#and so far it seems like only beverly has noticed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dingleshartbeaufoy · 7 months

Text

— 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞

[masterlist]

hannibal lecter x will graham

rated t - 4.1k words

tags - au, age-re, developing relationship, hannibal loves will, little will, cg hannibal, car rides, stuffed animals

warnings - none!

— will and hannibal speak several months later. they go for a car ride.

(pls read on ao3 if possible 🫀)

[banner by reveriesources]

Snow crunching beneath his braced snow boots, threatening to pile up to his knees. Rain in the clouds above, slowly creeping over the vast expanse of countryside sky, something wicked rolling in. Two months have passed and it’s mid-October; the humidity has been put to rest and a bitter chill begins to nip at Will’s ears each time he leaves a window open. Somehow, he’s never been more grateful for the cold. Everything seems more silent, more manageable.

His blithe dogs romp around in circles, curling their tails over their backs and tugging at one another’s scruffs. They love the snow like a camellia loves the moon, and he’ll find Winston pulling Buster out of its icy depths when it begins to swallow him whole. That’s Will’s second favorite part of Winter, the pure and unbridled joy from his pack.

The spot of First Favorite Thing About Winter is reserved for the fact that nobody dares to brave the surmounting snow in his driveway, meaning he’s less likely to have his solitude interrupted. Will never bothers to shovel it or to sprinkle snow salt over the pavement, he doesn’t need to; he has a four-wheel drive, and if a matter is pressing enough that it requires a trip to Will’s house, well, then they can simply deal. Which is why he’s surprised to see a familiar Bentley rolling over the white hills without hesitation. A rare and unbidden dedication, given that it’s completely unnecessary (and poses a disgusting amount of danger to his vehicle).

Will– as he often does– pretends not to notice, even as he feels the warmth of the running machine radiating from the engine several yards away. Rounding his dogs up and ushering them into the house, he feels much more like the cur in this situation. Tail tucked between his legs, silently waiting, waiting, always waiting. After his dogs file into the comfort of his home, he closes the door behind them, and the storm door loudly rattles shut. Behind him, the engine dies and Will feels more weak than usual, as if he was struck by a sudden sickness.

He isn’t afraid; there is nothing to run from, no imminent danger, so why does he feel gooseflesh spread like a plague across his arms, footsteps crunching behind him? They stop at the steps to his porch, and Will turns and faces them in much the same way that a very unstable man mimics the behavior of the sane.

Hannibal’s smile seems genuine, thin and pulling at his lips. The sky is empty and the scene around him has a limited color palette of white, brown, black, and sky blue. Susurrus wind gently whips his hair, threading long fingers through it in a familiar manner. Will has been here before, he feels. He was in Hannibal’s place, though, and it was far hotter. His eyes appear brighter than normal, but perhaps that’s an illusion from the reflecting snow. His wool trench coat threatens to drag against the ice and is already wet at the edges.

“Will,” he greets, “we meet again.” His tone falls just short of sarcastic, and sounds almost ironic, as if Will didn’t expect them to see each other again, but Hannibal certainly, certainly did.

There was no good reason for Will’s avoidance, really, nor any apparent alarms in it. The only person who asked about his sudden celibacy from Hannibal’s treatment was Beverly, for she was the only person who knew that his and Hannibal’s relationship extended any deeper than the surface. How deep that truly was, Will didn’t know, but not for lack of intelligence; rather comprehension, or his own mental barriers. In any case, Will hadn’t been showing up to his appointments (without warning!) and he was sure Hannibal found that terribly rude.

He grimaces at Hannibal’s address. “What, are we strangers again?” He remarks defensively, sarcastically. As if he’s hurt by something.

Hannibal’s smile doesn’t falter. “Not unless you want us to be.” He scuffs his boot against the ice. “I wanted to discuss with you the matter of your therapy.” He pauses. “I assumed we were back to a professional relationship again.”

Will shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t think we’ll ever be quite professional.”

Will falls silent, nervously cupping the back of his neck and shuffling on his feet, idly shoving his hands in his pockets, looking around at nothing. Hannibal moves forward onto the step. He’s still looking up at Will, eyes round.

“May I come in?” He asks, like a vampire from the stories Will’s teachers used to frighten him with.

Will nods and lets his own death enter. “Sure.”

He’s embarrassed by the state of his unusual, one-room home, currently as cramped as his mind is. Books and clothing littered about, strewn on chairs and tables. Drenched sheets thrown off of the mattress, which is surrounded by a moat of dog beds coming in various sizes and colors. Speaking of dogs, various toys and bags of treats bestrew the counter. His makeshift dining table is a nightstand, his couch is two chairs. He barely fiddled with the concept of furniture when he moved in, and preferred to keep to the first floor; he felt safer there.

Hannibal doesn’t mention it, scanning over the mess only once before resigning himself to silence in lieu of anything he may have wanted to say. Like in his own home, he approaches the coffee table, retrieving a loose novel and running his palm over the cool hardcover. “You haven’t been showing up to your appointments.”

Will chuckles dryly. “Haven’t been showing up much to work, either.”

Hannibal is piqued by this, and turns his head to Will, who has taken his place across the room, back leaned against the countertop. “You’ve paused your investigations?”

“Paused,” Will contemplatively repeats on a shrug. “If there’s anything that needs urgent investigation, I’ll go, but I mostly… avoid the headquarters. I basically work freelance, anyway.” He laughs dryly again.

Hannibal hums. “Like an artist.”

“Mm. A very, very starving one.”

Hannibal ambles towards his bookshelves that tower over either side of his television, dust accumulating about their pages. He runs his hand over the bumps and ridges over the spines, his other thumb hooked in his pocket. “Do you read often?”

The books lying face-down on every surface imaginable should be enough of an answer. “No,” he lies. “I use them as firewood.” He gestures toward the fireplace, who’s hearth is barren.

Hannibal nods knowingly and turns his back towards Will. “I feel as though there is something you wish to discuss with me.”

“Isn’t there always?” Will deflects.

“Such is life for a man of your stature,” Hannibal says, “but I sense there may be something you are less eager to talk about.”

Now, Hannibal is facing Will, but keeps a lengthy distance between them. “You feel correctly. Knowing that, then, why bring it up?”

Hannibal crosses the room to stand directly before Will, trapping him between himself and the counter. Suddenly, Will is on the defensive, his body reacting to every movement as a threat. He inhales deeply, holding his breath and then letting it out in a pathetic attempt to regulate his body temperature.

“Some things bear discussing,” Hannibal says evenly. “Breaking down barriers of the mind in order to reach a better understanding of oneself. That’s worth the price of confronting a difficult topic, is it not?”

Will slips away from Hannibal’s scrutinizing gaze; if anything were ever to make Will slip again, to fall into whatever that was, he would not let it be this. Not ever again; the heart has no jurisdiction over the mind, none at all, none at all. And Will’s mind is entirely too nonspecific and vast to answer to anybody’s orders. He tells himself this as he crosses the room, several feet away from Hannibal. Nearly bumps into his fishing lures.

“I am not interested in mind games with you,” he says, because he isn’t.

“You’re defensive,” Hannibal says, “both in speech and mind. Too ashamed to be open to conversation, too afraid to be open at all.” A beat of pregnant silence follows, and Hannibal’s gaze flicks from Will to the window just behind him. The sun has only just risen, rubbing its tired eyes, and it occurs to Will that Hannibal is at his home entirely too early for living a full hour away. His eyes return to Will’s.

“What say we go for a drive?” He offers hopefully. “I find it has a remarkable way of clearing the mind, as if another burden is abandoned with every mile.”

“I’m busy,” Will says flatly, and hopes Hannibal does not ask with what.

He doesn’t, and instead suggests they go for a night drive. Hannibal would pick him up at 7:30, their usual appointment time. Will’s thoughtless agreement is purely to get Hannibal out of his head, out of his home. He fears, though, that he might have agreed out of a genuine desire; a desire of what exactly is a different question. A desire to be open, or to go on a drive with Hannibal just for the sake of it, like he used to when he was a child.

He severs that line of thought before it can develop, and slips on his coat, figuring he might as well find something to do to pass the time. The thought of reading makes him sick, the thought of eating makes him groan, and the thought of fishing sounds fine, but the last time he went fishing in a vulnerable state it didn’t bode well for him.

When he relents to his duties and eventually arrives at the headquarters, he finds Beverly standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Will deposits his bag beside her as he enters, and she trails behind him.

“Will,” she says. “Long time, no see.” Her heeled boots click against the tile and then are muffled by the carpet.

“It’s only been two weeks,” he replies, not sounding half as offended as he was, pulling papers out of his drawer and splaying them on the desktop. Offended wasn’t the proper word. More like chastised.

“Two weeks too many,” Beverly retorts. “You’re always slaving away at crime scenes, and then suddenly you go radio silent? Something’s up, I can tell.”

Students are beginning to file in and find their places among the auditorium seating. Since Will had taken to repeatedly canceling class, many students had taken to repeatedly showing up to his evening classes rather than his morning classes.

Beverly doesn’t know, Will thinks, she can’t possibly know.

“Is it Hannibal?” She asks.

But of course, she knew, because she always seemed to know, in such a way that was less otherworldly than Hannibal’s ability but more personal, which was, in turn, far scarier. Will nods complacently and mentally checks out, watching himself and Beverly have a conversation from several miles away, staring at the tops of their heads. Beverly’s speech goes through one ear and out the other as if there’s a filter that turns all sounds muffled and unintelligible. Will turns on a student film about the development of the legal definition of crime and takes a seat in a spare chair in a dimly lit corner. Beverly pulls up a seat beside him.

“You know, I don’t think you’re as good at being vague and enigmatic as everybody else thinks,” she says. She’s sitting backward in her chair, arms folded on the backrest. Far more relaxed than Will.

“How do you figure that?”

She sits up properly and rests her hands on her thighs. “Well, I remember you missed your appointment with Hannibal several weeks back… and that’s certainly not like you. After that, you were skittish and cranky, and I know it wasn’t anything Jack or Alana did, because I work with them, so…” She gestures vaguely.

“You were doing better before, you know. When you were seeing him.” She stretches the word seeing in a way that makes Will’s skin crawl.

“Stalker,” Will says sarcastically.

Beverly snorts. “Totally. Anyway, you don’t have to go into any sort of great detail about your personal life. I care about you, and if you need anything I’d be happy to help. Just thought I’d let you know I’m aware of all the things you might hope for nobody to notice.”

Will raises a brow. “That’s supposed to comfort me?”

She shrugs. “Not necessarily. You can never hide, not entirely. Take that as you will.”

Beverly says her goodbyes, excusing herself with a curt ‘shit, Jack is calling’ and a promise of later correspondence. She’s hunched over as he hurries out of the room to not interrupt the students’ film; half of them are on their phones and half of them are falling asleep on the heels of their palms. Will would return to his desk in the center of the room if it didn’t make him feel so exposed. It was an easier feeling to deal with when everybody was distracted by your words, not noticing the way you seem to zone out, to trip over your speech. He’s played this film a million times before for a million different classes. It’ll run its course, by which point his students will have already noticed Will is gone.

He stands outside of the bureau, hands trembling, body shaking. This is fine. He’s fine. His watch shows 7:25. He feels a horrible dread, a doom hanging over his head. The sun is setting by now, abandoning him, retracting its tendrils of light. He needs something, but he doesn’t know what it is; it would seem that he always needs something and that something would forever be just out of reach. With tremulous hands he retrieves a loose cigarette from his coat pocket, and twirls it between his fingers– this is fine, he thinks as he lights it and brings it to his lips. I’m fine, I’m doing fine.

The relief is immediate. This is a habit he dropped a long, long time ago, but never truly eradicated; naturally, he’s not an addict in the same way that other people are addicts. Why? He can’t be anything the way other people are. Fundamentally, he is different, and he is a grown man who can do as he pleases and smoke if he wishes but there is a dose of shame that accompanies it. His mouth and throat are pleasantly warm, though, despite the frigid cold cloaking Virginia, and a rush of contentedness washes over him like a wave. He shivers and settles into himself.

He needs something. He needs something. He feels it gnawing at his flesh, or rather, his bone, clambering to escape. He won’t let it in, though; why?

Afraid, comes a thought. You’re afraid, aren’t you?

Will Graham is not simply afraid.

Thousand-dollar tires roll down the ice and stop at the road in front of the long staircase to the bureau entrance. Will snuffs his cigarette on the wall behind him and stuffs it in his pocket, making his way down the steps. The driver’s window rolls down.

Quite a scene, the two are painting. A man is smoking, looking disheveled. Another man in an expensive car pulls up, and the man– as if they had done this before– trots toward him and rests his arm on his hood as they correspond through the window. Will laughs to himself.

“Will,” comes Hannibal’s greeting, more casual this time, paralleling their earlier meeting. “There you are.”

“You were looking for me?”

“You were not at your home, and not at my office. I figured you would be here.” He inhales, and his nose scrunches repugnantly at the thick scent of smoke. No one else would have picked up on that, nobody but Hannibal. “I won’t lie, I was a bit worried.”

“Worried about what?” Will asks. “About whether a grown and trained man can fend for himself anywhere but his home?”

Hannibal chuckles. “You are right about that. Won’t you join me?” He asks, and pats the passenger seat.

It’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous, this whole day has been ridiculous. Hannibal worrying about him, unprecedented, something he's never done before– something nobody has done before, for that matter. Trying to coax out of him a discussion, or an admission that anything happened at all. All Will can think is, what does he gain?

Nevertheless, he rounds the hood of the car and plops into the seat beside Hannibal. The leather is exquisite and smells of– and smells of pine. Will squirms. The sun hangs low in the sky, mixing blue with divine purple and red. Will is tense on all accounts. He wishes he could sink into the seat, but he cannot; oh, he cannot.

His window is rolled down automatically and Hannibal drives leisurely down the parkway, heading West out of Quantico. Will can see the reservoir, the assorted academic buildings in and around the bureau itself, and people walking up and down sidewalks. Will never noticed how beautiful it was this time of year; light dancing on the water, the sky a brilliant watercolor painting. The bureau really, really blemishes that. Cicadas chirping mix in with the sounds of distant bustling streets, and Will has always hated the city.

“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal asks, and as Will adjusts himself his foot brushes against a discreetly placed bag on the floorboard. He ignores it.

“Fine,” he lies, and Hannibal doesn’t press him. It’s a strange, nostalgic feeling. He’s sitting, tired, in the passenger seat of a car with an all-black interior. The wind tosses his hair about and he closes his eyes to better feel it on his face. He doesn’t have school tomorrow, his dad didn’t drink today.

