#and she calls it ‘empowering’ or some shit like shut the fuck up you wouldn’t know empowerment if it bit you in the ass

[agapaic]

[19 days] whiplash [ch. 365 after-shot]

The shop will be closing soon. He’s seen an attendant wandering around, who will probably ask him to leave in the next five minutes. There’s no one else here. His clothes are vivid against the neon glow of the tanks. The fish cast strange shadows on his shirt, living out a second life on his skin.

They swim in half-circles before sharply changing direction, never touching the glass. He wonders if they know it’s there, as if they can sense some immovable wall that holds them back.

He’s not getting deep about this. He could contemplate, quite extensively, about how their freedom must be bought by some higher power, and they would really only go from one tank to the next, slightly bigger, slightly richer. It’s all fake shit, and he remembers that in some ways he’s got it better than an animal. He can, at least, run away. Maybe he won’t get far. Just to the edges of the city villages where he’ll get a job earning less than before and lose his place in school.

Guan Shan puts a finger on the glass in front of him. There’s a label in the corner, peeling away from the glass. Veiltail goldfish. They have wispy, membrane-like tails. He could put his hand on the other side and see all the way through. Guan Shan watches the only black fish in the tank move placidly through the water.

Beneath the label, a smaller one: Black moor. For a minute he considers tugging the label off and putting it in his pocket, a little secret. He remembers that would be stealing, in some way, and someone in the shop would have to go to the effort of printing and laminating and reapplying the label just for one fish.

Guan Shan turns away.

He wanders for a few more minutes. He’s aware of his reflection in the glass. He worries about how long the attendant will let him stay there, and the thought that they will make him leave makes him feel slightly sick. He likes it here—the quiet, the muted hum of the tanks, the strange lights. They make him feel somewhere else.

His mother is working the night shift and won’t be home until just before he’s meant to go to school the next morning. They’ll have long enough together that he could tell her he got fired from the shop, but not long enough that he could reasonably pretend to have forgotten as he tugs on his uniform and slips out the front door.

She won’t be mad—she never is.

She can’t take on another shift.

Mentally, he has started taking stock. His Xbox is a few years old, but he’ll get something for it. He has a stack of old music magazines from his dad that could catch the eye of a collector. His computer, maybe.

The earrings.

His stomach twists.

Really, it’s not much. It’ll earn them a month, which could be just long enough for him to get another job, but what’s the likelihood of that in a city where most kids are just trying to bulk their CV’s for their college applications. Besides, his grades speak for themselves. He got lucky with the shop, and lightning doesn’t strike twice.

‘Hey, kid. We’re closing soon, so unless you wanna buy something…’

Guan Shan nods. His shoulders round.

For no logical reason, he says: ‘Can I take a goldfish?’

‘Sure. The black moor? Saw you had your eye on that one.’

‘No, one of the others.’

The attendant comes up next to him. ‘Just the one? They don’t like being on their own, you know.’

He presses his jaw tightly. A small sound comes out of him. He looks at the price tag and is somehow shocked and saddened to see the figure so low.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘The black one, too, I guess.’

He pays, then leaves. It’s late enough that the streets are quieter than he expected. He’s usually home by now, his shift over, reheating leftovers while he works on his homework. He stands there while the shop attendant locks up behind him, holding the plastic bag with two fish in his hand. He feels stupid. Behind his eyes, he can feel a sort of stinging sensation.

He has the unnameable urge to grab one of the passing strangers and tell them how he’s feeling, what has happened, what could happen. On some level he knows that everyone has their own problems, and he’s not the type of person to overstep his bounds. Instead, he watches them pass, and after a few more minutes he goes to the nearest subway station and gets the train home.

/

He had half expected He Tian to find him on the street. He’d imagined it, He Tian catching his arm as he wandered from store to store, deliberating at large windows with thin mannequins and expensive jewellery without price tags. There is a part of him that’s disappointed that it didn’t play out like this, a part of him that is even angrier to find He Tian sitting in the stairwell of his apartment when he eventually does get home.

It’s close to midnight, and the stairwell is clinically quiet. Outside, the stars are dusty and covered in a thin layer of smog that is less noticeable in the day. He Tian looks exhausted. He’s the type of good looking where even the slightest imperfection somehow makes him even more attractive. Guan Shan hates it.

He stands when Guan Shan walks in, suddenly filling the space, and Guan Shan says, ‘Get outta my way.’

‘Where have you been?’

Guan Shan shoulders past him. There’s a moment where he thinks He Tian will grab him around the shoulders, the air around him simmering enough that Guan Shan is convinced it’s a near thing, choking with danger, but he lets him pass. He follows Guan Shan up the staircase, his footsteps silent, his body casting long shadows on the steps where Guan Shan sets his feet.

At the door, Guan Shan pockets the notice that’s taped there, knowing He Tian has already seen it. Less sharply, he picks up the notes in He Tian’s and Jian Yi’s writing and folds them into careful squares.

‘You’re not comin’ in,’ he says.

‘I called you, like, fifty times. Did you block me?’

Guan Shan thinks He Tian sounds angrier than he really has a right to be. He turns and presses his back to the door. He has his keys clenched tightly in a closed fist.

‘Yeah. I didn’t want to talk to you. I thought you would’ve gotten that.’

‘I can get you another job. Something better paid.’

‘You’re so fuckin’ clueless.’

He Tian’s eyes tighten.

‘You’re ruining my life,’ says Guan Shan.

‘That’s—that isn’t true. I’ve helped you. You would’ve been expelled if—’

‘Maybe I would’ve gotten expelled. But I wouldn’t have had She Li on my dick all the time, would I? Wouldn’t need you to get me a job ‘cause you made me lose my last one, would I? You’re just—stickin’ a bandage on shit when you hurt me first.’

‘It’s not always like that. Don’t make it sound like it’s always like that.’

Guan Shan shakes his head. ‘I want you to go. I told you I didn’t want to see you again. Fuck off.’

He Tian says, ‘Let me pay what was on the door.’

‘Fuck off.’

He Tian doesn’t move and Guan Shan squeezes his eyes shut. He’s going to cry again, the frustration bubbling sourly in the back of his throat. He doesn’t trust himself to open the door while He Tian is still here because he knows he’ll probably let him in.

‘Do I really make you feel like a failure?’

Guan Shan rubs at his eyes with his fist. His voice comes hoarse and thick: ‘I am a failure. Bein’ around you just makes it so much more fuckin’ obvious.’

He doesn’t want He Tian’s pity when he says this, or his reassurance. He’s just being honest. Saying it out loud is kind of breathlessly relieving. He couldn’t say something like that to his mother, or any of the teachers at school. He couldn’t say it to Grey, who he’s known for years. He Tian knows more about him than anyone. It’s a terrifying thought.

If they never see each other again, will He Tian tell everyone the things Guan Shan has told him? About the restaurant and his dad, or about She Li and the things Guan Shan has let him do to him? He feels vulnerable and sick thinking about it, completely powerless, as he does a lot of the time when he’s around He Tian.

He oscillates between that feeling of uselessness and the feeling of being so empowered that he thinks it must be what being high or drunk feels like. That latter has him trusting his own convictions, having an unadulterated faith in himself like jumping from a bridge and thinking he might just fly—so long as He Tian is with him. He doesn’t like how it’s one or the other, empowered or powerless, and rarely anything in between. He’s heard adults on TV talking about being codependent, pulled punishingly into each other's orbit, and he wonders if this is the same thing.

In the end he supposes it doesn’t really matter. So what if He Tian tells everyone? Probably, he won’t see the rest of the year out at school. He’ll get a job on a different side of the city and no one will hear from him ever again. The embarrassment will all be internal and will only last a week or two. Then life will move on. He wishes he were older and wiser and better at believing this. He wishes it didn’t feel like the universe might fall out from beneath him.

‘Doesn’t matter what I do, it turns to shit,’ he tells He Tian. ‘No matter how hard I work, I’m never gonna earn enough. I can spend three hours studyin’ for a test and still come last. If it isn’t She Li, then it’ll be someone else. I just—I can’t catch a fuckin’ break, He Tian. But you do somethin’ and you come first every time. Life’s so easy for you.’

He Tian shifts from side to side. ‘Do you think things wouldn’t feel so hard if you stopped focussing on what you think my life is like?’

‘You’re pissin’ me off.’

‘I don’t know how I’m meant to help you. You won’t let me give you money. It’s like pulling teeth from you just trying to know what’s going on with you. What are you so fucking afraid of?’

‘I never asked for your help.’

‘You shouldn’t have to—that’s why we’re friends.’

‘I never said I wanted to be your friend.’

He Tian frowns, his look very serious. He isn’t teasing tonight. Neither is Guan Shan. There is the sense that their interactions are always anything but teasing, really, some dark undercurrent that runs between the two of them like dark veins.

He Tian says, ‘Are those fish?’

For a moment Guan Shan thinks he’s joking, deflecting wildly to distract from the seriousness of what Guan Shan has just said. Then he feels the crinkle of a plastic bag in his hand and, remembering how he’d just spent the last few hours, nearly drops the two goldfish onto the floor.

‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘You don’t have a tank.’

‘Yeah, no. I don’t know why I bought them.’

He Tian hesitates. There is a curious, predictable gleam in his eyes. ‘Red and black?’

‘It’s all they had left at the store.’

He Tian is looking intently at the bag. ‘Do you remember when we went to the aquarium? And you said I wasn’t someone you could forget?’

‘I just meant that—’

‘I know what you meant. But I always pretend like you meant it the other way.’

Guan Shan thinks, Don’t you think things would be easier if you stopped focusing on what you want me to mean and what I actually mean?

Instead of saying anything, he looks down at his sneakers. They’re scuffed and starting to rip at the seams. The thought of having to buy new ones makes him panic and the thought of buying a pair of second-hand ones online makes him panic even more. There’s no shame in it, but the thought of wearing someone else’s clothes makes him feel strange, especially when he knows He Tian could buy fifty pairs without blinking.

Guan Shan considers that thought and replays what He Tian has just said about focusing on his life too much more than his own. Maybe part of that is true.

Before He Tian, did he always feel things so intensely? Did the bad always feel so fucking awful? He knows that things were mechanical, and he was mean and didn’t think much about other people in particularly nice ways. He knows he didn’t laugh much then, or have dinners and sleepovers with friends. He knows everything hurt on a distant, muted level that was easy to ignore. Not much time has passed since then, and he reasons that nothing about him has probably changed, just everything else around him.

‘I can’t understand why you won’t let me help you,’ says He Tian, when the silence has stretched too long.

‘Because I’ll get used to it.’

He Tian frowns, not understanding.

‘One day, you’re not gonna be around. And I’ll be fucked.’

‘I’ll always be there for you.’

‘You don’t know that. People say that a lot and then they disappear or get taken away, even if they didn’t want to.’

It’s obvious they’re talking about his dad, but it feels safer to talk about things in vague, subjective conversation. Maybe things would be easier if they talked openly about things and didn’t use metaphors and hypotheticals. As it is, Guan Shan doesn’t feel ready to try the alternative. He is conscious of the fact that this feels like a conversation. They are passing words back and forth that hold meaning and neither of them has touched the other yet. It feels new and fragile as an oil painting, still wet, and so he doesn’t let himself think about this for long.

‘I think you’re getting this wrong,’ says He Tian. ‘I’m not asking you to rely on me. Obviously, I’d kind of like that. I like the thought of you needing me, and I know that says something about me. But—I’m just asking you to let me help you. Just here and there, no strings.’

Guan Shan rubs his forehead with the back of his knuckles. His keys are starting to pinch his skin and he can feel a headache starting to surface.

‘I’m tired,’ he says. ‘I actually do want you to go.’

He Tian’s jaw clenches and he breathes out heavily through his nose. He’s probably thinking he’s wasted his time.

‘Okay,’ he says then. ‘But we’re not done.’

A new wave of exhaustion comes over Guan Shan, crippling and final. He wants to get into bed with his skin against cold sheets and sleep for twelve hours without waking once.

‘You’re not the only one that ever gets to decide that,’ he tells He Tian, a little sharply. ‘You’ve gotta learn to let people go.’

‘But what if I know I can help them?’ says He Tian. ‘If I don’t, I’ve just—failed.’

They look at each other.

A minute stretches into an eternity that could be seconds or hours, and everything has gone backwards. Everything is the same.

Guan Shan can’t put his finger on what has just happened, but he feels like laughing. Their fears are twinned, self-perpetuating, some kind of ouroboros chasing its tail. Who will get caught first?

They both seem to take in a breath at the same time, and He Tian takes a step back.

‘Goodnight,’ he says.

Guan Shan nods. He waits for He Tian’s retreating back to disappear a few flights down before opening the door to his apartment, and shuts it swiftly behind him.

/

There’s a knock at the door while he’s brushing his teeth. The fish are swimming placidly in their bag on the edge of the bathroom sink. It’s past one, and he keeps all the lights off because his eyes are feeling sore. He’s adjusted to the dim glow that comes from street lamps seeping through the curtains, the blink of the timer on the electric stove, his Xbox gleaming in his bedroom. His mother shouldn’t be home yet and she has her own set of keys.

With a sinking heart, Guan Shan pictures his landlord demanding payment.

Worse, he pictures He Tian. Before He Tian left, they’d resolved nothing. It feels like being back to square one, chasing each other around a chess board. It fills him with a vast emptiness that makes him feel like he’s existing outside of himself, waiting for someone else to take over.

He pads silently towards the front door, his toothbrush jammed into his cheek, and peers through the viewer. There’s toothpaste dripping down his chin. In the hall, there’s no one there. He’s half-convinced he imagined it. He counts to ten before he opens the door, steps out—and his foot connects with something hard. There is a cardboard box sitting on the welcome mat.

Guan Shan peers around. The light in the stairwell is artificially bright. He kneels down and opens the tabs on the box, which hasn’t been taped. He swallows.

For the fish, says the note on the second box, nestled inside the first. Careful, it’s fragile.

Guan Shan rubs the heel of a palm into his right eye. He sighs. Then he reaches out, braces himself, and picks up the tank. He carries it into his apartment, and the door locks behind him.

/

thank you for reading! if you’d like to support me on my ko-fi/request a short drabble, you can do so here: https://ko-fi.com/agapaic 💞

#19 days #tianshan #old xian #he tian #mo guan shan #my fanfic #sorry for errors - it's late but i couldn't get this out my head

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 9: Stubbed Out

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Even being a coward takes effort.

Mulder’s been stressed for days, trying to forget his phone conversation with Mark and attempting to hide his agitation from Scully. It’s not going well. He hasn’t successfully kept many secrets from her since they met, and at this point it’s practically impossible. If Mulder acts at all furtive or suspicious, she catches on like a shark smelling blood in the water and circles him until he surrenders.

Maybe she’s deeply perceptive; maybe he’s just not that subtle.

His resolve to keep his mouth shut lasts until Wednesday, just after lunch.

He’s built himself a fortress of stacks of newspapers on the desk, leafing through them with a magnifying glass. Scully’s in the annex, looking at some fibers under the microscope. They’ve got a case, which usually sucks up all his attention, but the phone call from a few days before is still buzzing in his ears.

“Hey, uh, has Mark mentioned the cafe incident?” he asks from across the room.

Scully keeps her eyes on the microscope. “No, he hasn’t, actually. It was hardly an incident,” she adds, switching out the slide. “You need to relax.”

Clearly, she’d picked up on his nervous energy. For once, he wishes Scully could just read his mind. Then I wouldn’t have to figure out how to tell her, Mulder thinks.

There’s no easy way out of this.

“Have you seen him since then?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

Scully huffs out a breath. “We went out last night. Mulder, I’m trying to focus-”

“He called me,” Mulder admits suddenly. “On Sunday.” Whelp, consider the beans spilled, Mark, he thinks. You dick.

Scully looks up at him then, brows furrowed. “He did? Why?”

“First of all, let me make it clear that I wanted nothing to do with any of this,” Mulder says, setting down the newspaper. “He dragged me into it. I wasn’t going to say anything but it’s been pissing me off.”

Scully gets up from the little table and walks over to the desk, perching on the edge of the chair across from him. “Mulder,” she says slowly, “What are you talking about?”

“Mark called me on Sunday night, saying he had some questions for me regarding your character.”

“My character,” Scully echoes, eyes sharp and questioning.

“That’s what he said,” Mulder says, picking up a pencil and rolling it between his fingers nervously. His heart is leaping in his throat. “But what he really wanted to know was if you… um. Sleep around.”

The words land heavily, their weight sending ripples through Mulder’s body.

Scully’s face turns to stone. “Really,” she says tightly. “I don’t see how that is any business of his, or yours,” she adds.

Mulder’s blood pressure has to be at a record high. “He mentioned something about planning for long term, and his daughter. And he thinks we, um.”

Scully crosses her arms, and Mulder’s never seen such an icy, quiet rage. “He thinks we what, Mulder? Tell me exactly what he said.”

Mulder digs the point of the pencil into the desk until the sharpened lead snaps. “He thinks I fucked you,” he says quietly, not looking at her.

“Oh,” she says, louder than he expected. “Well, that’s lovely, Mulder. Did you happen to tell him that it’s not true?”

“I essentially said ‘see you in hell’,” Mulder admits.

“Right,” Scully says, pressing her lips together so hard they turn white. “And you weren’t going to inform me of this because…”

“Because it’s none of my business,” Mulder explains. “I didn’t want to overstep.”

“A first,” Scully says sharply.

“Hey, I learned from last time,” he replies, feeling suddenly defensive. Why am I in trouble here? “You made it pretty clear after Jerse that this is your life, and I’m genuinely trying to honor that. But your boyfriend called me, Scully. I didn’t ask to get dragged into this shit.”

She’s angry now, and he can’t tell if it’s directed at him or Mark. It feels like both. “You didn’t think I might want to know about this, Mulder? You didn’t think to give me a heads-up that the man I’m seeing thinks I’m an easy lay?”

“Whoa, whoa, nobody said that,” Mulder says quickly. “And I’m telling you now because I think you should know I had this conversation with him. I’m sorry I waited but I was unsure how to-”

Scully’s eyes are red, and Mulder stops. “Scully?” he asks quietly.

“He kissed me,” she says hoarsely. She takes a deep breath. “Can’t think why… don’t really want to think why.”

Mulder feels hot and cold all at once.

“It’s funny,” Scully continues, “I-I could tell he wanted more. It was surprising, and not entirely unwelcome, but I stopped it because something felt off.” She emits one small sniff before setting her jaw firmly. “I guess now it makes sense.”

“Scully…” Mulder says softly.

She gets up from the chair. “Thank you for letting me know,” she says woodenly, before returning to the annex and sitting behind the microscope once more.

Well that went perfectly.

-

They barely speak for the rest of the day, buried in their respective piles of research.

At the end of the day Scully packs her briefcase with short, sharp movements, her shoulders rigid. She slips into her coat, and Mulder sees her mouth set in a grim line.

“Scully,” Mulder says quietly.

She shakes her head once, the smallest negative movement. “I have a phone call to make.”

-

He leaves the office about forty minutes later, a parcel of newspapers under his arm; homework he knows he won’t be able to focus on.

He takes the elevator to the fourth floor of the parking garage, and sees Scully standing at the far end of the row of cars, leaning against the cement wall, cigarette in hand. He walks to her and rests his elbows on the wall, looking out at the twilit city.

“How many of those have you gone through?” Mulder asks, peering around her in search of burnt stubs.

She doesn’t answer, just holds the cigarette out to him. He hesitates, then gingerly takes it and raises it to his mouth. There’s smudges of lipstick on the filter, and he’s not a good enough man to ignore the eroticism of it.

“I haven’t smoked since ’89,” Mulder says, exhaling. He passes the cigarette back to her.

“Sorry to break your streak,” she murmurs, taking a puff. He watches the smoke escape her full lips, her angelic face profaned by tobacco and a dishonest man’s kiss.

“You didn’t,” he says softly.

They watch the world rotate below.

“I broke it off,” she says, eyes tracing the skyline. He doesn’t need to ask what she’s referring to, and she doesn’t elaborate.

Mulder shifts his weight awkwardly. “That night we got drunk… you asked if I thought you were settling.”

“Mm,” she hums. “No spark,” she recalls.

He nods. “It didn’t feel right to say at the time, but the answer was yes. You should be with who you want to be with, Scully. Someone who makes you… makes you feel things. Not the guy who seems good on paper.”

“It would have been right to say,” Scully says. “I asked you. I don’t- I don’t know why you’re suddenly hellbent on staying out of my life, Mulder, when I’m asking you to be in it. I appreciate your respecting my privacy and boundaries, don’t get me wrong; it’s a welcome change from past experiences. But I… I need a friend.”

There’s a tightness in his chest at her words. “I guess I’m overcorrecting,” Mulder admits. “You’ve been through so much hell, had so much taken away… I wanted to let you choose for once.”

Scully shakes her head. “This mentality you have of letting me choose isn’t much better,” she says softly. “Someone else still controls the information. You trying to protect me by omission doesn’t give me much more agency, Mulder.” She stubs out the cigarette and turns back to the rows of parked cars. “You of all people should know the most empowering thing you can give someone.” She starts to walk away.

“What’s that?” he asks.

She looks back at him. “The truth.”

#my fic #txf fic #msr #xfiles #fox mulder closet romantic #fmcr #this is one of my faves okay #tharr be angst

[moldisgoodforyou]

significant upgrade

i wrote the rest of this on the plane don't come for me if there is a MISTAKE !! (however do politely shoot me a message so i can correct my typo lmao)

wordcount: 3.4k

warnings: nada except brooklyn is a BITCH, ok so maybe cursing is a warning

_________

James: SOS

Sophie

Doll

Sophie: what do you want

James: Come bar

To the bar

Sorry not sober

Sophie: I’m grading, buddy

James: No no no

DEFCON 5

Urgent

After their short back and forth, and James’ little typing bubble popped up multiple times before going away, Sophie pushed aside her work and called him. She checked Find My Friends first, feeling better about the situation once she saw Rafe’s dot at the bar with the boys. “James? Something wrong?”

“Yes. Sophie, listen, look. You gotta get here.” James told her with a little slur to his words, but what was more telling was the sheer volume on the phone call as he yelled. He was always a loud person naturally, but she swore he got ten times louder when he had an ounce of alcohol.

“I already told Rafe I couldn’t, I have to catch up on grading stuff if I want to go out tomorrow. Is something really wrong?” She questioned, but considered going anyway. She’d already graded over half the work and it was proving easier to mindlessly go through than she thought, and she could knock it out tomorrow morning if she really needed to.

“It’s like, urgent, Soph. Look, come here, wear your sluttiest top - that’s not an insult, by the way, it’s a compliment or whatever - like, empowering or some shit - shut up, Colin -”

“James -”

“I’m serious, she is not backing down -”

That caught her attention and she stood, glancing over her appearance in the mirror. “Who?”

“Just c’mere. I’ll have a drink ready for you. Are you still on that Fireball peach schnapps kick? Like a fuckin’ psycho?”

She laughed. “You drink vodka redbulls, James, shut the fuck up. I’ll be there in...uh...ten.”

“Deal. Sluttiest top!” He added before hanging up.

She rolled her eyes, looked herself over in the mirror, and shrugged. She wore an old pair of Nike shorts and a t-shirt of Rafe’s with his name on the back, an old intramural shirt. If it wasn’t senior year, and if she wasn’t locked down already, she’d probably give more of a fuck, but she just wanted to take the opportunity to hang out with her friends while she could. After swiping on a quick coat of cherry lip balm and brushing her hair, she shoved her feet into sandals and made her way to the bar.

When she arrived, she went straight to their usual corner booth and slid in next to Colin, who greeted her with a grin and a drink, as promised. James threw his arm around her shoulders and messed with her hair immediately, making her squawk in protest. “Flint, kiddo, that is not nearly as slutty as I expected.”

“The Cameron on the back adds some possession though, don’t you think?” Colin pointed out, slapping James’ hand away from her.

Sophie scowled, combing her fingers through her hair. “What am I here for?”

“Oh! Right.” James stood on his toes and scanned the bar, locating Rafe in the far corner. Rafe wore a forced smile and was leaning against the wall with a couple of the other interns from Jeni’s over the summer - including Brooklyn, who was twirling her hair and stood right next to Rafe.

Sophie stood on her tiptoes, hand on James’ shoulder for balance as she followed his gaze. “I don’t see him, what am I looking at - oh, shit.”

“Yeah, see why I told you to go for the slutty top?” James reached for her shirt, tugging at the hem until she shoved his hand away.

“No, she would have just implied I was a prostitute or something.” She shook her head and turned back to the table, then took a long sip of her drink, draining nearly half of it in one go. “I don’t want to seem, like, overbearing - I mean, she’s with the whole group.”

Colin raised his eyebrows, skeptical. “She’s touched his arm multiple times and made him link arms when they did shots earlier. Had everyone else partner up too as an excuse.”

“Exactly.” James nodded, emphatic. “I already tried to rescue him, but Colin says m’ too drunk.” He hiccuped to punctuate his statement, then pushed a plastic shot glass toward her. “Here. Got you tequila.”

She wrinkled her nose, eyeing it with a frown. “I hate tequila.”

