Aziraphale can recognize him, and Metatron dismisses the "bad angels" (using Aziraphale's S1 epithet) with another "catchy old phrase", "spit spot", while keeping Muriel at the back and implying that there is a possibility to "check after" if those "bad angels" have done anything wrong.
Up to this moment, he has played it perfectly. The only moment when he loses it is when he calls Muriel "the dim one", which she ignores… probably because that's the usual way they get talked to in Heaven. I'm not sure if Aziraphale or Crowley cared for that small interaction, but it is there for us (the audience) to notice it: the sympathy the character might elicit is built and sought, but he is not that nice.
After that, comes "the chinwag" and the offer of the coffee: the unnecessarily complicated order. It is not Aziraphale's cup of tea (literally), but it is so specific that it creates some semblance of being thought with care, and has a "hefty jigger" of syrup (again with the funny old words). And, as Aziraphale recognizes, it is "very nice!" (as The Metatron "jolly hoped so"), and The Metatron approves of him drinking it by admitting he has "ingested things in my time, you know?". This interaction is absolutely designed to build a bridge of understanding. The Metatron probably knew that the first response he would get was a "no", so he tailored his connection specifically to "mirror" Aziraphale: love of tasty human treats he has also consumed, funny old words like the ones he loves, a very human, worn, well-loved look. That was the bait for "the stroll": the moment when Aziraphale and Crowley get separated, because The Metatron knew that being close to Crowley, Aziraphale would have an hypervigilant soundboard to check the sense of what he was going to get offered. That's what the nasty look The Metatron gives to Crowley while leaving the bookshop builds (and it gets pinpointed by the music, if you were about to miss it).
The next thing we listen from The Metatron is "You don't have to answer immediately, take all the time you need" in such a friendly manner… we can see Aziraphale doubting a little, and then comes the suggestion: "go and tell your friend the good news!". This sounds like encouragement, but is "the reel". He already knows how Crowley would react, and is expecting it (we can infer it by his final reaction after going back for Aziraphale after the break up, but let's not get ahead of ourselves shall we?). He even can work up Muriel to take care of the bookshop while waiting for the catch.
What did he planted in Aziraphale's mind? Well, let's listen to the story he has to tell:
"I don't think he's as bad a fellow… I might have misjudged him!" — not strange in Aziraphale to have such a generous spirit while judging people. He's in a… partnership? relationship? somethingship? with a demon! So maybe first impressions aren't that reliable anyway. The Metatron made an excellent job with this, too.
"Michael was not the obvious candidate, it was me!" — This idea is interesting. Michael has been the stickler, the rule follower, even the snitch. They have been rewarded and recognized by that. Putting Aziraphale before Michael in the line of succession is a way of recognizing not only him, but his system of values, which has always been at odds with the main archangels (even when it was never an open fight).
"Leader, honest, don't tell people what they want to hear" — All these are generic compliments. The Metatron hasn't been that aware of Aziraphale, but are in line with what would have been said of any "rebel leader". They come into context with the next phrase.
"That's why Gabriel came to you, I imagine…" — I'm pretty sure The Metatron didn't imagine this, ha. He is probably imagining that the "institutional problem" is coalescing behind his back, and trying to keep friends close, but enemies closer… while dividing and conquering. If Gabriel rebelled, and then went searching for Aziraphale (and Crowley, they are and item and he knows it), that might mean a true risk for his status quo and future plans.
Heaven has great plans and important projects for you — this is to sweeten the pot: the hefty jigger of almond syrup. You will be able to make changes! You can make a difference from the inside! Working for an old man who feels strangely familiar! And who recognizes your point of view! That sounds like the best job offer of the world, really.
Those, however, are not the main messages (they are still building good will with Aziraphale); they are thought out to build the last, and more important one:
Heaven is well aware of your "de facto partnership" with Crowley…
It would be considered irregular if you wanted to work with him again…
You, and you alone, can bring him to Heaven and restore his full angelic status, so you could keep working together (in very important projects).
Here is the catch. He brought the coffee so he could "offer him coffee", but the implications are quite clear: if you want to continue having a partnership with Crowley, you two must come to Heaven. Anything else would be considered irregular, put them in a worst risk, and maybe, just maybe, make them "institutional enemies". Heaven is more efficient chasing enemies, and they have The Book of Life as a menace.
We already know how scared Aziraphale has always been about upsetting Heaven, but he has learned to "disconnect" from it through the usual "they don't notice". The Metatron came to tell him "I did notice, and it has come back to bite you". The implied counterpart to the offer is "you can always get death". Or even worse, nonexistence (we have already imagined the angst of having one of them condemned to that fate, haven't we?)
When The Metatron arrives, just after seeing Crowley leave the bookshop, distraught, he casually asks "How did he take it?", but he already knows. That was his plan all along: making them break up with an offer Aziraphale could not refuse, but Crowley could not accept. That's why he even takes the license to slightly badmouth Crowley: "Always did want to go his own way, always asking damn fool questions, too". He also arrive with the solution to the only objection Aziraphale would have: Muriel, the happy innocent angel that he received with so much warmth and kindness, is given the opportunity to stay on Earth, taking care of the bookshop. The only thing he would have liked to take with him is not a thing, and has become impossible.
If God is playing poker in a dark room and always smiling, The Metatron is playing chess, and he is quite good at it (that's why he loves everything to be predictable). He is menacing our pieces, and broke our hearts in the process… But I'm pretty sure he is underestimating his opponents. His awful remark of Muriel being "dim"; saying that Crowley "asks damn fool questions", and even believing that Aziraphale is just a softie that can be played like a pipe… That's why telling him the project is "The Second Coming" was an absolute gift for us as an audience, and it prefigures the downfall that is coming — the one Aziraphale, now with nothing to lose, started cooking in his head during that elevator ride (those couple of minutes that Michael Sheen gifted to all of us: the shock, the pain, the fury, and that grin in the end, with the eyes in a completely different emotion). Remember that Aziraphale is intelligent, but also fierce. Guildernstern commited a similar mistake in Hamlet, and it didn't go well:
"Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me, you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery, you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass, and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me."
I'm so excited to learn how this is going to unfold!! Because our heroes have always been very enthusiastic at creating plans together, failed miserably at executing them, and even then succeeding… But now they are apart, more frustrated and the stakes are even higher. Excellent scenario for a third act!
*exits, pursued by a bear*
2K notes · View notes
cupid-styles · 4 months
Text
december with you
Tumblr media
the tattoorry christmas one shot is finally here :D I know you guys really loved their original story so I hope people like this little look into their life together during the holiday season!!!!
read only angel (the original series) here
word count: 4.2k
content warnings: mentions of y/n's terrible parents, smut (dirty talk, a bit of degradation, mutual masturbation, tiny bit of impact play, grinding, daddy kink)
masterlist | talk to me
. . .
December 5, 2023
"Have you ever had a real Christmas tree?"
Y/N and Harry are currently both bundled up in layers of sweaters, scarves, and puffy jackets, but their fingers are still messily intertwined and hidden in Harry's coat pocket. They're walking back to his place from the shop after a long day of work and school, and Y/N can't help but gaze longingly at the Christmas tree salesman across the way. There's an array of forest green trees and wreaths, the comforting balsam and pine scent creating a fragrant wintertime cloud around them. 
Harry's so focused on braving the cold with his girl that it takes him a moment to register that she's said anything at all. He thinks for a moment — he hasn't gotten a Christmas tree for the past few years of living alone, but the employees usually stick a small one in the shop for a hint of holiday spirit. 
"Yeah, we always got them growing up. My mom had a thing about 'em, always said they were better than fake ones."
She hums as they pass the display, Harry gently dragging her along down the block — his apartment is so close he can taste the warmth. They've only been properly dating for a few months now, so he's still learning about her communication tells and body language, and it's only then that he realizes that's her way of saying, I never had one before.
"Did your parents put up a Christmas tree?" he asks. He knows it's a sore subject, that she's still very much in the process of healing from years of trauma, but she tends to be comfortable with questions that aren't directly related to them. Things like, what was your favorite Halloween costume growing up? and what did you want to be when you were little?
"They did, but it was always one of those fake white ones." Y/N replies with a wrinkled nose. Finally, they're approaching the front of Harry's building, his keys already in his hand and prepared to unlock the front door. They make quick work of shimmying into the lobby, immediately breathing out mutual sighs of relief from the instant temperature increase.
"Those barely count as Christmas trees," Harry murmurs, pressing the elevator button. She nods, agreeing and following him inside. She buries her mitten-clad hands into the pockets of her jacket as she watches him press the floor 4 button. "Maybe you and Luce can get a real one?"
"She's Jewish. I think I'd feel bad about putting a tree up." 
Harry nods his head, unsurprised by his girl's ever-polite nature in never wanting to make anyone else uncomfortable. Realistically, her roommate probably wouldn't care if she wanted to get a real Christmas tree, especially knowing her history with her parents. 
The conversation ceases as he unlocks the door to his apartment. As soon as they step inside, they perform the routine they've been following for the past few weeks — shedding of jackets, scarves, and gloves, toeing off shoes in the entryway, and Y/N shuffling in the direction of Harry's bedroom to change into comfortable clothes while he proposes dinner options. 
She's currently changing into her favorite pair of his sweatpants and an equally worn and cozy sweatshirt (Harry specifically did laundry the night before, knowing she'd want them) as he calls out takeout suggestions. 
"Italian?"
"Mm, Lucy and I made pizza last night, so pass!"
"Sushi?"
"Last time you didn't like it, remember?"
"Oh, yeah," Harry mumbles, mainly to himself, "Chinese, then? I'm in the mood for something noodle-y."
"Chinese is good," Y/N says as she walks out to meet him in the living room. He grins when he sees her, the image of her in his clothes never quite getting old. Even though it's something he witnesses multiple times a week, he can never help his length from thickening up in his briefs. "Can you get me the veggie lo mein? And maybe we can split some dumplings if you want?"
"'course, dovie."
He unlocks his phone and pulls up the food ordering app while Y/N occupies herself with cozying up on the couch, bundling underneath the fuzzy pink throw blanket. She watches him as he looks down at the screen in his hand, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in focus. He looks so cute, Y/N thinks — sometimes it's silly to her that someone like him could like her, but he never makes her doubt his adoration. 
"Alright, all ordered," Harry announces with a smile. He leans over the couch to press a kiss to her hair. "I'm gonna go change, you wanna pick something to watch?"
She hums noncommittally, her eyes fluttering to his as she looks up to see him standing over her. She reaches out to clasp a hand around his wrist — for what, they're both unsure of in the moment, and it seems like she's just as surprised as he is. He quirks a brow in silent questioning and her lips part, the pink tip of her tongue running over the ridges of her two front teeth. 
"About the tree," she forces out, a look of distress so severe you'd think she was asking to marry him. "Did you... like it?"
"...did I like the tree?"
"Yeah," she nods, shifting onto her knees so she can lean her chest against the back of the couch and face him. "The tree your mom would get. Did you like it?"
"Sure. It was nice," Harry replies with a shrug. He reaches out to thumb over her plushy bottom lip, giving it a small squeeze. "What are you getting at, dove?"
Harry tries to practice this with her frequently. He's learned that she tends to be afraid of asking for what she wants, even if it's something small like stopping at the grocery store on their walk home. He knows it's from years of trauma from her parents, but he also knows that she's beyond capable of voicing her wants and needs. He's not sure if she's aware that he does this with her — some days are better than others and he always promises himself to take it easy with her. 
"I was just wondering if maybe we could go see them. The trees."
He smiles gently. "Yeah, we could do that. Do you just wanna look at them?"
Y/N shrugs her shoulders, a bashful blush blooming over her skin. 
"We could get one if you want," he murmurs as he ducks down to catch her eyes. "We could put it up here."
"Really?"
His heart squeezes at the instant twinkle in her eyes, a hopeful expression painted over her features. He grins and nods. 
"Of course. We can go tomorrow."
"Okay," she agrees with a smile, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips. He gasps in fake shock and she giggles. 
"Careful dovie, I might just think you like me."
. . .
December 14, 2023
Y/N hates the cold. 
Today, it's bitterly cold, the tips of her ears red from the harsh winter wind nipping at them all afternoon. Her hands are stuffed in mittens, she's wearing multiple thermal layers beneath her North Face puffer jacket (an early Christmas gift from Harry, who claimed her current coat wasn't cutting it), and her toes have officially surpassed an acrid sting and live in the completely and utterly numb category. 
But she supposes it's worth it all to walk arm-in-arm with Harry as they explore his favorite holiday market.
He's been blabbing her ear off about it since it started in the last week of November, explaining that he discovered it his first year living in the city, just a few months after opening the shop. He said that business was slow and he couldn't afford to visit his family in London for the holidays, so he was feeling particularly down, but this market actually awoke a bit of festive spirit in him. Ever since then, he comes back every year, gets a hot chocolate, and walks through the rows of vendors, even if he doesn't buy anything — and he was beyond excited to experience it with Y/N this year.
It just so happened that they hadn't taken the weather into account. Harry asked Y/N about a million separate times, making sure she was still okay with going (and while she much would have rather stay home, snuggled up with her boyfriend with a Christmas movie on, she couldn't bare ruining his plans, especially given all that he did for her).
And the thing is, Harry can tell that she's borderline-miserable in the cold. But every time he asks if she wants to go home, her chapped lips form into a small smile, shaking her head, insisting that she wants to keep going.
Finally, Harry spots the hot chocolate vendor at the end of sidewalk; a much-welcomed excuse to hopefully warm his girl up. 
"This place has the best hot chocolate," he says as his pace quickens slightly. If Y/N's arm wasn't looped around his, she's sure she wouldn't be able to keep up with his long stride. 
"Oh, yummy," she mumbles, digging into her pocket to pull out her wallet, "Do y'wanna share one or each get one?"
"Put that away." he instantly replies with a scoff. In a second, he's produced his own wallet, quickly ordering one hot chocolate each.
"Harry," Y/N whines quietly, "You always pay for things, why couldn't you let me get this?"
"'cos I wanted to."
"That's what you always say!"
He chuckles as he graciously accepts the hot chocolates from the salesman, then hands one to Y/N without a second glance. She huffs to herself as she pulls her hands from her pockets to clutch the warm cup. It already smells heavenly, her eyes nearly fluttering shut from the coziness oozing from the warm steam. 
"Seriously, will you let me get us dinner or something tonight?" Y/N asks as Harry guides them towards a bench. She's not really in the mood to perch her bum on a freezing cold slab of wood, but if today's anything to go by, she'd do anything for Harry.
"No," he replies with a cheeky grin. "I like spoiling you."
"But I don't want you to spend so much—"
"It's not about the money, Y/N," he says, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. "You deserve the very best and I will give you that. Okay?"
Truthfully, she can't tell if she's more surprised or turned on by Harry's sudden harsh tone, but nonetheless, she nods her head. 
"Good. Now drink your hot chocolate, dove."
Wordlessly, she lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip, the decedent taste instantly outweighing the slight sting of pain from the warm liquid hitting her tongue.
It's delicious, just as Harry promised. She doesn't think he could ever steer her wrong, even in the context of something small like a beverage. It's something she learned quickly into meeting him — even when they were just friends, she trusted him implicitly. Perhaps it had been naive on her part, but in all honesty, she wouldn't change it for the world. She feels so lucky to have someone who cherishes her as much as he does, even knowing all the nitty gritty details of her life.
Despite the comfortable lull in conversation, they shuffle closer until their puffer-covered arms are flush against one another. His glove-clad hand reaches out to give her thigh a small squeeze as she people watches and takes in the wintery scenery around them. 
"Thank you for bringing me today," she says through cold swollen lips, "I really like it here."
He smiles. "Thank you for coming. Know you're freezing."
She giggles and takes another sip of her hot chocolate. He's just about to ask her if she's ready to head back to his place when a smattering of applause distracts them both. They turn around to see a man on one knee with an engagement ring in his hand and his girlfriend — or fiancee now — nodding her head enthusiastically. It's a picture perfect moment in front of the large decorated Christmas tree with onlookers cheering them on and taking pictures.
"'s sweet." Y/N murmurs, shifting her posture to turn back around. Harry swallows before humming quietly in agreement. He stands from his spot on the bench and holds his hand out to take her empty cup, tossing them both in the garbage can before nodding his head in the direction of the exit. 
"Would you ever want something like that?" he blurts out before he can force himself to swallow the words down. She glances up at him as she loops her arm through his, burying her hand back into the warmth of his pocket. 
"Like what?"
Harry shrugs. "Like... a big proposal."
"Oh," she wrinkles her nose. "I've never really thought about it, to be honest."
"Really?"
"Well, yeah. I always assumed my parents would just marry me off to someone they approved of."
"I'm sorry," he mutters with a shake of his head. "That was a stupid question."
"It's alright. I guess I can think about it now."
He smiles as they stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn. 
"Why're you asking?"
Harry clears his throat before shrugging his shoulders again. With a small smile, she bumps her arm against his, a silent and sweet encouragement to voice his thoughts.
"I think about a future for us, is all."
"You do?"
He returns her smile as they walk across the street, nodding his head. "Of course I do."
"What do you think about?"
"Well, I think about us maybe moving a little further out of the city, but not too far so I can't get to the shop every day. Maybe a dog or a cat... you're working in publishing or editing or doing whatever you want. And we're just... we're happy."
A grin flowers over Y/N's face. She wriggles her hand out of her pocket to grab Harry's, doing her best to give it a squeeze through the layers of their thick gloves. 
"That sounds nice," she replies softly as they pass by the familiar shops on the way to Harry's apartment, "Do we get ever get engaged?"
Harry glances down to look at her, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows. "Only if you want that."
She hums. "I'd like that."
"Yeah?"
She nods as they approach the front of his building. 
"Only if you let me get a real Christmas tree every year."
Harry laughs. 
"I'll get you one every day if you let me marry you."
. . .
December 23, 2023
"I have an early Christmas present for you."
Y/N peers up at her boyfriend over the frames of her blue light glasses. She's finally finished with finals but has been checking her grades religiously, waiting for them to be posted. With the time she unintentionally took off this semester, she had to work harder than ever to make sure she passed everything. 
"Are you trying to distract me from worrying about my grades?"
With a smirk, he shrugs his shoulders boyishly. "Maybe. We both know you killed it, dovie, there's no use in stressing."
She sighs lightly and closes her laptop, placing it on the coffee table. 
"Plus, you deserve a reward for doing so well," he murmurs, sitting down next to her. "Do you want your gift?"
"I feel like you're gonna give it to me regardless of what I say."
"You know me well," he says through a laugh. "Alright, close your eyes."
She does as she's told, preparing herself for something silly, like a pack of her favorite Christmas cookies or a coupon for a kiss. Instead, when Harry tells her to open them, he's holding a massive, cuddly teddy bear. 
"Oh," she smiles. "This is cute. I had one just like this at my parents' place."
"I know." 
It's only when her eyes flitter to his face and she sees his smirk that she realizes he's recounting much dirtier memories than her. Instantly, she blushes, remembering how he somehow figured out what she'd done with her stuffed animals in the time they'd spent apart. 
"Do you wanna show me how you did it?" he nearly purrs, kneeling down so he's eye level with her, "I've thought about it almost every day since you admitted to grinding your cute little pussy on your stuffed animals, thinking of me."
She nearly chokes on her spit. She doesn't think she'll ever get used to the way Harry can flip at a moment's notice, his demeanor switching from her sweet, kind boyfriend to a hot domineering version of himself that always manages to fluster her. 
The thought of doing... that in front of him is somehow humiliating, even if he's done far dirtier things to her before. Still, though, she doesn't want to disappoint him, and she can't help that the prospect of being a little embarrassed is a turn-on for her — something she only discovered because of him. 
"'kay," she breathes out with a small nod of her head. 
"'kay?" he echoes with a chuckle, "You wanna show me, pup?"
"Mhm."
He places the teddy bear on its back on the carpeted floor before turning back around and holding his hands out. He guides her down, pretending not to notice the tremble in her hands, and presses a kiss to the side of her head. Ducking down slightly, he tells her she doesn't have to do anything she's uncomfortable with. She's quick to shake her head and give his hand a squeeze, mumbling out, "I want to."
He hopes that she knows well enough to exercise her right to consent at any point — they've had just about a thousand conversations about it over the past few months, and Y/N always swears up and down that she'll tell him if she feels even the tiniest smidge of discomfort. 
She straddles the stuffed animal between her thighs like she's done it a million times before, and it makes Harry's stomach squeeze knowing that she has. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she pulls her thin sleep shorts to the side, revealing just the smallest bit of her mound to him. 
"Show me, dove," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. He places gentle hands at her hips as he slowly helps her rock forward, a breathy whimper falling from her lips almost immediately. "There you go, that's my good girl. Keep going."
She swallows harshly and repeats the same movement once more, allowing Harry's hands to fall more so in the background. He's not used to seeing his girl in control, but on the rare occasion where he does, it drives him absolutely insane. 
With his knees pressing into the fluffy carpet of his living room floor, he suppresses a groan as he watches her; his sweet, soft girl in her flower-printed shorts as she trails deft fingers up to her chest, giving her breast a squeeze. His eyes roam over her body — the dimples in her thighs that appear as she grinds her hips, the slight jiggle in her ass punctuated by quiet moans. He gives her left hip a harsher squeeze to remind her that he's there and her eyes flutter open. 
"Does it feel good?" he asks huskily. She nods quickly, though he can tell her thighs are beginning to strain. "Do you need daddy's help?"
He glances down to where her core meets the soft stuffing and smirks when he sees the matted material, a clear sign of her arousal dripping down. He sneaks a hand down below and cups her warm pussy. 
"Let daddy have a look, yeah?" he mutters, pushing her body up so he can the study the mess between her legs. "This drippy and swollen just from humping a teddy bear?"
With flushed cheeks, she nods.
"Silly girl."
He lightly pushes her back down so her pussy makes contact with the wet spot she left behind. She gasps quietly as his hands find purchase back on her hips. 
"Daddy'll help this desperate pussy cum, alright?" 
In a moment, he's guiding her hips up and over the teddy bear, making it so she's doing minimal work. Her eyes fall closed again as her moans get louder and breathier, a telltale sign Harry's learned to look for and adore. 
"Atta girl," he mutters lowly, "Let daddy do all the work. Can't believe how cock dumb you get from this— 's kinda pathetic, really."
"'s n-not," she utters through a whimper.
"No? 's not? Then how come you're about to cum from it?"
She wants to fight him on it, even if she normally never would. She's typically quite submissive and it's a dynamic they naturally fell into; one that they're both comfortable with. But with the growing stressors of school constantly thrumming through her brain and Harry's active attempts to teach her to better stand up for herself... well, he's the only person to blame for this sudden change in attitude, after all. 
"'m not," she replies with a clenched jaw, holding in the moan threatening to spill from her spit swollen lips. He laughs humorlessly, quirking an eyebrow at her sudden boldness. 
"You're not?" he asks, steadying his hands and stopping the rapid gyration of her hips. She puffs out a frustrated breath when he prevents her from moving, suddenly aware of how quickly her heart is beating. "I'd watch your mouth if I were you. I'll make sure you don't cum for days if you wanna act like a brat."
"I'm not being a brat."
Harry snorts and reaches for her hair, twisting his fist in it and pulling. She gasps. 
"Say that again." 
It's a threat and they both know it. He's curious to see where this goes — if she's really that set on this back-and-forth or if she's ready to be his good girl again. 
With her head ducked back in his grasp, her throat bobbing with nerves, he's shocked by her response: "I'm not being a brat."
"Bullshit," he spits. In a second, the tight grip he has on her hair is released, but he's pushing her down, a hand between her shoulder blades so her core and chest are completely flush with the fluffy material. She sounds out a quick oh!, shivering slightly from the rough maneuver. "I'm done helping you. Get yourself off on your own, brat."
She feels like it's a test, but she's leaking now, humiliatingly so, so she issues a tentative roll of her hips, half-expecting some sort of teasing insult from him. He doesn't say a word but he's also removed his hands from her completely now. She feels empty without his touch, though the all-encompassing need to finish is expanding through her body, completely distracting her from any sort of normal response. 
"Tell me when you're gonna cum." he says lowly. She nods, feeling his presence from behind her, almost emitting a taunting, looming air. It's only when she hears the familiar slick passes that she realizes he's not as unaffected as she assumed he was. It delivers an ego boost to her, swelling up in her chest as she moves her hips, grinding down against the fabric wet with her juices, knowing that her mean, grumpy boyfriend is watching and getting off to her.
The steady stimulation against her clit is so delicious that she's quick to get to the edge, clawing her fingernails into the carpet. Her jaw drops as she feels her muscles contracting, her eyes rolling back.
"Cum," she pants out in a whimpered tone, "G-gonna cum."
"Good girl."
She gasps from the full-body pleasure, her form shaking as she clutches to the floor for stability. Her orgasm is strong and occurs perfectly in tandem with Harry's, who she realizes is finishing just as she reaches the end of hers. She hears him groaning and it makes her clit buzz, and then feels streaks of hot cum painting her ass. She gasps out in surprise, her lower half still twitching from the intensity. 
"Fuck, you're so fucking hot," Harry grunts through clenched teeth, "Fuck."
She continues laying there obediently, waiting for him to finish. She thinks she could fall asleep right here if she wanted to, but Harry is quick to maneuver his position so he's back on his knees in front of her.
