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eleanor-bradstreet · 6 months

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Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 4: Flight

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer From a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating/warning: T - brief depiction of sexual assault Word count: 8.5k

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Author's Notes: Now we're getting into the swing of it! Fair bit of AOFAG snippets in this one because there were exchanges I really liked. Heads up if you have read my other fic Fever. Dream. that a portion of this chapter is recycled. I was actually pulling from this fic to write that one before I knew this one would be shared. 💙

[Revisiting Benedict and Sophie two years later during the party at Cavender House as written in Part Two/Chapter 6 of AOFAG.

It’s the spring of 1817 and the ton are in London. Depressed and listless, Benedict went to the party in the countryside for a change of scenery only to be disappointed by obnoxious drunks. He is leaving and feeling ill. Cavender House is located in Kent and Benedict plans to spend the night at Aubrey Hall. He does not own a bachelor cottage.

Sophie sold the Cowper’s jewels only to find they were made of glass (courtesy of one Jack Featherington). She scraped by with scullery work and selling her hair. Over two years she worked her way back into housemaid roles and has ended up in the employ of the Cavenders. The aging parents are kind but Phillip Cavender has been regularly harassing her.]

Two Years Later

With his parents away, Phillip Cavender had invited the most vile assortment of noblemen to fill his family home with drink and smoke, shouts and chaos. Sophie knew she should have left the grounds immediately, but Mrs. Cavender had treated her well, and she didn’t think it was polite to leave without giving notice to the lady of the house. With no locks on the doors of the servants’ quarters, she had angled a chair in front of hers and sat upon her bed, praying that Phillip would find distraction with one of the many hired ladies in attendance.

Her prayers were not answered. Phillip had come banging into her room, easily shoving the chair aside. He began pawing at her, pinning her to the mattress.

“Look what I have here,” he cackled. “Little Miss Sophie, my favorite housemaid.”

Sophie’s mouth went dry, and she wasn’t sure whether her heart started to beat double time or stopped altogether. “Let me go, Mr. Cavender,” she said in her sternest voice while she struggled. She knew that he liked her helpless and pleading, and she refused to cater to his wishes.

“I don’t think so,” he said, his lips stretching into a slippery smile. “I want you to join the party.” Restraining her with one arm, his free hand snaked up her torso, groping and beginning to reach down the neckline of her dress. She could smell the whiskey on him. Whiskey and the reek of dark intent. His voice was husky as he slurred, “You know you’re born to serve.”

When his rough fingers dragged across the skin of her chest, some primal corner of her mind snapped to attention and took control of her body, making everything both crystal clear and numbingly distant at the same time. She knew definitively that she was going to get out of this situation. No matter what it took. No matter what behavior she had to exhibit and to whom. Her knee moved before she commanded it to, driving swiftly up between Cavender’s legs.

She saw his eyes widen with pain for a split second before he doubled over, wheezing. When he tried to lunge for her again, her arm flew on its own, planting her fist into the side of his jaw. Cavender hit the floor with a thud, groaning as he began to roll across the boards. After the initial shock of her own actions, Sophie flew into a panic, stepping over the crumpled man to throw her few belongings into a bag. This was her chance. Without another look back, she hitched her skirts in one hand, clutched her bag in the other, and ran out into the night.

Her flight to the road was a blur. Her mind was blank to everything except one imperative: run. It felt as if she reached it instantaneously, but she knew it was a fair distance from the house. When her eyes began to refocus and the roar began to fade from her ears, she slowed to a walk, gasping. The night air was cool and soothing. The lights and noise of Cavender House were barely perceptible through the trees. The waxing moon illuminated the road in front of her and she set off for the village.

As she regained her composure, a sense of dread crept over her. She had attacked a gentleman. For her, a penniless maid, it was an offense worthy of a life in prison, if not transportation to the other side of the world. She certainly could not work in another household of the ton, lest word spread to find her. She hoped maybe he had drunk enough that he would not remember what had happened. But she could not rest on that hope. Perhaps he would be too embarrassed to tell anyone. Then she may be able to work quietly in a home a long distance away. But she would never be sure that Cavender would not visit that household someday and find her. No, as long as she stayed among the gentry, she would always be at risk. There was nothing for it, she would need to change her occupation. She could find work in a city somewhere doing…something.

As she began to contemplate the many dangerous and demeaning ways poor women might make money in a city, Sophie heard the fall of hooves approaching behind her. Her stomach sank. It could be Cavender, or someone he sent after her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a single rider on a white horse moving at no great speed. The Cavenders did not own any white horses but nevertheless, she began to dart off toward the trees. She knew the rider had already seen her and how futile a chase would be, but it was her only fleeting chance at freedom.

“Hello there?” The rider called out, his voice gentle, somehow familiar.

She paused. He certainly did not seem to be chasing her and it was not unusual that other people may be out on the road at this hour. Something within was telling her not to run. Where did she know that voice from? But she was not about to have a roadside chat with a stranger in the middle of the night. She needed to get to the village. She continued to walk along the side of the road, eyes forward, her steps purposeful but not frantic.

The rider caught up with her in quick order and slowed his horse to match her pace. “Good evening, Miss.”

He sounded polite enough but it didn’t stop Sophie from feeling a stab of annoyance. She was going to have to converse with this person, delaying her arrival to safety. Tired and unable to hide the grimace from her face, she turned to look up at him. For a moment she could only see his silhouette - a tall shadow with unruly hair and a high collar. Then her eyes adjusted and his features emerged in the moonlight. Dear god, it was Benedict Bridgerton.

She froze, every sound and every feeling melting away until all she could see was him. She didn’t even breathe as she stared. She had been fleeing for her life, running from torment, facing a hopeless future, and then suddenly Benedict Bridgerton appeared on a white horse like a knight in a fairy story. She wondered if she had fallen in the road and dashed her head on a rock because why else would she be seeing him unless she was hallucinating or in heaven?

“Are you alright?” he asked, stopping his horse beside her. Sophie’s breath hitched. Those were the last words he had said before she ran out of the masquerade so many years ago. She had heard them echoing over and over in her dreams. Of course she recognized his voice. Sophie nodded, looking him squarely in the eye, waiting for him to recognize her.

“It’s a bit unusual for a woman to be walking the road alone so late at night. Do you work at Cavender House?” He held the reins in his hand, looking her up and down.

She continued to wait silently, jutting her chin so that he might see her better. Surely he would be able to tell. Maybe it was too dark for him to see her properly.

“Miss?” His face was growing increasingly concerned.

She wasn’t sure if she knew how to form words but found herself replying, “Not anymore.”

“Oh,” Benedict frowned. This night was not turning out at all how he had anticipated. Cavender’s party was not exactly the bacchanalia he had been promised. Benedict had always found him to be a weaselly sort of fellow but he had grown so bored with the stuffy events of the London season that he would have accepted any invitation that got him out of the city. Rather than finding distraction in the amusements on offer, he had been repulsed by the callow attendees, their slovenly overindulgences and blatant disregard for the women hired to entertain. He had seen his own share of raucous parties to be sure, but there was still such a thing as taste in how one enjoyed themselves and what he had discovered was that Cavender and his friends were lacking in it.

It wasn’t only the company that had spurred him to leave early. Feeling an ache settling into his bones, he was forced to accept that he had not fully recovered from a recent chest cold. The stink and noise filling Cavender House were aggravating his poorly condition. He had managed to extricate himself, tired and wanting nothing more than to throw himself into a bath at his ancestral home. It was a long road to Aubrey Hall but he thought he had the strength to manage it.

Except now there was a strange young woman in the road and he was not one to ignore a soul in distress. The nearest village was at least two miles away and she was alone, carrying nothing but a small bag which, he guessed, was everything she owned if she had just left the employment of the house. From what he could see of her in the moonlight she was lovely, with a short crop of hair and large, luminous eyes. He had the oddest sensation that they may have met before, though he didn’t know how that was possible. Perhaps she had worked in a household he had visited.

Dismounting, he stood before her, trying his best to seem trustworthy. “Something drove you out of the house in a hurry.”

Sophie continued to stare, unwilling to believe that he didn’t recognize her even now that they were so close.

Benedict was running out of ideas to get her to speak so instinctively, he reverted to humor. “I’ve just come from there myself. Between you and I, it was turning my stomach to be around that bunch of louts. Plenty of drink, plenty of frivolity, but certainly no sense of taste.”

“No,” Sophie rasped, beginning to understand how he came to be there. It had indeed been a tasteless party, led by a tasteless host. She was reassured that Benedict wasn’t of the same ilk as Cavender, given his poor opinion of it. For the past two years the memory of him had been the only thing giving her the motivation to press on through the toil of each day, the dream of him and the fantasy life they may have shared together if she had been born legitimate. If it had turned out that he was no better than Cavender, she would have nothing left in her miserable little life. Not even the memory of the masquerade to treasure. But here he was, miraculously comforting her by the roadside, an avenue to safety.

She opened up to him, surprised at her own words. “I was treated roughly so decided to leave.” Not the whole truth, but enough to explain why she was walking through the night.

Benedict’s brow furrowed with concern and he nodded. “May I ask your name?”

Her name. The name he had begged her for at the masquerade. Now she would tell him for the first time. “Sophie Beckett,” she croaked.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Beckett. Are you headed to the village?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “To the Wayside Inn.”

“Would you permit me to take you there?” He chose his words carefully. He didn’t know what this woman had endured at Cavender’s but if it was enough to send her hiking out into the road at night, it must have been awful. Being approached by another man was likely the last thing she wanted, but if she trusted him, he’d rather it be him escorting her than god knows who else. If she declined, he would leave her be.

“Yes,” she agreed so readily it surprised him.

“Excellent,” he smiled. “I will drop you there and continue on.” Surely he could manage a detour on the way to Aubrey Hall. He would rest easier knowing she was safe. He held out his hand. She did not take it. She just continued to stare at him curiously, her head cocked to the side. “Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.

And that’s when Sophie realized. When they first met her face had been covered by a mask. Her hair had been longer and powdered to a lighter shade, lovely tresses that she had since sold to a wigmaker. She had grown scrawny in the intervening years of hard servitude. It was two entire years ago and they had only spoken for an hour or so, outside in the dark of the Bridgerton House garden. She understood now. He didn’t recognize her. How could he? She was not the same woman he had met on that magical night.

She finally took his hand, her thoughts racing. Should she reveal herself? Would he believe her? As she followed him silently, he led her to the horse and patted the beast gently. “This is Danae. Not as comfortable as a carriage I’m afraid, but certainly faster than walking.” He grinned, his lopsided smile crinkling his eyes, and she felt her legs falter.

As her mind whirred, Sophie moved automatically, lifting herself onto Danae and perching sideways behind the saddle. Benedict looked up at her, the cheeky grin still playing on his lips. “Where are my manners? I’m Mr. Benedict Bridgerton by the way.”

She almost said “I know,” but caught herself. Her voice cracked as she feigned ignorance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He glanced down at her legs. “If it would be easier, you can sit astride. No need to stand on ceremony with me.”

Benedict was on his most gentlemanly behavior. It was only right that he escort this quiet, poor young woman away from the fiend Cavender’s house and to a place of safety. It was also ridiculous to force her to ride sidesaddle. Firstly, she was not even properly in a saddle, and second, it was a most awkward feat that he had never understood how women managed. He genuinely wanted her to be secure and comfortable while they rode. But he also couldn’t help finding something alluring in the way she lifted her leg and swung it around to sit astride.

Sophie caught a flicker of something devilish in his eyes as she repositioned herself. It forced a smirk across her own face even as the debate raged within her on whether to tell him that they had met before.

Benedict mounted into the saddle and took the reins. He was an inch away from her now, his broad back and dark hair filling her vision. She could see the fine velvet texture of his coat, the glint of the moonlight off the waves of his hair, and she could smell his cologne - sandalwood, fresh parchment, a walk in a green forest. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, her every sense engulfed by the man in front of her. Was this a dream? Was it a nightmare?

“Hold on,” he said over his shoulder. Sophie’s eyes flew open. Oh god, she hadn’t even thought about this when she agreed to ride with him. She would have to hold onto him, to wrap her arms around him and press their bodies together. She didn’t know if she would be able to bear it, but there certainly wasn’t any way to avoid it now. With great trepidation, she settled her bag securely in her lap then lightly rested a hand on either side of his torso.

She could hear him chuckle under his breath. “Tighter than that or else you’ll fall off, Miss Beckett.” Gently, he pulled her hands across his chest. Her palms rested against the buttons of his coat and she trembled as she realized she could feel him breathing.

“There we are,” she could hear the smile in his voice. Then he signaled to Danae, tapped her with the stirrups and they set off in a gentle, steady trot.

They encountered no one else on the road and the night was silent save for the trills of evening insects. This was nothing like the masquerade where they had so much to say to one another. But Sophie reminded herself that this was different. She was a maid and he was a gentleman of the ton. They shouldn’t have anything in common now.

But still, she kept waiting for him to recognize her and tell her he’d been looking for her for two years. But that wasn’t going to happen, she soon realized. He couldn’t recognize the lady in the housemaid, and in all truth, why should he?

People saw what they expected to see. And Benedict Bridgerton surely didn’t expect to see a fine lady of the ton in the guise of a humble housemaid.

Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t thought of him, hadn’t remembered his lips on her skin, or the heady magic of that costumed night. He had become the centerpiece of her fantasies, dreams in which she was a different person, with different parents. In her dreams, she’d met him at a ball, maybe her own ball, hosted by her devoted mother and father. He courted her sweetly, with fragrant flowers and stolen kisses. And then, on a mellow spring day, while the birds were singing and a gentle breeze rustled the air, he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him, professing his everlasting love and adoration.