“See! I told you!” Colin exclaimed, snatching the shot glass away and knocking it back. “If you need backup, just wave or look over or something. I’ll deck her if I need to.”

She grinned, drinking the rest of what James got her. “Thank you, both of you. I appreciate it.”

“Hey. Whoever Rafe’s dating, we’re dating too.” James proclaimed, patting her head affectionately. “Just without the fun parts.”

“Lovely.” She replied, glancing over toward Rafe again. Brooklyn was now leaning just a little closer and Sophie could practically feel the tension radiating from his body, even from all the way across the room. She frowned when the other interns seemed to agree on something, dispersing, but Brooklyn stayed.

Sophie stood there and watched for a few more moments, seemingly frozen, until Colin nudged her shoulder. “Go.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” She dismissed, taking another breath before striding across the room. Of course, someone turned at the exact moment she rounded the bar, spilling their drink down her light pink shorts, soaking the entire left leg. She didn’t even let the guy apologize before she shrugged him off with a grimace and made her way toward Rafe.

He noticed her immediately out of the crowd, grinning and straightening up once he saw her. “Soph!”

She smiled at her eager boyfriend and how he always lit up upon seeing her, without fail. “Hi, baby.” She greeted, slipping her arm around his waist as he rested hers comfortably around her shoulders. She never - ever - used pet names in public, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Thought you weren’t coming out tonight?” He asked, glancing over her outfit and frowned when he realized half her shorts were wet. “What happened?”

“Grading went quicker than I expected.” She dismissed, her eyes flitting over his expression. He looked confused and she could tell from the way his eyes were glassy that he was drunk and nearly on the verge of falling asleep. “Can I try your drink?”

“Rafe, are you going to introduce me?” Brooklyn feigned a smile, fingers tightening around her own drink.

He furrowed his brow even more, looking between the two of them. “I thought you guys met. At the charity gala thing, remember? Sophie had that really pretty dress?”

“Yeah. We’ve met.” Sophie replied coolly, taking Rafe’s whiskey sour from him and took a sip. She hated them, with all her heart, but wouldn’t dare make a face in front of Brooklyn.

“Oh! Sorry, I just didn’t recognize you, you must have been wearing a ton of makeup or something at the gala.”

“She still looked like herself.” Rafe supplied, confused. He traced his thumb over Sophie’s cheekbone, staring at her in concentration before tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Sophie swore she saw Brooklyn’s jaw tick as she watched the two of them, as she watched what she used to have.

“Okay, okay. Rafe, did you tell her about all the fun things we did this summer? Sophie, you were away or something, right?” Brooklyn asked, hyper-conscious of how Rafe leaned into Sophie more and how he pressed a sleepy kiss to her temple.

“Nope.” He replied, popping the p. “Nothin’ to share. The internship was kinda boring. She was in Barcelona.”

“Oh, right. Long distance wasn’t too hard on you then?” Brooklyn probed with a sympathetic smile. She reached toward Rafe to touch his arm reassuringly, then seemed to remember at the last second that Sophie was right there, and jerked her hand back like she’d been burned.

“Nah. Why?” Rafe asked, cocking his head to the side, some of his hair flopping into his eyes.

Brooklyn grinned. “I just didn’t think you’d still be together, is all.”

“That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure you follow me on Instagram. So you’d know.” Sophie shot back with an equally fake grin, determined to come out on top in the petty exchange.

She wished Rafe was more sober so he could make an excuse for them to leave or shut the whole conversation down, but when he was drunk he didn’t pick up on any tone inflections. (She’d accidentally made him upset more times than she could count with a poorly worded sarcastic insult, and immediately felt guilty as his drunken gaze gave way to his signature pout.) To an outsider, their conversation seemed as civil as possible, like three friends catching up, until you got close enough to see the bared teeth and the tense jaws.

“No...I don’t think I’d waste a follow on you.” Brooklyn retorted, glancing down to the Cartier ring on her hand. “Sophie, usually when people wear designer, they have to have the clothes to match the rest of the outfit. Not whatever…” she looked her up and down, scrutinizing her clothing choice. “...Whatever is going on here.”

“Hey.” Rafe interjected, finally noticing the hostile undertones in the conversation. “Be nice, she’s hot in whatever she’s in.”

Sophie had to resist rolling her eyes at his completely unhelpful comment. “It’s okay, Brooklyn, I actually have style, so I don’t have to rely on wearing tacky designer clothes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my boyfriend and I are going to go hang out with our friends.” She glanced over toward the boys for backup and tilted her head toward the door, and James and Colin started making their way over. Alright. So she’d handled that well, she thought, matched her energy without getting too emotional or heated -

Brooklyn wrinkled her nose at Sophie’s comment. “Careful. He gets emotional when he’s drunk.”

“He doesn’t, actually, he was probably just being manipulated by you.” Sophie shot back with a sharp tone, protectively curling her arm tighter around Rafe’s waist. He just watched the back and forth with a furrowed brow, not sober enough to keep up.

James and Colin arrived just as Brooklyn sneered at Sophie, shaking her head. “Whatever. He’ll end up drinking away his problems in private like his dad anyways.”

As Sophie’s nose flared and as she took a quick step toward Brooklyn, getting right up in her space, Colin immediately grabbed Rafe’s arm and pulled him away. “C’mon, Rafe, let’s wait for her outside.”

Rafe let himself be tugged along, but frowned as he glanced back at the girls. “She’s gonna be okay?”

“Yes. She’ll be fine.” Colin replied confidently, dragging Rafe and James out of the bar.

Sophie stood tall, eye-to-eye with Brooklyn. “Don’t say that shit about Rafe. You don’t know him like that -”

“I do, actually. I know a lot more about him than you probably realize. Has he taken you to the Bahamas yet?” Brooklyn didn’t back down at all, smirking when she saw Sophie’s expression falter for a split second. “Still no? He’s probably embarrassed.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Sophie snapped, unable to come up with a better response. “Give it up, you’re not with him anymore.”

“Yeah, but I know he’s not going to keep up this little facade once we graduate college. He needs someone that can keep up with his family, that’ll do more than just hang on his arm at all the charity events.” Brooklyn smiled, taking a step back. “I’ll be there for him when you can’t hold your ground.”

“You’re delusional.” Sophie shook her head, so furious she couldn’t snap back with a sharp comeback. When Brooklyn just shrugged and lifted her drink to her lips, Sophie tipped up the bottom of it, making it splash all over Brooklyn. “Have a good night.”

“Fucking -”

Brooklyn exclaimed, but Sophie just turned on her heel and flipped her off over her shoulder as she strode out. She was fuming, practically shaking, but didn’t dare break down in front of anyone in the bar.

Colin regarded her carefully, making sure she was okay. “You good? Need me to go back in and finish the job?”

Rafe, leaning on James, seemed to finally realize she’d come out. “Baby! You’re back!”

She bit the inside of her cheek, taking a deep breath. “No, I’m okay. Thanks Colin. Need help walking these two home?”

He grinned, gesturing at the way the two boys were slumped against the wall of the bar. “Might need a little help, yeah.”

She nodded and slipped her arm around Rafe’s waist, unsurprised when he leaned into her and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Alright. C’mon, Cameron, your bed awaits.”

James sighed, striding along with them. “I want a girlfriend to bring me home.”

“Too bad, you’re stuck with me for now.” Colin quipped, grabbing James’ arm when he tripped on the uneven sidewalk.

“Was she being mean?” Rafe asked with concern, reaching for her hand. “I wasn’t listening.”

“Yeah. Your ex is a bitch.” She replied bluntly, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Am I gonna have to drag you home?”

“No ma’am. I’m good. All good.” He replied quickly, though unconvincingly as he slurred his words. “There’s a chance that I might be a tiny bit drunk.”

“A tiny bit?” Colin snorted, waving his hand in front of Rafe’s face. “You and James did multiple Jagerbombs. That always does you in.” He glanced over Sophie again, concerned. “Soph. You okay?”

“Huh?” She did her best to help Rafe along and guide his 6’3” frame so he wouldn’t trip over the sidewalk or walk the wrong direction, but was running through a script in her head of all the things she wished she had said - or done - to Brooklyn.

Colin frowned. “You’re doing that thing, Rafe says you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re mad. You want me to go back in? I’ll talk to her, I swear -”

“S’true. She does.” Rafe confirmed, then finally seemed to pick up on the anger radiating from her. “Did I do something?”

“No, baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She reassured him quickly, then gave Colin a small smile. “It’s okay. Thank you. I just - she just -”

“Yeah. I know.” Colin nodded. “Fuck her.”

“Exactly. Fuck her.” She repeated, a little louder and a little more confident.

James whipped his head back and started walking backward for about two steps until Colin forced him to keep his eyes ahead. “Who are we fucking?”

“We’re not - James, pay attention.” Sophie sighed, urging him along.

Rafe leaned over to press a kiss to the crown of her head, then whispered - in the loudest stage-whisper possible - “I think I’m a little too drunk for fucking.”

“Rafe.”

“Yes.”

“Please shut up.”

“Yes ma’am.” He nodded dutifully, hooking his arm in with hers. They made it to the boys’ house a couple minutes later and Colin shoved James onto the couch, tugged off his shoes and grabbed him a water bottle from the fridge.

“Alright. He’ll be fine here, Sophie, do you need help with the stairs?” He asked, noticing the way Rafe slumped onto her.

“Um...no. I think we got it.” She took a deep breath, her mind still racing from what Brooklyn said at the bar. “Thanks, Colin.”

“Night, you two.” He paused on the stairs, glancing back at James and then at Sophie for a moment before heading upstairs.

Sophie nodded, more to herself than anything else. “Alright. Rafe, baby, work with me on the stairs and then we can go to bed?”

“I got it, I got it. M’not that drunk.” He protested, but tripped up the first step anyways, knocking his knee against the stairs as he fell hard with a thud. “Ow!”

Without even asking, Colin was jogging back down the stairs all the way from his room in the attic, hauling Rafe up before Sophie could blink. He dragged Rafe up and into his room, ignoring his protests, and pushed him onto the bed. “Soph, you can go get ready for bed, or whatever. I’ll babysit.”

“I think I got it, Colin -” She started halfheartedly, only to be cut off by Colin just pointing at the door. She nodded gratefully and hurried into the bathroom, quickly wiping off her makeup and brushing her teeth. When she returned, she paused just outside the door to hear Colin talking to Rafe.

“Give her a break, okay? She just had to deal with your insane ex -”

“She didn’t have to -”

“She did, because you’re a fucking pushover sometimes.” Colin interjected, exasperated. “Your breath reeks, get your ass up and go brush your teeth.”

“You’re mean.” Rafe grumbled back, but got up and ambled out to the bathroom, giving Sophie a dopey grin as he passed. Colin followed him out but stopped in the doorway, acknowledging her with a nod.

Sophie looked like she was about to cry, overwhelmed by how nice he was being and the fact that someone even noticed that she was struggling a little with dealing with Brooklyn. Without a warning, she stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. “Thank you.”

He stiffened in her arms, then awkwardly patted her back after he was released from the hug. “It’s no big deal. Anything for a friend. Especially a friend that’ll stand up to that bitch.” He cracked a grin, nudging his shoulder against hers.

She laughed, rubbing her eyes quickly. “I didn’t realize you felt that strongly about her.”

“Yes. She’s awful.” Colin nodded. “You are a significant upgrade.”

“What are we upgrading?” Rafe asked as he returned from the bathroom just wearing his boxers slung low on his hips, with damp hair - even though they hadn’t heard the shower running - and his breath smelling of mint.

“Nothing, bud. Good night, you two.” Colin gave them a nod of dismissal and strode back upstairs, leaving the two once he was confident Rafe could stand on his own again.

Rafe reached out, noticing her slightly teary eyes, and affectionately stroked his hand over the top of her head. “You good, angel?”

“Just tired.” She yawned to make a show of it. “Where’d your clothes go?”

“Oh. Uh…” He glanced back to the bathroom. “I was gonna shower, but that was too much work, so I just got my hair wet.”

“...Right. Okay, bud, you need sleep.” Sophie ushered him into his room and onto the bed, then changed quickly into a spare pair of pajamas she’d left behind. When she returned to the bed and slipped under the covers next to him, he rolled over to face her, concern written all over his face.

“You’re upset.”

“Not at you.”

“But you’re still upset. Talk to me?” He stroked his thumb over her cheekbone tenderly, unsure what was going on - and honestly, the room would spin a little if he shut his eyes - but he was still conscious enough to pick up on Sophie’s feelings.

She nodded, rolling onto her back so she didn’t have to make eye contact. “It’s just - it makes me so fucking mad that you dated her. Not because of anything you did, but I just know you deserve so much better. And then she just still thinks she has any influence on you, she’s so damn condescending - ugh.” She rolled back over, frowning. “If we ever broke up I don’t think I’d ever be able to see you again.”

“You wouldn’t see me anymore?” He frowned, trying to keep up.

“No. It would hurt too much. That’s how I know she damn well didn’t love you like she should have.” She insisted, eyes bright again as she ranted. “She fucked up by letting you go, you’re a fucking catch, Rafe. I’m sorry she didn’t realize your worth.”

He blushed and pulled her close, nudging his nose against hers before kissing her. “You wanna repeat that again tomorrow when I’m sober? So I make sure I remember?” He had a joking tone, but seemed a little unsure too.

“Absolutely. I’ll tell you that every damn day if I need to.” She kissed him back, heatedly, as if to emphasize her point. “I love you. You’re mine and I love you.”

“M’ yours.” He confirmed with a sleepy nod, not nearly reciprocating the kiss as hard as hers. “My favorite girl.”

She pulled away, peppering kisses over his nose and cheeks before resting her head on his chest. “Good night, baby. Don’t you dare throw up in bed.”

He laughed as he wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes. “I won’t. Sweet dreams, Soph.”

taglist: @drewstarkey @lemur46 @jjmaybanksbaby @edgeofgr8 @quxxnxfhxll @obxtess @hoodpankow @vtgirl802 @outerbankies @messagesinthesky @nicolecarsley @svechnikolan @ilovejjmaybank @obxtess @abbyj1822 @oopsiedoopsie23 @g4bster @jjmaybankzz @freddymaybank @dontjinx-it @illbesafeforyou @moniamaybank @tovvaa @jailcalledlife @sunshineitsfine44 @randomficsandshit @outerbankspreferences @outerbanksbro @karsinner @kkmaybank @whoeveniskendall @lemur46

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfic #outer banks fanfic #outer banks #obx #obx fanfic #rafe x sophie #mine #college rafe #frat rafe

[wandering-child-rp]

For the mini fic: what about number 7 things you said while driving for E/C 💖💖

“Thanks for the lift. You didn’t have to. I could have gotten the bus.” Christine forced a smile onto her nervous face as Erik gripped the steering wheel a little harder. It was painful for him but he didn’t like the idea of Christine alone on public transport late at night.

The lights of the highway would bathe the saloon car into bright light every so often and gave them both some shadows to hide in. Christine put the lead in her stomach down to nerves.

“I don’t mind driving you. I know you’d do the same for me if I needed a favour.”

“Except I don’t have a car and I cannot drive.” Christine laughed, it was a one-sided friendship. It was strange really. He didn’t seem to have many friends and it was always Christine chasing him. Unless it was after a lesson because then Erik always had a fantastic dinner for her, a great bottle of wine and he was good company. There had been a while when Christine had developed a crush on him but it was never reciprocated. She’d given him a thousand opportunities and lingering a little longer than needed at the door waiting for a kiss that never came.

Her hands stretched over her thighs with a huff of air.

“Nervous?” Erik asked but desperately he didn’t want to hear Christine pour out her feelings about her new boyfriend. He hated the constant buzzing of her phone when they sat together or the way she’d smile and laugh at whatever was on that stupid screen.

“Yeah... a little. I wish he could have come back instead of me flying out to him.” Erik’s large hand landed onto Christine’s with a comforting squeeze.

“I know. It’s sad your missing the season opener.” In his heart of hearts, he wanted Christine to be sat next to him in the box. He wanted to twist the playbill in his hands over and over trying to pluck up the courage to slide his hand into hers. Exactly like it was now. His hazel eyes went wide and he whipped away the warmth all too suddenly leaving Christine confused again and feeling like an imposition.

It would have been nice to go with Erik. He was a gentleman truly. Yes, he was a little older than her but he was sweet and respectful. Meg kept saying it was just a crush on an older man who had that mysterious thing but Christine wasn’t so sure. She laughed at his clever jokes and dumb ones and could listen for hours to him play or dissect a film scene by scene. He lent her books that he thought she needed to read and empowered her beyond belief. Only when she needed it though did he interfere.

</i>

“Your favourite book is ‘Pride and prejudice? Did Mr Darcy like Elizabeth more because she was outspoken and her own woman?” Christine only nodded. “Then stop pandering to these idiots. Yes, take their direction but not when it cuts you down. If it doesn’t stop I’ll bloody tell them.”

“They’re bossy; not romantic though.” She said trying to lighten the atmosphere and stop feeling like such a silly little girl. Erik only raised his eyebrows and bit his tongue trying to keep his attention solely on the tv in front of them. “No one has ever declared their undying love for me.”

“Maybe if you followed the advice.” </i>

Erik remembered that night. The air hung thick as Christine ran her finger around the rim of her glass and the silence rang. He knew he loved her then. It was sudden and all at once; like drowning. He fought it but couldn’t swim to the surface again. It was fine when it was just lessons and direction but then they met up. She didn’t look at the mask but at Erik’s eye. He held his temper and the time it was ragged, she simply laid her hand on his shoulder and then it took all his power not to declare his feelings. Erik wasn’t stupid; she was young, beautiful and smart. Out of his league. Then, she suddenly had a boyfriend on the scene after a connection with an old friend. It was dreadful to watch them. Erik was waiting at the stage door with flowers but they ended up in the trash can when he realised he’d been beaten to the punch.

The pair came to the airport all too quickly. Christine methodically checked off her list for the hundredth time.

“Passport? Yes. Money? Yes. Ticket? Yes. Phone? Yes. Makeup bag? Yep. So, I’m all set.” Christine looked beautiful in her thick sweater, the mass of curls blow dried out by the hairstylist this morning and her body bouncing nervous energy as she smiled widely at Erik with the harsh light reflecting off his mask. “Vienna, here I come! City of opera dreams and I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

Erik knew she wouldn’t come back. She had nothing in Paris anymore and her father was back in Sweden. He knew the allure of a new city and a new start but he’d miss her too much to admit. She was tense and clearly something was distracting her, as always, she just blurted it out after only a stern look from her mentor.

“He’s nice, right? He’s not texted much but now a driver is going to pick me up? That’s okay, isn’t it?” Erik wouldn’t dream of it. He would even let her take public transport alone and insisted she stayed in his guest room when he caved and shared a bottle of wine with her.

“Yes.” He replied monosyllabically before adding some care when he saw Christine's face drop a little. “Let me know when you get to his house at least. Goodbye, angel.”

‘Angel’ Christine melted just like when he’d coined the term back for her. She had not known his name when the first note had come or the loud shout across the stage from a fast-moving figure. Erik had told her to start an octave higher and, it had worked perfectly, she had hit the last note despite not knowing. Jokingly, she’d referred to him since as her ‘Angel of music’. It had become truthful as her broken heart had begun to mend itself.

“I can still call you, can’t I?” Erik noted she was picking at the handle of her bag and delaying for time. Nodding, Erik was about to splurge out everything but as he opened his mouth, some jackass behind him started to honk for the drop off space.

“Of course. Good luck with the audition. I’ll come to see you perform, I’m sure.”

He watched her walk away with the backpack that was his before, handbag and battered suitcase decorated with a floral print. It wasn’t medically possible but he was quite sure he could physically feel his heartbreaking. The tears clouded his vision so Erik gave up trying and pulled in for a drive-through coffee he’d normally baulk at. Red and white lights flashed overhead as planes carrying people off to their dreams, vacations and loved ones. The pain came in another crashing wave as he saw the coffee Christine got flash on the menu board; double-shot caramel latte. How was it possible for a coffee to cause a thousand stabs of ice to a heart. Erik reconciled himself to just wait out the hour and a half to watch her plane take off into the night sky. Then he’d go home and drink his body weight in liquor.

The whole plane groaned as the captain announced the delay. They’d sat on the tarmac for half an hour but it felt so much longer for someone as nervous as she was. Christine swore under her breath as she wrestled the backpack from the compartment. Why wasn’t Erik here? He never had to stand on his tiptoes to reach anything.

1 Voice Note from ‘Angel of Music 🎶 (ERIK DESTLER). 20 minutes ago. Christine held the phone to her ear as she jostled her way through disgruntled people and his velvet tones spilled into her ears.

‘So, I’m just at Starbucks and I can’t not say this anymore. I’m so sorry to do this, Christine, and like this. Look, just don’t listen past this but let me do it. We can pretend it never happened. I really want you to be happy and I don’t care if that’s not with me but... fuck... I don’t even know why I’m doing this but... here goes. I love you. A lot. Always have and always will. You can’t blame me because look at you and look at me. I know you won’t feel the same but I care for you so much, Christine. My wretched heart will always belong to you. The one who saw through the bullshit. Don’t think nothing or no one is missing you in Paris because I will be. Don’t dwell on it though. Go be happy... If you want to come home or something goes wrong, I’ll buy your ticket home and be waiting to collect you. Anytime, any day, just call me. You can always call me. No questions asked.’ There was a noise of a steering wheel being slapped and Erik squeezing his nose and clearing his throat before a new note started. ‘Anyway, just call me if you need and, best of luck. I know you’ll be perfect and don’t take any shit from anyone. I’ll get over all of this and I’m sorry. Unless you didn’t listen to that message in which case, erm, send me a postcard kid.’

Christine felt like the world had fallen out from under her and anything she thought was true wasn’t anymore. Throwing her handbag onto the seat, she paced around and listened to the message again. Surely she’d misheard him.

Erik perched himself on the wing of his car. His third cup of coffee in one hand a cigarette in the other as he blew smoke into the sky and watched a plane take off. Her flight was seven minutes late but he saw the green tail knew it was her flight as the flight app hadn’t updated with the last-minute delay.

“Fucking hell, Erik...” he mumbled to himself and threw the butt of the cigarette away after only taking three drags. “Stupid bastard...”

Never before had he felt so deflated but with freedom now. It was out into the world regardless of his regrets or lack of. The words where just like the smoke; impossible to catch or recall in the night sky. It was what it was, Erik thought as he sat back in the driver's seat and drummed the leather wheel defeated. He sat there spinning his phone on his thigh whilst the radio played the weather forecast monotonously. He had muted Christine and unmuted her twice just in case she needed him suddenly yet he hadn’t looked to see if she heard the message before boarding. The timing was meant to be that she’d already have shut off her phone before getting on the plane. It was nearly an hour ago since he’d practically bled the words out of his mouth and tonight, he’d go home and get very drunk before sleeping in tomorrow and he’d remain drunk until the opening night of the opera in four days. Then, he’d force himself back together and to face the world.

“Erik?” That voice. His head whipped around quickly and pulled a muscle. “My- my flight got delayed.”

His face visibly dropped but Christine held up her phone with the screen illuminating the picture of the artwork in Erik’s corridor that she adored. It was a perfect metaphor. Even when it wasn’t about him, Erik was never far from her thoughts.

“I got your message.” The young woman was nervous and simply flying on instinct as the moments turned into seconds and she was closing the gap between them and then her body hit his and their lips met in a breathless kiss full of fire and longing. Christine’s smile was large and her eyes crinkled when Erik looked shocked and confused. Slowly, his long arms wrapped around her waist and one knee shook weakly. She was here, in his arms and smiling at the thought of him. “I wish you’d told me before.”

“I didn’t want to cloud our friendship.”

“Friendship? Erik, it was never just a friendship with us. It doesn’t take me five minutes to unlock my door and say goodbye in the car and I wanted you. I thought you could see that-“

In response, his lips met hers again as one palm cradled her cheek. The mask was unforgiving but Christine knew what was underneath already from coming over early months ago. He’d freaked out and was embarrassed but she handled it without a moment of thought.

“Are you staying?” Erik whispered with a voice dripping with dark honey and his nose rubbed against hers as Christine cuddled him close in the chilly night with her arms around his neck.

Several hours later and Erik was kissing Christine’s nude shoulder as he cuddled behind her still unable to sleep despite their activities. Christine hummed in happily nuzzled softly in a bed that smelt of his cologne. She couldn’t stop thanking delayed flights and voice notes of deep thoughts in cars. She could have missed out on her love so easily but as Erik’s chest pressed against her back in his bed, Christine knew she was exactly where she was meant to be.

@sloanedestler

#is 2k a mini fic? #I also drafted a totally #different idea for this which I might post if anyone cares #modern day au erik #Erik x Christine #ask box

[frasier-crane-style]

Watching Snyder League

-Diana literally vaporizes a guy armed with nothing but an assault rifle.

-Also, these have gotta be like the dumbest terrorists. Their plan:

A. Send multiple armed gunmen to take hostages.

B. Stall for time

C. Set off a suitcase bomb on a one minute countdown (why not just set it off immediately? It's In The Script)

You have a suitcase bomb--just park a car somewhere, set the timer, leave it in the trunk, and walk away. You can kill as many people as you want without losing any of your own guys.