"You okay, dove?" he asks gently, smoothing her hair. "Know that was a little rougher than normal. Was it okay?"
With a hazy smile, she nods. "Mhm."
"Alright," he chuckles. "I'm gonna go grab something to clean you up with. Stay here."
She listens to the sounds of him traipsing through his apartment, returning a few moments later with a damp washcloth. He cleans the mess between her thighs followed by the one he painted on her ass, then wraps an arm around her waist to guide her to his bedroom. 
"Wait— I don't wanna go to sleep yet," she says with slightly rounded eyes. "It's almost Christmas and— well, we haven't, like, sat by the tree yet."
Harry raises his eyebrows, "Sat by the... tree?" he turns around, glancing at the Christmas tree they purchased a few weeks back, when Y/N originally asked if they could get a real one. If he's being honest, it was overpriced and they haven't been taking the best care of it, so he assumes it'll be dead shortly after Christmas. (He's kind of dreading having to take it out because he's nervous she'll get sad.)
"Yeah... when I was a kid, I always wanted to sit by a real Christmas tree and drink hot chocolate and watch a movie." she explains with a small shrug, "We don't have to do that though, I know you're probably tired from work—"
"I'd love to," Harry's quick to cut her off with a shake of his head. "Why don't you go and put some sweats on and I'll make our hot chocolates, okay?"
"Really?"
He chuckles softly. "Dovie, I'm not sure how you haven't realized this yet, but I would do anything for you."
Her grin is so wide that Harry hopes it never leaves her face.
599 notes · View notes
prescottsgirl · 8 months
Note
hi, i’ve been binge reading your fics/headcanons and i love your writing sm! if you have time, i would love to read about Sidney’s first date with a younger reader. maybe reader has had a crush on older!Sid for awhile and finally shoots her shot :)) thank you ❤️
awe thank you! of course i’ll write that! :)
THIS LOVE
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
sidney prescott x fem!reader
warnings: none
note: i hope this is good 😭 my writing has been shit lately
Tumblr media
"If we make it out of here alive then you owe me a date." All the murders had clearly given you a boost of confidence. You weren't sure you would even life to see the next day at this point so what did you have to lose anyways?
That had been an entire month ago. Since you were nearly killed. Since Sidney had agreed to that deal.
"Now I have a better reason to make it out alive," Is what Sidney said to you.
And she spent all 30 days sitting in the hospital with you until you healed. You almost didn't make it out alive. But you did. You had a reason too.
Which brought you to rushing around you apartment, trying to tidy up every corner of it. When you heard a knock on your door you felt like you were going to be sick. This was happening. You were having a date with Sidney fucking Prescott.
You brushed down the invisible wrinkles on your clothes. After throwing your entire closet around to find something, Sam finally helped you decide on this a nice sweater and mom jeans. She was the whole reason you're with Sidney, really. You've been friends with her for forever which Richie and Amber had easily found out, to then which they bunched you into this whole mess. Being stabbed fucking hurt, but if it wasn't for that, then you probably wouldn't be having a date with Sidney Prescott.
You opened up your apartment door to a softly smiling Sidney. You've been around her for an entire month now, but you never fail to feel light headed whenever she was around.
Her dark brown hair rested just on her collar bone with her typical gentle waves, and her blouse was a little lower cut than usual. You were at lost for words because, suddenly, hi, hello, how are you, disappeared from your vocabulary entirely.
"Hi honey," she says first because she can see the sheer look of anxiety on your face. Your cheeks burn an awfully deep shade of red at her pet name. She knew you had that biggest crush on her so she loved to flustered you. She couldn't deny that she got a little nervous around you too though.
"Hi, sorry. You look— you look really good." You wanted to run into your bedroom and scream like a child. You were so awful at this.
She smiled and her cheeks were a soft shade of pink. Maybe you weren't doing too bad so far? "Thank you sweetie. You look really good yourself." If she didn't stop with the pet names, you were sure that you were going to pass out.
She let the tension swim between the two of you for a couple of moments before speaking up again. "You ready?"
"Mhm. Yeah, let's go." You locked up your door with your shaky hands. You were sure that Sidney noticed. But you never really done this whole date thing and it was with the Sidney Prescott.
You walked the entire way down in fairly comfortable silence. You didn't know what to say, or if you should even say something. You were just going to let her lead you tonight.
You followed her out to her car outside and tried not to think of your arms brushing against each others.
"Aren't I supposed to be the one driving. Since i'm taking you on a date," you don't think you would even be able to drive, being so distracted in caught up in your thoughts, but you didn't want to seem rude.
"I'm terrified of getting in a car with you behind the wheel," she looked over at you and smiled, clearly just teasing you.
"What—" you were going to argue back, but you followed her intense gaze to your banged up car in the parking garage. "Okay listen. It was one time."
She tilted her head, raising her eyebrows at you.
"Okay, one very bad time," you both laughed. Maybe you weren't so awful at this. You made her laugh only five minutes in.
Sidney walks a little in front of you when you approach the car so she can open the door for you. To which you smile at. She walks around the car to the drivers side and gets in.
It's quiet again, and the sun had already set, and all you want to do is just kiss her the way the moonlight does. You don't even realize that you're staring, but Sidney does, and she has to pretend like the fact that being adored by someone young and beautiful like you doesn't makes her heart feel too big for her body.
She starts up the car and the radio turns on to a random song that neither of you care for. "You can connect your phone to the radio if you'd like," she says softly, almost as if she wants you to. She wants to know more about you, wants to know what music you listen to, and what singers you enjoy.
"Sure." You easily connect as she starts driving to the address you texted her earlier that day. A soft melody of Taylor Swift starts playing, certainly setting the mood for this night.
There's some light, simple chatter throughout the entire car ride and you try to remember how to properly speak and use your brain every time she asks you a question.
When you arrived to the destination, you brush your hand against hers, she immediately realizes what's happen and intertwines your fingers together. It was easier than you thought it would be.
The restaurant, as large as it is, is fairly busy. You were thankful that you had made a reservation beforehand. You want the entire night to be perfect and smooth, and waiting nearly an hour to have dinner wouldn't have been ideal.
You walked in with her holding your hands by your waist. Right as you enter the doorway, you approach the front desk. "Hi, I have a reservation under Y/L/N."
The hostess leads you to one of the small tables in the corner. There's string lights and plants around the entire interior and the lighting is dimmed. There's no crying kids or people staring you down as you walk to you table. You knew you picked the right place.
It only takes a few minutes before the waiter is at your table to put in your orders. You both order a glass of wine and your meals and wait until he's disappear to continue talking.
"So, I have to ask, why me?" Sidney asks, her head slightly tilting to the side and leaned on the palm of her hand.
"Hm?"
"Well I mean you're so young. You have Sam and all of them but you were so adamant about going on a date with me."
You chuckled lightly at her. "I've never been attracted to any of them. But the first time I saw you, my heart stopped. You're so strong, and beautiful, and you were like the only person to stay in the hospital with me when I was hurt." You might as well spill all of your feelings on this table. You didn't know how else to get it through to her that she just felt like the right one. "I'm really glad that you actually waited a whole month for me."
"I would've waited forever if I had to. I'm really glad that we're doing this," Sidney says.
"Me too. I've never done this before so i'm really lucky that it's with you." Even though you didn't personally know Sidney as well as you would like to yet, after everything that's happened back at Stu's Machers old house, you felt really safe and comfortable with her.
"You mean you never been on a date before?" She doesn't ask it in a critical way, she's simply surprised and curious.
"Nope. You're my first."
"Wow, I would think a pretty girl like you had been on one." You were sure your cheeks looked like they were burning off. You don't know how you're going to survive this night if she keeps talking like that to you.
You smiled and looked down at the table in hopes that it would hide your blush. Luckily, the waiter came back to hand you your orders.
The dinner had passed too quickly. You knew this meant the night was coming to an end. You could already feel the wine going to your head though. It gave you an extra boost of confidence to keep this date on its toes.
"I don't want this to end," you say to her, reaching out to her hand on the table. You tried not to pay attention to how low her blouse was and how the light shaded her chest just right. You looked back up at her eyes and by the lustful look on her face, you realized that she had noticed your wandering eyes.
She smirks before replying. "Me either. I had a really nice time."
"How about you come back to my place?" You bit down on your bottom lip after saying it. This boost of confidence could either lead you to endless embarrassment or a really good night.
"Yeah, I would like that."
The waiter come back to your table with the check. Sidney reaches for it, but you're faster than her. "Nu-uh. You drove, I pay."
She rolls her eyes, but it's completely playful. She wants to argue back, but you give her these sweet big pleading eyes and she decides to bite her tongue.
Once he returns with your card, you and Sid get up to leave. This time it's Sidney that's grabbing your hand. As if you're hers now. She wants everyone to know that nobody can have you the way she can.
Sidney drove you both home, this time it was less awkward than getting to the restaurant. You and Sidney both made it up to your apartment, and it was the first time she had been in it.
Her eyes wandered all around. She noticed how your decorating really defined who you were. "You have a really nice place," she said, as she followed you into your living room area where you had a huge view of the city below you.
"Thank you. It's a little messy right now."
"It's perfect."
You smiled at her, and tried to not get flustered at the silence that followed. "How about we sit on the balcony? I'll get some more wine from the fridge?"
"Yeah, that's nice."
You both went your separate ways; you to the kitchen and Sidney out on the balcony where there were two chairs beside each other.
You poured two glasses and carried them both outside, handing her one and sitting beside her in a chair. You studied the way her slender fingers wrapped around the glass and how the moonlight made her typical dark eyes sparkle. You wished she would just kiss you so you wouldn't have to stare from afar.
"I really thought I was going to die," you said, disturbing the peaceful silence. Her head snaps over at you and she looks confused. "When...Richies knife was pointing right at my chest. I was going to give up because everything hurt so bad. But then I could hear your voice in the other room. Somehow you still sounded so soft and pretty during those circumstances. So I grabbed the knife and fought with all I had."
Sidney's eyes glisten from tears building up. You can see her swallow down a lump in her throat. You've never seen her cry before. She always acts so tough. "I'm so so—"
"No, don't apologize. You saved my life." You put your wine glass onto the table, leaning closer towards Sidney. She did the same thing. "Everything's felt so weird since then, but you fill this void inside of me. Sidney, I love you."
She's taken aback by your sudden confession at first, but she quickly recovers from it and realizes that she's been yearning to hear those words from you.
"You love me?" She asks. She knew you liked her, but to have you admit that you love her was an entirely different game.
"Mhm. Can I kiss you?"
She nods because her words get caught up in her throat. Your face comes closer to hers until you feel the softest lips against yours. You could swear that the entire city went silent for a moment. All the Friday night hustle and bustle below your apartment had paused and all that mattered was the taste of wine from her lips and the feeling of her slender fingers holding onto your face.
She pulls back for a moment, both of your breaths heavier than they were just seconds ago. She’s still so close that her nose brushes again yours, and you can smell her sweet perfume. “I love you too, by the way”
81 notes · View notes
festivestar · 1 year
Text
I SOUGHT AFTER YOU.
Tumblr media
IN WHICH — [ name ] longs for the Head of the Kamisato Clan, though it seems Ayato has other things to attend to as the heir. Yet, Ayaka and Thoma try to do anything and everything for them to spend time together.
CW — implied ayamiya, gender neutral reader, reader has sleepless nights longing for ayato, thoma and reader are step-siblings, angst but with happy ending, platonic thoma x reader, reader barely eating at times, reader slaps ayato, ayato calls reader endearments ( my love, darling, etc.. ), they're basically the “old” married couple troupe.
A/N — you may think, is this a valentine gift considering I've basically stopped posting? yes 🤗 also warning it's like, really bad...
Tumblr media
The orange hue of the late afternoon casted upon the lover of Kamisato Ayato, whom he loved dearly, or so he thought. “[ name ], you seriously need to get some sleep. I know you miss Ayato but this is ruining you more.”
Thoma insists, though you didn't bother listening. You waited for who knows how long just for your lover to return, walking down the path to your beloved home with open arms. But no signs of him have been spotted ever since he left for business work.
“I'll be fine, Thoma. Say, do you mind grabbing my coat? I'm going for a walk out.” You say with a hoarse voice, due to the lack of water and food for the entire day. “But [ name ]—”
The blonde notices your focused but far self staring out the window, giving up as he goes down stairs to fetch your coat. Mere seconds later, he is back with your coat in hand. “Here you go.” Standing up, you walk up to him, putting it on. He watches as you tend to yourself slowly, frowning at your exhausted form.
“You be safe out there, 'kay?” He says, placing a quick peck on your forehead, before taking your vision in hand, placing it into your palm. You nod, before placing a quick kiss on his cheek, walking off to who knows where.
He watches your form disappear from his place behind the walls, concern heavy in his chest. ‘Oh Ayato, where are you?’ He ponders.
Tumblr media
Days and days of letters exchanged between Ayaka and Ayato, yet, no sign of him eventually coming back. Work was exhausting for the youngest Kamisato, yet her blonde girlfriend did anything to make her entertained. And you, were still watching out the window for a sight of Ayato.
At times, Ayaka and Thoma try to distract you from the thought of the heir, yet nothing was able to get him off your mind.
You were slowly losing the motivation to get up and eat either way, and you've noticed that from how sluggish your body has been.
Hope was slowly starting to falter for you, until a particular day where a knock comes the front of the Kamisato Estate.
“Ayato— where have you been?!” Hearing Thoma's distant voice mentioning Ayato, you sit up quickly, scrambling out of your bed to see your lover. Quick steps down the stairs, as you meet face to face with the heir.
“[ name ]—” He was cut off, when his face was quickly pushed to the side by your harsh slap. “What is wrong with you?!” Frustrated tears start to gather in your eyes, as you gripped your clothes tightly.
Thoma and Ayaka watch in shock, as you start to tremble. “I've been waiting for you, for an entire week Ayato! And with no information of when you would come back? That's absurd!” You felt like cold water had been poured onto you, you felt upset and enraged.
Ayato had nothing to say, as you shouted at him, tears slowly starting to fall down your face. As he watches you, he notices your wrinkled clothes, messy appearance, the eye bags that were too noticeable than it usually is.
“AYATO! WOULD YOU EXPLAIN, PLEASE!” You yelled, shouted, screamed as loud as you could, just to let Ayato get the message. “My love I—”
Your legs ached for you to sit, exhausted and famished. You tried to speak, but all came out was disgruntled sobs that seemed to pour endlessly.
As your legs shake, Ayato holds you up, easily stopping you from pushing him away. By the time you started crying, the other two already left, just to let you both deal with it as a married couple.
He held you there, head close to his chest, not bothering with the wet substance on his chest being your tears mixed with snot.
As you slowly calmed down, in the end Ayato was brushing through your hair with his fingers, massaging your scalp at times to tire you out. “I'm sorry, darling. I truly mean it. I know, it's best not to use work as an excuse. Considering I always do. Best I could do is apologies, apologizing to you with words and not gifts. My love instead of heartless promises. I love you, with all my heart [ name ], I'd die for you.”
At the last sentence, you hit his back softly, trying to stifle a giggle at his corny antics. “Either way, through the moon and back. You will forever be my star.” He spoke, kissing atop of your head.
��I love you too, Ayato. You just, have to promise to let me know how long you will be leaving next time, 'kay? Send me letters too.” Your voice muffled as you talk into his chest, warmth spreading through his body at your breath. “Promise, my star.”
Tumblr media Tumblr media
151 notes · View notes
diodellet · 1 year
Text
keep the dress on (simeon x gn!reader)
i saw @devilllain's art of simeon in a maid dress and got possessed. (GIVE EM LOTS OF LOVE FOR THEIR ART GO OVER TO THEIR BLOG NOW RIGHT NOW!!) fucc man, i just love...men in fem clothing... the range,,, the POWER iT JUS BRINGS ME TO MY KNEES 😩😩 content warnings under the cut: nothing? it's just pwp ++crossdressing, dominant reader+giving oral sex, flustered simeon, mild jealousy and possessiveness from the reader, implied jealousy from the sinblings, praise kink, mild maid and master kink word count: 2.2k words minors do not interact
Tumblr media
"Holy shit." Your gaze first settles on the sleeves of his dress. Seeing him in sleeves—puffy ones at that—was something that made you pause, where were his bare shoulders—You take in the way the longer ends were folded up to his elbows. He seems to have foregone his usual choice of gloves, settling for a shorter pair that leaves half of his palms uncovered. The front of his dress is neatly pressed, pristinely buttoned up, ending in a long skirt that reached below his knees. Not a single crease or wrinkle can be found, save for the frilly ruffles that adorn the edges of his sleeves and the dress' collar. The dress is complemented with a white apron layered atop it, you bet that the straps are tied into a simple bow at his back. Lastly, for his footwear, he only wore a pair of black shoes with square heels.
Your eyes tear up to see—oh, he was also wearing mismatching legwear, a thigh-high stocking and a knee-length sock held in place with a garter strap. You want to feel a hand up his legs—Simeon's serene smile falling at your words. "Language!" he scolds you. The tone he uses is enough to snap you out of your stupor.
"I'm sorry! It just slipped out!" you protest. Your fingers tug at the collar of your shirt, suddenly feeling heat creep upwards along the sides of your neck.
He never really admonished your predilection for crass language, but seeing as how you were in the presence of Luke and Solomon, you swallow back the reflexive curse that threatened to accompany your apology. Instead, your other hand fidgets with the hem of your shirt. Itching for a way to dispel the jitters that settled into your veins.
"Simeon! I'm not a kid anymore!" Luke huffs.
You spare a furtive glance to Solomon and Simeon, the former giving you an empathetic look while the latter's frown deepened. Sure, Luke might've been hundreds of years old, but Simeon would've had your head if you acted anything less like a decent adult in front of the younger angel.
"No, it-it's really my fault." The heat spreads to the tips of your ears, more out of shame than embarrassment. "I shouldn't have said that bad word, sorry, I'm sorry—What's with the getup, by the way?" You make a feeble attempt to divert the conversation.
An attempt which Solomon gladly extends an olive branch towards. "He's going to be helping the student council with a costume café this afternoon, didn't they tell you about it?"
"I don't think so?" Your head tilts to the side in confusion. You would've heard about it by now, knowing how much Asmo or Levi freely talked about their daily life on social media.
"I bet Lucifer cursed his brothers from talking about it." Luke says, crossing his arms over his chest. The gesture does little to emphasize his anger, on a normal day you would have poked fun at his expression. But there's a grain of plausibility to his words that strikes up a flare of jealousy inside you.
"Hm, maybe." Solomon shrugs, before giving you a knowing look. "But I don't think that's the only reason he'd do so."
A strangled noise erupts from your throat, which you try to play off as a cough. "Don't-don't ask me, I only found out today!" You hold your hands out in front of you defensively. Your cheeks were burning. This entire situation was unfair. You were going to get back at Lucifer. And your other pacts for not telling you about this.
To you gratitude (and simultaneous dismay), Simeon cuts in to say, "Well, you're still free to drop by later. My shift isn't until two, and it'll end a quarter to three."
And with that, the Purgatory Hall residents walk away. The sound of Simeon's heels clicking against the pavement grows fainter and fainter. You are left alone with that maddening polite smile and your less-than-savory thoguhts.
Taking out your D.D.D., you send a message to Solomon and march off in the direction they went towards. And they didn't even bother to tell you where it was being held, the nerve!
[...]
The first thing you do is back him up against the wall of the supply closet, pulling him into a feverish-open mouthed kiss. The surprised moan that tears itself from his throat sends you spiraling further down your need. Your hand hikes up to cup the back of his neck, you drink in every hitched breath, every plaintive whine.
Which he earnestly reciprocates, kissing you back with just as much fervor. One of his hands searches for yours and interlaces your fingers together.
That one hour of waiting was torture. Watching him move from table table, greeting cafe goers with a bright smile and hearing his pleasant voice call them 'Master.' It was an hour of agony, made worse with being pestered by the the demon brothers to try at least one of everything on the menu, to take pictures of everyone—which of course!—turned into painstaking group photos that were more effort to coordinate than they were worth taking.
But that was in the past. You can afford to let your jealousy dissipate, just a little bit.
Pulling away, you ask, "where'd you get the dress?"
There's a string of saliva connecting your lips to his, and you catch the way his throat bobs as he gathers his words. "Leviathan lent it to me... th-the shoes are from Asmo..." You feel him tense up as your other hand slips under his skirt, feeling up the side of his thigh.
You let out a low whistle. Silk. That meant everything else—the gloves and stockings—was his. "I bet they had fun dressing you up, didn't they? Probably spent the whole day trying on dozens of outfits, huh?"
"...there were a few, yes. I thought you...would like this best..." That meant someone from your pacts let this—that you were into this kind of thing—slip.
You have a few guesses as to who that could have been. "Mm, you thought right—will you hold your skirt up?"
He obeys, gathering the layers of fabric and hiking them up. Dropping to your knees you press your palms against his thighs, feeling them tremble. They're not shaking from exertion, the type of heels he was wearing guaranteed more comfort than wearing stilettos. Even if he was on his feet for almost an hour, you are sure that you're the reason he was shaking with anticipation.
You hear him call your name. Flicking your gaze up to meet his, your fingertips are hooked into the waistband of his underwear, a few scant centimeters away from freeing his cock. "Levi said he—" The edge of your nail grazes against the sensitive skin, eliciting another shiver. "—h-he wanted this returned...intact..."
You roll your eyes, leave the unrealistic expectations to the third-born. "Okay," you reply.
A bunch of the skirt falls against your face, Simeon's hand finds your shoulder. "I'm serious—" he warns.
You don't let him finish that threat, you were the one in control right now. Knocking his hand away, you yank his underwear down and lick up his shaft. "What'd I say about the skirt, angel?" It's a small gesture, but you have him so wrapped around your finger that his hips reflexively cant up to chase the sensation of your tongue.
"Hah—I-I'm serious..." His authoritative tone weakens as your tongue catches a pearl of precum leaking from the tip.
"I know, I know, just keep your legs spread and stand still." His skirt is pulled away from your field of view, granting you the sight of his flustered form. "And no more touching."
His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Growing fluster and mild irritation are warring in his eyes, but in spite of all that going on in his mind, you can feel him growing harder in your palm. Feel his navel rising and falling in trepidation. "Okay, no touching." His fingers flex, bunching up and creasing the skirt's fabric even more.
"What else did I tell you?" You lean closer, trace circles along his inner thigh with your fingers. Letting the puff of your breath ghost along his cock.
"To-to keep my legs apart..." More precum leaks from the tip.
Your finger swipes at his arousal, dampening the pad of the digit. "Mhm, go on..."
"And to—" You pull away right when he jolts at the feeling of your slicked palm gliding up and down his dick. What you would give to hear that needy noise again. "—keep still..."
"Yep, that's right....good." Your voice lowers and you finally, finally take him into your mouth.
The moan that spills from Simeon is downright sinful, you feel his knees about to buckle from the welcome stimulation. His breathing is growing ragged, but he's got his mouth clamped shut to stifle any more accidental noises. Your own arousal is building between your legs, but your focus stays on servicing Simeon with your hands and tongue. You can feel a mix of spit and arousal running down your chin, but you're too far gone to care, too mesmerized at the sight of Simeon falling deeper and deeper into pleasure.
When your jaw starts to ache, your hand curls into a fist to stroke the heated flesh. Making sure to catch the sensitive underside of his dick, to tease the tip with the flat of your palm. Every involuntary shake and twitch, every soft whine from him fills you with a heady mix of arousal. You have to give him credit for listening to you in spite of his growing impatience. "You're doing so well for me, angel."
His voice wavers. "I'm... ngh... getting close..."
Relaxing your throat, you swallow his length. Your palms brace themselves against his inner thighs. The gesture elicits a loud whine from him. His cock hits the back of your throat, and you feel your throat seize up in momentary panic. More drool slips down your chin, spilling onto your shirt. A hand cards through your hair in an attempt to soothe you. You glance up at Simeon and his hand pulls away a moment too late—
Didn't I tell you not to touch me?
You set a punishing pace against him, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard. Your ears are filled with a litany of praises and gratitude, mixed with the sounds of his moans pitching higher and higher as he draws closer to release. Your head is filled with the thump of your heartbeat in your ears, the squelch of your saliva as you fellate him. His hips rut into the heat of your mouth, meeting the bobs of your head. "Hah... Master, I-I'm going to—"
A surprised moan escapes you when you feel his cock twitch before spilling his seed down your throat. Your nails dig crescent marks into the skin of his thighs.
Still, you swallow. You did promise that he would get to return the dress intact.
You pull away from his softening cock to catch your breath. Simeon looks utterly debauched, and you're sure that you look just as mussed up.
A beat of silence passes.
"So...'Master,' huh?" His head turns away to avoid your inquisitive gaze. You can't help the laugh that escapes from you.
Simeon weakly protests, stammering, "it just... slipped out, I guess..."
That didn't sound like an accident. You wonder if he merely put on the maid act in preparation for this event or if there was something deeper—perhaps subconscious?—behind his use of the title.
"I'm gonna ask Levi to let you keep this dress—no, scratch that. I'm telling him you're keeping it." Taking out a handkerchief, you wipe at your mouth, at some of the mess along his thighs and groin. You savor the reflexive twitch from his oversensitive nerves and the way his hold on your wrist tightens for a mere fraction, before helping Simeon stand. When you think that he can keep himself upright, you busy yourself with smoothing out his dress.
