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yesimwriting · 10 months

Note

Hi! You asked us if you should keep the tension or let the bubble pop and all I have to say is KEEP YHR TENSION. 1. It does seem more realistic bc it doesn’t seem like the reader is the kind of person who would do that to her friends, and 2. The casually intimacy they all display with the bubbling tension of something more constantly keeps me going on the hard days, I NEED IT‼️ Like desperately (im so normal about this fic and is in no way unhealthy attached to it, why’d you ask?🙂*eye twitch*/j kinda) this actually got me thinking I wonder if other people ever notice how casually intimate they are? Like Stu’s naturally touchy but the way he dotes on her and the way Billy is just different from normal Billy when he’s with her,like not even just Randy, tate, and sid like other people who have known them for a while but they aren’t friends, like aquatints I’d love to see that

I’m sorry this spiraled, anyways all im saying is i personally love the tension, I love this story and I love you and you’re brilliance *MWAH <3* sorry for any spelling mistakes I was kinda rushing

a/n this ask is so sweet!! <3 also love the chance to expand on the final girl universe!!

i love this ask especially bc i feel like billy and stu have gotten so relaxed around final girl fic y/n that she probably just thinks they're like that and doesn't pick up on anyone finding it different 😭

the fic under the cut is in the final girl fic universe but it isn't a part of the main fic so it can be read as a stand alone

i think all the context needed is in the ask :) anyway here are some moments that made the people around billy, stu, and y/n raise their eyebrows a little 😭

----

"Billy." That's all it takes to snap him out of sludgy version of auto pilot he lets take over on days like this. Days that drag on in their mundaneness in a way that makes it hard for him to keep up the version of himself he's crafted for public display.

He turns his head, a strange type of fondness pinching his chest a little harder than usual thanks to the fact that you've saved him from whatever the peaked-in-high-school-quarterback-in-the-making was droning on about. Some party Billy would dip out of at the last minute or a recap of his last game.

You're smiling at him, casual but warm. He can take your appearance in more openly now than he did this morning when you were rushing to class. You're in a tank top that's a little low cut, paired with a cardigan that seems thin for today's weather. You're also wearing a skirt that's short enough to make him wish he had insisted on picking you up this morning instead of letting you walk.

Maybe he could get you to agree to a ride home. He could suggest it casually, bring up the idea of getting something to eat after school. Today's your least favorite lunch day, so it'd be an even easier sell than usual.

"Hey," he finally says when you're close enough, keeping his tone indifferent.

You stop farther than usual, eyes darting towards the walking varsity letter. It's a shift in attention that has the potential to jab at him, but the stiffness in your demeanor keeps Billy from spiraling in that direction.

"Uh...guess what?" A rhetorical question, probably an attempt to keep yourself from seeming too excited in front of the intruder. "Ms. Johnson paired us up for group projects today and this time she was a lot less mean to me...so that's cool."

Billy can almost feel the details that he's not getting because you're not alone. It's enough to make his apathetic feelings about the unwanted third party take on a violent tinge.

He wants to hear you talk more than usual today because it forces him to be present. It makes the aggravating need for patience go down easier. "So no more cheeto fingers?"

For a brief second, Billy's feels the comment in his chest. A call back to a joke you had only made a few times awhile ago. There's a chance you won't remember. A chance he remembers more than--you laugh, it comes out quick and clearly takes you by surprise.

You clamp your mouth shut, eyes glancing to the left again. "No more cheeto fingers on my notes or on my final project. I got paired with Stephanie McDonald, who I don't know for sure won't do the same thing, but she gave me a hair tie during PE one time so she doesn't seem the type."

Billy makes a mental note of the name, not being able to recall anything specific about anyone named Stephanie, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know her. It's Woodsboro, even if he's never met her he'll be able to find out something if he needs to. "Classy."

You tilt your head, eyes briefly squinting in that way that means you're trying to decide if he's teasing you or not. "You might be making fun of me, but she didn't even let me give it back."

"Not making fun of you." He shakes his head once, keeping his expression innocent, silently promising that he could never.

"Nah, that seems nice." A new voice that has you angling your body closer to the lockers. Billy fights the instinct to glare, wondering why he didn't give the guy a reason to leave as soon as he saw you. "Johnson's AP history, right?"

You nod instinctually, a small dip of your chin Billy can't fully read. "Yeah."

Billy knows the guy well enough, but they're not exactly friends. The guy's name is somewhere in Billy's head. After a second of thinking, all he can come up with is that it probably starts with a D. Damian? Or is Damian the other football player that's in his math class and always nods at Billy in the hallway?

"Cool," varsity jacket says it in a way that makes the word feel void of its typical meaning. Billy isn't sure where he's going with it, can't remember if he's one of those self proclaimed jocks that use high school as a four year power trip or just a guy that likes football. "You tutor?" The guy tilts his head, Billy presses his nails into the skin of his palm to resist the urge to step closer to you. "'Cause I wouldn't mind learning a thing or two from you."

The blatant line is finished with a bit of a laugh. Billy wants to role his eyes--a cop out in case you reject him. A built in safety net that makes it seem like he's almost making fun of you so he can laugh off your reaction if you don't instantly drop to his feet.

Your eyebrows draw together and even though your lips are neutrally set, something about your eyes makes it feel like you're frowning. Anger or annoyance for the sake of someone else is rare, Billy doesn't know how to handle the spike of defensiveness he feels. He's used to passiveness, never caring about who's messed with.

"Ignore him," the words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself, "He has a hard enough time keeping his GPA high enough to not get benched."

Billy doesn't know how factual that dig was, but the guy's face falls enough for Billy to assume his guess was accurate enough. The satisfaction of being right is nothing compared to what he feels when he looks at you.

Your lips are still pressed together, now in a way that's more amused than sad and your eyes are wide. The comment wasn't the kind of insult that Billy finds particularly cruel or hurtful but he knew you'd find it biting. Your reaction's enough to ease the tightening feeling in his chest without fully alleviating it. He needs to get you away before the guy says something else and more of Billy's control slips.

"You seen Stu?"

Billy knows the answer. "Yeah, this morning before homeroom." You stand a little straighter, one hand gripping the strap of your backpack. "His next class is next to mine, so I'll probably see him again in a second, why?"

"Good," he mumbles, reaching into his locker and grabbing a random notebook, "Can you give his notes back to him? He needs them back before fifth period and I missed him this morning."

Not true in the slightest, Billy knows Stu will go with it anyway. "Sure." You take the notebook, fingers brushing against his. "I'll go find him. See you later."

Billy nods as you turn away, "See you."

You're now gone. The guy who can't take a hint is still there. Maybe he's waiting for some kind of apology or explanation. Billy's turning on him does seem random considering that most of their conversation has revolved around Billy placidly agreeing to whatever. Instead of bringing anything up, varsity letter laughs. Billy raises his eyebrows, silently asking what that's about.

"Look, man, I get it, she's cute." That heavy feeling that Billy's always struggling to work with rises. The dark feeling twists its way around his lungs, making it hard to breathe without giving into impulse. "But she's so...nice and school...y." Cute, nice, and school-y. Those are the adjectives he's using to describe you. Billy was right to assume his grades are suffering. "It'd be like hooking up with a middle school try hard. Not worth whatever you're putting on."

The anger grows in density, a physical force expanding in his chest in a way that borders on painful. Rationality attempts to lighten the pressure, reminding him that it's a good thing this guy doesn't want anything to do with you. Logic tries to convince him that his focus should be on hardening himself, on making this guy and everyone else think that you're just another friend to him and that he's fully committed to Sidney.

Billy shuts his locker, harder than he meant to. "Good thing she'd never fuck you then."

The last of his patience and civility has been scorched, leaving nothing but bitter ash in its place. Billy walks away, already trying to think of an excuse to find you and Stu.

----

Stu turns angles his head to the side, just enough to look at you without really looking. You're content, watching some trailer with a measured level of investment. He focuses on that as you absentmindedly extend a hand to grab a few pieces of popcorn from the bag that he's still holding.

You're happy, he's here with you, that should be enough. It's no one's fault that more people that both of you know are here than he expected. That's the hard part of Woodsboro, one slip in front of the wrong person and the rumor mill will have an exaggerated version of events spread to over half the school by the next day. The guy that glommed onto Stu the second he noticed him in the theatre definitely falls into the category of wrong person.

Jacob whatever-his-last-name-is is a try hard. He's been searching for some kind of in, some kind of leverage on anyone that seems even slightly cooler than him since middle school. This need to be bigger and better has forced him into a permanent act that even good old, 'high school stereotypes are bullshit' Randy finds off putting.

You hadn't looked particularly bothered when Jacob stood up and waved Stu over, forcing the two of you to sit closer to the center of the theatre than Stu wanted. After realizing that the screening he had expected to be empty on a Saturday afternoon was crowded, Stu wanted to sit towards the back. It was a strategic goal, it would have given him the permission to be a little more openly touchy.

Stu had to actively focus on not holding it against you. You didn't complain or give any indication of feeling ambushed because you're nice to a point of fault.

"What'd you think of that one?" Stu shrinks down in an attempt to make whispering to you easier.

Your eyes shift away from the screen and towards him. "Hm..." You're debating, analyzing, "Not as good as the one before, but it doesn't look bad." You reach forward, taking another piece of popcorn and popping it into your mouth. "You?"

Honestly, Stu had been more focused on you than the trailers, but this last one had felt like a flat attempt to balance out horror with something artsy. But the chance to get to you is more appealing than just bashing a movie with a title he can't remember. "This one is so much better than the last one."

You snap your head away from the screen. "No." He presses his lips together to keep from grinning. What do you mean 'no'? You asked for an opinion. "You just want to start an argument."

He lets out a breath that's meant to take the place of a laugh. Is he getting that predictable? That transparent? "I never want to fight with you." You narrow your eyes, skeptical. "If Billy was here, he'd agree with me."

Your lips pull together in what's almost a pout. For a second, you're quiet, one hand coming to your opposite arm, smoothing the exposed skin quickly, like you're trying to keep warm. "He wouldn't and you know it."

"Okay," Stu's voice is suspiciously innocent, "We'll call him when he gets back from that thing with his dad."

Stu knows that Billy's dad tends to keep him out until late on weekend trips to the boat. When it gets too late to fish, he likes to keep them out on the water, spewing bullshit about Billy's mom because Billy can't escape.

"What are we going to do? Describe the movies over the phone or...?"

He raises an eyebrow, shrugging and letting his shoulder bump into yours, "Sounds like you're scared."