It was a fine daydream, surpassed only by the one in which they lived happily ever after, man and wife, always with a new adventure in store; traveling across the Continent, filling their home with art and music, and visiting with the large Bridgerton family, a family that she could then call her own.

But even with all her fantasies, she never imagined she’d actually see him again, much less be rescued by him from the roadside after escaping a licentious attacker.

Benedict broke her reverie with a rasping cough before asking, “Is that bag all that you have?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “This is everything.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “You have quite a refined accent for a housemaid.”

He was not the first to make that observation, so Sophie gave him the answer she kept in store. “My mother was a housekeeper to a very generous family. They allowed me to share some of their daughter’s lessons.”

“Why do you not work there?” With an expert twist of his wrists, he guided Danae to the left side of the fork in the road. “I assume you do not speak of the Cavenders.”

“No,” she replied, trying to devise a proper answer. No one had ever bothered to probe deeper than her offered explanation. No one had ever been interested enough to care. “My mother passed on,” she finally replied, “and I did not deal well with the new housekeeper.”

He seemed to accept that and they rode on for a few minutes. The night was almost silent, save for the wind, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and an occasional hacking cough from Benedict.

“Are you unwell, Mr. Bridgerton?” Sophie asked.

“I’m fine,” he gasped, jerking slightly on the reins.

And then there was more silence. Sophie tried to keep her eyes scrupulously straight on the road ahead, but they unfailingly wandered back to Benedict, to his shoulders, his hair, the angle of his jaw. She had the most absurd fear that if their eyes met, he would finally recognize her. But that was mere fancy. He’d already looked her squarely in the eye, more than once even, and he still thought her nothing but a housemaid.

Benedict was trying to fight down the coughs that continued to rise from his chest but it was getting harder and harder to do so. What a strange night. He could feel the creep of his oncoming illness and was growing more weary with each passing minute. He desperately wanted to rest but he also felt singularly invested in seeing Miss Beckett safely delivered to the inn. While rare enough to have a stranger riding on Danae, her arms wrapped around him, he felt the oddest tingling sensation across his skin where she was touching him. The heat of her against his back nearly made him shudder. There was something about her he couldn’t place. He stole a glance over his shoulder. There was something familiar about the curve of her cheek as well…

“Have we met?” he blurted out.

“No,” she choked, her answer instinctual as a spike of fear shot through her. “I don’t believe so.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he muttered, “but still you do seem rather familiar.”

“All housemaids look the same,” she said with a wry smile.

“I used to think so,” he mumbled.

Sophie admonished herself as soon as the words left her lips. Didn’t she want him to recognize her? Wasn’t she hoping he would come to his senses, leap off the horse, gather her in his arms and declare his love? Didn’t she want him to carry her off to the life of her dreams?

But that was precisely the problem. They were just dreams. In her dreams she knew Benedict Bridgerton. In her dreams he loved her. Loved her enough to marry her despite the circumstances of her birth and the chasm of a class divide that existed between them. These were dreams and nothing more. In reality she barely knew this man. He had flirted with her at a masquerade when he believed she was a debutante. Just because it had been special for her did not mean it was special for him. He was a man, after all, and had most likely had passionate encounters with dozens of other women. She knew, in his position, that he attended scores of balls. Why should one masquerade stand out in his memory? Perhaps it was so insignificant that he never again thought of the lady in silver. If she revealed herself to him now there was a fair chance he would feel honor bound to return her to Cavender House or perhaps to Araminta. Either way she would end up in prison for theft or attack. Quite the opposite of a dream come true.

It was best if he did not recognize her. She didn’t know if she could survive his rejection or retribution. She would be grateful for this second meeting that they had, though she railed against fate that it felt like a bittersweet joke being played upon her. She would enjoy the sight and feel and smell of him, the sound of his voice, for these brief moments, rounding off the dreams she had carried with her for years, then allow him to leave her at the inn and once again exit her life. It was heartbreakingly painful but she knew it was for the best.

As if the sky acknowledged her sorrow, she suddenly felt the plop of raindrops spattering her shoulders.

“It’s raining,” she observed, immediately scolding herself for sounding obtuse.

Benedict looked up. The moon was now obscured by clouds. “It didn’t look like rain when I left,” he murmured. A fat raindrop landed on his thigh. “But I do believe you’re correct.”

She glanced at the sky. “The wind has picked up quite a bit. I hope it doesn’t storm.”

“Of course it will,” he said wryly. “Because we are out in the open. If we were in a carriage there wouldn’t be a could in the sky.”

“How close are we to the village?”

“About half an hour away, I should think.” He frowned. “Provided we are not slowed by the rain.”

“Well, I do not mind a bit of rain,” she said gamely. Then her voice grew quieter, “I have not yet thanked you.”

Benedict turned his head sharply but again could only see the side of her face. By all that was holy, there was something damned familiar about her voice. But she was just a simple housemaid. A very attractive housemaid, to be sure, but a housemaid nonetheless. No one with whom he would ever have crossed paths.

“Any gentleman would have done the same,” he said at last. He wasn't sure which part of him was tied into tighter knots, his body, which was heating up as his throat began to ache, or his mind which was perplexed at why this woman was having such an odd effect on him.

Then the heavens opened up in earnest with a crack of thunder. Within minutes both of them were soaked through, pummeled by rain torrenting in sheets.

“I’ll get there as quickly as I can,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the wind.

“Don’t worry about me!” she assured him.

He nudged Danae into a faster pace, but the road was growing muddy, and the wind was whipping the rain every which way, reducing the already mediocre visibility.

Bloody hell. This was just what he needed. He knew he was already falling ill, and a ride in the freezing rain would not help matters. Of course, if he were ill, his mother couldn’t try to cajole him into attending every single party in town, all in the hopes that he would find some suitable young lady and settle down into a quiet and happy marriage.

To his credit, he always kept his eyes open, was always on the lookout for a prospective bride. He certainly wasn’t opposed to marriage on principle. His brother Anthony and his sister Daphne had made splendidly happy matches. But Anthony’s and Daphne’s marriages were splendidly happy because they’d been smart enough to wed the right people, and Benedict was quite certain he had not yet met the right person.

No, he thought, his mind wandering back a few years, that wasn’t entirely true. He'd once met someone…

The lady in silver.

When he’d held her in his arms and twirled her around in her very first waltz, he’d felt something different inside, a fluttering, tingling sensation. It should have scared the hell out of him.

But it hadn’t. It had left him breathless, excited…and determined to have her.

But then she’d disappeared. It was as if the world were actually flat, and she’d fallen right off the edge. And his long search had been fruitless. Interviewing family, friends and staff, no one knew anything about a young lady attending the masquerade in a silver dress. No one except his brother Colin who had also met her for a brief moment but confessed he had never seen her before or since. He had leaned hard on his younger brother, driven to near madness by every dead end he had encountered. Had Colin slipped something into his tea? Recruited a friend to seduce him as some kind of elaborate prank? When he saw the flicker of concern in Colin’s eyes he eased off, ashamed of how uncharacteristically bitter he was becoming.

He remained distraught. His only other clue, the lady’s silver glove, had also yielded no helpful information. He had clung to it, carrying it in his pocket for three days before Eloise asked why he had not brought it to the modiste to decipher its origins. In truth, he had thought of doing so but had not yet mustered the courage to face Genevieve, an old flame that had been so swiftly and unceremoniously snuffed out without explanation. With little more than a dismissive curtsy she had moved on, no longer escorting him in debaucherous adventures through the demi-monde. It was her prerogative of course and he harbored no ill will toward her, but still felt a pang of shame speaking to her again for the first time with another woman’s glove in his hand, begging his former lover to help him find the woman he wanted to marry.

In a few days more, the enduring mystery pushed him past his embarrassment and he found himself standing on the doorstep of the dress shop. Gen was surprised to see him and looked even more baffled as he produced the solitary silver glove, asking if she knew where it had been made and perhaps who had purchased it. Her expression was unreadable as she took it from him, examined it for a moment and then proclaimed she didn’t recognize it. She suspected it may have been purchased from any number of shops or street vendors but it was not her creation. After awkwardly extending his thanks, Benedict was back on the street marching to every clothier, atelier and corner shop he could find. None of them would claim ownership of the glove and each failed attempt widened the void of despair growing in his heart.

Over two years he never learned anything more about his lady in silver. For all intents and purposes, it was as if she hadn’t even existed.

He’d watched for her at every ball, party, and musicale he attended. Hell he attended twice as many functions as usual, just in the hopes that he’d catch a glimpse of her.

But he’d always come home disappointed.

He’d thought he would stop looking for her. He was a practical man, and he’d assumed that eventually he would simply give up. And in some ways, he had. After a few months he found himself back in the habit of turning down more invitations than he accepted. A few months after that, he realized that he was once again able to meet women and not automatically compare them to her.

But he couldn’t stop himself from watching for her. He might not feel the same urgency, but whenever he attended a ball or took a seat at a musicale, he found his eyes sweeping across the crowd, his ears straining for the lilt of her laughter.

She was out there somewhere. He’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t likely to find her, and he hadn’t searched actively for over a year, but…

He smiled wistfully, despite the rain on his face. He just couldn’t stop from looking. It had become, in a very strange way, a part of who he was. His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and sketching charcoal, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.

He kept hoping…and wishing…and watching. And even though he told himself it was probably time to marry, he just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to do so.

Because what if he put his ring on some woman’s finger, and the next day he saw her?

It would be enough to break his heart.

No, it would be more than that. It would be enough to shatter his soul.

Benedict breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the distant lights of the village of Rosemeade. He determined that he too would need to shelter at the inn for the night before continuing on to Aubrey Hall the next day.

He felt a pang of concern as he realized Miss Beckett’s pale hands were shivering against his chest. But, he thought with a touch of admiration, she hadn’t let out even a peep of complaint. Benedict tried to think of another woman of his acquaintance who would have stood up to the elements with such fortitude, and came up empty-handed.

“We’re almost there,” he assured her, but his voice faltered and he was gripped by a wave of coughs, the deep, hacking kind that rumble down in one’s chest. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and his throat like someone had taken a razor blade to it.

Sophie winced as he convulsed within her arms. “You don’t sound well.” she shouted over the wind.

“I’ve a cold coming on,” he called back to her.

“I don’t want you getting sick on my account.” She tried to sound somewhat teasing, but in truth, she was terribly concerned.

He tried to grin, but his face ached too much. “I would’ve been caught in the rain whether I’d taken you along or not. I was planning to go as far as Aubrey Hall, which is miles away.”

“Still - “ Whatever she’d intended to say was lost under another stream of deep, chesty coughs. Danae whinied as the reins went slack, but she held her course toward the village lights.

Benedict shook his head, trying to clear the rain from his eyes and hold himself together for the final few minutes. His coughing fits were coming closer and closer together, and each time they were deeper, more rumbly, as if they were coming from the very pit of his chest. His throat was torn raw, but he kept his eyes ahead and spurred Danae on. Sophie’s hands clung to him tightly, with concern or fear he wasn’t sure, but he was grateful because she was, in fact, helping him to stay upright.

He was wheezing by the time they reached the village high road and fortunately, the Wayside Inn was situated at the near edge of town. He turned Danae into the stables alongside the building, not bothering for anyone to wave them in. They had to get out of the rain. Once under the rooftop, a stableboy appeared and ran over to grip the horse’s harness.

“Evening, Miss. Evening, my lord. Nasty weather!”

Benedict didn’t have the breath to converse unnecessarily. He went to haul himself down from the saddle but discovered that his every bone ached, his skin was on fire, and his clothes were so heavy with rain that he failed to rise. Before he knew it, Sophie had jumped down and was talking with the boy. His ears were ringing and he missed what was said, but the boy hitched Danae to the nearest post and dashed into the building.

“Come inside,” Sophie looked up at him and extended her hands. He stared at her, seeing her in the lantern light for the first time. She was soaked through in her thin cloak, dripping strands of her short hair matted against her face, her skin white with cold. Her large eyes were concerned but also insistent. She wasn’t delicate, that much was clear, and she was now trying to escort him to the inn, when he knew it should be the other way round. Truly, was he that weak that he had to be helped down from his horse by a woman? He appreciated her concern but he would not be so humiliated. Another round of coughs bent him double over Danae’s neck and he fought to regain his breath. He still ignored her hands and half-fell out of the saddle but was caught from stumbling to the ground by a man in an apron who had just emerged.

“Woah! All right, my lord?” the man asked, steadying Benedict on his feet.

Before he could respond, Sophie spoke, “Mr. Bridgerton is quite ill and will need a room for the night, as will I. Please help him inside.”

Benedict was dumbfounded. Who was this maid to be issuing orders and tending to him like a child? He was very well in control…

“Very good,” said the man in the apron, placing an arm around Benedict’s back and urging him forward. Though he hated to admit it, Benedict did indeed need the support, as his legs were all but failing him, muscles sore from the ride and bones aching within. Sophie followed closely behind as they all entered the inn while the stableboy returned to tend to Danae.

The Wayside Inn was warm and charming, an undeniable refuge from the wailing storm outside. The man with Benedict did not stop at the front desk but continued straight down a candlelit hall and guided Benedict, stumbling, into a room. Sophie turned to the man at the desk. He was white-haired and rotund, with mutton chops and kind eyes.

“Don’t worry, Miss,” he spoke gently. “We’ll see that the gentleman is taken care of. I’m the innkeeper, Mr. Cooper,” he smiled.