“My father used to…” he clears his throat, “take me on rides like this.”

When Hannibal is silent, Will takes it as a cue to continue. “I had night terrors often, in my youth. I was… utterly inconsolable. The only way my father could think to calm me down was to drive me to New Orleans and back.”

“You don’t talk about your father often. Were you two close?”

“Close… Well, sometimes. He drank, but he wasn’t a drunk, and was about as emotionally available as I am, if you can envision that. We’d listen to his music over and over again on the way up. That is, whatever old country was playing at the time, or whatever scratched CD was left in the player.”

“I see. Do you remember those drives fondly?”

“I never got to see the New Orleans skyline, I was asleep before then. I always… I always woke up in my bed,” Will recalls.

“A unique comfort,” muses Hannibal. “Exclusive only to years of our childhood. Or so we believe.”

“What’s childhood good for, anyway?”

“Good for running from, I suppose,” Hannibal jokes, either at Will’s expense or his own. Perhaps both. Either way, Will laughs.

It’s cold. It’s warm. The AC is valiantly combatting the frigid winds and Will clasps his hands in his lap. They merge onto the highway and the smooth hum of the car as it zips down the highway is soothing. Night has faded from a deep blue into black, traces of stars dotting the sky, just barely piercing the light pollution. Against his better judgment, he trusts Hannibal.

“I’m… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here,” Will confesses, because he doesn’t, feeling out-of-sorts.

“What do you mean?”

“I– you’ve got me at a loss here, Lecter,” he says. “You can’t expect me to be fine with talking about—”

“About what happened?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Why do you even care? What do you gain? How does it affect you? You’re just as capable of ignoring things as the rest of us. You don’t need all the answers in the world.”

“I was included in your experience, too, Will.”

“Right, you were. So if you want me to– to just stop talking to you and stop showing up to therapy and ignore you whenever I see you then I’ll do that. I’ll do that.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Will,” Hannibal says calmly, because he knows that Will is aware of how absurd he is acting. “You know I don’t want any of those things. You’re trying to convince me to cut off contact with you so that you don’t have to face yourself, and so I don't have to face you, either. You’re my friend, Will. I am open to whatever it is you may need from me.”

“I urge you to remember that, as a psychiatrist, you are far from the strangest thing I have ever seen, but certainly the most delightful, and the most interesting. That is to say, I am not going to turn my nose up at anything that you reveal to me, whether it be voluntary or not.”

Will curls into himself— all over again, this is far too much; except, it isn’t. It’s cool, Will has already shed his coat, and he feels safe with Hannibal, and he trusts Hannibal, and this has been long since established. He looks at the side of Hannibal’s head, all lines and shadows and sharp and gentle curves. Not comfortable, not content. But safe. He knows nothing bad will happen to him here. He sees it in Hannibal, sees that he wouldn’t let that happen.

Tears are falling before he has a chance to suppress them. He’s overcome by a strange feeling; social barriers rendered obsolete. Flesh gone tender and mushy.

“I don’t like it.” His voice is little more than an abject whisper. “I want you to stop. I want you to leave me alone.”

“You want me to leave you alone?” Hannibal asks as a police cruiser zips past them. “You want me to drop you off at your house right now and let that be the end of it?”

Will nods aggressively as if he had forced himself to agree, for he didn’t know how to be honest. Hannibal reaches a hand over to his knee and squeezes, caressing his leg with the flat of his thumb.

“I’m afraid that is not going to happen. I know you think you know what’s best for you. I know you think you know what’s best for me. But you do not, and that’s okay.” He passes Will a sidelong glance. “It is okay not to know.”

When Will begins digging his nails into his arms, Hannibal squeezes tighter. “There is a bag on the floorboard. I want you to look at what’s inside.”

Will stares at Hannibal, whose eyes are fixated on the road yet somehow staring through him at the same time.

“Go on. Don’t be shy.”

Will swallows hard and shakily reaches for the bag, placing it in his lap. It’s simple beige paper with golden ribbon handles, and it bulges slightly at the bottom.

There’s no tissue paper, no anticipation. It feels almost like a gift— nobody is watching him, though, not even Hannibal, who eyes the semi-truck as it chugs on behind them. No performances, no expectations. Is he still Will Graham if he is not performing? Is he any more himself in this car as he is in the bureau, in his own home? He reaches his hand into the bag and is met with a plush fabric that soothes his aching hands. Some sort of polyester or cotton, but it’s outrageously soft.

A pale gray dog. He holds, as he retracts his hands, a pale gray stuffed animal.

Pale gray with a white undercoat and striking blue plastic eyes. Its legs are especially weighted, and Will slots his hands under its armpits, feeling it ground him, weigh him to Earth, just as Hannibal did all those months ago. It’s definitely expensive, thoughtful, and something he’d never purchase for himself.

“Do you like it?” Hannibal asks gently.

And Will folds over, clutches it to his chest, and sobs. Hannibal doesn’t chastise him, doesn’t groan in frustration, only runs his hand back and forth over the surface of his leg. Allows him his right to hiccup and whimper and cry and doesn’t tell him not to, doesn’t even say a word. Just lets him know he’s there– by God, he's there– and hums a soothing tune. Will doesn’t remember all too well when he grew weary and fell asleep, nor if he ever stopped crying, only the sudden silence of the engine dying, and a warm embrace accompanied by a weight on his chest. When he wakes up in the morning, he’s clutching the plushie while lying in his bed, one of his chairs moved to the foot of the mattress. It’s empty except for a book lying face-down on the cushion.

#tiredmother #hannigram #murder husbands #hannibal lecter #will graham #agere will graham #little will graham #caregiver hannibal lecter #agere hannigram #will graham age regression #regressor will graham #annewrites

21 notes · View notes

kingofthieveswrites · 1 year

Text

Pretty Woman || Bruce Wayne || Part One

tldr : pretty woman but its a bruce wayne x fem! reader au. if you want a gn or masc reader please send an ask or a message to let me know.

general series warnings: nsfw content , sex worker reader, swearing and violence, most likely ooc bruce wayne as he is meant to act more like edward

this first part is short and rather dialogue heavy. i'm just testing the waters tbh, i haven’t wrote a story about bruce in months.

minors dni

word count: 1129

Bruce Wayne has absolutely no earthly idea where he is. From what he can figure out, he's somewhere on the south side of Hollywood. And he's not the biggest fan of it so far, so he pulls over in front of a large theater, where he spots two women standing outside. He hopes for directions and that he hasn’t messed up the car. Bruce didn't know why he took a manual car of all things. He can barely drive an automatic.

"This one's mine," Y/N declares to her friend. She plasters a fake smile on her face before walking up to the car.

Bruce rolls down his window and awkwardly returns the smile before clearing his throat and saying, "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to know how to get to Beverly Hills, would you?"

Y/N grins, "Sure for ten dollars."

"You can't charge someone for directions," Bruce scoffs.

"I'm not the one who's lost here," Y/N fires back.

Bruce grumbles under his breath before looking around the car. He opens the center console to find a fifty-dollar bill. "You got change for a fifty?"

"Tell you what," Y/N says. "For fifty, I'll take you there personally; hell, I'll even show you where all the stars live."

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, considering his options, before nodding. When Y/N got into his overly expensive car, he noticed for the first time tonight how she was dressed and how he just somehow unkowningly hired a prostitute. Bruce was cursing himself under his breath, but it was too late now that the woman was in his car with the fifty in her hands and a devilish grin on her face.

"You're a hooker," he states plainly as he pulls off.

Y/N seemed to let the comment go into one ear and out the other: "Take a left here and go straight for the next five red lights."

"And I'm not a hooker," Y/N said. "Think of me as a service provider."

Bruce chuckles, "Is that what you put on your business card?"

"If you're making fun of me, I don't like it."

"No," Bruce shakes his head. "I'm not making fun of you... I didn't mean to offend you. I’m sorry."

Silence takes over the car as Bruce drives, the tires screeching as he stops at a red light.

"What's your name?" He asks when the car gets too silent.

Y/N shrugs, "Whatever you want it to be."

He smiles at her, the red light beaming off his face.

"It's Y/N," she answers. "My name is Y/N. What's yours?"

"Bruce."

"Ah."

The car goes silent again; the only thing that can be heard is the sound of gears clinking together as Bruce struggles to drive.

"So," Y/N breaks the silence this time. "What hotel are you staying at?"

"The, uh, Regent Beverly Wilshire."

"Fancy," Y/N comments, "keep going down this block; take a right when we reach the corner."

"Ever been there before?" Bruce asks.

Y/N shakes her head. "My clients prefer places where you can rent by the hour."

"Hm." Bruce taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "How much do you charge an hour?"

Y/N stares at Bruce for a moment, sizing him up, "A hundred."

"A hundred dollars for an hour, and ten for directions," Bruce nods. "Good business practice."

"I know," Y/N says. "You know I need a partner."

Bruce laughs, "Oh no, I couldn’t."

Y/N nods.

"What do you do?" Y/N asks.

"I buy companies, break them up, and then sell them for millions."

"Sounds like a douchy move," Y/N clears her throat. "Not that I'm calling you a douche."

"Of course not."

Bruce continues to drive; he struggles to change gears, and it's then when he realizes that Y/N has been sitting on his jacket this entire time.

"You wouldn't know how to drive a manual, would you?" Bruce asks.

"I do," Y/N answers. "Why?"

"Well, for one, I don't," he states. "And for two, you've been sitting on my jacket this entire time."

He pulled over, and the two switched positions, with Y/N in the driver's seat and Bruce in the passenger's. His jacket is now sitting on his lap.

"You might want to buckle up."

"Why?"

It was then, when Y/N pulled off, that the car finally stopped sounding like it was about to explode as Y/N sped off down the road.

"Do you have to learn how to drive one of these?"

"A car?" Y/N asks, almost laughing. "Yeah?"

Bruce felt his face flush, realizing that the question was rather stupid. "My first car was a limo."

"Do you even have a license?"

"I wasn't aware I needed one of those."

Y/N laughs, "You're joking."

"Absolutely not," Bruce said. "Getting a license requires all that paper work. Paying the fine is only a few hundred dollars.

When Y/N arrives at the hotel where Bruce was staying, she gasps in awe at the massive building. It's the first time she's seen anything as fancy.

An attendant of the hotel walks up to the car and talks with Bruce; the pair get out of the car, and the attendant drives away to go park it. Bruce walks up to Y/N, his jacket over his shoulder, and it's for the first time tonight that she actually gets a good look at the man from whom she basically stole fifty dollars.

Bruce was handsome and tall, and surprisingly, he had a strong build to him, as if he worked out a lot. But it was his eyes that captured her attention the most, because they were making eye contact. Unlike most of her clients, Bruce looked at her, smiled at her, and honestly treated her the most human of all of them.

"Well," Bruce smiles. "I guess this is goodbye then."

"Guess so."

Bruce started to walk towards the building but turned around to look at Y/N. "Not to be nosy, but how do you plan on getting back to your, uh, office?"

Y/N laughs, "I plan on taking the bus back to my office."

"This late at night?" Bruce questions. "You said it was a hundred dollars an hour?"

"Yep," Y/N replies, popping the p.

"Spend the night with me."

Y/N stares at Bruce for a minute; he raises his eyebrows, and she nods.

"Alright," she says. "But no kissing."

"I had onions for dinner anyway," Bruce repiles and hands over his jacket. "I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but it would probably be better if you had something covering you up before we walked in there."

Y/N slips the jacket on, and the strong scent of Bruce's collar takes over her nose. It smells strongly of the ocean, but at night. Bruce offers her his hand, and they walk into the building together.

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x female reader #bruce wayne x fem!reader #brucewayneprettywomanau #bwpwau #batman au #bruce wayne x y/n

72 notes · View notes

jesternene · 11 months

Text

Unexpected Circumstances

Thank you for all the kind words! I am a little rusty so hopefully, I do not disappoint y'all! Here is Chapter 2!

To read Chapter 1, please go here

CHAPTER 2

Selar stood there for a moment, which must have seemed like an eternity for Beverly. As a Vulcan, Selar is a very logical individual, never letting her emotions cloud her judgment. But in this case, she didn’t know how to respond. She knew deep down all she had to do was what Dr. Crusher asked of her, but knowing the kind of character Beverly is, she couldn’t find a logical reason behind her request. Of course, she knew Beverly could have a social life that she is unaware of, but seeing how much Beverly works and being a senior officer on the Federation Flagship, she knew it was irrational that she would be able to have one, much less get pregnant. Selar shook her head slightly and proceeded with what Beverly asked her.

“Of course, Doctor. Please make yourself comfortable and lay on the biobed” Selar said, collecting her devices as Beverly prepped to lay on the bed. She removed her robe and placed it over a chair and got as comfortable as she could on the bed. When she lifted her shirt, she noticed a small swell of her belly, something she had not noticed before. Selar noticed what she was staring at and could already tell that her first opinion was the correct one. Selar then turned on the biomonitors before waving her own tricorder over Beverly’s belly.

The screen closest to them turned on and a fetus popped up on the monitor. Beverly instinctively covered her mouth with her hand and started to cry. The flood gates had opened and there was no going back. Selar took a deep breath before reading her findings.

“Your suspicions are correct, Doctor. What we see here is a very healthy 14 week human fetus” Selar stated. Beverly quickly looked at her in a bit of shock.

“Human?” Beverly asked.

“Yes, Doctor. This fetus is fully human. Did you suspect otherwise?” Selar questioned.

“I uh – I just wasn’t sure” Beverly fumbled with her words. She was surprised because the only being she was with was Picard’s doppelgänger and he was most definitely not a human. “Can you check my implant and see what kind of malfunction occurred?” Beverly requested.

As Selar waved her instrument over Beverly’s arm, she had a quizzical look that made Beverly raise a brow. “What is it?”

“According to this, your implant has not malfunctioned. In fact, it is working perfectly” Selar replied.

“That doesn’t make any sense. I couldn’t have gotten pregnant if this was working properly” Beverly was baffled at the information that was given to her, and so was Selar.

“I am unsure of the cause. But, what we do know is we must begin your prenatal treatment as soon as possible” Selar said as she was putting away her tricorder. Beverly sighed and began to get up from the bed and place on her robe.

“Dr. Selar, I am going to need you to be very discreet about this. We may have to do my care in secret until I am ready to explain all of this to everyone” Beverly quietly said, looking down at the small but noticeable bump.

“Of course. However, due to the late gestation, you will not be able to keep this a secret for very long. I would assume you would like to tell the father of the baby first” Selar said. Beverly was a bit taken aback, as she had no idea who the father was and didn’t really want to think about that.