You grin, adjusting in your seat to make it easier to cross your arms. "Fine. If it's gonna be like that, we'll call him."

You're cold. You have to be. "Told you to bring a jacket," he sighs, already unzipping his hoodie.

"I'm fine, it's--" Too late. The jacket's already off and only somewhat awkwardly being pushed onto your lap. You touch one of the sleeves, oblivious to the way Stu struggles to look at you. "C'mon, Stu, now you'll be cold."

It's said so softly, so earnestly, Stu has to fight the urge to squirm. He can never tell if the nervous energy he feels makes him want to draw you in closer or force you away.

He ignores the touch of warmth rushing to his face. "I'm good." Stu shakes his head once, almost dismissively. "Run hot," he mumbles, finally glancing at you before nudging you with his elbow, "You know that."

You roll your eyes, smiling more than you mean to as you shrug on the jacket. The fabric is warm and criminally soft. "Totally." He'd call you out on your sarcasm, but you're already pulling on the jacket. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

"Sure you don't want to pick up some twizzlers before the movie starts?" You pause for a second too long and Stu knows that the suggestion has hit. Your eyes had lingered on the red plastic while buying tickets even though you insisted you didn't want them after accepting the fact that Stu wasn't going to let you pay for anything.

Scratching the back of your wrist, you give in with a sigh. "Okay." You start reaching for your purse. "I'll grab some." Stu reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out some cash. "Stu."

"What?" He already knows where this is going. You're always trying to pay your own way. Every once in awhile, he lets you win just so that he can justify buying you something else. This is one of those things he probably should let go, but the additional shadow has already downed his mood. "I want them more than you do."

You sigh, pulling your purse onto your lap. "I have twizzler money."

"Oh, I'm sure, but my dad left me a bunch of cash before his latest trip and you're too pretty to buy your own twizzlers." Your resolve is cracking, like you often do whenever Stu mentions his parents. "C'mon, get me some milk duds, too."

Another sigh, the sound sharper as you let go of your purse. "You are so annoying." Stu smiles at the lack of bite in your tone as you stand, finally accepting the cash and putting it into the jacket's pocket.

"You love me, I keep you supplied in twizzlers."

You gasp, jaw dropping in offense. "Asshole."

He laugh as you turn away, "Remember the milk duds."

You glare, passive aggressively setting your bag on his lap. Stu takes it, adjusting his hold on it comfortably as you walk down the aisle.

"That's a fun thing you've got going there."

Stu can feel himself immediately tense even though Jacob's comment should feel innocent enough. There's just something about the way he says it, the hint of an edge implying more. Stu should be bothered because Jacob's the kind of guy who could turn this into a story for Tatum because he wants to have something over Stu. Instead, Stu's feeling defensive over Jacob looking at you like that.

Stu shrugs, "It's just Y/n."

Jacob's eyes briefly leave the screen before refocusing. "That was friendly even by your standards."

Feeling even more defensive over you and the way he acts around you, Stu sits up straighter. "We're friends."

"Yeah," Jacob concedes, amusement in his voice that Stu doesn't quite get, "And she's turning you into a softie."

That hits him in a different way. Sure, Stu's nice to you, nicer than he is to some guy that doesn't get that no one likes him. Stu can also admit that he's touchy with you and likes taking any excuse to be close to you. But he's not soft about it.

"What?"

Jacob laughs, the sound restrained, like he's scared he'll forget where he is and give in fully. "You're cold, here's my jacket."

Stu scoffs. That wasn't--you're--whatever, it's not like Stu cares about what Jacob thinks. He'll do what he wants, treat you however he feels like. You're the only one that comes close to getting him outside of Billy, Jacob could never get that.

"Whatever, man." Stu mumbles, hoping that you'll come back before he can get too caught in his own head. The lack of aggression in his own comment surprised him and he's not sure how much longer he'll be able to keep it up.

Another preview begins to play on the screen and for a brief second, it feels like that might be the end of the conversation. "If my friends looked like that, I wouldn't mind acting like that either."

Stu tightens his grip on the arm rest. "Maybe if you didn't make everything a thing, you'd have some."

"You're the one holding her purse," Jacob mumbles, attention turning back to the screen as if that proved something.

Stu's knuckles strain white. There's nothing sensitive about the way he feels about you. It's not Stu's fault he can't pursue right now the way he wants to, and if this asshole knew half the stuff you let him get away with he wouldn't be so smug. "Fuck off."

Maybe the comment could have been played off if Stu's tone had been lighter, more relaxed. But he didn't. It landed with the same intensity a threat would, and Stu's not completely sure he didn't mean it that way.

Soft. Hard to call someone that's pulling out your insides soft. He'd have to wait for Billy to get back, talk the idea up to him and explain why someone they've tolerated on and off since middle school deserves a call. It'd be worth it, though, because should they really leave someone that talks about you like that? Why shouldn't Stu treat you in a way that's totally normal?

"Hey," you whisper, slipping back into your seat, "Guess who got the last box of milk duds." Stu's attention shifts to you, that bloody itch becoming a lot more bearable as you smile a him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he eases, "Commercials are just getting worse."

You stop tearing into the top of the box enough to look at Stu and wrinkle your nose. "I feel you." You shake out a few pieces of chocolate into your cupped palm. Stu expects you to take them, but you don't. You just extend both hands, the box and the candy you had gotten out. When Stu doesn't react, you prompt him, "Here."

Stu moves his hand, letting you spill them into his palm, the edge of your pinky briefly resting against his. The gesture is so gentle he almost feels like he's being suffocated by it. Stu takes his hand back silently. If you notice the change in his demeanor, you don't comment on it. Instead, you just take your bag back and hand him the unopened pack of twizzlers and box.

The latest commercial comes to an end and the screen fades to the start of the opening credits. "Okay," you whisper, "Last chance to predict if this movie's going to be good or not."

"I picked it," Stu says, moving his hand enough to have the milk duds roll into each other, "Why would I think that it's bad?" He's not acting normal enough, he can feel it. "Why would you come if you think it'd be bad?" A weak question, considering that Stu knows sometimes you purposefully watch the worst movies you can find for entertainment.

You don't point out that sometimes trashy movies are worth the suffering, you just shrug. "I don't know, I kinda just wanted to hang out with you."

Something in Stu's chest cracks. His face feels warmer than it did a second ago. He's not one to feel mushy or look into tone the way Billy does from time to time, but you had said it so innocently.

"Aw," he hums, finally coming back to himself, "You like me."

"Shut up," your response is immediate, "Movie's starting."

He leans down, placing a hand over the one you're laying on the arm rest. "You like me."

You roll your eyes, "Give me a twizzler."

----

He knew. Even when Stu was still insisting that they were capable of keeping it together enough to keep the circle of people small, Billy knew that the night would turn into a party.

Billy's annoyed and slowly becoming genuinely irritated thanks to the beer and pot mixing together on an empty stomach and the drowsiness that came for him with no warning. Everything feels louder now, heavier.

He shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose harder than he should. Another 20 minutes, half an hour tops, and he'll get Stu to start shutting it all down.

The only good thing about nights like these is that you crash with them. You always choose to sober up at Stu's even though your mom doesn't seem like a hard ass when it comes to drinking. You still don't want her or your practical step dad seeing you drunk and you can't help that other people are smoking, which is something you've made clear your mom would kill you over.

It'll take some time getting you into bed. Unless you're drunk enough, you'll offer to sleep on the couch, like the three of you haven't justified sleepovers before. Sometimes drunk you has a tendency to get a second wind out of nowhere. If you get all hyper on him then it'll take even longer.

"Billy!" He opens his eyes and you're there.

He smiles easily, watching as you walk towards him. "Hey."

You stretch out an arm slowly, open palm gently pushing his arm. There's something sluggish about the movement and something else in the way you nearly miss him all together. Are you that drunk? Stu said he'd watch your drinks.

"Hay...is for horses," you state blankly, almost like some external force had possessed you to get the thought out coherently. And then you burst into a fit of tired giggles.

Billy presses his lips together. He knows you, knows how you get when you're not handling your alcohol. This isn't exactly that. It's more like you at the beginning of...

Ugh. You didn't--Stu didn't--With a sigh, Billy grabs your arm and glances around the room. Everyone's caught up in their world, and even though Sid's around here somewhere, there's nothing inherently suspicious about Billy checking on you. Especially while you're like this.

Still, better safe than sorry when Billy's not in the mood for self control. He tugs you forward, you follow as he leads you two to a nearby corner. You barely protest when Billy angles you so that your back's against the wall.

Billy squeezes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting your head so that you have to look him in the eye.

"Hey--" You mumble, protesting a second too late, "Oh, I just," you laugh, "--I said the horse thing."

Great. Your eyes are tinged red and considering the fact that Billy saw you take a few shots earlier...

He told you at the start of the night to pick one, and the easy decision for everyone had been for you to stick with alcohol. Drunk you can handle crowds and the general party atmosphere. High you is clingy and easily startled and usually more complicated to deal with.

Billy watches you intently. It only takes you a second to still in his hold, staring at him in a way that makes it harder to keep his edge. "You're high." It's not an accusation, it's a statement. "And drunk."

Your eyebrows pinch together briefly. It'd be easy to lie for the sake of it. "Not high," you defend weakly, "I smoked a little, but not--it wasn't that--I'm good. Not high."

He sighs, letting go of your face. "I told you to stick to one."

"You and Stu smoke and drink at the same time all the time." Billy just stares blankly. It's not a strong defense, but it's all you have. "'S'not a big deal."

Not a big deal now. Just wait until later when it's hitting you harder and tomorrow morning, when you're hungover. Then it'll be a big deal and it'll be his big deal.

"No?" You tilt your chin down in a barely there nod, trying to solidify your stance. "You do whatever you want now?"

You sigh, lips pulling downwards in a slight pout. "It's not like that."

"Who gave it to you?"

Your eyes won't meet his. "I don't--" You cut yourself off, still aware enough that trying to hide things at this point is the quickest way to make things take a turn for the worst right now. "Stu let me use his--a little--but it wasn't like that. It was only a little."

Yeah, considering how red your eyes are and how much slurring and concentration it took for you to get through that, Billy really doubts it was as little as you're trying to convince him. "You're going to feel sick tomorrow."

To be fully honest, you can see that, a tiny bit of off-ness already starting to pull at the edge of your current buzz. You also don't love the way the usual giddiness of alcohol is blending with the easy uncertainty of your high. But Billy doesn't need to know that right now.

"'M okay." True enough, since you're not actively spiraling, "But I believe you."