"Huh, why?"
He shudders again as you retie the straps of his apron. Your hands splay against his lower back as you consider your next words.
"Because I want you to fuck me while wearing it."
He meets your bluntness with a moment of stunned silence and fragmented words. "O-oh, um...okay—" His response tapers off into a surprised moan as your fingers press an appreciative squeeze into his waist.
From your position, you're lower than him, bending down to help fix the underlayers of his skirt. So far it seems passable, but he probably has to double-check in front of a mirror, make sure that there's no trace of your illicit activities before his second shift. At least, on his person.
Straightening up, you guide him to look at you with the tips of your fingers resting on his chin. Your touch is gentle, but your tone of voice leaves no room for argument. "Once Lucifer's stupid fundraiser café thing ends, you better come to my room wearing this. Got that, angel?"
You hear him audibly swallow. "Yes." But he still holds your gaze.
"Yes, what?"
The words are uttered in a low voice, you have to strain to hear them. "Yes, Master." His cheeks heat up underneath your palm.
"Good." He isn't one of your pacts, but that made his willing subservience all the more precious.
Tumblr media
FOR ONCE FOR ONCE I CAN FINALLY SLAP DOM!READER ON THIS AS A TAG AAAHHH i'm still weighing if i have the spoons to put together a continuation? if i do, im gonna say right now that it won't be posted any time soon. devilllain's art was just powerful enough to draw out 2k-ish words for this lmao dont be afraid to rb and holler in the tags! any comment, no matter how simple, is enough to make my day💕💕
148 notes · View notes
wyn-n-tonic · 1 year
Text
Your Slow Turning Pain
Pairing: Santiago Garcia x f!reader Word Count: 1.6k+ Warnings: Mental illness talk but never really fully defined. Like... the tiniest pinch of Daddy kink (used by Santiago, not reader). Author's Note: Anon, I love you and I'm over the moon that you came to me with your request and super super super grateful you came back to answer some questions and trust me with these parts of yourself to help me make this. I really hope that it lives up to what your expectations. I'm already thinking of a part two.
Masterlist
Tumblr media
Ghostly.
Unseen, unheard.
Full of so much sadness and hurt but not enough to fuel the strength to actually move or be moved.
There’s a passivity to your presence, your contributions. Say something and the subject changes or it’s repeated louder by another down the line. No pats on the back for the work you’ve put in or how far you’ve come. Sometimes there are quiet nods of understanding; small, whispered conversations away from prying eyes who may see and silently judge. Because, God forbid, you may be contagious.
The only time that does change is on your bad days. The greasy hair; the wrinkled clothes; the less and less make up that adorns your features. It’s enough to be seen, to move. 
The pain weighs so much more than the happiness.
Everybody turns to the flat voice and the tired eyes. Comment on it or ask about it; Why do you only ever focus on the negative? They ask why there is sadness and how, exactly, you can be. Drop their voices low and ask if everything’s okay at home.
“I don’t know, Santiago,” you breathe out, “sometimes I feel like I only matter when I’m falling apart.”
He’s shaking his head, back turned to you as he focuses on dinner for tonight. You trade off on good days and bad days, switching the duties based on energy levels determined by chronic pain and the chemistry of your brains.
Words come out of his mouth, ones that are meant to be comforting; validating; affirming. They fall flat and he knows it. He knows it because you’ve heard it all before. He knows it because he’s said it all, you’ve said it all. That doesn’t take away the hurt of it all in the moment. Because when you’re in it, you don’t see it for what it is—and you never will because you’re always in it.
“I hate that you care so much,” he bites out. “I know that it’s unfair for me to when I go through the same goddamn thing but”—he runs a hand down his heat flushed face as he turns from the stove—“I wish neither of us had to, I wish neither of us had these broken fucking brains.”
Some group therapy bullshit brought you together, a half assed performance that felt more like it was preparing you for a future of addiction than being a place of healing. In fact, the facilitator all but said he expected half the group to end up in Alcohol Anonymous or its counterpart for narcotics—or both. Your therapists had suggested it, which was usually what put new butts in those hard plastic sheets, but there was something about Santi that took you from the moment he sat directly across in that wide circle—always going around and growing but never going forward.
It took a few weeks, getting to know each other through the vague answers of general feelings you gave in response to the questions you were asked over and over until your turn ended and another’s began.
“You know it’s not just your fight right?” He asks, body draped over yours now that he’s closed the distance. 
You never had to be weighted down with all of it to be seen, never had to be full of too much to move him or be moved by him. To Santiago, you never had to be anything but what you were from moment to moment. He weathered it all, he loved it all; he broke for and cared for with confidence that it wasn’t one-sided. 
It took some getting used to, every part of your routine built around self-preservation and self-sufficiency. The first time he called himself daddy, said you could tell him anything and he’d take care of it, your whole brain short-circuited and all he was met with was a twisted face that made him think it was all over before it started.
Turns out, support groups weren’t supporting either of you—you just kept coming for one another.
“Come on,” he continues, the teasing heavy in his voice as he starts to press kiss after kiss into your cheeks; your lips; your neck. “Tell daddy what it really is today, let him make it all better.” Big hands slide up your bare upper arms, rough palms scratching like sandpaper against your skin. Sometimes you wonder how the lotion he so meticulously massages into you every night hasn’t taken away these calluses. Selfishly, you’re glad that it hasn’t.
“It doesn’t fucking matter in the long run, Santi,” you give up against his lips. “I’ll get bored and move on again, it’s not a big deal.”
He tells you it matters because it hurts you, it’s a big deal because it hurts you.
You’ve never exactly been a job hopper, just going with circumstance from one place to the next. But Santi came along like a true devil on your shoulder. Go where it benefits you and leave when it no longer does. He stopped that kind of speaking when you asked if that’s how he felt about you. Now he only encourages you to take care of yourself and he’ll follow where that thinking leads—fill the gap that it leaves.
“Why don’t you move on now, sweetheart? Huh?” He bends his knees between yours to keep eye contact, that big, brown gaze boring right into you. “Your savings is built up, you don’t even have to work ever again if you don’t want to.” 
You don’t, that’s what he keeps saying. Keeps telling you that you’re wearing heart and your mask thin for nothing but your own pride. He says he’ll take care of you, he says it’s okay. He knows what’s holding you back though, he knows the fear you have over becoming reliant on somebody else when you’ve already put away so many reservations as it is.
“Tell daddy what it is, tell daddy what it is,” he says over and over again, your smile widening alongside his with every push of his lips into your skin. “There's something bothering you in that big, beautiful brain of yours. Let’s go. Tell me, tell me. Dinner’s simmering and I wanna get to dessert.” 
God, he’s fucking annoying and you love him so much.
You got close so quickly, dinner after group turned into meeting together instead of group. Turns out the suggestion to join at all came from a worry of loneliness for the both of us. For him, he came home from bootlicking bullshit—as he calls it—a lot later than his friends; they’d already been on their healing journeys and they’d done so together. Santiago feared his bullshit would pull them back and so he sought out support elsewhere to leave their progress in tact. 
For you, just having moved and trying to start all over, you had no support. Your therapist thought that would be the place to build it. She was right on some level. Moved in together not long after dating started.
It all just seemed to click.
“I don’t know, Tiago, baby, I-I”—your head shakes as you try to find the words—“remember how you said once that you feel like you’re a guest star in Benny’s and Will's and Frankie’s lives?”
He nods, lip bitten. “Is that how you feel?”
You tell him it’s more like being an extra than a guest star, just there for eight or twelve hours beneath the too bright lights trying to school your face to fit the tone of the scene. “Except… my face doesn’t cooperate because of the panic attacks or the nightmares having kept me up the night before and I know you try to fuck the bad moods out of me, baby, I love you, but you also know—“
“That's not how it works,” he finishes for you.
Finger tips trail across the top of your forehead, curving around your temple and down your cheek. “Let's make a plan, okay? Let’s take a sick day tomorrow, you and me, and we’ll stay in bed or I’ll drive you wherever you want to go, buy you all the sugary bullshit you want.”
“And if I want you to leave me alone?”
Laughter bubbles up out of him and fills you in a way that starts to push the other feelings out. “Then I’ll leave you alone, beautiful.”
To make his point, he moves away from you, pushes off the counter and away from you. The fact that he’s not wearing a shirt makes it worse as your fingers slip against his smooth upper arms in an attempt to grab him and pull him back.
Santiago Garcia has never made you feel unseen or unheard, taking the perfect care to understand the intricacies of how the things in your head work; how they learn and adapt and move the goal lines of your healing journey like some kind of mutated virus.
Truthfully, wholly and in every way he can, he sees the moments and strives to meet the points of connection you’re reaching for. 
For a long time, you never let anybody see it. You never let anybody see any of it. That’s where all these feelings come from, this emptiness of a drained body. Because you spend hours covering it all up with make up and clothes and caffeine like a bad relationship except your abuser is yourself now—not the one who put the thoughts there in the first place.
It is exhausting to be two people, the one you are; the one you pretend to be. With Santiago, you only ever have to be the one.
Here. Now. Everyday and always before that.
You let him and he knew that was as good as you telling him you loved him.
108 notes · View notes
slptkns · 1 year
Text
Consequences
[Chapter One]
[Prologue] (<- Read that one first!)
[This is going to be a multi chapter fic! With several endings, one for each Papa!]
Chapter Summary: You finally get to meet the men you brought back from the dead, but things aren't quite as they seem.
Word Count: 2,000+
Warnings: Brief descriptions of symptoms of anxiety
A/N: I've never written more than one Papa in one scene at once, so this has been an Experience. I also do currently have a tag list, BUT I'm only tagging people who are 18+! THIS IS AN 18+ BLOG. WHILE THIS ISN'T NSFW CURRENTLY, IT EVENTUALLY WILL BE.
Tumblr media
You woke up gasping for air. Your mind was racing and your entire body was covered in a cold sweat. You sat straight up, gulping and heaving, your hands going to your chest. You gripped your shirt tightly and tried to calm yourself.
You looked around you as your eyes focused and realized you were in some room. One you were not familiar with at all. You looked down at your hand and uncurled your fingers from your palm. Noticing a bandage there made you realize the ritual had actually happened.
“Oh fuck.”
Your feet hit the floor and you were ready to take off running. Becoming light headed as you stood, you immediately fell to the floor. You caught yourself before your head could hit the floor. A loud groan ripped from your throat and you heard the door open.
“Mia cara-” It was Copia. “Where did you go?” Panic filled his voice.
“Right here.” You crawled out from beside the bed and waved at Copia.
“What are you doing?” His eyes widened and he gasped.
“Oh, y’know, just chilling.” Your temple hit the floor and you forced a smile at Copia, hoping he would just leave you to suffer alone.
Copia sighed and walked over to you, his hand extending out towards you. You flipped over to your back and momentarily thought about just ignoring his hand. But the look in his eyes made you feel bad so you grabbed it. Copia pulled you up and steadied you.
A sickness settled in your stomach and the lightheaded feeling returned. You swayed slightly and Copia’s grip tightened. He gave you a concerned look and you tried to keep from getting sick all over the floor.
“Are you alright?” Copia sounded genuinely worried for you.
“I-” You wanted to tell him you didn’t know, but you didn’t want him to worry even more, “I’m fine. This happens after, uh, draining experiences.”
Copia nodded, "I see… Well, how about some lunch?"
Lunch? How long were you out? "I'm not really hungry-" You started, trying to avoid leaving the room.
"Do not give me that, tesoro," Copia scolded you, "your stomach is growling."
You pursed your lips. He was right and you couldn't really fight back, not that you wanted to. He was too nice to you for you to start arguing with him. So, all you could do was nod in agreement. In defeat.
As you began to walk from the room you realized you were in the same clothes from the night before. They were wrinkled and dirty and you were going to have to deal with it. Copia's arm was wrapped around your shoulder and you supported yourself by wrapping your arm around his waist.
The two of you made your way towards what you could only assume was the dining hall and you could feel a pit forming in your stomach. You could feel your chest tightening and breathing becoming hard. In your line of work, nervousness was usual. The horrible anxiety you had felt in that moment though? Not as normal.
Something was telling you to run away. To run fast and never look back. Something also told you that you couldn't outrun whatever it was that was making you feel so sick.
When you reached the dining hall, all eyes were immediately on you. There was a sudden tension in the air that was very much palpable and the fight or flight was kicking in hard. You looked at everyone and struggled for air, eyes hopping from each person.
You did realize you did not see the other papas, though. You weren't sure if that was a bad thing or not. You couldn't tell just yet.
You noticed a woman walking towards you and you tensed. Sister Imperator. You stopped yourself from frowning and nudged Copia. He made a face before quickly straightening himself, and you, up.
"Sister!" Copia greeted her with enthusiasm.
"I'm not here for you Copia. I'm here for the Craigslist Witch."
"The what?" Your face contorted and anger began to bubble up.
Copia frowned and his grip tightened to try and reassure you. Sister waited for Copia to move. She shooed him away and you gulped. Copia looked at you and whispered, "You will be okay."
You nodded. You had to be okay. You just survived the worst job you had been asked to do, and you had done it for free. You had to be okay. You were going to make yourself okay, whether it was true or not.
Copia released you and you were able to steady yourself. You didn't feel as weak anymore. Copia gave you one last look and was off towards his ghouls.
"Get yourself some food. Don't need your stomach growling the whole time we're meeting."
Sister Imperator followed you towards the food and when you grabbed your plate, she began to lead you out of the dining hall. You nibbled on the fruit as you followed her and took in surroundings once more. Now that you were sure you were stuck where you were, you wanted to take in the beauty of the place.
Wide eyes wandered as you mindlessly ate. Sister was awfully quiet the entire time. You chalked it down to her not wanting anyone to listen to anything she had to say or wanted to hear.
"Here we are."
The both of you stood in front of large double doors. You whispered a 'whoa' and reached out to touch the beautiful architecture. Before you could touch it, it swung open. Almost smacking you and Sister.
"Did you do that?" She questioned you.
You were stunned. "I- I don't think so?"
She narrowed her eyes and walked into the room, you followed behind like a lost puppy. You looked down at your cream cheese-less bagel and pouted.
"Why are you frowning, mia cara?"
"I forgot cream cheese…" You replied without looking up, and without registering that it was in fact not Sister who had just spoken to you. Suddenly, your eyes widened and shot up from your plate. Your stomach flipped when you saw Terzo, Secondo, and Primo standing in the room.
You didn't need to be in close proximity to them to realize… Something was off. They all appeared as normal as those that were once dead could appear, but…
"It worked?"
"Oh, you're shocked?" Sister Imperator asked you, making you nod. "You didn't know-"
"I've never even been able to revive animals, let alone three grown ass men all at once! I'm just as shocked as you are right now."
Sister looked just as stunned as you had been and tried to assess the situation at hand. "Copia really did find you on Craigslist didn't he?"
You gasped, "No!" You were ready to stomp, "I mean… maybe the supernatural equivalent of it… But that doesn't matter." You scrunched your nose at her. "What matters is the fact that I just resurrected three dead men and-" your voice dropped "-will probably face some sort of consequence because of it…"
"Huh?" Sister couldn't quite catch what you said. But someone else did.
"What kind of consequence?" Secondo's brows furrowed.
"Well- uh- Mr. Papa?"
"Just Papa is fine…"
"Okay, well, Papa, there are rules and laws of nature. And y'know, things that die are supposed to, um, stay dead. And… you were all dead. And now you're here, alive once more. Because of me." You began to ramble.
"Please, get to the point." Sister looked concerned and intrigued.
"Simply put, I, along with you three, may be, or become, fucked up."
“‘Fucked up’ how?” Terzo asked, more curious than concerned.
You let out a nervous laugh, “Oh… I don’t know.” You gave them all a forced smile, “I never got to learn what this spell does… I, um, didn’t listen that day.” Your laugh grew slightly louder, and marginally more afraid, “I thought I’d never have to use this spell”
Sister closed in on you and whispered in your ear, “Can you undo it?”
“What the fuck?” and “No!” rang through the room. The Papas were unhappy with what she had asked. Sister’s grip tightened on your arm and you gulped down air. She was stunned they had heard her. They were on the other side of the room and her voice was low.
You quickly realized one of the ways they weren’t normal any longer. Sister was staring down at you with intense eyes. You looked over towards the Papas, who all looked like they were going to pounce if you so mentioned a yes to Sister.
“No,” Your eyes cut to the floor, before looking back at her, “I can’t.” You could almost feel Primo, Secondo, and Terzo relax. “What has been cannot be undone, I did learn that very early on. Especially with stuff like Necromancy.”
Sister Imperator sighed and let go of your arm. She began to walk away. “I’m going to go grab some things, please… Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do while I’m gone.”
“Oh!” You turned and watched as she walked off, “Can you grab me some cream cheese before you come back? I can’t eat a dry bagel.”
No answer. You shrugged it off and turned back around. Primo, Secondo, and Terzo stood there. Right in front of you. You let out a short scream and almost threw your breakfast in the air.
“Do you have a name, amore mio?” Primo questioned you.
“They didn’t tell you?” An uneasy feeling settled in your chest, the tightness returning. When all three of them shook their heads, you responded, “It’s (Y/N). The Craigslist Witch also works, seeing as that’s all I seem to be.” You rolled your eyes at Sister Imperator’s earlier comment.
“No, no, (Y/N) is just fine.” Terzo commented. “How did…” He collected his thoughts, “How did Copia find you?”
Your mouth formed an ‘o’ and it was our turn to collect your thoughts. “Well, I had an ad on a website! I’ve sorta been looking for work, or an apprenticeship sort of deal. But when I saw Copia had messaged me, I couldn’t ignore it. We met up several times before he snuck me into the Abbey to, uh, do this job. Or, well, he didn’t pay me-”
“He didn’t pay you?” Secondo furrowed his brows.
“No, I asked for nothing in return! Seeing as how things have played out, I probably should have asked for… Something. But, I’m kinda new to all this independent stuff? I’m actually supposed to be supervised...” You whispered to them as if someone of importance could have been listening. “I’m not supposed to be completely on my own yet. But, since I just used really, not good magic there is no chance I’ll be able to get an actual job now.”
“‘Really, not good magic’?” Primo cocked his head.
“Yeah, I resurrected you three. Not going to lie, I’ve tried to do things of that nature before, but it never worked and no one figured it out so I was pretty safe.”
“Why did you help Copia?” Secondo asked this time.
‘He gave me a cute look so I couldn’t say no’ wouldn’t seem to suffice. You thought for a minute, “I’m trying to grow stronger-”
“You expect us to believe you did this for personal gain? When you didn’t even ask for money, and when you don’t even know what this is going to do to you?” Terzo hopped in.
“Fine!” You threw one of your hands up, “He asked nicely! I couldn’t tell him no, he was so kind and hurt… And I thought maybe I could help in some way. I didn’t think it’d work though, I honestly thought it’d be a dud and I’d leave and never see anyone here again. He’d move on, and I’d move on!”
But that isn’t how it worked. That isn’t how anything worked. You were feeling weird, standing in front of the three men who used to be dead, and they were all looking back at you… You looked at Terzo, really looked at him. Your eyes met his and everything in you tensed. You didn’t have too much to go off of, but you knew that look in his eyes was not a usual one.
You peered over at Secondo and Primo, and they seemed to have that same darkness behind their eyes as well.
“Where’s Sister?” You peered over your shoulder, “I don’t think she’s bringing me that cream cheese…”
________________
Taglist; @jossambird @sirianisrock @memento-mora @nanami-kento-simp
131 notes · View notes
zmediaoutlet · 9 months
Text
fic: all we want is more
Been working on this Sam/Deanna fic and figured I'd post the first half. I'm a sex scene and denouement away from finishing but -- hey, it's wincest wednesday and let's get some writing out there.
title: all we want is more pairing: Sam/always-a-girl Deanna rating: explicit length: 16k (chapter 1; full fic will likely be ~35k)
summary: Sam and Deanna have never been good at boundaries.
(read on AO3)
When Sam slams his way back in, muscling through the cheap Kwikset that sits sloppy in the hollow-core and then making sure the screen door bangs satisfyingly behind him, it's a disappointment to find the house empty. He heels the door closed, turns the slack lock. It smells musty inside, the way it always does—this is a particularly skanky rental—but the nose-wrinkling shock after he gets back from school is worse than usual. Dad's gone, of course, but the bathroom's also all shadow and the bedroom's dark and, when he drops his backpack by their pile of clothes and clicks the light on, it's… okay, yeah. He deflates a little. He'd been pissed off all day, even through third period English where he was working on his project with Noelle Cooper, who was in the running for nicest girls he'd ever met, and he'd been short with Mr. Trainor in AP Stats even though he actually loved stats, and he'd gritted his teeth through a crappy lunch and ignored his group in World History, all because he was marshalling his arguments and drawing down battle lines. If this school had a forensics club he'd be the star. All that righteous anger that'd foamed its way up to a thundercloud kind of dissipates, standing in an empty house with nowhere for it to go, and he's just left in the slow turn of the ceiling fan, the bare bulb shining too bright, and as he looks around the bedroom all the piss and vinegar just kinda tastes like the shit it is, because… okay, maybe—maybe—he's not completely in the right, here, and maybe his sister had a point. He chews his lip. He hates it when Deanna's right.
The argument was stupid. They always are. Dad's been gone for three weeks of a planned four, and Deanna actually got a job this time, which wasn't the usual but had become more common as Dad started leaving them alone for longer and longer stretches. At twenty she'd developed an impressive resume of an eleventh grade education, three waitressing gigs, a stint at a garage that ended quickly when she'd had to feed the manager his balls for what he'd said into her ear on her second shift, and as many cash-under-the-table quicky jobs as she could get with a winning smile and her wits. Sam got to hear most of the details because the defense of needing to do homework wasn't enough to stop Dee talking his ear off while she vented a day working some crap job and bitching that she wasn't out doing some real work with Dad—and Sam gets, he isn't actually an idiot, that she's worried about Dad and that she's guilty for staying behind and that she doesn't know what to do with herself when both those things are true. He reads books, he watches movies; he gets more than Deanna thinks. Doesn't stop it from being incredibly annoying when she spills all that bitching over onto him, and then because bitching doesn't do anything she starts nagging, like she's not just his sister but his mom—she's working, can't he clean up after himself; she's cooking, can't he do the dishes; she's the only one earning money around here, can't he help?
The bedroom's really—a disaster. They've each got their twin mattresses, shoved against the walls on either side of the room, and it's not like Deanna's side is pristine but Sam's is… he's not sure he noticed it was getting that bad. When was the last time they did laundry? In the kitchen he looks to see if there's still Kool-Aid in the pitcher, and there is, but all the cups are dirty, jumbled in with the mugs in the sink, and—when Dad's here they take turns, regimented, no matter if Deanna's got work or if Sam's got homework—even Dad takes his turn, and Sam can say a lot about his dad but shirking duty's not one Sam can really lay on him—or at least, not this kind of duty, and thinking about it that way's got a weird curdling kind of acid lacing its way through Sam's gut, because—he's mad, but. He's not an asshole. He's—almost certain he's not an asshole. Right?
Four o'clock on a Friday. He has homework. He has all those arguments he put together. Most of them boiling down, if he plays them back, to how life isn't fair. He hugs the cold pitcher against his stomach, looking at the full sink. When he goes to put it back there's a takeout box on the top shelf he didn't notice that says, scrawled in dark pen that bites into the styrofoam, EAT ME. New since that morning. He cracks the lid and finds: club sandwich, pale steak fries, wilty greyish broccoli. The kind of thing Dee would never order. He takes a deep breath and closes the fridge. Okay. Okay.
The rental is from some old lady. Sam didn't meet her but watched Dad talk to her through the windshield while whatever deal got done. Lemon-faced broad, is what Deanna called her, leaning in confidence over the back of the bench seat while Sam tried to pretend he was reading, but the house she was letting them rent for cash was more-or-less furnished, a couch and a TV and plates and a weird carpeted cover on the toilet lid, and in the closet by the kitchen there's stuff people could use to clean. Not that it's been used, much. Sam's never had a lot of opportunity in his life to practice this stuff—the only good thing about motels is that someone else is paid to clean them—but, hey. He reads, he's watched movies. Mrs. Doubtfire had that whole vacuuming scene. It can't be that hard.
*
By nine o'clock Sam's exhausted. The kitchen alone took an hour. The vacuum bag burst, and that's when Sam learned that vacuums took bags, and that's also when Sam learned how to replace one, and got completely covered in a silty fine dust that he thinks might still be in his lungs when he's fifty. He took a break to eat the sandwich and fries and broccoli, all cold and needing salt but if this house has one thing, it's salt, and he was ravenous like he usually only is after a long afternoon of training with Dad clapping his hands, making them go faster and faster. Bathroom was freaking gross, and the trashcan stunk bad from what he realized only too late was tampons in little mummy-wraps of TP, and then he kind of gagged but—blood's blood, right, and it's not like he hasn't seen his share. Tired or not, though—that was the whole point, wasn't it, so: the bedroom, smelling like weeks of undone laundry, and he opens the window on the back wall and—gets to work.