“Actually, we are gonna need to do extensive testing first. I know you said the baby was human, but–” Beverly trailed off and took a deep breath, trying to keep her emotions in check. Selar just quietly listened as she continued. “I wasn’t with a human and whatever this species is, maybe that is why my implant didn’t work, but I need to figure out what happened and if there is any risk to me or.. Or the baby” Beverly explained with such sadness. Selar knew this was far more complicated than she realized and was completely out of her element.

“I see” Selar said, keeping herself as professional as possible. “If you want, I can be by your quarters at 1300 hours and we can do the tests in a more private manner”

“I will be on duty during that time” Beverly explained, but Selar just placed her hand up to stop her from continuing.

“Nonsense, Doctor. You will take the day off and I will be on duty in your absence. This news is clearly a shock and you will need time to absorb this information. I will excuse myself at that time and meet you in your quarters” Selar explained. Beverly’s mouth agape as she spoke, in shock of what she was willing to do to help her. She almost protested but knew Selar was right, she would need time to process.

“Thank you, Doctor. That means a lot to me” Beverly said with tears in her eyes.

“As Chief Medical Officer, I am at your service to help you in time of need, Doctor. I will see you later this afternoon” Selar said, with a small hint of a smile on her lips. Beverly just smiled back and nodded before she exited sickbay and headed back to her quarters.

____________________________________________

Beverly tried to rest but couldn’t. The news of her pregnancy kept playing over in her mind and the more she thought about being with that alien made her sick to her stomach. She could terminate the pregnancy, but with it being farther in term and still unsure of what the species was, she would need more tests before she continued.

She has sent a subspace message to Picard early that morning to inform him of the shift change, only stating she was not well but will be fine by her next duty shift. She didn’t want to face him nor have to explain the situation. She was still trying to figure it out herself. After a hour nap and a few hours just pacing in her room, her door chimed. Thinking Selar was early, she let whoever was there enter. To her surprise, Captain Picard entered her room.

“Jean-Luc!” She stood up quickly from her couch, tightening the already closed robe around her. Picard noticed quickly something was wrong with her. She clearly didn’t sleep and her jumpy demeanor made him more worried than he was before as he entered her quarters.

“I’m sorry, Beverly. I didn’t mean to frighten you” he said apologetically.

“No, It’s okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night” Beverly tried to play it cool and ran her hands through her hair.

“I can tell” Picard commented.

“Excuse me?” Beverly asked surprisingly.

“You look exhausted. I saw your message and I wanted to see if you were alright” Picard answered calmly but still a hint of concern was heard in his tone.

“Oh, yes… I wasn’t feeling well last night and Dr. Selar graciously took my shift today” Beverly sighed but smiled.

“I see. Is it anything serious?” Picard worried. Beverly hesitates before answering. She hated lying to Picard but until she had more answers, she felt she had no choice.

“No, I’ll be fine” Beverly said with as much reassurance as possible. Just then, her door chimed. “Come in”

Dr. Selar entered but stopped suddenly when she saw the Captain standing in the middle of Beverly’s quarters. “I’m sorry. I came to check on Dr. Crusher to make sure she is recovering nicely” Selar said to the Captain.

“Do you know what is wrong?” Picard asked. As Selar was about to answer, Beverly intervened.

“No, not yet. We still have some more tests to do” Beverly said before looking down, not making eye contact. Picard took the hint that he needed to leave, which gave him a slight hint that they were keeping something from him but he didn’t push.

“Of course. I will check on you later, Beverly” Picard smiled. Beverly looked at him and smiled. Him using her name in a personal matter meant how much he cared and was worried, which made Beverly’s heart swell. He quietly turned and left her quarters.

“How are you feeling?” Selar asked.

“I don’t even know anymore” Beverly responded before sitting down on her couch. “I hate lying to him” she looked down in shame.

“Well, let’s find out what we are dealing with so you no longer have to lie to him” Selar said before kneeling down before Beverly to begin her examination. Beverly only chuckled lightly at her comment. “I am going to extract some blood from your abdomen and we will give it thorough testing on what this child is and compare it to any known species in our database” Selar explained.

Beverly nodded nervously and let Selar hypospray her with a pain blocker before extracting the blood. It was quick and simple. Selar was at Beverly’s dining table, testing the sample on her tricorder.

“This is curious” Selar said as she studied the results.

“What is?” Beverly asked in a concerned tone.

“There is no doubt, Doctor. This child is 100% human” Selar explained.

“What?!” Beverly said in shock as she stood up to look at the results herself. “This is impossible!” Beverly explained, not trusting the results in front of her.

“I’m sorry but there is no doubt” Selar said. She looked at Beverly carefully before continuing. “Can you tell you what this species looked like?”

Beverly shot her a quick look, unsure how to answer that question. Beverly sighed and sat in a chair next to Selar.

“Do you remember a few months ago, we had that imposter who posed as Captain Picard?” Beverly asked. Selar raised her brow, unsure where this was going and simply nodded. Before continuing, Beverly took a deep breath and confessed. “I was with that imposter. I thought I was with Captain Picard but I wasn’t” Beverly explained. Her face dropped in regret over what she did. The feeling of being used by this alien species also tugged on the back of her mind.

“May I ask a question?” Selar asked, which wasn’t at all what Beverly was expecting.

“Of course” Beverly responded.

“Wasn’t this alien a perfect replica of Captain Picard?” Selar asked. Beverly blinked a few times, unsure how to answer, Selar pressed on.“We are unsure what this species is capable of. Not only did they replicate a perfect looking Captain, maybe they produced an exact copy. Down to his DNA” Selar finished.

As Beverly let her words sink in, it all started to come together. His memories and feelings were intact. His surprise visit to her sickbay showed he was Captain Picard, down to his artificial heart. If what she is saying is true, then the child she is carrying is not an unknown alien, but may be the Captain’s.

“Selar, compare the blood test to Captain Picard’s DNA” Beverly asked in a stoic manner. Without hesitation, Selar began to test the blood. Within a few moments, they had their answer.

“It is confirmed. The child you are carrying is the child of Jean-Luc Picard” Selar informed.

____________________________________________

To read Chapter 3, please go here

#beverly crusher #gates mcfadden #star trek #tng #the next generation #picrusher #star trek the next generation #star trek tng #fan fic

25 notes · View notes

harrisongslimited · 1 month

Text

George Chapter of the Day #3

(Author's note: please read trigger warnings and other information in Chapter 1)

Chapter 3

Jordan was fast asleep and the clock neared 11pm before Joie had finished straightening up the house. Her dad pulled a double shift on the squad and was working on a homicide. He wouldn't be home for hours. Finally she pulled her chemistry book out and settled down at the kitchen table. She put the tv on low for background noise and sighed.

When there was a knock at the door, she started. She grabbed a baseball bat and flipped on the outside light, peering out of the front window to see the tall man she remembered from the audition. Joie contemplated calling her dad, but he looked harmless enough. She opened the door a small crack.

"Yes?"

"Hi Miss Armagh. I'm Mal. Remember me?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I have an invitation to deliver."

Joie opened the door further but still held the baseball bat in her hand behind the door.

"Invitation to what?"

"Here. You can read it."

He extended a linen envelope to her. She opened it, leaving Mal on the doorstep. It looked real. It was an invitation to a press reception the next day for the Beatles and members of the Hollywood community.

It was signed in ink by Brian Epstein. She knew who Brian was because of Jordan.

Joie looked Mal up and down. He stood there at attention, looking, Joie thought, slightly scared. She finally opened the door all the way.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked.

"That would be nice..." Mal smiled finally.

She swung the screen door out for him. It was then he noticed the bat in her other hand and stepped back.

Joie laughed. "Sorry. Just being careful." She set the bat back down and Mal entered. Joie closed the door behind him.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

Mal nodded vigorously, frankly glad he made it this far.

Joie led him to the kitchen and indicated he should sit down by moving her textbooks.

"So...Mal?" she asked and he nodded. "Who sent you out at 11:00 at night to give me this invitation?"

"All 4 Beatles...John, Paul, George and Ringo...and Mr. Epstein"

Joie didn't believe him, but nodded. "What do you want in your tea?"

"Just plain is great for me. Thanks." He looked at the textbooks. "You are in school?"

"College. Nursing school. Only 1/2 year to go."

He nodded appreciatively. "My mum was a nurse. During the war. Then she met my dad and stayed home to raise us kids."

Joie looked at him and softened. She sat down across from him with 2 hot steaming mugs of tea.

"Can I ask you a question?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Why did you show up at the audition? I mean you have school and you sure didn't appear like a Beatles' fan like most of the birds."

Birds were girls. Joie knew that. They both lit cigarettes.

"Frankly, I wanted the chance to go to London for 4 weeks. I found out about the audition from my dad. He's a detective and has a lot of friends in the Hollywood community."

Mal nodded and sipped his tea.

"Good cup of tea. Haven't had a decent one since we left home."

Joie smiled. "Thanks."

She liked him. He had an affable, easy going way about him. And she liked his accent, thick, working class. There didn't seem to be anything grand about him. What you saw is what you got. Being close to the 4 biggest musicians in the world didn't seem to have affected him in anyway.

They talked until almost 2 am, when Joie finally said she would come to the reception at 3pm the next day. He offered to send a car, but Joie told him she had her own transportation and would be coming from school anyway.

......................

It was at the Beverly Hilton. Joie had never been there, but knew exactly where she was going. When she arrived, she found a payphone and called to make sure Jordan had gotten home from school and to fill her in. Jordan was definitely more excited than Joie was. But Joie told her she would probably just be milling around and end up talking to the policemen who were assigned to protect the Beatles. She felt more comfortable around police than 4 famous musicians.

The ballroom was jam packed with people. Reporters, celebrities and Joie guessed about a dozen Beverly Hills police. She spotted Mal and went over to say hello, bobbing and weaving through dozens of people.

"I'm glad you came," Mal smiled. "All 4 Beatles were glad to hear you changed your mind..."

"Thanks Mal," Joie answered. "But I didn't change my mind about the movie. They can pick someone else."

"But it's a trip to London...."

"I know. But I don't think it's the right time for me. I take care of my sister. I've got school. I never should have even showed up to the audition."

"I'll have John change your mind. He's good at that," Mal offered. He glanced around quickly. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Trust me."

Joie looked up at his 6'4" frame. "Do I have a choice?"

Mal shook his head and laughed. He led her down a short hallway and knocked on a door. The door was opened by Brian Epstein.

"Miss Armagh is with me, Brian." Mal told him.

Brian extended a hand. "How do you do, Miss Armagh?"

Joie took his hand. It was soft, his handshake light. She liked a good strong handshake. Sometimes, because she was female, men offered her a weak hand. It made her squirm.

"Fine, thank you. Nice to meet you."

"I'd like to introduce the Beatles."

Joie watched him move into the room. All four young men looked at her and Brian introduced them individually. Joie felt like she was meeting royalty. She wanted to curtsy until John said, "So are you happy we saved 90 birds from dropping like flies?"

Joie saw this wasn't going to be easy. She was going to come back with her own smart ass comment when Paul chimed in, "Everyone was ok. We made sure they were all taken care of."

Joie looked at Paul and his brown, doe-like eyes went right into her. His wide bright smile and lovely face completed a beautiful picture. Joie could see why Jordan adored Paul.

"Thank you," she answered him, smiling. Joie told herself to remember every sight, every sound, every smell so she could tell Jordan. She simply wouldn't believe that her sister was in a room at the Beverly Hilton with all 4 Beatles, their manager and roadie.

"The boys and I have discussed it and we would like you to take part in our movie," Brian began. "I realize you turned it down, but would like to ask you to reconsider. It would be a wonderful opportunity."

Joie took her eyes off Paul to turn to Brian. "I would definitely like to accept your offer."

Oh, shit. What was she saying? Somehow it slipped out of her mouth. And she couldn't stop. "Yes, it will be a wonderful opportunity."

She didn't see John Lennon's anticipation. She didn't see George Harrison watching her with his velvety dark brown eyes. She didn't see Ringo Starr roll his eyes. She did see Paul McCartney smile at her.

..................

"Joie?" it was her dad, finally coming home, exhausted after a long shift at work. "Where's Jordan?"

"She's staying overnight at Amy's house. She's fine." Joie called back from her room. She walked out and went to her father and hugged him. "How are things at the department?"

"Hopping as usual." He offered. "But I got a call today from Bill Weston. Seems your new friends from England want to do some shopping in Beverly Hills. We are arranging to have some stores stay open overnight so they can shop."

Joie laughed. "Sounds about right. They'd cause a riot if they tried to do it during the day. You should see the girls scream when they see them."

"But not you?"

Joie shook her head. "They seem kind of sad to me. Isolated. I think they just want to go home to England and have a decent cup of tea."

Her dad laughed and kissed her forehead. "Well, they asked for a chaperone to show them around and somehow your name came up from Bill Weston."

"Me?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes, you. Seems they're quite taken with you. Bill thought you'd be great to show them around."

"Dad...I know nothing about the shops in Beverly Hills. I go to K-Mart."

"Then take them to K-Mart!"

"Somehow, I don't think they are K-Mart material."

Her dad walked into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee from the pot that was always on. "I don't think they care. Frankly, I think they just want to get out of their hotel room."

The beach. It was the first place Joie wanted to take them. Casa Del Mar for a drink as the sun set over the Pacific and a walk on Santa Monica Pier after hours. England might be an island, but they didn't have beaches like California. At least Joie didn't think so. She loved being a Californian. Beaches on one side, snowy mountains on the other. In her eyes, California had it all. And instead of stuffy Beverly Hills stores, she'd show them the real California.

................

And she did. In a big police cruiser, driven by Bill Weston. They saw Beverly Hills and Bel Air. They went to the beach and drove one day up to Wrightwood in the San Bernardino mountains. They drove to Palm Springs. And they even went to K-Mart at midnight....which proved to be Ringo's favorite place.

They remained complete gentlemen. A few questionable comments came from John, George remained fairly quiet, watching, it felt like, every move she made and Ringo wanted to hit K-Mart again. It was Paul that kept Joie entertained with stories of their rise, their families, information about the movie.

Joie found him fascinating. He was charming and polite, very "posh". And his eyes could melt her where she stood. But she also was smart enough to know where she stood. She was a tour guide. She was an extra in a movie. There was no way anything would happen between them. Besides, he had a girlfriend. She managed to get that out of Mal. Joie understood that girls don't steal other girls boyfriends. It was her own personal code. And that was that.

But God, he was beautiful.

.......,............

Soon, they were gone. Joie prepared for her trip to London. Eleven other girls were chosen, all of them daughters of Hollywood royalty. Rich, polished....and more rich. Her roommate was Allison. Her father was a producer.