He hasn't eased and a part of you is now starting to feel bad. You know you're not the easiest person to deal with when you're like this, but you also don't think you've done anything particularly annoying. His sour mood is starting to make what's wrong about your buzz feel magnified. Yeah, Billy told you to stick to one thing but he didn't make it sound like it was a big deal to him.

You swallow once, ignoring how dry your mouth feels. "C'mon." Billy's still close, within grabbing distance. The second you realize that it'd be easy to touch him, you reach out and place a hand on his arm. "Don't be mad."

He tenses under your touch, but you don't move your hand away. "Thought we didn't listen to each other." You half-sigh-half-groan as you drop your forehead against Billy's chest. He doesn't push you off, which has to be a good sign.

Billy places a palm on your back, rubbing soothing circles against the fabric of your shirt. "Let's get some water."

That feels okay enough, so you straighten, nodding once. "Okay."

He keeps a hand on your back, leading you back towards the main area of the party and into the kitchen. You're quiet as you walk, instinctually following Billy without question.

"Hey, I was looking for you--" Stu cuts himself off as soon as he sees Billy's expression. "You guys good?"

You nod placidly, "'M good, he's--"

"You gave her some?"

Stu holds his hands up in defense, "She was begging for it."

Begging is definitely an exaggeration. You want to explain, to defend the situation and take just enough blame to keep the peace without making yourself look like the bad guy. The words jam themselves in your head, twisting until they're in such a knot that all you can manage to get out is, "Nuh-uh."

Stu turns to glare at you, "So when I'm the bad guy it's all 'please' and 'I thought we were best friends' and 'it'll be our secret' but the second it goes a little bad you run to Bill--"

"Didn't run," you defend, but it doesn't matter, it's like you didn't say anything.

"You told her not to tell me?"

"No." The single syllable is so urging you can almost imagine that the question sobered him up. "I didn't say that."

There's a weird wave of tension between them, so thick and tangible a small part of you can't believe that the rest of the party continued, unaffected. You get why Stu snapped back to normal so quickly. "Guys," you try, even though you have no idea where you're going with this, "I just--I asked--asked like a lot--but I didn't beg. And it's--" You squeeze your eyes shut, really wishing you had been better at hiding your high. "It's not worth fighting over." Squinting your eyes open, you cross your arms across your stomach, hoping it'll make you seem more awake. "I love you guys, 'm good, let's just chill out for a second."

Billy and Stu both blink, exchanging a look that you don't get. You know you wouldn't get it if you were sober, either. It's one of their moments, a silent exchange you can't imagine anyone else ever getting.

Stu breaks the silence with a laugh. "She's way more out of it than I thought." You glare at that, not finding anything funny in what you said. You were nice, you diffused the tension. They're such assholes. And you always hate when they talk about you like you're not right there.

You glare. Maybe ditching them's still an option. They'd eventually accuse you of pouting, but there's a chance it'd be worth the future teasing. You could find Sid and Tate again, hang out until you calmed down.

"Aw," Stu hums, reaching for you, "She's pouting."

You push at the hand on your shoulder, too tired and distracted to be good at getting him off of you. "Am. Not." Stu squeezes harder. Normally, that'd just get you to fight back more openly, but now your stomach feels tight and things are starting to feel too warm. "Stu, knock it off--I'm nauseous."

Billy presses his hand against your back, the pressure comforting. "Give her a minute."

Stu lets go but makes a point of staying close. "You okay, sweetheart?"

Nodding slowly, you focus on feeling the words coming out of your mouth. "Yeah, yeah."

"You need to step out? Get some air?"

You shake your head once. You're okay, stable. "I'm good."

Billy's hand moves up and down your back gently. "You need to drink water."

The fighting risk is gone now. You should be completely happy, but the conflict rubbed you the wrong way and you're starting to feel like you might need space from them. "I kinda want to look for Sidney and Tatum."

"C'mon, cutie." Stu takes your hand gently, squeezing it softly. "Don't be like that." You're torn between arguing that you're not being like anything and telling them that they started it. "Do what you want, but no one's going to want to put up with you like this."

The comment stings more than it should. It's been mentioned before, that you're the the lightweight, the one that can't handle their substances and takes over without meaning to. Never cruelly, but it still hurts. "Mean."

"Not that mean," Stu pulls on your hand, "Because you love us."

You roll your eyes, hating past you for letting that come out. "Not right now."

Stu starts walking forward, you follow without complaining. "Don't say things you don't mean."

Billy's stays close as you walk, one hand on your back as you're guided to the kitchen. There are some people lingering around the fridge and the bar, but it's a lot less crowded than the main living room.

You stop at the island counter, moving to push yourself onto it with no warning. It takes Billy less than a second to pick up on what you want, he keeps a hand on your waist to stabilize you as you sit.

"Here." Stu hands you a glass filled with ice water.

You take a few long sips before setting it down next to you.

"Better?" It worked a little too well, and a part of you hates them for it. You reluctantly nod. "Told you."

More like Billy told you, but you're not opening that up again.

A small half-scoff-half-laugh snaps the three of you out of your bubble. Stu turns his head towards a semi-familiar blonde holding a beer bottle, "What?"

"Nothing." The voice is also familiar. A girl named Marley that used to hang around freshman year. "Just remembering the first time I got high and freaked out, you told me to get it together."

You crane your neck to look at the stranger, unsure if her comment's meant to attack Stu or you. "I'm not freaking out."

"Yeah," Stu defends, placing a comforting hand on your knee, "It's just water, Marley, if that's an issue, go be bitter somewhere else."

The girl scoffs, "Not bitter, just different."

You soften a little at that. Maybe she hadn't meant to come off as that hostile.

Stu shrugs, "I've grown." You watch the exchange curiously, wondering how well they know each other. There's a chance they met in kindergarten or on the first day of middle school or in some random sophomore class. Sometimes living in a small town that you didn't grow up in is the constant fear of becoming a third wheel in a matter of seconds. "In more ways than one."

Marley pretends to scoff, "Yeah, I'm out." She holds her hands up in a display of surrender before walking away.

"You know she used to be obsessed with me."

There's a 50-50 chance he's exaggerating. A more sober, more adjusted you would be able to make an educated guess, but right now you can't and for whatever reason that twists your stomach. You reach for your glass, taking a few sips to stabilize yourself.

"He's delusional," Billy corrects, voice so low you think you might be the only one that hears it. "She used to hang around, mainly for Sidney and Tatum, but never stuck." You nod absentmindedly. "No one else did before you."

The comment is small, muttered like saying it felt like pulling teeth. You smile regardless, way more warmed by it than you should be. Billy finally looks back at you. For a second, you let yourself openly watch him. A wave of casual drowsiness hits you with no warning, so you lean forward, resting your forehead against Billy's shoulder.

"You okay, angel?" Stu places a hand on your back. "Jealousy making you feel a little sick?"

You let out a breath that's almost a laugh as you force yourself to straighten. "You're right," you look at Billy, "He is delusional."

"Hey," Stu makes a point of poking you in the shoulder, "Don't be mean."

"You're right, I'm totally obsessed with you and--" A yawn breaks your sentence into two, "Close to bursting into jealous rage."

Stu's fingertips brush up and down your arm. "You're staying over, right?"

You nod, "Mhm, if that's okay."

He almost rolls his eyes. You're always prone to formality, always wanting to make sure that you're not bothering anyone. "I'd never kick you out of bed, sweetheart." You try to glare at him, but you're too tired to seem bothered. "You should go lay down for a little, I'm going to start kicking people out."

Hm. You are tired, but you never like being the first to go, the first to head upstairs and be left alone. You're about to protest, insist that you're fine when Billy speaks up, "I'll go, too." Billy straightens, holding out a hand to help you hop off the counter. "Over it."

You take his hand, getting off the counter with minimal complications. Billy moves an arm around your shoulder, deciding that that'd be the quickest way to help you get to the stairs.

#final girl fic #scream x reader #scream 1996 #stu macher x reader #stu macher #billy loomis #billy loomis x reader #ghostface #poly! ghostface #ghostface x reader #poly!ghostface x reader

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nininikki · 11 months

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𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐌𝐑. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 | eren jaeger x black reader

III. nice enough

✧ summary! — as eren is faced with an obstacle regarding his fight for the office, all he can seem to think of is you. meanwhile, your dinner at the jaeger’s goes…interestingly.

✧ warnings! — alcohol consumption and mentions of it, mentions of sexual activity (piv), adultery (eren is an aspiring cheater again), age gap—reader is 29 and eren is 40

✧ author’s note! — hello all! part 3 is finally here after what felt like years 😓 hoping that you all love it! bit of exposition & lots of head hopping (aka pov switching) in this one so strap your seatbelts. lmk if i missed anything in the warnings! 🪽💘

✧ word count! — 3.6k

12 AUGUST, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

one could argue that there was nothing particularly nice about levi ackerman. he didn’t really like to shake people’s hands, evident by the well hidden grunts of distress under his breath whenever he had to do it and the prompt squirt of hand sanitizer into his palm immediately after.

he also had a not so great habit of dishing out ridiculous—or, in hindsight not so ridiculous—demands that he was certain would help eren in the polls. “go get a haircut, jaeger. you look fifteen.” or, “go change that tie. never mind, just change the whole damn suit. you look like a bachelor.”

and eren had an even worse habit of listening to everything he said, because the most frustrating thing of all about levi ackerman was that he was never wrong. there was a jump in his numbers after he got rid of that “juvenile haircut” and stopped “dressing like hugh hefner.”

so, when levi deadpanned, “you two need to start acting married.” eren could only assume it was for some reason or another that he’d eventually come to comprehend in about twenty minutes.

“acting married?”

eren had come to learn that levi’s ideas tended to be the most strategic the more asinine they sounded. this fact, however, did not help the ever nagging feeling that eren might as well have been blowing levi’s ten thousand dollar stipend into the wind every month.

levi swiftly maneuvered his way around their timelessly decorated living room, not bothering to hide the way he kept his hands from lingering too long on any furniture. “acting like you actually love each other. yes, challenging as that may sound, it could win you this election.”

however levi managed to clock the decaying spark in eren’s marriage was neither here nor there.

mikasa sprouted from her seat as though she were the timid stem of a plant. “levi, with all due respect—”

“i mean, like right now.” right now, eren and mikasa were standing no more than seven feet away from each other on opposite sides of their living room. their respective arms crossed, unionized in their waning tolerance for the current discussion. “you two look like coworkers at best. hold her hand, kiss her on the cheek. where’s the chemistry?”

eren breathed a scoff that weighed a thousand pounds. “chemistry? we have an election to win, and you’re worried about our chemistry?”