The second good thing about this house: it's only two narrow streets inside the cramped neighborhood, so it's a five-minute walk to the laundromat out on the main road, in the middle of the strip mall between a nail salon and a donut shop. 24-hours with an attendant who barely looks up when Sam comes in dragging two army duffles full of everything he could stuff into the bags, and a machine that spits out quarters in exchange for the crumpled bills in his pocket, and no one else in here, because it's a Friday night, and who's sad enough to be doing the laundry on a Friday night?
He takes over the folding tables in the middle of the silent machines and gets to work. This he has done, because Deanna's given him the rundown: separate whites from colors, jeans & jackets from soft stuff that might get torn, check pockets for money & tissues & bullets. He starts the sheets first, glad at least that Deanna's not doing this—he doesn't need any commentary about crusty cotton, thanks very much—and then it's unzipping both bags, making three horrible piles. Blood on the sleeve of Deanna's blue canvas jacket. Sam's favorite jeans with mud ground into the knees from the fight he got into at school, the other day, which he still hasn’t told Dee about, because he hates the expression she gets when someone's commented on the hot chick who picks him up after school sometimes and wants to know how much she charges. Not the first time, anyway; probably not the last.
He finishes with his own duffle and turns to Deanna's, upending it completely. T-shirts, camisoles, underwear of all kinds. Bras, that he untangles and attaches the hook & eyes, like she showed him, so they won't catch on everything else. Rolled up jeans, and the wad of flannel shirts he'd scooped up from the dirty pile and shoved in, and then, rolling out of a plastic bag like the one Sam uses for his dirty shorts, a plastic clamshell-style box, and when he picks it up he takes a second, tired and staring, before he realizes what he's looking at, and then he drops it with a huge clatter onto the linoleum, loud enough to be heard over the rattling washer, making the attendant glance up over her book, uninterested. "Sorry," Sam says, and she returns to the paperback, and Sam stares at the thing by his feet. Lurid pink against the speckled yellow-grey floor. Absolutely zero way to mistake it for anything but—what it is.
The bell on the door jingles—some lady, backing in with a huge basket in her arms—and Sam stoops quickly and picks up the box and throws it into Dee's duffle. His face is so hot his cheeks are prickling. He wipes his hand over his mouth—is briefly revolted, because he—he touched it, and now he's touching—but the new customer's noticed him, and she smiles briefly in that way people do when they're in the same space and never plan to speak, and he's got to be normal, because this is—normal. He's doing laundry. He shoves loads two and three into their washers and drags the bags off the table so the new lady can do her own sorting, and he decamps to the chairs on the far side of the room from the attendant booth, more or less hidden, where he can see the TV in the corner playing a silent version of The Mask, and he points his face at the TV and watches Jim Carrey make goofy faces and he's being very very calm and casual because he's just a person, doing his laundry, and he's watching a movie that's pretty funny, and he's not thinking about his sister's dildo, tucked into the bag between his feet. At all. Just watch him.
*
Past midnight, when he's walking home. Slight cool breeze that feels good. He keeps flushing, on and off. Over the waiting for the wash cycle and then switching everything over to the dryers and then the hour plus of waiting for that he'd gone through various stages. Gross-out obviously first. But—he did know that Deanna went out with guys, and he'd seen her with guys even, although never—never all the way. But when that dude who'd run the desk at the last motel had had her backed up against the counter with his hand on her ass and his mouth tucked up close under her ear when Sam came in to get a soda from the machine—when Deanna had seen Sam walk in and grabbed the guy's shoulders, warning, and then when a beat passed and she relaxed and was squirming and laughing lightly and saying, hey, Sammy, get me a Crush, would you? I'll get back to the room in a minute—it's not like Sam didn't know what was going on. He reads. He's seen movies. He's seen those kind of movies, too. He's lived with his sister his entire life and he had sex ed at like five different schools now. He jerks off. He does get it. He just didn't expect—it was always kind of—academic. Theory versus practice. But now—
The Impala's parked in front of the house when he turns the corner to their street. Shit. He fumbles for his keys in the porch-light but it turns out not to matter: the door flings open, and Deanna says, "Oh my god, Sammy!"
Sam hefts the bag he'd dropped over his shoulder. "It's Sam," he says, as calmly as he can, and walks in through the clean living room back toward their bedroom with every no-big-deal bone in his body.
It smells better in here, at least. He dumps the bags onto the clean and empty carpet between the mattresses and slings the sack with their sheets on top. Eruption of Fresh Breeze as he drags out the wad of cotton, still warm. Two top sheets, two pillowcases, two of the thin filler blankets they stole from motels a five years and who knows how many miles ago, and he's splitting them between the two halves of the room when there's an ostentatious throat-clearing behind him, and he bites his lip hard, and turns around with the blankets still in his arms, and Deanna's leaning in the doorway, giving him a look like he's some alien species she's never seen before.
"So," she says.
Sam shrugs. "So?"
She raises her eyebrows, looking exaggeratedly around the bedroom. He hasn't seen her since this morning, since he slammed the door the first time, and she looks—like she always does, pretty much. Messy ponytail, a lot of eyeliner, purple plaid shirt tied up under her boobs because she says it gets better tips at the bar, and if anyone would know it's her. She's holding a beer, dangling lazy against her thigh, and she taps a nail against the glass one-two-three times before she meets Sam's eyes again, squinting a little. "Did you get replaced by a pod-person?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "No."
"Shapeshifter? Some kind of, I don't know, djinn wish freak where the dishes get done but I'm gonna get all my blood sucked out before Monday?"
Sam drops her green blanket on her bed, flush crawling from his throat to his ears. "No."
"Okay, cool," Deanna says, and then when Sam looks up at her she's smiling, crooked, in that way where she's kind of sweet and kind of sorry and kind of making fun of him, all at once. That smile where she's just—his sister, annoying and comforting in equal measure. "You ate, right?" He nods, thinking: eat me. Deanna's smile angles, making a dimple peek into one cheek, and she tips her head. "Bet you could eat again, huh?"
Sam's stomach twinges. Dee and Dad say he's going through a growth spurt; the only way he notices is that he's starving, half the time. "I guess," he says, shrugging.
Deanna rolls her eyes but she's not mad. "He guesses," she says, and comes forward, and grabs Sam's wrist while he's trying to shake out a pillowcase, warm, tugging. "C'mon, short stuff. Walt sent me home with the manager meal. Might as well make sure it goes to a good cause."
In short order he's pushed down at the kitchen table, another styrofoam box in front of him. Burger, more fries. He takes the burger—he is hungry—but swivels the box her way, and she sits across from him, eating fries one at a time, the corners of her mouth tipped soft. Easier than he's seen her since Dad left. The burger's cold but it's not the first time he's had a cold burger; he wolfs it down, avoiding her eyes, and she finishes her beer and then gets up and brings back two, uncapped, pushing the other right in front of him.
He wipes the back of his mouth with his wrist. "Dee," he says, careful.
"You earned it," she says, and holds out her bottle, neck first. Not like he gets to drink with them much but he knows this part—he clinks the necks together, clumsy, and drinks at the same time as her. Bitter and kind of gross as always, but she smiles at him again when she lowers her bottle. "Hell. Who even knew the carpet was that color?"
The argument's completely dissolved. Maybe she won; Sam doesn't care at this point. "I'm not sure old lady Franken remembers it's this color," he says, and Deanna sniggers, and takes another sip of her beer, and then leans over the table and tucks her hand into his hair and kisses him on the forehead, so abrupt that Sam just freezes and lets it happen, even if he's been too old for her to do that kind of thing since—well, since—forever. The amulet he gave her swings forward between them, gleaming.
Dee tugs his hair, just slightly, at the nape of his neck. "Thanks, Sammy," she says, quiet, and it's the apology they won't say out loud, soft between them. She touches his jaw, quick, and straightens up, and says, "Bar was extra greasy today, somehow. I'm taking a shower. Don't drink the rest of the beer without me, huh?"
"As if," Sam says, and she ruffles his hair back—this time he does duck out of the way, scoffing—and then she disappears into the bathroom, and he's left with the last few bites of burger and this warm feeling all through him, from his belly all the way up to the flush in his cheeks, because—Deanna's annoying, frustrating, too demanding and too invasive and too much, all the time, but—ever since he can remember, this is how it's been. When she's happy, and when she's proud of him, and there's this answer in his chest. Like it's a Michigan winter and he's freezing to death, but then he gets into the Impala and the heater's on full and he holds his hands up to the vents and there's that prickling, tingling thaw that means—home safe.
He makes the beds, as much as possible. Cases on each of their pillows, thin blankets smoothed somewhat into place. They're lucky it's April, and luckier that they're in Louisville and not Bismarck; mostly it's Sam who's lucky, because he doesn't exactly mind camping in the cold but Deanna bitches absolutely nonstop, out loud if they're alone and under her breath if Dad's nearby or, somehow, Sam's convinced, using some kind of psychic brain powers when Dad's right there with them so that even if she's not saying anything out loud Sam can hear every single thought she's having about cold toes or fingers or freezing my frickin' tits off. How would that even work, Sam has said, and she's just huddled closer to the fire and flat-out pouted. It's sort of cute. In a deeply annoying way.
He's unpacking their duffle bags when the shower turns off. He thought she'd be slower. The tile in here's even kinda white now! comes echoing through the mostly-closed door and around the corner into the bedroom, and she sounds genuinely delighted. Sam bites his lip, setting his stack of jeans next to the pile of his folded shirts. He's worked his way around to her side of the room and is making more stacks—her jeans and cut-off shorts, her jackets, the more complicated pile of her tops—when she leans into the bedroom, and he looks up to find her—towel wrapped around under her armpits, legs bare and gleaming, wet hair clipped behind her head, amulet cord shiny-black around her neck. "Dude, you aren't careful, I'm gonna get used to this," she says, crooked smile firmly in place. "It's gonna turn into the adventures of rockin' Deanna Winchester and her butler baby bro."
"Fat chance," Sam says, which does come out a little thin when he's laying out her clean bras on the freshly vacuumed carpet. She raises her eyebrows, looking between the clothes piles and his face, grin getting bigger, and Sam shrugs. "It stunk in here, okay? I do have a nose that works."
"Well, we know who the culprit was there," she says, and disappears for a second—back, before he's finished pairing her boot-socks—and hands him his discarded beer from the kitchen, and crouches down next to him, smiling soft at the clean clothes. "So, full-service Sammy—" ignoring Sam's scoff— "Are there any clean pjs in here, or do I gotta sleep in my altogether?"
"Ew," Sam says, firmly, and Deanna wrinkles her nose at him, making fun. He hands the beer back, ignoring in his turn how she promptly steals a swallow, and unzips her bag further. Not like she's got a fancy matched set like people in movies; she mostly sleeps in Sam's old D.A.R.E. shirt he got in middle school that would've fit a linebacker better than an eleven year-old, and a pair of Dad's old boxer briefs, which Sam finds honestly weird but Dee claims they're the softest things ever and, well, Sam has now folded them, and they're… pretty soft. But still. They're past the pile of her folded underwear, which he hands out to her, and under the—oh. Right.
He doesn't look up when he pulls out the plastic bag with the dildo. "Here," he says, holding the clothes over to his left where she's crouched. She doesn't move and he waggles them. "C'mon. I don't need to see any more naked sister than I have already."
To his credit, he manages to sound like he mostly has his crap together. Dee pulls the pjs out of his hand, slowly. He wraps the plastic bag more securely around the clamshell box and tucks it into a space between her boots and her jeans, and with that her duffle's pretty much empty, other than the little zip-bag with her tampons and pads and condoms. Like Dad taught them, he rolls the duffle up into a tight burrito that can get tucked neatly in with everything else, and with that he's done. House is clean.
"Okay," Deanna mutters. "Awkward."
Sam's mostly been able to ignore how hot his cheeks feel. He shrugs, standing up, and Deanna stays hunched there on the ground, her arms folded over her chest holding onto her pajamas and holding the towel in place, grimacing. "Not like it's nothing I haven't seen," Sam says.
Deanna frowns at him. "You're fifteen."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Sixteen," he says. "In, like. Three weeks. Come on, I know what a dildo is. Didn't you call that last werewolf one? He got super mad, too."
Furious, actually, enough to charge like an idiot out of cover at the pretty girl mocking him, bait dancing out in the open, which meant that Dad, waiting with Sam behind the cover of the trees, could shoot him in the heart. The blood spatter hit Dee's face and she spat it out right onto the corpse, and called him something else Sam couldn't hear.
"That was pretty funny," Deanna says, now. Her ears are pink. "Still. Didn't mean for you to, um. You know."
"Maybe now you won't ask me to do laundry," Sam says, and makes his tone all sweet and hopeful like a little kid.
Deanna makes a really strange face, hesitating, and Sam can't hold onto it before he starts sniggering. She stands up, finally, rolling her eyes. "Dork," she says. Blushing, still, which is pretty rare for his sister, but at least she's not freaking out. "Fine. Grown-up Sammy, knows all about dildos. Guess that means I don't need to give you the advanced sex talk, huh?"
"Can't be any worse than the last one you gave me," Sam says, which on second thought might be the last time he was this embarrassed, and she snorts, her eyes drifting down, away. Still pink. All scrubbed clean like this she looks different—no eyeliner, her skin shining soft. Freckles all over her cheekbones and nose and her curved-in shoulders. A loop of hair's curling at her neck and Sam reaches out, tugs it—not hard, but enough that she blinks, looks up at him. "No big deal. Swear."
She looks up into his eyes. Her lower lip sucks in and drags out slow through her teeth, shining wet. Something warm curls in Sam's gut and swoops high up into his chest and then plummets straight down. He catches his breath. "No biggie," Deanna says, while Sam's still trying to reorient himself, and she gives him a one-sided smile. She turns back toward the bathroom, says over her shoulder, "Hey, I think they're playing Evil Dead on the movie channel tonight. You make the popcorn and I'll braid your hair."
"Ha," Sam says, watching her bare leg disappear around the corner, and he holds his knuckles to his cheek, feels how hot it is. The bag sits on the floor, inert. He stares at it, thinking—stuff he shouldn't be thinking—and then reaches up and yanks the chain so the bare bulb winks out. He's left in the dark, the fan turning slowly overhead.
*
They sleep in on Saturdays. Meaning, mostly, Deanna sleeps in on Saturdays, because as far as Sam can tell, given the opportunity, she goes into a coma. In the quiet of the house Sam does most of his homework. Sophomores at this school do geometry for some reason and it's kiddie stuff but it means he can blast through the assigned problems for Monday and Tuesday and the extra credit, too, before he gets through his first cup of coffee; world history is going over the creation and spread of Christianity, and he has to fill out a worksheet on important dates and leaders in the Roman Empire at the turn from BC to AD; in health they're studying the reproductive system, and again this is stuff he pretty much already knows, but it's at least kinda interesting to see how the egg cell is about the size of the period at the end of the sentence. He's put his fingernail there, comparing, when Deanna wanders out of the bedroom, yawning. 10:30, according to Sam's watch. Not even close to her record.
"Hey, short stuff," she says, blurry. Makes a happy noise when she finds the coffee made. Sam's filling out another worksheet—the bilateral conduits between ovary and uterus are called fallopian tubes, he writes carefully—when she wraps an arm loosely around his neck, a kiss mushed against his hair. A boob squishes against his shoulder. "Hm. Nerd o'clock?"
Sam goes tch, barely paying attention. He's nearly done with this page, and then it's just the chapters they've got to read for English.
"Ooh, sexy," Dee says. She taps her nail on the cross-section of the female body in the textbook, on the breast diagram with its layers of nipple and fat and milk ducts neatly labeled. "No shame, but c'mon, porn at the table? Rude, Sammy."
"Dude," Sam says, lifting his head, and she snickers and lets him go, slumping into the chair across the table. Her bun's all messed up from sleep, crust still at the corners of her eyes. Holding the weird chipped mug that says KENSUCKY in both hands under her chin, apparently trying to inhale caffeine through the steam. Kinda gross but all soft and relaxed. Not a bad way to start a Saturday. "You got a shift today?"
She groans, takes a slurpy sip from the mug. Wrinkles her nose. "Blah," she says, sticking out her tongue. Sam rolls his eyes. If she refuses to put milk in that's her own problem. "Four to close, same as yesterday." Sam checks his watch again and she raises her eyebrows. "That work for your schedule, boss?"
"I have to meet Noelle at the library at two."
Deanna actually focuses, finally. "Noelle?"
"From English," Sam says. At the continued blank look he sighs. "She's my partner for the Shakespeare project. I told you about that."
"Oh, right," Deanna says, dragging it out. Her mouth curves, in that way that broadcasts to space that Sam's about to be made fun of. "No-elle."
Sam waves his hand. "Okay, get it out."
"No, no," Deanna says, grinning. "I think it's great that the two of you are so focused on your education." Like a dirty word. She slurps at her coffee again, annoyingly loud while making big eyes at Sam over the rim, and splutter-snorts at whatever expression Sam makes. "Relax, dweebus. I'll give you a ride over there. Walt's been on my ass about being late, though, so if the hot Shakespearean action keeps going past like 3:30 you gotta find your own way home."
"Thank you, Deanna," Sam says, perfectly polite, and she mouths it back at him purely to be annoying.
Quiet then, though. She drinks her coffee; he fills out his worksheet. She eats a bowl of cereal and watches whatever's coming through on the rabbit-ears—Seinfeld rerun, sounds like—and Sam reads another fifty pages of The Age of Innocence, and he's bored to death but they're going to have essay questions on it next week, so. She gets up to wash dishes—not such an imposition now that it's just two mugs and two cereal bowls—and touches Sam's shoulder as she goes, just—checking in, basically, clearly not even thinking about it on her way to the sink, but it's a soft little warm thing that goes through Sam's t-shirt and through his skin down into his chest, because Dee just—she really has been pissed off, this last week, and he didn't realize until last night how much she doesn't touch him, when she's mad. He didn't know how much he missed it.
Dee goes out to mess around with the Impala, doing… whatever it is she does when she's got time to kill and an engine under her hands, and Sam ends up finishing the book for English. The writing isn't his favorite but he got caught up in the plot. It's… depressing, to say the least. All these people, doing what they're expected to, and all of them worse off for it.
He vents this to Deanna, sitting on the toilet while she's doing her make-up for work. Newland's a coward and Ellen got cold feet and May's boring and why didn't any of them just—do what they wanted?
Deanna finishes her eyeliner, leaning back to look at the effect. "But didn't New-guy knock up May?" She catches his eye in the mirror; he shrugs, already seeing the point she's going to make but still annoyed at the fictional idiots. "I don't know. I mean, it sucks, but—you gotta do what you gotta do. It was like medieval times or whatever, right, so it's not like anyone was being smart about babies."
"It wasn't medieval times," Sam says, and Deanna shrugs, in her turn. She ties up her hair, like she usually does on civilian days: ponytail, bangs falling around her face that she tucks behind her ears. He watches her swipe on a layer of lip gloss, feeling mulish. "Seriously. All he had to do was—go talk to Ellen, sack up."
That gets him raised eyebrows in the mirror. Like Dee isn't gross or cussing or whatever, all the time. She smacks her lips, makes an O of them, staring down her reflection. "Sounds to me like he sacked up, but it was for the kid, not some random broad," she says, but like she's barely paying attention. "You wouldn't like him any better if he were some deadbeat dad."
She goes all heavy-lidded at herself, makes kissy-face. Model-pretty, his sister. Smart, too—sometimes, Sam thinks. Rarely. Another look, backwards in the mirror, lips parted and her face set like she's in one of those Calvin Klein perfume ads, sexy for no reason. "Good?" she says, breathy.
She's wearing the thin dark green henley unbuttoned as far as it'll go, her amulet resting in the split and the inside curves of her black bra showing on either side of it, and those jeans that sit so low on her hips that there's two inches of creamy-white stomach peeking out, her silver ring heavy on her thumb and those little silver studs in her ears and her face just—her face. All she ever needs. "If you're into that kind of thing," Sam says, dismissive.
All the model-sexy collapses and she snorts, grinning. "You're such a sweetheart," she says, and swivels away from the mirror, smacking her hands against her hips. "So—are we going, or what?"
"Or what," Sam says, outraged, sitting up straight. "I was waiting for you—"
Deanna drops him right in front of the library, a minute to two. "Phone charged?" she says. Sam sighs, gathering his backpack. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going to the Checker, and then I'm gonna swing by the discount mart for some groceries—you want anything? It's gotta sit in the car."
"Just no more peanut butter," Sam says. Pleads, more like. He's eaten his weight Peter Pan this past month.
"Starving kids in Ethiopia or wherever would kill for that peanut butter, you know," Deanna says, but she just swats his hip. "Go on. Miss Noelle ain't gonna wait forever."
Sam sighs, again, but Dee's checking the wing mirror to pull out, not paying attention, and so he piles out onto the sidewalk, swinging his backpack over his shoulder, engaging with the normal world. "Make sure she's really into it before you try for second base, tiger," Deanna says, leaning over the bench seat, and Sam says, "Oh my god, leave already," and slams the door, and Dee grins wide at him with her tongue between her teeth before the engine throttles up and the car leaps away, too fast through the sedate Saturday afternoon parking lot, making too much noise, just too—everything. He watches it go, face hot, and then closes his eyes and tips his chin up, feeling the springy breeze and remembering that—okay, there are people in the world who are not his family, who are totally normal, and one of them is—oh, waving, through the glass doors of the library, and Sam packs everything that is weird and Winchester down and away and waves back, trotting along the sidewalk and up the steps to meet Noelle, who smiles at him broad and then shy, and Sam can do this. Sam's good at this.
*
When she comes to pick Noelle up, Mrs. Cooper offers to give Sam a ride home, too. She has a blue minivan, with a little boy strapped into a carseat on the middle bench, giving Sam a sticky and curious look while Noelle stows her bag. "No, thank you, ma'am," Sam says. Actually-polite, not the voice he used on Dee earlier. "My mom's on her way."
"All right, sugar," Mrs. Cooper says, and Noelle waves from the passenger seat as they move sedately out into the neighborhood. Mrs. Cooper has a faded bumper sticker that says her child is an Honors Student at Jefferson County Middle. Sam tries to imagine the Impala with something like that and snorts out loud, then feels bad for it, even if no one's around to hear, or even know what he's thinking. Mrs. Cooper seems nice. Noelle's nice. It's all just—nice.
He gets to the basically-a-dive where Deanna works at half-past six. Marv's, says the flickery neon sign, though Sam has no idea who Marv is, and it's the kind of place that has windows but they're made of block glass, impossible to see through, and the door has iron security bars over the front. Not somewhere the Coopers visit, probably.
About half-full, when Sam comes through the door. In about a quarter second he takes in: jukebox playing Styx, yuck; cigarette smoke in the air; a couple guys playing darts, laughing loud, already kind of drunk, hopefully won't be a problem. Deanna's behind the bar, leaning on her elbows, talking to two guys, smiling like she's really interested, but she catches Sam's eye for a split second and tips her head toward the back. He goes where he's pointed: the tiny two-seater booth right by the kitchen doors, where he's already spent hours doing homework even if Dee's only had the job three weeks. Marv's is a pit but it's better than being home alone. Sometimes.
He's deep in his fresh-from-the-library copy of Helter Skelter when there's a tickly-shivery drag of fingers at the back of his neck, rucking his hair up, and he jumps. "Great situational awareness, kiddo," Deanna says, while he shudders, and sets a Coke in front of him. She drops down into the other side of the booth, raising her eyebrows. "You and books. Seriously, I think a ghoul could've snacked on your innards just now."
"If a ghoul's in the bar then we've got bigger problems," Sam says, and she huffs. She looks back out over the bar, eyes going from table to table. Like there's actually a ghoul, and not just people drinking the daylight away. "You still working until midnight?"
"Unless a handsome prince comes and steals me away," she says. Her eyes slide sidelong to him. "You got a chariot out there you haven't told me about?"
"Not yet," Sam says.
She smiles at him, and then the door opens again—another two guys, biker-looking, who probably will appreciate flirty service from a pretty girl, and who hopefully will tip well, since that's the whole point of this stupid gig. Deanna bites the tip of her tongue and takes a deep breath, and stands up. "I'll get Carlos to make you something—what, sandwich, burger?"
"Chicken strips?" Sam says, and she nods and says, "Don't disappear into the book, Poindexter," and then she's behind the bar again, smiling warm and wide at the two new guys, and in a gap between songs on the jukebox Sam hears her say, "Hey, fellas," sweet as pie, and they smile back at her like it's a compulsion, because that's what Dee does to guys. It's only Sam, he's pretty sure, who knows the difference between the smile these guys are getting and the one he just got. It's a subtle difference, but—it's different.
He has his dinner, and tucked into the back here he does get to watch the bar, between sections of his book. Deanna's good at this, like she's good at practically everything: engines and crossbows and classic rock and figuring out what Dad wants before he even says it, and sometimes before he thinks it, as far as Sam can tell. Seems like that last skill extends to here. Saturday night and it gets busier, although no one looks to steal Sam's table. Wendy the waitress comes in for her shift, but Sam can see that it's Dee the guys want to talk to, who they wait for, whose attention they drink up, as much as the beer. Sam goes to doctor the jukebox at one point, slotting in his quarters for the Led Zeppelin songs he's heard least if he can't get anything actually from this decade, and when he turns around Deanna's at one of the four-tops in the middle of the room, the yellow-and-blue beer sign neon shining bright on her hair, and she's leaning on the back of one guy's chair while another one's telling some joke, from their faces—Deanna laughs, on cue, bright over the music—and Sam can see, through the tables, how the guy's hand is curled around the inside of her thigh, his thumb sliding up the inseam of her jeans while she leans in, close, and that weird thing swoops through his gut again. Queasy and hot, in what ratio he can't decide.