“Thank you Mr. Cooper. I’m Miss Sophie Beckett.” Sophie was suddenly aware of how awful she must look, like a drowned rat with her clothes dripping pools onto the floor, but he did not seem to take notice.

Mr. Cooper bent and scribbled something in his ledger. “And the gentleman you are with, the boy said he’s a Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Yes,” Sophie nodded. She had sent the stable boy inside to fetch help and had shared his surname, hoping it would carry a weight deserving of urgency. “Mr. Benedict Bridgerton,” she confirmed. He scribbled again and she continued. “He was delivering me here before continuing on to Aubrey Hall. But he has fallen ill. We will need two rooms for the night, and can you send word to the Hall in the morning to send a carriage to collect him?”

Mr. Cooper nodded, “Aubrey Hall, yes, yes. I’ll send a boy there as soon as the rain stops. Cost for the two rooms…” He stopped writing and looked up as she began to dig into her small, soaked bag. “Cost will be charged to the Bridgerton estate. I’ll send the bill with the boy tomorrow.”

Sophie froze. The innkeeper likely assumed she was a maid employed by the Bridgertons and as such, Benedict would pay for her. That or he was extending her a courtesy and being incredibly diplomatic about it. She had the coin to afford a night in a modest room of the inn but could not afford two. It did make sense for Benedict’s expenses to be charged to his estate but she should pay her own way. She decided not to confuse the matter. She would settle up with Benedict, paying him in reimbursement.

She thanked Mr. Cooper as the man in the apron returned to the entryway. “Follow me, Miss,” he beckoned her down the same hall and into a large guest room.

This was far more than the modest tier of room she could afford. It was clearly one of the inn’s finest accommodations reserved for upper class guests with a four poster bed, upholstered armchairs and a fire roaring away in the tiled fireplace. Sophie stood in the doorway gaping but before she could protest, the man explained. “Mr. Bridgerton requested that you have the room next to his.” There was, she detected, a tone of curiosity and perhaps a bit of snideness to his voice. No doubt he wanted to know why a bedraggled housemaid had shown up with a distinguished member of the ton and was being granted such luxury. She too wanted to know why Benedict had requested this.

“You will also need some dry clothes,” the man continued. “I have sent one of the maids to find a spare night dress.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said weakly, overwhelmed.

The man half-smiled, half-grimaced, then closed the door. The warmth of the fire beckoned her and she went to stand before it, holding her hands as close to the flames as she dared. She peeled off her damp cloak and smoothed her hair to look halfway presentable. She sat before the fire, warming herself and staring about the beautiful room. There certainly was no way she could afford to reimburse Benedict now. But, she reminded herself, if it was his request to have her stay in this room, she supposed he planned to pay for it as well.

Without warning, she found herself inexplicably in tears. She cried for what could have been her fate that evening, and she cried for what had been her fate ever since her father died. She cried for the memory of when Benedict held her in his arms at the masquerade, and she cried because she had held him in her arms this very night.

She cried because he was so damned nice, and even though he was clearly ill, even though she was, in his eyes, nothing but a housemaid, he still wanted to care for her and protect her.

She cried because she hadn’t let herself cry in longer than she could remember, and she cried because she felt so alone.

And she cried because she’d been dreaming of him for so very long, and he hadn’t recognized her. It was probably best that he did not, but her heart still ached from it. Eventually her tears subsided and she eyed the bed, feeling the weight of exhaustion descending on her. God above, a feather mattress and down coverlet looked like heaven on earth. She hadn’t slept in such comfort in years. But first, she should look in on Benedict.

Stepping out into the hall, she approached the door she had seen him led into. She knocked and called out quietly, “Mr. Bridgerton?”

A muffled sort of groan replied, which would have sounded like an invitation if it had been intelligible. She let herself inside and closed the door. Benedict was sprawled in an armchair before the fireplace, feet resting on the small table in front of him which held a decanter and glass half-full of some spirit. His outer coat had been removed but he was still in all of his sopping clothes, waistcoat unbuttoned and cravat hanging loose. He was pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and his disheveled hair continued to send rivulets of rain down the sides of his face. He clearly had collapsed there upon arrival and not moved since.

“How are you, sir?” She asked.

His eyes rolled slowly to look at her. “Not too well,” he rasped.

The fire he sat beside was not as tall as the one in her own room, Sophie noticed. She moved across and knelt, turning the logs with the poker. “You need to get warm,” she said. She could feel his eyes on her and suddenly wondered if it was dangerous to remain in the same room as him. She didn’t think he was likely to make an untoward advance; he was far too much of a gentleman to foist himself upon a woman he barely knew. No, the danger lay squarely within herself. Frankly, she was terrified that if she spent too much time in his company she might fall head over heels in love.

And what would that get her? Nothing but a broken heart. Sophie huddled in front of the fireplace for several minutes, stoking the flame until she was confident that it would not flicker out. “There,” she announced once she was satisfied.

She turned to look up at him. For the first time that night she could see his face clearly in the bright light of the fire. She held her breath, seeing how simultaneously similar but still how different he looked from the vision in her dreams. When they first met he had been wearing a mask, the same as her, and she had only seen his full face for one fleeting moment after the gong had sounded and before she had run away. She had had to construct his face in her mind from that single moment and often found it easier to remember him in the mask. But here he was, in the flesh. His mouth was the same as her memory, his eyes the same piercing blue-grey, bloodshot as they may be at the moment. But to see all his features together, they were greater than the sum of their parts. He looked older now, slightly more world-weary, and like he smiled less often. His hair too was shorter, lending to him an air of increased responsibility, making him look less wild and boyish.

“Thank you for the room,” she said softly. “I could have paid for my own.”

“No,” he croaked, reaching for the glass on the table. “I needed to make sure you were somewhere warm. I didn’t get you from the side of the road just so you could die of influenza.”

He took a gulp of the brown spirit, swallowed, but then began to cough anew, the spasms wracking his body and forcing him to bend over at the waist.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton,” she could not help commenting, “but of the two of us, I should think you’re more in danger of contracting influenza.”

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, “I-”

“There’s nothing to feel sorry about,” she said. “You need to get into bed.”

He swallowed convulsively and nodded, rising unsteadily to his feet, and managing to plod over to the bed. He bent over as he was once again engulfed by coughs. Sophie hurried to his side and stumbled under his weight when he decided to lean against her instead of the bedpost.

“Over here,” she guided him to sit on the edge of the mattress.

He grinned, “You coming?”

She pulled back, “Now I think you’re feverish.”

He lifted his hand to touch his forehead, but he smacked his nose instead. “Ow,” he frowned, sticking out his lower lip. His hand crept up to his forehead. “Hmmm, maybe I am a bit hot.”

It was horribly familiar of her, but his health was at stake, so Sophie reached out and touched her hand to his brow. It was burning. In fact, she could feel the heat radiating off the whole of his body from where she stood. “You need to get out of those wet clothes,” she said. “Immediately.”

Benedict looked down, blinking as if the sight of his sodden clothing was a surprise. “Yes,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe I do.” His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, but they were clammy and numb and kept slipping and sliding. Finally, he just shrugged at her and said helplessly, “I can’t do it.”

“Oh, dear.” she sighed. “Here,” First things first, she pulled his jacket down from his shoulders and he moved his arms to help her slip it off. It felt as if it weighed ten pounds, it was so wet. Next was his waistcoat, a lovely deep blue color with a gold brocade. Then her fingers went to work on his cravat, golden yellow silk held together with a jewel encrusted pin in the shape of a honeybee. She knelt before him, gently tugging the knots loose. He gave her a lopsided smile, his voice slurring, “Not very…” he coughed again, this one lower and deeper than before. “...gentlemanly of me.”

“Oh I think I can forgive you this time, considering the way you helped me this evening.” She smirked at him as she pulled the cravat loose, the wrapped layers slipping around his neck until it was freed. All that was left was his ruffled shirt. She made quick work of the buttons, gritting her teeth and doing her best to keep her gaze averted as each undone button revealed another two inches of his skin. “Almost done,” she muttered. “Just a moment now.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, so she looked up at his face. His eyes were closed and his entire body was swaying slightly.

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked softly.

Benedict’s eyes flew open. “What?”

“You’re drifting off,” she warned him. “You can’t fall asleep in wet clothing.”

He blinked confusedly.

“Have you something dry you can change into?” she asked.

He shrugged the shirt off, tossing it to the floor. Sophie felt her stomach lurch, kneeling before him as he sat there shirtless, and she instinctively stood and stepped back.

“No,” he mumbled, his hands falling to the buttons on his waistband.

“What are you doing?”

He looked over at her as if she’d asked the most inane question in the world. “Taking my trousers off.”

“Couldn’t you at least wait until I’d turned my back?”

He stared at her blankly.

She stared back.

He stared some more. Finally, he said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to turn your back?”

“Oh!” she yelped, spinning around as if someone had lit a fire under her feet.

Benedict shook his head wearily as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots and stockings. God save him from prudish misses. He stripped off his trousers - not an easy task considering they were still more than a little damp and he quite literally had to peel them from his skin. Once he was undressed, he quirked a brow in the direction of Sophie’s back. She was standing rigidly, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.

With surprise, he realized the sight of her made him smile. Overwhelmed by descending exhaustion and the aching of his entire body, he grabbed the edge of the coverlet, dragged it over himself, sagged back against the pillows and groaned.

“Are you all right?” Sophie called.

He made an effort to say, “Fine,” but it came out more like, “Fmmph.”

He heard her moving about, and when he summoned up the energy to lift one eyelid halfway open, he saw that she’d moved back to the side of the bed. She looked concerned.

For some reason, that seemed rather sweet. It had been a long time since any woman who wasn’t related to him had been concerned for his welfare.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to give her a reassuring smile. But his voice sounded like it was coming through a long narrow tunnel. “Go to bed,” he grunted.

“Are you certain?”

He nodded. It was getting too difficult to speak.

“Very well. If you need anything, just call out.”

He nodded again. Or at least he tried to. Then he slept.

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @eg-dr3amer3 @time-to-hit-the-clouds @lyta2323 @autumn-grace @sadprose-auroras @the-other-art-blog @goldrambutan @colettebronte @heeyyyou @musicismyoxygen84 @faye-tale @ambitionspassionscoffee @starchaser325 @malna4903

#let me be your anchor #an offer from a gentleman #benedict bridgerton x sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #sophie beckett fanfiction #benophie #benophie fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #head canon

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butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway · 1 year

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So if you're making a food forest, you need to gently noodge the land towards something that looks a little like this

using all edible plants. Or at least all plants that function towards the goal of food production for someone or something within the forest.

Because we intend to make biomes within our food forest for each livestock pasture, tailored to the needs of the animal that lives there, we'll want each biome of the food forest that we rewild to feed either us or the pastured livestock intended to live there.

Take the chicken biome

At it's barest foundations, the chicken biome is centered around the following plants:

Mulberry and weeping mulberry trees, fig trees, yucca, raspberry and blackberry bushes, climbing roses, nasturtium, pumpkin and squash, wormwood, oregano, thyme, lemonbalm, yarrow, comfrey, clover, sage, plantain leaf, rosemary, dandelion, beebalm, echinacea, calendula, turnips, carrots, and beets

While the final ecosystem we cultivate will obviously have far more biological diversity than that, these are the starting blocks of the biome. Functional plants that chickens and humans both love to have easy access to, including some that help us measure the environmental impact of the chickens themselves.

While there will ideally be lots of room to range free during the days, the goal is still to coop the chickens at night, so a recycled wood coop with climbing roses trellised on it, recycled crates for nesting boxes, and hay or wood chip litter. Some chicken friendly puzzles around, a few climbers/perches, and a watering trough hooked up to a rainwater collection system. We want them to lay their eggs in the nesting boxes as often as possible because frankly I don't plan to go egg hunting in the biome or cracking open fertilized eggs that were laid fuck knows how long ago because who knows how long it took me to find them. So obvi we need the chickens to like the coop as much or more than they like the biome lol. And considering the biome will be really nice, this will involve both training and a serious dedication to making that coop a lil chicken heaven.

The form of all these things obviously can not be determined until there is actually specific land to be cooperated with for a variety of fairly philosophically overwhelming reasons. But having the amorpheous theme of what will need to take shape when that day comes is exceptionally helpful to hitting the ground running, so to speak. It lets me build up my ecosystem mentally beforehand so that I can begin as much of that rewilding work as soon as possible and let nature take its course with little nudges and suggestions from me. By far, my preference I think in how to tackle all of this.

And the really cool part for me is going to be seeing it all come to life and getting to cultivate my home into a symbiotic wilds.

#chicken biome #references #food forestry

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centeris2 · 6 days

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just played the update so you all get to suffer my thoughts

Gonna preface this with I fully support and want SSO to reuse and recycle events. I love when SSO went "we're decorating the mall and Silverglade Village again for Christmas! Not changing the quests even remotely!" I loved that, I loved the feeling of 'tradition' (or something familiar to look forward to) as it happened year after year. Not to mention it made things easier on the team.

Okay, now that is out of the way:

Camp Western

I'm sorry Camp Western but you were at a disadvantage because I was not in a mood for an event, I feel like we just finished the Spring Event and I'm so tired and do not have time or brain space for an event. I also have no inventory space so anything giving me player items is not something I want to do right now because my backpack only has so much space left. But I overall really liked the western event last year, and I was like 45 XP from hitting level 27, so gonna do it.

(Yeah, level 27. It's mind boggling, idk what happened.)