-Superman's scream sends out five separate shockwaves. Which makes me think the guy's milking it, personally.

- I'm amused that both SOP for the Amazons is having, like, fifty people standing around guarding the Mother Box. AND that they don't ramp up security after it wakes up.

- And there's this system of burying the Mother Box.  Which 1. seems like the only way to get there in the first place is to teleport in. What good is this system against a teleporter?

2. It takes six guards to suicide themselves by knocking down pillars, which seems like--in five thousand years, you couldn't come up with something where you just pull a level from twenty feet away?

This is the problem with the Amazons. They're all women, so none of them go into STEM fields.

- It's also real weird that this Bruce Wayne doesn't even try to hide that he's Batman. He just walks right up to Aquaman and goes "hey, Bruce Wayne, I'm also Batman." And remember, he's getting the Justice League together entirely based on a hunch. At least in Josstice League, there were Parademons all up in Gotham.

- And should I even bother to ask why Darkseid's people can't just bring three new Mother Boxes to Earth? Are those the only three? If so, you'd think they'd try to get them back sooner. Like, A LOT sooner.

- Okay, this was supposed to come out one year before Infinity War, but still, it was pretty obvious what Marvel was doing with Thanos and the Infinity Gauntlet. They had to know they were inviting comparisons.

-I love the implication, tho, that Darkseid just lost track of the Mother Boxes and just... no one realized they were back on Earth. And they have Parademons that can specifically sniff out the Mother Boxes. 

-And if Superman dying was such a momentous occasion that it woke up a Mother Box, why not the Old Gods dying? Why not Ares dying? Wouldn't that have left Earth just as undefended?

-I have no idea why any of this is happening a couple years after Superman debuted and then died and not in, like, 1446.

-Are the Mother Boxes like finicky computers? Do you need to turn them off and on again? When Superman showed up, did they shut down for real, and then he died, so they came back on for real? Is it like a Windows 95 thing, where you can't JUST turn the computer off, you have to go to the start menu and press Shutdown and then wait for it to close up shop?

-It’s so weird that this is supposed to be a Dark, Mature Adaptation For Adults! And it doesn’t have the same basic logic you’d get from an episode of Power Rangers. 

-So. Much. Daddy issues.

-Please stop letting Ezra Miller improv.

-They cast like the gayest man in America to play the one guy with a love interest.

-Diana: "I lost someone I loved once." Well, twice, but who's counting?

-All those reshoots and they couldn't get Amber Heard to knock off the British accent?

-Why is Desaad, of all people, Darkseid’s dragon? Is it just because they were rifling through all the Fourth World saga to find the few guys with scary names instead of Granny Goodness or Virman Vundabar?

- And they really play up Darkseid appearing to Steppenwolf, but we've not only already seen him in the big flashback, we saw him get his ass kicked by Zeus of all people.

- And the whole thing where Steppenwolf is part of Darkseid's 'family' really isn't helping the Thanos-Nebula-Gamora comparison.

-It's weird to introduce Darkseid as the guy who was already beaten once. Wouldn't it make more sense that Steppenwulf was the guy who lost, and that allowed Darkseid to take over, and now he's trying to redeem himself for his defeat? Or that Darkseid was never defeated at all, but someone stole the Anti-Life Equation from him and hid it on Earth? Something. Instead, it’s literally just randomly burnt into the crust of the Earth, Darkseid discovers it, then forgets all about it for reasons the movie doesn’t get into despite being four damn hours long.

-It’s only the central plot, whatever, forget about it.

- Pretty sure Kal eye-lasered a couple Army guys to death after he was resurrected, not that he ever gives a shit.

-Third big reveal of Darkseid. Come on, you've shown him three times now. We've heard him talk.

-And this does the same thing as Josstice League with Superman being more powerful than the rest of the JLA put together. Here, he even no-sells Steppenwolf's axe. He just lets it hit him and it doesn’t do shit. So Doomsday could kill him, but Steppenwolf can't even scratch him. And yet Wonder Woman seems pretty evenly matched with both, if not outclassed by Steppenwolf.

-Barry Allen spends the whole climax running in a circle. And he fails at it! Dude's really retarded when he doesn't have Team STAR Labs cheering him on.

-He also casually travels back in time to undo his side getting a Game Over, which makes you wonder how any conflict in this universe can ever have any stakes. Say what you will about Endgame, but at least they explain why time travel can’t solve every problem they ever have.

-Hell, the Mother Boxes can bring people back to life. The example used is literally “it can turn smoke back into a house.” Why not bring Joe Morton back to life? He did a good job in T2, c’mon.

-Speaking of, according to TV Tropes, Ray Fisher got to come up with his own backstory for Cyborg (”I don't praise Chris Terrio and Zack Snyder for simply putting me in Justice League. I praise them for EMPOWERING me (a black man with no film credits to his name) with a seat at the creative table and input on the framing of the Stones before there was even a script!”), which makes it kinda hilarious that this movie’s characterization of Cyborg is that he’s a genius sports hero who also loves helping out the underprivileged.

-AND his big conflict with his dad is that Silas Stone was never there for him, as literally represented by there being an empty seat next to his mom at Vic’s big sportsball game. So apparently the black experience is indistinguishable from Austin Powers In Goldmember. Who knew?

-What else? It's weird that the narrative tries to put some importance in Martha Kent, but then in her big scene with Lois, she's really Martian Manhunter (not kidding) and when Superman is resurrected, he hears encouraging words ONLY from Jor-El and Jonathan. All she really contributes to the story is hugging Superman after he comes back.

-Also, Batman spends a lot of time in the climax shooting people with a rifle. They're bug people and it's, like, a Halo rifle, but still. You can tell Snyder's just chomping at the bit to have Batman carry around a Colt Commando.

-They give no shits about secret identities in this, so why do they still bother with putting a shitty distortion effect on Batfleck's voice? He has a pretty good Batman voice outside the suit, but once he puts it on, he starts sounding like he's giving a blowjob to Daft Punk.

-One of the movie’s, like, four cliffhangers is Lex Luthor telling Deathstroke about Batman’s secret identity, because Deathstroke has a private vendetta against Batman and is out to get him. Of all the Bat rogues who are solely motivated by taking out Batman--why choose Deathstroke, the guy that’s just a mercenary for hire, to characterize as simply hating Batman? (They also imply Batman took out Deathstroke’s eye and THAT’S the big feud between him and--guys. C’mon. This was really supposed to be a whole movie of Deathstroke getting revenge for his eye?)

- The movie ends with them making Wayne Manor the JLA headquarters--God, just tell me if secret identities matter or not.

-Did we really need two ‘beyond the impossible’ scenes back to back, one for Cyborg and one for the Flash?

-Oh, it’s not Arkham Asylum, it’s ‘Arkham Home For The Emotionally Troubled.’ Was this supposed to be one of those Arrowverse things where they call it Starling City for a while, only to rebrand it Star City because that’s somehow better than just calling it Star City in the first place?

- "[Snyder] also said that the reason Darkseid lost track of which world the Mother Boxes were left on was because he was gravely injured and their forces sent limping away, and upon returning to Apokolips had to fight a civil war for the throne (possibly the event hinted where Steppenwolf betrayed him), wherein their records were lost." Imagine having a movie four hours long and not explaining the fucking backstory.

[the-thirteenth-fantasy]

Org XIII as weird shit I found on romwe

because i’m a broke bitch and the org only gets paid in what the heartless drop so they are too.

part 2 with an even shiftier site coming soon ;)

Xemnas:

we need to bring the cow print jokes back. continue to bully this man. also this is just both his outfits rolled in one comfy-ass set of pjs. that crop top is perfect for showing off the Man Tits and the booty shorts are perfect for showing off the Superior Ass.

Xigbar:

you KNOW he is tacky enough to wear gun earrings. fuck, he’d get his ears pierced specifically FOR these. he THRIVES on people telling him his taste in jewelry sucks ass and with every mean comment he grows more powerful.

Xaldin:

look, he just strikes me as a chains kinda guy. maybe that’s just my emo punk ass getting horny on main over questionable fashion choices but look at that dinky little dragon and tell me he wouldn’t love that dumb shit.

Vexen:

you look at me and tell me this man ain’t buckwild for aliens. you TRY to convince me he wouldn’t have been trying to raid area 51 back at alienstock. You Cannot. he has an entire corkboard in his room to sort out conspiracy theories and NONE of them make ANY SENSE, babey!!!

Lexaeus:

y’know those cute lil teddy bears you’d see in a rustic log cabin that make you nostalgic for a time you’ve never known, but seen in old kid’s books? yeah they’re his weakness. he is absolutely compelled to protect anything this cute or with this vibe.

Zexion:

dark acedemia is just the vibe he lives for. bag that looks like a leatherboung book straight from Ansem the Wise’s library that he used to get lost in as a kid? shut up and take his money.

Saix:

Saix is a practical man. the moon empowers him. buy a second, smaller moon? even more powerful. he is twice as productive because he is always looking at the thing that makes him strong.

Axel:

some extremely gay socks for everyone’s favorite flaming homosexual. the second he sees these bad boys he smashes the buy button and never takes the damn things off.

Demyx:

look. he just thinks it’s neat. we all know he’s the most likely to splurge on excellent dumb shit and what exactly is a dinosaur backpack but excellent dumb shit to splurge on? he can and will name it Muffin, appoint it the honorary number XV and then rename it Muffinx to fit the naming scheme.

Luxord:

look, he bought these as a joke to use in the poker league. they’re over the top and obnoxious and he thought he’d get a good laugh out of them, but then about halfway through the game he started a massive winning streak and bled the other members dry, so heart of the cards, amirite lads? they’re now one of his favorite decks.

Marluxia:

Listen, hoing on a budget ain’t easy. You gotta really just indulge the magpie in your brain and take whatever thing seems vaguely pretty. He knows that! and this pleases the inner magpie! he’s gotta take every opportunity to be a flashy bitch.

Larxene:

She knows she’s a bad bitch. She knows she can pull them off. and she sure as shit knows that whoever thinks they can call these dumb will be electrocuted at a moment’s notice without regret.

Roxas:

Roxas is a simple guy. He sees something that makes him smile and he would like to have it in his life. What even is a chicken? He’s never seen one before! But now he has and he absolutely loves it. This was the first thing he’s ever bought online and he’d never been more excited than when the dusks brought the package home. He has decided to name her Nugget.

Xion:

Now, this is definitely a tacky as hell necklace, but do you honestly think Xion knows that? Do you think she knows the rules of fashion? No. She sees bright colors and seashells and she loves both of those things so now she’s wearing this EVERYWHERE. The few members that voice their distaste can’t affect her because she thinks it’s pretty and it’s not her problem that they can’t see it.

#organization xiii #org xiii #kh #kingdom hearts #headcanons #mostly a shitpost #xemnas #xigbar #xaldin #vexen #lexaeus #zexion #saix #axel #demyx #luxord #marluxia #larxene #roxas #xion

[honestsycrets]

The Whore and the Roach || [Geralt x Reader]

❛ pairing | geralt x fem prostitute!reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | ❝ she doesn’t want to be a prostitute. she just doesn’t know how to get out. he can help.  ❞

❛  warnings | whorehouse, prostitute, minor violence, geralt being a big good bully, protective!geralt

❛  sy’s notes | this is my first shot. it’s SFW. just a little sweetie shot mostly. gif by thewitcherdaily.

A soft wooden brush shifts over the study back of the muddy horse. He chomps on his supper of concentrate and hay to the swift rack of a brush over his back. His tail flicks periodically as he eats, suggesting that perhaps he has relaxed some over his long stay with you while his owner made a visit to Temeria. Your hand shifts over his long tail-- and you replace the soft brush in favour of a wide-toothed comb.

“Much better,” you say, standing off to the side of the horse. With one hand holding the top of the section, the other combs through his tail. The horse kicks out, and you’re suddenly a lot more happy that you were to the side of him rather than directly behind. “Keep still. You haven’t been combed in a while! Tell the Witcher he’s slacking. Better yet, I’ll tell him.”

The Witcher in question slips into the warm cozy stable. His large hulking body walks past you to settle his large hand on top of the chocolate strands of his horse’s mane. You glance to him, perking a small smile.

“You could at least brush him. It’s not enough that he has a foul-smelling Witcher on his back.”

“The pimp,” he states his question. You recognize the White Wolf for having come in some time ago. He spent three nights with someone else.

“Off with Mildritha for the night,” you gesture back. A long hmm slips from his lips. His large fingers weave through the horse’s mane, running his hand upon the side of his horse’s face. Roach, or so he affectionately calls the poor thing, looks up.

“Give this to him.”

The Witcher holds out a cloth bag. One look upon it and you realize it’s the missing coin. If you took it, you knew exactly what would come of it. No way were you taking that. Not on your life-- if something happened to it, you would be the one settled with paying off the Witcher’s debt. From the looks of it, it would be substantial.

“I can’t take that,” you say, the word seeming to snap off of your tongue. The Witcher deadpans and closes his glove around the bag of coin again. He prepares his things over Roach’s back and loin, unmoved by your words. It occurs that this man is perfunctory in every sort of the word. Once settled, he walks toward the door of the stable.

“Wait. Witcher!”

He stops, not bothering to turn. He’s listening, at least.

“Stay until morning. You could stay with me.”

He takes a step forward, clearly denying your request.

“You don’t know what it is like when he is angry. He’ll make me work again!” You say, like an absolute idiot. Living in a whorehouse wasn’t known for being a life of luxury, despite what the slinky red gown would tell others.

“So leave,” he rumbles.

You’re momentarily stunned. “It’s not that easy.”

Most women found it empowering: taking men for the coin they had. Maybe you would too, if there was no pimp to dictate how often you worked. So when your cunt was chafing and aching, you wouldn’t feel your teeth gritting like two hunks of rock sanding a sword. The best thing you could do that night was look exhausted and hoped men looked over you.

“Well. I mean. Some of us can’t choose our destinies,” you gesture humorously toward him. “Some of us are well renown Witchers. Some of us are whores in a house with an angry father. This is my life. I could never leave.”

He stops. Then turns to face you. In a way, meeting his brilliant amber eyes is something that gives you pause. Your eyes shift and falter, falling to the ground again. He lifts you under your arms and settles you up on the horse.

“What are you doing?”

“Keep her steady, Roach.”

It’s now, here, or never. Geralt walks out-- over to the whorehouse, forgetting everything you’ve said in the past. There’s a loud hey! from the inside. “What is he doing?” you whisper out loud-- then sit upright. The scuffle only becomes louder when your plump older father is corralled out with the Witcher lackadaisically, as if this whole ordeal is nothing to be really concerned about. You glance toward him, dressed in his unbuttoned dusty slacks and nothing else.

“Get off,” he motions, glancing over his shoulder. “Hurry the fuck up!”

Between his words and Geralt’s piercing gaze, you know which one of the two you’re paying attention to. Geralt seizes the reins and walks slowly toward the exit of town. There’s something to be said for the pimp’s stubbornness. “You can’t just-- you didn’t pay for her! Hey! Did you hear me, you dirty fucker!”

Then, he makes the wrong choice when he grasps at the other side of Roach’s reins. His chocolaty head jerks, clonking the old man in the face. Geralt stops with the loud splash of his head hitting a deep puddle, just enough to explain himself… somewhat.

“You have your coin.”

From there, there is no response. The town shrinks as Geralt walks on. Every wooden tavern, home, and whorehouse snuffs out their lights. Out of your age old home, there’s a moment. Just a small, lingering moment of uncertainty. You put out those thoughts with the fear and turn back around to the Witcher.

“You paid him for me?” you ask.

Geralt glances toward you. “Yes,” he states. Then, nothing. He’s not much of a talker, and maybe it’s your fault for being a prostitute. Most men only came to prostitutes for one of two reasons. Something told you-- Geralt had his fill of company a few nights ago.

“Then you’ve bought me. Why did you buy me?”

Nothing more than a dull hmm, a noise that indicates he’s at least heard you. Gone from one man to another, your eyes settle over Roach’s mane. Another thought hits you. The wind whistles through the trees on an otherwise quiet night.

“Where are we going?”

“A forest.”

“You’re dangerously talkative, you know. Seems to work out for you.” You glance over. Geralt glances at you at long last. He mounts Roach-- his strong muscles shifting around you to grasp Roach’s reins. His body affords the safety that you’ve gone without for so long, but you don’t want to give into safety. All safety was short lived.

“And what’s in this forest, anyway? Treasure? Another creature?”

“Women,” he answers. “The forest is full of them.”

Maybe he was a Witcher with a one-track mind. You think he has to be to be constantly on the move hopping place. The creaks of the forest aren’t every man’s friend. Unless you were something like him-- something that everyone despised. The bright lights of the town become dimmer and dimmer until they are specks in the dark forest surrounding you.

“That’s not it,” he rumbles.

Woop! There goes that.

“The women there will take you in,” he reasons. “You can’t come with me.”

A gamut of emotions ran through your face-- unsure which was worse or better. Living in the forest with no one you knew? Not even Roach? Though, if you had to guess, being used until your body was dry of the ability to have children was not the best life. You wonder, would the pimp have killed you after that point?

“That’s not exactly a great investment of your coin,” you say. “Buy a whore for nothing?”

“Losses and profits. Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Y-- well, no. It’s not my fault if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He’s unreadable. Partially because when he hovers behind you, with his warm and brawny chest behind your back, you can’t see his face. Maybe it was better that way-- being unable to see his deadpan expression, because some times, it’s like looking into the mirror.

“He was my stepfather,” you say. “Been with mother since I was a babe. I thought he cared, y’know, like a father?”

“Seems not,” he clips short. “Caring fathers don’t whore their daughters out for coin.”

No point arguing there.

“For someone that doesn’t have much company, you sure are a know it all.” You grumble, glaring off to the side. Your hand strokes over his mane, not really knowing if its at all for him, or soothing for you. Probably you. Roach doesn’t seem to give a shit one way or another. You carry on like that, making small quips he doesn’t pay attention to until he stops abruptly.

“What?”

“Stopping for the night,” The Witcher grumbles, pulling you off of Roach. He sets you down on crunchy leaves. You glance around, looking toward the tall arching trees, and you follow them to kiss the dark peppered sky. You had never slept outside before. Somehow it was more freeing than sleeping inside.

He’s quick to set up a makeshift camp. Nothing takes too long with the Witcher-- and you suppose that’s out of demand of a man who must run and rush wherever he goes. You stretch out by the crackling fire he’s arranged, glancing over tentatively when he crumpled beside it. It’s cool. Much cooler than you thought it would be. You run your fingers together, pulling your cloak around yourself for added warmth.

“Come over,” he rumbles.

“Come over?” you repeat as if your brain is as empty as the wind that carried through the leaves and chilled your skin.

“You won’t shut up,” he acknowledges from the ground, turning over to pierce you through with his amber eyes. “You’re cold. I don’t want to hear it all night. Come here.”

You lift, trudging his way to sit beside him. It’s not particularly warmer here, if only a little, but just as you gave it that thought, the Witcher dragged you down beside him. The ground is unforgiving. Harder than your back is used to. Maybe, in time, it would become accustomed to a rougher lifestyle. If it meant not being forced another another man, it was worth it.

“There,” he mutters, allowing you to rut close. His chest heaves slow, very low. You listen to the slow beat, his body serving as a shield from the small wind that carries through the forest. Your eyelids become heavy, unusually comfortable with a man. The Witcher-- even. “Now go to sleep.”

@kingniazx​

#Geralt x Reader #Geralt/Reader #Geralt of Rivia x Reader #Geralt of Rivia/Reader #The Witcher Imagines #The Witcher Imagine #witcher imagines #witcher: netflix imagines

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Hii!! Can you please do prompt #33?

Well, because you asked so nicely, Anon, of course!

33. Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous

Romance Novelish

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: T Word count: 5540

Summary:

MJ's European vacation is a romance. Peter's is more like an episode of Jackass.

Brad talks too much and, unfortunately, he talks even more after MJ pulls out one of the novels she packed and raises it in front of her nose to dissuade further conversation. Apparently, the fact that the book has a bare-chested man and swooning, beribboned lady on the cover comes across as an invitation for comments from her seatmate. MJ glares at Brad. She’s tired of his attention. She wants to spend the rest of the flight living vicariously through this fictional woman about to get some Georgian D. If Brad will ever let her fucking get past the first chapter.

“Because it’s good,” she finally snaps, turning to face him when he continues to question why anyone with any self-respect would read a romance novel. “It’s wish-fulfillment. It’s not degrading, it’s empowering to read about a woman finding exactly… exactly what she…”

MJ trails off, attention snagged by Peter in the corner of her eye, several rows back. He’s getting up from his seat.

“…what she wants,” she continues distractedly, watching Peter twist to wriggle out towards the aisle. Even through his sweater, look at those shoulders. “…and, uh, going after it.”

Peter straightens up and slams his head into the overhead compartment. Wincing, she blinks and refocuses on Brad’s unconvinced expression.

“Ok,” he argues (she rolls her eyes), “but a woman going after what she wants shouldn’t be some fantasy. You’re not the timid type. You’d go after the guy in real life.”

MJ gives a small longing sigh and darts a look at Peter’s back as he heads for the bathroom.

“You’d think so,” she mumbles, disappointed in herself.

“The right guy,” Brad informs her emphatically, “wouldn’t make you wonder if he was interested. He’d make it obvious that he was into you and then you could just respond.” He shifts towards her, tone seeming to urge a confession. “He wouldn’t leave any room for doubt or misunderstanding. He’d give plenty of hints.”

His hand just brushes her knee and she shifts in her seat, away from him, whipping her novel back up in front of her face.

“Too bad he can’t take one,” she says and proceeds to ignore Brad until he stops talking to her.

An hour later, Peter trips up the aisle of the plane and knocks into the arm she had balanced on her armrest, propping her cheek up. He grabs her shoulder to straighten her before she can bang her head into anything. Heart hammering from more than the collision, MJ looks up at him. She sticks her finger between the pages and offers a shy smile.

“Hey,” he says. “So…”

He’s obviously nervous; MJ hears Brad make an impatient noise beside her and turns her back more fully towards him to concentrate on Peter. Peter, who’s lifting an arm and smoothing the back of his hair like he might’ve messed it up dozing against his seat’s headrest. MJ’s mind is back in the world of her book for a minute. The swell of Peter’s biceps. Her gaze slides down his body like butter on a hot cob of corn. The way his jeans hug his thighs. She swallows.

He swings his upper body abruptly to look at something and his raised elbow clocks a man who’s getting his carryon down in the ear.

“Oh shit,” Peter gasps, immediately apologizing and trying to help.

After the situation’s resolved―accepted as an accident―and Peter’s returning the man’s luggage to the compartment for him, he spins back to MJ and seems to lose his nerve. He gives her a weak laugh and scurries away. MJ slumps back into her seat.

Wearily, she holds her book before her eyes. The protagonist is in the middle of what MJ expects to be a futile attempt to resist her feelings for the hunk.

“‘Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous!’” she reads.

Her real-life love interest of choice isn’t exactly a historical bad boy of the is-that-a-dagger-concealed-in-your-breeches-or-are-you-just-happy-to-see-me variety, but dangerous? MJ sneaks a peek and witnesses Peter swipe a woman’s drink clear off her tray as he tries to maneuver his way to his middle seat. Yeah, you could say that being close to him is a hazard.

―

“MJ,” Betty asks in Venice, “are you sure? You could share with Ned and I.”

And she gets this gushy look on her face that would make MJ say no even if she’d been considering trying to squeeze into the two-seater gondola with the brand-new couple.

“Nah, I’ll be alright with Parker.”

She sounds more certain than she feels and Betty gives her a doubtful look.

“Are you sure? Peter? In a narrow little boat? On water?”

“Yep. What could go wrong?”

It’s a joke because every one of Betty’s words hints at the possible pitfalls. Still, MJ knows a chance for romance when she sees one. The two of them, thigh-to-thigh in a gondola, gliding down the canal with no one and nothing to interrupt them? Ideal. Being alone with him (minus one gondolier) long enough for a gondola ride might give her time to form the words to say… well, she’s not sure what yet. But she’ll form them! The sway of the water beneath them and the centuries-old architecture to either side will inspire her. Not to mention her crush’s proximity. He already said yes when she asked if he might want to go together. Of course, MJ phrased it like she just needed someone to split the cost (something this touristy does not come cheap), but hopefully he’ll see past her practicality and directly into her heart.

“You’re right,” Betty says. She smiles. “I’m sure everything will be just fi―”

The girls turn and jump in reaction to Ned grabbing the back of Peter’s hoodie right before he can tumble off the dock and into the canal. MJ and Betty exchange a look.

“Will you hold my backpack?”

“Mhmm.” Betty waits while MJ tucks her romance novel inside and zips the bag shut. “Good luck,” she offers.

“Thanks.”

Once they’re actually on the water, MJ feels better. The way the gondolier propels them smoothly down the canal is very relaxing. She turns her face up, grateful for the kiss of the sun after all those hours on the plane. It’s also easier to look up and squint than it is to look sideways and meet Peter’s eye. Every time she does, they glance quickly away from each other.