It's a long night, torn between bored and tense. Walt appears from the back where he does nothing, as far as Sam can tell, and frowns at Sam, but Deanna catches his attention and asks some question about the POS Sam can't hear and Walt's face melts into soppy butter. It's honestly embarrassing. A minute of that and Deanna has to move off to get refills for the biker guys at the bar, and Walt pats her hip when she goes. Her hip, not her ass. It makes a difference, but how much of one Sam doesn't know.
Kitchen closes at eleven; last call at half past; and by midnight there are just a few guys that have to be ushered out. When Wendy closes and locks the front door Deanna bends over and buries her head in her folded arms on the bartop. Sam closes his book—he's nearly done, just from trying his best not to pay attention to the customers, no matter what Dee said—and brings his cup up to the bar himself. "Thanks, sweetie," Wendy says—she's like thirty, Sam wishes she wouldn't talk to him like he's her kid—and then she says, to Dee, "Thought Ty was gonna try to order off-menu by the end, there. Might've gotten you a big tip." Kinda smirky, the way she says it, though Sam doesn't know why.
Deanna levers upright, unfolding like a push-up, and gives Wendy the same kind of smile she was giving the guys, earlier. "Walt's going to need help with inventory," she says. Her mouth tips, fake-sorry. "I was gonna stay, but my kid brother's here, you know, and Walt said I better get him home safe." Wendy's expression goes kind of still, kind of murderous, but Deanna just lifts a shoulder and then says, "Got your bag, Sammy?" and when he nods she says, sweet, "Have a great night, 'kay?"
Outside it's cool but not cold, butts ashed all over the sidewalk. "Bitch," Deanna mutters, while the neon OPEN sign flickers out over the not-really-a-window. Sam's smart enough not to say anything. Dee takes a deep, deep breath, blows it slow with her chin tipped up at the night sky. Not a lot of stars, in the city. Sam rocks back on his heels, thumbs hooked into his backpack straps. Kinda smells like pee out here. There are worse places to wait.
Finally, Deanna: "Okay," she says, and tips her head toward him. "You ate, right?" He nods. "Okay," she says, again, and shrugs both shoulders, like she's dropping a bag she's not carrying. "Let's roll."
Tapedeck comes on super loud—the Stones, which isn't as bad as it could be—but Deanna cranks it down, letting them drive in relative quiet back out to the dumpy neighborhood with their rental. "Your project go okay?" she says, and it's kind of absent but she's also actually asking, so Sam says, "Yeah, we're doing this like—compare and contrast thing, Romeo and Juliet vs Hamlet," and Deanna gives him this sidelong look across the bench seat and says, "Isn't that the one where those teenagers bang and kill each other?" and Sam opens his mouth, not quite sure how to correct everything wrong with that question, before they pass under a streetlight and he sees that Deanna's got one of those teasing dimples tucked up into her cheek. "Pretty much," Sam says, instead, and Dee laughs, softly. "Hot stuff," she says. At a stoplight with no one else around for apparent miles she tugs the tie out her hair, and it falls in a wavy mass over her shoulder, and she makes this little noise like that's a weight come down, too. Sam sucks the inside of his cheek, watching her, not trying to pretend he isn't. Her wrist, loose and soft on top of the steering wheel. He wants to put her in some other life. Like that's an option.
At home—rather, back at the rental house—she tugs her boots off in the bedroom and then, glancing at Sam, tucks them into the line of her neatly-laid out clothes. She peels her henley over her head and tosses it into the corner—a new dirty clothes pile, but at least it's fresh instead of moldering weeks old—and pulls the D.A.R.E. shirt on, and while Sam's sitting on his mattress, pulling off his sneakers, she undoes her belt and shucks her jeans off, right there, so Sam gets a flash of purple underwear before the shirt falls down around her hips and there's just a mile of white thigh. "I want an entire chocolate cake," she says, peeling off one sock at a time. "Like. Triple layer, fudge frosting, those fancy, you know, rosette things. That and a fork."
"Um," Sam says. She drags her hands through her hair, cracking her neck side to side. "I think there are M&Ms you didn't eat in the kitchen?"
Deanna snorts. "That'll work," she says, and then squints at him, one-eyed. "You going to bed?"
Sam shrugs. She looks tired-but-not, loose and on edge. "You staying up?"
"Well, yeah," she says, like it's obvious. Smile spooling out, somewhere between the smile Sam usually gets and the ones those guys at the bar do. "I got these M&Ms to crush, I hear. If there's no cake."
Late night TV always sucks. They end up on the movie channel, like always, and it's—ugh, that terrible Street Fighter movie, but Dee throws down the controller and grins and says, "Perfect," and darts over to the kitchen quick and returns with: yes, the family-size bag of M&Ms, but also two beers, one of which is for Sam, again. He takes it, feeling weird—since when is he included in the list of grown-ups in the family?—but then Dee plops down into her corner of the couch and tucks her toes under Sam's thigh, and tugs the candy bag closer to her telling Sam that if he wanted some, he should've been smart enough to buy his own, and that feels more normal. He leans his elbow on his side of the couch and Deanna slouches into hers, bare legs gleaming in the TV-light. Van Damme is so bad in this movie. "Bite your tongue," Deanna says, wiggling her cold toes under his thigh, and Sam sighs, and drinks his beer, getting slowly used to the taste, and ignores Dee while she wrangles her bra off under his shirt and drapes it over the couch back, smooth black satin gleaming in the TV-light. He sort of watches the movie but mostly he listens to Deanna's commentary, and how Raul Julia is the best, and if they hit the arcade she bets she could beat his ass with Chun Li, and he's kinda warm and kinda nervous and kinda bored and kinda glad, all at once, but even with all that he does fall asleep at some point before the movie's over, because he wakes up when Dee's pulling the empty bottle out of his hand, careful and quiet. The TV's off. He hears her feet pad away, over the carpet, and then she's back, tucking something—his coat—around his shoulders, like a blanket.
He keeps his eyes closed, keeps his breathing soft. He gets to feel her swipe his bangs back, tucking his hair behind his ear, and then there's her fingers on his jaw, and then—a kiss, very soft, against his cheekbone. Her lips are warm. When he falls back asleep he dreams they're in the car, sleeping together in the backseat—the bench magically big enough to hold both of them end to end and side by side, like it hasn't been since Sam was like eight years old—and he's spooned around her, his arm over her waist and his nose in her hair, and her ass round and soft pressed up against him. His hand goes between her legs and feels that hard ridge of denim inseam, prickling painful against his fingers like it's the edge of a saw, or rose thorns, and it hurts but he keeps dragging his fingers up, light gleaming all over the back of the seat electric blue-and-yellow and making it so that when she turns her head, and stares at him, he can see the exact look on her face, but when he jolts awake in the pre-dawn light, breathing hard and sitting up straight and pushing a hand against his aching dick, he can't remember what the expression was.
*
Deanna wakes up when her phone rings. Sam's lying on his back with his arms folded over his face, breathing in and out very evenly, and gets to hear the whole thing. A muffled fuck and then the fabricky scramble through her discarded jeans, and then the phone flipping open, and then: "Dad?"
Who else would it be, Sam thinks.
His hair's wet and sogging out the pillow but he doesn't want to move. It was a very long and very hot shower and he scrubbed clean until his skin and hair squeaked. That didn't make anything go away but at least he couldn't smell beery cigarette smoke on his skin anymore. Not nothing. He turns his head and past the shadow of his arm Deanna's sitting up on her mattress, bare legs tucked beneath her, shoulders curved up around the phone like a girl from a movie whispering to her crush. The morning's coming through the blinds in clear white, striping her thigh, all the way to where Sam's shirt is rucked over her hip and her underwear's showing, alternate lines of dark and vivid purple. Creamy skin above that.
"Yeah, of course," Deanna says, while Sam's closing his eyes very tight. Weird purple bursts against the inside of the lids. Can't escape, apparently. "You need—?"
She's cut off. Little affirmative sounds while she listens. Sam takes another one of those deep breaths but jerking off in the shower apparently wasn't enough from how everything south of his navel seems to be on high alert. He folds his arms over his ribs instead, thinking tactically—he's got the blanket over his waist but if Dee goes to the bathroom he can change from his pajama shorts to his jeans, and maybe go for a walk or something, or read the Manson book to calm down, or—something—and when he looks again Deanna's shifted around, too, her back to the wall, her knees pulled up, shadows between them. Her lower lip sucked between her teeth. "Yeah," she says, soft. "'Kay. Be safe."
The phone's closed against the angle of her jaw, and she holds it there with her knuckles against her lips for a little while, eyes low, playing with her amulet with the other hand. "So?" Sam says, like he's not having an alternate crisis.
Her eyelashes dip, and then she leans forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Another week." She shrugs, like what can you do, except when has Deanna ever been casual about Dad gone on a solo job for weeks on end. An answering sourness crawls down Sam's throat to his stomach—that what if that's there whenever Dad's gone, but then again it happens when Dad's here, too. At least it takes care of the other problem, and as soon as Sam realizes there's a weird horrible mix of relief and shame that dumps over his head, like a prank bucket of shitty paint.
Luckily Deanna can't see it: she takes a deep breath and leans forward, her knees spreading out in a butterfly, grinning. "Means we still get to pick what to watch at night, huh?"
"You're joking," Sam says. If she wants to pretend to be casual, Sam can too. "I never get to pick."
"Aww," Deanna coos. "Little brother problems. I think they got a column for that in Highlights for Kids, you should write in."
Sam throws his pillow at her and she catches it, sniggering. More real than the grin before. "All right, whatever," she says, and unfolds from the mattress, stretching tall with the pillow held high overhead—Sam cuts his eyes away, in self-defense—and then hops the six inches down to the carpet, sighing. "Day off. Let's get some work done, huh?"
*
Bar's closed on Sunday. Marv's religious. Go figure. "I was gonna do laundry today," Deanna says, making the coffee, and she sends a sidelong conspiratorial glance over her shoulder, and Sam feels himself flush, collarbones to hairline. Luckily she's focused on grounds and filter and fishing her KENSUCKY mug out of the drainer, so he doesn't get ragged on for it. Deanna would be happier if he did the housework stuff more often; he's not sure he can take the intensity of her gratitude. It's just embarrassing, aside from everything else.
He's sent to get the groceries out of the trunk from Dee's trip yesterday: bread, ramen, condensed tomato soup, rice, strawberry jelly, 24-pack of beer, canned green beans. He holds up a can while she's sipping her coffee, raising his eyebrows, and she shrugs. "You said no peanut butter," she says, and, well. Sam did say that. Breakfast is generic-brand Eggos that she pops into the toaster and that get smeared with jelly, and she leans against the couch eating hers while watching the local news, watching with a professional eye for anything officially weird—nothing; as far as Sam can tell nothing interesting has ever happened in Louisville, ever—and Sam watches her. Her knee turns in, her thigh flexing. Toes painted blue. She sucks jelly off her thumb, eyes heavy on the TV, and Sam—oh, goddamn it. He sits up very straight at the table, tries the trick a kid at the last high school taught him: flexing his thighs, hard and quick, trying to redirect bloodflow. Sometimes he wishes he was born a girl. At least then it wouldn't be so obvious.
"Ugh," Dee says. Sam's eyes fly open but she's just shaking her head at the television, going to commercial. "Seriously, they can't get one cattle mutilation?"
"Super lame," Sam says. Kind of breathy. Deanna doesn't seem to notice. She scratches her thigh, absent, and drains the last of her coffee, and sighs. Tongue swipe along her bottom lip. Jeez-us.
"Guess we don't have a choice," she says, and tips her head at Sam. Pursed lips, apologetic. "You know what that means."
"What does it mean?" Sam says, and she wrinkles her nose, and he does get it, finally. "Aw, no—"
"Aw, yes," Deanna says, and ruffles his hair back on her way to the sink. "C'mon, kiddo, I don't like it any more than you do."
"So we could not, right?" Sam tries.
Obviously not: Deanna shakes her head, rinsing her mug. "Meet at the car in ten, soldier," she says, while he bangs his head against the table. "And if you're not in the bathroom in thirty seconds then I've got dibs."
He gets up, goes. Isn't shy about slamming the bathroom door when he does. In the mirror his hair's all screwed up and he's pink in the face and he's scowling. "Shut up," he says, to his reflection, and hustles.
*
Sam doesn't actually mind PT. He likes running, which is super lame after all the years of bitching about it—and there is absolutely zero chance he'll ever admit to Dad that he does—but there's something kind of satisfying about getting to the end of five miles and feeling that blood-rush through every part of his body, thighs humming and lungs working hard and his head clear.
That Deanna hates it is icing on the cake. "Can't the monsters just run to me," she pants, hands on her knees.
"Don't you wanna be the one doing the chasing instead of being chased?" Sam says, stretching his quads.
Deanna gives him a baleful look through her hair. He grins at her and she gives him the finger.
They're out in the woods, since Deanna drove them way out past the edge of the city. Better for the next part, but also good practice. They spend a lot more time sprinting at midnight between tree-trunks and leaping over rabbit-holes than they do on nice smooth high school tracks. Sweat's sticking Sam's shirt to his back but it's a pretty spring day, new leaves all over the trees and wildflowers coming up, white and yellow and pink.
"Ugh," Dee says, while Sam's feeling relatively at peace with the world. She redoes her ponytail, higher and tighter, although the choppy layers around her face don't quite make it. What passes for her PT gear are cut-off denim shorts, a grey camisole with a bloodstain making it unsuitable for the public (though it's not her own blood, which she insists counts for something), and a bright blue sports bra that she cusses at every time she wrestles herself into it. Better than bouncing, she says, and Sam figures he's got to believe it. She tucks her amulet behind the line of the bra and nods, and then says, "Okay," and levels a look at Sam. "Come at me, punk."
"Wait—" Sam says, backing up a step. "I thought we were shooting. Aren't we shooting?"
"Can do that too," Deanna says. She starts to move to the side, gearing up to circle him, and he rotates to face her, hands up. "But your grapple's kinda sloppy. Gotta keep you ship-shape."
Her eyes are tracking the important points—his hands, his feet, how his torso's turned—all the stuff they've used in wrestling, practically as far back as Sam can remember—but he hasn't often been this alarmed, not like now, all the sunny springtime peace of the run draining out to leave him nearly panicked. "This is dumb," he tries, continuing to back up, letting her pace him backwards.
"This is important," Deanna says, patient, like they haven't had the same argument fifty times. "Anyway, it's for me as much as you. You don't want me to be ship-shape, too?"
"Cute," Sam says, and Deanna smiles at him—really smiles, not one of those mocking sugary ones—and he catches his breath and says, "Dee," not knowing how he's gonna get out of it, and then his back hits a tree, his head clonking back against the bark, and she says, "Gotcha," and darts in.
He blocks the first punch, takes the second to the ribs. "Fuck!" he says, shoving, and she dances back, grinning at him, her boots kicking up the leaf-litter and moving easy over the uneven ground.
"Gotta think fast, little brother," she says, and hops in to aim a shot at his face—he ducks, and slaps her side as hard as he can with an open hand—connects, and she lets out this quick little noise, but that left him open for another punch to the chest, her knuckles right on his breastbone, pushing the breath out of him. He slaps at her again, wild, and she leans back and then dives right back in, making him block at shoulder and waist and jaw, dancing quick, light on her feet even in the clunky boots, making him work for it.
They don't swing as hard as they can but they don't pull back much. Dee's faster, Sam's stronger; Dee's better, but Sam's not bad, and they block each other's hits way more than they actually connect. When they started doing this Sam was nine and Dee was thirteen, and it didn't seem fair at all because she was like a foot taller than him, bigger and older and better at everything, but Dad said that was the point: making Sam catch up, grow up, get strong, and giving Deanna the chance to practice with someone who wouldn't really hurt her, especially then.
With all these years of practice they know each other's tells, even if they're also supposed to practice hiding those. Sam lands another slap on her hip and takes a soft-ish punch to the gut as punishment; she lunges for his leg and he catches her arm and uses her momentum to throw her around, stumbling back through the loam, panting. He could've gotten her there and didn't. They both know it—she frowns at him, chest heaving, and comes around to his left, circling, hands held loose and ready. Coming up on the end—if they're not going to really hurt each other, there's usually just the one end—and Sam knows where the trees are in the clearing now, avoids getting boxed in, waiting.
Deanna charges, aiming for his shoulder. He braces—and then, no, her eyes dart down—he swivels on his right leg, reaches for her forearm when she goes to grab his knee—pulls her in, close, and she cusses even as he yanks her around, stumbling, and shoves her chest-first into the nearest trunk, using his weight and height, her arm twisted behind her back between them, his chest and hips and legs crushed up against hers, stilling her, subduing.
"I win," he says, panting.
"Shit." Burst out, bitten. She strains, flexing and pushing back, but he's got thirty pounds on her and once they're grappled there's no way. Her arm twists in his grip but he keeps her still, fingers tight, making sure she gets it. Her head drops against the bark, a long sigh gusting out, her shoulder slumping soft, and that's when Sam feels past the adrenaline rush the warm-soft length of her body, her vanilla shampoo and the sweat at the back of her neck rising in his head, his hips pressed up against her ass, his stolen-from-school gym shorts thin, making him—
He steps back, hot-faced. God, is he—he glances down but not yet—not yet, and he crouches in the dirt, folding his arms over his knees, still breathing hard. Like that's why.
"Telegraphed that feint," Deanna says. She turns against the trunk, leaning her head back. Sweaty, flush high in her cheeks and ears and down her throat, disappearing into the blue bra. She puts her wrist to her forehead, puffing out a deep breath. "You're getting faster." Not even a compliment, just stating facts. Like she always does when they're really working. He sniffs, shrugging, and she leans forward, putting her hands on her knees again, squinting at him. "If it was a dirty fight I woulda got you, though. Left your nuts wide open."
"Thanks for not hitting me in the nuts," Sam says, dry, and she raises her eyebrows, like, try me.
Breeze swirls into the clearing, cool on the back of his neck, his bare arms. Deanna closes her eyes against it, lips parting in pleasure. Sam's gut wobbles but—he's calmed down, mostly, and he can stand up without embarrassing himself. "So," he says. Like it's no big deal. "Can we go home?"
"I got a case of empty cans in the trunk that need to get full of holes," she says. "You won the fight. So what? I'm gonna kick your ass at target practice." He makes a rude sound and she smiles, loose, and then finally opens her eyes and looks right at him—heavy, warm, like—yesterday in the bathroom mirror but real, this time, her lashes dark with sweat and her skin flushed and her chest rising in a deep breath, and he—he—
"C'mon, pipsqueak," she says, tipping her head back to where they parked the car. "I'll even let you choose, handgun or rifle."
"Thanks a lot," he says, as sarcastic as he can, and she grins and pushes away from the tree and brushes past him, fake elbowing like a dick but really just soft-warm, close, and he follows, forced to think the calmest, plainest thoughts he can, focusing on what's around: running water in the creek, and birdsong, and trees casting dappled shadows across the trail, and not at all the way her hips move, nor the freckled soft skin of her shoulders, nor the way he thinks he could fit his hands around her waist, hold her in place, and she'd turn her head and look up at him over her shoulder and she'd say—he can't imagine. In the image her mouth opens and no words exist.
*
They make it back to the rental house in the late afternoon. Shooting—yes, Deanna cored more cans than Sam, about which she crowed like an idiot—but also swinging by the post office box across town Dad had rented before he left, and stopping for gas, and then using one of those do-it-yourself carwashes, where Sam gets roped into helping, although he doesn't know why when Dee's always popping up behind him to re-do whatever sidepanel he's just finished. Not even trying to be bossy; she's just obsessive, even if she keeps making Miyagi wax-off jokes and waggling her eyebrows like she's funny. Sam determinedly doesn't laugh.
Sweaty and sore and yet kind of glad, all told, when they pile through the door. This is the kind of day Sam's never minded: working, with his family, but safe. Deanna groans, pulling her boots off, and says, "Oh my god, I have like a thousand dibs on first shower," and so Sam's left to sit in the bedroom, stripping off his sneakers and socks and sweaty shorts, sitting in his t-shirt and boxers, listening to her sing very very off-key—Long Black Road already sounds weird an octave higher—and then he sits on his mattress with his arms around his knees and feels all the good ache in his thighs and forearms and the sore spot where the rifle kicked back during shooting practice, and then he blinks and sees that what he's looking at is the plastic bag with its clamshell box, tucked next to where she tossed her boots, and this weird heat corkscrews down from his heart to his balls, quick as dropping a coin down a well, and he—licks his lips, swallows. Listens to the water hissing down.
Deanna comes out in her towel, again—amulet still on, like it always is, although her hair's loose, dripping down her back. "Your turn, stinky," she says, and Sam passes her like it's nothing, says, "Hope you left some hot water," and she says, "Can't rush the finer things, Sammy," and Sam strips and climbs into the tub and puts his head directly under the spray, taking that first rush of luke-cold before it goes hot, drowning. Like it helps. It smells like her in here: vanilla shampoo, peachy soap. He scrubs his hair back from his face and breathes wet under the spray and when he reaches down he's already hard, has been, needing—god. To get his head straight.
Not the first time. Not the last, given his track record. From furtive schoolyard magazine-sharing and pilfered late-night cable and the way they watched Basic Instinct and Dee paused it at that exact second and said, oh yeah, that's the stuff, and laughed fizzingly at Sam while he turned red and she pushed him over on their shared bed and mushed his head under the pillow, smothering him in heat and soft and warm girl-smell, pussy behind his eyes—god, yeah, he's got the mental images, enough to get him there. The shower's hot and deafening and his head goes blank except for that, imagining without context, just—soft boobs and the soft white curve of tummy between the navel and the too-low rise of jeans. The pink wet split, and what he imagines it'd be like to sink two fingers in, or to make like the too-tan guys with too-white teeth who get their heads between spread thighs and make the girls make those sounds—except, no, not exaggerated like that, because even if Sam hasn't done it he knows girls don't scream, that way, because he's got his sister and he's heard her, in her bed that's so often less than a yard from his. He's laid awake in the night listening to the wet rhythmic squishing that hardly rocks the other mattress and heard, too, the puffs of breath through her nose, the way he can tell that her bottom lip's bitten between her teeth, the way she makes that little tiny caught whining noise when she's getting close, the way he'll be hard as a tire iron with his arms folded under the pillow, trying his absolute damnedest to pretend he's asleep, and his eyes wide open in the dark of a motel room lit only by the green numbers on the clock radio to see the way the shape of her legs spread under the shiny polyester comforter and then the way her hips lift under the shiny lump of it and then the sound, a tiny grunt through her nose, the slick pumping squish going still, and then—his favorite part—this long sigh, like she's been holding up a weight and finally gets to let it down, her knees splaying wide-out and flat, the barest tiniest shine of light on her lip as she lets it out of her teeth, the heave of her chest where the blanket's rucked down, the way her head turns, toward him—
When he gets out of the shower she's dressed, kind of. Dad's boxers and a freshly-washed grey camisole. Hair loose and drying wavy over her shoulders, although she swipes it all over to one side, leaning over the stove, peering into their battered single pot. "Hungry?" she says, and then immediately snorts and says, "Dumb question."
"Ha," Sam says. The radio's on, the crappy local rock station that has way too many ads, but they play Metallica and AC/DC sometimes and Deanna says that's enough for her. "What are you making?"
"Oh, Sammy," Deanna says—leaning on the counter, smiling at him sidelong. Not hot, like she is for the guys at the bar, but something else. Sam's gut aches. "That'd spoil the surprise."
"Wouldn't want that," Sam says, trying for cool and somehow kind of landing on it, and Deanna winks at him. Winks. He takes a deep breath, and passes behind her to go to the fridge, and gets out two beers, and cracks them both. He hands one to Dee and bumps the cans together before she can object. "Try not to give us food poisoning, huh?"
Deanna lifts her chin, her eyes narrowing. Smiles, slow. "No promises," she says, and when they take a drink at the same time, her eyes stay steady on Sam.
*
"So," Deanna says, drawing it out slow, lips a plush teasing O. Sam raises his eyebrows, like, so what? Dee raises her eyebrows back, making fun of him. "So: Noelle." Sam groans and Deanna grins wide at him, leans forward. "Don't front, little brother. C'mon, spill. You make much ado about her nothing?"
"That doesn't even make sense," Sam says, but it's without much strength, and Deanna sticks her tongue out at him, still grinning.
So it's been a couple of beers, and then another one to make up for the pretty weird dinner—tomato rice soup with green beans stirred in is not something that's going to end up on fancy restaurant menus, put it that way—and they're sprawled on either end of the couch, the TV on the news in case there's anything Dee would have to care about but silent, the radio still playing—the top 40 now, and Sam got to see Deanna bounce around lip syncing to how she didn't want no scrubs, which he groaned and rolled his eyes through but to be honest was actually pretty funny—and his head's kind of swimmy, kind of heavy, his cheeks hot and his fingertips cold, although maybe that's because he's holding his—fourth?—can of Milwaukee's absolute best, pretending like everything's cool. Everything is cool. Four beers in he can't imagine how they'd be otherwise.