Joie was out of her element. But there was one thing Joie Christine Armagh knew. She knew where she came from. She knew her own mind. She was steady, assured and ready for life. And there was no one who could fuck with that.

The week before she was ready to leave, Joie answered the phone to hear a British accent.

"Joie?" he asked. "It's John. Lennon."

"Hi John. How are you? Are you calling all the way from England?"

"Yeah. And it's costing me a fortune. Are you ready for your trip?"

Joie told him about meeting her roommate, who drove up to her house in a chauffer driven limousine.

"Well, get ready for your first limo ride. Mal will pick you up at the airport next week. Brian said you are coming in on Friday."

"Yes, Friday. But is everyone getting picked up by limo?"

"Of course not. It's our way of saying thanks for showing us around Los Angeles."

"Honestly, you don't have to do that. I had better go with the other girls. I don't want to cause any problems. I have to live with Allison for 4 weeks. I don't need her trying to poison my fish and chips."

John laughed. "Don't worry about that. Look, let me ... us....do this. It's really just a small thank you. And don't worry about the other girls. We've got plans for you."

"Plans?"

"Just get your California bum out here. We'll show you England like you've never seen it before."

"John," Joie reminded him. "I've never seen England before."

"Well, get ready girl."

And he hung up.

#the beatles #beatles #george harrison #john lennon #paul mccartney #ringo starr #mal evans #george chapter of the day

5 notes · View notes

domilino · 2 months

Text

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: IT - Stephen King, IT (Movies - Muschietti) Relationships: Henry Bowers/Original Female Character(s), Henry Bowers/Lizeth "Liz" Johnson Characters: Henry Bowers, Patrick Hockstetter, Victor Criss, Reginald "Belch" Huggins, Peter Gordon (IT), Lizeth "Liz" Johnson Additional Tags: Beverly Marsh is lightly mentioned, Ben Hanscom lightly mentioned, Henry in love?, Henry is a fool, Patrick only appears once and it's scary, Victor Criss is a good friend, Henry Bowers in love, Did I already mention that Henry Bowers is a fool in love? let him live, Lizeth Johnson is also called Liz or Lizzy (by Henry), ocxcanon, This would count as my selfshipp because I love Henry, Forget it, it's just a pretty OcxCanon

"Henry Bowers has felt a strange curiosity towards a girl who has just moved to town.

He hates her, from the first moment he saw her he hated her… or so his brain wants to make him believe, but there is something inside him that says that is not entirely true; that is a lie.

Too traumatized to properly understand love, which is normal for many people except him."

Henry had only seen her from a distance a couple of times Although he didn't interact with her, he could say with certainty that she—who had only been living in Derry for three weeks—had already adapted enough to the routine to seem like an average citizen of the town.

From that moment on, he started seeing her every day, whether he wanted to or not. Without fail, he watched her leave the classroom with a smile on her face, exuding an aura of extra energy and kindness that made her seem like the typical cliché of a "fallen angel from heaven."

There was something that constantly caught his attention, an inexplicable factor that affected him and significantly increased his curiosity about the girl.

Maybe it was the fact that Lizeth had easily adapted to the dull life of Derry, yet she continued to stand out everywhere: her colorful clothing, the long and curly hair that seemed to be the softest in the world, or perhaps it was her beautiful green eyes.

"It's like an orange cat; too energetic and silly." Those were Henry Bowers' words to describe Lizeth Johnson.

Everyone noticed it, or at least those who knew him and spent enough time with him to know that something was going on. His two trusted friends noticed it, his gang members did too, the losers also noticed it, and even his father—who didn't bother to check if he had breakfast or failed any subjects—noticed an unusual behavior in his son Henry.

He couldn't accept it, or rather, he didn't know how to handle something that was undoubtedly normal for many, for all those people who did have a normal life. I mean, he could barely—try to—control his moments of anger, something he knew and understood like the back of his hand. Because Henry knew what someone's real anger felt like.

[ . . . ]

Every day without fail, Henry saw the girl leaving school, always with a lovely smile.

It no longer seemed like a coincidence to encounter her in the hallways or just as she was leaving one classroom to enter another because it wasn't. But it looked so normal after a while that it became part of the routine.

And Henry Bowers still didn't say a single word to her...

"Do you have something?" A voice interrupted, Victor Criss's voice, Henry Bowers' closest friend.

"Who cares," grunted Henry, then headed towards the school cafeteria.

Victor Criss and Reginald "Belch" Huggins looked at each other for a moment. It was clear that the gang leader wasn't going to say anything, especially knowing that there were still plenty of people walking through the hallways.

"come?" Patrick Hockstetter called, looking at the others who were still leaning against the wall. They followed their leader to the cafeteria, curiously far from where she was.

[ . . . ]

Henry saw her every day, whether he liked it or not.

He was beginning to understand a little more about this strange curiosity about Lizeth "Liz" Johnson, and no, it wasn't the same as what he had "felt" for Beverly Marsh. This curiosity, or rather, this feeling was very different from that. And the more he thought about it, the more the feeling grew, and it was something incredibly stupid.

How could you love someone you only saw for a couple of minutes a day? He knew her name because a week before her arrival, rumors had spread that someone would move to Derry. From then on, he knew nothing, and that made him feel so foolish. He wanted to get rid of that feeling, he hated it, it made him feel weak, and he couldn't ask anyone for help. What would they say about him?

"Henry Bowers, Derry's bully, is in love with a silly girl." It's so...

IT WAS SO...

"Henry, Henry, damn it," Victor shouted. "You've been thinking about who knows what the whole trip. We arrived at the arcade 10 minutes ago, and you're still in the damn car."

The brunette gave his companion the most bitter face he could muster.

"Who cares," he said. "My thoughts are my problems, nosy."

Victor sighed.

"Look, we... the guys and I will be inside playing. When your mind is more relaxed, you can come. Also if..."

"Yes, I'll go in a moment," declared Henry.

Victor didn't say anything, knowing perfectly well that Henry wouldn't speak again, so he just left him alone in the car.

[ . . . ]

Henry always saw Liz Johnson every day, and with each passing day, he thought Liz was even more beautiful than the day before.

Through his eyes, Liz had become truly beautiful. To the point where she seemed almost unattainable.

She was so cute, as sweet as a dream.

And...

And he hated her so much.

[ . . . ]

Lizeth was also noticing it; she knew of his existence, and that made Henry's heart race. The fact that she had looked at him for even a second excited him; it made him so happy.

Henry Bowers had thought for a moment about talking to her.

He could approach and have a conversation with her, but then his doubt arose; doubt that turned into an assumption and then fear.

What if she was afraid of him?

It was no secret that people were afraid of Henry; he was a stupid and rough bully, and he had cultivated that image along with his gang for years.

What if she didn't want to get close to him?

That just put him in a bad mood.

His own thoughts made him upset.

So Henry chose not to do it, besides, it would be weird for someone like him to approach someone like her.

That was his thought.

[ . . . ]

Henry's behavior changed gradually, not enough, but there was a change, unfortunately for many, it was for the worse. Henry now got irritated more easily than before.

Henry was alone that day, a rare sight but not unusual. He still looked terrifying and emitted an aura of unease. Henry Bowers kept his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he watched the students pass by. No one approached him, even though he was alone, just the fact that he was so irritable made them nervous.

Henry spent the entire school day alone—his friends were busy, and they had to skip school, except for Patrick, who had been suspended for a week, who knows what trouble he got into—until lunchtime, where Henry decided to skip the remaining hours of class on the school field.

The bully walked through the hallways, from the cafeteria entrance to two large worn doors at the end of the hallway.

Henry Bowers pushed the door and entered, thinking that there wouldn't be anyone at this time of class.

"What are you doing here?" An unfamiliar voice; a very different accent than he was used to hearing.

That was her voice. As beautiful as always.

Lizeth was sitting on the bleachers of the sports field.

"Hey," Lizeth called again.

"What?"

"Did you skip class?" she asked.

"I could ask you the same question, Lizeth Johnson," the boy added.

It was clear that Bowers didn't expect her to be here. It could be anyone, but not the girl.

Lizeth smiled sweetly.

"Maybe," she replied. "I don't like chemistry. I understand certain things, and believe me, I would be willing to waste my student life learning about carbon atoms or hydrocarbons and their nomenclatures, but... I won't endure almost five hours of daily class with that bitter lady.

Henry smiled slightly and said, "You sound like a nerd."

"And you? You seem very alone today, Henry Bowers. Where are your friends?" She raised an eyebrow, looking at her companion with curiosity.

Henry swallowed and said, "How do you know...?"

"Henry Bowers, leader of a gang of bullies who happens to carry your last name," she interrupted. "I know who you are; I've heard about you since the first day of school. You seem like a Hollywood star with how much your name is heard inside and outside the school hallways."

Henry made a face, not knowing how to feel now; proud or unpleasant.

He used to feel happy when he knew his victim would have pure terror towards him, as had happened with Ben Hanscom in his first school year.

But Liz was far from being a victim of his heavy jokes.

"Oh, it was to be expected."

"I guess it's normal for you, right?" she questioned, looking at Henry and sitting on the front bleachers. Then she patted the spot next to her, offering the boy to sit beside her.

Henry looked at her but didn't even move from his place.

"I don't sit with losers" he said, crossing his arms.

"You don't have to be aggressive with me."

"Do you not fear me?" he warned, with some irritation in his tone.

"Why would I fear you? Are you going to do something to me?"

Henry opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say.

"Who cares"

Liz let out a little laugh and then stood up from where she was sitting.

"I assumed so," she began walking towards where Henry was standing, giving him a few pats on the shoulder. "It was nice trying to have a conversation with you, but I have to go; the chemistry class is almost over, and I have to go back," she joked. "Let's talk more often, Hank."

Henry Bowers heard her steps moving away, heard the small squeak of the door opening. He could feel his heart lighten, and his cheeks started to take on the same reddish color as his shirt.

He was... so angry with himself and with Liz.

It was so stupid.

"Darn it, damn fool!" He felt offended; truly offended.

[ . . . ]

Every day, Henry saw Liz Johnson leaving the classroom, but this time, as she passed by Henry and his gang, she smiled and greeted him, waving her hand enthusiastically. Even knowing that her greeting would not be reciprocated by his friend, who just remained with his arms crossed.

"She greeted you," Peter Gordon pointed out to the girl when there was already a considerable distance between them.

"I know, I'm not blind, idiot," he clarified in a sarcastic tone.

Henry remained the same, or so it seemed, but clearly, something had happened or that something Victor Criss already suspected had happened.

And no one, but no one, was going to deny the fact that Henry Bowers, with each passing week, day, and hour, was falling more in love with Lizeth Johnson.

NOTES:

It's just a silly story of my OcxCanon with Henry Bowers, because I discovered IT and I love all the characters and Henry is just a fool who needs love (therapy and a lawsuit against his father). This was written in spanish, so if there are errors, sorry. I try my best to write well in English (it's not a language I understand very well) Also say that I did this writing """"inspired"""" by the song Oh Love, I think you're really beautiful by Starry Cat. Although, Lmao, the only thing it has in common is the title.

I HOPE YOU LIKED IT!

#henry bowers #henry bowers it 2017 #my oc #it oc #lizeth johnson #henry bowers x oc #henry bowers x lizeth johnson #it fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic it 2017 #it(2017)#it 2017 #You can also find this fanfic on ao3

3 notes · View notes

plainlo-inthemorning · 1 year

Text

I posted 1,449 times in 2022

That's 556 more posts than 2021!

393 posts created (27%)

1,056 posts reblogged (73%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@everythingbutresolved

@pegplunkett

@agirlinherhead

@aherdofbees

@girlwiththenegantattoo

I tagged 1,314 of my posts in 2022

Only 9% of my posts had no tags

#hamish linklater - 1,057 posts

#midnight mass - 253 posts

#hamishlinklateredit - 225 posts

#john tyler - 223 posts

#father paul - 191 posts

#tell me your secrets - 190 posts

#jeb magruder - 178 posts

#hamfam - 155 posts

#john tyler my beloathed - 129 posts

#gaslit - 127 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#i’m not a fan of hamish with a beard - especially not the longer ones - but gotta admit it helps a lot not to have to wrestle with his jaw😂

My Top Posts in 2022:

Hamish Linklater in The Future

222 notes - Posted February 12, 2022

See the full post

330 notes - Posted February 27, 2022

Midnight Mass behind the scenes

354 notes - Posted February 16, 2022

658 notes - Posted September 16, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

The Night Father Paul Let You Sit on His Lap

Warning: PRIEST SMUT. Children, avert your eyes. And always use protection IRL.

This is my Secret Santa gift to @see-you-in-a-new-light for the Hamish Linklater holiday event created by the lovely @the-weird-dane

I hope you enjoy! Happy New Year :D

Summary: He laughs again, a little more at ease this time. But his mouth snaps shut so fast it’s almost comical when you adjust yourself and ‘accidentally’ grind down on his lap…

When you come back from the bathroom, your chair at Erin’s long dining table has been taken by the mayor’s wife, Dotty, who, by the sound of her uncharacteristically boisterous retelling of some non-dispute at the convenience store with a pesky tourist last summer, is on her third or fourth glass of wine.

At least.

You’re betting that her rapt audience at the end of the table – her husband, Ed and Maggie Flynn and another elderly couple you don’t know that well – are not far behind.

You smile to yourself, even if you are now standing a little awkwardly in the middle of the room.

It’s good to see the parent generation of Crockett Island letting loose for once.

They deserve it.

When Erin, your old high school friend, had spontaneously gone up to the stage at the Crock Pot earlier today, clapped her hands together to get everyone’s attention and invited people over for drinks and a bite to eat later in the evening, the proposal had initially been met with uncertain side-glances.

It’s been that long since the good people of the island actually socialized with one another outside of church gatherings and said (poorly attended) Crock Pot ‘festivities’.

Beverly Keane, the self-righteous bitch, had had the audacity to snicker out loud at the suggestion, as if she personally couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous than spending her free time in the company of an unmarried pregnant woman (the horror!), and a former convict.

Yes, you hadn’t failed to notice how she had made a point of shooting her nose up at poor Riley too, who had been standing to a side, eyes to the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

It was the new, charismatic priest, Father Paul Hill, who had warmly accepted Erin’s offer, effectively shutting Bev up when he’d proclaimed it a great idea, and that he for one would love to cap off the day in good company with his neighbors.

After that, a decent crowd had followed the priest’s lead (doctor Gunning and her date being notable exceptions), and if you hadn’t already found him quite alluring, watching him all but usher the island dwellers after Erin, beaming like a happy, handsome puppy, would have done the trick.