“Maybe we should take a picture,” Peter suggests out of nowhere. MJ looks at him.

“Definitely. To commemorate the trip.”

“Right.”

He gives her a quick flick of a smile, brown eyes so close when they’re facing each other like this. There are more freckles springing up across his nose the longer they’re out in the sun. MJ wants to find a way for them to stay out all afternoon.

“I can take it,” she offers. He nods eagerly and she opens the camera on her phone, raising her arm to get a good angle.

“Um, should I…?”

Peter shifts on the seat. His legs press more surely against hers and he cranes his head forward awkwardly.

“No,” MJ instructs. “Get closer.”

She only watches him on the phone screen, but her breaths grow shallow as she sees him stare at the side of her face, then move his face right next to hers.

“Closer,” she urges.

His arm comes around her, touching the seat on the far side of her before he cautiously decides to hold her waist.

“Closer.” It’s a whisper.

His cheek rests gently against hers and MJ holds her breath.

“Look at the camera,” he says softly, though when she turns her head just a little, he’s not. He’s looking at her.

A speedboat zips past causing sudden choppy waves and Peter reacts instantly. He leaps into a rigid, defensive posture and something goes flying out of his hand or from up his sleeve. MJ doesn’t have a chance to figure out what it was or ask him about it because Peter yanks his arm back. Simultaneously, the gondolier’s oar goes sailing over their heads and, like a person with a broken leg who has their crutch kicked out from under their armpit, the gondolier topples over the side of the boat.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, flinging herself forward to grab the edge of the gondola, trying to see into the murky, churning water.

MJ misses the moment Peter jumps, but she feels his sweatshirt land in her lap and hears the splash. She slides across the bench to check the water on the other side, where he must have dived in. What should she do? What can she do? There are people on land stopping to look. She stares back in a panic, floating alone in the gondola.

“Help!” she calls to them, but rather than trust any of them to react, she starts to text Mr. Harrington, phone shaking in her hand. Their teacher gave everyone his number for emergencies and she doesn’t know what it’ll do to the poor guy for her to use it, but there’s no other choice…

Until Peter and the gondolier break the surface. Now MJ’s yelling at them.

“Why did you do that? What the hell, Parker?”

Thankfully, he ignores her panic (she’ll be embarrassed about it later) and holds the side of the gondola still while water runs into his eyes and the gondolier flops back on board, muttering in curt Italian. Peter paddles around the boat to retrieve the oar, now cracked in half. The gondolier accepts it with a nod.

“Aren’t you getting in?” MJ demands when the vessel begins to move and Peter’s still treading water.

“We were almost back to where we started,” he points out. “I’ll just swim it.”

She turns away from him and puts her hand to her forehead, somewhere between relieved and fuming. Her other hand unconsciously grips the sweatshirt in her lap. Once they’ve docked, MJ angrily passes the sweatshirt off to Ned and takes her backpack back from Betty.

“What happened?” they’re asking her, and MJ’s opening her mouth to explain the entire thing, about how Peter Parker is not only dangerous but an idiot, truthfully crushed that this moment slipped away from the two of them, when she glances towards the dock. Instead of speaking, her mouth just drops open further.

It’s like goddamn slow-motion.

He plants his hands on the weathered wood and hauls himself out of the water, plaid shirt plastered to his body. All the air leaves MJ’s chest as Peter shakes his head then slicks his wet hair back. Jesus Christ, she could swear she sees every drop of water cascading down his face and over the curve of his jaw. Light glints off the surface of the canal behind him and he walks, looking directly at her. Without breaking eye contact, she snatches the sweatshirt from Ned’s hands.

“Um, here,” she says, offering it to a sopping-wet Peter. This is better than the books.

“Thanks, MJ. At least that’s dry.”

MJ gives him a pathetically awed smile at the self-deprecating humour and has trouble letting go of the hoodie for a second, sorta hoping he’ll tug the whole thing forward and she’ll end up pressed to his chest. Yes, the front of her clothes will get wet, and yes, he smells like the canal, but she can overlook those things. Haul me against you, she thinks intently. Show me what it feels like to be a woman ruled by nothing but her passions in the embrace of your strong arms.

“Dammit!” Peter yelps, one eye clamped shut when he pulls the sweatshirt away from his now-dry face. “I wiped my face with the zipper!”

She could die. She could honestly just fucking die here. After Ned and Betty find a different gondola to rent, Peter goes back to the hotel for dry clothes and she wanders alone. Not far, just enough to find a bench where she sits and retrieves her novel from her backpack. God, right when she thought she and Peter were getting somewhere, that speedboat! The oar somehow jerked from the gondolier’s hands! Reality is bullshit. MJ cups her chin in her hand and turns the page.

―

They’re on the bus to Prague and MJ’s grateful for the stretch of time where she’s not expected to explore or listen to guided tours that tell her buildings that are clearly haunted aren’t, and other questionable facts. Do they even know how many people have been murdered in Venice? Neither does she, but the city had a very murdery vibe that she loved and would’ve appreciated hearing more about. And they call this an educational school trip. Ha.

She’s using this time to read. Read and observe. She’s on her third romance novel now. She only packed five, but if she gets through them all before they fly home from Paris, she’ll just start the first one again. They really aren’t tedious. Especially when she has material right in front of her eyes to project the characters onto. Peter pokes his head around the side of his seat and his gaze meets hers. Everything inside her flutters as though ruffled by an internal breeze. He gives her a sideways little smile that shows his teeth. Ravish me, MJ thinks, ducking back behind her open book to hide the way her face is lighting up like a flare.

She should just go talk to him. It would be thoughtful, a nice gesture, since his best friend is totally consumed with cozying up to Betty where they’re sitting together. Not having Ned to constantly hang out with has gotta be rough on Peter. Instead of barricading the seat beside her with her feet to ward off Brad, MJ could sit next to him. Soothe his loneliness.

“Do it,” she mutters to herself. “Get up.”

Pulse surging, MJ sets her novel aside and grips the back of the seat in front of hers to pull herself to her feet. There’s no need to be nervous. She and Peter… they have chemistry. There’s something there, just waiting to be realized if she can be brave enough to make a move. She ignores Brad, who looks up excitedly when she passes his seat. Brad’s fine, but she’d like him better if he didn’t feel like that towards her. Not when she feels like this towards someone else.

Peter’s at the front of the bus as they zoom down winding roads that hug steep cliffs. The scenery’s all gorgeous, she’s sure. She just can’t take her eyes off him. Confidence, MJ thinks to herself, trying to channel the heroine in her current read. That woman has three different men metaphorically eating out of the palm of her hand. MJ could do that. MJ has that power. This is just one sixteen-year-old on whom she happens to have a very large crush. She holds her head high and strides forward.

And in some quick struggle with Flash, Peter knocks the other boy out cold.

MJ freezes as Peter jolts back in evident surprise at his own action. He really shouldn’t be able to get into that amount of trouble while they’re all stuck on this bus. It just isn’t probable. She turns and slinks back to her seat before he can notice that his latest attack of awkwardness (and the ensuing collateral damage) had an audience. Rather than sit there trying to figure out how Peter incapacitated Flash with such a swift, soundless hit, MJ half-reads and half-daydreams. Her fantasies are full of his body slanting over hers for a completely different reason than to check her vitals after an accidental punch in the face.

―

There’s a hush in the theatre, still a long time before the opera will begin. Sound feels low to MJ, as though it’s billowing along the floor like smoke, everything dampened and expectant. Peter wavers and stops in the aisle. They’re going to sit together. Or, they were.

“What is it?” she asks.

He huffs an uncertain laugh.

“Just don’t really feel like watching an opera, I guess.”

“I know what you mean,” she agrees. Opera is about passion―lust, betrayal, wild consequences from the actions that heightened emotions lead to. It’s a lot like her romance novels, so, actually, opera appeals to her, but she’s not so sure about her ability to sit quietly and watch all of those things unfold on the stage while Peter’s seated next to her, the sleeve of his jacket rubbing against her arm.

“You do?” He seems surprised to find she’s on his side. Maybe he was worried about disappointing her.

MJ nods and offers a quick smile.

“You wanna… get out of here?” Peter looks at her warily after floating the suggestion. Her smile broadens.

“Yes.”

“Ok.” He glances back towards the row packed with their classmates. “As long as nobody sees us leave, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Harrington won’t notice. I told him Brad has a phobia of any kind of representational work, so he’s pretty focused on trying to comfort him.”

“And Brad?”

“Brad has no idea what’s going on.”

If her smirk is a touch vengeful, Peter doesn’t have any words of judgement for her. They walk together to the exit. She’s smiling hard towards the floor and has the feeling he is too. When the door catches the back of Peter’s jacket and shuts on it, MJ holds it open to free him, shrugging off his thanks. What’s a minor wardrobe mishap here or there? Tear this dress off me, she thinks as they step out into the night. They’re just a couple of teenagers, unchaperoned in a foreign city after dark. She isn’t scared as she walks next to Peter. Nothing could feel safer. In the historical novels she likes, there’s often a charming French gentleman or a dashing Spanish rogue, but this boy from home suits her just fine, with the smile never totally leaving his lips and the level of his head slightly below hers. MJ shivers and allows Peter to help her into her jean jacket. Sure, it’s the air bringing goosebumps to her arms.

They hold hands out of necessity, trying not to be separated in the crowd. Though it’s warmer while they’re moving with this teaming river of festivalgoers, she’s glad to be wearing her jacket. Strangers graze it, but only Peter is permitted to touch her bare skin. Their fingers aren’t locked or anything and still his hand clamped around hers is enough to make her feel electrifyingly possessed. Look! she wants to tell these strangers. I’m with him! Being taken in a firm hold is not, for her, mutually exclusive from consensual physical contact. When it’s a yes, MJ prefers an unambiguous yes; when touch is granted, she isn’t averse to rough neediness. Of course, this is all based on theory, not personal experience, on the way heat crawls up her neck and behind her ears when she reads a passage where a heroine is hastened to a secret place by her lover before being pushed against the wall, arms pinned, as the man looses her front-fastening gown with his teeth.

With a quick sideways glance, she presses herself a little closer to Peter and feels his fingers flex around her hand in response. She longs for a love affair abroad. What’s apparently more realistic―because this is what happens―is that she and Peter are too shy to continue holding hands when they escape the throng. That it’s too loud to hear each other talking and the requirement of tipping their mouths towards each others’ ears to be heard goes from sensual to annoying disappointingly fast. After they decide to go back to the theatre and pretend to have exited just ahead of the rest of their class, MJ thinks Peter’s changed his mind. He comes lurching into her space. Is he going to kiss her?! No, he catches himself and shouts that somebody bumped into him. Then he apologizes. Dammit, there’s nothing more she would’ve wanted from this night than for Peter’s momentum to drive them stumbling into some tidy alley off the main thoroughfare! She could’ve threaded her fingers desperately into his hair while they kissed, let him feel her up a little. MJ communicates in gestures that it’s no problem and they’re both too jumpy to hold hands as they weave upstream through the people.

After this failure of courage on both their parts, she doesn’t expect Peter to show up at the door of her hotel room later that night. She’s lying on her stomach, reading, when she hears the knock.

The sound of the revelers is still there, but in the distance. The streets they tread are quiet and full of all the ambiance of cobblestones and yellow lamplight. They could almost be back in time. Run away with me, is MJ’s silly thought. She doesn’t really want the trouble that would cause―depleting their euros, the worry of their families, rebooking flights, probably killing Mr. Harrington with the stress of it all―just the idea of being alone with him, of buying the two of them more time. In her head, she bats at the idea of her and Peter, in love and on the run from anyone who’d try to stop them, like a child whacking at a piñata. No hope of splitting it open.

Still, she is alone with him and his profile’s never looked so nice as it does cut out against the velvety dark of Prague’s sky. Peter seems nervous, again. He gets that way with her. Would it reassure him if she hinted in the subtlest way possible that the only time the words ‘making love’ don’t cause her stomach to turn is when she applies them to her and him? Is she the only one set on fire by the possibilities of the darkness? MJ wants to see their shadows intertwine.

She guesses at what he needs for her to say, suppressing the flowing verbal pornography of what she wants to say. It’s obvious that he’s trying to reveal his secret identity. The gondola mishap, the instinctual way he navigated them through all those people earlier―there are multiple examples from this trip that she added to her accumulated observations of him back home to come to the conclusion that Peter is Spider-Man.

But her assertion surprises him. He hooks his shoe on a cobblestone and goes sprawling. MJ frowns down.

“Why didn’t you catch yourself?” she asks. It doesn’t come out sounding very sympathetic, but she’s scientific right now, studying him as his alter ego.

Peter shoves himself up from the ground and dusts his hands off on his jeans. MJ hopes his palms aren’t scraped up.

“I always seem to have a little trouble with my senses when I’m around you,” he says with a bashful smile.

At first, she’s insulted. Is he blaming her for his clumsiness? After all the time she’s devoted to constructing fantasies revolving around him in tight trousers, tall boots, and torn-open shirts! Then, she gets it.

“You do?”

“Definitely,” Peter admits. “Everything else sorta blurs out and I can only focus on where you are. Where your body is in relation to mine. Totally lose track of my surroundings.”

He says the last sentence while dropping his gaze to her lips, which she swiftly licks in preparation. MJ’s ready for her first kiss… which never comes because Peter’s phone goes off. He answers, since it’s his best friend calling, then informs her that Mr. Harrington’s looking for them and Ned can only stall and make up wild excuses for so long. There’s no time to do anything but race back to the hotel, the atmosphere that was so much like it is in her books diminishing with every step. As she trudges to her room, feeling restless and left hanging, Brad pops out of his. Says he was worried about her. That he would’ve been happy to go with her if she’d only let him know. Mentions how he wouldn’t have gotten lost the way Parker obviously did…

“What were you even doing with him?” Brad asks as she fiddles with her key card. “Trying to stop him from wandering into traffic?”

MJ whips her head around to glare at him.

“Trying to prove you right.”

She gets inside and closes the door on him so she won’t have to elaborate, remind him of what he told her on the plane. That she’s the kind of person who’d go after the guy. Well, she isn’t. She didn’t go after Peter. She blew it. In the morning, they’re flying to Paris, and then home two days later. There won’t be semi-private gondolas or chances to steal away from the rest of their group while they’re watching an opera. MJ really believed this would be the vacation where she transformed into the kind of person she’d want to read about in a book. She’d better stick to reading because she’s not even close.

―

Paris is in a heatwave. Some of her classmates appear to be disenchanted by the fact that they’re too hot and uncomfortable to strut down the boulevards like models on a catwalk as the pastel buildings of picture-perfect arrondissements rear around them. They’re feeling too limp to be chic, but MJ is thriving. She eats hearty sandwiches of crusty bread and layered meats and cheeses and ties her t-shirt up around her waist like a crop top when sweat rolls down her spine. She feels like a better-fed working-class woman of the 18th century. Give her a Louis XVI to drag from his bed in this epicenter of revolutions. In the story she imagines for herself now, her bosom doesn’t heave from the breathlessness of stolen moments with a paramour but from the exertion of storming the Place de la Concorde for justice and the disruption of a diseased social contract.

Group activities and being worn out by the sun by dinnertime prevent MJ from really talking to Peter. Also, he keeps giving her these looks, which she attributes to her stating that he’s Spider-Man and then the two of them never discussing it further. They can’t, in front of their friends and Mr. Harrington. She thinks maybe they will when the Louvre swallows them for a whole afternoon, but the shuffling feet of visitors make the words clog in her throat. Her new persona doesn’t follow her inside; central air extinguishes the fire of the woman she is in the streets. Instead, she studies the fold and flow of painted fabrics, yearning to drape herself across Peter’s body the way Da Vinci swathed Mary in blue.

MJ wakes up to oppressive humidity on the final morning. It feels cool enough in the hotel, but her skin grows damp in the fifteen minutes between toweling off from her shower and sitting down in the breakfast room. Mr. Harrington appears to be at the end of his rope partly because, as he notifies them, Mr. Dell’s apparently sleeping in until they have to leave for the airport. The rest of his stress is just from existing, MJ guesses. He’s too paralyzed by anxiety to even think about accompanying his students on an excursion. Fortunately, enough of them are interested in going up the Eiffel Tower―until now, they’ve only seen it from the ground―that Mr. Harrington permits them to leave in a pack. They nod awkwardly when he gives an intense directive for them to ‘protect each other out there’ as though they’re embarking on a journey across a minefield.

She’s kind of surprised at how quickly their group breaks apart. Some of her classmates, like Flash, clearly had no intention of doing anything but skipping off to freedom, but come on. Doesn’t anybody want to examine the Eiffel Tower for traces of mind-control technology? The only one MJ’s glad to see go is Brad, though he shoots her a look like, Aren’t you tempted to follow me? She is not. When Peter sticks to her side, promising to stay with her all the way to the very top (frazzled by his sudden closeness, she pedantically informs him that they don’t let people up that high), her heart seems to shudder and glisten like the lightshow that illuminates the Tower at night. Betty and Ned are coming too, but they’re lost in their own little world, swinging their clasped hands between them and stopping to make Peter take pictures of them in cute poses as they make their way to their destination.

On the way up the Eiffel Tower, MJ hardly breathes. It’s the heat, or it’s Peter there beside her, smiling whenever she catches his eye. Or it’s some kind of copycat impulse because he hardly seems to be breathing either, hands in his pockets and chewing his lip in her peripheral vision. Miraculously, on the platform, there’s air. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a breeze, but it feels like air is moving around her instead of her pushing thickly through it as she has been the past two days. She feels exposed, as though at the prow of a ship. She pictures herself captured by pirates only to become their leader after seducing and bamboozling their captain, whose hands prove to be as callused as his words are callous when they have their way with each other in his shabby quarters.

Ned and Betty hurry along the walkway in search of the ideal backdrop for the series of selfies they’re about to take. While MJ’s watching them go, Peter grabs her hand. The action’s not like it was on the swarming streets of Prague; his hold is gentle, cradling her hand as though to cushion a jewel. Speaking of…

“I got this for you,” he says, drawing a chain from his pocket with his free hand. A chipped black pendant, glass by how it shines in the morning light, twists slowly before her eyes. “In Venice.”

“You got that for me?”

“Yeah. It got beaten up a little in my luggage. I’m s―”

“It’s perfect. I love it,” she assures him quickly. Tentatively, she lifts a hand to finger the smooth petals. “I can’t believe you got this for me.”

“I thought you’d like it. Black―”

“Dahlia,” MJ finishes for him. His hair’s curling in the humidity and she just wants to take his face between her hands and give him a kiss. They stare at each other a moment and she thinks, finally, maybe, will he? Will she?

“Here,” Peter offers. “I can put it on you, if you want.”

She smiles and nods, turning to present him with her back and gathering her hair up away from her neck. His hands come around in front and she tries to watch them without lowering her chin too much. Trying to be steady for him. Either it’s taking him a while to fasten the finnicky catch or he’s as appreciative of their nearness as she is because she can feel the warmth of his hands resting against the nape of her neck. Just wrap your arms around me, she thinks. Seize my hips as I swoon against your solid chest. Spider-Man should be a lover as well as a fighter. Eventually, his hands drop and she steels herself to face him.

Taking a deep breath, MJ says, “Tell me how it looks.”

She’s still turning as Peter takes a step back (presumably to assess the way she looks wearing the necklace), bumps into the guardrail, and overreacts so aggressively that he goes vaulting over it.

“PETER!” she screams, springing forward.

When she looks over the side, he’s hanging there with his fist closed around some kind of stretchy, sticky thread. His webs. Peter gives her a sheepish smile and she sighs in relief that the dork didn’t just plummet to his death.

“Looks great,” he says. MJ rolls her eyes.

“Just get up here so I can kiss you.”

He grins.

But other people on the platform are reacting, exclaiming, turning their cameras and phones towards the guy hanging by what probably looks like a rope from a distance. And maybe the two of them, Peter and MJ―a team, a unit, a couple―could’ve played it off that way if he didn’t decide to swing back and forth to gather momentum and then flip up to land beside her. There are gasps and other noises of surprise.

“What are you going to do?” she demands, trying to block him from view as well as she can.

He gives her a determined look.

“I know the first thing,” Peter says, then grips the back of her neck as he kisses her, suddenly suave, suddenly sure, and suddenly she’s the one who can’t trust her own damn legs, going wobbly beneath her as she presses back into the kiss. His mouth responds urgently and his stability counteracts her shakiness to keep her on her feet.

When he breaks the kiss, MJ tilts her head and immediately goes after another one. Hey, they’re in the City of Love. She’s gonna get her romance.

more clichéd tropes and prompts

#my writing #this is a funny one #spideychelle #spideychelle fic #spideychelle fanfiction #peter parker #peter x mj #peter x michelle #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones

[thebadassfoundation]

Never Stop Beginning

I started the journey of this blog and brainstorming the concept of the BADASS foundation with the idea that it would be a platform to speak out against domestic violence and empower women to rise up against their abusers. And while I do still fully intend to use it for those things, the purpose I've found in this project is actually so much simpler than I could've ever imagined. But life has a topsy turvy, upside down, ass backwards of all our plans, illogical and oxymoron way of doing things. And that's the ass backwards spot I find myself in. Closing the book called The First 30 years.

"Trust the journey" and "never stop beginning" are two phrases I've held on to since my life starting falling apart in December 2020. I lost my job and my place to live in Bunker Hill, WV the week before Christmas, In January of 2021 I found myself with a broken heart from the fuckboy I'd wasted over a year loving and a betrayal from a friend I called a brother. Penniless, carless and with quite a bit fewer friends than I thought, this 30 year old grown ass woman sucked up her pride and called her mommy to come take her home to PA…

You see, my narcissistic abuser was the reason I found myself living in the Wild and Wonderful West Virginia in November 2018. He held a kitchen knife over my head, got kicked back to the state his criminal probation was sentenced, and my dumb ass followed him and the bullshit promises of it never happening again. Yeah, we'll get to all that later. But West Virginia meant something to me. I'll share my Facebook post in a separate blog when I had to leave that house. It was the place I defeated my narcissist… or so I thought.

"Trust the journey."

I've always known there's a hand of destiny on my life. That I was meant for something more. And the topsy turvy destiny of my life was very much at play. I thought everything was falling apart. I thought I was a failure. And I didn't want to live anymore because of it. Irony of ironies, the thought of my mother losing her husband, my father, and a daughter just broke my heart to the point I couldn't actually swallow the bottle of pills I had next to me. But I had to come to this moment, this revelation. I had to see the big picture, why my 20's were such an epic shit show. I had to come back to the beginning.

"I think my mother's only hugged me like twice in my life," my voice faded off as I turned around to look at Tim. He's great when I need to think out loud because he just lets me process. My eyes got big and it hit me. 30 years made sense now. "Holy shit, my mother's a fucking narcissist." This revelation coming mid-rant over the way she views the word "Fuck," which is basically every other word of my very colorful vocabulary. But according to my mother, you might as well just go burn in the fiery pits of hell now, and she made sure we knew that we'd be "kicked out of her house" for saying it. Because women and children  being raped, abused and murdered isn't a priority, and as long as you say "fiddlesticks" instead, all is right in the world. Well, me being me, I couldn't keep quite on this revelation. At this point I still didn't want to admit it, even to myself. I mean, this was my mom. I spent the last 30 years loving her. She couldn't really be a narcissist… But once you see it, you can't unsee it.

I'm not a mother myself, but I've been a stepmother for a period of time. And I know the love my father had for me. So in the midst of a conversation with my mother where I confronted her on several things that had been irritating my soul like a scratchy sweater, a non-narcissistic mother with genuine, authentic love in her heart… wouldn't have been wearing a smirk on her face. And that look I saw is permanently seared in to memory. I know she didn't mean for her mask to slip like that, they never do. And she was quick to conjure up some tears when I brought it to her attention then shut the tears off like a light switch when I said "your games don't work here."

It all made sense. I was the first born daughter, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the love my daddy had for me from day 1. Though oddly enough, my dad and I never did have a good relationship when I was younger, and we're so much alike. But we were the best of friends for the last two years of his life, something I'll always be so grateful for, especially knowing what I know now. My sister and I have never gotten along in the slightest, like a wall was put between us before we were born. But she was the star child, and I just couldn't seem to live up to the expectations. And the narcissist twisting and manipulating in the background, always "the innocent victim," the only one apart from the broken relationships who didn't understand why we couldn't just all get along… the common denominator - my mother.

The smirk said it all. It was a look of that evil, cold-hearted monster I've come to know as narcissism. And I knew my mother had never loved me. She was not capable of feeling emotion that I, as an empath, feel all too intensely. The toxic boyfriends, the insecurity and feelings of failure I'd always had, the need to have love from a man to feel good enough. It all made sense when I saw the smirk on her face as I fought back tears, confessing that I wasn't sure if my mother even loved me. And that was the moment when I became an orphan at 30 years old.

"Never stop beginning."

So here I am. Closing the book on The First 30 Years and starting this exciting new journey and the BADASS foundation. The purpose and message of this journey now so clear and so incredibly simple -  YOU ARE ENOUGH. YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN ENOUGH.