“the numbers speak for themselves, jaeger. voters under thirty-five love you. love your policies, your look. if it were up to just them, you’d be a shoo-in. but with voters forty and up—well, you just aren’t traditional enough.”

despite the nonchalance with which levi spoke, eren’s vigorously trained ear picked up on the irritation that lie just beneath. eren could practically hear into the bubbling, cynical cauldron of brilliance that was levi’s brain and pick out the individual remarks springing to the surface. am i gonna have to hire this fucker an intimacy coordinator? for his wife of all people?

never minding the question sounding almost rhetorical in his head, eren still asked, “well, how do we fix that?” he thought back longingly, bitterly to the conversation last night. and the one this morning. a fuzzy, warm, and sugar filled feeling that should’ve been guilt enraptured his chest and abdomen. the last intelligent parts of his brain were brutally kicking him for thinking of a you—a girl that was inconsequential and, for lack of a better word, trouble. you may as well have had a big, glowing red sign floating above your head that blared DANGER whenever he dared step too close.

but, oh, how he wanted to step closer! how he could feel the delicious vines of trouble you were sure to plant into his life and how he found himself longing to be wrapped in them anyway. how he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into the forbidden fruit of your skin and revel in whatever nectar you were willing to give him. how he wouldn’t have minded looking danger directly in the eyes if they just so happened to resemble yours.

***

AUGUST 23, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

eren could feel his fingers beginning to seize with a barely discernible tremor as they hesitated over his house phone. eleven long days had passed since the last phone call, and a part of him (lots of parts, actually) had started to miss your voice. it was novel that he had even found himself missing the sound of someone’s voice. their voice, of all things. but he guessed you had a knack for realizing the fantastical.

of course, he couldn’t call you just to call. he had to have some sort of reason. an, “oh, i was just wondering if you were still up for dinner” or, “i know you’ve got your premiere today. i was just calling to wish you good luck.”

he couldn’t have wanted to call for the sole purpose of hearing your voice, or wanting to know how your day was going. or for any of the simple pleasure he may have gotten from calling you, anyway.

calling you without a reason would change things. he’d toe the already vague enough line between checking up on a totally platonic (while also coincidentally drop dead gorgeous) woman in his life and indulging in the attraction that had become so potent within him he was afraid it’d fester if he didn’t act upon it.

eren dropped the house phone back into its holder with a pathetic clunk, and began the venture into his bathroom in pursuit of splashing some sense into his face. he couldn’t have, not for a second, thought it’d be a good idea to call you at three o’clock on a wednesday with mikasa and levi sitting perfectly conscious just downstairs.

a noticeable chunk of eren’s resolve crumbled to nothing as he promptly realized that yes, he had considered calling you in the face of the present circumstances. and no, he couldn’t say he cared all that much without willing himself to do so.

***

23 AUGUST, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

your relationship with jean kirschtein was something of an enigma. to the ever present and glaring public eye, to your own friends and family, hell, to yourself even. when he wasn’t pretending to be madly in love with you on a silver screen, he was sending you compliments that he didn’t even bother to deliver in a platonic tone. and when he wasn’t doing that, he was whisking you into the dimly lit area of whatever party you both happened to be attending and coating your lips in whiskey flavored kisses that lingered into the early morning.

it almost seemed inevitable the first time you slept with him. with every stolen glance or flirtatious remark, you’d find yourself thinking, any day now. any day now, i’m gonna jump his bones.

and soon enough, your desires were realized one night as he cruised down the hall from his hotel room to yours to wish you a well slumber and wash away the pre-premiere jitters with a bottle of champagne. it didn’t take long before he had your legs wrapped around the base of his spine while the two of you rutted your pleasure-drunken bodies into one another.

ironically enough, that had become your pre-premiere tradition, an arrangement that proved convenient for you last night when colorful thoughts of a certain presidential candidate ran rampant through your mind. you’d found yourself knocking on his hotel room door with your own bottle of champagne—knowing he’d be up for taking your mind off it. still, even with jean buried so deep inside you and your fingernails raking across his shoulders, you couldn’t quite seem to purge him from your mind.

that much is evident when you arrive at the cannes film festival. a steadying, custom-tailored arm snakes around your waist, and judging by the accompanying scent of bleu de chanel, your otherwise preoccupied mind can only assume it’s jean. “hey,” the sound of his voice sobers you just enough to grant him eye contact. “you okay in there?”

“always.” you reassure him with a smile and nod. “let’s go kick ass.”

***

30 AUGUST

just as your knuckles brushed against the front door, a fleeting blanket of tranquility washed over your body in the form of an evening summer breeze. briefly, you wondered if that could be a sign before knocking anyway. it was a timid graze of skin against wood that you weren’t even sure you’d heard. you were prepared to knock again—more confidently and less like you were about to vomit all over the jaeger’s doorstep—when the door swung open.

“and here i was, thinking you’d stood me up.”

you didn’t think you’d ever quite get used to eren’s beauty. this could’ve had something to do with the fact that he was simply (by some stroke of magic) becoming increasingly attractive each time you laid eyes on him. or with the fact that you were utterly enamored with a new part of him every single time.

on this particular occasion, it was the tiny beauty mark dotted under his left eye. one could hardly even call it noticeable in the dimmed lighting you two were standing in, but that didn’t stop you from yearning to stretch onto your tiptoes and run the pad of your thumb over it.

an utterly delighted exhale whistled through your nose as you remarked, “never.” with a newborn shyness coloring your tone, which may or may not have had something to do with the way eren’s shadow managed to eclipse your entire as he braved a footstep in your direction to close the front door behind you. it was in that particular moment that you realized mikasa wasn’t at his side. she’d have most likely greeted you with a hug, a glimmering smile, and all the guilt-inspiring kindness in the world. “where’s, uh, m—”

eren’s eyes, once entirely focused on you, became awkward and clumsy as the last syllable started to leave your lips. “she’s in th—”

“honey, is that (y/n)?” mikasa’s voice, erupting from somewhere further back in the house while still managing to sound composed and almost soft. “i’ll be up in a sec, hold on.”

as the distant echo of mikasa’s voice dwindled, what proceeded to settle over you and eren was an almost tangible bubble of guilt. and taking your eyes off one another would surely burst it right over your heads and drench you both in the sordid feelings you harbored for one another.

of course, you don’t count on eren to have that much concern for things like guilt. because just as the sound of his wife’s voice grew to a steady quiet, you felt his palms—lightly callused and comfortably warm—cup over the back of your arms as he murmured, “you’re so beautiful.”

“eren,” you squeaked his name, a weak attempt at protest. you should’ve known you stood no chance, especially not when the lively green of his eyes bored into yours so deeply you thought you’d feel them in your soul.

his hands grew a bit firmer over your arms, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to stay in his hold forever. “yeah?” eren answered, and you would’ve let him kiss you right there. you were so sure of the feeling that it wrapped around your bones. it was in the beating of your heart, the quickness of your breath, in the ribbons of want dripping into your underwear and effectively soiling them for the rest of the night. it was in you.

with no forewarning (although, why would there be) the tell-tale sound of heels came clicking against the same marble floor you were standing on. almost too luckily for you, eren moved into a less compromising position, and you were able to see that the heels were still clicking around the corner and not yet in the foyer. so, mikasa hadn’t seen her husband practically mounting the girl she believed to be their friend.

this was gonna be a long fucking night.

***

sitting before you was possibly the best plate of pasta you’d ever eaten and just a foot or two across from that was possibly the handsomest man you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. if you were deluded enough, this could’ve been a date. scarfing down a fattening amount of pasta and drinking thousand dollar wine with the man present in all your recent daydreams.

maybe if you drank enough wine, you’d slide your stiletto up the inside of his leg. back and forth and back and forth again until it wasn’t enough for you. maybe if both of you had enough wine, he’d take you up to his bedroom. or maybe he wouldn’t bother with all the extra walking and just let you have it right here on the dining room table.

but none of that would happen, seeing as just a foot away from him sat his wife, your friend.

“is the pasta any good, (y/n)?” mikasa asked, as she herself was only eating a salad drenched in avocado and quinoa.

mouth too full to speak, you simply raised a positive thumb as you waited for the food to go down. “amazing,” you were finally able to breathe out. “everything’s been just lovely.” and it had been. even walking through the jaeger’s home felt like something of an out of body experience for you. the ornate detailing covering the walls, marble floors smooth enough to slide across, and ceilings bejeweled with sparkling chandeliers. the place could’ve been a castle.

after a sip from his glass, eren remarked, “i think you just make lovely company.”

your neck twitched in the urge to bang your head against the table, unsure if it was rooted in being flustered or embarrassed that he would even utter those words out loud.

after a bout of awkward silence that filled the room with the intensity and speed of a rushing tide, mikasa spoke. “so, how was cannes?” you didn’t miss the way she stabbed at her lettuce, despite desperately wishing you had.

“uh, great, yeah. really great.” you answered, despite having to flinch whenever you closed your eyes due to the blinding camera flash that still lingered behind the lids. and despite last night being your first full eight hours of sleep after what seemed like months of preparation for this money-covered spectacle. “people liked the movie, that’s all i could really ask for.” a smile graced your features as you recalled the tumultuous, fourteen minute standing ovation. even now, through all the party noise still sticking to you, you remember the triumph burning through your veins as jean wrapped you in a spine-crushing hug.

mikasa smiled through an ear of lettuce. “that’s perfect.” seconds of chewing passed before she added, “y’know, that jean kirschtein guy seems to like you quite a bit.”

“jean?”

“yeah. i mean, the way he looks at you…” you briefly wondered how on earth she would know how jean looks at you (off-camera, at least) before remembering that cannes was a nationally publicized event, and she’d most likely seen bits and pieces of it somewhere at the very very least. “wouldn’t you say so, eren?”

you were actually kicking yourself. like, banging the heel of your stiletto repeatedly your shin and hoping to wake up from this night terror sooner than later. “i don’t know. kid seems nice enough.” eren murmured. you braved a glance at him, only to see that he was staring down into his plate of pasta as his knuckles whitened around his fork. he finally looked up at both of you to say, “let’s not jump down her throat about it.”

“ugh, i’m so glad we got to do this.” mikasa breathed, her arms wrapping around your neck as the three of you entered the foyer. “i’ve got that women’s conference in georgia in a few weeks, so this is about the only free time i’m getting before then.”