"Hellooo," Deanna sings. He blinks at her. "Ground control to Major Sammy? You in there?"
"Yes," Sam says. Dignified. Maybe. "Where else would I be?"
Deanna looks like she thinks something is very funny. Never a good sign. She leans forward, her elbow on the back of the couch, her knees spreading out. "N-O-E-L," she says. "Let me hear it. She cute?"
"She spells it with two Ls," Sam says, which makes Dee wrinkle her nose. "And—I don't know. I guess."
"You guess." She whaps his knee and then grabs his shin, waggling his leg back and forth. "Dude, you are a hot-blooded American male. You can do better than guess. Unless—" She squints at him, assessing. "Are you gay? Or—wait, your junk works, right?"
"Yes!" Sam says, and then, hastily— "No!" Dee snorts, taking a sip of her beer, and while she's mopping foam off her chin he wraps his arms around his knees, annoyed. "You suck."
"When they ask nice," Deanna says, and then pauses, her tongue pressed up against the back of her front teeth. Shining, pink. Sam looks at that and then away, at the TV. Weather this week will stay warm. Rain on Thursday. The weather guy has stupid gelled helmet hair. A soft warm grip on Sam's ankle, low. "Hey, Sammy."
Warm, and a little wet from the beer. It races up the nerves from Sam's ankle to his heart and then back south to his nuts, confusing, worrying. Good. "Noelle's cute," Sam says. He licks his lips. "Smart. She's on the volleyball team."
"Selling girl scout cookies, too, I bet," Deanna says. Her thumb skims up the inside of Sam's ankle, where there's that dip. Kinda ticklish, kinda not. "Didn't ask about her test grades, dweeb. What's she look like?"
Sam shrugs. "Tall? I guess. For a girl. Blondish hair. Skinny, kind of."
"She got good tits?"
When Sam turns his head Dee's really watching him. He chews on his bottom lip. She's still got her arm laid out along the back of the couch, holding her beer loose in long fingers, and her other hand around his ankle, scooched forward so she can reach—cleavage made even when she's not wearing a bra, the amulet he gave her spilling off-angled over the pressed-up white curve. Her eyes dark and kind of hard to see in just the TV-light, with the sun down and them not turning on any other lamps. He shrugs again, and then nods. Yeah, Noelle's boobs are okay.
"Yeah?" Deanna says. The tip of her tongue touches the center of her bottom lip. Shine. "What about her ass?"
"It's okay," Sam says. His voice sounds weird.
"You kiss her?" Deanna says, and then without waiting: "No, huh. But you want to, huh? Maybe after the library. Or before volleyball, with the uniform on, you dog."
Sam's never known why guys who want to have sex are called dogs. Deanna's thumb is working in little circles on the inside of his ankle and the skin there feels like it's on freaking fire. "You kiss Walt?" he says.
Her thumb stops. "Walt?"
Like it's the dumbest thing ever. Sam unfolds enough to take a drink from his can. Warm now, bitter, but it's something to do with his hands. "I think he wants to kiss you."
"Oh, you think," Deanna says, sarcastic. Sam takes another gulp, too quick, and has to stop himself from coughing like a dork. While his eyes water Deanna lets go of his ankle—a cold spot there that he regrets immediately—and leans over to the table, grabbing a can from the box, cracking it fresh. "Walt wants me to blow him under the desk in the manager's office. Good thing we're gonna be out of here before he works up the balls to ask."
She says it like, no big deal. Like, duh. Deanna drains the last of her previous can and drops it into the pile they're making on the carpet, and then leans back with the new beer tucked between her thighs, making a damp condensation spot on the thin grey fabric of the shorts. Sam drains his beer, too, and gets another, too, although he leaves his empty upright at least so it doesn't spill drops on the carpet. It takes some concentration; his balance is a little weird.
"Shit, we made a mess, huh?" Deanna says, while Sam leans doubled over his own knees, setting up all the cans like bowling pins. "Ruining all your hard work."
"Don't want you to get mad at me again," Sam says, which is kinda supposed to be making fun of her but he also kinda means it. All the cans upright and he flops back onto the couch, full beer resting on his stomach. "Plus, like. You've been all—nice. I didn't know vacuuming would get me all these perks." He lifts the beer in a little toast before he takes a sip. One of Deanna's cheeks sucks in before she toasts him back, takes a swallow too. Sam smiles at her, feeling weirdly light in his chest, even if things are just super—weird. "I get anything else if I keep doing all the laundry? Gonna let me drive?"
"In your dreams," Deanna says, immediately.
"What about… let me pick the music?"
"You know the rules, dingus." She lets her right foot drop off the couch, thigh stretching out long, wide. "I'll keep you fed. Consider yourself lucky, punk. But…" Smiling at him, crooked and small. Beer still between her legs. "That really was cool, man. I know I was bitching and all, but. I didn't really expect you to do anything."
Sometimes that's the kind of thing that makes him feel like a baby, getting a pat on the head. This time it's—different. Sam feels heat rising up in the center of his cheeks. "Homework doesn't take that long," he says. "Figured you were right, I could manage the laundry or whatever too."
"Wait, wait," Deanna says, eyes opening wide, "I was right?" Sam rolls his eyes and flicks a drop of beer at her, which she promptly returns with interest, and when he's wiping scattered foam off his cheek, grinning, she says, "Sounds like a deal to me," and then, in a different voice—"Although if you're gonna be in my stuff, guess I ought to find a different hiding spot, huh?"
Half a second to remember what she means and then the heat in his cheeks flames up over his whole body. Lurid pink. Big? Even two days gone he can't quite remember. "No big deal, remember? Where else would you keep it, anyway—glovebox?"
She snorts. "Get pulled over and hand that out to the cop with the license and reg? Yeah, guess not."
"Where'd you even get it?"
"You never heard of a sex store?" Deanna says, tipping her head. "Thought you were all grown-up now. Give me that beer back, Kid Icarus—"
He pulls it back out of her mimed grab and she ends up leaning forward toward him again, his drawn-up feet practically tucked up between her spread legs. That half-circle of damp is still there on the cotton, high up on her thigh. "I meant where. Or like—when, I guess."
"Back in Houston. So—what, four, five months ago?" She shrugs, rests her beer on his knee like it's a cupholder. "You really haven't done laundry in a while, huh."
"So, you…" She raises her eyebrows at him like a dare. He swigs his beer, clears his throat. His fingertips are cold. "I don't know. It's kinda weird. Like, when the girls at school talk sometimes, it's like—they talk like it hurts, or something. Like they just do it because their boyfriends want to."
This from Jackie Martinette and Laura Kennedy, who had a full whispered gossip session on the subject in study hall while Sam tried desperately to pretend like he was on another planet. Bad enough to spring wood at home in bed while Deanna walked around in her underwear after a shower; truly mortifying at school when any second he'd have to get up and walk to second period biology.
"You think girls aren't getting anything out of it?" Sam lifts a shoulder, really not sure. In porn sometimes they shriek. He doesn't associate much good with shrieking. Deanna smiles at him, sort of patronizing but also warm, friendly. Like she's sharing good news. "Sammy, if you know what you're doing it's all kinds of good. When you're hot for it and it's go time?" She makes this low purry sound, deep in her throat, her eyes half-lidded.
Sam swallows. "Go time?" He's amazed his voice doesn't sound weird.
"Girls get horny just like guys, you know," Deanna says. She licks her lips, shining flushed. The TV bursts blue-yellow color over her cheeks, the rise of her chest as she takes a deep breath. "Harder to tell, I guess. But if it's go time a girl should be so wet you just slide right in, you know? Even if you didn't eat her out first. I mean, that's how it works with me."
Sam's so hard he's dizzy. He drains his beer, lets it slide down to the pile on the carpet, hooks his hands around his own ankles, keeping his knees together so she can't see. "What do you think about?" he says. The air's thin, hot. Deanna blinks at him, slow. "When you're—using it. Like—guys, or…?"
"Brad Pitt in Thelma & Louise," Deanna says, and Sam laughs, not expecting to. She grins at him and her face is pink, too. "Yeah, guys. But not even like—specific guys. Just… what feels good, you know? When a guy holds my tits right—not squeezing hard, but just…" She tucks her beer up against her crotch and cups one boob, pushing it up high and full through her camisole, fingers splayed wide, her thumb brushing over her nipple where Sam can see it hard and poking through the cotton. Her other breast curving plush, that nipple also round and tight, and Sam reaches out and copies her, sliding his palm up her ribs and feeling the sudden rise of them and spidering his fingers wide over the soft heaviness, shifting to hold it up high to match, his thumb glancing over the nipple and it's—oh, rigid as a bullet but giving somehow too, tilting under how he sweeps back and forth, swollen hot. Her cleavage looks incredible, the amulet squished between both boobs like she's wearing a push-up bra, the cord disappearing between them. He imagines very suddenly licking there, swiping up with his tongue in the dark shadow like he's imagined licking a girl's pussy, except he'd keep going, lick up into the hollow of her throat, lick up over her chin and push his tongue into her mouth and see what that was like, see how it tasted, and he's thinking that, rolling her nipple over and over under his thumb, when he sees that her lips are parted and she's staring at him, chest heaving, and he's—god, he wants to kiss her. He wants to very badly.
"Like that?" he says, thin. She nods, quick. He holds his ankle very tightly with the other hand. "What—what else? Do you think about."
The tip of her tongue touches the center of her top lip. Sam's balls lurch. Deanna's eyelids dip but don't close, and she says, "A guy fingering me. But not like most guys do it. Stabbing in like they're trying to buttonmash in Street Fighter. There was this dude in Buffalo—he got me off over the top of my jeans, just rubbing right, steady. Got me so wet it soaked through. Thought I was gonna marry him."
The can of beer's right there, on the y-front of the old boxer-briefs. Sam's breathing through his mouth, lips drying. "You fuck him?"
Deanna's ears are dark red. "Yeah," she says. A breath. "In the bar bathroom, over the sink. That's a good one, when I'm using the dildo. I was so wet. Just thinking about it—swear to god, like someone turned on a faucet in my pussy, Sammy."
He pushes forward and she grabs the beer can, holds it right there for some reason, so it doesn't spill when Sam crams his fingers between the lukewarm wet tin and the cotton, curving over—soft too, warm too, hot as he pushes his fingers down, when she spreads her thigh wider and her hips tip forward, crushing his hand between the couch cushion and her pussy and the cotton that, fuck, is wet, sticky, and he pushes his fingers up, where it gives, and—and—
"Sammy," she whispers, and he looks up and he's, oh, squeezing her tit hard, hard enough that when he startles and lets go there's a ghost-white impression of his fingers above the line of fabric that floods red right away, and he takes in a breath to say—nothing, absolutely nothing comes to mind, but it doesn't matter because she grabs his wrist and pushes his fingers right up against her tit again, and then drops the beer over the side of the couch, letting it thunk to the carpet, glugging, and curves her hand over his hand between her legs, pressing it harder against herself, groaning, a sound he's only heard in the dark.
His head's thick, like oxygen's not getting in. Her hips grind in and he presses up hard, with the heel of his hand and his fingertips, and she shudders so maybe it's good. He pulls at the neck of the camisole and it yanks to one side but Dee shakes her head, shifts—Sam yanks his hand away, but she only pushes forward, up on her knees—still holding his fingers up against her pussy—and then reaches down and pulls the camisole off over her head, entirely, so she's bare from the waist up except for her amulet, her tits white and full, her nipples blushy red, the skin around them drawn up tight. He grips one in just the way she showed him and drags his thumb around the bare skin, rolling the nipple without the barrier of cotton, and she makes this tiny little noise high in her throat, like she can't help it, so hot that Sam leans forward and slurps the nipple into his mouth so she'll make it again.
"Fuck," she says, the f drawn out like she didn't mean to. Her hand on his head while he mouths at her boob, licking and then opening his mouth wide and sucking hard, so she hisses and grips his hair tight, and so he learns to roll it under his tongue, suckling, like a popsicle he wants to last. Her thighs clamp around his wrist and then open, and he rubs her whole crotch front to back, not knowing what's best, from the y-front down to where she's sticky and all the way to her ass, squeezing where she's soft there, too, pulling her in except his knees are in the way. He squirms, pretzeled up tight like he is, and Deanna kneels up high so he can unfold and then his legs are between her thighs. She grabs his wrist again and that's fine, he lets her push and get his palm seated on the hard ridge of bone, his fingers squishing around in the wet cotton where she's so soft, riding the seam of the boxers back and forth, finding where—oh shit—yeah, where he can push, a gap, which must really be her pussy, where the dildo goes, where that guy from Buffalo was, where Sam could—
She grips his hair, pulls his mouth away from her tit. He comes off gasping. Flickery light from the TV but it's dark, dark, blood pulled up into the skin from how he was working there. Her hand goes to his jaw, her thumb sliding over his mouth—wet—smelling like… He licks and it tastes like—salt. Salt and something tangy, what's heavy in the air, stronger than the smell of the beer spilling onto the carpet and how he feels drenched in sweat, this—incredible thing, addictive, better than anything. A flex, against his buried fingertips, where she's soaked, and he finally looks up to see her staring at him, at his mouth. Her thumb drags over his lip again and he leans in to her other, paler tit, slurps the nipple in and cups his hand hard over her pussy and wraps his arm around her waist, holding her warm and close, drunk. His head swims but it doesn't matter—she keeps hold of his hair, keeping him up against her chest, and covers his hand on her pussy, pressing in this rhythm that's easy to follow, clutching hard and grinding and rolling her hips into his fingers, her breath fast and hot and puffing over his ear, everything between them getting sweaty, tense, her grip over his hand hurting almost and he'd worry about hurting her except clearly that's not an issue. He drags his teeth over her boob, sucking hard on the squishy softness, his tongue exploring the tight wrinkled rim around the nipple, and squeezes her ass with his free hand, and his wrist hurts so he flexes his forearm, grips the front ridge of bone over her pussy with his thumb, and Deanna jerks against him, curves in, holds his hand hard and still up against herself, and she's totally silent and even her breath is held and he lets go of her tit and looks up and she's staring at him open-mouthed. He rubs his fingertips against her crotch, squeezing through the boxers, and it's only then that she makes a little sound, jerked out of her belly, and she bends down—he blinks, not sure—but she just sinks down to his shoulder, her lips spread wide on the side of his neck, her breath heaving out of her like she just finished a five-mile run.
Her thighs spread over his. Their hands caught together, cupped wet. Sam's nuts hurt he's so hard and he doesn't know what to do. He wants her nipple back in his mouth, wants to put his mouth on her pussy and taste that tangy smell right at the source, wants to crawl behind the couch and jerk off with his fist between his teeth, fast and hard as he possibly can. Wants—
Her hand, on his crotch, through his shorts. He jerks, whole-body, like when Dee was showing him how to replace an outlet a few rental houses ago and they didn't bother with flipping the breaker. His boner's popping stupid-obvious so it's easy for her to grip it with her whole hand and it feels—god!—warm, even through the double-layer of the polyester and his cotton boxers, and firm, squeezing hard at first and then feeling the shape, from the base to the head. "Jeez," she murmurs, and he squeezes his eyes closed, every part of his body feeling shivery, strange, oversensitized. "When'd that happen?"
"What?" he manages. She smells so good he can't stand it—wants to hide, wants to disappear, wants to grip her ass and drag her down and rub off against her like he used to against the mattress, when he was a kid and didn't know how to jerk off right, only she'd be so soft, sweet, wet—
"You got a big dick," Deanna says, soft, her head dipping down, her cheek against Sam's cheek. "Fuck, that's—thick. All grown up, huh?"
He shakes his head, confused, and she laughs very softly but not mean, not like she can laugh, and says, "God—" and pushes his chest, bears him back down against the arm of the couch, and he goes because he doesn't know what else to do and he puts his hand over his mouth—oh oh oh the hand that was on her pussy, his fingers sliding wet, and he sucks them in, bites his own skin, tasting, the smell and tang clutching up his throat and his foggy head. Deanna groans for some reason and pushes up his shirt, her fingers skimming over his belly, on the sparse hair that's started to trail down from his navel, and she—lifts off his legs, her weight and heat disappearing, and he opens his eyes to find the world gone all smeary, dark still but the light from the TV splintering weird and wet across the ceiling, and when he looks down she's on her knees between his knees, her fingers cupping his balls through his shorts, squeezing the shaft, and she bends down like she's going to—her mouth open, like she's going to—and Sam's toes curl and his thighs spasm and he comes, hips jerking up into her grip, creaming up the inside of his shorts, pulsing, shocked.
His heart thuds in his throat. He breathes hard around his fingers, still in his mouth, and drags them out finally, curling wet and pruny against his chin. Deanna lets go, eyes at first pinned there at his crotch and then flicking up at him dark and wide-startled, her lips an O. Sam blinks at her and pulls one of his knees up, in, and somehow that makes her flinch, and she sits up high, back on her heels, arms folding over her chest and hiding her tits, her eyes still big, going all over his face.
Deanna laughs. Again. High and breathy, fake. Still not mean but—"Man, couple beers and we're crazy, huh?" she says, brittle and fast, and Sam digs his heels into the couch and scooches away, as far as he can, his back pressed all the way against the couch arm, his brain feeling like it's sloshing in acid. Deanna smiles at him, wide and with a lot of teeth, and swivels and stands, kicking a beer can, stooping quick to pick up her camisole, tugging it over her head, yanking it back into place. Sam blinks and wet runs down his cheek so he has to scrub the back of his hand over it, smearing. "Guess we really are hard-up," Deanna's saying, while Sam folds back over his own knees, stomach doing a slow horrible somersault. "Gotta work on your game, get that Noelle girl to go for it sometime."
"Dee," Sam says, but it's barely voiced, and Deanna shakes her head and rolls right on, walking off to the kitchen like it's nothing, saying, "Anyway—we screwed up the carpet—better get something for that before the beer soaks in—"
Sam's gonna hurl. He—oh, he really is—and he unfolds off the couch and his legs stagger but he makes it the half-dozen steps to the bathroom, to his knees, stomach lurching, eyes burning. Dinner and beer and everything else. He shudders, clutching the sides of the bowl in the dark. Sits there, miserable, for…
Faint touch to his back. He makes a weird sound, spits. Reaches up and flushes, and sits back on his knees, and his face is sweaty, hot, and Deanna's not in the bathroom with him but there's a cup on the side of the sink with water in it. He swishes the taste out of his mouth, spits again, drains the rest. When he gathers his brain together and stands back up he sways and there's—sticky wet in his shorts, cold and sludgy, and he leans his shoulder into the doorway and sees that Dee's cleaned up the beer cans and there's a towel on the carpet by the couch. He gets more water in the kitchen, drinks it down in cool stomach-filling swallows that make his gut slosh but in a way where he doesn't feel like it's gonna chuck up again, and when he goes to the bedroom—she's on her mattress, lying on her side, blanket tugged up to her shoulder. He stands between the two beds for a second, uncertain, until she turns over, her back to the room. "Go to bed, drunkie," she says, quiet in the dark, and he licks his lips and crawls onto his own mattress on his stomach, folding his arms under his pillow, staring across at her until the dragging sloshing tide in his head pulls him down, undertow sucking at his whole body, drowning.
In the morning her bed is empty. Sam's head hurts like someone took a sledgehammer to it in the middle of the night. His boxers stick crusty against his pubes. He takes a shower, nauseated and aching and wondering if it's possible to be poisoned by five beers. Coffee already made—he drinks a cup and then pours a second, miserable, and then the front door opens and Deanna's standing there, fully dressed and eyes wide and bright, and she says, "Rise and shine, wonderboy," like a chirpy bird, and then, "C'mon, I'll drive you to school," and Sam says, "I feel like crap," and she says, "That’s what happens when you drink with the big dogs, but no excuses, come on," and so he puts on sneakers and gets his backpack and loads himself into the passenger side of the Impala and slumps against the window while she drives, the two of them not talking, the radio on low to morning shock-jock crap. Wondering if this is what it's always going to be. This sick dragging awful, at the base of his skull and in his gut, making the morning into something that has to be endured, like every single day from this one to when he's dead will be—this. The Impala pulls up smooth to the drop-off area, muscling ahead of a champagne-colored sedan, and Sam sighs, and goes to open the door, and Deanna says, "Hang on."
He looks at her straight-on. First time, really, all morning, the humiliation feeling like it's coming off him like radiation, like if they had an EMF meter for it the thing would be shrieking. She looks like she always does. Part of the problem. Deanna's cheek sucks in and she looks in the rear-view, and then she meets his eyes, and her expression is—Sam doesn't know. She looks into his eyes and then at his mouth, and then at his hand on the door for some reason, and then she shakes her head, and touches her own lips, and then grips the steering wheel tight with both hands. "Knock 'em dead, Sammy," she says, looking out at the road.
First period, study hall. He drops his bag under the desk and drops his head onto his folded arms. The bell ringing hurts. Laura Kennedy and Jackie Martinette start whispering behind him, about the date Jackie went on this weekend, and he folds his arms over his head, shuts it out. He feels like he took a beating from a werewolf, but that's not the worst part. For some reason the thing that keeps repeating in his head, and what lasts all day, through English where he ignores Noelle and through AP Stats where he doesn't answer a single question and through the lunch he doesn't eat and through World History, staring through the review slides for final exams coming up in a few weeks, is how Dee laughed. High, and weird, and like she'd done something horribly embarrassing, like there was no way to live it down and so you just had to laugh, because what other choice did you have?
When he gets home the living room smells like stale beer. Deanna's not there. In the fridge, a styrofoam box with spaghetti and meatballs and no note, and he eats it by himself and does his homework and goes to bed alone, and she's not there the next morning, and she's not there the next afternoon when he gets home, either, and it's not until Wednesday morning that he wakes up and she's sitting crosslegged on the mattress across the room from him in the clear morning light and she says, before he's even registered that she's really there and what it means, "Dad's coming home."
He blinks muzzily and sits up and she's looking at him with her fingers knotted in her lap, her lips red and her eyes red, too, and then she gets up and walks out of the room. He watches her go, robbed of any other option.
34 notes · View notes
zbeez-outlet · 2 years
Text
Expressing His Love for You
Levi x Gender Neutral Reader Headcanons
This is in response to an ask that I got a little while ago that was unfortunately lost, but I loved the headcanon concept. I hope the person who sent the ask finds this post, I'm so sorry it got lost! And I hope it fulfills what you asked for!
Concept: How Levi shows you that he loves you because he's a little emotionally dumb and bad with words.
Levi definitely leans heavier on showing his love rather than saying it out loud. His love language, I think, is a mix of acts of service and quality time.
He's not the greatest at communicating his emotions through words, but you've gotten pretty good at reading his micro expressions in your time together.
If you really want to know how he feels about you, it'll be in all the little things.
In the tiny edge of a smile you recognize pulling at his lips when you walk into a room. In the brush of his fingers against your own in a crowd. In the new habits and tendencies he has to weave you into the routines of his life.
He'll make you coffee in the mornings he gets up before you - which is most mornings - just the way you like it even though he despises the stuff. It'll be warm and sitting next to a steaming cup of tea in a matching porcelain cup you know belongs to him.
When you're overworked, in whatever form that takes (as a member of the military or not), he helps you relax with a massage or a foot rub.
One of his favorite things to do is take some of your favorite scented lotion and rub it thoroughly into the aching joints of your hands and wrists - they also happen to be one of his favorite (of many) parts of your body, so he believes they should be well cared for.
At night, he loves when you read to him. Levi will rest his head in your lap and just listen, fighting sleep because he wants to catch every lilt in your words, not caring that much about the book itself. He's adamant about consistency with this nightly ritual, he can't sleep properly unless it's to the sound of your voice.
Levi is hesitant about physical affection, especially in public, but he knows even small gestures are important to you.
When the two of you are alone, he likes to tuck your hair behind your ear or caress his knuckles along the soft curve of your cheek. Pressing his lips to your forehead is calming; they make him feel tall and strong and protective over how precious you have become to him.
In public, he'll sneak a brush of your fingers together or risk a warm palm on your knee under the table, just to feel you, to know you're there.
If you're in the Survey Corps:
He'll practically drag all of your supplies and papers into his office so you can do paperwork together, usually in silence with the occasional disruption of your humming that makes him smile despite himself. There will be candles lit late into the night as you work.
Levi will be extra particular about you're equipment, checking and re-checking everything several times over to diminish chances of malfunction.
He'll train with you himself, stricter and harsher than he is with anyone else but you understand it's because he's just scared. You more than live up to expectations once you fall into a rhythm and work through a few disagreements about what you're actually capable of - talented yes, but you are not an Ackerman, you have limits.
You caught him once lecturing your horse about taking good care of you beyond the walls, but you never told him you knew about it. Just tucked away the memory to make you smile every now and then.
He likes to steam and press your uniform for you, wanting you to hold yourself proud in the crisp and clean clothes. Not a wrinkle in sight.
Despite both of your busy schedules, he always makes sure that the two of you share mealtimes, even if you can't see each other the rest of the day. He gets a little paranoid about your health, so he needs to make sure you're eating well, but he also just enjoys the guaranteed time you can have together every day even if you're overloaded with training and paperwork and new recruits.