I am relieved Camp Western looks to have nothing new added to it, other than new gear (which I will skip due to the "no inventory space" thing.)

Now to the actual stuff:

I feel like all the stuff that made Camp Western really cool last year isn't there anymore. Which is hard to believe because nothing changed about the event.

Coming off the Spring Event where races gave you 800 horse xp, not having anything comparable feels... lacking. I'm sure their logic is "Camp Western has unlimited Horse XP because of the gold!" which is true.

But if I wanted to run around in circles getting 2 hxp per shiny thing, I could do that in the Hollow Woods, without the threat of things attacking me. There is also wisps, rune tablets, and crafting plants to pick up.

Want to grind gold for shillings? Also not Special anymore, I can do that in Hollow Woods harvesting light or around the map picking plants without being chased. Not that being chased matters for me right now, I ended up with like 70+ beast repellents last year somehow.

Want something to do with mini games for as long as you feel like being in game? Hollow Woods, again! Or anything in game that triggers a 'cut scene' now has the same basic mini game.

300 horse XP for collecting the horses around Firgrove? Ehh, why do that when I can repeat the races around the ranch, Firgrove, or anywhere else that doesn't involve getting chased by things. 300 horse xp isn't a lot anymore when you can repeat a race, or when past events gave 800 horse xp in a single race. 800 horse xp in like a minute, or 300 horse xp that requires trading an item (albeit one that isn't hard to get) and finding the horse and dealing with dangers and leading it back? Ehh it just...

Idk. I don't want to say past events were too generous and too easy in terms of rewards, but it doesn't feel as rewarding, ya know?

Additional caveat: I have like over 3k gold from last year and over 1k summer tokens because I did all the activities and token exchanges every day, so I am rolling in tokens. However! This is exactly WHY I did that! So I could go "ehh, I don't have the time/energy/interest in this event, I got enough tokens and gold to buy what I want if a pet comes out, and I can be on my merry way."

I do like that they've increased the stack sizes for things, so all my gold can be in one stack now (and I could condense my lures and beast repellents). I also do like that it is basically a repeat. Yes, I am still calling that a net positive.

I had other complaints but they were mostly bugs unrelated to Camp Western, like hot keys not working.

Oh I'm really glad they've just gone to "season tokens" rather than having every event every year have a unique currency. That was annoying. That's not new I'm just happy about it.

Also what is this weird black cloud thing that we can hide in. I don't understand it. Do the wolves lose interest if we pass through it, do we have to stay in it, does it only work if we aren't detected already? Why does SSO insist on having like 5 different versions of a stealth mechanic and they are ALL different.

TL;DR - The neat things they tested out with Camp Western last year they added to the game permanently, which makes Camp Western not feel special anymore because you can do basically the exact same mechanics elsewhere (possibly for better/easier rewards too oopS)

#sso #ssoblr #don't mind me I'm talking #well it's been a while since I've done a random 'I played the update now I'm going to word vomit about it'#now to report a bunch of bugs to sso because why can't I use hotkeys sso #what's the point of having hotkeys if you make me use the radial menu SSO #it's annoying sso #I don't LIKE IT SSO.#also I forgot the bug where when you level up all the dailys reset which leads to hilarious things #no proofreading we die like men

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abi-cosmos · 11 months

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Abi’s weekly Destiel fanfic retreat!

kissing is the most fun dean winchester can have without taking his clothes off (but it’s better if he does)

Dean should've kissed Cas before the empty took him...

Finally, he gets another chance.

tags: non-graphic smut, post confession, sex in the impala, top Cas/bottom Dean.

you can read this drabble on ao3, or below!

Kissing has always been instinctual for Dean, it follows a rhythm.

Firstly, you meet someone. They’re hot; they get you buzzing in all the right ways and maybe you buy them a drink. Soon enough, their touch comes and the night is written in the way they soften their eyes.

A move is made, often by Dean, but sometimes he’s just along for the ride.

Sparks fly, kisses deepen, the desire to tighten and feel and pull becomes overwhelming, then it’s kaboom; over and adios.

He was used to it.

But somewhere along the road, he stopped wanting it and never bothered to question why. Hell, it was easy to blame age and hunts, until the reason—the real reason—was swallowed by a chasm right in front of him.

It’s hilarious that life is often a bag of dicks like that.

There was a list of questionable people he'd kissed—demons, Sammy’s girlfriends, his Dad’s past hookups, djinn nightmares—but his biggest regret was the one that he didn’t.

The one that got away.

Thinking about Castiel like that goes deeper than any touch he’d ever experienced, and he does think about it. In fact, he thinks about it most nights until the whiskey knocks him out. It hurts more than every cut, bite, or broken bone, because Cas was the one that got away, and Dean didn't do squat to stop it.

Which is why he’s here now. Why he’s followed every lead he could find, made as many deals as he could, and ended up right where all this started. An abandoned fill up joint in a town nearby to Pontiac, Illinois, with nothing but disbelief in his eyes.

“Dean.” Castiel murmurs his name, low and quiet, and for some reason it feels like nobody has ever said it before him, and nobody ever will again.

Fuck, it feels good to hear his voice.

Dean walks up to him before he can stop himself, grabbing him with one hand and pulling him into a hug. It’s really him, his body has weight and his chest moves with each movement of his lungs. He’s warm too, his breath catches on Dean’s neck and leaves goosebumps in its wake, and he curves inside Dean’s arms, because he’s real.

Over and over again, for nine months, Dean clutched and grasped and was defeated at every turn, waking up in cold sweats with empty liquor bottles littering his bedroom like a friggin’ glass recycling plant.

He had tried to move on; sought a normal life for Cas. He couldn’t do picket fences, but he could help Sam put up his. They’d toasted to him most nights, until the weeks grew into months, and suddenly Dean found himself alone in the bunker. Raising a glass to the love that only he knew he’d lost.

Sam’s invites came every day, they still do, but Dean wasn’t gonna blacken his brother’s days with Eileen. He was happy, and he deserved every second of it.

Cas rests a hand on Dean’s back, reigniting the familiarity of this; of being held by him. Nobody ever warns you when it’s the last time, when to memorise how gentle or rough they are, how warm or cold, or if they use fingertips or the palm of their hand to hold you to them.

This hug is light. Cas doesn’t squeeze or grip too hard. Probably afraid; worried about everything he said the last time they saw each other.

But he doesn’t need to be.

Dean closes his eyes, nestling into the crook of Cas’ neck. He breathes in the smell of smoke and wood and something he never could put his finger on, and it’s so Cas. He chokes, twelve years hitting him hard and fast; the tear rolling down his cheek doesn’t even register.

“I’m sorry.” Dean says under his breath and with a tremble on his voice.

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Cas replies quietly. He’s still holding tension in his body. Uncertainty, maybe. It’s a barrier between them, one Dean could knock down if he could just clear his head. But all he feels is Cas. All he knows is that Cas is here, in his arms, and he ain’t ever letting go.

“I missed you, man,” Dean says with a fraction of how bad he actually means it. Needing to be as close to him as he can physically get, he squeezes. If Cas didn’t come with the strength of an angel, Dean would’ve probably crushed the life out of him, wanting every bone to connect and fuse.

But Cas can take it, he can take every bit of Dean and then some; he’s proved it time and time again.

“I tried to get you out.” Dean says with the anger of someone who is being questioned, except nobody is asking anything of him. But Cas doesn’t know, he doesn’t know how hard Dean tried, how badly he wanted him here. He doesn’t even know why Dean’s stomach is upside down and trembling.

“Dean—”

“And I never, never, stopped loving you. Not once.”

Cas freezes in his arms, but Dean can feel the hard swallow down his throat that comes with hearing the admission. He doesn’t ask Dean to clarify, because he’s good like that, he knows Dean inside out. Accepts that Dean won’t wanna talk about this, what Dean wants is to do something about it.

Their grip naturally loosens enough for their eyes to meet, and Dean’s breath hitches at the sight of him. He's flesh and blood. His big, blue, open eyes staring as deep as they always do. Soft at the corners, curious at the center; he blinks because he’s alive, and narrows his eyes.

“You…you’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” Dean asks, moving a hand around Cas’ neck and triangling over his face. Checking for the final time that he’s real. “You don’t tell a guy all that and then leave.”

“What else was I meant to do?”

Dean hears his cue, taking a deep breath and wetting his lip. “Take a guess,” he replies.

“Dean—”

On second thought, Dean does it for him. Cutting him off like he should’ve done a year earlier. Stops him from saying anything that might detour things to a place where they're no longer touching, because that would be wrong.

It’s somewhere around the realisation that Cas is kissing him back that his brain slows down, and his body takes over.

There’s the drum of Cas’ heart against his, a rapid beat that is felt in the way their lips harden against each other. Not with disinterest, but with too much. His hands have already bunched up the fabric of Cas’ trenchcoat from where they’ve taken residence on his hip, and he’s white knuckling to stop his knees from buckling.

They move into each other, and Dean's acutely aware that it’s Cas’ nose pressed against his own, and the roughness on his cheek is from the stubble along Cas’ jaw.

Fuck. He’s kissing Cas. This isn’t some dream, it’s real.

“Cas.” Dean mumbles his name, leaving their lips touching—not wanting to venture too far in case they’re ripped apart.

“I know,” Cas replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean kisses him again. He kisses him pressed up against the Impala, with none of his blood available except for what's now in his pants. He'd be embarrassed, maybe, if Cas wasn't pressing into him twice as hard. He kisses him in the backseat, with hands interlaced and skin on skin. He kisses his shoulders, kisses his collarbone, kisses his wrist and his hands and his neck and his nose, only stopping to scoot down the cushion and gasp when Cas fills him in the literal sense.

Tangible and undeniable. Cas is shaking, mumbling Dean's name like a broken record, clearly just as mystified as Dean is that this is happening. His face flushes, and he lowers it with heavy breaths, both watching as his hips take him in and out from between Dean's thighs.

It's messy, it's noisy, it's sweaty. It's all these things, because they are fucking with a capital F.

“Kiss me.” Dean requests, already nudging Cas' chin up as their bodies sink and snap into one another at quickening speeds, chasing the orgasm that they both desperately want and need.

Castiel does, his body jolting as he fills Dean with a pleasure that'll be felt for days, leaving handprints over the upholstery as he clutches onto it. The kiss isn't stable, and Dean lets him break away only to watch him shudder and groan as each wave passes over him. When Cas' eyes are open, looking at him like he came to life in this very car, Dean reaches around his jaw and gives him a tight kiss that only stops when he comes over his fist, gasping and moaning and wishing that he didn't need oxygen to live.

Cas kisses him through it, soft and slick, until Dean whimpers with overstimulation. His spent everything left to shiver with the absence of Cas inside him.

In a heap, with the leather of the car seat sticking to him and breathless from everything they just did, they let the afterglow burn their half exposed skin. Dean, spread out with Cas resting on his softer-than-he’d-like tummy, reaches to sit him up and bring him face to face.

“Welcome home.” Dean says, kissing him once on the lips. He tastes salty and he smells like sex, but Dean can't believe it. Not even as Cas wraps him up in large, strong, real arms and sighs against him, one that mirrors Dean's own sense of hurtling confusion. Clinging to him, Dean buries his face over Cas’ shoulder, breathing slow and steady.

He ain’t never letting go.

Also on ao3

#abi's weekly destiel fanfic retreat!#destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #destiel #deancas #fanfic #ao3 writers

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faithfromanewperspective · 5 months

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you know what gets me about climate change action spaces these days? we’ve finally figured out after 30 years that this thing exists but people are still out there acting like (and sure, it’s not their point that they grew up in an individualistic society and they never learned otherwise) we each live in a bubble. and if we just I dunno, recycle a bit more and ride bikes we can fix this? don’t you see how this is just a recycling of Protestant guilt like oh? You used toothpaste in a TUBE not TABLETS or even better made your own? ecological terrorist

and I’m going to say yes this includes billionaires with their private jets. I know it’s a controversial take because yes, the fact that billionaires even exist is fucked up. but these same people will go and demand concerts in their home town, demand new music and new movies all the time and be a fucking asshole to celebrities like do you ever stop and wonder? why they don’t want to fly commercial and risk running into people like you? these same people use the paps that we know would make life very uncomfortable to track the movements of said celebrities. do you wonder why they want more privacy? don’t you think you’d be scared to go outside in public too if you were them? and deeper, don’t you know that guilt doesn’t work?

the thing about ecological collapse and climate change is that they’re not done by individual people, they’re done by systems, and people have varying degrees of power to uphold, create, or change such systems. like for example food, we have a system that exploits places in the global south and uses their prime arable land to grow food for not people, but the animals that those of us in the global north eat, which require 10-15 times as much food and water than if we ate mostly plants and meat only sparingly. some people aren’t ready for that conversation.

and you know why you’re not ready for that conversation? because you’re part of a system of food supply and demand and you’re not ready to admit that, that you have less control than you’d like and it’s turning you into part of the problem without your consent. that’s happening to all of us, and it is a legitimately traumatising thing to feel like that. but it’s the exact same as realising as a white person the existence of systemic racism. what we need to do is come together to dismantle the unhelpful systems and work towards creating something better. and it’s hard but means overall if we do this well, sustainability will be like a second nature. it will be easy. it will be most convenient for us. for those who have been exploited but now we know we can’t and we see the ways exploitation was hidden in our products and services. it will also be convenient for those who have a lot because they’re in the spotlight: they can get their privacy needs met through design. it won’t feed a system that exploits, making those who like to feed that system automatically more sustainable because what they do that isn’t, doesn’t work.

and this isn’t coming easy. yes. it’ll only come through the combined sustained work of the majority of the population. a population who are collectively realising that guilt doesn’t work and realising how to meet our needs. realising that other people and the planet have needs and we need to be an ecosystem that prioritises meeting them. and I think we’re hitting a lot of the criteria to facilitate us getting there. even if we don’t see the fruits of it yet. we just need to collectively connect these dots and then go find each other.