“if anyone can convince them to vote democrat, it’s you.”

her eyes brightened as if it was the first time she’d been complimented in ages. “you think so?”

you nodded, trying to ignore her husband’s shadow burning a hole in your back. “you got it in the bag. don’t even worry about it.”

just as her smile began to widen, a phone somewhere upstairs trilled noisily, and her eyes darted to eren as she headed towards the sound. “that might be levi. will you walk her out while i…” mikasa gestured upwards, and they shared a look of mutual understanding over your head that had envy coiling in your gut.

in a matter of seconds, mikasa had zipped from the foyer and ventured up the stairs before you could even blink a goodbye in her direction. you shot eren a questioning set of eyes, to which he only wearily answered, “campaign manager.”

as eren walked you out the door, you could feel a question—the question—sitting eagerly on his tongue, so it wasn’t at all a surprise when he remarked, “jean kirschtein, huh?”

pale ribbons of moonlight illuminated his features, brightening the coquettish smile stretched across his face. “problem?” you quickly and confidently answered his question with another, even as you could feel your legs buckling under the weight of his stare.

“no, not at all. he seems…” eren shook his head so unconvincingly that he may as well have said yes.

“‘nice enough.’ right?”

for a brief instant, something darkened behind his eyes, and you couldn’t tell if it scared you or turned you on. “i lied. not nice enough for you.”

“oh? and are you saying you know someone who is?” a giggle slipped from your lips as you let your heeled foot briefly glide against the hem of his pant leg.

even in the growing darkness, his cheeks lit aflame in a blush. “god, i don’t even know what i’m saying.”

just then, your limo smoothed up the driveway and came to a halt where you stood at the front entrance. “well, call me when you do.”

***

your house phone trills ecstatically at around midnight, and you weren’t at all surprised by the voice on the other end. “you know i don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

throwing a nightgown over your naked, freshly showered body, you simper, “and who are you to make that judgment?”

“i’m making this judgment as someone who might possibly be good enough for you.”

“‘might possibly’ yeah, if we just remove the wife and presidential candidacy.” you momentarily considered a world where there was no wife or presidential candidacy. where you and eren met at some country club near santa barbara and could be blissfully smitten without interruption. without the glaring eyes of guilt crawling over your back whenever you so much as thought about him. “i’d say you’re perfect.”

“perfect, huh?” the cocky lilt in his tone sobered you as much as it excited you.

“hey, grain of salt.” you teased as you threw your head back into the throng of pillows at the head of your bed and wished desperately that eren could see the way you were smiling. “very clear conditions were stated. conditions you obviously cannot meet.”

“stop that.” eren whispered, his voice half a notch sterner.

“stop what?”

“being so pessimistic.” at this, you laughed, because eren’s hopeless sense of optimism was nothing if not utterly amusing.

“no other choice.”

treacherously long beats of silence roll by, giving you no other choice than to think about what you just said. would it really be so foolish to think that this (whatever it was you two had going on) stood a chance in the face of all the present circumstances—his marriage, the election, your reputation and career. sitting here now, listening to the peaceful whistles of his breath between his lips and soaking up the utter peace it brought you, you almost could’ve been coaxed into believing the answer was no.

“(y/n),” eren’s voice wakes you. “can i ask something of you?”

“depends on what.” you breathe, checking the clock on your bedside table. 12:06.

“there’s this, uh, dinner we’re hosting at my family’s ballroom. try to garner support and that kinda thing. i don’t know, it was mainly mika’s idea. but anyway,” the distant sounds of ice rolling around in a scotch glass graced your ears. “i want you to be there.”

i want you to be there. “oh, eren, i—” you cut yourself off, heart hammering in your chest so fervently you thought it might explode. i want you to be there. “i don’t—” i want you to be there. “i don’t know if that’s really my scene.” you tried to keep the tremor out of your voice for long enough to get the sentence out.

“nonsense. america loves you. you’d be a huge help, if anything.” his voice was doing that thing again. that thing where it seeped from the receiver of the phone and sang to your senses in a way that made it feel like he was really there with you. “but that’s not why i want you there.”

“why do you want me there?”

“just to see you again.” it warmed your heart, and every other surface area of skin on your body, that he was already looking for a way to see you again despite having just left you today.

“is this my official invitation?”

“‘course it is. i’ll handle everything else. just put on the prettiest dress you own and show up.” you glanced over at your walk-in closet with its double doors still open ajar and briefly pondered over which dress—out of the hundreds—might be the prettiest one you own. “can you do that for me?”

“yeah,” the word left your lips as if someone had punched it and all the air from your lungs. eren had the power to do that to you, and if at some point down the line, you got any stupider than this, you’d give him the power to do so much more. “yeah, i can.”

tags ✧˖*°࿐ — @nyanglock @beyondsuki @westcinny @taylarxse @ittostan @rensbby @madsoncrack @shawtynoire @braxxinterlude @kai7911

#nikki writes ✶#happy birthday mr. president #eren jeager x you #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x black reader #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan au #aot smut #eren jaeger fanfiction #eren jaeger fanart #eren jaeger smut #snk #snk fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin eren

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feministsforkatemiddleton · 2 months

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It's me, Meghan, hi, I'm the problem it's me

Let's break these comments down. Link: https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/meghan-markle-recounts-cruel-bullying-experienced-pregnant-rcna142622

"Speaking on a panel at the South by Southwest festival in Austin, Texas, on Friday, Markle said she is keeping her 'distance from [social media] right now just for my own well-being.'

The “bulk” of the social media and online 'bullying and abuse' she said she has experienced was when she was pregnant with her children, Archie and Lilibet, and while she had a newborn."

Some of that "bullying and abuse" was because Meghan misused her position as a working royal and went to Oprah to lie about her in-laws. If you don't want fair criticism and commentary on your actions -- i.e., misusing the British taxpayers' money and flat-out spreading lies -- then maybe act differently.

"'You really wrap your head around why people would be so hateful,” Markle said of the social media bullying she experienced. 'It’s not catty, it’s cruel.'

Markle acknowledged that there is 'so much work to be done in terms of keeping people safe' in the current social media landscape, especially considering what children are exposed to, while also appreciating the dichotomy that can exist on social media platforms."

Yes, Meghan. That's correct. A good example would be the abuse your sister-in-law is facing from your fans and paid-for bots. What the Princess of Wales is facing currently is "cruel," and you've had a hand in it. So there's a good place to start.

"Using the panel, which was being streamed on YouTube, as an example, Markle said it’s 'fantastic' that it’s on the video platform because people are going to 'have access to hear all of this brilliance and all of this insight,' but 'at the same time, it’s a platform that has quite a bit of hate and rhetoric and incentivizes people to create pages where they can churn out very, very inciting comments and conspiracy theories that can have a tremendously negative effect on someone’s mental health, their physical safety.'"

Do you mean like the conspiracy theories about your sister-in-law that, again, you have had a hand in churning out??

I cannot believe she actually said this. Jesus.

She also called out "'how much of the hate is women completely spewing that to other women.'"

Markle said there are a lot of women in high-level executive positions 'who are great champions of women, who are great philanthropists,” and yet 'they’re allowing this kind of behavior to run rampant.'"

Yes, Meghan -- like the hate you have spewed via your own mouth, leaks, and intermediaries like Omid against your sister-in-law!!! And you, Meghan, claim to be a philanthropist and co-head a charity and are letting this behavior run rampant!!

"At a certain point, they have got to put the ‘dos’ behind the ‘says’ and really make some changes on a systemic level,” Markle said."

Okay, then get to work.

"But, she added, average social media users also have work to do to ensure safe spaces online, noting that the 'systemic change has to happen at the same time as the cultural change is happening,' calling out women who are 'reading something terrible, terrible about a woman' and then sharing it.

'I think that is the piece that is so lost right now, and what’s happening in the digital space and in certain sectors in the media — we have forgotten about our humanity,' Markle said.

'And that has got to change, because I understand there’s a bottom line, and I understand that a lot of money is being made there, but even if it’s making dollars, it doesn’t make sense.'"

Like you, Meghan, and your fans you have created a cottage industry of abusing your sister in law, literally the next Queen of England.

#princess catherine #british royal family #princess of wales #team wales #prince william

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saintmeghanmarkle · 2 months

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Meghanese by u/Feisty_Energy_107

Meghanese https://www.instyle.com/meghan-markle-bullying-social-media-hate-pregnant-8606732"Markle—who has previously spoken about the mental health struggles she faced during her first pregnancy with her and Prince Harry's son—added that, in a way, Archie protected her at her lowest points."I think, you know, you could either succumb to it, nearly succumb to how painful that it is, and maybe in some regards, because I was pregnant, that mammalian instinct just kicked in, you do everything you can to protect your child, and as a result, protect yourself too,” she said. "Mammalian instinct? So not maternal then? Does this instinct come with any guttural sounds? "Elsewhere during the conversation, she stated that so "much of the hate is women completely spewing it to other women," which she finds "disturbing."“I cannot make sense of that, because I understand that there are certain platforms; today is a really good example, this is being streamed on one of those platforms, and it’s also fantastic because people are going to have access to hear all of this brilliance and all of this insight," she said. "And at the same time, it’s a platform that has quite a bit of hate and rhetoric and incentivizes people to create pages where they can churn out very, very inciting comments and conspiracy theories that can have a tremendously negative effect on someone’s mental health, on their physical safety."Meghan, just STOP. You're not getting taxpayer funded security. post link: https://ift.tt/KiAT32N author: Feisty_Energy_107 submitted: March 09, 2024 at 02:56PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

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searchingforserendipity25 · 8 months

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Hi! For the worldbuilding prompts, Galadriel + weaving or fabric crafts? — @emyn-arnens

I am so sorry this too so long @emyn-arnens! I wrote a reply to this and was a bit bashful about it (I suspect crimes against fiber craft techniques have been committed), but I'm finally posting it. Thanks so much for the ask <3

nerwen was very young, when first she asked her father to teach her how to work the wheel.

this is a child desirous of learning, earwën of the teleri had laughed, when first she beheld her daughter: little nerwen had eyes like an owl, colourless and wide, watchful as she was cradled, tracking every movement and every sound.

so it was, as she grew; artanis, her mouth pursed, her eyes hungry. earwën held great mastery in the art of the needle, from the making of nets to the impossibly delicate filigree, so thin water gathered in fine drops along the curls and curves of her designs.

nerwen learned lacemaking from her, and from her aunts and cousins, and most of all from her grandmother, the great master and creator of the art.

the queen of the falmari worked with a hundred pins and hundred bobbins at once, her mind a mathematical marvel; and from a very young age nerwen had been sat beside her, taught how to shape her own thoughts and hands to the creation of a design.