I know how bad the hurt hurts, I know the gut wrenching sobs as you feel your heart ripping inside your chest. So feel those feelings but don't stay there. Because even though that hurt really fucking hurts, we get to feel happiness and love with that same intensity. It's in the hurt and the heartbreak where your power lies. We fall, we get stepped on, walked over, we break, we curl up in a ball and cry… But WE WILL ALWAYS RISE. And that is what will always make us more powerful than the narcissist.

So thanks for reading. I hope you stick around for this journey with me because I can feel it in my bones -  This is just the beginning!

We are strong. We are brave. We are fierce. We are BADASSES.

I love you, Baby Girl. You've got this! ~Sara XOXO

#narcissistic relationship #narcissistic parents #narcissistic mother #thebadassfoundation speakoutagainstabuse

[kxhlzn]

[iii.] the birdwatcher & his lover.

➳ synopsis: it's the summer of '89, and you discover new things about yourself— some good, and some you wish you could swallow and never see again. dealing with the newfound confusion of sexuality, you must learn the ins and outs of friendship and what it means to grow up.

➳ genre: coming-of-age drama, ANGST, fluff, slight crack.

➳ characters/pairing(s): eventual stanley uris/reader, unrequited!bev/reader, eventual benverly, eventual reddie (possibly unrequited.)

➳ wordcount: 5.9k

➳ warning(s): profanity, sexual comments, ANGST, jokes about 80s AIDS, hurt feelings, fireworks (don't try this at home, kids!)

➳ song rec: flowers in your hair by the lumineers.

➳ author's note(s): sorry i made richie cry, i hate myself too lmfao. also i love stan. that's all. that's the post. give me some recs on what you'd like to see happen to them in the future! :)

July, 1989.

the rain is constant; pattering, almost as if it expects you to open your window and let it sneak into your bedsheets, like a sneaky, horny, little teenager. except, the only teenager creeping through your window tonight is mischevious richie tozier, head full of grand ideas and schemes.

his hair is sopping when he slams on the glass, and you nearly lose ten years of your life at the scare. most of the terror racing through you isn't because you're shocked by his presence, but rather you didn't really want him to see your arms full of letters and graham crackers. he stares at you a moment, his glasses dripping with water, as a single crumb trickles onto the floor from the corner of your mouth. you consider, for a moment, that he didn't see it, but from the small smirk that appears on his lips, you know you were caught. he's crouched on the roof beside your window, tapping his knee patiently.

you don't rush to make a move, either, as you both have a staredown; richie is uncharacteristically patient, you notice, and it makes you loosen your grip on the items momentarily. but then, richie slips, and you throw them all on the bed and make a break for the window. once you've tossed it open, richie is already steady, his hands splayed out at hip height. he's preparing himself in case he slips again.

"what do you want, trashmouth?" you quip, propping the window open. you glance at the surrounding area behind him, and the sky is a deep grey. the trees are heavy with water, puddles scattered across the ground. what on earth could he need at this time?

"so, i got this cool idea," he says, gripping the sill as he slides through the crack of your window. now, he's got water dripping all over the floor, and you scowl at him as he shakes his head like a dog, flinging droplets across your bedroom. "what if we buy fireworks?"

you don't miss a beat. "what?"

"like, you know, fireworks. for fourth of july? i might know a guy."

"seriously? that'd be so cool!" you say, picturing lighting off rockets into the sky, at the quarry. richie nods in excitement, collapsing on the floor beside your bed, leaning his head against your sheets. one knee is propped up, and his arm slings comfortably on it. the water drips onto his (for once) solid color grey t-shirt and plaided black pajama pants.

"right?" richie agrees, "you can thank me later. i already told 'im to buy them. 'said he'll get back to me soon. what are those?"

you blink at him a moment, and draw your attention to where he is focused. he's eyeing the pile of letters on your bed behind him, and he starts to get grabby as he digs through them.

you jolt forward, swatting at his hands. "they're, uh... letters? to? someone?"

"your pops?"

"what? no. well, actually, most of 'em, yeah."

"he ever respond to the ones you sent last year?" richie asks softly, peering at you when you take a hesitant seat on your bed, near richie's mop of hair.

"nope," you shrug, "but it's worth a try to send some more, ya know?"

"nah. you're trying too hard, babyface. you ever think that maybe it's time to toss the towel in?" richie's hand lands on your knee, but you jerk away from him.

"toss the towel in? what the fuck, richie?" you stand, quickly, and take a few cautious steps away from him.

"no, urgh, listen. i just hate seeing you hurt yourself like this—" he stands, too, stretching his long legs in a couple strides toward you.

"what's so fucking wrong with me writing a letter to my dad?"

"it's stupid! i just think—"

"you're just pissed 'cause yours sits a room away from you, and he talks to you less than mine!" you bite, and you immediately regret it, a sour flavor sitting on your tongue.

"fuck you!" richie barks, pointing an accusatory finger at you. his voice cracks in the process. "at least my dad bothered to stay! i wasn't so fucking bitchy that he disappeared into the night, not able to deal with having me for a kid!"

you want to snap back, but you're afraid your voice will betray you, so you merely open and close your mouth like a fish. richie's shoulders are heaving, eyes blown wide enough to rival the size of his actual face, with the glasses magnifying them so much. his fists are clenching and unclenching, consistently while you stand in tense silence.

"you're right," you whisper, mostly to yourself, and you cradle your arms against your chest. you lean up against your wall and slide down until your arms hug your knees. richie gapes, mutters out a few incoherent words, and then collapses in front of you, his hands on your arms.

"no, fuck, no, i shouldn't have said that. i didn't mean it. we're both tired, and hungry, and frustrated. that was such an asshole thing for me to say," he sputters out, and he pulls your head into the crook of his neck while he coos softly.

"it's okay, i didn't mean what i said, either. i think, i just, i know you were right about the tossing in the towel thing, but i.. i just don't think i'm ready to, you know?" you mumble into his shoulder, and he nods.

"that's okay, it was just a suggestion, babyface. you want to send him a letter? fuck it, let's do it."

"okay."

you spend the next ten minutes sealing the letters up, stamping them, and tossing them into your desk drawer for later. you sit comfortably in your chair, finishing up writing the address on the last one, when richie hums to himself.

"what?" you ask, spinning around to face him. he holds a letter up from his seat on your bed, sitting crisscrossed. his magnified eyes are glued to the words.

"nothing, you just missed one. except, it's not for your pops..."

"what do you mean? i didn't write one for anyone e—..." and it dawns on you. "richie, can i have that letter, please?"

"uh, yeah, nope... 'dear beverly marsh—'"

"richie, god, please!" you fling yourself at him, and he screams, throwing his hand up so you can't reach it while you climb over him. there are a few grunts as you dig various body parts into his flesh, grabbing for the paper, but he's not having it.

"why the hell are you— ouch! —writing a letter to bev?" richie questions, shoving at you a bit to get a good look at the piece of lined paper. "is it a looove letter?"

your silence forces you both to stop your movements, and the pink on your cheeks makes richie blink a few times.

"wait..." he begins, "does that.. do you.. do you like beverly?"

"what does that even mean? 'like'? of course i like her, she's one of my best friends! why wouldn't i? she's kind, and pretty, and one of the best people i know."

"yeah, okay, but do you want to stick your hand down her pants?"

"richard tozier!"

"well, you know what i mean."

"unfortunately, yeah, i do. but... that's not.. i can't, you know, like her like that. she's a girl," you squirm, scooting over to the headboard of the bed. richie leans up next to you, his shoulder bumping yours.

"so she's a girl. if she were a dude, would you do it?" richie presses.

"do what?"

"stick your hand—"

"beep, beep, richie!"

"what i'm saying is, if she were a guy, would you like her?"

"uh, i don't know, i guess," you admit, your hands in your lap. you bite your lip.

"then what's it fucking matter?" he asks, brows curved inward, "just admit it."

you blink at him, kind of understanding where he's coming from. you suppose you never could accept how you felt because it's the 80s, and you're in derry, so same-sex relations remain strictly platonic. you wonder if others have felt, or feel, the same way you do. maybe it's not so bad. maybe you can say it out loud, to someone.

"i have a crush on beverly marsh."

it feels empowering. like you could stand on top of your roof and scream it to the entire world, make everyone know that you, a small-town girl in maine, likes another girl. it feels empowering, but also incriminating— like you have something to hide, like you should be guilty for feeling this way.

guilty of what? loving another human being?

"well, shockingly, that's not the most lesbian thing you've ever said to me," richie quips.

"beep, beep, richie."

"anyway," he clicks his tongue, desperate to change the subject, "so the fireworks. what's your game plan?"

"right. well, we'll probably have to ask bill to tell eddie's mom that they're studying. you know how she gets when me or bev call— rant about how he can't hang with us 'cause we'll force him into an orgy 'n shit," you laugh dryly.

"wouldn't mind an orgy with her," richie whistles lowly.

"her, and who else? stan's mom? she's too high-strung for that."

"with my charms? pft, please," he replies, signaling down his body.

you roll your eyes. "oh, for sure, she'll be on her knees in no time."

"nah, she'd break a hip."

you laugh. "okay, focus— so you got the fireworks, bill's got eddie's mom—" ("he'd better share!") and everyone else should be able to make it. bev and ben can sneak out, and mike is pretty much free to go wherever. i can convince stan's mom that we're spending the night at bill's, with supervision. she likes me, but i can't be sure she won't think i'm trying to fuck the jew out of him."

"he wouldn't mind."

"seriously, richie, learn when to shut the fuck up," you scold, and he laughs, "anyways— do ya think mike could scrounge up a picnic again, or should i go over to bill's to make one? i think mike would want to do it..."

"yeah," richie yawns, and he leans on your shoulder. you sigh softly, sweep his hair away from his face, and slip his glasses off, onto the bedstand. "should prolly head home."

"no, it's pouring out. you've stayed here before," you tell him, pushing him off of you so you can turn the light out. by the time you've turned yourself around, he's hogging all of the blankets and you frown. rolling your eyes, you mutter something along the lines of "didn't get to eat my graham crackers", and you stash them under your desk.

crawling beside richie, you kick him with your leg as a sign to scoot his ass over, or else. he doesn't listen at first, but another heel in his side, and he's doing as he's told. (richie won't admit it, but he likes being the little spoon); you wrap your arms around his torso and poke his back with your nose as you prepare yourself for sleep.

after a few minutes, richie turns over slightly, glancing at your face. when he is convinced you've fallen asleep, he sighs softly and bites his lip— there are so many things he wishes he could tell you. so many secrets. after hearing you admit you like bev, he feels safer; like someone can relate to him, like he's not alone. it would be the first time he ever admitted it, even to himself.

richie doesn't know you're even listening, but having you next to him makes it easier to say out loud. "okay, so uh, listen... i think.. i think i'm like you, okay? i think i like..."

he's quiet for a moment, but now you're focused; you hadn't been asleep yet, but this is odd of him. you sigh, and snuggle up against him. "eddie. it's okay."

his breath hitches, and he chokes out a "yeah". you think he's fallen asleep after, but you hear small sniffling, and you can't help but tear up too. your grip on his chest tightens, a sign that you hear him and understand. he flips his body around, and suddenly, rather aggressively, pulls you against him, his face in the crook of your neck. his small tears melt into sobs, and yours soon follow suit.

"it's okay, it's okay," you coo, combing your fingers through his hair. he sounds so hurt, so painfully heartbroken. but, so do you.

"is there something wrong with me?" richie cries, the droplets creating a pool in the skin of your neck, "with us?"

"i don't know," you reply, your shoulders shaking, "oh, god, i don't know."

how badly you wish you did; if not to ease your own pain, but most especially his. richie tozier did not deserve to be crying in your arms in the dark, because he fell in love with his best friend. he deserved a much better love story than that.

—

over cereal the next morning, you and richie don't talk much. you're both reeling from the many emotions that were expressed last night, and you're afraid if one of you speaks, it will spoil everything.

your stepfather and your mother are speaking in the other room, and you hear the pattering of footsteps — loud ones, at that, a sure one it's your stepfather — as he walks into the kitchen to pour himself a mug of coffee. he looks as dead as the two of you.

"hey, kiddo, i need you to take the trash out when you're done," he says, glancing at you. it takes him a moment to register that richie is sitting across from you. he gets an eyeful of him, and shrugs nonchalantly, "hey, rich."

"yo," richie replies, stuffing another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. the two stare at each other briefly, before your stepfather becomes bored and pads off into the other room to inform your mother of richie's presence, as she wasn't aware. you hear her nearly shriek, worried that the house isn't clean enough for guests.

"it's fine, mom, it's just richie," you raise your voice so she can hear you, "he literally doesn't care. like, at all."

she says something back, but you don't catch it, as you stand from the table and put your bowl in the sink. richie follows suit.

"so, um... i'll call bill, you handle the, you know, and then i can head over to stan's to let him know the plan. you got everyone else?" you quip, and richie smirks at you.

"you need to take the trash out, kiddo. but, yeah, i got everyone else."

"okaay," you reply, groaning.

richie leaves a few minutes after, through your window, for dramatic effect. you tell your parents he left through the second living room, a sliding door to the backyard in it. they accept it.

calling bill is easy; he always answers, (as he is always home and his parents don't care much for the phone), and rather quickly, too. it's easy to convince him, as well, as he's kind of excitable. he agrees to free eddie.

you call stanley, next. his mother picks up, and you curse to yourself. she's a hard nut to crack.

"hi, mrs. uris!" you tell her it's you, and you swear her tone becomes a bit sharper, but she stays polite. as is the way of jews.

"hello there, sweetheart."

"is stanley home?"

"yes, he is," she replies, you smile. he's always home, too, if he's not birdwatching.

"... could i speak to him?"

"oh! yes," she says, and she barks his name quietly, a sign that he was probably walking past her when you asked.

you tap your foot as there is brief movement on the other end, and stanley breathes into the phone just a millisecond before he speaks.

"hello," he says softly.

"hi, stanny! you free today? great!" you chirp cheerily, smiling against the telephone.

"o-oh, uh, yeah—"

"i thought we already established that."

"oh. um, yeah, i guess.. we have," he sounds dejected.

"kay. i'm coming over."

"what? wait, okay—"

you hang up, and hop slightly as you turn yourself around to grab your things. once you've gotten them, you head out to the place stanley calls home, a small house right outside of the synagogue.

you knock on the screen door at the back of the house and bounce on your heels as you await stanley. the locks on the door rattle briefly, and he's there, pushing open the door to let you in. you thank him and slip off your shoes in the entrance.

"so, you wanna hear about what we're doing tonight?" you say happily, poking his shoulder with a giant grin on your lips.

he swallows. "okay..."

you capture a handful of his collar, and pull him closer to you; he turns beet red. "we're gonna light off fireworks! but i gotta tell your mom we're staying at bill's."

"what? are you guys insane? that's dangerous!" stanley whisper shouts. he looks at you in complete and utter bewilderment.

"i know!" you cheer, "it'll be a blast!"

"no, i'm not doing that!"

"pleaaaase?" you beg, giving him puppy eyes, "it won't be fun without you."

he rolls his own. "no! that's ridiculous!" stanley crosses his arms, glances at your sweet face, and huffs dramatically. "ugh! fine! only because i don't want any of you doing something stupid. mostly you, because you're accident-prone."

"you know me too well, uris," you whisper sappily, and give him a strong hug. he refrains from doing it back for a second but sighs and wraps his arms around your shoulders.

"stanley!" mrs. uris calls out sharply, and she shakes her head stiffly at him. you immediately take a few cautious steps away from him. "what on earth are you doing?"

"i, uh, was just hugging her because..." he trails off slowly.

"my grandma died," you spit out.

"oh! goodness, when?" mrs. uris asks, putting down her basket of laundry.

"um—" you think of a random time, and say, "last night."

unfortunately, stanley says "this morning" simultaneously.

you glance at each other.

"last night," stanley says, "i forgot, and thought it was this morning."

"oh," mrs. uris mutters, "goodness, child, you almost had me thinking you just hug that girl for the sake of it."

"yeah, nope, i would never," he agrees, "she has like, um, ...cooties."

when the high-strung woman finally skitters away, you and stan release a breath.

you're the first to speak. "cooties, stanley? really? that was your genius idea?"

he throws his hands up in defense. "i'm sorry! it was the only thing i could think of. i couldn't say AIDS!"

"i think AIDS would have been more redeemable."

"hardly!" he exasperates, "'cause then she'd think you're a homosexual man with a sex addiction under that skirt and scrunchie!"

you break out into a fit of laughs and shove stanley's shoulder. he shoves you back, and then you're both laughing.

"what? so how am i supposed to convince her to let you come with me to bill's when she thinks my grandma just died and i have cooties?" you inquire as you both step into the main section of the house and prepare to enter the living room.

"with slow coaxing and distance."

—

somehow, all of the losers are able to come— with slow coaxing and distance.

a symphony of crickets echoes down the dirt path, matched with the small pattering of eight pairs of feet. the bugs' song drowns out eddie and richie's bickering at the front of the group, but soon, stanley's soft voice joins in. the sun has already dipped low past the horizon, coating the sky in a hazy blue-grey, but the large trees block out the color significantly. the greenery tickles at your ankles, sly weeds brushing up against you.

a few feet in front of you, stan's pearly whites sneakers kick up rocks, a thin powdery layer of dust residue sliding around the heels, and coating the sides. his laces are neatly tied, and he has taken extra care to tuck the ends away to avoid them from collecting dirt; a signature, and neurotic, move on his part. his socks are a snowy white, and nearly match the pale tone of his calf. almost as if he might turn suddenly and catch your prying eyes, you scrape them to the heavens, admiring the stars that begin to trickle into the blanket above you. you are startled as eddie shrieks, and you manage to catch a glimpse of richie waving a handful of mud from the mucky dissolve at the end of the path, which must have been created during the rainfall yesterday.

"that's literally so disgusting! no! richie, if you fling that at me, i swear to fuck—!" his voice heightens to a womanly pitch, as he withers back from richie's sopping palm. in turn, he snickers devilishly as he circles around eddie like a vulture, with stanley's disapproving expression prominent on his boyish face.

"do you realize how sick i can get from that, huh? flesh-eating bacteria can get into my fucking cornea if a rock cuts my eye!" eddie nearly wails, throwing his hands up to protect his face. richie makes inhumane sounds following eddie's spring for the opening up ahead.

bill shakes his head contently, mirrored nearly identically by beverly and mike. you glance around at the meadow, and your heart skips a beat when you catch sight of a small glow up ahead, hovering just above a patch of flowers.

you squeal and push past the others to get a closet look at the fireflies now littering the meadow. you like to catch them, but not with malice— you capture them, and let them crawl on your hands until they decide to fly again. you giggle, spinning around, arms wide open, admiring the plethora of them.

they're everywhere, and you're in your own personal utopia. richie appears next to you, and he allows a firefly to land on his finger. "hey, watch this."

you eagerly grin as he moves his other hand over the bug, and then— he crushes it, wiping the glow across his skin. you gape at him, and then scowl. "richie, you're such a dick! it was innocent!"

"yeah, but my skin glows!" he replies, showing his hand to the others. none of them are amused, as they peer at your now heartbroken expression.

"that was harsh, rich," bill says, shaking his head in disappointment.

"i thought it was cool," richie mumbles, adjusting his glasses.

you roll your eyes at his response and continue to gaze off into the dark at the glowing bugs. you manage to capture one and cup your hands as you march over to stanley.

"hey, hey, check this out," you tell him, and he cranes his neck to watch as you open your hands, and show him the lightning bug. he slowly reaches out, and it crawls onto his forefinger. "isn't he so cute?!"

"yeah, definitely," stan agrees. the glow from the bug as he raises it up to face reflects off his nose, illuminating some stray freckles on the bridge. his eyes are lit up to match, and they never leave the insect, even when it ultimately makes its flight elsewhere.

"hey, lovebirds! come help me collect some sticks! or should i wait 'til y'all are done gushing over a bug?" richie barks, raising his arms, which are full of twigs, for what you assume is a fire.

"we're not—" stanley begins, but richie is already turned away and focused on something else.

you toss stan a bashful grin. "c'mon, birdboy. 'm sure mike brought marshmallows 'n stuff for s'mores."

"wait—" stanley says suddenly, voice risen uncharacteristically as he grips your arm. when he's positive he has your full attention, he drops contact with you, and stares at the grass below. "u-um, i got you something. i-it's not like anything big, you know, just like.. i saw it, and thought of you, or, er, us."

you blink at him. "you didn't have to—"

"—no! uh, i mean, no. i wanted to," stanley replies, fishing into the pocket of his khaki capris. there, he turns over two bracelets— they're woven, some sections tan and others colorful. there are two short brown strings at the latch on both of them.

"oh, my god, stan!" you say quietly, sticking your wrist out happily. you're grinning, and you can't explain the butterflies in the pit of your stomach or the heat rising to your cheeks. "they're so cute!"

"heh, thanks," he says, stepping forward to slip the bracelet over your wrist. it feels oddly intimate. "i, uh, it's not much, but.."

"no, no, i love it," you chirp, keeping a hold of his hand while you admire the charm. your grin reaches your eyes as they rise to meet his. the feelings expressed by simply the contact of your gazes sends rushes of excitement into your bloodstream. "i'll never take it off. not once."

then stanley suddenly stares into the sky, his lower lip tucked under his teeth. his brows are now curved in concentration. "d-don't look at me like that."

"like what?"

"like this is the best present you've ever gotten. l-like this is the happiest you've ever been."

"it is," you say softly, "this bracelet means the world to me. i've never felt so cared about, not ever."

you take the second bracelet from his hand that remains stretched out, like he's offering the jewelry. you slip it onto his wrist, and use it to pull him into a warm embrace, your arms wrapped around his neck. your right hand rests on the flesh of it, a few curls brushing against your skin.

"thank you, stanley."

your entire being buzzes incessantly as he accepts your gratitude, and you pull away. the air hitting your chest leaves you chilly, the empty kind; disconnecting with him now feels like abandoning the other half of your body, and leaving it frozen in place. you feel as though without him you will always be cold. the empty kind.

richie makes short work of the fire, relaying a grand story about his survival in the woods at six years old, and his incomparable courage that winter. the flames are low and small, but no one dares tell him to stoke them or toss in some leaves for an extra shove, as he seems so content with the low burn as it is. you all subtly cuddle up next to each other, but bill is the most obvious, physically— he scowls and wraps his arms around himself while eddie is vocally unhappy.

beverly leans into ben, subconsciously, and the sweet boy glows brighter than the fire, his skin illuminating a deep red, like an apple. beverly's scarlet hair, in turn, rivals the fire as it roars. her hair, and the way it is ruffled and sharp with each sliced strand, resembles the flames as they lick up towards the sky. the reflection of the campfire makes it burn ever the more vibrant, and it melts onto the skin of her freckled shoulders and nose.

you're cut from your stupor when richie nudges you, and he whispers, "you're staring", as though you weren't already aware. the others don't catch on, fortunately, as they all listen intently to the process of shelving meat, as expressed by mike. you find it riveting, really — as riveting as the tale of processed and packaged animal flesh can be. a silence ensues once richie makes a horrible joke about vegans, and then he clears his throat awkwardly.

"so, fireworks? who dares me to blow one up eddie's ass? maybe it'll get the stick outa there," he chirps, and eddie shrieks and chucks a stick at him.

richie smirks at him and tells him to follow him so they can fetch the fireworks and eddie reluctantly agrees. they scatter off, and you watch contently as they bump shoulders. your brows draw in, a bit depressed by the two of them— how badly you wished they knew. how badly you needed them to know they were everything you dreamed to be.

while you all wait for eddie and richie, ben and beverly disappear behind the trees to go explore this stream ben had found. he told her he felt very poetic being near it, which he had hoped would signal something to her, but she hadn't noticed. in the meantime, you and stanley stay by the fire and discuss his journal, as he gushes about a ruby-throated hummingbird, and shows you a light sketch of one — he shaded the throat, and it makes you smile. he's certainly improved on his work, and you feel a rush of pride break through the dam of your chest.

"stanley, you've really been practicing," you tell him, running your index finger over the graphite lining the yellow paper, "i can tell it's a bird this time! and it's not having a heart attack!"

he nods in approval, and he takes a second to realize you were referring to the first time you met when you told him his art looked like it was having a health scare. his dull eyes blink at you momentarily, like he's trying to figure you out or understand you— and it dawns on you that he's not thinking about the drawing anymore— but rather, he's trying to understand you as a whole— as though you are some sort of puzzle he can't quite put his finger on.

stan's attention retreats back to the journal, flipping occasionally to the next page and reading the notes he's taken on each bird. when your eyes drag down his face, you feel a twinge in your stomach— there's simply something about stanley uris that you can't quite put your finger on, either, and you rather like that about him; it gives you space to unravel and discover each day. you always feel like you're learning something new and jarring about him, and you like to think that gives him depth.

however, his face holds something harsh and cold— something that remains constant, despite the circumstances of his mystery— and it's the sadness. it's the sadness and the fatigue, written like scars across every inch of flesh, a consistent tattoo of sorrow. he's imprinted with it, as though it's simply the base coat on the canvas of his life— and it hurts you, seeing him sad. and it's worse knowing that you don't think you've seen stanley uris any other way.

and you consider, briefly, just for a striking moment— that maybe he's only sad when he's looking at you.

stan recounts a conversation he had with a girl in your shared english class, persephone— known universally as percy — an introverted blonde girl, who has a curious knack for all things odd and quirky. she likes to wear lacy, flowy dresses, and unusual jewelry. she has a rather soft voice, like listening to a cloud speak— and she too enjoys birds. he says it's been a while since he's had a decent talk with someone about the animals, and that he's happy she appears genuinely interested and engaged in the topic. you aren't surprised, by this, though; you half expect percy to be some sort of angelic tree nymph.

you open your mouth to reply to his story, a bitter tang of jealousy on your tongue you don't recognize, but richie tozier beats you to it. almost to your relief.