For someone who’s only supposed to be stationed at the island for a few weeks tops while the old Monsignor Pruitt recovers from illness on the mainland, Paul sure seems keen to get on everyone’s good side in church as well as outside.

Perhaps he’s a little lonely, you think. Him being fairly young and living a life in solitude.

Also, you absolutely wouldn’t blame him, if he felt like hiding from Bev for a few hours, knowing that she would never set foot in Erin’s house…

You have a feeling Bev is trying to make herself a permanent fixture at the priest’s small rectory, probably coming and going as she pleases, considering how she had been bossing Monsignor Pruitt around for the past years.

“I bet she’s totally into Paul. Dreams about him at night and draws little hearts around his name in her burn book and shit like that”, Erin had said, hilariously matter of fact the other day, and you had almost spit out your dinner laughing.

You’re inclined to believe her, though.

All in all, it’s been a nice week on the island for you, spending your holiday catching up with Erin and a couple of your other high school friends, Evelyn and Peter, who have also taken time off to come home.

Or: None of your parents actually live here anymore, having all left after that devastating oil spill, but you still like to return every few years to breathe in the ocean air of the place that shaped you growing up.

And now that both Erin and Riley have moved back more or less permanently, you think you may migrate over more frequently.

Of course, it had been Erin’s suggestion that you, Evelyn and Peter stay with her, like a mini reunion of sorts, and you’re so glad you accepted, even if the last-minute travel expenses were a bit steep.

You have a sneaking suspicion Erin may have put the thing together with Riley’s wellbeing in mind too.

His quiet, haunted demeanor is a constant reminder of how much he’s been through since you last saw him several years ago, and your heart breaks for him a little when you think of how spirited – if not downright cocky – he used to be when you were kids.

See the full post

938 notes - Posted January 1, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#well this was full of a grand total of zero surprises 😂#hamfam #tumblr year in review

9 notes · View notes

evermorehqs · 1 year

Photo

CATCHING MY BREATH, STARING OUT AN OPEN WINDOW

Clover Ewing is based on Clover from Totally Spies. She is a 26 year old human, pop culture columnist, and uses she/her pronouns. She has no powers. Clover is portrayed by Maddie Phillips and she is taken.

CATCHING MY DEATH, AND I COULDN’T BE SURE

Katy Perry had it right - California girls were unforgettable and Clover Ewing took that to heart. The moment her family moved to Beverly Hills, it felt like the last piece of the puzzle fell into place...until she needed new clothes but that was fine, a constant cycle of new puzzle pieces rotating in that took the form of designer bags and dresses? Nothing wrong with that in Clover’s mind. The girl took to tinsel town like a fish to water and though her little brother annoyed her at every chance she got, the blonde couldn’t have been happier - or more oblivious. She never even noticed when the agency started following her, taking an interest in her ability to gossip and discover secrets, especially ones she wasn’t supposed to be privy to. As far as spy craft went, that was important and when she was approached to become an agent, Clover was more than willing to sign up. Being chosen out of hundreds of other people? There was nothing better and when she met the two other girls she was partnered up with, she was thrilled to find out she was the only blonde.

Life was like a movie for a long time, missions in between classes in between mall trips kept Clover busier than she’d ever been (and she wasn’t shy about complaining about it) but she wouldn’t really trade it for anything in the world. She felt important, powerful and capable - which she had never felt before. Being blonde in California with daddy’s credit card had always made people expect certain things from her and judge her quickly. Now she could prove their preconceived notions wrong. She could like shopping and take down a crime syndicate without breaking a nail, she was complex. Unfortunately, none of that helped any of the girls realize that going to Evermore would lead to unforeseen consequences. She’d never felt so trapped in her life and where was the beach? How was she supposed to keep up her tan in a place like this?

I HAD A FEELING SO PECULIAR

❀ Kovu Kagai: He is not the kind of guy Clover normally notices but she isn’t really trying to not let her eyes follow him whenever he passes by, look the bad boys always catch her attention

❀ Elisabeth ‘Eliza’ Thornberry: All she can say is that Eliza is pretty strange but Clover kind of likes that? People have told her that her obsession with pop culture was insane and she gets the impression Eliza has been told the same about animals

❀ Benjamin Clawhauser: Technically, an officer like Clawhauser shouldn’t be giving Clover any tips but she can be very persuasive when she wants to be and, if she’s being honest, she actually likes him and appreciates that he actually seems to care

THAT THIS PAIN WOULD BE FOR EVERMORE

#totally spies #maddie phillips #no powers #cartoon rp #disney rp #female bio #taken bio #taken female

2 notes · View notes

justdecadentcollectiondestiny · 2 years

Text

Okay so I'm watching Hannibal because it's intrigued me for far too long and I am having a lot of Thoughts so I'm going to write them all down here and maybe I'll post it when I'm done with the show who knows

Major spoilers ahead (duh)

First things first, this show is incredibly fucked up, but it's also so brilliantly written that it makes you take notice of/appreciate the fucked-upness even more.

I feel like the show is called Hannibal when, really, Will is the main character because, the way I see it, Hannibal is the one telling us the story. I think we only know what Hannibal knows, but Hannibal knows a whole lot. I can’t think of anything off the top of my head that happens in the show that Hannibal doesn’t know about, that he wasn’t there to witness firsthand, that he couldn’t easily infer given the events that unfold and the information he has, or that nobody told him about after the fact. People tell Hannibal lots of things. They tell him things because they trust him. Will, the main character, trusts Hannibal, and he tells him pretty much everything, but Hannibal doesn't tell Will everything (obviously). He does tell the audience things, but only when he feels like it. There’s a reason that we, the viewer, know things that only Hannibal knows, like that he’s the Chesapeake Ripper, that Will has encephalitis, that he's Hobbs' copycat, etc. All the other characters’ secrets we first learn when Hannibal learns them, like that Mrs. Crawford has cancer or that Abigail really did help her father kill his victims. In addition, since Hannibal is a perfect liar, he's able to fool us as well as the other characters in the story, and reveals the truth to us when he feels it would most benefit the story, like waiting until the end of S1E10 to reveal that he’s the one who killed Dr. Sutcliffe earlier in the episode. It’s almost like an afterthought, like Hannibal saying to us: “Oh, by the way, I think I should mention…” with the tiniest of smiles on his face.

What on earth are Hannibal's intentions with Abigail Hobbs? He's being incredibly manipulative towards her, intentionally ensnaring her in a situation where she feels indebted to and deeply bonded with him. He does everything he can to ensure that she trusts him and that she wants him to trust her. He clearly intends to use her for something later down the road, and it’s something important and big enough that he toys with the idea of killing Will, someone he considers a friend, when he figures out Abigail killed Nicholas Boyle. He's putting so much into this, he has to cash out eventually. When and why will he do it?

I don't like Jack Crawford. As Beverly Katz puts it, the bureau speculates that Jack "pushed [Will] right up to the edge, and now [he's] pushing [himself] right over." The way I see it, it’s more like Jack wound up Will like a wind-up toy, set him right at the edge, and stood back and watched him walk right off. He doesn't care how much damage he does to Will or Will does to himself, he only cares that he's just broken enough to do the job that he's the best at doing.

From the outside, Hannibal seems like the most interesting guy ever. He dresses amazing, the ladder-accessible library is only one of the things that make his office so cool-looking, he draws, he plays harpsichord, he cooks for his friends several times a month, and he cries at operas. I have to keep reminding myself: “self-proclaimed psychopath, serial killer, cannibal” to stop myself from thinking he’s just the coolest guy.

It is pretty much impossible to figure out Hannibal’s motivations about pretty much everything. Does he care about Will or does he not? He claims to worry about him, and does seem to in some ways, but also actively manipulates circumstances that only further his downward spiral. Why the hell does he do any of the things he does? I can only hope we find out eventually.

Re: Hannibal’s intentions with Abigail: Okay turns out it was all just an experiment of curiosity. He wanted to see how much of Abigail’s father was in her, he wanted to see what she would do when pushed to the limit, just because he was curious. Wow. Holy shit. Did I mention this show is fucked up?

And now he’s going to kill her and it’s going to look a hell of a lot like Will did it. What the fuck are you doing, Hannibal?

See, this is where us knowing things that only Hannibal knows is good for storytelling. We know Will didn’t kill Abigail, and even though Hannibal’s making it seem like he thinks he did, we know that he knows what really happened. So then why the fuck is he essentially framing Will- I can’t.

Hannibal crying over Abigail’s death is such a fucked up image holy shit

Okay, the fishing lures confirm it, Hannibal is actively and deliberately framing Will. The question is why? And to what end?

Jeez I remember when Hannibal stopped by Will's house and messed with his fishing lures, although we didn't know what exactly he was doing at the time. That was a while ago. He's been planning this for a long time.

Whoa whoa whoa wait. Is Hannibal… cultivating Will into a partner in crime? Molding him into a killer with the intent to reveal himself as the Chesapeake Ripper and bring them closer together? Hannibal has always said Will has given him an opportunity for friendship. Does he want to make sure Will is so much like him that his reveal is more of a relief than a shock, and that it’ll make him feel a stronger bond with him?

Mm, no, I’m not sure anymore. Will’s too smart for that. He’s starting to figure out who Hannibal is. The question is, what’s that going to change?

Aaaand that’s the end of season one. “Wow”, is all I can say about that. Starting season two tomorrow. I have to. This is why I got hooked on this show almost instantly. It’s almost like I didn’t keep watching because I wanted to, but because I had to. It’s so utterly intriguing that I just have to find out where this is all going. Fuck this show is good.

#p.s. it made me very happy to hear that alana is going to take care of will’s dogs ‘till whenever’#thank you alana #nbc hannibal #hannibal spoilers #hannibal lecter #will graham #dc destiny yells about tv #dc descants #nbc hannibal spoilers #hannibal thoughts

4 notes · View notes

hastingshwang6 · 2 years

Text

High Quality Louis Vuitton Replica Handbags Sale, Fake Baggage Online

The redesigned internal bag makes use of fresh material lining and classic particulars impressed by the Louis Vuitton archives. The most commendable Mo Too detachable zipper handbag, it may be used as an exquisite clutch alone or as an additional pocket. The brilliant lining tone adds more liveliness to the Monogram basic canvas. Louis Vuitton luggage are one of the designer bags which are on each girl’s wish record. The monogram print is immediately recognisable and has been the epitome of luxurious for many years. I am excited about buying one from bagsvista. This canvas could be cleaned very simply with a moist material. The shiny coating additionally provides firmness to the purse and allows it to stand by its own. It is the joy and delight of our prospects that drives us. While many people need purses & purses from high-end brands, like Louis Vuitton, only some can afford it. For the remainder, it remains a far-fetched dream. Given these causes, I have completely no remorse or guilt for purchasing replica baggage. Because if you consider it, when it comes to materials, craftsmanship, labor, time and design, the originals which these replicas are based mostly on, don’t cost that a lot cash. I’ve got every thing from amazingly cute and good accessories, belts, shoes and, in fact, bags and purses. While I do have a eager eye for all different equipment, I actually have a specific gentle spot in my heart for purses. https://phoenet.tw/wallet-purse-replica.html What follows is my go-to information for finding the very best in replica handbags on the web. This information will allow you to select the perfect quality without arousing suspicion. I’m joyful to report that there are plenty of replica handbags out there that do meet that high quality commonplace. We are completely proud and assured of the within and out of doors designs of our replica Louis Vuitton luggage. In truth, when you look on our website, we post tons of various footage that show the interior and exterior design of the bag. Any vendor that's hesitant to point out you the inside design of their bags probably has something to cover. As you'll shortly discover that's not the case with our firm, as our merchandise are freely open to the general public. The better strategy can be to look for some indicators of fake designer bag quality. If you notice these indicators, there’s a high chance that you're coping with a brilliant fake. wikipedia wallets We tested many shops and at the finish of the day, luxtime seems to be the best within the enterprise, no doubts about that. It doesn’t matter whether you’re in search of a fake Gucci bag or a Louis Vuitton replica. You should be so good that anybody who just walked out of a Gucci or Louis Vuitton retailer in Beverly Hills or an higher-end store in Paris wouldn’t know the distinction. Visit DHgate.com now, and have a singular purchasing experience. If you realize something about authentic Louis Vuitton purses, you understand that the within of the designer bag is designed with the same quality and craftsmanship as the surface. Unfortunately, that is the place most replica knockoff firms fail. Sure, they are able to get the supplies and inside extremely close, but they don’t have entry to the same presses that Louis Vuitton design teams have turn into recognized for. This is the place we stand out amongst the competition, as our design groups do have entry to those presses. If you wish to find the last word high quality replica baggage, you have to have a extra discriminating eye. High-quality replica purses don’t need to burn a hole via your pocket. Let’s get one thing clear; there are tons of low high quality, low cost replica purses on the market. DHgate is likely one of the most trusted on-line trading platforms that present hundreds of thousands of merchandise for over 21 million patrons, wholesale or retail – all around the globe. You can get the same distinctive feeling whenever you get an inexpensive Louis Vuitton inspired bags from China, only at DHgate. Some of these fakes are almost equivalent to the unique, in order that even the store staff cannot tell them aside. A respectable buyer buys the seeming original days later, not understanding that they've a fake. I by no means considered buying one as I was afraid to harm my status. But my whole thought about fake handbags modified after I came throughout this site called CelebrityHandbags.to. It is definitely a sturdy, well-built bag that shall be perfect for work, going out, going buying or carrying baby objects. To make it short, it is greater than a handbag. Based on Beijing, DHgate is a companion of 21 million trusted shops and retailers of low-cost however quality replicas of bags, footwear, and lots of more. With just a click on away, you may get your favorite Louis Vuitton impressed luggage through DHgate.com. What’s more, is that DHgate presents nice offers and fabulous discounts for as much as 50% off.

#replica designer wallet #replica wallet #high quality designer replica wallet #replica wallets

0 notes

crossdressingdeath · 3 years

Text

Rewatching Hannibal is just *feels increasingly sorry for Will Graham*.

#hannibal #HE'S A GOOD BOY HE DOESN'T DESERVE THIS #what 'this' am i talking about? oh ALL of it #four episodes in and he's already visibly Not Great #and so far it seems like only beverly has noticed #and she doesn't really have the power to do anything about it #hannibal of course knows but also wants him to suffer so he's no help

15 notes · View notes

babyboibucky · 3 years

Text

The Match - Part 8

Pairing: CEO!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: You get a preview of what it’s like to be working with Mackenzie.