but the noldor dwelt in far tírion, were beset always by the cool winds that rose from túna; and so too did earwën and arafinwë dwell there often. the garments to be worn in the high city were thicker than the shifting, patterned sea-silks and bold linens of alqualondë; for the weavers of the noldor worked with wool, in the fashion of serinde, the dead queen.

sewing was a more ancient technique than lace-making, and weaving older than either. it was the way of the noldor, that every maiden go about with their satchel of flax over a shoulder, and at every spare moment be spinning or flashing their long, long needles.

nerwen learned all she could of it, and rhetoric, the arts and the sciences, those fashionable for maidens and those most unlikely. from her father, as well, she learned much - the saw and the varnish, how to speak with living wood and make peace with dead boughs, so they might be of use again.

arafinwë’s craft was of making, as most of his kinsmen; but he was a petty and whimsical maker, not taken with great seriousness by any quarter in particular. less learned than his half-brother, and content with his own unglorious projects, and with making certain the projects he showed the world were so few and without distinction that none would be very curious about his craft.

that was as he preferred. arafinwë, it was said then even by the kind, lacked a great spark of brilliance. nerwen knew the truth, even as a child: her father was wise enough not to cast too much of himself as kindling to make it into a great fire.

his concern was with the things that existed already, and those he held dear; chairs for elenwë's rest as she nursed, clever games for his children. the repairing of old heirlooms and great pieces, and of small things besides: mending the cracks of miniatures, repairing the small link of a small chain. cleaning tarnish and rust, inventing new and simpler mechanisms to repair an old engine.

from an early age, his daughter chafed at the pretense at humility, but even in her most high-minded years she did not disdain the small wonders he did build, sometimes, for those he loved.

nerwen’s spindle was of rosewood and gold, slow to warm to her touch, perfectly balanced, well-fitted to the hands her small fingers grew into, perfectly fitted to her grasp. her father had built it for her. so too he made her first wheel from the bare bones of new timbers, and metal he worked himself in the forge.

strange were the ways of the house of the king, even among the noldor. nerwen knew this, too - for there was no ancient machine, or spindle, or row of needles to repair, and pass down as inheritance. queen indis did not spin, or sew, or spin; and all the old wheels of the palace had belonged to míriel, crafted by the king to his first queen. none touched them that did not wish prince fëanáro’s wrath.

in the evening, when her tutors sent her away from the books and evaded her endless questions, nerwen sat by the fountains with her friends. they spun fine wool as they chatted about their lessons and their first fledgling projects, flirting with new crafts and with each other, graceless and coy, laughing swiftly, trying to get the passing swifts and robins to sit on their heads and shoulders for a little while.

and at night, narwen crept through the narrow, secret corridors that bound her father’s house to the king’s palace.

upwards and onwards, through hidden places, reciting prayers to vairë as she went, and crept, and pried open the ancient doors to the closed quarters of the dead queen.

she ran her hands through the strong frame, still as smooth and glossy as her grandfather had first made it, when the possibility of her life had been nothing in the rightful course of things. from her satchel she brought out the flax she always carried, and setting aside her father’s latest spindle, she sat herself in the bench.

míriel’s wheel was the best of such machines in tírion, but old-fashioned. much better did nerwen love her father’s work!

but the wood remembered. indis was the best of dancers, and a great singer, and a fine painter, but she did not spin, and taught nothing of that art to the maidens of her house - and so findis did not spin, and lalwen did not; and írissë's craft was for leather and enchantments only.

artanis laid her hands and her claim upon míriel’s wheel. it spoke to her - lent her the cold feeling of cold hands on hers, teaching how to bind work and mind to the same end. the keen memory of mastery, guiding her movements in a small haunting.

nerwen was desirous of learning always, from all the best teachers. no prince would sever her from the perfecting of her crafts; fëanáro’s wrath never found her, but from a young age she loathed him wholly, for it was a thing judged foul and ungenerous, by the falathrim and the noldor alike, to hoard a great treasure away from any grateful eyes.

#asks #galadriel #earwen #finarfin #feanor #miriel #silm fic #my fics #tolkien fanfiction

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jasperjv · 2 months

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You know something that pisses me off? Drake Bell was "cancelled" or whatever for being inappropriate with teenage girls and embarrassingly immature. Now everyone's like "wow it turns out there are reasons he is the way he is" and suddenly you all feel bad for him like wow you don't fucking say. People have no space in their minds for critical thinking or nuance and it's infuriatingly lazy and unproductive, even counterproductive.

To quote @sapphling (RIP to that fucking blog gee I wonder what happened there:)

it's just absurd how many "you have to think CRITICALLY about kink" addicted-to-talking-about-reading-comprehension types on here have fully and uncritically bought the standard societal narrative that sexual violence is something that happens because some people are Born Perverts and that those Perverts wake up every day saying "I love sexual violence. Sexual violence is my kink. Today I am going to do sexual violence." it's a very safe and very satisfying lie to swallow which lets you absolve the systems of power which produce sexual violence, as well as any complicity you could potentially hold by propping them up; and it goes further to absolve the self of any potential individual responsibility, because of Course you're not capable of reproducing sexual violence or violating another person's consent -- because that's what Perverts do, and you're not a Pervert, and maybe the Pervert even absolves you of a little bit of that unspeakable unmentionable bigotry in the back of your mind (think about how many marginalized people's "callouts" are met with an "I always knew something was wrong, she always made me uncomfortable to look at, I always thought they were probably a creep," justified ex post facto by the presence of Perversion). it's the same thing that dyed-in-the-wool conservatives do with Kill All Pedophiles, it's been the same since the early 20th century conceptualization of The Pervert to explain why communism and discontent were gaining a foothold, it's one of the most politically unifying impulses of normative society: justify the status quo, explain violence as an outlier, attribute the outlier to a monster, redirect anger and remorse and action towards the monster. the reason why new conceptualizations of Perversion feel right to you may be less due to an inherent political brilliance which your perfect soul can see in them -- and in fact it might do you well to consider if these conceptualizations follow through to fact, if they protect the vulnerable, if they offer keen insight which would disrupt an order which presently produces an overwhelming amount of violence; or if they simply feel right because their adoption is politically, rhetorically, psychologically, and physically very, very easy

#quiet on set #systemic reform #rehabilitative justice #criminal psychology

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molluskmirage · 6 months

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alright I think Ive pinpointed my frustration with some of the fandom nature towards purgatory (it is present throughout qsmp but particularly highlighted now with clear teams and hyped favs)

the operation and flip flopping that the fav team is is always., if winning, so smart and cunning but then everyone else must be dumb or not communicating , or that if losing the other team is a tryhard its so unfair poor manners boohoo. Its wearing and I think on a personal level when people discuss ‘unbalance’, Im a disabled person I navigate the world with everyone around me at an unfair advantage. Thats life but I can still live it and live it well just need to think differently and break the mould of ‘normalcy’.

I have never once considered red team weak. I watch blue team. To me Red is op for a lot of reasons, it feels like Bad gets whipped up into this untouchable evil but he’s not, He’s Badboyhalo hes someone everyone on the island knows. If Bad acted so kind prior to purgatory, has saved every egg from neglect and harm in countless numbers, he’s not going to operate any differently Bad is smart and Bad is skilled he is far from untouchable he fights with reason. Jaiden did incredible at handling the devil. It is ‘unfair’ but thats what makes it so cool to see Jaiden get tested and use her wits to handle it. You wouldn’t get the opportunity to see those tactics and brilliance so clearly highlighted without this testing. Being spawn killed brought that out and Jaiden got to be a boss all by herself and her own merit.

Bad is a menace to be dealt with for the other teams for certian but again its not like even the ‘weakest’ members cant combat this, they just have to approach it how needs be. Jaiden weaponized her weakness by letting quackity kill her. It’s insulting for everyone when you need to put down others accomplishments to raise up your favs. Everyone has skills and is working hard. Being present is a huge advantage as thats an asset that Red has over the other teams. Red team is full of people who are close to each other and willing to log on at the same time. A pack is a threat to deal with no matter the skill level but red is also full with pvpers of at least average skill to very skilled. Foolish is on par with Bad in strength he knows bad and how he fights as well. Cellbit fought alongside Bad. Carre and Phillza are better then Bad. And as we’ve seen today on day 4 Jaiden can still use her wits against Bad to her advantage. Slime can also be used to bait bad. Bagerha can use theyre realtionship to manipulate Bad.

Red team is far from poor. Theyre smart and use great tactics and the same can be said for blue and green. All things can be true and your team can still lose or win without it being untrue. Bad isnt as evil from his vantage point with his team but of course he can and is an obstacle or seen as such for others to deal with in their perspectives. Both are true simantanesoulsy. ‘The other team isnt thinking or hasn’t thought of x’ unless you know this for certain by watching both perspective they probably do or have thought about x. Every team is smart with teammates of varying strengths and weaknesses and they all try to use what they can to there advantage.

I love this type of content a whole lot but rhetoric surrounding and putting down efforts of others doesnt sit well with me. Every team has obstacles and its cool to see how they overcome them, love that. Support for your team can be done by singing there praises you can curse someone for out playing but try not to degrade them for playing. ‘They only won because x, they only lost because x’ is discourse that back hands even those you’re trying to praise.

#Qsmp purgatory fandom discorse

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lordy-lou · 11 months

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and now you are and i am now

written for @tentoorosemicrofics, stretching the prompts of “edge” and “singing” beyond all possible recognition. check it out on ao3 here.

As Rose stands, shattered-fixed-frozen and holding his human-sweaty hand on that blustering beach, the Doctor is suddenly reminded of poetry.

Not of any one specific poem, mind you, but instead of the idea of poetry as a whole: rhyme, meter, repetition and symbolism, all words and silences and spacing trying to express that which is too much to be borne. All art aspires to the condition of music, he remembers, he knows, and poetry comes the closest, a gratifyingly representational element wrapped up in abstraction and inference. A rhetorical bent, a meandering and cutting of thoughts wrapped up in syllabic precision, in artful chaos.

He wonders what the poetry is like in this universe. Different—new—connotations and allusions. Perhaps a bluebird meant despair, a croaking raven upon a bust a harbinger of fortune. A phoenix, death. No stirring ashes here.

As under a green sea he imagines drowning. Physical life as perpetual motion, and his single heart hares towards its conclusion contraction by contraction, his mind a tremulous wisp constantly reforming itself in the stream of blood and sense impressions. His sense of time, of potentiality, the complex biology of a being capable of experiencing and witnessing and manipulating the block universe—oh, it’s all there, the shutter-slides of possible moments one after the other clicking past like a child’s image viewer.