#urban design #sustainable lifestyles #climate action #climate change #climate solutions #getting optimistic for a second and also annoyed

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sabrinasland · 2 months

Text

a quick retrospective on sabrina's career 💭

hiya! some of you might have seen this video already but if not, i highly recommend it:

youtube

two pop culture commentators, Nicky and Coco talk about the slow rise of sabrina's career. they discuss how sabrina's gotten to where she is now, and why a "slow burn," is often times better than an overnight rise to fame.

i wanted to share this video as a jumping off point. i am so tired of certain people invalidating sabrina's career. i want to clear up some misconceptions and ignorant talking points that people make up regarding sabrina's career. more under the cut. ♥️

she is not an "industry plant."

industry plant definition: a pejorative used to describe musicians who ostensibly become popular through nepotism, inheritance, wealth, or their connections in the music industry rather than on their own merits.

list of bullshit haters say:

"sabrina is only famous because of the driver's license drama.."

personally, i cannot stand when people say this. it completely disregards the fact that this drama was very harmful to sabrina's mental and emotional health, as well as her career. you can say that any press is good press but there are people who will forever diminish her as just "the blonde girl." people need to stop acting as if sabrina was done a favor. a favor does not include death threats and a lifetimes worth of hate that she still receives to this day.

2. "taylor (swift) only chose her as an opening act to get back at olivia (rodrigo)" / "sabrina is only opening for taylor because she needed the help and olivia didn't."

pettiness is available to all ages. however, taylor alison swift is a 34 year old woman. she is a well-experienced musician who takes many younger people in the industry under her wing. this statement recycles the bullshit narratives that the media has created about taylor, that she's vindictive and immature. this statement also mischaracterizes sabrina and taylor's relationship. it is not new.

taylor has mentioned sabrina as far back as jingle ball 2017! in 2020, sabrina was sent a cardigan during the release of folklore. later taylor would go on to send sabrina red tv merch. the narrative that taylor suddenly befriended sabrina after cutting ties with olivia rodrigo some point after 2021 is absolute... nonsense (sorry). *and i'm pretty sure there is not even any real conflict between taylor and olivia but i don't follow olivia and ultimately don't care.

so why is sabrina suddenly blowing up? because nonsense is indeed a pop hit! sabrina having a new nonsense outro every night of the emails i can't send tour blew up on tiktok. olivia rodrigo had nothing to do with that. taylor had nothing to do with that. that was all sabrina. feather was a great follow up.

sabrina has been in the music/entertainment industry for ten years now. before emails i can't send, sabrina had already released 4 albums and headlined 3 tours. this means that she had already grown a strong base of fans that has been with her for years, long before emails. has taylor given her a major platform? has she become a mentor to sabrina? absolutely. sabrina has loved her for as long as a lot of us have - since we were young children. that doesn't mean she or anyone else should get credit for the years of hard work that sabrina has put in.

charting does not equal talent. people love to mock sabrina's career by saying she is unable to chart. there are an endless amount of talented musicians that don't get mass radio play or win awards because their record label - if they even have one, is lacking. for years, carpenters railed against hollywood records and wished for sabrina to move to a different label. finally in january of 2021, sabrina signed to island records. so far, they have given her more opportunities. sabrina released a major album with emails i can't send, she has been opening for taylor swift, shes like.. the coolest girl ever. people need to stop trying to invalidate her career and talent.

i know i may be “preaching to the choir” but ty for reading! ｡･ﾟﾟ･ again, i recommend the lovely video above.

#sabrina carpenter #i’m talkin i’m talkin

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embossross · 2 years

Text

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 4 >> Chapter 5 >> masterlist

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: Hanma is serving unhinged this chapter be warned; Murder; Russian Roulette; PTV sex; Slapping, biting and overall violent sexual dynamic (reader to Hanma and it is situationally very appropriate) (I didn’t intend to make Hanma Switchy, but he is now very Switchy); Bad Therapeutic practice (both unethical and inaccurate); prescription of mood stabilizers; gambling; unsafe sex

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~9k

A man lies dead on the floor. He did not die peacefully.

The autopsy will probably credit blunt force trauma to the head, but it might have been a heart attack. The human heart can only withstand so much stress.

The room is dark, curtains drawn tight to block out the sun and prying eyes. There are signs of a struggle: defensive wounds on the deceased, furniture upturned, curtains ripped, TV broken on the ground. A stampede of destruction. A staging.

When the news breaks the story, they’ll float the theory of a burglary. The deceased, Tanigawa Ichigo, was a conscientious citizen with no connections to shady business. A likeable guy in the building, always sorted his recyclables, no different than you or me, except for a couple unwise habits. Neighbors will remember that they cautioned him to bolt his door as crime had been on the rise in the neighborhood; friends will lament that he was always too loud about his future inheritance, that any burglar would be tempted. The news writes itself.

Hanma flicks his cigarette. A trickle of ash rains down. It lands on the upper life of one Tanigawa Iwao, not-so-loving brother of the dearly departed.

The man’s nose twitches, face screwed up in concentration and restraint, but it’s no use. He sneezes away the ash. A little glob of snot lands on Hanma’s shoe. The same shoe that presses into the living Tanigawa’s chest.

They stand and lie respectively in the living room of the deceased’s two-bedroom apartment. Apart from the staged chaos, the room is homey with well-worn magazines on the table, a fraying couch, and mugs of half-drank coffee on the countertops. The living room opens into a small kitchen, where dishes from the night’s dinner sit stacked and unwashed in the sink. If the curtains weren’t closed, the windows would open out to a view of a quiet suburb, the kind with trees planted by the sidewalk and more bicycle traffic than cars.

“Try not to throw your DNA around, Tanigawa. This is a crime scene,” Hanma sighs.

Distantly, Hanma pities Tanigawa Ichigo. As Hanma slammed the man’s head into the wall over and over until the crack of bone and spill of detritus, Ichigo never once considered that his fate was not the result of mere bad fortune, a robbery gone wrong, but rather a deliberate murder. He never fathomed that his younger brother might put a hit out on him. That Toman might come to collect.

Tanigawa Iwao also never once considered that he would be brought to the crime scene to witness the hulking corpse that was once his brother, but Hanma does not feel bad for him. No, watching Tanigawa shiver and cry at the outcome of his own greed is rather funny.

Babbling out a few useless apologies, Tanigawa wipes Hanma’s shoe with his sleeves. Hanma grounds down harder with his foot. It kneads into the space between ribs. He is half-compelled to test Tanigawa’s self-control, dig until the pain trumps fear and the fool can’t resist begging for mercy. Not necessary at this point. He already has Tanigawa’s submission. A bit of fun.

Fun…Hanma remembers it fondly. For the past week, he has lived like a monk, peaceful, obedient, bored. Between you and Kisaki, he is a puppet merrily dancing along to whatever tune his masters demand sung. How much longer until he cuts the strings and becomes a real boy?

He can’t afford to piss off Kisaki, not when the prospect of Mikey is dangled before him. But you are afforded no such protections. This week, he pushed your session back to Saturday since all his focus was needed for his current assignments, but as the day draws near, his body thrums with excitement.

“What do you want?” Tanigawa weeps at Hanma’s feet, the same question he’s been panting for the last half hour.

Hanma squeezes the man’s shoulder reassuringly, and says, “No need for tears! You’re going to get everything you ever wanted. It’s only fair that you give us a little something in return.”

“Anything,” Tanigawa says.

A less intelligent man might interject that he already paid Toman handsomely for their services, but Tanigawa is a sly one. He sees the trap, how he sits in Hanma’s silken pockets. He is probably replaying in his mind the condemning footage Hanma showed him earlier. Footage that showed how involved Tanigawa was in his brother’s murder. Tanigawa is a bad brother but a good son. He can’t break his father’s heart.

“You have access to flight logs in and out of Tokyo-Narita. You’re going to look up a few names for me and share any flights they’ve taken in the last year,” Hanma says. “Not too bad, eh?”

“That’s not going to be…”

“Easy? Well, neither’s getting away with murder, but we do it all the time,” Hanma says.

Here then is the reason why Hanma is slumming it, doling out a hit on a nobody. Tanigawa is a senior IT executive at Tokyo-Narita. A useful pawn if deployed right.

Currently, Tanigawa is useless, breathing heavily and eyes rapidly shifting back and forth. He has been cresting the edge of an anxiety attack for half an hour now, and Hanma is fascinated. He wonders what will finally push the man over. Not that Hanma enjoys when his associates (read: victims) descend into a messy anxiety attack. Impossible to get anything out of them. But, it certainly is interesting.

Hanma’s never personally experienced an anxiety attack.

Loud beeping sounds from the burner in his pocket. Hanma answers when he sees it’s Hakkai calling.

“It’s loud in here. Might be hard to hear you,” Hakkai shouts over a throbbing roar of noise. “How’d things go on your end?”

Hanma tells him about Tanigawa. “I just gave him the list. Anyone who’s so much as breathed air in the same room as the Haitanis, hell anyone who’s heard of the Haitanis. We’ll know where they’ve been flying.”

“Assuming they flew out of Tokyo-Narita.”

“Assuming they didn’t take a fucking boat,” Hanma concedes.

Tanigawa peers up at Hanma with big, beseeching eyes, like he might parse some useful clues from this conversation. Irritated, Hanma kicks him in the ribs – a love tap though you wouldn’t know it by the way the idiot moans – and moves to the bathroom.

The mirror reflects the struggle of the last hour. His suit jacket is crumpled, a few scratches on his wrists from where Tanigawa-the-dead fought back, a bloody lip, and hair tangled in clumps. Tanigawa was a big guy and managed to head butt him before Hanma regained the upper hand. Hanma wets his gloved fingers and runs them through his hair, carefully styling the errant curls back into place. The building’s security cameras are all disabled, and he’s already wiped the scene of DNA evidence, but there’s no need to alarm the neighbors when he leaves.

“I found one of their accounts,” Hakkai tells him. “Only got a couple hundred million yen in there though, so definitely not all of it. Koko’s digging into where they could be laundering money. They have so many rich-boy contacts though, it might take a while.”

“I still say we grab the little one,” Hanma sighs. So much roundabout espionage when the simplest solution lay before them.

“Not even you could get them to talk,” Hakkai says, which is among the rudest comments ever directed his way. Hanma sees himself bristle in the bathroom mirror. “Honestly, we should have just brought them into Toman in the early days. Wouldn’t need all this running around now.”

“Kisaki doesn’t like them,” Hanma says.

A decade out from their delinquent days, the Haitanis remain a wildcard in Roppongi. Mikey almost extended an offer for them to join as executives, bringing their vast network of intel and experience into the fold, but Kisaki cautioned against it. To Mikey, he warned that the Haitanis would never bend the knee, would plot against him; to Hanma, he admitted that the Haitanis would accept Mikey as their king but would battle him for second place.

Forced out of the fold, the Haitanis can’t be classified as yakuza. They work freelance for the city’s elite with a small gang of hired help beneath them. Mostly bodyguard work for corporate bigwigs, silencing political dissidents, making problems disappear for spoiled trust fund brats. The older one, Ran, is stylish, charming, the kind of man who puts suits at ease and gets the job done. They accrued a small fortune sucking up to the already powerful.

Partnering with the HJK would be an out of character play on their part as it would risk the little empire they curated. Neither Haitani is that stupid…

…But it might be their only chance to come out on top of the criminal underworld once again, and Hanma doesn’t doubt they are tempted.

“Well, anyway, none of this would matter if that pisspot Sendo could keep his eyes on the pretty fuckers like he’s meant to,” Hakkai gripes.

“They’re good. Hard to tail,” Hanma says.

He doesn’t add that Sendo is torn between two jobs at the moment, answering to two masters. Earlier that day, Sendo called to let him know that he is failing just as miserably at bugging your apartment. Restricted by Hanma’s order not to break the door down, Sendo hasn’t been able to force his way in. And neither you nor your boyfriend are incautious enough to open the door to a stranger.

Frustrating, the not knowing how you spend your time when he isn’t there. At least Hanma expects a debrief about your boyfriend any day now. You act like you chose your boyfriend on a whim, as if you won him at a carnival and thought you might as well take him home. But still, there might be clues to unravelling you somewhere in his background.

Unravelling you would be fun. At night, Hanma sometimes falls asleep, imagining you are like a tangled clump of necklaces, the various strands tangling and overlapping. He imagines plucking each one, testing the tangle, pushing this way and that to see if there’s any give. Find the right strand, move it in the right direction, and the whole messy thing will unwind in his fingers.

Exiting the bathroom, Hanma spots Tanigawa bent over his brother’s corpse with a look of twisted interest. One hand hovers over the pulp of the softened skull.

Hanma rolls his eyes and covers the phone for a moment. “What did I tell you about throwing your DNA around?”

Tanigawa scrambles back and starts blathering promises to run the list through the airport database first thing in the morning. Hanma waves his hand dismissively, already halfway out the door. No neighbors spot him, which is convenient. He shoots a text to some of his men to revert the building cameras once Tanigawa leaves and exits out into the dry heat.