Warnings: I apologize as there is no smut in here lmfao but there is a stubborn Bucky lols

A/N: The jitters just never go away whenever I post a new part for this ajkcnjasncakjcnakj I find this part boring tbh but uhh things will start picking up again in the next part I promise

The Match Masterlist || MAIN MASTERLIST

Bucky decided to push through with his partnership with Wilson Enterprises. It was a big one, so it definitely required the entire team's effort and perseverance. Apparently, this is the company's biggest, most major project yet so this was going to look really good in your resume. It would also provide you with more credibility to further excel in your career.

Except that Bucky actually hired a marketing consultant to take over the entire project as his revenge.

"Any questions? About the project or about Kenzie?" Bucky asked, standing in front of the conference room, next to Mackenzie.

You confidently raised your hand when no one else did. Bucky tilted his head, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He knew you were affected, of fucking course you were!

"Yes?" he called out.

You stood up and sighed softly, "I mean this in the most respectful way, Mister Barnes." you said, emphasizing his name. "But as the head of marketing, what exactly is my role here? Given that Mackenzie was hired to spearhead the marketing aspect of this project." you said, giving Mackenzie a passive aggressive smile.

"I don't want to overstep on some boundaries here, that's why I'm asking. I just want clarity, that's all." you said.

Bucky was about to respond when Mackenzie stopped him, grabbing his arm and squeezing it before taking over the floor. You narrowed your eyes at how her slender fingers were wrapped around Bucky's arm.

"Honey..." Mackenzie started. "There's nothing to worry about, this is a collaborative work between you and I. So think of yourself as my assistant, someone to help me out with the project." she responded.

Bitch.

"I'm not an assistant, Mackenzie." you said, smiling at her.

Mackenzie laughed, "I'm sorry, my bad. I shouldn't have used that term. Oops." she said. "Although, I believe I have more experience in this area so maybe consider me a mentor?" she suggested.

Bitch!

Bucky cleared his throat, "If you have certain ideas, you can discuss it with her. She is a consultant after all. Given her impressive experience in the field, I'm sure you'll learn a thing or two from her."

The meeting was wrapped up by noon and you simply couldn't wait to get yourself out of the conference room. You didn't feel like talking to Bucky anymore in all honesty, not after what he was doing. You knew this was just to spite you, get you to cave in first and give in to him.

All the more that you wouldn't, especially not when he actually used your job against you.

Everyone started rushing out of the conference room, ready to head out for lunch. As soon as you reached the doorway, you overheard the short conversation between Bucky and Mackenzie.

"Hey Bucky, we still up for lunch?"

The bathroom was empty when you stepped inside and thank god for that because you couldn't hold back your emotions any further. Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes, not because you were hurt. Fuck no, you were angry and frustrated. So fucking angry at yourself for getting into this mess, at Bucky for being such an entitled prick, at the entire world for plotting against you.

You groaned in irritation as you wiped away your tears, sniffing as you looked at yourself in the mirror.

You worked your ass off for this job, for your position. You risked your dignity when you let Bucky fuck you. You weren't going to let someone take that away from you.

You quickly fixed yourself when the door opened, followed by the loud clacking of someone's heels.

"Omg, are you crying?" Beverly gasped, rushing over to you.

You snickered, "No." you lied, "My eyes are itchy." you huffed out before noticing that Beverly was holding a sandwich in her hand.

"Why did you bring your sandwich here?" you curiously asked.

Beverly shrugged, "The pantry's full and the other girls don't exactly seem to like me...so..."

You shook your head and sighed, "Come with me, let's have lunch out. I need to get out of this fucking place anyway."

"Yay, omg! I knew you were nice! You're like, the only girl who actually talked to me nicely." Beverly said, tagging behind you as you exited the bathroom.

"Oh, there you are!" Mark called out. "I was looking for you. Wanna grab lunch? Oh...who's this?" he asked, noticing the blonde girl trailing behind you.

"I'm Beverly! I'm Sir James' new secretary." she introduced excitedly.

You sighed, "Don't ask me why." you said when Mark turned to you with a confused look, still not sure what happened to Bucky's previous secretary.

"So, lunch out? With Bev?" you asked.

You were completely zoning out during lunch despite the ongoing conversation between Mark and Bev, something about yoga? You honestly couldn't care less, not when you were feeling so conflicted about your current situation.

Would Bucky actually go that far just to get you back? Or does he actually hate you for saying no to him and is basically using his authority to make your life a living hell?

"So I heard about the new girl." Mark said, that snapped you out of your trance.

"Huh?" you asked.

"I find it weird for Mister Barnes to hire someone when you're here." Mark pointed out. "I mean, are you okay with that or..."

You snorted, "Fuck no. Look, I'm not gonna be the bigger person here. I was offended as fuck." you admitted.

"Yeah, it's super weird because she was hired through Tinder or something. Is that even legal?" Beverly pointed out as she scrolled through her phone.

You and Mark turned to her abruptly, "Tinder? Wait, what?" you asked.

Beverly chuckled, "I heard them talking this morning and Kenzie was like, 'It's so funny that we matched on Tinder and ended up doing business there you know' and I'm like omg Sir James has Tinder and I have one too but I never saw him there, bummer."

"Motherfucker." you hissed out.

Mark made a face, "Are you okay?" he carefully asked. "You've been really tensed since last week."

Apparently, Bucky never deleted his Tinder and have been swiping right on women. And that's how he met Mackenzie who just happened to be a marketing consultant. Now you were just furious, was he fucking her too? Has he been fucking other women this entire time?

"Hey, Bev..." you said, a plan hatching inside your mind. "Can I ask you a favor?" you asked nicely.

Beverly nodded, "Um duh, you're basically my office BFF now."

"If you ever hear Mister Barnes and Mackenzie talk about hmm, I don't know...something interesting. Maybe about the project...me 'cause you know, I'm the head of marketing and Mackenzie’s in the same field...let me know, will ya?" you asked.

Mark chuckled nervously, "I don't know what's going on but isn't that an invasion of privacy?"

"She's not going to eavesdrop, Mark. She'll just...listen closely." you explained.

"Bev might get in trouble if Mister Barnes finds out." Mark warned.

You waved a hand, "She'll be fine, Mark. She's his secretary, she has to know everything. Besides, I'm not going to let her get in trouble, if she does then I'll take care of it."

Beverly squealed in delight, "Omg, you are not my office BFF. You're like my office mom! You and Mark are literally my office parents." she said, lifting her phone up in the air.

"Selfie! This one goes to the 'gram." she said, taking a quick photo of the three of you.

She then proceeded to edit the photo while you and Mark continued eating lunch.

"Bev, you should really put your phone away and eat first. We have less than half an hour left for lunch break." Mark called out.

Beverly groaned and rolled her eyes, "Way to get into the role, Mark. You're such a dad."

You snorted, "Yeah. Loosen up, daddy." you teased.

"Playing family after just one date, huh."

Bucky's presence in the same restaurant should've really intimidated you, most especially that he just witnessed you tease Mark like that. But you were too mad at him to even care, what was the point even? He didn't believe you even when you told him the truth that Mark was just a friend.

Why even try now?

"Hi Sir James." Beverly greeted happily.

"Mister Barnes." Mark acknowledged.

Bucky ignored them and kept his eyes on you. You didn't falter under his gaze and simply stared back at him with blank eyes. It's as if a staring competition took place when the both of you merely looked at each other, neither of you looking away nor attempting to do so.

"How was that date last Friday, Jim?" Bucky asked, his eyes still trained on yours.

Mark made a funny face at the name that Bucky called him but shrugged anyway. Before he could even respond, you decided to answer on his behalf. If Bucky wanted to spite you, you'd give him a taste of his own medicine.

"It was actually great. We might go on another one this Friday." you said.

"We are?" Mark asked in a whisper.

Bucky's hand landed on Mark's shoulder, "Don't count on it, Andrew. She's going to be doing a lot of work on Friday due to the project." he said through gritted teeth.

You shrugged, "Oh, but I thought Mackenzie's doing all my work?"

"I'm ready to head back, Buck."

Speak of the devil herself. Mackenzie weaved through the tables and approached Bucky, her face brightening up when she saw you, Mark and Beverly.

"Oh, hey you." she greeted you. "Look, I think we may have started off on the wrong foot earlier. I'm not here to take your job, just here to spice things up a bit. Improve your ideas, give Bucky some assistance." she chuckled, holding onto Bucky's arm yet again.

You fought back the urge to grab your glass of water and throw it at her face. As the saying goes, kill them with kindness. So you merely shrugged and extended an arm for a handshake.

"Of course. I would love to improve your ideas as well, you know. Just a healthy discourse between two marketing professionals. We good?" you said.

Mackenzie forced out a chuckle and reached for your hand, "We’re good. I look forward to working with you." she said before turning back to Bucky who was still gazing at you.

"Let's go?" she asked sweetly.

Bucky smirked at you before wrapping an arm around Mackenzie's waist, guiding her out of the restaurant the same way he did to you. You were too focused on Bucky's body language around Mackenzie that you failed to notice that Mark was watching you closely, your expressions and how you reacted towards Bucky.

"I think I know what's happening."

"You what?!"

"Shhh!" you hushed Mark and peeked out of the empty pantry to make sure the coast was clear.

Mark noticed the tension between you and Bucky and he came to a conclusion that the both of you dated at one point. He wasn't really wrong but he wasn't right either. So you decided to tell him everything, from the moment you matched with Bucky on Tinder until your last conversation with him last Saturday.

"I honestly thought you were dating, I didn't know there was sex involved. No wonder he had been calling me weird names." he said incredulously. "Was that you and Mister Barnes that Janet reported to the HR?" he asked, stifling his laughter.

You groaned, "Yes. Ugh, gave me a panic attack when I found out about that incident report." you said.

"Hey..." Mark called out. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me this. Your secret is safe with me." he reassured.

You nodded, "I think it was about time that I told someone about us anyway. This whole situation is driving me crazy and I don't know what to do next. And I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess, I shouldn't have said that we were going out again. I don't want you or your job getting compromised because of our petty fight." you exhaled.

You had to admit, you felt so much better now after confiding with Mark. It somewhat alleviated the weight on your shoulders, knowing that there was someone aware of what you were going through. Who would've thought that this person would end up being Mark? You did have friends outside of work of course, but you felt like they all wouldn't really understand the situation.

Half would hate you for rejecting Bucky and the other half would hate you for even swiping right on him.

"Do you mind an unsolicited advice?" Mark asked.

"Not at all." you said.

"Ignore him. Don't let him or Mackenzie get to you. Do what you do best, you're great at your job and you'll be fine. That might get him to realize that you're not a prize to be won. And if he still doesn't see that, then that's his loss. You're more than just that hot marketing girl at work." Mark said.

You laughed at his last statement, "Hot marketing girl at work?" you asked, shaking your head.

"It's true. So if in any case you decide to ditch the CEO and move on, you know where to find me." he joked, throwing a wink your way.

You wanted to finish all your reports so you could focus on the huge project so you decided to work until around nine in the evening. The floor was already empty by the time you were done. Bucky seemed to be working too, given that he was still replying to e-mails at this hour. Wanting to get all the reports over with, you decided to submit it to him before going home.

During the elevator ride to Bucky’s floor, you couldn’t help but wonder whether he was alone in the office. Would Mackenzie be there with him? Even at this hour? Your grip on the folder tightened at the thought of catching them in the act.

But did you have any right to feel this way though?

Brushing off the thoughts, you exhaled loudly and prepared yourself for whatever it was you were to witness. Upon reaching the door to Bucky’s office, you slightly turned your head to listen to anything. It was quiet. No hushed whispers nor strained grunts-- they weren’t fucking, thank goodness for that.

You decided not to knock and just walk inside like you used to, reminding yourself of Mark’s advice.

Don’t let Bucky get to you.

When you saw Bucky hunched over his desk, typing away on his e-mails instead of bending a certain brunette somewhere in his office, you had to admit that you were relieved. He looked up and his eyes looked dead tired, you almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“You should really learn how to knock.” Bucky called out, slamming his laptop shut.

“Look, Bucky. I was just rushing to submit these reports so I can go home.” you explained and placed the folder on top of his desk.

Bucky frowned, “I said to call me Mister Barnes.”

You huffed out, “I honestly don’t care, Bucky. I’m not playing your damn games anymore.” you said and turned around.

A hand on your arm pulled you back, harshly turning you around to face Bucky. He was fuming, as usual. At this point, you were no longer fazed.

“You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?” he asked.

You clenched your jaw and pulled your arm back, “I’m not doing anything. You bring in Beverly or Mackenzie or whoever it is that you have up your sleeve. I don’t fucking care. I just want to focus on work.” you said and stepped away.

“And you should too, Bucky.” you added.

“I don’t believe you.” he said.

You sighed, your shoulders dropping from exhaustion at this whole shenanigan. “I’m done, Bucky.”

And with that you turned around to exit his office, leaving Bucky unsure whether you truly meant what you said. A victorious smirk graced your lips as you walked back to the elevator.

You were far from done.