Rose's eyes are wet and luminous in the afternoon sun, staring at the disappearing indented square where the TARDIS had parked in the sand, and when she finally looks at him, he is trapped in her gaze like a failing satellite in a deprecating orbit.

Poetry. He’s never been good with words, gob notwithstanding. Couldn’t ever get the right ones out when it’d mattered most, couldn’t see the… the… not effect, not point, but necessity of something so intangibly small and terrifying as I love you. His people hadn’t had a term for it, in the end. They hadn’t had poetry, either, not in the way that the others in the universe had in more-than-equal measure. They’d had art in the most rigid and elegant of representations, with love and brilliance and joy expressed through equation instead of emotion, and even then so repressed and turned down to a low, bare simmer that it paled in comparison to the lightning-fast boil of humanity.

It’s what’d drawn him to them in the first place. That potential, that passion. That poetry, that intervallic and linguistic playfulness, from the tight-structured villanelles to the Modernist explosion, of faces in a crowd to lost watches to shared oranges to an old pond all wrapped in heavy symbolism and interpretation; but always, the common fellow-feeling. That one can read through and see another and the self in words, individuals bound together by the great weavings of the human experience.

He can see himself mirrored in Rose’s eyes, and he half-hates the image he can see there. So he pushes past, looks at her: a thinner face, lighter makeup, a tense, straight set to her shoulders under her leather jacket—and oh, how he wants to hold the rounds of those shoulders in his hands, to pull them from their flexion and gentle them until they’re soft against him. He thinks of the bare skin of her, under his hands—

—and his mind, that tremulous wisp drowning under a stream of blood and sense impressions, flickers, and he brushes aside his time senses, his training all screaming at him to stop, stop, this is beneath you and it’s frighteningly easy to ignore the entirety of it with this new human element in his system. Nearly a millennium of self- and societal-imposed asceticism, up in flames for a woman who had looked at him with tender, brave eyes and offered her company to an old, broken man.

He doesn’t find a single atom of regret in the ashes of his strictures.

His grip on her hand changes, fingers twining like he’s found home, and he steps closer to her, his brilliant, bowed human love. She hasn’t stopped staring at him, like he’s something unreal. Perhaps he is. He doesn’t feel quite real, in this moment that continues to flow from could be to wriggly now to solid past. Time is passing, and he only has so many heartbeats left.

“Rose,” he starts. She’s still silent, but she’s turned to face him, all tightly-wound limbs and runner’s grace kicking through her bones. “Rose—,” he begins again, and his throat closes up, so he snarls at the sky instead. Her hand squeezes his, and he looks back to her. There is something quiet and considering in her gaze, now. He wants to give her anything, everything, all of him.

Poetry.

He’s always been shit at it, honestly.

“Did you mean it?” she says into his tortured silence. “What you said?”

He tilts his head. Thinks of recitations he could give to her, arcing words of beauty he knows he could never really deliver correctly. He brushes his thumb against hers slowly as he thinks, and he catalogues and revels in the shudder that rushes through her and then through him in return. Thinks of—no, knows, his time senses and potentialities flickering back in at his bequest—growing old with her, grey and withered, and that self-same shudder at the rasp of skin on skin, of a growing TARDIS and comfortable mornings wrapped up in each other, house-rattling arguments, a child wild with laughter at a birthday cake, paired golden rings growing dull and scratched with time and adventure and love and death—

Gently, he steps finally, fully into her space, and his free hand cups her jaw.

“Oh, Rose Tyler,” he says, resting his forehead against hers. Their breaths mingle and he can hear the blood rushing through his veins, pounding in his ears. “I meant every word.” For the first time since the golden fire of the time vortex embodied, he presses his lips to hers. Beneath him, she hums, and there is a smile on her lips and tears on her cheeks as she kisses him back.

“Good,” she whispers between breaths. Then she laughs softly as he chases across her cheek with kisses, and he wants to hear that sound forever. No weight of the universe on him now, only the comforting pressure of gravity and fatigue in his bones; only the sweet press of Rose Tyler against his chest.

His heart beats ever on.

#tentoo x rose #tentoorose #tentoorosemicrofics #feat. gratuitous allusions.#no real plot just meandering headspace stuff and smooches #which is just fine. is it not enough to love and be loved

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mimigoey · 2 years

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I just read the new chapter and

I NEED PART 2 ALREADY. WHAT IS THAT FORM AND WHY CANT PEOPLE SEE IT

was it goemon's wicked phase?

I need to know 😭

(all rhetorical, I don't actually want spoilers)

Thank you for the ask. I was going to post something about it! Tsumuru sensei can identify other's mental state through colour and when Goemon's mana turned pitch black we saw this happen

It could have been his wicked phase. Whenever I saw this panel 👇 and because of Nishi sensei's brilliance, I thought that something is definitely wrong about him, either he's in his wicked phase and he feels bad about it or something happened to his face. When I said that no one noticed 😔

Anyway on the surface level it looks like he went through a wicked phase. These aren't spoilers, my thoughts only. While I think it's his wicked phase, i also think that it has to do with the kind of demon he is. He is a very nice person who has an amazing level of tolerance but even such people have limits. When they're pushed to the extreme they explode like a volcano 🌋 that form looks like an angry mom to me. The juniors were stubborn and he couldn't take it anymore. Also he has shown some Pride. Like anyone else, he also wanted to work together with his juniors and fight the teacher. That couldn't be fulfilled 🤧 so all those pent up emotions found a vent.

Then about the face, we really need Nishi sensei to reveal what type of demon Goemon really is. We really have very little info on gaap. He teleports his summoners and is a good doctor to women that's it. Goemon's character has much more to do with Japanese folk Lore. I will make another post about it.

Finally why can't people see his face? When I was very little, i watched a drama in my country called karma. In it, there's an antagonist who always hides her face. If someone sees her face they get cursed. So she hides it. I wonder if there's anything like that about Goemon or maybe it's just that his wicked phase is that much powerful so you should back off.

#welcome to demon school iruma kun #mairimashita! iruma kun #m!ik #mairuma #gaap goemon #gap Goemon #garp Goemon #Goemon #gaap #manga

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daggerzine · 3 months

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Slutavverkning – Levande Charader (Feral Cuts)

This record prepares you for the harrowing journey ahead with the opening track “Sveavägen.” It’s a prelude of wild sax skronk, sculpted guitar distortion, intricate and detailed drums splaying about, and in general hits like noise rock if that music was influenced by The Peter Brötzmann Octet circa its unhinged brilliance circa 1968’s Machine Gun. The free association of jazz, the aesthetic of sampling, and intense vocalizations are reminiscent of This Heat’s Deceit. “Psykisk terror” is a bit like if Can had embraced its jazz roots and made punk in the late 70s instead of the tropicalia kosmische of Saw Delight (though note the similarity in the cover art between this record and the latter). And that’s the general mood and flavor of this album from Swedish jazz. But the parallels go further because the concept of this album is its chronicling, according to the comments on Bandcamp, “the violent turmoil of a misunderstood pig farmer.” More concretely, perhaps, the songs are thrilling examinations of the nature of our existence – the commodification of all levels of how we have to live our lives and how it’s all circumscribed yet something within us resists the process of monetizing all things in service to capital.

The band makes no bones about its music being “anticapitalist jazz-punk fury” and with every song it lives up to that claim not just as rhetorical invective but with a zest for life lived freely and not simply as a means to an end of the bottom line of profits for the powerful. And at this point do single humans control the entire world economic order? Certainly, individuals benefit but it’s the system that is recursive with destructive and mutually reinforcing dynamics and consequences for all. This album takes what could be ideas and experiences described in a work of theory of mere “objective” journalism and turns it into a noise punk folk tale that is accessible without downplaying the viciousness of what it feels like to live under a world system seemingly now bent on the complete destruction of life on earth.

Beyond the previous comparisons, fans of current post-punk weirdos with a knack for pouring shade on the bastards of the world like Sex Swing, Spectres (from Bristol), and Otoboke Beaver will appreciate the fascinating gyrations and choice poetic social commentary found beginning to end with this set of songs. (TOM MURPHY)

www.slutavverkning.bandcamp.com

www.feralcuts.bandcamp.com

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plethora-of-imagines · 1 year

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Plethora's Pleasant-mas Advent Calendar: Day 4- Good Soup [Chapter 1]

Words: 2833

Warnings: Sick!Reader, descriptions of sick symptoms, throwing up, sedation

Shaking violently you stood on trembling legs. Almost collapsing the moment you put your weight down. Glancing back at the plush, warm, cocoon of a bed that you were abandoning you yearned to fall back down. To never remove yourself from the warmth and comfort you had managed to escape. Today’s trip was supposed to be to some planet with a wondrous view. Said to be brighter and more brilliant than diamonds. Couldn’t miss out on that now, could you? The words conjured by your sick mind, the rhetorical question of the morning, sounded so like something the Doctor would say.

The dim lighting of your room did little to hinder the throbbing of your head right behind your tired eyes. It felt like someone was trying to stab you with a sword. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to miss out on the view that “shimmered with the brilliance of 1,000 diamonds”... But then the Doctor would worry. You never wanted to worry her, or make her miss out on something she claimed to have been looking forward to like this. It was all she had been talking about for weeks. How you were certain to adore this trip. A once in a lifetime opportunity for most, but a standard delight when traveling in a TARDIS she had bragged.

Dragging clothes onto your body took an agonizingly long time. Hair a mess that you couldn’t force yourself to deal with. Looking at yourself in the mirror you knew you looked horrid but you didn’t have the energy to care. It would have to do. Maybe she would be so caught up in her own thoughts that she wouldn't notice. Unlikely but you could always hope?

Weakly you pulled yourself down the hallway. Praising the TARDIS for the beautiful thing she was when she manipulated things to make sure you didn’t have to walk far. You entered the glimmering consult room to a concerned whir from her. You didn’t dare shush her or respond when you spotted the Doctor already leaning over the consul, sonic in hand as she fiddled with something.

Trying so hard to casually lean against the nearest pillar for support you smiled as she looked up at you. Her eyebrows furrowed in that cute manner that told you she was trying to solve a puzzle. Hopefully that puzzle wasn’t you. Playfully you gave her a little wave, ignoring the heaviness of your limbs. Slowly her face relaxed, eyes glowing with anticipation.

“Are you ready?”

Her tone was eager and if it weren’t for the fact that you felt like any attempts to speak would be met with vomit, it would have been infectious too.

Oh god, you hoped that whatever you had wasn’t infectious! You didn’t want to get her sick.