If you're not in the Survey Corps:
He's both relieved that you're safe from the horrors of his job and upset by how much time he has to spend away from you. Sometimes it can be weeks before he can leave headquarters to see you.
He's not amazing with words, but he makes sure to respond to every letter you write him - which is often. They tend to come out a bit curt like the reports he writes for Erwin, but always adds a snarky joke or a doodle of Hange's latest exploits. He'd be embarrassed, as he is by no means an artist, but he knows they make you laugh, so the doodles stay.
Every letter you've ever sent him is neatly folded and stored in a tin latched box he keeps under his bed. Your most recent letter can usually be found under his pillow because it makes him feel close to you when he tries to sleep.
He sends you a portion of his paycheck every other week. Levi knows you have the funds to care for yourself, but he never wants to leave you wanting for anything if he can help it, and it's not like he's spending much of it anyway.
You may not know it, and Levi doesn't realize he does it, but he brags about you so much, in his own quiet way. And only to those he's closest to, of course. He's proud of the things you're passionate about and all of the hard work you've put into your career.
Levi has a drawing of you he secretly commissioned Moblit for that he keeps carefully tucked away in his desk, looking at it when he has a moment alone when it's been far too many nights without you. A solemn but loving smile will curl his trembling lip, but it's the only thing to tide him over until he can see the real thing. Somehow, he's always a little surprised by how much he misses you.
When he does get free time to see you, he pampers the hell out of you. Taking care of all the cooking and cleaning and chores despite your pleas for him to take advantage of the time he has off to rest.
He plans for strolls through the markets so he can treat you to small pieces of jewelry or little knickknacks or exquisite foods you rarely treat yourself to, and he holds your hand because in those moments he's not Captain Levi, he's a man in love. Plus he doesn't want you wandering off as you tend to do.
If he worries his actions aren't enough:
Every once in a while, Levi will get a little paranoid.
He's not good with words, he knows that about himself, and he's especially not good about using words to express how he's feeling.
And then he falls into the trap of thinking that the things he does to show you he loves you aren't enough for you to actually know, not when you're far more vocal about it than he is.
His heart races every time he hears the words "I love you" from your lips, but he rarely says it back - scared and a little emotionally constipated as he is.
When he starts panicking that you don't know he loves you, he makes the hilarious decision of going to Hange for advice. Hange, who will tease and cackle and help him plan something over the top and extravagant.
A candlelit dinner under the stars with a violinist and champagne and stark formal clothing. It's too much, it's not you, but he's panicking so he goes through with it anyway.
You'll humor him of course, despite feeling slightly uncomfortable and more than a little overwhelmed - part of you worries this is a proposal you're not sure either of you are ready for.
Levi will stutter through the dinner, uncharacteristically fidgeting in his seat like a restless toddler. A comparison you know he'd have your head for.
Eventually you'll ask him what the occasion is for all of the indulgences, and he'll manage to stammer out a "love you" after a few deep gulps of the champagne. You'll smile and reach for his hand, squeezing it reassuringly in your own, and say a resolute, "I know, I love you too."
It gets his heart racing again because you do know, you do and he panicked over nothing.
He'll send away the violinist because three's a crowd, and you'll take off your too tight formal shoes despite his protests about the dirt.
You'll spend the rest of the night swaying under the stars to the music of your joined heartbeats, hands laced and foreheads pressed together, sharing the occasional sweet little whisper.
All you need to do to know he loves you is look into his eyes, the shining silver reciting poetry of how much he adores you more beautiful than any words could hope to be.
341 notes · View notes
emersonfreepress · 11 months
Note
Hi! I just realized I never said congrats on the update. So: congrats! The customization really knocked it out of the park. Never thought picking out a uniform would be so much fun. As someone who never had to wear one, I was wondering if you could please clarify the "flavors" of uniform New Kid can pick? Pristine/Adequate/Messy feel fairly self-explanatory, though Non-compliant and Trendy have thrown me off. I guess I'm under the impression everyone can only buy from the Official Uniform Store™
Thanks! 🥳 And omg I love calling them flavors... Generally speaking:
Pristine uniforms are not just neat, they are worn in total compliance with the dress code. (...Unless you're breaking gender-based rules like wearing the wrong tie 😆) You basically have the school's full dress code memorized. Vivian/Vincent's uniform is pristine too!
Adequate uniforms are perfectly passable. Nothing good or bad to say about them, one way or another! Jack falls in this category.
Messy uniforms are wrinkled, disheveled, even dirty at times. Kinda just thrown together. Pretty self-explanatory! Rupan/Rohan's uniform is messy!
Non-compliant uniforms are either worn incomplete or in blatant violation of the dress code. Disruptive or distracting accessories, casual clothes under school outerwear, the wrong color pants or undershirt — that sort of thing. Kile, Jessie, and Rain are non-compliant.
Trendy uniforms are often also non-compliant, but in ways that are popular among students at the moment. It changes a bit each season but usually involves trending accessories, designer brands, or slight modifications to how the uniform is worn. Popular characters like Heidi frequently set trends for the uniform. Examples: skirt-hiking, wearing the necktie instead of the cross tie, and the sudden increase in messenger bags after she switched to using one last year!
Aside from base clothing items like the dress shirt or pants, everything certainly does have to be purchased from the school's official catalog. A notable exception to this is Rain because they have access to the school's official fabric supplier and occasionally get bored enough to make themself custom uniform items.
37 notes · View notes
thatguy03 · 1 year
Text
Taste of your own medicine - Male tf
David loved to screw around with his boss. He had gotten a job in construction a couple of years ago, when Wayne had just gotten promoted to foreman. David and Wayne had very similar bodies when david got hired, strong build with very little fat despite Wayne being twice David's age. They both ate well and the job burned the high amount of calories they needed to eat, but ever since Wayne got promoted, he has really started to round out. He sits around a lot more, but still eats the same amount he did when he was a laborer, that and the fact that being in his mid fifties really killed his metabolism makes the beer belly make sense.
David would constantly point out that Wayne's clothes were getting too small, despite him getting three new uniforms since the promotion. He also took every opportunity he had to get a good shake out of Waynes hairy belly. It was all in good spirits but Wayne figured it was about time he got David back. It was too bad that David had maintained his amazing bod, he wasnt going to be easy to crack.
One day when work was done, on his way off site, David approached Wayne. As per usual, he gave Wayne a good slap on the belly, 'See ya tomorrow big boy'. Though as he walked away, he could hear Wayne chuckle under his breath. David found it odd as Wayne usually grumbled some insult back, not laugh. 'Maybe the old man is going nuts' he thought.
David went to bed that night, just like any other night, unaware of what was to come. While asleep, David's body began to change drastically. All the hair on his head receded until he was completely bald, and his patchy facial hair grew into a bushy salt and pepper beard. His eyebrows became thick and bushy, his nose wide and plump, and wrinkles formed all over his face, making him look like a weathered old man. His body grew fatter and saggier as all the years of construction really took a toll on him. His pecs grew into a pair of juicy moobs and his abs rounded out into a solid beer gut that rivaled Wayne's. His arms grew much bigger from all the fat and muscle he gained over the years, along with thick callused man hands from the labor. His back grew rolls of fat as a thick coat of black hair covered his entire torso, even over his shoulders. His waistline burst through his boxers, leaving him completely naked as his lower body transformed to match his upper body. His ass grew fatter and flabbier, pushing him further up on his bed. His dick got half covered in his new fat pad that now occupied his crotch. His legs thickened to carry the new weight his elderly body had grown. His lower body followed suit and grew thick black coat to keep him nice and warm over the winter.
David woke up the next morning to see a large mound under his blanket in front of him. He removed the blanket to see a hairy mountain of a gut attached to his body. Out of shock he screamed out in a deep, cigarette ridden, voice and pulled up the rest of his covers to see the fat and hairy bod that he was sporting. He reached his thick hands to his face and felt that all his hair had migrated from his head to his face. In a moment of clarity, he remembered Wayne laughing the day before, this must have been a sick joke from him.
Tumblr media
David through on a shirt that barely covered half his gut, and shorts that he couldnt even button because if his expanded waistline. He marched onto the work site, exposed belly jiggling with every step, and confronted Wayne.
"Its so much better than I could have imagined" Wayne said laughing his ass off.
"Ha ha, I get it I'm older and fatter than you, you happy?" David sulked.
"Oh very happy", Wayne snarked as he grabbed David's gut and slapped it around. "It feels great to give you a taste of your own medicine"
"Ya well you've had your fun, can you turn me back into me now?"
"Oh you still are you, I'm just giving you a glimpse into your future, about 30 years into the future."
"Wait this is me at your age!?" David yelled.
"Karmas a bitch eh, dont worry you'll be back to mid twenties you by the end of the day, though you might want to get used to this body, it's not as far away as you think."
David went through the day being taunted by Wayne for having back pain and for not being able to reach his feet anymore.
135 notes · View notes
milkyonomatopoeia · 2 years
Text
10th Member Comes Home After a Bad Day
TWICE
Word Count: 6.4k
Genre: Angst, Fluff
A/N: Mentions of bullying and suggests physical harm, so be weary of that. Translations came from Google, so if there are any mistakes, let me know!
It had been such a long day, and everything was bubbling up inside of you, at any moment it felt like you were going to explode and you didn't want to release all your anger to anyone. You were on your way to the dorms after you had finished school and you couldn’t be more relieved.
You were an idol, so dealing with hate comments was already tough enough to deal with, but having bullies you had to face made everything a lot more difficult. You knew your members would be there for you, ready to listen to you in a heartbeat, but you just didn't want to talk to anyone right now.
The girls would notice right away that you weren't in a good mood, your disheveled look and wrinkled clothes made it much more obvious. You were at your dorm's door, stopping right in front of it and holding the knob. You took in a deep breath, turned the knob, and pulled it open.
You saw all of them sitting in the living room, watching a movie on the TV, and none of them had turned to see you. You walked carefully inside of the room, not wanting any of them to realize you were there.
When you were near your room, one of your members finally acknowledged your presence. She turned to you with a smile but it immediately faded when she saw you. "Hi, Y/N! You're home. What's wrong?"
You turn to her as the others look at you with concern. You forced a smile on your lips and shook your head. "Nothing, unnie. I'm just tired. I'll skip dinner tonight and just head to sleep."
Without waiting for their response, you entered your room and unintentionally slammed the door. Your members all flinched at the loud sound as they continued to look at each other with concerned expressions. All the while you had already crashed on the bed, your head buried into your pillow as you cried and screamed.
After talking it out, the members decided that at least one of them should check in on you, to know what had happened that made the usually giddy and happy you into this.
Nayeon
Tumblr media
Nayeon knocked on your door, her hands crossed together on her lap while she waited for your answer. When nothing came from your room, she knocked again. No matter how many times she had to knock, she wouldn't leave until you answered, and you knew this.
"Who is it?" You asked, your hoarse voice muffled by your drenched pillows. She cleared her throat and stepped closer to the door. "It's me, Nayeon. Can I come in, Y/N?"
You sighed heavily, sitting up on your bed and wiping away your tears before you told her to come in. When the door opened, you saw her standing there as she looked at you with concerned eyes. "Yah! Why is my favorite baby upset today huh?"
You forced yourself to smile, shaking your head while you continued to wipe away your salty tears. "It's really nothing, tokki unnie. I just had a rough day, that’s all."
Nayeon made her way to you, sitting beside you on the bed while holding your small hands in her large ones. You look up at her and you see the love she had for you reflecting through her eyes. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it. I just wanted to check in on you. You're normally so happy and giddy when you come home from school, so seeing you this down, something or someone must have really bothered you."
You froze when you heard that from her. "You knew?"
"Of course I knew, Y/N. I take you to school sometimes, remember? I stay around for a while to see if the others there treat you well. Why didn't you tell us?" Nayeon's words were caring, but you couldn't ignore the pain there as well.
"I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. We're used to handling bad stuff being said about us, so I thought I could handle it. I did, at first, but they just got worse. I tried ignoring them but they wouldn't leave me alone." You explained, guilty that it took you this long to open up.
Nayeon's arms wrap around you into a loving embrace and she kisses you on the cheek. "I'm proud of you for being mature. But sometimes, it's okay to ask for help. There are some things you can't do by yourself."
"I know, unnie. I just didn't want to add to all our problems." You yelped when you felt her nudge your side. You look at her and her eyes squint at you in annoyance. "You are not a problem, okay? We're here to help you out, you're our baby. We'll always be here for you."
You smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Nayeon unnie. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Glad to have helped." She flashed her cutest bunny smile as she pinched your cheek. "How about we get some dinner? Anything you want. Our treat."
Your face lit up immediately and you lunged forward to hug her. "You guys are the best! I love you all so much!"
Nayeon giggled as you peppered her in kisses. "You're welcome, kiddo. We love you too."
Jeongyeon
Tumblr media
At the first knock on your door, you quickly opened it, ready to snap at the person who was there. You just wanted to be alone right now, couldn't they understand that?
However, at the sight of the person in front of you right now, your mouth zipped shut and your tears continued to flow endlessly.
"It's that bad, huh?" Jeongyeon commented, handing her handkerchief to you and you used it to wipe away your tears. Nodding your head, you quickly pull her into your room and you shut the door.
Once she was inside, you were about to pull her into a hug but Jeongyeon instinctively wrapped her arms around you, allowing you to cry into her chest. She rubbed your back soothingly and gently swayed with you. "It's okay, Y/N-ah. Just let it out."
In silence, you cried out everything. All your frustrations, your fears, and all the anger you had been bottling up not just today, but in the last few weeks. You and Jeongyeon had moved to the bed, where you sat together as she rubbed your shoulder soothingly. Once you had regained some form of composure, you pulled away from her and took in a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, Jeong unnie. I shouldn't have shut the door like that or ignored the others. I know you guys are just worried. I just— I just feel so tired today." You explain, tears still falling from your eyes.
She patted your back and nudged you playfully. "Hey, it's okay. We all have our bad days. Would you like to talk about it, though?"
"You have to promise me you won't tell Jihyo unnie! You know how she gets when I get upset over the simplest of things." You exclaim, shoving her playfully as you two laughed.
She nodded her head and crossed her heart. "Yes, yes. I promise! But I will tell her if it's something serious."
Satisfied with the standard she had set, you had told her everything that was on your mind that's been bothering you lately. As you continued on to talk, Jeongyeon's expression had turned from curiosity to pure worry to almost anger. You knew that she was already getting outraged from the way her nose scrunched up and the way her eyes squinted as you revealed more details about your problems. At the end of your rant, Jeongyeon took in a deep breath and she stood up. "I'm telling Jihyo."
Before she stormed out of your room, you were able to chase after her and grab hold of her wrist. "Unnie, no!"
Jeongyeon stopped and she looked at you, fire in her eyes. "What, why?! Y/N, I'm not allowing anyone to treat you like that! You do not deserve to be bullied!"
"Jeong unnie, please. Let me handle this. Let me handle my own problems. I know I have trouble with my emotions, but if I let you or Jihyo unnie deal with it, then I'll never grow up. I'll never learn to defend myself." You said quickly, in a bit of a panic, not wanting your problems to be a cause for argument in the dorm. "Please, unnie. I need you to trust me."
Jeongyeon sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose as she took in a deep breath. "Fine. But from now on, I'm taking you to school and fetching you too. If I see a single scrape on your skin or a single wrinkle on your clothes, I will not hesitate. Do you understand?"
You nodded quickly, scared of the woman who was towering over you who was dead serious about everything that came out of her mouth. "Y-Yes, unnie."
"Good. Now you're coming with me to eat dinner. I'm making your favorite. And if you even try to say no, I will spill to Jihyo." Jeongyeon threatened. You only followed her out of the room not wanting to argue about it any further.
Momo
Tumblr media
The moment you opened the door and Momo saw you crying, the expression on her face couldn't be explained. She had never seen you cry at all, she was your partner in crime and in dance along with Mina so she was always used to seeing you happy.
"Momo unnie? What are you doing here?" You asked, the tone of your voice surprising her even more to how hoarse and dry it sounded. She cupped your cheeks to wipe away your tears and she looked into your eyes. "Oh no, no. What happened? Why are you crying? What's wrong?"
Momo hits you with a barrage of questions, not allowing you to answer a single one. Getting a little frustrated, you held her shoulders and shook her. "Unnie, stop!"
Her eyes grew wide to the realization of how she sounded and she shook her head to snap out of her thoughts. "I'm sorry. I'm just not used to seeing you like this. Are you okay?"
"No, no. It's fine. I understand." You said calmly as you sat down on the bed, you patted the space beside you allowing her to sit there. "Honestly, no. I'm not."
"If it's made you this upset, then it must be serious. Mind telling me?" Momo asked as she held your hand. You looked as your fingers interlaced together, taking in a deep breath before looking back at her. "I'm just tired of all the school work. They've all been piling up lately. And I don't know how to deal with them."
Momo raised her eyebrow and you knew you weren't going to get away that easily. You sighed and scratched your nape. "Not believing it, huh?"
"Not even a little bit." Momo retorted. "Look, Y/N, I may be an idiot sometimes, but I know you're smart. Schoolwork is easy for you. Heck, you can even do it in your sleep. You haven't even asked us for help once in the last few years we've been together nor have you complained about it once. You're basically a genius. So what gives? What's been bringing you down?"
"Do I really need to talk about it right now, unnie? I don't feel comfortable." You confessed, rubbing your arm and avoiding her gaze.
"I understand if you don't want to talk about it, it seems really serious if it's making you this upset. But you shouldn't bottle things up like this. It really isn't healthy." She lectured and scooted closer to you, wrapping her arm around you. "But if ever you do want to talk about it, I'm all ears, okay? You can always talk to me."
You were about to thank her when she suddenly got up and spun around, holding her hand out to you. "Or we could just dance it out."
You let out a loud laugh and took her hand as she pulled you in, spinning you gently as she caught you in her arms, where you've always felt safe and protected. You look up at her as she sways you gently.
"Whatever you're up for, I'm in, okay? You're like a little sister to me. And I'd do anything to help you." She said as she planted a kiss on your forehead.
You rested your head on her chest and nodded. "Thank you, Momo unnie. But I think I'd like to stay like this for a while."
"That'd be okay with me too, kid." She whispered into your ear as she continued to sway with you. The room was filled with your giggles as she said lame jokes to cheer you up.
Sana
Tumblr media
You hear footsteps coming to your door, and from the light way her feet moved to your room, you already knew who it was. "You don't need to knock, unnie. I know it's you. You can come in."
The door slowly creaked open and it closed almost immediately. Nothing was said as she slipped into your sheets and she snaked her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace as she buried her face into your neck while placing soft kisses on your cheek.
"Would you like to talk about it?" Sana asked in a hushed tone as you shook your head, not wanting to recall the terrible day you had. "Would you prefer that I leave you alone for now?" You shook your head again, although you weren't up for talking, Sana's hugs would always make you feel better. "Would it be okay if I stay here and cuddle with you so that I can try to cheer you up, Y/N-chan?" You nod almost immediately and you could feel her smile against your skin. "Okay."
As the minutes passed by, you shifted in Sana's arms to face her and you buried yourself into her touch, sobbing loudly as she brushed your hair and whispered words of reassurance into your ear.
Sana was always the first person you cried to, no matter how small the issue, she'd always be the shoulder you cried on. She was used to seeing you like this, but it didn't hurt her any less.
"What's wrong with me, unnie? Why do so many people hate me?" You said in between your sobs, words breaking as you choked in the pain you felt. Sana honestly didn't know what to think, but she knew exactly what to say because she knew you perfectly, almost to a scary extent.
"Nothing is wrong with you, Y/N. If they say bad things about you, it's probably because they're jealous of you. Why would anyone want to hurt such a sweet thing like you? You're such an amazing person and only a fool wouldn't be able to see that. Don't listen to them, okay? We're here for you, ONCE are here for you, and we all love you just the way you are. I love you just the way you are. Seeing you like this hurts me too, but I will always be here for you." Her words were sweet and honest. Sana may be a clingy person on and off camera, but it was her words that would truly captivate anyone. She may be a klutz and a little bit dopey, but her heart was always in the right place.
You cuddled up more into her, closing any gap that was between you, and your heart throbbed against your chest. "Thank you, unnie."
Sana only nodded. She let you cry out all of the things that had burdened your heart, kissing your cheeks here and there in an attempt to cheer you up, and whispering sweet compliments into your ear.
You were starting to feel a bit better, allowing some space in between the both of you. You look at her with a sad smile as she brushes stray hairs away from your face. "Did I help?"
"You always have helped, unnie." You reassured her, kissing her cheek. "You always know how to help."
"I'm happy to hear that. What would you like to do now?" You snuggle back into her as you close your eyes to feel her warm embrace. "I'd love to stay like this, unnie. You make things feel so much better. Stay with me for a while."
"I'd love that too." Sana whispered into your ear, kissing your forehead as she hummed to you.
Jihyo
Tumblr media
If it were anyone else, you would have been angry had they not knocked on your door, but knowing it was Jihyo, you were perfectly fine with it. You had always been the closest to her, and you'd always let her in because you trusted her the most. So as she stood there behind you, while you tried to bury yourself in a textbook, you knew you had no escape in this situation.
"I can hear you sobbing, Y/N." She commented, making you flinch and sigh as you closed your book. Placing it on the table, you turned your swivel chair to her direction as she gave you a sympathetic look.
She stepped closer to you and placed a hand on your shoulder. "What's wrong? You aren't usually like this. What made you so upset today?"
"You know very well I can't lie to you, Jihyo unnie. Why do you put me in this kind of situation?" You joked, earning an honest laugh from her. She playfully smacked your shoulder and pinched your cheek. "Come on. You've always been honest with me. What's stopping you now?"
"Because I know how you'll react, unnie. And I don't want to be a burden. It's just really dumb and it shouldn't be this big of a deal." You said calmly as she sat beside you on a chair. She raised her eyebrow at you and a smirk tugged on her lip. "You are never a burden, Y/N. We're family, of course I'd worry about you. And if it isn't a big deal, you wouldn't be affected like this. You may be young, but you're mature for your age."
You sigh heavily as you ruffle your hair and look at her with apprehension. "I'm being bullied at school."
Her eyes grew wide and anger already erupted in her features. "What?!"
"Wait! No, no, please! Don't go calling the managers or anything yet! Please, I want to handle this on my own." You pull her back down to the seat, trying to calm her down. "Look, I know you're angry. And that you don't want me to face this alone. But I just need you to calm down. I don't want you bursting through the doors of the school and confronting the people who hurt me. I want to confront them on my own. I just— I need you to guide me, unnie."
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. She looked at you with a frown, but that slowly contorted into a smile as she saw the determined look in your eyes. "Fine. I won't go calling the managers or complaining to the school. But I don't want you getting hurt. Just tell me everything."
You started telling Jihyo everything, from the moment when the bullying started, to the most recent incident and all the while, the worry in her eyes never dissipated. You could sense how sad she was while you were recalling all those horrible memories, but you always reassured her that you would be fine, and that you would be able to take care of yourself.
Several minutes passed and you started yawning, you hadn't noticed that you had already been leaning on her shoulder and you felt how tired you truly were after all the crying you had done. When she saw you yawn, she smiled while brushing your hair. "Seems like you're really tired. Would you like to sleep now?"
You nodded your head as she helped you up and walk towards your bed. "Yes, unnie."
"You haven't eaten anything yet, Y/N. I don't want you going to bed hungry." She reminded you as you rubbed your eye. "Just wake me up later. I'm really tired right now."
She just nodded as she tucked you in your bed and pulled the blanket over you. She sang you a lullaby as your heavy eyelids started to close, and before she got up to leave your room, she kissed you on the forehead with a loving smile. While on her way out of your room, you called out to her and she looked at you expectantly.
"Thank you. I love you, unnie." You said sleepily, slowly drifting off into a comfortable sleep. When you said those words, Jihyo's heart fluttered and thumped against her chest. She slowly closed the door to your room as she flicked off the light switch.
Before leaving though, she peeked at you and with a smile on her lips, and she stared at you lovingly. "I love you too, kiddo."
Mina
Tumblr media
Mina had brought snacks along with her, knowing that at least one of your favorite snacks would at least cheer you up a little bit. But when she walked into your room after knocking, she realized how serious this actually was for you. You were sitting by the corner, your head in your knees as you hugged yourself.
She placed the snacks she bought on your bed as she silently made her way to you, sitting right in front of you without you noticing. She tapped your knee, the sudden touch making you jump, but when you recognized who it was, relief washed over you as you leapt forward and encased her in a hug.
Mina almost fell back, but luckily she was able to place her hand on the floor to balance you two while her other hand was on your back.
Your shoulders shuddered up and down as you sobbed into hers, soaking her shirt in the process. But she didn't mind. You were her crying shoulder for most of her journey, now she would be returning the favor.
Somehow, Mina lifted you up from the floor, your legs in one of her arms as she straddled your back with the other. You look up at her with tear-stained cheeks and she looks down at you with a small smile. She gently placed you on the bed, wrapping the blanket around both of you, and she hugged you, making you feel safe and warm.
"U-Unnie?" You asked in a confused tone, your gaze never leaving her beautiful features. You could see a blush creep up on her face while she scratched her arm. "We don't need to talk. We could just eat snacks and joke around if that'll cheer you up. But if you want to talk, I'll hear you out. And maybe even give you advice, if you want."