The Match Special Tags:

@marvelslag @weird-mumbling @propertyofpoeandbucky @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @mostly-marvel-musings @squishybabies @megzdoodle @suchababie @annathesillyfriend @xhollycowx @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @5-seconds-of-mendes @gogolucky13 @countonthesun @iloveshawnieboi @learisa @borikenlove @scarlet-natasha89

Everything Bucky Tag List:

@ddowii @jessou893 @stealapizzamyheart @bagelofthelord @mxnt @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @jeeperky @ohladymacbeth @wildflowergubler @supraveng @twinerd14 @buckysmar @bakugouswh0r3 @sweetcoldharmony @wintersfilm @charminivy @amelia-song-pond @iamvalentinaconstanza @mcubqrnes @im-squished @tcc-gizmachine @sipsteacasually @prettyintopeerpressure @weloveyasmin @est19xxshit @bloodhon3yx @dressed-in-prada @lizette50 @thatfangirl42 @sunflowerbunny2 @unmagically @okiegirl24 @sugarpunch-princess @enlyume @vvipgotbb @slimeyderp @lyoongx @just-deka @nobody-will @jaziona92 @elisebuitron @dpaccione @suvikamahes98blr @buckybarneshairpullingkink @earthtonav @x-judyjude-x @nani-kenobi @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @belladonnabarnes @iloveangstposts @weenersoldierr @asemistablehundredyearoldman @reidbuck @lizzarooni @girlfriday007 @bonkywobble @lost-in-the-stars03 @its-yasbxtch @whoth3hellisbucky

#bbb writes #the match #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #fem!reader #sebastian stan

1K notes · View notes

highdramas · 3 years

Text

your song, vol. 1 | rockstar!bucky

𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

rockstar!bucky barnes x fem!reader, some slight peter parker x reader in later parts (unrequited)

word count: 2429

warnings: references to sex, language, references to drug and alcohol use in later parts, age gap, slow burn-ish

summary: it’s not summer without you. or, that’s what your favorite rockstar always says. it’s all happening.

it is the summer of 1978, and everyone calls you rhiannon, and it has never occurred to you to mind.

really, it was sort of nice. rhiannon is a daredevil. rhiannon goes on tour with bands. rhiannon inspires songs and reads tarot and knows how to light up a room with a smile. rhiannon gets asked if she’s, like, the rhiannon. the rhiannon who rings like a bell through the night.

you’re not. but you’re not going to tell them that.

and, sure, you know that you’re capable of all of these things-- but it’s different when they’re calling you rhiannon.

it’s different when he is calling you rhiannon.

you’ve become somewhat of a myth in the california rock ‘n roll scene. groupies have flocked to you-- and you have somewhat rejected the term. found it degrading, the way that rock stars and fans spoke about groupies. it had been your personal mission during the summer of 1977 to change the way that men in rock spoke about women.

the summer that you met bucky barnes.

really, it wasn’t bucky that you had set your eyes on initially. initially, you’d shown up with his friend, steve rogers, the drummer. you and your group of band aids (you were still coining the name) had an in backstage and the second you had seen steve, you were a bit smitten. he wasn’t your typical rockstar. there was something kind about him, something genuine. he looked at you less like he wanted to fuck you and more like he wanted to know you.

it wasn’t until later that you met bucky. later, once you set out on tour with them.

when you found out that steve had a girl back home and he was simply being kind to you, it had reminded you of your mission. your mission to show all of these men what exactly women had to contribute to music and its existing scene-- and that it was more than being a side piece. more than being a fun distraction on the road.

that was the moment that you swore you would not fall in love with a rockstar.

the hotel you all had checked into was absolutely lavish. it was extravagant and beautiful, high ceilings and marbled floors and the shiniest doorknobs that you’ve ever seen. it’s 3:30 in the morning and the girls-- america and kate being your favorite of the whole bunch-- are out with the guys at the bar. you’re sure that they’re requesting brooklyn songs-- later on, you’d give bucky shit for suggesting that their band name should just be brooklyn. you give steve even more shit for going along with it.

after the revelation with steve, normally, you’d be in the mood to party. but you feel like shit and you fell asleep wrong on the bus and your neck is killing you. you don’t want to be a vibe killer, so you tell the girls to go on without you and maybe you’ll catch up with them later.

instead, at some point, you pad down to the pool. there is one lone figure sitting by an illuminated neon sign. it’s only when you’re within feet that you realize that it’s bucky.

of all of the members of brooklyn, you’d gotten to know bucky the least in the past week that you’ve been on the road with them. steve, sam, and natasha were all nice-- nicer than nice. steve and sam especially, but you knew why.

natasha is nice-- direct and passionate about what she does. and what she does is sing. you always said that brooklyn would be nothing if it wasn’t for nat’s husky vocals and insane songwriting.

then there’s bucky. the guitarist.

kate has been touring with brooklyn awhile now-- went with them on the europe leg. now she’s with their manager, clint, and she seems to know all the gossip. when you asked what was up with bucky-- why he was so quiet, why he didn’t like to party with the others, kate had given you that thousand watt smile and said-- “alright, don’t tell anyone about this, ‘specially buck, but he’s sober. couple years now, from what i hear. it’s real hard for him, being on the road.”

then, your mouth had made a slight o, you had nodded your head, and kate shone like the light she is before dashing off to find clint.

you’re brought back to that conversation now, seeing him hunched over on a reclining chair. you see that he is hugging his legs, smoking a cigarette. a bottle of root beer sits beside him on the ground.

your feet are working before your brain is, and before you know it, you’re standing before him. if he notices your presence, he doesn’t act like it.

“got one to spare?”

that’s when he finally glances up at you. his face is mostly unreadable-- furrowed brows and a set jaw, long brunette hair that almost brushes his shoulders. he is quite handsome. he’s the kind of man that you think is built for moments like these-- sitting by pools, pink neon radiating off his face. the kind of handsome that is a little bit intimidating. not like steve, who is all softness and warm smiles.

you sink onto the pool chair beside bucky as he nods. he passes you a cigarette and you pop it between your lips. bucky’s zippo seems to come out of nowhere, and you watch as the end begins to burn, and you take your first drag of your first cigarette.

a coughing fit ensues. naturally. you hold it awkwardly between the fingers of your right hand and you cover your mouth with your left, hacking up your lungs. bucky’s brows furrow and it’s then, and only then, when the faintest hint of a smirk drags onto his features. “you alright?” his hand moves to your back and rubs in circles, pats it lightly, until you’re bleary eyed and looking over at him with a loud laugh.

it was natural after that.

where bucky was, it was safe to assume that you weren’t far behind. but it wasn’t like that. if anyone asked who you were with, you wore a proud expression and said with little hesitation, “myself.”

each time, bucky glanced between you and whatever sorry schmuck was in your path, and he shrugged his shoulders. “you heard her.”

things were easy with bucky. you had laid the ground rules that night, on the pool chaise. you had straightened your shoulders and you said, “i made the vow not to fall in love with anyone this summer.”

bucky had raised an eyebrow at you and watched as you took his root beer and took a long pull, his eyes fixating onto yours. “funny, so did i.”

the summer of 1977 was a dream.

but you had to wake up.

when you’re not rhiannon, you’re… you. you’re a student at oxford university on a full ride scholarship, studying political science, eventually law. you want to be the first woman president. you have bigger dreams and aspirations than being a band aid.

but you don’t mind slipping into your dream state between the months of may and september. you don’t mind one bit.

on the last night of tour, in nashville, you and bucky had spent the whole night in his room. you talked and you laughed, you laid together and you talked about school and he talked about recording the next album. you said how you wished you could be there for it, and he said how he’d like to see oxford.

that’s another thing about dreams.

when you’re in them, you can nearly believe that they can exist in the real world. but they can’t.

you and bucky had toed a very thin line for a long time. and you tumbled off of it together that night.

when you said your goodbyes in the airport the next morning, everyone else around as well, it seemed to suck any of the intimacy out of the room. you told him then that you always hated airports-- they reminded you of goodbyes.

bucky had shrugged, and said, “they remind me of hellos.”

you hugged. he kissed the corner of your mouth, the closest thing to an outright public display of affection as you two would get. and you left. you went back to real life.

but now, it is 1978. and it is the summer before your senior year of college, and you are backstage at the bee gees at the forum. and brooklyn is opening.

of course you knew that you would see him. he had written you letters over the course of the past year, like a gentleman. you’d tucked them away in your hat box and wrote back about your studies and your roommates. and at the end of the last letter you sent, you wrote: hope you wrote that song about me. xx

you didn’t tell him you were going on the road this summer. you’d been in touch with kate and met up in beverly hills with her. she told you about how she and clint had moved in together in new york and you sipped coffee and went with her as she shopped at places that were far out of your budget. and then you’d met up with clint and he got you your pass.

and now you’re here, with a packed duffel.

it’s a wonder you haven’t run into him yet. there’s a part of you that hopes he doesn’t know-- that he’s going to come out here and see you and that the air is going to be knocked from him as he takes in the visage of you.

beginning to grow anxious, you throw yourself into a chair backstage in a huff. a boy who must be around your age is sitting on the arm of it, and looks down at you curiously. “you alright?”

“never better,” you say and inspect your nail. “you seen the band?”

“who, bee gees? nah, haven’t had a chance--”

“no. brooklyn.”

“oh.” he goes quiet and nods his head. “i got a chance to talk to ‘em just now. i’m trying to do a piece on them.”

your jaw slacks a bit and you nod your head. “oh.” a journalist. of course he is. “how exciting for you.”

“yeah, it’ll be my first real piece. i’ve written some stuff for my college paper, but nothing like this. i can’t believe i even got in. i met this girl gwen and she found me a pass.”

“gwen’s a real keeper,” you say and you wink. your words are honest. you like gwen. “what’s your name, kid?”

“peter parker.”

you stick your hand out. “nice to meet you, peter parker.”

he shakes it and he raises his eyebrows at you, as if waiting for an introduction on your end. “and you are…” he finally begins.

“that’s rhiannon.”

the voice jars you. you don’t dare look behind you, but you already know who it is. you feel large hands on your shoulders and it takes every ounce of pride and self worth inside of you not to let your body erupt into shivers. “she’s the heart of brooklyn.”

a scoff passes your lips and you tip your head back, and you’re not disappointed by what you see. you never are. “you’re always so dramatic,” you coo. your attention shifts back to peter, but your skin is buzzing where bucky touches you, and you have nearly ten months worth of time to catch up on with him. “it was nice meeting you, peter parker.”

subtlety is not your strong suit, and peter must gather that, because he scrambles to get his things and scurry off. you give a slight wave and make a mental note that you’d like to get to know him if he sticks around. “nice kid,” you say.

“don’t want to talk about him.”

you can’t help yourself now. a giddy squeal bursts from your lips and you turn and you fling yourself at him. you’re all arms and legs flailing, clutching to him, and he holds you just as tight. there’s that sort of husky, low laugh that leaves him, and you remember it from that night that you wanted to impress him by smoking a cigarette. “hey, rhi.”

“hi,” your voice is muffled in his neck. you don’t care who’s watching, you don’t care what they whisper— for the first time, you don’t care if they assume you’re going to go back to bucky’s room and fuck him stupid. you care that he’s here. that’s bigger than your pride.

“didn’t tell me you’d be comin’. had to hear from kate.”

“yeah, well...” you pull back and look up at him, hands resting on his shoulders. his find your hips and pull you in. “i wanted to surprise you. am i a happy surprise?”

bucky is the kind of person who thinks before he speaks, but also, you believe that he thinks before he emotes. there’s a beat before he’s licking his lips, nodding his head. “nah. it’s gonna be such a drag having my girl on the road with me.”

my girl.

you squint at him and push him away right in his chest, and he gapes, rubbing it and feigning hurt. “don’t pull that,” you point at him. “same rules as last summer, alright? we— we went over this.”

exasperated, bucky sighs, head lolling to the side. “yes ma’am.”

ten months ago bucky told you he was in love with you.

ten months ago bucky told you he’d follow you all over the world.

ten months ago you agreed that it was a horrible idea, and that your friendship was too vital, too real, too special to risk messing it up.

ten months later, you’re hoping you won’t regret this decision.

you can see the disappointment in his face. gently, you touch the side of his face and you smile a bit. “in another life.” those were the words you had said to him, all those nights ago.

bucky’s face breaks your heart over and over again. he gives you that gentle but sad look-- the look of a man who has what he wants right within arms reach, but knows that he cannot fully grasp. knows that he cannot fully keep.

“i’ll have you any way you want me,” is all he finally says. “‘s not summer without you.”

you’d made a promise to him that night. you had told him you weren’t going to fall in love with anyone in the summer of 1977.

but it is the summer of 1978. and this is the story of how you fall in love with bucky barnes.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfic #rockstar bucky #your song #my writing #not me posting this at 11pm sorry yall

221 notes · View notes

thoughtfullyyoungduck · 3 years

Text

Stabbed

Summary: could you right something with Eddies daughter where she comes to Derry, and instead of stabbing Eddie, Bowers stabs her?

A/N: I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think!

The disturbing atmosphere that hangs around Derry as a whole is not in any way lessened by the state of the old townhouse.

Sara is not a germaphobe on the same level of her father in any way, but the state of the hotel, if it’s even worth calling it that, leaves much to be desired. The flaked paint, carpeted flours where black marks are left on, creaking stairs with no elevator, and the complete abandonment of both the reception and bar did not claim this hotel was well taken care off.

Still, Sarah tries to ignore the warning signs and sits in the bar lobby, twiddling on her phone over a glass of lemonade, that she had to pour herself par for the course, and waits patiently. She’s not sure if she should be repacking or not, but her dad left without warning or explanation, so she stays put.

The stairs creak for the so many’the time, but she’s gotten so used to the sound that she doesn’t bother looking up. Instead she wonders if there’s anybody else in this godforsaken town, other than her father and his friends.

‘This is so stupid’, she whispers under her breath, letting out a deep sigh of resignation. She would go about and explore, to see all the places her dad had in his childhood, because she’s getting extremely bored now, and the urge to pace around and do something, anything is almost overwhelming. But, Eddie was panic-stricken at the mere prospect of Sara joining the group on their little adventure, so utterly terrified it left her shaky herself.

It’s weird to be in the town her father grew up in, but it’s even more strange to meet the people he was supposedly best friends with. They don’t seem like the type of people Eddie would be keen to hang out with back in New York, but maybe her father is just as good at hiding things from her as he is for her mother.

The more general idea of her dad and his friends bring up more questions than answers. Where have this people been for all her life. Why had they never hung out with her dad before? Why isn’t there a picture of them in her house?

She’s eager to learn more about them, but she heeds Eddie’s warnings, sinking further back in her chair. A few minutes later she rises, deciding to scout out the hotel at least – despite what horrible unsanitary things she might find, but a door opening stops her.

A woman, the only woman in her Dad’s group of friends stumbles in, her breath gasping and shaky. She searches around the entry way with her eyes, but sees no one, not even Sara, whose cover by the wall separating the bar and hallway.

‘Is anybody here?’ Beverly, she now recalls, asks, plucking a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket with severely trembling fingers. Out of her other pocket she grabs a lighter, but it takes her three tries before she can get the flame close enough to the cigarette, thanks to her tremor.

‘Shit’, she curses after the second time, and for a moment it looks like she’s about to put it back, but instead she aims again.

An instinctive part of her, the part that was raised by two people warning her about the danger of mundane things, wants to tell her cigarettes are bad for her. The part that saw how controlling her mother is towards her father, urges her to stay quiet. It’s not Sara’s place, but either way, the woman looks like she’s halfway to knocking on death’s door.

‘I’m here’, she calls out hesitantly, knowing that she’s not the one Beverly is looking for. Still, it feels weird to not acknowledge her, and to leave her be so crestfallen.

Beverly’s head whips around, and for a second there is no recognition on her face. Her face and eyes harden, almost like she’s preparing to battle, but then Bev’s brain catches up and her eyes soften.

‘Oh, sorry I didn’t see you there.’

‘It’s okay’, Sara assures, watching wearily as Beverly lets herself drop on the bottom step of the stairs.