Silence continued for a few moments more before realizing that she still was waiting for an answer from you.

“Oh! Yes, sorry. Just still a little sleepy I guess,” you laughed humorlessly in your attempts to play off the long drawn out silence between the two of you.

Shrugging off your answer, she turned to the console again. Dashing around, lilac coat billowing out behind her as she made twists and turns. Dancing around the central console as she piloted. Eyes locked on her form as you were entranced by her once again. Thank god that it was just the two of you traveling together whenever you got caught up in staring at her for hours. It would have been too difficult for the other to resist teasing you and revealing the depth of your feelings for her. The universe was as vast as a raindrop in comparison to your feelings.

A wild lurch took you off your feet. Throwing you down to the floor, only your grip on the railing had stopped you from plummeting down the stairs. The vertigo from being tossed onto the floor like a rag doll made your stomach revolut. You couldn’t breath as you gagged on nothing. Begging for her not to look over and see your pitiful state. You needed to hide this from her. Shame burned almost as much as your throat did, trying to take in air after being deprived.

Crawling the short distance to the hexagon stairs, slowly sitting down on them. Taking deep, slow breaths. You were okay, you would be okay. Head resting between your knees gingerly to help with the sudden dizziness. Or maybe you only noticed it now that the incense nausea had passed.

The groan of the landing TARDIS echoed in your ears. Oh, you had landed. Good, that was good. Bringing your head up you pretended that you were excited to stand up and explore. The whiplash did not help your head feel better. What a surprise.

“Come on then,” she enthused with a wave of her hand.

Leading the way to the doors. She waited for you to join her, throwing them open the second you were beside her.

Blind, you had gone blind. You head throbbing so much that your vision blurred in streaks of color before fading into fuzzy black dots. Tumbling forward to try and keep up your facade did you no favors. Your whole body froze with the softest of warm touches to your wrist. Tethering you to this plane of reality again.

Turning to the Doctor, the fuzzies dissipated leaving you with a clear view of her eyes. There was an anger to them that you had only seen before when she was worried about your safety. The look she gave whatever was placing you in danger.

“Were you planning on telling me that you were sick,” her voice was cold. So cold compared to the fire that her hand ignited underneath the skin of your wrist.

Wordless mumbles and sputters left your lips. You couldn’t form words, nevermind sentences to defend yourself. A burning hand cradled your cheeks as she moved to rest her forehead against yours much softer than her words had been.

“What am I going to do with you,” she murmured. “You make it much more difficult to protect you than I would prefer.”

Melting into her touch you leaned against her, letting her support your weight. Lips almost touching as you fell forward. Your face was likely burning but all you could feel was cold. Bed. You wanted bed, and tea, and maybe soup.

“Hmm,” her gentle hum soothed you. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Processing her words took more energy that you could manage. When lifted into her arms you didn’t have any energy to be amazed by her strength. The passing sight of the hallway made your head spin. Closing your eyes to try and force the vertigo away. The sway of the Doctor’s steps continued to make your head spin as your body managed to feel like it was moving even more than before. A roller coaster of spinning colors passing behind your closed eyes. Whimpering, shoving your head into the crook of her neck. Begging for her to somehow make it stop.

“Almost there,” she attempted to reassure you.

Josling you, she shifted you to one side as she attempted to open the door to your bedroom.

“Little help here?”

Groaning you tried to move enough to help her with the door, but she moved to stop you. A firm grip holding you even closer to her, refusing to let you shift your weight from your cocoon against her chest.

“Not you, the TARDIS.”

“Mhmmm,” the groan that left your parted lips as you panted sounded relieved even to your own ears.

The dim lightning of the room was a relief. How had you ever managed to leave this room? Slowly letting your eyes open to longingly look at your bed. The mess of covers and pillows that had been tossed lazily back after you had managed to escape, your source of yearning. Cradled in the warmth of the Doctor's arms it took you a long time to realize that in order to be cozy in your bed, you would have to leave your lavender, vanilla smelling cocoon of comfort. Whining pitifully as you were placed down into the center of your blanket nest for her to not leave you. Treated like the most delicate of glass figurines.

Heart aching with a heat that could not be contained as the blankets were oh so carefully positioned to cover you. To warm your feverishly chilled body. Patting them down to make sure they securely swaddled you. Nothing could convince you to leave this place of loving warmth.

Or, well, so you had thought.

The violent cough that over took your whole body, forced you to lift yourself out of the security of your blankets. Heaving and hacking until you were forced to lean off of your bed. If you threw up- which was becoming increasingly more likely with each miserable cough trying to remove your lungs from your body- you wanted to make sure it didn’t get on your bed. You did not have the energy to deal with that problem. Your possible vomit could stay on the floor far away from you.

A small trash can was quickly and sharply shoved into your hands, hitting your chest as you failed to grab it at the speed it was unexpectedly given to you. Continuing to dry heave until tears filled your eyes, dripping down your cheeks into the vessel you held. You couldn't breath, couldn't speak. Trapped in this miserable state of existence that never seemed to end.

You hated this.

The coughing fit creeped away as your vision filled with black dots once again. Allowing you to realize that there was a hand gently rubbing circles against your back. Whispered words pressed against your skin, hair being pulled back from your face. As the need to remove your lungs subsided from your body you collapsed back into the Doctor again. She wasted no time taking the bin from your hands to place gently on the floor beside your new home.

“Better?”

Groaning in reply you blindly reached for one of the soft plushies that you knew were nearby. Shoving your face into the soft cushion of comfort. Scrunching in on yourself as the soft whirl of her sonic burrowed into your skull. Everything was just too much.

“Hmm, bit more than just a standard cold. Space flu from the looks of it in fact. Did you know-,” managing to stop herself mid ramble.

You were glad that she had realized that you were in no state to listen to her right now. No matter how much you adored her.

“Try and get some rest,” she amended as her hand smoothed out your hair.

Brushing it away from your forehead where it was sticking. Ugh, you were already all sweaty. Ignoring the discomfort for now you kept your eyes closed. Honestly you weren’t sure when you had closed them. Sleep sounded wonderful right now. Something soft and warm pressed against your forehead ever so lightly before the Doctor left and you drifted off into the much more comfortable darkness.

Awaking to the sound of creaking, your eyes opened to squint out into the darkness of the room. Light streaming in from the hallway due to the open door. The Doctor was backlit, her silhouette just distinct enough to make out with her long coat. Hmm, maybe you could manage to steal her coat for your sick nest. That would make it just that more cozy. Once your brain power returned you would have to plot and scheme how to make sure she would take it off for you.

Mhmmm the smell of something warm managed to make it through your stuffy nose. The TARDIS being kind enough to slowly lite the room with a dim glow, just enough to see immediately around you. The Doctor placing a bowl filled with steaming liquid down on the end table. Her arms circled around you as she heaved you up into a sitting position. Still half asleep you didn’t bother to help, remaining dead weight to her like you were to the world right now.

Propping you up with pillows that she carefully fluffed behind your back she settled you into place. Ready to eat some of what looked like a delicious soup.

“I made you soup!”

Never mind. It was poison.

The Doctor and no supervision in the kitchen was a terrifying idea. More horrific than any of the terrors you had faced down at her side. Darleks had nothing on this.

“Or well I heated up some soup,” the TARDIS made a disapproving noise in response to her amendum. “Okay, okay. The TARDIS heated up some soup for you after I tried to microwave it in the tin. Better? Can’t even pretend to let me take credit for this can you. I see how it is, betrayed by my own TARDIS.”

Shaking hands reached to grab the bowl. Before they could make contact with the warm porcelain, the Doctors’ soft hands claimed yours.

“I think it might be better if I help.”

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed when she stated it so matter of fact like that. If your hands were unsteady, her’s could do it for you.

Feeling a little like a child as you opened your mouth for the first spoonful you didn’t feel any shame for whining like one when you realized that while it smelled nice you couldn’t taste it at all. Unfair. You didn’t even realize how much your pout made the Doctor want to lean in to kiss you.

Opening up for the next warm spoonful you were happy you could at least feel the warmth of the liquid. Warming you from the inside out. Filling your stomach one slurp at a time. Too tired to bother with manners. Slowly blinking as you grew tired once again far too soon.

Coughing on the next spoonful as you drifted away again.

“Good girl,” the Doctor absentmindedly praised as she whipped the corners of your lips. “Just a few more spoonfuls. Can you manage that?”

Nodding as you opened your mouth again for the next spoonful.

Finished with your meal before the bowl was empty the Doctor didn't utter a word as she situated the bowl on the nightstand again. Shifting around to get comfortable until she was in a position that could not possibly be comfortable, she cracked open a book.

"I didn't think you would stay," you slowly admitted. Voice thick with exhaustion.

"Mhm," she stuck her thumb into the book to hold her place before responding. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No! No." You rushed to reassure. "I had just assumed that the only evidence that you were here would be like an empty cup."

Her nose scrunched up adorably as she considered this.

"Wouldn't be keeping a good eye on my patient if I was never here would I?"

"Mhmm, read to me until I fall asleep again? Please, Doctor?"

The soft pleasant tone wrapped around your brain as you floated between conscious and unconsciousness. Warm like tea with honey. Comforting. You didn’t really sleep, just floated on a raft made by her voice.

At some point you must have fallen asleep. At least until a blinding pain forced you awake. Practically jumping out of bed as your body screamed that everything inside of you was trying to force its way out of you. The bed shifted as someone climbed into it with you to stop you from getting out of it.

“Shit. Of course you would be the one to have this reaction to it.”

For a moment the pain disappeared in your shock at hearing that voice swear. A word you never imagined passing those lips you had always been so captivated with. Then the throbbing pain resumed with double the force.

It hurt. It hurt so bad. Make it stop. Tears streamed down your face, sobs only making your efforts to breath worse. Clawing at the arms around your torso, keeping you tethered to the bed. You wanted out. Needed out of this spot. Throwing up into the trash can was awful. Being anywhere but your cozy bed would be wonderful right now. All you could imagine was how horrid it would be to clean up once you could breathe again.

The warm body behind you gave you just enough leeway to squirm halfway out of bed. The now dry heaving of your body served to make it hard to move. No longer able to see you reached out for the floor.

"I'm so sorry but this is for your own good," some sort of pitch in your arms broke through the numbness from the awkward position.

Reality spun and drifted away with each passing second as something flooded your veins.

Whispered words brushed against your ear.

"You’ll be okay, I promise, I love-"

And then you knew no more.

#13th doctor x reader #pleasantmas advent calendar

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