The sun beats down cruelly, unseasonably warm for a July day. The streets are empty. Everyone with a cool office or apartment has retreated inside to escape its rays. Hanma likes the heat, likes the hot soreness on the back of his neck as his skin begins to burn, likes staining his crisp suits with streaks of sweat for someone else to wash.

“Do you have plans on Saturday?” Hakkai asks.

Hanma swings one leg over his motorbike – parked several blocks away from the crime scene – revs the engine. “Why?”

A passing grandmother stares at the incongruous image he makes with his suit and motorcycle. He smiles blandly.

“I wanna try a new restaurant in Chiba. I’ll treat,” Hakkai says.

Frowning, Hanma says, “I’m busy.”

“Oh, okay, cool. Some other time then.”

Technically, Hanma isn’t lying. You and he have a date on Saturday. And it’s long overdue. The bike takes off, leaving the scene of the crime long behind him.

- - -

The sky is a serene blue, almost spotless. Despite the lack of shade, the humidity is manageable, and the sun is low. People flock to the streets to experience a perfect summer day. Maybe that’s why you texted him to move your appointment.

Rather than meet at your stuffy office, you told him to meet you in Fuchū, at the Tokyo Racecourse. It is the offseason, so no major races today, just low-grade horses and the low-grade losers who will bet on anything.

Normally, when he comes to the track, Hanma goes to one of Toman’s reserved boxes. Kisaki loves horses, loves the process of building one into a winner, and has had moderate success. One horse even placed in the Tenno Sho a few years back. The boxes are air conditioned with staff to serve food and party favors or take bets as needed.

You were not waiting in a private box. Hanma found you halfway up the main grandstand, precisely in the center. A spot that affords you the illusion of privacy as the closest patrons sit several rows away.

Directly below the viewstand, is the track. There is a grass course that stretches in an oblong for a mile and a quarter. Then, the slightly shorter dirt track for other races. You can see the finish line and the winner’s circle from your seats. The video screen – the largest not just in Tokyo but in the world – projects a horse stamping calmly toward the starting gates where a host of retainers wait to prep it.

For the last fifteen minutes, you both have been sharing impressions and opinions about Crime and Punishment. Hanma will not admit that the story is fresh in his mind, only finished last night in a feverish sprint to get his homework done before seeing you again. Better you think him a swot than too stupid to read a fucking book.

“Did you relate at all to the reason Raskolnikov killed the pawnbroker?” you ask him.

“Do I relate? I stayed in that sad-sack’s brain for hundreds of pages, and I don’t even know why he did it.”

“Does murder always have a logical motive?”

“Suppose you’re saying it’s for emotional reasons. You really are a shrink.”

Not that you look it today. You dressed for the track in all white, loose-fitting clothes, linen pants and cotton shirt. Something a tourist might wear to the beach. It is the most casual he has ever seen you.

With his eyes, he traces the lines of fabric, how they skate over and obscure your curves. He thinks it might be intentional, a pretense put on that you don’t even have a body. Nothing there for him to lust after. Your mistake as Hanma has a vivid imagination.

“I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer. Some people focus on Raskolnikov’s alienation from society, how miserable the city and his circumstances are. Some people focus on the psychological, on his belief in himself as special. Both are true to me, nature and nurture and all that,” you say.

The hollow at the base of your throat throbs and deepens as you speak. He might thrust his tongue into the little hole it creates, drink the sweat from the chalice of your skin, drift lower until he mouths fabric. Your outfit leaves no openings: shirt tucked into pants, sleeves tight at the wrist, neckline flat. No way to reach your skin without undressing you entirely, without tearing something open with his teeth.

Cold biting anger creeps into his stomach as his imagination encounters this obstacle. So much time and energy spent to deny himself when he should be using those resources to fulfill his desires. Anger at your continued paltry defenses against him.

“Fine then,” he bites out. “Did I relate to the reason? On the surface, sure. Stealing when you need money is as natural as eating when you’re hungry. To be fair, I wouldn’t need to murder some little old lady to get her money – people underestimate how much this is a skilled profession – but also, sure, if I had to kill her, why not? But all that garbage he spouted about Napoleon, about being above the law because you’re such a special boy who’s going to change the world? Bullshit.”

“You never justify your actions on the basis that you’re special?”

“I never bother to justify my actions at all! Why should I?” Hanma retorts. “The worst are those guys that run around talking about the strong versus the weak all the time. You see them a lot. They’re constantly talking about survival of the fittest. They might as well wear a sign: ‘I’m insecure. Please tell me how big and strong I am.’ It’s not about the strong versus the weak. The weakest motherfucker can get the jump on you. It’s just about…about want. Do what you want, what you choose. So long as you’re prepared to live with the consequences – and I mean real consequences, not those phantoms of guilt you see in the book – then the only human thing to do is act.”

You nod, piercing eyes digging into his own. They give so little away while demanding so much from him in return.

His cock twitches. Hanma can’t decide if your eyes will hold that same power when you are on your knees for him.

“Do you believe you’re special at all? Better than other people?” you ask.

“I guess I’m different, and I don’t like other people all that much. But I don’t walk around thinking how great I am all the time either. It doesn’t matter to me if other people think highly or lowly of me. I never wanted to be number one in Toman or Valhalla or school or anything else. I don’t need respect. Don’t believe I’m going to change the world. I don’t have many opinions about myself in general,” Hanma says.

“That’s surprising,” you frown. “It’s fairly uncommon for people diagnosed with ASPD to not also exhibit traits of narcissism.”

“It’s still narcissistic, isn’t it? I don’t care what others think of me. I don’t compare myself to them. Do you think God thinks highly of Himself? Because I doubt He bothers to think about Himself at all.”

“You think you’re like a god?”

An eastward breeze blows through the stands and ruffles your hair. The strands hover above your neck for only a moment before settling, but they don’t return to their previously pristine positions. There is disgust beneath your façade.

“You’re not listening, Doc. I don’t think much of myself in general,” Hanma chastises. “But I wonder if you can say the same. All that work you put into getting your fancy degree, into becoming independent, someone worthy of respect. I bet you think pretty highly of yourself.”

The way you dress, hold your shoulders at right angles, smile pleasantly with hands folded, these are all choices. You are a construction made up of an amalgamation of choices designed to project the right message, to bolster your status, to protect yourself from demons. Nothing is left to chance, to some inherent instinct at the core that is you. How could you not think highly of yourself when you had so purposefully chosen to be this thing you call yourself?

You shake your head vehemently, a strong reaction by your standards. “Not at all. You’ve got me all wrong. I don’t think I’m anything special. I’m boring, uninspiring even.”

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. You know you’re smarter than just about everyone here,” Hanma says, gesturing around to indicate the other patrons.

“What does that have to do with anything?” you say shortly. “I’m smarter than some people. Others are smarter than me.” And now it’s your turn to gesture around, first pointing to where a jockey is walking the track. “The jockeys are more athletic than me, better with animals. You’re stronger than me, better at…whatever it is you do. And, all these people, I bet most of them go home to loved ones at night, that they touch the lives of the people around them. They’ve known love all their lives and take it as a matter of course. But me? I’m a ghost. People see me, but I can never quite touch them. What’s so special about that?”

Boisterous laughter rises above the dull crest of chatter. Hanma identifies it as coming from a group of young men, university-aged but dressed like day laborers, probably coming together on a day off. They are seated not too far from you both, though he only takes real notice of them now.

Glancing around, Hanma eyes the other patrons that he didn’t bother to observe before. On a weekday, most of the track’s clientele are lone gamblers, addicts who chase after escape. On a Saturday, however, there is more companionship, more reminders that human beings are in fact social animals.

There is a father who’s brought his kids – probably a weekday addict with weekend visitation – bribing them with jelly candies to sit quietly through the race. There is a man dressed for a date, earnestly explaining how the betting cards work to a woman dressed for the office. There is a group of old men that take up an entire row, familiar with each other in a way that suggests decades of shared friendship, surviving marriage, divorce, children, hospitalization, and all the other vagaries of life. No matter how he tries, Hanma cannot picture you joining any one of these groups anymore than he can picture himself.

In short, you and Hanma are surrounded by lives that intertwine and touch each other, while your own lives stretch on in unmeeting parallel.

“I know what you mean,” Hanma says, and he intends it kindly. Neither of you feel quite of this bustling, happy world. It makes Hanma forget he half despises you. “You know, Hakkai asked me to get dinner with him recently.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he does that sometimes. It’s not work related. Sometimes he just asks me to…hang out, I guess.”

“He enjoys your company. I remember how he spoke about you in our interviews,” you say.

“Yeah, but…I don’t know…it’s weird,” Hanma says finally.

“Why?”

As a child, Hanma spent most days in the company of kids his age, but only because the games and entertainment available to children so often required a group. With every passing year, he grew more independent, more reclusive. He liked having people around for fights, then for fucking, or to serve as an audience, the reasons were endless; but there was no need to form bonds with people to achieve those things. Today, if Hanma wants an audience or entertainment, he merely walks into a new bar and the audience casts itself with whoever’s there. The players are interchangeable.

Except.

“Hakkai’s not the first person to want to hang out with me just because, but he’s the first person that…I suppose I could almost…maybe see myself saying yes,” Hanma admits.

Something slimy slips through his guts. Immediate revulsion. Here he is making a confession of unearthed truths, and he didn’t even barter something of equal value from you in exchange. When did he relax around you enough to misstep so needlessly?

“Try it,” you recommend. The cool tone of your voice only exacerbates his growing fury. “Something new is worth exploring, right? At the very least it will be novel. Treat it like an experiment and take him up on the offer.”

Hanma crosses his arms because if he doesn’t, he is going to touch you. Whether that touch will make you cry with pain or pleasure he doesn’t know. No mistakes. He promised Kisaki.

“He only wants to get dinner or drinks or see a movie. I’ve done all that before, Doc.”

“But you’ve never done it with him.”

“So?”

“Doing something for the first time with a new person can change it completely,” you say.

“Ya know, Doc, this sounds an awful lot like more homework,” Hanma says, sly.

A slight dampening of his palms in excitement. Such restraint he showed in waiting to bridge this topic, in letting you relax into your false security as authority and professional. How kindly he allowed you to pretend you aren’t a dripping little slut beneath it all. You don’t show half so much restraint with him as you carelessly prod his buttons, and it’s time he tears yours off completely.

“Tell me,” Hanma purrs. “Were you a good girl this week? Did you do your homework and pet that pretty pussy for me?”

Your eyelashes graze the soft curve of your cheek as your eyes flutter closed. More defensive posturing, now your eyes can’t give you away.

Two points swell against the fabric of your shirt, nipples hard enough to show through your bra. They draw Hanma’s eyes like savory targets, sweet little gum drops for him to chew and suck.

It’s time for you to pony up.

“That’s now how this works between us, and you know it,” you say.

The loudspeakers blare as the start of the race grows near. Hanma didn’t think to place a bet before, and now he regrets it. The way things ‘work between you.’ It’s boring how you insist on repeating yourself, insist on making him repeat himself.

He opens his mouth to snarl at you, almost certain it will be a sincere threat for once, but you speak before he can.

“We’ll bet on it, same as we always do. You win, and I’ll tell you in detail. If I win, you agree to try a mood stabilizer for the next three months. It should soften the swing you experience between depression and mania. This isn’t an official diagnosis per se, but you meet the criteria for bipolar disorder, and I want to see how Lithium impacts your daily experience,” you say.

“Trying to turn me into a vegetable, Doc?”

“No, we’ll monitor closely for side effects. Acute fogginess or mood swings, and we’ll lower the dosage or remove you entirely. You’ll need regular lab work as well. None of which I’ll conduct. I don’t want to diminish you, Hanma. But I do want to give you the tools to lead a better life. I’ve done the research and patients with a diagnosis of ASPD and bipolar depression often benefit from mood stabilizers. I think this could really help you stave off the worst of the boredom and help you manage your impulsivity when you can’t.”

As Hanma considers your suggestion, he stares out at the track. The horses are corralled at the starting gate, blinders around their eyes to soothe their anxiety. Skittish creatures horses, starting at the smallest disruption and requiring protection from the caprices of the world.

He will not be the blind horse. He will not dull his senses and hide from his own interiority because the reality is too frightening, too stimulating.

Though, doesn’t he do just that by his own volition already? Every time he takes a bump or drowns himself in liquor or pussy, isn’t he doing his best to escape a world that doesn’t hold anything for him? If he were to view it as just another pill…

You are an object of fixation for Hanma, not meant to be a person worthy of real judgment or feeling. He shouldn’t care enough to hate you, but in that moment he does.

He despises you. Despises the way you analyze and ascribe meaning to everything he does. Despises the way you confront his passive existence and reveal it as something cold and wanting. Despises that you pretend that there is an alternative out there for him to feeling this way.

“I win and you answer in detail,” Hanma says, each word slow and deliberate. “And you give me your underwear.”

The fingers on your left-hand flex, a little tell, but then they unwind. “That seems fair given how big my prize is if I win.”

After all this time, you still keep him on his toes. He can never predict when you’re going to fight him and when you’re going to submit so perfectly. Your lingerie has also kept him guessing. Not obsessively. But vaguely, between other thoughts, he would wonder what you preferred under your work uniform. Were you the utilitarian, comfortable type? Did you prefer soft silky fabrics or revel in the naughty secret of lace, the thought of which taunted your patients and kept them up at night?

Somehow, he has become no better than the sex pests that frequent your office, clamoring for just a peak at your panties.

He really fucking despises you.

- - -

The stands are quiet now, chatter dying out as the time for the starting bell approaches. Hope is so often silent. It’s dread that deafens you with the noise, so it’s no wonder that your ears are ringing.