"what's up, whores?! you ready to blow this place up?" he calls out, raising some fireworks, with exhausted eddie dragging behind him. he looks like he wants to swallow gunpowder and then a match.

you find yourself beside him, hands on his shoulders. he's too tired to even remove them. "eds, what the hell happened to you?"

his eyes are hazy. "richie thought it would be smart to go through the shit path, and now i've probably got seven diseases, at least."

richie smirks. "didn't want to go the usual way. woulda got caught by the po-po."

"you're a handful, tozier," you say.

"you love it," he replies, blowing you a kiss.

"you got me."

the rest of the night is soft chaos; richie lights off the fireworks, and they burst in bright and vibrant colors, lighting up the night. the air is crisp and free, and the grass between your toes is heavenly. you become drunk on your youth, an alcoholic in your own right. you wonder, briefly, if this is the peak— if this is the highest point of your life, if this is what you're meant for. if you're the peter pan of your successful friends, if they will all grow to be everlasting lovers and soulmates.

if this is where your journey with them ends.

and, by god, watching the way beverly looks when she's in her element, dancing barefoot with the rest of you— the way they all gaze at her like she's some sort of angel, some sort of saving grace. the way you gaze at her. how your chest aches. how it burns, to be amongst her beauty, to be jealous and insecure and in love all at once. your feet buzz with the shake of the earth, the fire in the sky. your skin sears, like ashes racing to compete. at this moment, you swear you feel your entire being burning alive.

and it is exhilarating.

and as you watch them, hooting and screaming and letting their voices be heard, you feel infinite. like the world is putty in your hands, like they are the most exhilarating people you'll ever know and you'll spend the rest of your life just settling. and your heart calms, because suddenly everything is simple; you want to hang out with these people until the end of time.

and stanley, the way his curls glow under the fireworks— the way his skin shimmers in possibility. the sadness so present in his face has faded, like he's suddenly hazy and thoughtless. his movements, they're slow and unsure, like he's seconds away from making a fool of himself. but he's beautiful— like some sort of saint— stanley is the human form of apollo, he's the sun himself. apollo— you crave that for him. and his soil eyes stray from the others and meet your excitable ones; his expression is not blank, but rather glowing. you can't define a single emotion on it, but rather a feeling. one that doesn't have a word. one that just is.

and he's looking at you like you're a goddess— you, with a crown of flowers sewn into your chaotic head of hair, you, with your flowy skirt and bare feet— and you know no one has ever looked at you like that. it sparks something in you, something luminescent and empowering. and god, he glows. that boy glows.

and it hits you both at the exact same time, like a comet striking the earth— an epiphany in the form of a human.

i want to hang out with this person until the end of time.

and maybe, you consider, just for a moment, almost a guilty thought—

he wants to hang out with you, too.

is that so bad to wish for?

a person to spend the rest of your youth with?

a person to spend the rest of your life with?

a person to call your own?

and by god, you want it to be him.

let your cries shake the earth, if it isn't.

[🌿] taglist:

@hannarudick @cedricisnotonfire @russian-romanova

#it #the losers club #stanley uris x reader #losers club x reader #beverly marsh x reader #stephen king #it 2017 #stanley uris #stan uris #it fanfiction #stanley uris imagine #beverly marsh imagine #kassie writes #BW

[kaguraspetsims]

So you guys now know I quit my job with a big hardware company. My mom knows, as do most of my friends, but my dad does not know yet bc my mom (understandably) doesn’t want to be the middle man anymore. I wasn’t planning on telling him myself tbh - personally, after all his bullshit, I don’t think he has any right to know about what I do or don’t do for work. In fact, if he never knows where I work again that would be amazing, bc then I don’t have to fear him showing up out of the blue when I finally go full No Contact.

Well, here’s a fact about my dad: he thinks he needs to be in control of every fucking thing so long as it involves me or my mom. He also has this undying belief that you don’t quit a job without another one lined up, and that it’s incredibly important to find one with benefits.

And like, sure, that’s true - for people who don’t have to worry about their lives being put at risk. Which is the situation I’ve been in the past 2 fucking months.

I quit my previous job bc they did not handle covid well, if at all. The would not shut down during an outbreak, and went so far as to hide it. Nothing changed in the 2 months since my last working day there - customer mask rules are not enfouced, and none of my coworkers were encouraged to be tested despite several of us catching the virus.

Well, today I scheduled an interview with a company I’ve worked for in the past. I have that interview tomorrow, so I asked my mom if she wouldn’t mind bringing me some professional shoes that I left at their house, bc I didn’t bring anything like that with me.

Well, I got this from her not long after I made the call and I’m livid.

First of all, neither of them need to be involved with my shit. As of right now, my dad does not pay for ANYTHING except:

Health insurance (which I will be forced to pay on my own come February)

Therapy (that he fucking caused in the first place)

Secondly, my mother has nothing to do with this. There is not one reason she should be getting yelled at when I have made the decision to quit a job that put my health and possibly my life in danger. This isn’t her fucking decision, it’s mine.

Thirdly, these priorities are so fucked up. Benefits are good, yes, but what good are they if I’m dead? Considering the shit I’ve been through these past 2 months, there is not one doubt in my mind that a company would absolutely do everything in their power to try and get out of helping their employees. If they can fire me while I’m out with another illness within even a hair of it being legal, they’ll fucking do it. (Fun fact, any payment I’ve received from my previous job for covid has not been correct - they paid me within hours below my average work week, under my hourly rate.)

Going back to point one though, I have not lived under his goddamn roof since March of 2020. It’s been 9 motherfucking months. And he’s still trying to control the shit that I do. I should add that since he proved to be a fucking terror while I had covid, I haven’t directly spoken to him for more than a total of 5 minutes. 5 minutes of “conversation” in 2 motherfucking months. And it was only if he answered my mom’s cell phone (which he shouldn’t be doing in the first place, the fucking creep).

I can’t express enough the fear I feel when he says this kind of shit. He knows what he’s doing - when I was at the height of my symptoms and my mom was bringing me something, we didn’t fucking know he was in the car with her till Bacon heard his voice over the intercom of the gate caller, several days after he CALLED MY DAD to tell him to back off bc of the stress it was causing me. Do you know how fucked up that is? To come unannounced to imply “I know where you are and I can show up whenever I please”? And this isn’t even mentioning the fear I have of having a medical emergency and he tries to make a decision for me (especially after I realized that he wanted me on so many medications bc being emotionless made it easier to control me).

I know it’s hard for some people to understand why this shit is scary - it won’t make sense when you haven’t experienced the constant 20+ years of emotional abuse. But to be able to be in a poisition where I can look at this message and finally be able to clearly understand that it’s really fucked up is both empowering and terrifying. I don’t know what he’ll try to do when I finally tell him to never contact me again.

Sorry for the fucking long ass, depressing post. The stress from the past two months has finally started to hit me, and my anxiety is spiking bc of it. This might be the last straw that makes me have a meltdown tonight tbh (just a lot of crying and sleeping after).

I’m just so tired.

#not fr #personal #negative #super negative #tw covid #i hate this fucker so much #the worst part is my mom isnt giving me a lot of information #wont even tell me if hes still being a jackass or not #and his attitude is absolutely concerning me #long post

[rankdisasster]

the craft (1996)

“id love to see the craft made into a fic” requested by anonymous.

warnings: death, attempted noncon, alcohol

a/n: first movie-inspired fic of more to come. centered around Billy (Skeet Ulrich’s character) and the witchy stuff getting played on him as karma. highly recommend watching if you like cult classics!!

—

You could’ve guessed before even moving here that Hawkins was gonna be a fucking drag. The weather was gloomy, the air wasn’t fresh like you’re used to, and it was so uncomfortably quaint that it made you feel stranded and claustrophobic. You bit your nails the entire flight and even after landing, while the pouring rain soaked your clothes and drenched your hair when first stepping foot in the small town.

It was an especially frightening discovery after a gritty argument with your folks, spouting on about what a brat you’re turning out to be, how much of a disappointment you’re bound to become; so in the midst of a fit enraged, not moving from where you lay stubbornly on your bed with angry tears, you had accidentally slammed the door shut. After realizing what you’d done, curiosity had replaced vexation. Neither of your parents could call the cops or toss you in some looney bin, so you chose to avoid catastrophe by keeping it low and only using it if bored in private. It felt oddly empowering, treasuring the gift, but you’d never been compelled to use it for harm before.

After eating dinner with empty conversation and the only background noise being imaginary crickets and the rain, you’d excused yourself once your plate was wiped clean. Stomping back upstairs, ignoring any distasteful remarks aimed at your departure. You wondered that if the town sucked ass, then that meant school likely would too.

—

It wasn’t hard to see from a mile away that you did not come from nor belong here. Cliques scattered the halls, although this school surely isn’t as big as your last it still has its fair share. Jocks and douchebags, popular cheerleaders, edgy goths. Those titles never served to you, naturally feeling better going alone. Nobody tried approaching the new girl just to say hi or bother looking in your direction. That is until basic jock Billy Hargrove did with a mischievous smirk during lunch a couple tables away, noticing you’re all alone sipping on your school milk. With crass confidence in his stride, he makes his way over to you in the most dramatic, full-of-himself way as possible taking a seat across from yours.

“Lookin’ pretty lonely there, new girl. Y/N is it?” he raises one brow, not asking for permission before snaking Doritos from your lunchtray, chomping while maintaining a smug expression. You scoff before shoving the red bag of corn chips toward him.

“Help yourself. And yeah, that’s me. Who are you?”

Billy has taken the bag with a don’t mind if I do attitude, answering you with his mouth full while licking the stained nacho cheese off his fingertips. “Name’s Billy. So why you here all alone? Haven’t found your crowd yet, or you just a ‘fraidy cat?”

You roll your eyes before playing along with his stupid game. “Well Billy, I just moved here and haven’t talked to anyone besides my lunch buddy that just hogged my chips,” you snip, watching the cocky blonde tilt the bag up to his mouth to finish the rest of the crumbs at the bottom. When he’s done with that portion of your meal, he points to the carton of two percent.

“May I?”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” you bite with sarcasm. He chuckles at your obvious distaste but nevertheless resumed picking at your food and chugging a good amount of the dairy drink down.

“You owe me fifty cents, by the way.”

“Oh yeah? How ‘bout I repay you with a little somethin’ else instead,” he inched closer, the proximity allowing you the feeling of his breath fanning your cheek. You’d been rendered speechless, caught off guard with how shameless and flirtatious he turned. “I’ll repay you with a few pointers, what with you being a little newbie ‘round here. Sound good?” he finished, grinning at how tense and worked up he made you in seconds. “What is it, sweetheart? D’ya think I’d repay you with somethin’ else?” he snickered, taking your carton again and quenching his thirst, the white drips of milk falling down his chin.

“Nope. Just don’t give a shit about your advice,” you snap back into character, his arrogance provoking you to try using one of your little tricks; maybe make him stutter or choke just so he’ll leave you alone. But that would be breaking the rules, and you were strict against taking advantage of it to cause trouble.

“I’ll give it to you anyways. See, my crew over there thinks you’re pretty cute, so you could come around anytime you like. Definitely avoid those freaks over there,” he slyly nods his head over in the direction of two girls dressed in black, chainsmoking. “They won’t be too welcoming.”

“What’s up with them?” you hush inconspicuously, intridgued by their scandalous bravado. You could see yourself hanging out with them even if that meant disregarding all the misinformation Billy feeds you.

“See the little one on the left? That’s Nancy the Slut Wheeler. Nickname sorta explains itself. She fucked more than half the guys on my team and cheated on her long-term boy toy Harrington,” he explains, not shy about what’s coming out of his mouth no matter how derogatory or degrading. “Not speaking from experience or anything. And the bigger one is Robin Buckley, she’s a dyke.”

“Uh, okay. That all the dirt you got or what?”

“Nah, there’s more shit floatin’ around here about stuff they do. I’ve heard they’re into witchcraft, but I dunno if I believe that one.”

Now that snagged your attention, but you wouldn’t share a thing like that with a guy like Billy. “Anyway, thanks for sharing lunch, Y/N. Was a pleasure. You should come to my practice after school, we could have another fun little chat. Whaddya say?” he licks his lips, holding your stare to persuade you into visiting. “Please?”

You really could give a fuck about watching a bunch of sweaty guys toss and argue around a ball, no matter which sport, but it was hard to find courage to decline his pleading yet intimidating stare. “Maybe I’ll swing by,” you hesitate, earning an enthusiastic holler out of Billy before he gets up from your table and makes a pit stop near you for a moment to whisper in your ear.

“Really looking forward to it, new girl.”

Successfully hiding your hot cheeks as he pats your back, sending a wink over his shoulder before heading back to his circle of friends not-so-subtly watching. When the bell rings to signal lunch’s end, Nancy and Robin catch your eye, ashing their cigarettes, fixating on you. Flustered from getting caught, you quickly snatch your lunchtray and dump whatever’s left in the trash, hanging your head low as you make your way to your next class.

—

Biology class was humiliating. After approaching Nancy and Robin about a group project assigned on your first day, Robin gawked as Nancy glared without a yes or a no about letting you join them. It was a long shot anyways. While awkwardly nodding as they both continuously stare you down, you shuffle to the very back of the classroom. With nothing better to do, thinking no one was paying attention, you flick your pencil in the air, making it stand as your hands stay in your lap. Moments later, getting lost in thought about Billy, wondering what his intentions were, how you were ever gonna fit in here; Robin witnesses the unworldly telekinetic party trick. Her mouth hangs in awe, not believing she allowed Nancy to bully her into rejecting you.

“You don’t know what you’re even talking about,” Nancy argues, popping her chewing gum as she gazes in the bathroom mirror and applies another sloppy smear of eyeliner.

Robin’s scoff is followed by a sigh before turning Nancy away from her reflection. “I know what I saw! She can... do things. Like with her mind. She’s our third, I know it,” the girl vigorously nods her head. Nancy remained unconvinced but decides to give in if it’ll shut her dimwit of a best friend the fuck up.

“Fine, okay! We’ll talk to her after school, see what happens. You better not be fucking with me on this. We don’t need any incidents happening because you’re seeing things that aren’t there,” Nancy stares her down like a wolf threatening to attack, eyeballing the taller girl with satisfaction as she gulps submissively.

—

You decided there was nothing better to do than make an appearance at Billy’s basketball practice after school. As he dribbles the ball and taunts his opponents, he spots you from afar and takes his attention off the game and momentarily directs it towards you instead. With a wink, he sticks his tongue out teasingly before taking his tank top off and giving one of his teammates a high five. While lost in the dance of seduction with Billy, you neglect to notice the presence of two girls lingering behind you.

“He’s not actually into you, you know.”

Snapping your head back in shock, you recover from the cheap scare before identifying the voice as Nancy Wheeler. The one Billy had accused of being the school’s slut. Right beside her stands Robin, not looking quite as vicious as her partner in crime. Robin, the significantly gentler and taller one, gives you a warmer greeting of a wave and a tight smile. Billy said that she was the infamous “dyke.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, not easily trusting her word but also not believing Billy’s rumors either. Nancy looks over to the court where Billy skips around effortlessly, making a basket for his team and earning praise and applause from his coach.

“He did the same thing to me. See, first he’ll try talking you into sucking him off, then when that doesn’t work he begs you to fuck him. Says all the right things, you’re beautiful Nancy, please baby, I won’t tell anyone if you just come sit on my cock. Then after you tell him you’re still not ready, he tells the whole school you did it anyway. Makes shit up to impress people.” Nancy bites as-a-matter-of-factly, nodding over in Billy’s direction on the court. Billy, busily unaware of being your topic of conversation, jukes an opponent and snatches the ball, slamming the weaker boy down to the ground with a snap of his body being thrown to the ground. You tightened your hold on your schoolbag not knowing who to believe anymore. Hearing one thing and then another gave you a fucking headache.

“Look, it’s not— I’m not even here for him. It’s not what it looks like,” you stammer as Nancy raises her brow with dubiousness. She cracks a salty grin at you then turns to the boys playing on the court.

“Go Billy! Score that basket, baby!” Nancy shouts with manic laughter, sickly happy when the distraction disrupts his focus, causing him to lose the ball and get shoved backwards by another opponent. Nancy turns and slowly struts closer, sitting on the bleachers and leaning over to whisper in your ear with a ruthless ball of hate gleaming her eye. “He’s a jerk. I’d stay away if I were you.”

With that, she jumps off the bleachers and orders Robin to follow. The taller girl weakly smiles again as you sit and stare as they exit the gym and light a smoke outside. Billy watches them leave and huffs, jogging over.

“Hey. Thought I advised you to not hang around them,” he tisks, spreading his legs before pouring a cup of water down his chin to cool off. You blush and look the other way, clearing your throat.

“I wasn’t. They just sorta came and started talking to me,” you mutter with an attitude.

Billy scoots impossibly closer and fixes a stray hair dangling in front of your face, petting your cheek as if you were a child. “Well, don’t believe whatever shit comes from her fat mouth, alright?”

“Um— okay I guess.”

“That’s a good girl. Glad you came, by the way. Wanna gimme your number so we could do this somewhere a little more private, hm?” he beckons, taking another generous swallow to quench his thirst while holding your stare. You’re stunned and backed into a corner again to comply, nodding while grabbing a pen from your bag. Billy holds out his palm and nods to the pen in your hand, encouraging you to get writing. You waver another moment, unsure if it’s smart getting involved, before saying fuck it and writing the ten digits on his palm. Billy’s name gets shouted from his coach, breaking the thick tension that grew as the moments wore on. He yells back that he needed a quick break before blowing you a kiss. After tossing himself off the bleachers and getting back in the game, he stares down at his hand where the black smudged writing is and smirks, looking up only to find that you’re already gone.

—

“Almost didn’t think you’d answer, maybe gave me a phony number or you’d be with those weirdos again,” Billy snorts, bottlecap flying before handing a beer over. You chuckle uneasily before accepting the beverage, tasting the warm mediocrity before swallowing. It didn’t take long for him to call, now being week two attending Hawkins High. His choice of setting for this “date” was a rooftop of some dark building, stars out and streetlights being the only source of light. Billy’s arm has wrapped around you as you both sip on the beer he provided, an awkward silence suffocating the air.

When the blonde got bored, he’d started trailing his fingers down your back, tiptoeing them teasingly awaiting your reaction. When he gets nothing but you stiffening up, he swoops down to devour your neck, feeling you tilt your head for him to give more. Jackpot. His wandering tongue sucks a deep purple mark as his grabby hands reach to grope you through your bra, making you gasp and feel dumbfounded on what to do and what to say.

“Billy, I don’t think—“

“Mm, what is it new girl? You want more, don’t you?” he mumbles in your neck, then gets greeted by the feeling of blue balls and disappointment when instead of coming closer, you pull away. He scoffs and sits up, straightening himself out.

“I’m just not ready for... that. Sorry,” you weakly apologize, outrageously uncomfortable by the invasion of space and feeling wrong when you notice the growing tent in his jeans. “Are you... like, mad or something?”

Billy sighs, humiliated by your rejection that poked a hole in his ego. He won’t give up on his conquest that easy.

“C’mon, beautiful, not like I’ll tell anyone. We could just have a little fun—“

“No, I-I really gotta go. But I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

Billy glares at the ground, kicking a rock by his feet in annoyance before rolling his eyes. Guess he’ll just have to improvise instead when he brags to the boys tomorrow.

“Yeah, fine.”

—

The next day, sly comments were thrown at you before first period started. He didn’t talk to you at all like usual, your classmates whispering and giggling about the alleged “fun” you shared with Billy the jock Hargrove. Dirty details travelled around locker rooms, even raunchy ones about you supposedly riding him in the backseat of his car calling him “daddy.” He threw in another lie that you asked him to slap you in the face as he fucked you. The purple splotch he sucked on your neck didn’t help defend yourself.

“Hey, Billy!”

The jock turns away from the boisterous crowd that had worshipped him all day. Once he catches your eye he whispers to a boy next to him, whatever secret so hilarious that he clutched his stomach and snorted when Billy finished. He swiftly strolls over to you and folds his hands, faking formality with a plastic smile.

“Yes, new girl?”

“I wanna know why you said that stuff about me. You damn well know we didn’t do anything! How could you?” you whisper-shout, feeling disgusted and violated. Billy snorts a laugh and regains his composure a second later as if all this is some comedy sketch.

“Oh yeah? Really, new girl, I’d love to do it again sometime. Truly... I just don’t like sloppy seconds. You were great though, I had— nah, Daddy sure had a blast. But we’re done here.” Billy pats your head with mockery before strolling over to his circle of friends without a care in the world.

“You know what? Fuck you. Next time I’ll charge a buck an inch, make it cheap.” you spit, barely making it to the bathroom to scurry and wipe the tears desperately spurting from your eyes. You crawled to the corner of the washroom and hugged yourself, quieting down when you hear footsteps inching closer before entering. It was Nancy and Robin.

“Can’t say we didn’t warn you —“

“I know I should have listened to you guys. But now I wanna fuck with this bastard.”

—

Lovespells don’t take much, and the rumors were true. The Bitches of Eastwick had let you in, only took more convincing of your worthiness to Nancy, but she warmed up to you. When she saw what you could do she had to give Robin credit, you truly were their third. And finally, you’d been put in a place you genuinely belonged.

“Is he— is he staring still? What’s he doing now?”

“He’s totally still watching you. Holy shit Y/N, it’s working, I can tell!” Robin whispers as she muffled her laugh with the back of her hand, seeing how Billy couldn’t take his eyes off you longer than five seconds even in the middle of a lecture. As the bell rang, you and Robin gathered up your things to meet Nancy for next period. Billy wasn’t far behind, trying and failing to remain inconspicuous as he followed you.

“He’s behind us.”

“What?”

“Look out.” Right on cue, Billy pushed you and Robin apart to make room for himself while tripping over his shoelaces.

“Uh, hey Y/N,” the boy gulps, scratching the back of his neck, seeing his posse from afar giving him a “what the fuck” look. He flips them off and rubs his hand over your back. “I just wanted to, yunno, apologize for that shit I said. I feel real bad ‘cause you didn’t deserve it. You deserve a gentleman and I can be that for you now,” he explains, blocking your way. His eyes are void of hate or ridicule, instead swirling with awe and devotion as he bit his lip awaiting your forgiveness. You pretend to think, giving his head a noogie like an obedient pet, then grant a forgive-and-forget.

“It’s cool. Maybe tell your friends later that you’re a lying sack of shit, but for now, carry these books for me and my friend?”

He nods vigorously like a soldier eager to please, graciously taking your heavy books from you and Robin and stacking them in his arms. “Of course, Y/N. Anything in the world. Um, do you think I could sit with you in math?”

—

Billy had no fucking clue what happened to him, but he wholeheartedly couldn’t find it in him to even pay it a speck of attention. It didn’t bother him that nothing gave him any pleasure nor satisfaction anymore, the world shrinking to this dead, lifeless black and white, the only light and color he could see that brought joy was her. He could die just feeling her in his arms and he wouldn’t be sad. With complete and utter tunnel vision blocking him from surroundings, everyday he devoted himself to any task she wanted, even pathetically following her and her friends to the girls’ bathroom. He got in deep shit from the entire female staff, but he remained indifferent.

If she said jump, Billy asked how high. If she wanted him to braid her fucking hair, he’d learn fast and make sure it was done thoroughly and flawlessly. Billy was touch starved, weak, losing sight of everyone else around him. No more charming girls into bed, no more basketball wins for the team, his only purpose being solely Y/N’s love or validation. All priorities from the past drastically altered, but there were no second thoughts. No questions, just wants. Needs. The power she held over him was substantial and beautifully overbearing, like black magic or something.

Weeks after the spell kicked in, she now sits in his Camaro with her feet on the dash as Black Sabbath roars from the speakers. No complaints were heard on his end when you demanded he change the music, happily turning it to your favorite station. You plop a sucker in your mouth, tasting the cherry red flavoring before patting Billy’s head and calling him a good boy. Billy blushed and leaned into your touch, pulling over by the pier and shutting the car off.

“You don’t even know what’s happening, do you?” she asks with a laugh. He joins her even though he wasn’t aware of what’s funny. But he finds her delightful, so anything she does or anywhere she goes, he follows.