You smiled and nodded your head, she handed you some of the snacks and the two of you started to eat. You appreciated how Mina understood you, knowing how to break the ice to help you open up. Mina was the quiet type, which made her a really good listener, but she was also one to give the best advice.
So while munching on your favorite chocolate bar, you started opening up. Every so often, she would nod her head or say a quick mhmm or yeah to reassure you that she was listening. The longer you shared about your problems, the more Mina understood your situation, and the better she was formulating the proper advice to give you.
Mina was TWICE's genius, she could see things others couldn't see and she had the best input out of anyone else. So she was the most reasonable one to ask about this type of issue, aside from Jihyo, of course. Once finished with your rant, you look up expectantly at Mina, waiting for her words of wisdom, and she didn't disappoint you one bit.
"I've been there too. People only do that because they're insecure, Y/N. You could be doing absolutely nothing and they'd still hate you just because you're you, and that's okay. But that doesn't mean you should just tolerate them, they'll just continue hurting you or others if you do." She said, your eyes focused on her as you listened intently to her advice. "I know it's scary, and that it makes you seem weak, but it is important to tell someone. An adult, a friend, or a school personnel. Anyone who you think can make a difference to your situation. So I'm proud of you for telling me, but right now, I won't be telling you exactly what to do. I know you, Y/N. And I know you'll make the right choice."
You nodded while leaning your head on her shoulder, looking up at her in adoration and you couldn't help but smile. "You're so smart, unnie. You always know what to do and say."
"I don't always know what to do or say, Y/N. And no, I don't think I'm that smart. But going through several experiences does help out a lot. You learn to deal with things maturely. And you learn to carry yourself and your emotions so that people won't be able to hurt or affect you." She explained while rubbing your arm.
"Thank you. The snacks and the pep talk was exactly what I needed." She showed her smile as she pinched your cheeks. "You're welcome. How about you and I get some ice cream after dinner?"
You nodded excitedly to her offer, jumping up and down. "I'd love that!"
Dahyun
Tumblr media
In between your crying fit and the girls talking about cheering you up, you had made your way to the bathroom to wash up. After cleaning yourself up, you made your way back to your room where you saw Dahyun standing outside your door and her hand on the precipice of knocking on it.
You leaned on the wall, crossing your arms over your chest and you let out a playful scoff. "You gonna knock or not, unnie?"
Dahyun yelped and jumped at your remark, she looked at you with furrowed brows and smacked your shoulder. "Hey! You scared me!"
"Sorry, sorry." You laughed, waving off her silly reaction. "What do you want? Why are you here?"
"I wanted to check in on you. We're worried about you. You seemed really down and we aren't used to seeing you like this. What's the matter? Did something bad happen today?" She said, worry lacing her expression and she placed her hand on your shoulder. You let out a deep sigh and you held her hand. "It's just some stupid people at school, I shouldn't really be bothered by them. It's just really dumb, dubu unnie."
"Them huh? Are those the same bullies that used to bother Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, and I?" She asked and you raised your eyebrow. "Wait, you guys used to be bullied at school too? Did you tell the others?"
"Aha!" She exclaimed, pointing at you, and you jumped at her sudden movement. "So you are being bullied! I knew it! That's why you've been so quiet lately!"
"Wait, what?! No! Unnie, no fair! That's so sneaky!" You smacked her on the arm as she laughed at you and tried blocking your attempts to hit her. "Hey, don't blame me for being smart! Besides, if I didn't ask that, I wouldn't have known. Why are you hiding it from us, Y/N?"
You let out a sigh, looking around you, then grabbing her hand and pulling her away. "Come on. Follow me."
You lead her to your room, when you two entered, you closed the door and locked it. You sat her down on your bed, crossing your arms, and hugging yourself. She raised an eyebrow at you. "So, what's going on? Tell me."
"I didn't want to tell any of you because..." you trail off before taking in a deep sigh. "Because I wanted to be grown up. You guys already baby me enough, and I get that I'm the youngest, but I'm almost an adult now. And I didn't want childish squabble affecting any of us, so I held it in. I tried ignoring them because I knew that was what Nayeon unnie would advise me, I also told the principal because that's how Jihyo unnie would think, and I tried talking them down because I knew Mina unnie would tell me that. I tried taking into account all the possible advice you could give all of me, but it all just blew up in my face. And now I don't know what to do, I don't know what to think. And I'm trying my best because I want to look strong and I—" you got cut off the moment you felt her arms wrap around you and everything suddenly erupted all over again as you cried into her shoulder.
 "Hey, it's okay. It's all okay. I— I'm sorry. I didn't know it was this bad. We should have known... I should have known. I'm here now. I'm willing to listen. You don't have to carry this all on your own." Dahyun calmed you, rubbing your back to soothe you. "Look, I'm sorry we baby you. But it's only because we love you, Y/N. And seeing you grow up? It makes us anxious. You're our baby. But seeing you handling this right now? It tells me that you're not a baby anymore. It tells me that you've grown up so much from that kid who entered SIXTEEN with us. I'm proud of you for handling this, but you don't have to be alone. I'm here. We're here. And you don't have to worry about telling us. We're family."
"I'm sorry, unnie." You choke out, you hear Dahyun giggle as she pulls you away to look you in the eyes and she wipes away your tears. "You don't have to apologize. I completely understand. I won't force you to tell the others right now, just promise me you won't do this all on your own anymore."
"I promise, unnie. Thank you. I owe you one." Dahyun smiles at you, her eyes sparkling with admiration towards you. She hugs you again, letting the tears she had held in to finally fall.
Dahyun was never one to show much emotion or share about herself, but one thing was for sure. She was extremely proud of you.
Chaeyoung
Tumblr media
You heard the knocking again as you slammed your head against the door, you were sitting in front of it, making sure that no one would be able to enter your room. You sighed again and hugged your knees. "Ttalgi unnie, please leave me alone. I don't want to talk to anyone."
Silence engulfed you for a solid couple of minutes, but then you heard something slipping under the door, and another knock came. You looked up and saw a note beside you, you sighed and grabbed it. Opening it, you couldn't help but smile at its contents. Chaeyoung had drawn a cartoon strawberry with 괜찮아? (are you okay?) written beside it in a speech bubble.
You sighed. "No, unnie. I'm not."
A few more minutes of silence surrounded you, and then you heard the scribbling coming from the other side of the door. She slipped it under the door again and you read it. It was the same strawberry, but with a different facial expression, a sad one this time, and 얘기하고 싶습니까? (want to talk?) written beside it.
"Not really, unnie. I don't know how to say it. You know I'm bad at talking about my emotions." You say in defeat, hanging your head and scratching your nape.
Chaeyoung slid in another note, with the strawberry looking worried, and the words 그럼 그냥 그려 봅시다 (then let's just draw). She slid a few sheets of paper and rolled a pencil under the gap of the door. You took it and the two of you kept swapping doodles and messages. Slowly you were able to express all your problems and frustrations to her by just using your illustrations.
누군가에게 말해야합니까? (Should I tell someone?)
아니, 아직 (No, not yet.)
어떻게 도와 드릴까요? (How can I help you?)
그냥 여기있어 (Just stay here)
괜찮아 ♡ (Okay ♡)
You felt yourself loosen up with the little notes you two were exchanging, and you felt the weight on your shoulders slowly disappear. She wrote down lame jokes accompanied with cute doodles and you couldn't help but laugh at them.
예! 당신은 웃고 있습니다! (Yes! You're laughing!)
기분이 나아지 다? (Feel better?)
네 감사합니다 (Yes, thank you.)
문을 열 수 있습니까? 보고 싶어  (Can you open the door? I miss you)
You smiled, got up from your spot, and opened the door. You saw her crouching down by your door, her head zipped to your direction and she immediately smiled when she saw you. She got up and hugged you tight. "Finally! I'm glad you opened the door."
You smiled and looked down to the floor, pocketing your hands in your hoodie and you cleared your throat. "Uhm... thank you, Chaeyoung unnie. I really needed that."
"You're always welcome. Maknaes gotta stick together, right?" She says cheerfully, offering her fist to you. You smile and nudge your fist against hers, giving her a fist bump. "Maknaes stick together."
You wrap your arms around her small figure and pick her up, twirling around your room as both of your giggles filled the room. Neither of you were good with words, but art was something you two shared common ground with. And art was usually what you used to help each other out in situations like this.
Tzuyu
Tumblr media
You were balled up in a corner, still crying your eyes out and thoughts racing in your mind. How were you going to deal with any of this? Of course you could talk to your members but you were all so busy with promotions for your new comeback that you didn't want to add to their problems. 
You could feel yourself breaking down at your thoughts, not knowing what to do or who to talk to. You weren't alone in this, you knew that, but you just wish you could handle it on your own.
All the while you were breaking down, Tzuyu was outside your door, contemplating on whether or not she should see you right now. She knew how bad you were at relaying your emotions, and she wasn't the best at comforting other people either, but considering the fact that she was your closest friend here, she wanted to be there for you like you were always there for her. Tzuyu had her hand outstretched, ready to knock on your door, but she just didn't know how to handle it.
When you were able to compose yourself a bit, you got up and you were on your way out of your room to freshen up, wanting to be with your unnies and apologize to them. But when you swung the door open, you were surprised to see Tzuyu and she looked just as surprised to see you.
"Unnie?" You looked at her with a confused expression, your head cocked to the side while she hops from one foot to another, awkwardly standing in front of you. She scratches her head and she takes in a deep breath. "I wanted to see you. You haven't been talking a lot and you aren't as cheerful as usual. Is there something wrong? It isn't my right to ask or anything, but I was just worried th—"
You cut her off by hugging her, tiptoeing to reach her from where you stood. You bury your face into her shoulder, letting yourself relax into her touch. "Quit talking. Just... just stay here."
You felt her arms wrap around you, nodding her head. "Okay."
Tzuyu placed her hand on your head, interlacing her fingertips with your locks, slowly massaging your scalp to help calm you down. No tears left your eyes anymore, they had run out. All you needed was her, her touch, her presence, her comfort—anything that would numb the pain. And she knew this. She held you so delicately, afraid that if she made the slightest movement that it would break you.
Minutes had passed, and you look up at her. She looks down to see you, she smiles as she wipes away the remnants of your salty tears and you let out a satisfied sigh. "Thank you, Tzuyu-yah."
Tzuyu was older than you, but she didn't like it when you called her unnie. You were a couple of months apart, so it didn't really make much of a difference, but she preferred it that you just call her by her name.
"Would you want to talk about it?" She asked and that immediately made you giggle. You pushed her slightly, playfully shoving her. "You and I both know how terrible we are at sharing our emotions, yoda."
She scrunched her nose at the nickname you and the girls gave her, but she laughed nonetheless. "Then how about we just... cuddle? So you don't have to think about it."
"I'd love that. But what if the others see? I know you hate it when they tease you about showing affection." You joked while both of you walked to your bed, sitting down and leaning your head on her shoulder. "I don't really care if they do. I mean, you need someone right now. And you're my friend. And I want to help you."
You couldn't help but smile at her. You wrapped your arms around her waist and snuggled up against her. "That's really sweet. Thank you, Tzuyu-ah. I owe you."
"You're welcome, Y/N." She said and you were surprised when she planted a kiss on your hairline. "And you don't owe me anything. I'm happy to be here for you."
You and Tzuyu stayed like that for minutes, even moving down to your bed where you both fell asleep in each other's arms. The girls saw both of you the next day, cooing at how adorable the two maknaes of the group were. Tzuyu heard all their teasing, but pretended to sleep until you were awake.
Tzuyu wasn't good at being affectionate and was usually the quiet type, but she knew when you needed her. And if helping you meant risking getting teased by the other members, then she wouldn't mind at all.
168 notes · View notes
dragonmuse · 1 year
Note
Absolutely LOVE the new story!! It's so nice to see Stede's and Olu's POV, I didn't realize how much I missed Olu. I'm guessing we will see some in this story, but could we see Olu and Alma hanging out? Maybe when she was younger and would hang out at the bar when she's in the city?
(yay, thank you! You may certainly have some young Alma and Oluwande!)
“What’s up, baby bat?” Oluwande asked as Alma flopped down into Ethel’s empty makeup chair. 
“I’m bored,” she informed him as if this was the very worst thing in the world that could’ve happened.  “I want to go home, but Dad and Eddy are talking and they keep saying five more minutes and it’s been like an hour.” 
“Yeah, I think all good tiny people are supposed to be in bed,” he considered. “It’s like 2 AM.” 
“I’m not tiny. Or a baby,” she stuck out her bottom lip. “I’m thirteen.” 
“Right, my mistake,” he nodded, wiping off the last pits of his makeup. “Want to help me clean this place up?” 
Alma looked in despair around the changing room. “Did you make the mess?” 
“Little bit of it. But we just take turns going through every few weeks. John did it last time, Frenchie time before that. I’m probably due. It’s not as bad as it looks.” 
“Good,” she wrinkled her nose. “Cause it looks really bad.”
“We’re just going to go through, pick up clothes and if it’s got a label, it gets tossed on their chair. No label, let me get an eye on it. It’s usually easy to tell who belongs to what. If we don’t know it, it goes in the box by the door.” 
“Yeah, okay,” she sighed and went to go start in Leda’s corner where there was little in the way in clothes and a lot in the way of rhinestones. “What do I do with these?” 
“Toss ‘em.” 
“Can I keep them?” 
“Knock yourself out.” 
“What’s this?” Alma held up a squishy yellow object. 
“That’s a hip pad. We cut ‘em out of couch cushion foam. That one looks like it’s Frenchie’s size, toss it on her chair.” 
“Okay.” 
It was actually useful to have a smaller person around. Alma got under all the vanities for what might be the first time in literal years. She found an earring Oluwande was sure he’d lost for good, an entire set of the Kraken’s press ons, innumerable bobby pins, and a roll of duct tape.
“What’s this for?” 
“...ask your parents,” Oluwande took it from her. “Better yet, just google it in say...five or six years.” 
“Whatever,” she wrinkled her nose. “I probably don’t want to know.” 
“Probably not. Okay, so that piece is done. Let’s take a step back and see what the next thing to do is. The key is to break it down into steps so you don’t get overwhelmed.”
It took a half hour or so to square the room away enough that Oluwande felt good about abdicating responsibility again for a few months. Alma even vacuumed and looked pleased when he praised her for it, even if she’d missed a few spots. 
When they headed back out to the bar, Stede and Eddy were still in deep conversation with several people. Oluwande walked up and Eddy caught his eye, grimacing. 
“Listen,” she whispered. “There was some petition going around that’s got everyone in the neighborhood nervous. It’s probably nothing, but Stede wants to hash it out with the club owners from next store tonight, so we’re on the same page. Can you walk Alma home? The sitter is there with Charlie, probably both sleeping though.  Sorry to even ask.” 
“No, I heard that too,” he sighed. It was a nuisance thing, but he got why it made Stede jumpy. Oluwande didn’t like it either when the morality gang showed up to raise their particular brand of hell. “Where’s Jim?” 
“Knocking on doors of all the other late night businesses. Just to let them know we’re going to meet in the next week or so. Pre-game. We’ll want you there for the actual meeting. You’re better at getting people to listen to you than either of us.  I’ll read you in. Ok?” 
“Got it. Keys?”  
Eddy tossed the them to him and Oluwande shoved them in his pocket. 
“Let’s get you in bed,” he said to Alma, who in a remarkable moment, didn’t protest. 
“Okay.” 
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Stede stopped for a moment, bending down to hug her. “We’ll all go out for a long brunch tomorrow, all right?” 
“Kay,” she said into his stomach. “Night, Dad.” 
“Good night, Alma.” 
They walked together into the night. She had a little leather jacket, pulled over her dress and her purple docs. Oluwande remembered being that age, an unsure cocktail of newly pumping hormones, caught halfway from child to teenager.  There was a bow tied at the end of her braid. 
“You do that?” He asked flicking the ribbon so her braid swayed a little. 
“Eddy put it in,” she said, pleased. “She has a lot of ribbon.” 
“Yeah, I think she’s doing a whole dress thing. It’s a Roach idea.” 
“Do you make your own dresses?” 
“Nope. I leave that to the dream team. I do my own wigs though and I style theirs in exchange sometimes. It evens out.” 
“How do you style a wig?” 
“You want the whole class?” he glanced at her with as mile. “Because I charge for that.” 
“No,” she huffed. “Just curious.” 
“It’s a lot like real hair in some ways. Just things you have to be careful of. Different products sometimes. The hard part with drag queen wigs is that they need a lot of volume, so you usually wind up making them out of a lot of different wigs. It’s a process.” 
“Why do they have to be big?” 
So he spent the rest of the walk telling her about proportion. If it was a different kid, he wouldn’t have bothered, but Alma always listened with birdlike intent and seemed to retain everything. She asked questions and fired off a random, 
“Victorian people kept the hair if their dead family and made it into jewelry.”  
“Oh fuck, why?” he groaned. 
“I don’t know, I think it’s nice,” she said dreamily. “Like keeping a bit of them with you.” 
“I think I’ll stick to photos, but thanks for that image.” 
When they got there, Alma took the keys from him to open the door and then dropped them on the spindly table by the door. She sat and worked off her boots. Oluwande hovered, uncomfortable with just leaving her there. 
“It’s okay, see,” she got up and pointed to the sofa where someone was sleeping under a blanket. “That’s Marisa. She’s okay. Dad says it’s okay for her to nap as long as Charlie can wake her up if he needs something.” 
“Okay, you need anything before I leave you though?” 
Alma hesitated, and then shook her head. “It’s okay.” 
“Hey, how about a last snack before bed?” he said nonchalantly. “I know I could eat and your Dad and Eddy are snack hoarders.” 
“Do you like macaroons?” 
“You know it.” 
They were quiet, pouring glasses of milk and eating fancy little cookies without turning on the overhead lights. Oluwande was glad he stayed, when Alma went on telling him about Victoiran mourning jewelry, clearly relieved for the company. When she started yawning again though, he gestured her towards her room. 
“I’ll text your Dad. Want me to set the security alarm on my way out?” 
“Yeah, okay,” she shrugged, but her face said ‘Yes. Please.’ 
Stede had never changed the passcode from the early days of living here when Oluwande crashed on the couch. He wondered how Eddy let him get away with that as he armed the thing and walked back out into the night. 
The streets were still busy, even at the late hour. It was a summer Saturday, rich with potential vices and delights. Oluwande avoided a few drunks and watched the neon lights sparkle in puddles from last night’s rainstorm. It was it’s own kind of lullaby and by the time he got back to the bar, he was yawning. 
“Hey,” Jim swung out from the still clustered group. “Want to go?” 
“Yeah, but-” 
“It’s cool. They’re going in circles. Eddy said she’d call you tomorrow.” 
“Sure?” 
“Mhm. Let’s just go.” 
That was probably smart. If they said good night, they’d get sucked into the conversation. The alley door was propped so they went out the back. 
“Walk?” He asked. 
“Yeah,” Jim nodded. “Nice enough.” 
They made it a few blocks before Oluwande offered to them, 
“Want to know what I learned tonight?” 
“That you’re a soft mark for babysitting?” 
“Haha. I don’t have to tell you.” 
“But you want to,” Jim smiled. “So you will.” 
“...okay so apparently people made jewlery out of hair.” 
“Gross!” Jim grinned at him. “Why?” 
“That’s what I asked!” 
He caught them up on all of Alma’s factoids as they walked. 
And maybe, several years later, there would come a day when Alma would stand at the door to her bedroom with a contractor bag and her mother saying, 
“I told you this day would come!” 
And she would close her eyes, take a deep breath and say to herself, “Just break it into small steps.” 
Bit by bit, the dragon hoard that had been her childhood bedroom would yield itself to her persuasion. She texted Oluwande a picture when she was done. 
Alma: voila. 
Oluwane: good job. 
Alma: thanks. Like a lot. I was freaking out. 
Oluwande: You had it. You’ll have all of it. 
29 notes · View notes
shuacore · 1 year
Text
[ 11:05 ] bad omens
warnings: brief sexual content (18+), angst
he can tell you've been becoming more distant. he can sense the gap widening, rearing its ugly head every morning when you leave for work, proof of your presence nothing more than a few wrinkles in the sheets.
it wasn't his fault. it isn’t yours, either— not really. sometimes people just grow apart, you tell yourself as if to appease the gnawing ache in your chest.  
wonwoo sees it in the stiffness in your spine when he kisses you on the temple.
you couldn't quite tell where it started; if it was when you stopped hanging out with his friends because you were always tired, or if it was when you stopped saying good night to him. maybe it was when you stopped feeling the same spark between you when he pressed his body to yours after hours. 
the sorrow in his eyes becomes familiar. it's been making appearances more often than usual. 
you're a ghost in your house, your existence real only in the dirty bowl in the sink or the lipstick smudge on the rim of your favorite coffee cup. 
that coffee cup is the first thing you pack away. at first it’s a oh i just don’t want to break it, but then it becomes so much more— tucking away books and clothing and pictures into unlabeled boxes hidden under the bed.
wonwoo feels the emptiness grow every day and he doesn't know what to do to stop it.  
even when the two of you fall into bed, wasted, and he’s thrusting into you with palpable desperation, head bowed into the space between your head and your shoulder, it feels rehearsed and vacant.  
he’s murmuring stay, stay, please, stay against your skin as you press against his chest, back arching off the sheets, feeling his hands clutching at your shoulders, thighs, back. every movement with shaking hands clumsy and ungraceful in your torment. fingers wound in the sheets, clenched in his hair, biting into his back. 
it’s angry. it’s desolate.
i love you, wonwoo begs, but it doesn’t have the same ring like it used to. you don’t respond, but you kiss him, open-mouthed and pleading as he comes inside, his muscles contracting with pleasure as he mutters your name again and again. if you get lost in these moments, then maybe you can pretend like you haven’t been empty for weeks.
when wonwoo buries his nose in the crook of your neck, exhausted, he doesn’t see the tear that rolls down your cheek.
he doesn't even put up a fight when you finally tell him you're leaving. 
“baby, come back inside," wonwoo says from the side of the car, hands pressed to the window. you hate how calm he is, how measured and logical he always is, even when after five years you're sitting in the car, engine idling, poised to run away. 
"i'm sorry," you say, voice flat. you wish wonwoo would scream and cry, you wish he would throw himself on the ground and plead and beg for you to stay. 
you wish he would do anything. 
"y/n—" he protests, fingers wrapped around the car door handle. he pulls—thunk thunk thunk—but you've already locked the doors. was this some kind of sick metaphor? wonwoo, locked out, looking from the outside in as you slowly fall out of love with him. 
well, it was less of an analogy and more of a sick reality. 
you pull the clutch into reverse, eyes locked on the rearview mirror so you don't have to look at your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—anymore.
the car backs into the road, blinker indicating left, and then you're gone— nothing more than a puff of exhaust in the bitter air. 
wonwoo's not sure how long he stands in the driveway, but his body is stiff with cold by the time he stumbles back inside the house. the click of the door jamb is loud in the suffocating silence. wonwoo is numb and he's not sure if it's the winter air or the realization that you're gone. 
long-dormant sorrow forces itself up his throat, choking, strangling, destroying. 
wonwoo sinks to his knees in the foyer and weeps. 
i died when you left last night for the thousandth time cause you love somebody else, i tried to stop the door as it was closing, can't help the way i keep ignoring every omen
masterlist
32 notes · View notes
gwydionmisha · 4 months
Text
Personal: Ugh
Torture appointment actually let out early because my shoulder was being a douche. I was still pretty chewed up when I set out for MRI in full dark of Northern winter morning. It ended up being a drama because the branch location is so new I've only been once so was unclear on it's location which i discovered after I left. Morning rush hour traffic jams in the dark are the worst in my opinion. In an evening in the dark traffic jam people are properly awake and respond better to sudden breaking after going 50-60 for a while. I got there ten minutes after check in time, which put me ahead of the appointment time and in any case there was the usual wait on the person ahead of me.
I have no phobias, which is helpful. It still really fucks up my body because immobilized and squeezed into a tube where it is very loud and sound chaotic is rough on my joints and my sensory system. So I don't like it, but I can handle it fine, if you follow. It is boring as I can't think properly in that sound environment, and there is a dramatic increase in pain and fall risk afterword. It is not even close to the worst thing that happens medically in a given year.
This one wasn't to bad as these things go, says a person who had their entire spine surveyed more than once. Fifteen minutes. I lucked out a little on the music as three of the five songs were actually both good and very familiar, if not things I'd pick myself.
My arm was too fucked up for home physio before bed and in any case I was too tired. I was good and did a little phone bureaucracy, but I was in extreme pain and completely worn out when I went to bed to try to catch the fivish hours of sleep I was allowed today.
Bwahahaha! No. Every time I tried to drift off the phone rang for the next twoish hours. One required me to get dressed and let people in, since I'm the person on my floor Amazon can reach. It was at this point I gave up and slept in my clothes even though the seams and confinement and wrinkles make it so much harder to sleep. I feel like eight phone calls in two hours is really excessive, but this is what sleeping while disabled is like.
I was so exhausted I ended up going back to bed after errands to sleep until dinner.
I had one of my complicated speculative fiction dreams. The special effects were Amazeballs. Good on you subconscious CGI!
This just in: The really elaborate surgery is now off the table. They think a classic total joint replacement is enough. So go me!
2 notes · View notes