The bet is simple. You divide all the horses in the race between you. Whoever chooses the winner onto their roster wins.

Hanma accepts your terms without an argument, though you fear you spot a hint of malice in his eyes. A glint of gold that menaces you.

Prior to this week, you knew nothing about horse racing, but you prepared for this session, reviewing the history of every horse in the race and reading blogs to determine your best angle to victory. Hanma shows less circumspection in his draft, choosing mostly based on name. You almost chuckle when he picks a horse with terrible odds named Smooth Criminal. Typical.

From the stands, the horses appear tiny. The jumbo screen somehow equally fails to capture the size of the beasts and how they tower over the diminutive men that ride them. You saw a horse up close only once on a middle school field trip to a farm, and you remember your dreams of sweet ponies crashing down around you at their sheer scope.

Unlike the sturdy, passive farm horses you once saw, the racehorses are agitated. Preening primadonnas that stomp their hooves and crane their necks toward the crowd, as if they know all eyes are on them in the breathless moments before the race begins.

You fold your hands before your chin. It doesn’t matter now if Hanma can see your nerves. Of course, you’re nervous. You spent the better part of a week debating the best strategy to convince him to try lithium after spending the better part of two weeks consulting with experts about its likely efficacy for Hanma’s case. Your entire treatment strategy rides on the results of this bet.

Not to mention, you are pretty attached to your panties.

The moment before the race begins meanders, as if your nerves have frozen time, as if the few seconds have somehow gotten lost, but then they are off.

It amazes you how much anticipation is built for such a short race. The first furlong is finished in twelve seconds. Two horses draw slightly ahead of the pack. Both – Mezuki and Hiro’s Hero – belong to your team. Smooth Criminal trails not far behind in third place. The gap between the rest of the pack is small but substantial.

The horses thunder around the first turn, tilting precariously. It looks like the jockeys might slide off and be trampled underfoot.

You glance at Hanma. Repeatedly, he fiddles with his glasses, like he might zoom in for an even closer look at the action. His eyes are gleaming. Like, when he raced his car through town two weeks ago, though you could barely bear to open your eyes to look at him then. It is the same manic glee, life returned to a man who walks through the world like a zombie. The only other time you can remember him looking half so alive is when…

Muzzles bent low, the horses focus singularly on the track as it speeds by. Beneath their hooves, it looks like a treadmill cranked up to the highest level, like no animal should be able to move that quickly without the ground assisting underfoot.

Around the fourth furlong, Mezuki loses steam, slowing so that four horses can careen past him. Places three through eight swap constantly as the jockeys lay into their horses’ sides, and they release their last reserves of energy, but Hiro’s Hero remains stubbornly in first place with Smooth Criminal trailing him.

The horses round the last corner, drawing clearly into the crowd’s line of sight. Everyone forgets the jumbo screen with its artificial pixels to focus on the real thing happening before them.

So close to the finish line, and now Smooth Criminal gains a second wind. He gallops tight to the rails, reduces the gap with each bound. The jockey bounces wildly on the horse’s back as he all but flies forward. A hair’s breadth from overtaking Hiro’s Hero.

The excitement from earlier twists into anxiety. You are going to lose after all your thought and research. And then, you are going to burn from the inside out as you tell Hanma in detail just how often you dipped your fingers into your pussy this week, just how impossibly he haunted your fantasies, how tremendously the first orgasm shattered you and your tremulous grasp on ethics. All while you squirm in discomfort, your panties in his pocket.

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

Wildly, your hand seizes Hanma’s. Anything to anchor yourself. Cold rings bite into your fingers, and you retaliate by digging your neatly trimmed nails into his flesh. You both sit so close to victory or loss. He squeezes your hand.

And then…

The race is over. Hiro’s Hero crosses the finish line 0.7 seconds before Smooth Criminal comes in second place.

After that, all the other horses thunder past in a matter of seconds. The stadium is loud as people celebrate or bemoan their bad fortune. There will be another race in fifteen minutes, and all the hubbub will repeat itself, but for now, the event is over.

You breathe heavy. Your heart palpitates, not having gotten the message that you won. The deed is done, and you are victorious. Laughter sticks in your throat, no deeper, stuck in your soul. You pat the back of your neck and collarbones with a handkerchief. The residue of sweat isn’t removed so easily.

Only then do you realize you are still gripping Hanma’s hand and release him.

He is aglow with the same exhilaration. Despite his loss, his mouth is cut into a crooked line that you believe is his true smile, not the shark-like one with all teeth that he uses to intimidate.

This is why you chose to take Hanma to the track. While you admit that you are spiraling now, drawn into Hanma’s web and making terrible choices, there is professional justification for this at least. You determined that he needs to develop a roster of high adrenaline and high reward activities. Then, you can work on replacing his impulses, so that when he’s in the depths of depression, he chooses to bet on the horses rather than take it out on his fellow man. You should also work on lessening the intensity of his mania, not just its outlet.

But you must admit that in the depths of his mania you find Hanma the most beautiful.

The two of you stay for another hour. Hanma helps you place more bets – this time for money – on a number of horses, and you win a few thousand yen, enough for tomorrow’s lunch. Between races, you discuss the dosage, impact, and potential negative side-effects of lithium. Hanma listens to you carefully and without resistance; he lost after all. He is not pleased when you inform him that he will need to reduce and ideally cut out drinking and drugs altogether but does not argue.

While you discuss his treatment, he almost feels like a typical patient, albeit one you’ve met at a horse track. You start to relax into the role within which you spend almost all your time. You feel confident.

The day is still young when you exit the racecourse. Flimsy white clouds layer on top of one another like brushstrokes to block out the sun and paint the day in muted blue tones.

There is no reason not to take the subway home. In fact, it would likely be faster. Still, when Hanma offers you a ride, you accept gratefully. You wish to share a few more ideas about his treatment.

The Bentley from your hellish drag race is gone, and you are reminded at its absence that you vowed that day to never get in a car with this man again. Today, however, he is not planning to get behind the wheel. A sleek black town car pulls up to curb, complete with a driver.

You have never been in a car like this one. The back is partitioned for privacy and there are two rows of seats facing each other, almost like the car is a shrunken limo. You nestle contentedly onto one side as Hanma stretches out on the other. The space is cramped, and your knees knock together.

“I know you’re going to make fun of me for giving you more homework, but I would like you to do one more thing. This one’s critically important, actually. Start documenting how you feel on a scale of one to ten. I have a phone app you can use. If you could log it three times a day at least, but ideally, whenever you feel your mood shifting. Whenever you fall below a four, add a few notes about what is running through your mind. We want to start identifying what your thought patterns look like so that we can replace them with something more productive.”

You show him the app on your phone, and he obediently downloads and creates an account. He even agrees to friend you, so that you can check his log in real time.

“Sometimes people struggle with the number scale because they question their instincts about what number they should choose. So, why don’t we do a test round? Hanma-san, what number would you give yourself right now in terms of mood with ten being the best and one the worst?”

Hanma doesn’t take more than a second to answer. “A two.”

A little puff of air escapes you like a burst balloon. You were having fun, you realize. You were having fun and therefore assumed Hanma was as well.

“Only a two?”

“Of course, I’m in a foul mood,” Hanma confirms. His arms stretch out across the seat, taking up his entire side of the car like some enormous bird of prey. “You’re a fucking tease, aren’t you? Getting my hopes up and then crushing them. Didn’t even give me a sniff of your panties to give me a reason to live. Fucking soulless of you.”

Sometimes, when Hanma flirts with you, your insides squirm and dance with pleasure at the attention. Your pancreas becomes the giggling schoolgirl you never were in your youth, your liver a blushing bride, your kidneys twin whores for the sound of his voice. But now there is the threat of meanness behind his words, and you find little reason to delight.

“I’m sorry that you lost our bet, Hanma-san,” you get out through a tight throat. “If you’re struggling with losing, maybe we should play another game. Is there…is there another game you’d like to play?”

Wildly inappropriate, but you vow that you will not bet your underwear or details about how you touched yourself to the thought of him, regardless of what he suggests next. You’ll let him win something to assuage his ego. That’s all.

Hanma smiles, feral and far too happy, and then he does something that drains all the color from the lovely day you were having. Something that leaves you wondering how you could ever have been stupid enough to get in a car with this man.

He pulls out a gun.

“Actually, Doc, I know just the game,” Hanma singsongs. “One round of Russian Roulette for the lady!”

You have only seen a gun once in your life, and that was a smoking gun, just shot into a man’s skull by the very man before you. It may even be the same weapon, though he probably replaced it. How did they even get guns into the country? A stupid question. Your brain is simply spiraling. Anything to avoid confronting the weapon before you. To avoid cataloguing its details, like that it looks like a plastic toy, not the shiny metal you imagined at all. It has a long, straight nozzle – is that even the right term for it? – resembling a stapler that tapers into a fat handle. Your eyes train on the trigger, unable to look away.

There’s supposed to be a safety, right? To stop it from just firing? Was it on now? What did a safety even look like.

The car jolts over a pothole, and you almost vomit.

Hanma opens the chamber, dumping the bullets out before reloading just two. Two death sentences and ten possible pardons.

“You look like you aren’t familiar with the rules, Doc. No need to worry. It’s easy,” Hanma says. “Look, I’ll even go first.”

Before you can summon the strength to stop him, to protest, the gun rises to Hanma’s temple, the little nozzle slotting right into the flesh, and he pulls the trigger.

You don’t hear the click as the gun engages. The sound is drowned out by your strangled little gasp. An image of Hanma but not Hanma blurs before your vision. It is an un-head, a space where a head should be, blood and gore and shattered bone fragments unlike anything you’ve ever imagined.

And then, you’re blinking rapidly, and the image is gone, and it is a smiling Hanma before you. His skull is firmly intact, his handsome face unblemished.

It is not the face of a man but a demon. Only a demon could laugh so maliciously as you slump bloodless against your headrest. You fixate on the cold – the car is frigid, air-conditioning pelting against your numbed legs – anything to protect your fragile psyche from the reality of the demon in front of you.

“You know, this is the twelfth time I’ve played this game. I should be dead now. Maybe next time,” Hanma says.

You stay stubbornly silent. He can playact this little drama all by himself, you won’t give him the satisfaction. Not that you can stop him as he drinks up every quiver of your body with glee. Not that you could speak if you tried through a mouth made of sandpaper.

Hanma extends the gun toward you, but you don’t move.

Sighing, he kneels in front of you on the floor of the car. It rocks as he moves, and you worry again that the gun could misfire.

“Do you need some help, baby? I’ve got you.”

Strange, but you don’t resist as Hanma puts the gun in your hand. You don’t resist as he folds your fingers around the handle and then the trigger. You don’t resist as he draws the gun and hand alike up to your own temple, positioning it for a clean shot.

And, you don’t resist as he presses his finger against yours and the gun fires.

Nothing happens. A great stirring stillness. You didn’t even scream.

You could have died. You almost died.

The realization is building up with the promise of earth-shattering destruction. Had you died, your last thought would have been of nothing, brain too numbed for regrets or memories. No, or rather, you had no memories worth remembering. Your life was a vast desert with only loneliness and missed opportunity to keep you company. You might have died without ever having lied.

You could have died.

Time must have passed while your brain sat on pause because you suddenly become aware of your surroundings. You are now spread across Hanma’s lap, the man almost purring as he strokes your hair in a mockery of comfort.

You know you must be alive because the anger that courses through your veins is too powerful for a dead woman. You slap him with all your strength – not because you want to spare him the pain of a punch but because you can’t wait the half-second it would take to form a fist. No, instead, you are striking him everywhere with an open palm. Twice heavily on his chest, so that he jostles a little against his seat. But you crave skin, so you slap him across the face again and again as the rage possesses you.

“Get it all out, baby,” Hanma murmurs quietly.

He sounds unaffected, like all this means nothing! The answering anger drives you to twist about on his lap, so that your thighs straddle him. Now, you can draw back and put more forth behind your blows. Bright red blooms on his cheek at your next hit.

“Oh, yeah, do that again,” Hanma moans.

You do. Again and again. A little harder each time as Hanma makes little noises and writhes beneath you. Somewhere in your consciousness, you are aware of the way his hips buck a little at each hit, and how they strike like a bullet between your parted legs, but you can only consider where you will hit him next, how to make him hurt.

The next slap is aimed higher, lower on the palm as you target his glasses. You want to shatter them in his eyes, blind him forever. He doesn’t deserve to even look at you. The force knocks them askew, though they remain unbroken.

Completely disheveled with hair tangled in every direction, bright red cheeks, and glasses dangling off his nose, Hanma decides he’s had enough. The next slap is stopped by his much larger hand capturing your wrist. You immediately default to the other, but he stops that one as well. Your hands are effectively disarmed. You struggle wildly, thrashing from side to side and bucking your hips to unseat him, but Hanma weathers it all. He isn’t laughing anymore, but he doesn’t look angry either, at least not as you now understand anger to be a seething beast that can’t be stopped. No, he looks alight with something else.

Hanma can pin you down all he likes, your anger still demands to be fed. It will have blood.

You throw your whole torso forward, heads knocking clumsily. Your teeth find his lower lip easily, a tender piece of meat beneath your front teeth. They close tight around it.

Iron floods your mouth and spills over both your lips. Hanma’s mouth is parted as he grunts loudly, and the noise is swallowed up by your own mouth.

Hanma releases your pinned hands but makes no effort to dislodge you. Instead, they firmly grip your ass, pull you closer into his lap. You tug cruelly at his bleeding lip, and he kneads your flesh in return.