“No. No I don’t, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters. Just you and me,” he promises, playing with a strand of her hair before leaning in. He missed her candy-tasting lips when she turns her head, then feels something in his stomach churn after getting denied her kiss.

“Tough luck, champ. I don’t want that from you, just wanted to talk.”

Talk? Billy recoiled, clenching his fists at his sides. Something inside him is intensifying, he just doesn’t know what. Before he knows what’s happening, he’s shaking, burning with a need that feels so close yet so far. There’s no control stopping it.

“I mean, do you even eat or sleep anymore? It’s pathetic. This should be wearing off soon...” she trailed off, watching the waves crash at a distance.

“I won’t fucking eat or fucking sleep until I get what’s mine, you understand? I don’t care about anything else. I just wanna... why won’t you hold me?” he implored, yanking the collar of her shirt so she’s closer to his lips. It almost feels too good to be true.

“Stop! Jesus, I didn’t mean for it to go this far! You’re under a spell, you jackass, now let me go!” she squeals, punching his chest. Billy ignores it, that indifference coming back. He reached for his belt when he thinks he has her where he wants her but gets stopped by a righteous kick to the crotch, making him howl in anger.

“Goddammit!” the boy whined, cradling himself through his jeans from the excruciating pain.

“Stay the hell away, you hear me? Don’t ever come near me or my friends again,” she threatens, exiting the vehicle before stomping away. Billy scrubs the tears off his face and punched the steering wheel with miserable frustration.

—

“He... he grabbed me. Wouldn’t let go this time,” you gulp, feeling the ghost of his frighteningly tight grip pulling you. Steam shoots from Nancy’s ears as Robin takes comfort and asks if you’re okay. Nancy has already stirred up a plan for revenge as she flips through the pages of spells, searching for the perfect one.

“Nance, what are you doing?” you ask with reluctance, knowing it isn’t anything good.

“We need to make him pay. He was gonna hurt you, case you forgot. Hargrove’s always been a goddamn scumbug, but he tried fucking you without your permission and he won’t get away with it this time.”

—

Billy gulps the last of the beer from the solo cup and belches, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. They widen a bit when he spots Nancy enter the house party. He’s determined to do whatever it takes to get you again, and if he has to talk to your leech of a best friend, so be it. The blonde seeks Nancy upstairs and follows her to a vacant room.

“Where is she?” he demands lazily, eyes faltering once again as he loses balance and falls to the bed back first. He gets comfy with the beer nestled in his grip, still expecting her to give him insight on your disappearance.

“How cute. Miss tormenting your little wife, don’tcha, hot stuff?” Nancy mocks, crawling over to where he lays on the bed and trailing two fingers over his crotch. Billy reacts with stealth, disgusted as he roughly shoved her hand away.

”Don’t. I’m warning you,” he threatens. “Tell me where the fuck Y/N is. I need, I need to talk to her—“

“I’m not telling you shit! She doesn’t want you, understand? You meant nothing to her this whole time. She used you.” Nancy laughs and points her finger at him. Billy rolled his eyes, calling bullshit. You wouldn’t do a thing like that, not in a million years. This is typical Slutty Wheeler, throwing tantrums because she couldn’t get a taste of his dick anymore.

Nancy’s blood boiled, veins popping out of her forehead; on the verge to end this already. But she has to fuck with him like he fucked with her first. The teenage girl burns with hostility as she recalls the spell, working her magic. She runs her hands over her face as it morphs into yours. She takes a look in the mirror and finds your eyes staring at her reflection. With a sick, evil smile, she gets back on the bed and runs her hands down Billy’s chiseled chest, feeling him jump until he sees your face. He gasps, too dumb from the spell and drunk from the liquor to realize he was being tricked again.

“Baby, I’ve missed you so damn much,” he mumbles to who he thinks is you, unbuttoning Nancy’s shirt and kissing every inch of skin he sees. She moans in ecstasy, laughing at how fucking easy he is, then sticks her tongue down Billy’s throat. They were all over eachother for another twenty minutes until a furious knock interrupts.

It’s you and Robin.

“What the fuck?” Billy wipes his mouth of Nancy’s spit then throws himself off the bed in a hurry. Her spell wore off, now changing back to her usual self, giving Billy a playful wave.

“You’re — you’re a witch! They were right!” Billy stutters, his world turning upside down making him sick to his stomach.

“They usually are,” she shrugs.

“Nancy, you got what you wanted. He’s freaked out, now let’s go.” you ordered, the guilt eating you alive. Nancy doesn’t stop.

“Your lover’s a witch too, yunno. The only reason you’re obsessed with her is cause we cast a spell on you. But that’s why I’m here, helping you forget.”

Billy’s chest heaved up and down rapidly, shaking his head, sobering up. “No. No, she didn’t — she wouldn’t do that,” he denies, sweat gathering on his forehead and heart hammering fast.

”NANCE! This is fucking over! Now let’s go!” you beg, loathing his puppy-dog eyes. Robin stands frozen beside you, knowing how unpredictable Nancy got when she’s angry.

“You’re just jealous.”

Robin gulps and closes her eyes, knowing that’ll set her off.

“Jealous?” Nancy emphasized, preying onto the boy as he backs away. “You’re Y/N’s servant. You barely fucking exist to me. This whole time you’ve treated girls like whores, but you’re the whore!” she cries, feet lifting off the ground, towering over him as he backs further towards the window. Billy’s beyond petrified now, weeping quietly as he dares try calling for help.

“I-I’m sorry, Nance. You know I didn’t mean it. I liked you last year, but— but I’m in love with her now, and I’m sorry!”

His sorry ass apology does nothing besides push the last of her buttons, feeding into her wrath.

“Did you hear that, Y/N? He says he’s sorry! Oh, what a shame we have to kill him, ‘cause at least he’s sorry!” Nancy claws are her hair, spinning back and fourth, screaming nonsense as Billy pleads and holds his hand out to you.

“Who’s it gonna be, Y/N? This rapist scumbag slut, or your friend that took you in when you were a nobody?”

Tears of your own had escaped, mortified by how escaladed things have become. You shook your head helplessly, holding onto Robin for safety. There was no stopping her now. Like a wave from a natural disaster, Nancy thrusts her arms in the air and hurls the boy out the window with God-like force. You’ll never forget the sounds of his cry for help on the way down and the SPLAT when his body hit the pavement. Nancy lets out a sigh of relief as if a long day’s work is finally over, and wipes the sweat beading off her forehead. She turns to you and Robin after catching her breath.

“What’re you staring at, guys? C’mon, let’s find Robin a girlfriend next.”

—

my first whack at a horror-ish/thriller instead of drama/romance. I freaking LOVE this movie, def go check it out if you haven’t cause there’s a lot more plot I left out. thaaaank you all, I’ll be starting the next movie fic soon !:)

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #stranger things fanfic #billy hargrove #stranger things imagine #the craft (1996)

[justreadingfics]

Looking For a Heartbeat (11/?)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Series Summary: You and Bucky used to be in a relationship. Feelings were hurt, you left. It’s been two years and you’re back. You both will handle the reunion well, won’t you?

Chapter Summary:  A little help from your friends.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings for this chapter: angst, pregnancy stuff.

 A/N: @nedthegay is the angel helping me with this story. Links are ruining posts, you can find the masterlist link on my description. 

 The symphony of knocks on your door would be more than enough to wake you up, if you had been able to get some sleep at all at night. Lying on your bed, you move your forearm to uncover your eyes and see the sun peeking through the curtains. You haven’t even realize it’s morning already. The knocks grow louder, taking a low grunt out of you.

“I’m coming,” you half yell, forcing yourself up. You have to stand still for a moment, waiting for the small but annoying dizziness to go away until you manage to lumber to the door.

“Good Morning,” Wanda greets you while Nat is right beside her, holding a long glass filled with something looking like a smoothie.

“Here,” she says, handing the glass to you, “Drink it up.”

“Good morning to you, too, Ms. Black Widow,” you say, accepting the drink and bringing it next to your nose. Your eyebrows rise with surprise when the smell isn’t awful, but instead feels quite decent.

“She made it herself,” Wanda’s grin is bright, “Said it would be good for morning sickness.”

Your head snaps to your friend, stunned.You’ve never seen Nat doing anything in the kitchen that didn’t contain vodka before. She shuffled her feet, looking at the floor before looking up at you.

Nat huffs and rolls her eyes, “There’s a thing called Google these days, you know? Now will you let us in or not?”

“Oh, yes, by all means, please get in,” you jest, giving room to both of them to pass. You take a sip from the ice cold smoothie before shutting the door and guiding them to your bedroom. You hum in satisfaction and lick your lips, it truly tastes good and the coldness seems it’s really going to help with your new buddy, morning sickness.

“Wow, thank you, Nat. It’s delicious,” You exclaim, taking a seat on the middle of your bed, resting your back against the headboard.

“Of course it is,” she deadpans, positioning herself next to you, while Wanda sits on the chair in front of the bed.

“How did you sleep?” Wanda asks.

“Didn’t,” you mumble, taking another small sip from the smoothie.

It’s quiet in the room as you gulp down the cold drink. Licking your lips, you can see Wanda’s bouncing leg  and Nat’s clenched fists. Their uneasiness and expectation are palpable, the need to ask but not daring to…

You let out a long sigh and ends with the silence, “I’m keeping it.” You can’t stop the small smile curling up your lips when you hear yourself saying it, “I’m keeping the baby.”

Your gaze shifts from one to the other and the previous expectation is replaced  by what it seems like… surprise? Confusion? You really can’t blame them when. Actually, you were the first one to be surprised by your resolution and the feelings it’s been making surface inside you.

“You know, I’ve always heard I should be strong,” you say, resting the glass on your lap, “And I learned love, boyfriends, family… all of that wasn’t important. It was a distraction, a weakness,” you chuckle without humor, looking at your friends.

Wanda has her lips pressed tightly together, while Nat rests her head back on the headboard, her face turned and focused on you. She nods for you to continue.

“The thing is, ever since I saw that positive result and I realized I’m going to have a child, a little person to take care of, I’ve been feeling stronger and stronger. More than I’ve ever have.” You take in some air and let the smile come back to your face, tightening the grip on the glass in your hands. “I feel empowered; I feel like I could fight a thousand HYDRA agents singlehanded. I want to fight and make this place a safer and better place for this baby.”

You bring one hand to your belly as you stare down at it, “There’s a bunch of new feelings rising inside me, and I’m stronger because of it.” You nod to yourself as a single tear trails down your cheek, “I want this. I want this baby.”

When you look up, you see Wanda sporting a huge, watery smile on her face. Turning to the side, you catch the soft look on Nat, a rare and beautiful vision. Before you could do or say anything else Wanda swiftly climbs on the bed to sit facing your side and promptly puts her arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug. It almost makes you spill the smoothie in your hands all over the sheets, as she nuzzles into your neck. Giggling, you reach behind her to place the glass safely on the nightstand.

“I’m gonna be an auntie.” She cries out. “You’re gonna be an auntie, Nat.” She adds, pulling back to look at her.

At your other side, Nat smiles and nods to both of you, “I guess that’s what’s going to happen, huh?” She takes your hand into hers, squeezing it tightly as she adjusts her body and turn it to you, prepping a kiss to your temple.

“Oh My God,” Wanda covers her mouth for a small second before speaking again, with widened eyes, “Bucky is going to be a father. When are you going to tell him?

Just like that, the bubbling joy inside your chest freezes and you can feel the smile leaving your face as your stomach swirls.

“Well,” you breathe, “about that…”

“Y/N?” Nat frowns, as if she’s the one who can read your mind instead of Wanda, “You have to tell him,” She adds, her voice firm.

“I’ve tried to…”  You let go of her hand and shift on the mattress under the questioning eyes of your friends, “I called him last night, right after you two left.” You explain, chewing your cheek before continuing,  “I told him I had something important to tell him and asked if he could come over. He was a fucking dick.” You scoff and shake your head replaying the phone call in your head.

“What happened?”  Wanda asks as her eyes squint. .

The wounding memory assaults you like a gunshot made of pain and anger. You want nothing except to never talk about that, but you tell them all about your last conversation with Bucky instead. “… and I told him it was important but he said he had absolutely no interest in what I had to say. He wouldn’t meet me, and there was I nothing I could say to change that. So I said nothing.” You fold your legs up and brace your arms around your knees, as one of your legs keeps bouncing.

“Oh…” That’s all that slips from Wanda.  

“Bucky’s a fucking asshole and I wanna punch his fucking guts,” Nat says, making you tilt your face to her, “However… and I know you don’t wanna hear this right now, but I have to say it,” her expression is soft, like her voice, when she talks next, “Maybe you should’ve told him over the phone anyway. This is huge, I don’t think it’s something you should be petty about.”

“Nat…” Wanda calls in a reproving tone.

You feel your features and your muscles stiffen defensively, “He said he didn’t want to know what I had to say-”

“Come on, Y/N, we all know Bucky. I’m sure if you had told him what it was about he would’ve changed his attitude and would listen, you can’t be selfish right now-“

“Nat,” you raise your hand and interrupt her, “Tell me something, if I had told you I’d rather not go forward with this pregnancy, what would you say to me?”

Natasha sighs, looking to the other way briefly, seemingly understanding your point before you even make it. She faces you again and nods, resigned, “I would have said it’s your decision to make and no one else’s, because it’s your body. You make the rules.” She purses her lips.

“Exactly,” the fight doesn’t leave your tone yet as you unconsciously move farther from her and closer to Wanda, “I’m far from perfect, but I’m not a monster. I know he has to know about the child, it’s his as much as it is mine. But this pregnancy,” You place a hand over your belly and Nat’s gaze follows the move, “this pregnancy is mine. As far as I’m concerned I owe him absolutely nothing right now.” You spit as your breathing grows erratic.

“Calm down, Y/N, it’s ok,” Wanda tries to soothe you, resting her hand on your shoulder.

“Picture that:” despite Wanda’s efforts, you keep on with your rant without taking a breath, eyes bored into Nat’s as she doesn’t make a single move to interrupt you, “Despite my fears, because, yes, I was damn scared of his reaction when he knew, I called him. The guy is fucking annoyed by my mere voice even if it’s the first fucking time I’m calling after two months of complete radio silence and says he wants nothing to do with me or what I have to say…” you blink rapidly, replaying the words in your head.

Nat’s eyes downcast and she folds her arms in front of her.

“What did you expect me to say after that? Hey, guess what?” You change your voice into one filled of fake cheerfulness, “You want nothing to do with me? Ha ha, not happening because I’m fucking pregnant?” You let out a huff, “I know it seems petty and selfish, and maybe it is, but I don’t care. He crushed me last night, I felt like shit. I don’t need this right now.”

“We get it, dear. Please, just try to breathe.”

Wanda finally gets your attention as you turn your watery eyes at her and do what she said, taking in and out deliberately long and slow breaths. You’re not sure what’s stronger inside you, the anger of being confronted, the sadness from the memory of being rejected when you were so excited about the news, or the shame for being called out on something you know you could’ve handled better…

“I know he’ll find out eventually,” you speak again, this time calmer and steadier, “And that’s ok,” You turn to Nat again, “That’s really ok.” You nod at her, wanting her to believe what you’re affirming, “It’s not even about him, it’s about this kid who will deserve their father to at least know about them, no matter if he decides to take part of this or not.” You lazily caress your belly, looking down at it, before addressing to Wanda, in a small voice, “He didn’t seem like he would be happy about it last night and I wouldn’t bear that at that moment, when I was so excited on finding out.”

Her hand is tight and comforting warm on your shoulder. You wonder if the gradual serenity growing inside is her doing…

You give her a tight lip smile, before continuing, staring ahead and avoiding both of their looks, “This pregnancy is something entirely unexpected and new for me. I need peace to live through this, to learn how to be a… a mother.” You pause when the word comes out of you. The tension in your throat from holding back tears becomes too much and you let them free, feeling the heat of them running down your face before hastily wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.

Wanda and Nat settle in silence, letting you take the moment to yourself and articulate your thoughts again.

“He doesn’t want the drama of loving me into his relationship and I don’t want it while I’m pregnant, either.” You sigh and nod to yourself, “Right now, the only people who know about this are in this room and I wanna keep it that way, at least for a while.” You look at one and them at the other, receiving reassuring nods in response, “I’m dealing with this alone. It’s just me and my baby.”

“You’re not alone.” Nat finally breaks her silence.

You turn to her and exchange a wordless conversation. One of the many you two have had during your friendship. Full of understanding... Despite your rant, you’re glad for having her, the friend who won’t accept your bullshit and will always bring you to reality. But you’re also glad you were able to make her see you side of things too. Her eyes are tearing up as she shrugs and twists her mouth. Definitely another “non- Black-Widow” look.

“I’m sorry.” She mouths to you.

You extend a hand to her, which she accepts promptly.

“Of course you’re not alone.” Wanda covers the hand over your belly with hers, resting her head on your shoulder.  

You sigh, feeling more at ease with their support, “Sooner or later he’ll know, and then I’ll deal with whatever comes from it,” you whisper.

“We’ll be here for you,” Nat reassures.

“You have to tell Heloise, though.” Wanda raises her head from your shoulder and you look at her, “She needs to check on your meds and, oh,” Her eyes round as she’s remembering something, “We need to schedule an appointment with an obstetrician or will you prefer a midwife? We have to think about this.”

“Yes.” You nod, smiling, loving how she uses ‘we’, “All of that. And Nat will have to make me one of those every morning.” You point at the up till now forgotten smoothie on the nightstand.

Nat only grunts her response.

~~~

A couple of days passed until you managed to set up an appointment with an obstetrician you three agreed was qualified enough. You didn’t want to see any of the doctors from the tower yet, due the risk of being exposed, but considering the super soldier status of the father, you pondered that soon a doctor with more know-how on the matter would be safer to your baby.

If, even for a second, you thought you would go through this alone, you were so very mistaken. Wanda and Nat went with you to the appointment and acted like a couple of helicopter moms, asking questions, exposing your bad habits and taking notes on all the recommendations and prescriptions.

They were there during the first ultrasound as well. You’re 9 weeks into the pregnancy and the moment when you see the tiny, almost imperceptible smudge on the screen and hear its accelerated heartbeat was the moment you remembered you had a heart too. You felt alive and strong. More than ever. There were tears and laughter while Wanda and Nat held your hands. The doctor offered pictures of your little bean and they wanted one copy each.

You took two home...

As the days pass, keeping the secret has become one of the most difficult things to do. All you want is to scream to the World and especially to your friends about your baby. But you decided it was to best to keep it to yourself so you stick to your plan, avoiding meeting anyone on the mornings, while the sickness was worst, avoiding get togethers to drink and also going to the gym with everyone else, since you’re not allowed to do heavy exercises, and explaining why would be a handful.

At least you have Wanda and Nat to talk about everything. Oh, and Heloise. You told her on your very next session and you were relieved when she told you the medication she had prescript before were safe to use during pregnancy.

Now, obviously, the main subject in your sessions has been your pregnancy.

“Have you talked to Bucky again?” She asks, studying you from above her glasses.

“No, and I don’t wanna talk about it.” You straighten your posture on the chair, “I haven’t even been thinking about him, to be honest.” To your own surprise, you’re saying the truth. Bucky hasn’t been in your mind lately, even though you know it won’t be for long.

“No? And what have you been thinking about?”

Looking down to your lap, you watch yourself fiddling with your nails. You twist your mouth to the side before you bite your lower lip. The thing is that  since finding out about the baby the excitement that came has lessened, and the little hint of fear has become a monster inside you, lodging in your thoughts.

“I’m gonna screw this up, I know I will.” You blurt it out in an exasperated voice, looking up at Heloise again, who quirks a questioning brow at you, “Do you know how many time I’ve hold a baby in my life? None. Zero fucking times. I have no idea how much a baby weighs, where would I even put my hands…what if I drop them?

“Y/n-” Heloise tries to get your attention.

“Their bodys are so fragile and tiny,” You watch your hands as you shape them to mimic a newborn’s size, “What if I hold them the wrong way and hurt them?”  Their little neck seems so soft … What if I don’t have breast milk?” You bring your palm to your forehead, staring at nothing as you keep your frantic questions, “What if they choke up while I’m feeding them? Oh my God…” You pant and your hand drops to your mouth briefly, “I haven’t thought of that before…”

“Y/n-” Heloise tries a little louder.

“Besides, I’m fucked up,” You scoff and shake your head “The only logical thing is I fuck up with this baby’s head too, I know I will… And I’m doing this alone, the girls are amazing but at the end of the day, I’m the mother, the responsibility is mine, oh fuck-”

“Y/N!”

The yell coming from Heloise is enough to stop your monologue, as your wide eyes snap at her.

“My dear, Y/n,” She says, calmly this time. You stare as she scrunches up her face and rubs her temples while still holding her pen. “You’re gonna give me a headache.”

Your head tilts as you squint at her, watching as her hands drop from her head and she writes down something on a blank page of her little notebook.

“All valid concerns.” She keeps writing as she speaks, “But, as qualified and amazing as I am-”

You sigh.

“I can’t help with all of them. So, here’s something I think it’s going to be perfect for you.” She finishes writing and rips off the page, extending it to you.

With the page in your hands you read an address in it.

“It’s a support group for…” she ponders for a moment, “parents without a partner.” Heloise seems pleased with her choice of words.

Your eyes roll, “You can say single mother.”

“And hurt your pregnant feelings? Never!” She mocks outrage, placing a hand over her heart,  “Besides, it’s not just for mothers, there are fathers there as well.” Her face light up as if an incredible idea has come to her mind, “Oh… this might be even more interesting than I thought…” She smirks and wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Catching her meaning, you huff, lying back on your chair, “Jesus, Heloise, I’m pregnant…”  

“My point exactly. Just wait until the pregnancy hormones hit you hard and leave you horny as fuck.  Then we’ll talk.” She states with a straight face, pointing at the walls behind her with her pen.

“Will this be helpful? For real?” You ignore her comment.

“It will.” She speaks more seriously, “A friend of mine is the mediator. She’s a specialist. Trust me.”

“Well,” You fold the little paper and reach behind you to tuck it in your back pocket, “I’ll give it a shot.”

~~~

“Dear God, Steve, can you just stop?” Bucky huffs, interrupting whatever his friend had been saying.  

“Stop what?” Steve asks from across the table, gulping down his coffee as he rests the cup back on the wooden surface. He looks at the man across the table with his brows furrowed in confusion.

Bucky waves his hand around his friend, “Doing whatever it is you’re doing to make the staff and customers here all so damn fuzzy. Can’t you hear the whispers? The dirty mind in these people…” Bucky glances up to the ceiling of the small coffee shop and puffs, before taking a sip from his own coffee.

A rush of red creeps up Steve’s pale neck to his ears, but he still manages to give Bucky a small cheeky smile and shrug, “Can’t help you with that, pal. I’m doing absolutely nothing.”

“Show off.” Bucky scowls.

Steve chuckles, “I miss this, Buck. It’s been a while since we last went for a run and coffee together.”

Bucky flicks his eyes up to him, before dropping them to his hands playing with the cup of coffee, “You’ve seen me a week ago, at the pizza house.”

“Yeah, I know, but I miss this.” Steve shakes his hand back and forth, “You and me only.” The smile curling his lips has a touch of nostalgia, “And I miss you in the Tower. Everyone does.”

“I know,” Bucky agrees softly and glances at his friend, “It’s the same for me. But I need this time away, you know I do.”

“Yeah, yeah… but for how long?” Steve forehead creases, “How much time away will you need? Two years didn’t seem to be enough before…” he trails off.

The not so subtle hint dropped doesn’t slip from Bucky’s attention. His jaw clenches and he shots a warning glare at his friend, “Just don’t, Steve.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Steve raises his hands to the air in a sign of surrender, “I don’t wanna fight with you.” He leans his elbows on the table and takes a good look of his friend, who grabs his coffee for another sip, “How do you like the new apartment? How’s Brooklyn?”

“Not the same. Too crowded. Too loud.” Bucky answers grumpily.

“Yeah, nothing is the same these days.” Steve sighs, “Have you been sleeping well?” He nods towards the evident dark circles around Bucky’s eyes.

“They haven’t stopped,” Bucky breathes, knowing what Steve’s question really is about, considering he was the one – besides you, of course-  who had been helping him through constant nightmares back in the tower, “Anna spent the night one of these days… I’m kind of glad I wasn’t able to get a wink of sleep that night, to be honest…”

“Oh yeah, and what kept you awake?” Steve asks, before bringing his cup to his lips.

“Y/N called.” Bucky clears his throat.

“Really?” Steve’s eyes well up “What for?” He leans over, giving Bucky his full attention.

Bucky focus on his fidgeting fingers over the table. “She… it seemed like she had something to tell me. But I- I didn’t let her speak.” He can’t help the shame fastened on his voice. He glances up at Steve, “Do you have an idea of what she wanted to tell me? Is she… is everything ok with her?”

“Now I’m allowed to talk about her?” Steve asks, tilting his head.

Bucky grimaces impatiently. “Come on, stop being a punk.”