The beast of your anger howls in triumph at every pained breath that escapes Hanma’s lips, and as it sates itself on Hanma’s blood, more feeling returns to you. For example, you acknowledge fully how large and powerful the hands on your ass are, how much territory they cover with spread fingers. Then, there’s the way his hard thigh drives into the core of you, sinful as only a demon could be. And, the hard hot length of him is there, too, pressing into your stomach.

You don’t only hunger for his blood.

Hanma spanks your ass with both hands, hard enough that you release his lip on a shallow gasp. Free for a moment, he rips at your clothes. You instinctively lift your hips to help him, step out of your pants and panties as they slide off, and scramble at the buttons of your shirt so that it slips off your shoulders. You work together to make quick work of his belt.

Helpfully, you arch upwards as Hanma busies himself beneath you. The head of his cock smears across your cunt. It collects wetness you hadn’t realized pooled between your legs, cuts a path through the heat of you.

He is utterly focused on the feel of you, on the feel of his own cock, staring down in concentration. You are more focused on his face. Chin and mouth are covered in blood. The wound is still oozing from how deeply you bit him.

The rigid cock between your legs finds the opening of you and spears through. You aren’t prepped, and it hurts. Despite the inflexible ring of muscle fighting against him, Hanma makes it fit anyway.

The sting is sharp. You lean forward and take the other side of his lower lip between your teeth. It breaks beneath your bite just as easily, leaving him with a second wound like a set of piercings on either side. Hanma hisses at the pain, and you both hover still and pierced by the other.

When the pain in your belly lessens, you relax, and gravity does its job of sinking you lower on his cock. It is large just like everything else on this giant of a man. It doesn’t just not hurt. It feels good.

A shiver starts in your toes and vibrates up your entire body. Ringing pleasure in your nipples. Soothing comfort from the hands that again knead your ass.

You part from his mouth to lift your hips. Deliberately, you ride him in a slow grind that scrapes your clit along his navel and pushes his cock against your back walls.

He touches a place so deep inside you it feels like a secret just discovered.

“That’s it. Use it, baby. Use it however you like,” Hanma moans out.

You accept his offer. You gratefully grip his shoulders to support your slick grind in his lap. He doesn’t try to lead you at all, doesn’t try to encourage you to bounce on his cock. Let’s you shift back and forth until your stomach is squirming and your eyes are watering.

“Use that cock to cum,” Hanma encourages. His helpful hands are wandering now. They squeeze a tit dangling out of your open shirt, tickle your upper thighs, and caress your sensitive sides. “Cream all over me, baby.”

The walls of your pussy clench tight, shutting Hanma up, or at least, transforming his words into stuttering groans. The last thing you need right now is him telling you what to do. No, you’ll cum when you’re ready.

You’ll just sink your weight down fully, so that he spears that heavenly deep spot inside you and circle your hips a few times so that no part goes untouched, raise your hips on each upward grind, so that your clit is rubbed raw, and then…only then…

You cum.

You cum and it is annihilation and it is rebirth in one. Your hips twitch and your muscles tighten around a burst of pleasure that is almost agonizing in its strength. Tears spring to your eyes. You are cumming, and it feels a little bit like heaven might, only it isn’t heaven at all, because this is living. You are alive. There is blood coursing through your veins and nerves lighting up throughout your body because you are alive. And you will live to cum again, and again, and again, whether that be by tongue or cock or your own hand. And you are so unbelievably grateful for it.

Limp like a doll, you slump into Hanma’s arms. His cock is the first anchor, holding firm inside you, and his shoulder the second as you tuck your chin into the crook of him. Spasmodic flinches of pleasure dance through your pussy even as the orgasm ends. Your body is so worked up, and your brain is so very very tired. It is a fog, not so different than how you felt when Hanma pulled the trigger. You hum in contentment.

Hanma lifts your hips up, so strong you don’t fear he’ll drop you for a second and begins to thrust up into the slick of you. Warm, wet breath tickles your ear as Hanma pants through his thrusting. Now that it’s his turn, he uses you hard and fast. Each thrust is a punch that forces the air from your lungs. In other circumstances, it might hurt, but now you just sink into the weight of him inside you, and how that means you are wonderfully and truly alive.

To be stretched and used so thoroughly! To be touched by another person, greedy hands roaming your back, pinching and prodding at soft flesh!

Hanma grunts out what a good girl you are, how well you’re taking him, how hot you feel. It is a kind of lullaby.

A lullaby so soothing that as Hanma loses himself inside you, hot ropes of cum making their home in your body, you have already drifted off to sleep.

#hanma shuji #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #hanma x reader #hanma smut #tokyo rev smut #from his mind to hers #this is a bad time to post but i'm doing it anyway #please heed the warnings #embossross masterlist

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telleroftime · 1 year

Text

Commission ||| Gavin Reed x Reader

- Florist/Tattoo Artist AU -

A florist and a tattoo artist. Two starkly different careers, yet somehow they tend to intertwine, especially when one needs an outside opinion to push their work forward.

——————————————— Request - Anonymous : Can you please do a romantic Tattoo Artist ! Gavin x Florist ! Reader?

Pairing: Tattoo Artist ! Gavin Reed x Florist ! Gender Neutral ! Reader

Relationship: Romantic

Tone: Fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

Oneshot Masterlist

———————————————

Gavin’s apartment sat in a mist of evening heat, the sharp rays of the setting autumn sun filtering through the gaps in his wooden blinds leaving even stripes on any surface that got in the way. The living room that the two of you sat in was practically painted golden, the original vibrant colours of books and throw pillows muted to hues of orange and brown. It was almost as if you were looking at the world through a choppy filter. The shadows were darker than before, pronounced by the light, and if you looked closely you could see small bits of dust float in the direct spotlight. Almost like glitter that in the end brought the surroundings of high contrast back to life.

Even with such a pretty moment, you couldn’t help but spare a few glances to your boyfriend as he sat on the floor, wearing the sweater you bought him not that long ago paired with mismatched sweats. A line of shadow comfortably blocked out Gavin's eyes as an adjacent strand of light did the opposite to his lips. The stubble practically sparkled from his hunched position over the coffee table, his scar pronounced with a slick sheen. However, that was the most you could see from where you sat, as the open laptop obscured most of your view. There were blank sheets of paper haphazardly scattered around him on the dark wood of both the table and the floor; pens and pencils of many brands were a mess of piles on the desk. You could almost make out the tiny metal shine of a sharpener. Everything but the current thing Gavin was drawing, the sound of the pencil scratching against paper the largest hint you were getting.

With a small puff, you turned your attention back to your phone, bringing your knees up to your chest and sinking into the back cushion of the loveseat.

Your small shop needed a new order of seasonal flowers, however you only had enough money spare for a small sample of them as opposed to what you usually bought. The changing seasons meant recycling the leftover summer collection, your earnings taking a hit in the process. Paired with the pressure of rent and how costly the heat was during the actual months of summer, you were on a tight budget that you didn't want to waste. And, as you scrolled through the supplier's website, you also had a budget you didn't know how to use. You practically frowned at the vast selection.

It's not like variety wasn’t good, though. The issue was that you had to choose and soon before the plants went out of stock. You wanted to buy ones of yellow to match with the overall warm colours of autumn. Coneflowers and Sneezeweeds stood out to you as an interesting option, unique in essence however those would not only have to be imported from a different farm as the small text told you – meaning that you'd have to wait a week or two longer for their arrival – but you also feared that their almost protruding centre bulb would be seen as unattractive by most. That, and you weren’t sure if you would be able to group them in any coherent compositions as they were usually garden flowers and not ones you would pick for a vase. You held onto the thought though, wishing to experiment with them once your finances became more favourable.

Scrolling further, you noted that you already had some Orange Lilies in stock, alongside Peach Bloom Chrysanthemums. Maybe you could buy some other colours, like Orange Chrysanthemums as they were easy to use and easy to source. However the issue was that they could also be associated with funerals and death, so involving them in casual compositions would be risky with the people that are fans of flowers. More roses could always be a safe bet, although… the cost of freshly picked ones would bite into too much of the budget…

Your fingers pinched at the bridge of your nose whilst you forced yourself to take a steady breath. When they slowly slipped from your face, plopping to your side, your head turned back to Gavin. A fresh mind, you thought. With careful intent, you leaned ever so slightly, causing the cushions beneath you to puff in the silence of the room.

“Gavin love, I need your help picking some flowers for the store. I can’t make up my mind.”

Your voice carried itself into a moment of beating silence, the only thing breaking it up being the loud scratching of a 4B pencil. It scratched louder and louder, right until the lead audibly snapped, and your boyfriend let out a grumbly, irritated curse with a small slam of his fist, tossing the wood to the side.

“Whatever you choose will be good,” he grumbled, visibly pocketing his anger as he ran a hand down his cheek. It didn’t stop the pout from gracing your lips.

Standing up from your spot on the loveseat, you slowly waddled over towards where Gavin sat on the wooden floor, all the while getting a better look at the piles of work in front of him. You didn’t stop until you stood just about next to him, your legs gently bumping into him as you bent at your waist to look at what exactly he was doing.

From the looks of it, Gavin had designed the beginnings of a tattoo, something autumn themed if the crayons of oranges and yellows and reds were anything to go by. And, evident by the rough stacks of slightly scrunched up paper, it wasn’t going as well as he wanted. Some sheets of paper had tears in them, the small beads of residue placing the small eraser as the culprit. Others looked like they were scrunched, folded back out, only to be scrunched again and thrown to the floor. The references on the laptop’s dimmed screen were also a mess. Most of the tabs were opened into their own windows, however all but one were shrunk tiny. Amongst the images of forests and grass and twigs and flowers was a wall of black text on a white background.

You raised your brows as your knees bent underneath you and you lowered yourself to sit next to him, “is this for that commission you got a few days ago?”

“Yeah,” he answered, letting out a huff of anger, “and the bastard didn’t give me nearly enough fucking detail.”

Placing a hand on his tense shoulder, you gave it a soft squeeze in offer of comfort, giving him time to shake you off if physical touch wasn’t what he needed. When he didn’t make an effort to move, you slipped the hand behind him, slowly rubbing circles on his back. After a moment, your other hand gently lifted the drawing he was working on before you came over, giving it a light shake to remove any excess lead.

“What did they give you?”

Your eyes moved up to look at him, feeling him relax into your touch before answering, “they want something fall themed. I drew some shit up but apparently there wasn’t enough fucking nature in them.”

Briefly, you glanced at the phone you left behind on the loveseat, before looking back at his work and then up at his face. His brows were still furrowed, deep valleys forming where they wished to meet. His dark eyes were completely still and unblinking, staring murder at the laptop like a hawk would its prey. You noticed the moisture building up on their surface, and with a soft sigh you shuffled your position so that you could easily lean in and placed a kiss on his cheek, the hand that previously examined the artwork now cupping his cheek. “Have you asked them for more details?”

He scoffed, “it’s been a week. Asking now will make me look like a fucking idiot.”

“It wouldn’t,” you defended, but you didn’t push him, instead leaving another kiss on his cheek and lingering near his face for a short moment before pulling away from him completely. You shuffled closer to the coffee table, leaning over its area to look at his work more clearly. “What if you add more flowers?”

“Flowers?”

“Yeah, you said they wanted nature. What’s more natural than flowers?”

With your eyes trained on the array of sketches spread in front of you, you felt Gavin slither an arm around your waist as his body shifted on the ground to sit closer to you and follow your gaze.

“They want the design to be masculine.”

A humm of response bubbled in your throat as you took a minute to think, blinking twice before pointing your finger at the now sleeping laptop. Wordlessly, you tilted your head in request and waited for him to give you the go ahead. When he nodded and gave your waist a gentle squeeze, you instantly reached for the device and pulled it close and into your lap. You were careful as to not close any of his tabs, manoeuvring the cursor around on the big red boxes that threatened to cause trouble, quickly opening a new tab and fullscreening it. It didn't take you long to pull up a few varieties of blooms, mostly choosing ones familiar to your flower shop incase Gavin needed real references, and you pointed to some specific examples.

“If you want the arrangement to be masculine, you want to keep it minimal. Large shapes with varied detail.”

Sunflowers, Lilies. No matter how much you hated to say it, you suggested including vegetables and fruits. Pumpkins namely, to which he nodded. A short while later, his arm left your waist as he returned the laptop to its previous spot and leaned over the table, pulling out a new piece of paper from the misshapen stack and doodling some thumbnail composition sketches. A minute after minute passed as you observed Gavin work, passion for the work making his eyes glitter in concentration. When he was done with a few solid designs – circled in the yet-to-be-broken 3B pencil – you couldn’t stop the proud smile from forming on your lips.

“Huh, would you look at that…” he said quietly, examining his own work.

“I told you-”

He dropped the pencil on the table before twisting his body to the side, quickly wrapping his arms around your waist once again and pulling you onto his lap. One of his arms travelled to your back as he adjusted your position, and when he was happy, he peppered kisses on your face and your neck, causing you to giggle.

When he was satisfied with that, you felt his body physically deflate as he cuddled into you, his breath fanning against the skin of your neck - right before pushing you in front of him so that your back lay flat against his warm chest, his arms wrapped over your shoulders and his legs on either side of your body. Both of you were facing the coffee table, and he pulled his laptop closer, leaving it on top of his drawings as if they weren't as important to him. Closing all the tabs, he gestured at the screen with his hand.

“It’s only fair if I help you with your flower shop.”

You chuckled, “I love you too Gavin.”

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Oneshot Masterlist

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