Steve taps on his thighs and leans back, “I don’t know, but now that you mentioned, I haven’t really been seeing her much these days…Last time I bumped into her she was leaving the tower early in the morning with Nat and Wanda. They seemed to be in a hurry...”

“Would you… would you check on her?” Bucky’s shoulders slump and his voice is small, almost pleading, “I was kind of a jerk and didn’t listen to what she wanted to say. It could be important. Just… just see if she’s ok. But, please don’t tell her I asked.” Bucky swallows.

After you hung up the phone he had felt like throwing up. He was disgusted at himself. You called in the middle of the night, two months after no contact at all and he didn’t have the decency to at least try to listen. He treated you like shit, instead. You said you wanted to meet in person… But he is terrified to meet you…He’s afraid of himself in your presence. The thing is he made a commitment with Anna and he knows it’s what’s best for everybody if you two stay away from each other. But he simply can’t shake off the feeling that you might be needing him and it’s been killing him inside.    

“Of course,” Steve’s voice brings him back to the present. “But I don’t see why you don’t do it yourself.” Steve shrugs, folding his arms in front of his chest, “And maybe you could apologize for being a jerk, too.”

“Steve…” Bucky groans and his head drops.

“No, Buck I mean it. Sorry but I can’t stand still and quiet while I see my best friend being such a  thickhead dumbass. This little arrangement of you and Anna…” He points his finger at Bucky “It will only make things worse, can’t you see?”

“I thought you liked her.” Bucky snaps.

“And I do. We all like Anna.” Steve adds, “She’s always been sweet and all, but I don’t know.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head lightly, “She used to be your therapist for fuck’s sake. Have you forgotten about that?” Steve opens his arms in a questioning sign, “Don’t you think this is at least a little messed up? I mean… I’m not saying she’s doing something deliberately… It just seems like she’s so in love with you she doesn’t even realize she’s getting into a dangerous territory. Besides, you don’t love her that way and you’ve been lying to yourself if-”

“I don’t get you, Steve. Whose side are you?” Bucky cuts him off, tilting his chin up and crossing his arms over his chest, staring at the other man.

Steve’s expression softens, but the concern still traces his face and voice, “You know damn well whose side I’ll always be on. I just think there’s no way someone won’t get out of this hurt…Odds are it’s going to be the three of you.”  

“Listen,” Bucky breathes in before he gets up. He stops right beside Steve and puts a hand on his shoulder, “Just check on her, will ya? And then give me a call.”

He pats Steve’s shoulder and walks away, leaving his frustrated and worried best friend behind.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes angst #bucky angst #looking for a heartbeat #bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky fanfiction

[jenna-ortega]

Resist (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Chapter 2

Summary: Michael Langdon had been able to have anyone and anything he wanted, until he came across you. Your resistance would have him wondering of ways he could break you. Would he move on, or would it drive him mad?

Word Count: 1600

A/N: Ok, just wanted to let ppl know this is not going to be SUPER canon to the real outpost. I dont think i can get them to interact if i keep the outpost rooms completely realistic. So i added a kitchen, etc hope you don’t mind. Also i didn’t proof read so my bad for ay mistakes. Leave me msgs with ideas i could use for chapter 3, enjoy!

Your mind was running all night long about what Langdon had said to you. What was he trying to do? Your faith wouldn’t allow something as mundane to break it, but you couldn’t help but want to give in. Something peculiar about that man made you want to dance with the darkness that surrounded him, being swallowed by his being without a care in the world. Your eyes now heavy, you tried drifting off into a realm you knew you were safe. Your dreams were safe, weren’t they?...

“Tell me you need me, Y/N, tell me how badly you want me.” Langdon’s body next to yours on the bed, his fingers inside of your core, thumb rubbing the bundle of nerves he’d now claimed as his. 

“Langdon, I need you, please let me cum.” you begged him, clearly he got off on your pathetic ramblings since he chuckled at your neediness. Fingers brutally swirling inside of you, your wetness dripping through the sides of his fingers and onto the bed. 

“Give into me, y/n, i want to feel what i’m doing to you” langdon encouraged you to release, pumping his three fingers in and out of you at a pace that had your back arched off the bed and legs trembling. “Stop resisting me, I can make this a reality, i can make you really cum.” 

Your body jolted up at the sound of an alarm. Your chest heaving, cold sweat dripping from your forehead. what the fuck was that? you asked yourself as you lifted your white satin nightgown that was drenched in your own sweat. Rubbing your temples as you got up out of bed, your body felt like it was actually aching. A bit numb in that area that had been the main attraction in your dream, he wasn’t going to be easy to forget. 

//

Walking into the outposts kitchen, there was coco and gallant gossiping as always. “he really knows how to pleasure a guy” you overheard gallant, walking to the fridge to grab some water. 

“Oh, found love in the outpost? even with venables outdated rules?” you giggled, trying to at least be somewhat social. Gallant looked at you, surprised you had spoken, but happy to continue speaking to anyone who would listen. 

“You could say that, Langdon fucked me three times backwards last night. I can barely walk, it’s wonderful.” Coco and gallant laughed, you spit out your water slightly, realizing you had been too...just not in real life. 

“Really?-” you asked confused, pretending not to be bothered, as if you should even be. I mean, your dream was only a dream, and you had rejected him the night before. So he probably took his shit out on Gallant. You were a bit sad knowing it was all just a ploy to get laid, pushing the thoughts out of your head you decided to be happy for him.

“That’s great!, i’m glad someone got laid here.” making yourself comfortable, you leaned your arm on the counter about to continue on with the conversation, feeling a presence behind you that was quickly confirmed by the scared stares of coco and gallant, you turned around to find a him behind you. 

“Did i interrupt something?” Langdons arms help behind his back, looking directly at you, but addressing the whole room.

“No, Langdon. We were just about to disperse” Gallant winked, walking off with Coco snickering like children. You studied Langdons face, watching as he shook his head in confusion. 

Trying to follow them out so you wouldn’t have to actually speak with him, he had very different plans.

“I didn’t dismiss you, y/n...did i?” he asked as if it weren’t rhetorical. Walking towards you as you stopped in your tracks, turning back to find him just feet away from you.

“I didn’t realize i needed your permission to leave a room.” you sassed back, clearly having no regard for your own life. 

“You know-Y/N, i don’t understand why you insist on being like this.” you backed up a bit as he was walking closer towards you, backing you into a corner.

“Being like wha-” before you could finish his body was painfully close to yours as your back was against a wall, “Being a pain in my fucking ass” both his hands now next to your head, leaving you trapped within his body. 

“I just want to leave, why don’t you leave me alone. Go fuck Gallant again why don’t you.” you spat back, disgusted you stooped as low as showing a bit of jealousy. 

His head titled to one side, smirking back at you.

“I didn’t realize i needed your permission to fuck other people-,” he mimicked your high pitched voice, making it sound whinier than you intended, you were a bit taken back but he wasn’t done speaking. “But, since you’re so worried. I didn’t fuck anyone else. What were you up to last night though?” his smirk still very clear on his face. Bringing his hand to your shoulder, clenching tight.

“Sleeping, humans tend to do that at night.” your brattiness never failed to turn him on, both his hands now clenching your shoulders. 

“Ah- yes...sleep. I’m sure you had a lovely dream, please, elaborate for me.” his lips close to your ear, his breath against your neck. He slipped one hand on your waist, bringing you close to him. You wanted to fight him off, tell him to kiss your ass. It was so hard, his plump lips teasing your neck, his warmth was all you wanted. You wanted to melt apart in his hands, you wanted him to make you his. Take everything, but you just couldn’t let your walls down. 

“I really should leave, Langdon. Venable is probably looking for me” you once again pushed him off you, something you had to do a lot recently. You were saddened he actually let you leave, slightly hoping he just took you right on that counter. You only heard his voice as you walked away.

“Call me Michael.”

//

Michael had headed back to his room for the night after dinner, laying down on the bed staring up at the ceiling. How the hell could he break her? Every time he’d send out signals she’d receive them, and just ignore them. Desperation clouded michaels judgement, wanting to storm into her room and take what was rightfully his. “You are the son of satan, there is no one or no thing you can’t have” Michael thought of that, laughing to himself. Well they obviously never met Y/N. He took a deep breath in deciding he would get petty. Closing his eyes he imagined her, where she was at this very moment. He was going to make her come crawling to him for relief. 

//

You were in your bathroom, turning the knob of your shower to the hottest setting, getting ready to relax. You watched as the tub filled up slowly, deciding to step in a bit early. A towel at the edge of the tub to comfort your head as you laid back, a deep breath exiting your nose as you adjust to the temperature. 

Your eyes begin to shut, every muscle relaxing under the hot water until your eyes shot open, feeling a strong sensation at your core. Your mouth wide open at this new sensation you were feeling, light moans escaped your lips. Someone or- something was rubbing you exactly where you wished. Your hands gripping each side of the tub as the pressure intensified. You let a fuck slide from your lips as your moans start becoming incredibly obnoxious. You stomach spinning, feeling yourself squeezing around nothing, your eyes closed tight, about to ride out your orgasm. Your knuckles white at the pressure at which you were holding the tub. To your disappointment every single sensation halted, your eyes widening at the loss of contact. You started to whine, your head leaning to one side as your breathing was coming back to normal. 

You were so angry, that fucking asshole. You knew it was him somehow, some way he was torturing you. It wouldn’t be this easy, no. You weren’t going to let it be this easy. Not for him. 

Leaping out of the tub, you rushed clothes on. Your sights dead set on his room. Anyone could hear your loud footsteps, this wasn’t going to be a secret.

Reaching his room, without knocking, you rushed into the room. His head turned to you, and your eyes looked down at his hand resting on his member that was obviously hard. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” his tone low, breathy as smiled at you.

“Well don’t hold your breath, i’m not here to stroke your ego, or other things. Whatever you’re doing is useless, it’s honestly pathetic. A guy like you acting like this over little ole’ me. You look thirsty, it doesn’t suite you.” with those words, you slammed his door behind you. Your heart racing as you walked down to the hall back to your room. 

You felt empowered, electricity coursing through your veins at the thought of hurting him in some way. You hoped what you did wasn’t a death sentence, but it seemed as if he would spare your life even if you did sass him a bit. Trying to gain your control back, you hopefully didn’t piss off the wrong people. Your next encounter wouldn’t be pretty, but you were prepared to resist his futile attempts at seducing you.

Taglist- @avesatanicass @readsalot73 @hxdesworld

#michael langdon #cody fern #michael langdon smut #michael langdon x reader #american horror story

[voidbeer]

Reflections

Mel wasn’t sure what was worse: Being left to his own mind, or being forced to stay in Boralus for some Duskwhisper with plans on the brain. Mel lays sprawled in a trader’s inn in Boralus harbor, laying in the bed provided as he stares up at the ceiling lamps. He’s got nothing better to do save fidgeting with the complementary lighter, opening and closing the little thing with a rhythmic click click click. His arcwave lays nearby, a conversation with Ilyssae on the screen, Junior wrapping his tendrils about the communication device. 

“Exodari in a void-coma, huh?” Mel comments, drawing Juniors attention, the little purple creature opening and closing his big yellow eyes “Maybe I shoulda mentioned it a month ago,” he glances to the small octopode “-that Irielle was found. Y’know. So people weren’t tilting head over heels to figure things out.” 

Junior burbles.

“Yeah. I know. If Irielle don’t wanna say hello, that’s her beeswax, y’know?” Mel raises a brow at Junior, who’s floated over the arcwave to twist tendrils about Mels upper arm. The octopode stares at him. 

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not gonna make some half assed attempt to reach out to her. And i’m definitely not gonna ask her her business either, cause I don’t really give much a damn about her reasons - only thing that matters is that she’s about and the whispers don’t have her.”

A lie, really - he wondered a lot about what was going on behind the scenes. Not out of any misplaced notion that he could fix them - wounds on the mind and heart weren’t his strong suit.

Junior tilts his head.

“No, not Eoselle either.” Mel looks back up at the ceiling, flicking that lighter open and shut. 

He knew they had something going on, Eoselle and Irielle. Irielle, the lax bartender with a wandering streak. Who had enchanted weapons by the boatload under her bed - probably with a swanky deal or job to afford them, and the know-how to use them. Eoselle, the researcher who barely, if ever, emoted, and never spoke unless she absolutely had to. He didn’t need to know all the details - Irielle was acting funny when she and Eoselle nearly crossed paths, a few months ago, so he had his suspicions…

The anguished exchange between the two within the rift a month ago confirmed it - they had a history. To what degree, he had no idea - but there was something there. Eoselle had been working on something for her- Oil to stop the whispers. Brought the package with her into the rift. Carried it through everything, silently.

Also promptly broke her ankle, trying to climb the jagged surfaces of Telogrus and the landmasses locked in the void. Mel had watched her silently then - confused as all hell at what she was even intending to do - didn’t even have time to catch her when she slipped and cracked (and subsequently mended) the ankle - all without saying a lick of anything. “Eoselle really doesn’t like admitting or asking for help.” He murmurs to himself, white eyes half lidded.

When they found Irielle, she was awash in void magic. Volatile. Uncontrolled. Mel watched when Eoselle approached. When a void elf teters on the bridge with the whispers, it’s a dangerous precipice, a slippery slope of illusions and half baked truths. When someone is on that precipice, caught up in illusions - they had to be subdued. They could harm friends, or themselves. Irielle had been empowered, somehow - she was using portals, leaving scorch marks in stone of Telogrus - she was able to fling knives into stone.

He can remember the image in his head, clearly - Irielle struggling in front of Eoselle. The sheer amount of power that was barely even restrained was palatable to him. Wreathed in grief. Eoselle had pleaded with Irielle, telling her that they could banish the whispers with the oil. Mel scowls. He remembered the line Irielle had said, that boiled his blood and froze his throat. 

“The whispers? They’ve only told me truth.”

Mel clicks his lighter faster. Irielle had the signs. She struck at Mel when he had made his presence known.

“She didn’t recognize me. Iri, I mean.” he glances at Junior. “That was kinda my confirmation. She was empowered, unstable, emotionally a wreck, and probably was having her surroundings obscured. All the signs were there - that she was in their grip.” he says at the Octopode. As if Junior could comprehend whatever he was spewing. “And then I got pissed and told her to piss off with accepting truths on a platter. And went in to subdue. But really, I was just right pissed at anyone thinking the void was the truth. Was hoping maybe a physical fight would jog her senses. Get Irielle out of whatever she was trapped in. She wouldn’t like it, but if I could get her weapons out of her hands, I think she’d appreciate the quick, to the point wake up call.”

“...Can’t say I was expecting Eoselle to be so pissed though.”

"I hate ALL of you!" 

"ALL OF Y'THINK Y'KNOW SO MUCH BETTER FOR ME, FOR HER. Y'PUSH SO FUCKIN' HARD."

"CAN'T ALL OF Y'JUST FUCK OFF?!"

Mel makes a face. Eoselle...She has her dad’s accent.

He had no context for Eoselle’s words. He still has none. Just the image of the researcher refusing to speak as she climbs jagged rocks.

It also didn’t help that he was trying to not get stabbed at the time - Irielle registered him as a threat, and Eoselle had thrown her spellwork into the fray as well. Defensively, he noted - but it’s still enough to be a 2v1 on the field. And if Irielle wasn’t recognizing him…He’d be a threat between her and Eoselle, who she did recognize. And Eoselle was attacking him too. And Irielle had a spear. And knives. He folds his arms behind his head.

Yeah, he could have died there. “I don’t even know if she even recognized me at the end. Hope she did though.” Mel closes his eyes, flicking a long ear. He yaaaaaaaaaaaawns.

He already had a headache rolling the details through his head. He’s not made for this shit. So he rolls over to get sleep.

He pauses. “I still need to send Junior to get Ilyssae that bottle of Arcwine I got.” (( @irielle-firine​ @hinahinagray​ @star-spire​ @glitchphil​ ))

#mel #irielle #writing #eoselle #ilyssae #vikkari

[thatfanficstuff]

True Mate - Peter Hale (Part 2)

Pairing: Peter x Reader

Warnings: language, violence

PART 2 of 2

"Don't you think there might be a better way to do this?" Derek asked as they rode the elevator up to the floor where the alpha pack had taken up residence.

Peter tilted his head from side to side stretching the muscles in his neck. "Oh, I'm positive there's a better way to do this, but I'm not leaving Y/N in there any longer than I have to."

"So us storming in there and getting ourselves killed is going to help her how?" 

Peter glared at his nephew. "I don't know, okay? I don't know anything except for the fact that she's in there right now scared out of her skull and thinking I don't give a shit about her. I told you not to come."

Derek shrugged as the elevator came to a stop. "And I told you that I'm doing this for her. Not you."

Peter grunted as he made his way quietly down the hall. "Yes. You keep telling me that. I think I get it." The rest of the pack was scattered throughout the building. Even the Argents had agreed to help. Though they too made it clear they were doing it for Y/N not him. Whatever. He didn't care as long as his mate was rescued. 

He took a deep breath as he came to the door. He knocked loudly and shifted his weight on his feet as he waited for someone to answer. The door swung open and that bitch Kali stood smirking at him.  "Can I help you?"

"You took something that belongs to me. I want it back," he answered. 

Her eyes widened along with her smirk. "That must make you the mate. Oh, Deucalion will be so pleased you are here." She gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him into the apartment. He spotted Derek stumbling through behind him, just before the door slammed shut.

"What's with the noise?" Deucalion asked and Peter straightened his stance. 

"The mate is here," Kali said, that ever present smirk still on her face. 

The blind werewolf sniffed the air then came to stand in front of Peter. "Why does it come as no surprise to me that you're the one that fucked everything up?"

Before Peter could respond, something hit the back of his head and he blacked out.

The pain was the first thing Peter was aware of as he began to wake. They must have hit him hard for it to still be hurting. Damn it. He groaned as he lifted his head and squinted against the glare of the lights. He was a little surprised to find himself still in the alpha apartment, though now he was chained to a chair. Derek hung from chains bolted to the ceiling on the other side of the room. At the moment they were alone.

"Have you seen her?" Peter asked. 

Derek's dark eyes studied his uncle then he shook his head. "No. You know when you called her your mate I thought you were speaking figuratively."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't."

"Then why did you say what you did this morning?" Derek questioned with a bite to his tone. "Surely you don't feel that way if she's your mate."

Peter ran his tongue across his teeth as he thought about what answer to give. Finally, he decided the truth was the best option. This was Derek after all. "I didn't want any of you using her against me. I didn't want her put in danger."

"Do you really think we'd do that?" Derek almost shouted.

"What reason did I have to think you wouldn't?" Peter snapped back. 

"Well, it's Y/N for one thing."

"Hate to interrupt, but we have some unfinished business," Deucalion said as he stepped out of a room and shut the door behind him. 

Peter struggled against the chains. "Where is Y/N? What have you done with her?"

"She is alive. For now." The alpha of alphas sat in a chair between the two Hales. "Do you have any idea what she is? How special she is?"

"Of course I know how special she is," Peter bit out. He was horrified to realize his eyes were tearing up. 

The other man laughed, a harsh sound. "You have no idea. You stumbled upon her by dumb luck." There was a stretch of silence until he tilted his head to the side with a little smirk. "However, I know precisely what she is and I'm afraid I can't allow you to keep her."

"Sorry to break it to you, but they are already mated," Derek said. "You can't just take his place."

"No, but I can kill him." Everything Deucalion said was in the same even tone. It only made the man that much creepier. 

"So kill me already."

"Not just yet." He pursed his lips. "You see in order for Y/N to reach her full potential, in order for her to help me reach my full potential, she has to be one of us."

Peter's gaze darted to the door the alpha had come through moments before. "Please tell me you didn't," he all but begged in a quiet voice. The thought of his Y/N behind that door in pain and possibly dying made it hard to breathe. 

"Oh, but I did." A smile curled his lips. "If she survives the bite, I'll kill you myself. If she dies, well Derek here can kill you and you'll even welcome it won't you? And he'll take another step to becoming one of us."

"Just let her go," Derek bit out. "Do what you want with us, but let her go."

"Allow me to enlighten you gentlemen about what precisely we are dealing with here. Y/N is a true mate."

Peter's eyes widened. It wasn't possible. "That's a myth, a legend."

"Is it?" Deucalion asked in a tone that made it clear he considered it neither. 

Derek shot a questioning glance at his uncle. Peter cleared his throat. "What makes you think Y/N is a true mate?" 

"She has all the signs, Peter. I'm surprised you didn't notice them before." And there was that maddening smirk again. 

"And what are these supposed signs?" Derek asked. 

"First and foremost, the true mate is a peace bringer. She is normally universally liked. Can either of you think of a single person that doesn't like her? No matter how lovely someone is there is always one person that hates them. It's just the way of the world. Even Kali likes her and Kali doesn't like anyone."

"Okay, I'll give you that one. What else?" Derek asked. 

"No wolf will harm her, even if they are crazed and fully turned," Deucalion said, turning his head slightly in Peter's direction. 

Peter swallowed and nodded once to tell Derek it was true. As much as he loved her, he had always thought it slightly odd he hadn't bitten her that night in the forest. 

"And the power." The alpha said the last word with a lustful tinge and Peter's lip curled in disgust. "So much power. There's only a hint of it now, but when she is one of us...oh, there will be no stopping her. Or her mate." He stood then and began to pace the floor. "For that is her purpose, to empower her mate. And then of course, there is the final sign. Peter, would you care to confirm its existence?"

He clenched his teeth together to the point his jaw ached. "True mates have a birthmark shaped like a wolf's head on their hip. Sorry to disappoint, but I wouldn't know if Y/N does or not. It didn't occur to me to search her for mythical markings while we were making love."

Deucalion stopped pacing and smiled over his shoulder in Peter's direction. "Well, we examined her quite thoroughly and I can assure you she does."

"You son of a bitch," Peter spat out and pulled against his chains again. To his surprise, he felt them give. He could break free. With the knowledge, he quit struggling. He needed a plan first. He would only have one shot at this. He couldn't waste it.

The sound of a door opening drew his attention and Peter turned to see Kali coming from the same room Deucalion had exited earlier. "What's the verdict?" the alpha asked in a hopeful voice.

"She didn't make it." 

The she wolf's words pierced through Peter like a silver bullet to the heart. This was his fault. He should have gotten her away from here. Taken her anywhere but Beacon Hills which seemed to be the epicenter for all the supernatural drama in the world. Maybe if they'd left, they wouldn't have found her. Maybe she wouldn't have felt the need to sacrifice herself for her friends. 

His chest was tight and he struggled to suck in a breath. A day. He'd had her for a day and already lost her. His grief was a heavy, palpable thing. Deucalion was right. He would embrace death now. He would welcome it with open arms. If this horrible, aching pain was what it felt like to live without her, he wanted it to end now. 

Deucalion threw a chair across the room and shouted in frustration. He stormed over to Peter. "This is your doing," he growled.

Peter nodded though he knew the other wolf couldn't see it. He looked up at his would be executioner, his face wet with tears. "You're right. This is my fault. Kill me."

When Deucalion just stood over him breathing heavily, Peter shouted the words again. "Kill me!"

"I would prefer if you didn't," a sweet, familiar voice said and everyone turned to find Y/N in the doorway behind Kali. 

Peter laughed in relief, his breath coming in a shudder. She was alive. Fresh tears ran down his face, but now they were of relief and happiness. His Y/N. His true mate.

Kali reached out for Y/N's arm and her hand flashed out too fast for Peter to even follow the movement. In the next instant, Kali was laying on the ground and Y/N was dropping the woman's heart on her corpse. 

She didn't even glance in his direction as she prowled across the room to Deucalion. He stood in front of her in awe and it was easy to forget for a moment that the man was blind. He lifted a hand and touched Y/N's cheek. The power that radiated from her seemed to have him enthralled. "You forgot something about true mates, alpha of alphas."

"What is that?" he asked. 

"We bring peace by whatever means necessary." She punched into his chest and Deucalion gasped as he bent forward. "And we protect our pack, especially our mate, above all." With those words she removed his heart as well. 

Y/N dropped to her knees, her bloody hands in front of her. Tears ran down her face. Peter pulled against his chains in one swift movement and they clattered around him. He easily snapped the ones from his legs as well and hurried to his mate. 

He slid onto the floor next to her and pulled her into his chest, holding her while she wept. They stayed that way for several minutes until one of her legs lashed out, kicking the alpha's corpse. "Asshole."

Peter leaned back with a smile and cupped her face in his hands. Using his thumbs, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. "There's my girl," he said with a smile. When she just looked back at him without saying anything, his smile fell. "I love you, Y/N. So much. What I said this morning was to protect you. I didn't want anyone using you to get to me."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "I don't think you need to worry about that anymore. I can just rip out the hearts of anyone that pisses me off apparently."

Peter glanced at the body beside them before looking back to her. "I would really appreciate it if that wasn't your first reaction. Given my track record, I'm likely to piss you off a lot." He smiled though he was certain it looked more like a grimace. 

"Um...do you guys think you could release me now?" Derek asked as he shook the chains on his wrists. 

"We'll think about it," Peter said as he pulled his mate back into his arms. 

#peter hale imagine #peter hale #peter hale x reader #derek hale #teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #deucalion