‘Do you mind’, the woman asks, monitoring with her hand towards the cigarette. It usually does, Sara learned about the dangers of second hand smoke inhalation, but she’s not interested in starting a discussion. For a reason she can’t understand, she’s desperate for these people to like her, the same way they like her dad.

‘Are you okay?’ Sara dares to ask as she inches closer. She keeps a good distance away from Bev, so none of the smoke reaches her.

‘No’, Bev laughs without humor, ‘but no one ever is in this town.’ She suddenly looks Sara straight in the eyes, with the same intensity Eddie had when he firmly told her to stay put and not leave the townhouse. ‘You stay with one of us from now on, okay? It’s not safe to be here by yourself.’

Sara nods dumbly, feeling compelled to do so. She’s just about to ask for more answers, for the why and where and how, but a second ‘loser’ burst through the door, at least as if not more spooked as Beverly.

It’s Ben, who calls out for Bev immediately, and Sara may not know anything about the losers club, but she knows that Bev and Ben are it for each other.

‘Bev, are you okay?’ Ben asks without noticing Sara there. Sara flushes, feeling like a third wheel almost instantly, despite Ben’s apologetic look he sends.

‘Sorry I-‘

‘I’m going upstairs,’ Sara exclaims, walking up the stairs two steps at a time.

‘Sara wait’, Beverly bellows, trying to stop Sara before she gets too far.

‘It’s fine, I’m not alone, you guys are right downstairs. If somethings wrong I’ll just yell.’ Sara promises, barely glancing back at the two adults.

Ben and Bev make complicated faces, but eventually they both nod, turning back to their own conversation.

Sara reaches the top of the stairs, but there she has to pause for a minute. Though she has been unsettled this whole time, a whole new wave of eerie washes over her. She’s not sure what brought it on, but whatever it is makes her shiver down to her bones.

She considers going back downstairs, but Ben and Bev have picked up a new conversation topic, and she doesn’t want to disturb them. Sara vehemently ignores her own warning signs, and saunters towards her hotel room. While she does, she quickly peeks across the hallway, but sees no immediate danger -expect the black mold stains- there.

She opens the door, and the distant eerie feeling switches in a minute, into acute danger. Sara knows without a sliver of a doubt from the second she step into the townhouse that she’s in deep trouble. Unfortunately, her reflexes are not as quick on the mark as her senses, and she only notices the knife punching her way when the blade has already marked her skin.

She falls back, and can’t do anything to stop a second attack from striking it’s goal. A pocket knife breaches the skin of her cheek, straight through he tissue, and reappears on the other side. Sara can’t even scream before she scrambles up, hands pushing at her attackers chest to get him away.

Her attacker, a man with a mullet that appears like he hasn’t washed in multiple weeks, grins ominous and licks his lips.

‘Not who is was send here to kill’, he spits, reaching for Sara’s ankle and dragging her down when she tries to run. ‘But this isn’t so bad either.’

Before he gets another chance to do any other damage, Sara pulls the knife out her own cheek, smothering a scream, and holds it out in defense. She didn’t expect the man to thrown himself on top of her, plunging the knife in his own chest, but then again, he doesn’t seem to be in a right state of mind.

She can’t stop and think about it anyway, so she kicks his sluggish body away from her, and clambers upright. The man lays still face down, so Sara can’t see if he’s still breathing or not. She can’t feel the wound, are any part of her body for that matter, and she can’t believe she just pulled a knife out of her own cheek. A strange tingling panic begins to trickle over her body, as she forces her feet to move.

‘It’s fine, it’s fine’, Sara whispers to herself as she back up, praying that she won’t trip, and that the man who just attacked her won’t jump up and try to attack her again. She can’t comprehend what just happened, thanks to shock probably, but she falls straight back into her survival tactic she uses at home.

If she ever got hurt there, she would keep quiet, and deal with that pain herself -or tell her after making him promise not to tell her mom-. To her shock filled mind, keeping quiet seems like the best option.

She continuous to stumble backwards until she’s out of the room. ‘It’s fine’, she continuous to implant in herself, ‘it doesn’t even hurt, if there’s no wound, I’m not telling anyone.’

Of course, as per usual, the instant she thinks that, blood starts gushing out of her cheek like a tap that just got opened. The copper taste of blood, overwhelming and disgusting, triggers her brain, and suddenly, the pain she thought wasn’t there, hits her full force.

She screams, this time in pain, and the scream alerts the people downstairs promptly.

Their footsteps ruffle up the stairs faster than she can follow, so the first touch against her arm makes her let out a screech. Her dad’s face swims into her line of vision, blurred by unshed tears. Beverly and Ben are right behind them, their faces agape when the notice the wound and the blood streaming into her mouth.

‘Oh holy shit. Sara stay still.’ He insists with a panic filled voice. He brings his hand up, most likely to cover up her wound, but then seems to think the better of it with infection. Sara has seen Eddie in panic filled states many times before, but never had his face taken on the same greyish tone it does now, and never has lips trembled so much he can barely speak.

‘Dad’, Sara whispers, her voice cracking on that one syllable, blood gushes out like a waterfall. She pitches forward, knowing full well that Eddie will freak out at the idea of blood all over him, but not caring for a second. Eddie doesn’t care either, his arms wrapping around Sara’s heaving frame and pulling her as close as humanly possible. When her dad got here is a mystery, but Sara is so thankful he arrived when he did. The comfort he radiates, even with his stressed behavior, is enough to settle her back into her skin.

‘Fuck I- I don’t know what to do.’ Eddie strains, one of his hand cupping the back of Sara’s neck, trying to take a look at the wound.

‘I’m going to go get a first aid kit’, Beverly soothes as she scrambles away to go get the material.

‘Wai’t,’ Sara screams muffled, pulling back from her dad and reaching for Bev even though she’s out of reach. The departure of the woman suddenly reminded her of the man still in her room, and the fact that everyone was in danger.

‘The guy in my room’, she rushes out, pointing to the door. Her dad’s face lights up in a furry, more angry then she has ever seen him before. She would cower if she didn’t realize it was not aimed at her. Eddie presses a quick kiss to her forehead, gently towards her if anything else, but then sprints away into their room. Ben follows without question.

‘Wait, dad’, Sara whimpers, terrified that he might get hurt too.

‘He’ll be okay,’ Beverly says as she tugs Sara further away and then helps her slide down to the floor. The first aid kit is clenched tightly between her fist. ‘He’s tougher then he looks.’

She cleans up Sara’s injure the best she can, but she’s numb too it all. Only able to stare at the door opening and waiting for her dad to reappear.

She doesn’t have to wait long it seems, before the door flings open with a loud bang.

‘It was fucking Bowers’, he curses, going straight for Sara and inspecting the bandage without elaborating further. He sinks to his knees in front of her, one of his hands gripping her shoulder. He smiles comfortingly at her, but the fire behind his eyes has not dimmed.

The man, Bowers, must be known to all of them, because Beverly asks, ’Henry Bowers?’ And Ben hums approvingly.

‘He got away too, the fucker. Wait till I get my hands on him.’

‘Dad?’ Sara asks, not sure exactly what she’s aiming for. She’s just scared, and she wants her dad to protect her and promise that everything will be alright.

‘It’s okay,’ Eddie assures, hauling her into a hug and squeezing her so tight it’s a little constricting. ‘I promise’, he says so fiercely Sara has no doubt in her mind he means it, ‘I won’t let him touch you again.’

#eddie kaspbrak #eddie x daughter #eddie kaspbrak imagine #adult losers #adult eddie kaspbrak #the losers club imagines #beverly march imagine #ben hanscom imagine #eddie as a parent #eddie as a dad #My writing #requests

58 notes · View notes

plainlo-inthemorning · 2 years

Text

The Night Father Paul Let You Sit on His Lap

Warning: PRIEST SMUT. Children, avert your eyes. And always use protection IRL.

This is my Secret Santa gift to @see-you-in-a-new-light for the Hamish Linklater holiday event created by the lovely @the-weird-dane

I hope you enjoy! Happy New Year :D

Summary: He laughs again, a little more at ease this time. But his mouth snaps shut so fast it’s almost comical when you adjust yourself and ‘accidentally’ grind down on his lap…

At least.

You’re betting that her rapt audience at the end of the table – her husband, Ed and Maggie Flynn and another elderly couple you don’t know that well – are not far behind.

You smile to yourself, even if you are now standing a little awkwardly in the middle of the room.

It’s good to see the parent generation of Crockett Island letting loose for once.

They deserve it.

It’s been that long since the good people of the island actually socialized with one another outside of church gatherings and said (poorly attended) Crock Pot ‘festivities’.

Yes, you hadn’t failed to notice how she had made a point of shooting her nose up at poor Riley too, who had been standing to a side, eyes to the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Perhaps he’s a little lonely, you think. Him being fairly young and living a life in solitude.

Also, you absolutely wouldn’t blame him, if he felt like hiding from Bev for a few hours, knowing that she would never set foot in Erin’s house…

You’re inclined to believe her, though.

And now that both Erin and Riley have moved back more or less permanently, you think you may migrate over more frequently.

You have a sneaking suspicion Erin may have put the thing together with Riley’s wellbeing in mind too.

Always the charming troublemaker, always trailing after Erin.

It appears he’s still doing the latter. Good for them if they can find a way back to each other after everything the world has thrown at them (and, in Riley's case, everything he has thrown back at it...).

He has been opening up more over the past days, relaxing into the warm company of his old friends, and you regret not openly calling Bev out for giving him dirty looks today.

You, Erin, Evelyn, and Peter (who was Riley’s best friend at school) all feel protective of Riley these days, and you ought to have taken the witch down.

During your childhood, relations between neighbors and colleagues on the island had been less strained. Less burdened down by this odd ‘them and us’ mentality that has seeped into the tiny community and cleanly divided the island into die-hard cult-following believers (cough, Bev, cough), everyday believers and non-believers.

Back in the ‘golden days’ (God, now you sound old), barbecues between friends would turn into impromptu garden parties for everyone who happened to pass by.

There was less vicious gossiping, fewer frontlines being drawn up.

It was, for the most part, a carefree time, before the financial crisis hit in 2008, followed by the oil spill that saw the fishing industry crumble to its knees.

Before Monsignor Pruitt, much like the soul of the island, deteriorated into a permanently confused shadow of his former passionate self on the dais.

Before the likes of Ms. Keane came into power (where had she come from? You can’t remember. She was probably hatched by a dementor and exiled from Azkaban in the early days of time).

Today, many of the houses on Crockett are in dire need of fresh paint. Mailboxes appear even more crooked than when you were a kid and no longer romantically so, weeds creeping across the dirt roads that used to be streets.

If it wasn’t for the two small ferries still sailing stoically back and forth twice a day, you suspect the mainland would have completely forgotten about Crockett a long time ago.

An island out of time.

Perhaps, if only people would make an effort to take care of each other again and not shut themselves away in their homes...

Starting with tonight.

The lively chatter around the dining table and the fact that the adjacent kitchen has also filled up with guests leaning casually against the cupboards, making drinks and laughing (a whole batch of non-believers, Bev!) speak of the possibility of turning things around on Crockett.

If not financially straight away, then for the sake of the community spirit.

And in the middle of it all sits a stranger, already wielding such an influence over his congregations’ faith in both God and one another.

One smooth talker.

And good-looking.

So very good-looking.

Being naturally seductive never hurt anyone trying to get a message across.

You’ve had a hard time taking your eyes off the devout Father since you first saw him at church on Sunday (Erin dragged you all), and today at the Crock Pot when you, Evelyn, and Peter had said a proper hello, explaining that you all knew the old Monsignor, Paul had acted more than happy to meet you.

Walking up to the bench where he sat talking to Riley (who looked like he was about to make a run for it), Evelyn had, less than discreetly, grabbed your arm and squeezed it in the gesture universally known between close single friends as “HOT property straight ahead” – only for the two of you to actually bump your hands together with a loud smack when you both eagerly shot them out to shake Paul’s.

Crockett’s currently best looking though sadly least available bachelor had smiled a little befuddled, while Erin giggled, and Riley and Peter rolled their eyes.

You had blushed bright red, but that had been nothing compared to the feeling when Paul’s large hand finally did close around yours, his fingers brushing against your wrist and sending a very much not unpleasant tingle down your spine.

“We’re having a bit of reunion”, Erin had told the priest, her voice laced with bubbling laughter, and it had taken you a few seconds too many to realize that the source of her amusement was in fact you, holding on to the priest’s hand and gazing up at him with unguarded interest.

Not that he had seemed to mind, though.

Not at all.

His expressive brown eyes had searched your face too with a curiosity that…did things to you.

There was no point in denying it.

When you had withdrawn your hand and Father Paul turned his attention to Evelyn and Peter, you had felt like a cloud put out the sun.

“How wonderful for you all to be back here”, Paul had exclaimed with genuine warmth.

“I imagine this must have been a nice place to grow up, huh? So safe and peaceful.”

Perhaps he was once a small-town kid himself. Or the exact opposite, always longing for big skies and strong winds rustling the curtains of his bedroom.

His bedroom.

There’s a stray thought you won’t be following.

“Hey, Y/N, come sit! We were just about to play our old game!”

You’re brought back to the here and now by Evelyn who’s gesturing at you to come back to the table.

Her and the rest of the ‘gang’ are sat at the other end from the grownups. You’ll always think of them as that, no matter your own age.

Also missing a chair, Evelyn’s now magically perched on Peter’s lap (they always did have a flirt going at school), and Erin is dealing out cards for what you suspect is the version of poker the five of you invented as teens.

There are quite a lot of alternative rules involving shots, as you remember it.

Someone has put on what sounds like an 80’s greatest hits playlist.

Wade, the mayor, most likely.

Who knows what he and Riley’s dad, Ed, got up to when they were the youngsters running wild on the island decades ago?

“No room!” you mouth at Evelyn, who’s quite tipsy and then some and thus not taking no for an answer.

“Y/N, for God’s sake, just sit down anywhere!” she chides you and then, wouldn’t you know it, she wags a finger at the hot priest with the wavy black locks of delicious hair himself, Father Paul.

He’s sat opposite your friends looking a little out of place, even if he’s the one half-responsible for the merriment.

You’re guessing he’s probably not very used to going to parties when it comes to it.

“You can sit there!” Evelyn is saying, gesturing haphazardly at Paul and then at you.

“It’s either sit on his lap, or Riley’s, if we’re going to play.”

Riley looks decidedly alarmed at the suggestion, and so, emboldened by the couple of home-mixed drinks you made in the kitchen first thing when you got here, you turn to Paul and put your hand on your hip.

“Well, Father?” you say, and raise an eyebrow. “Can I?”

Evelyn and the others are suddenly watching the scene with intense interest and you’re grateful for the bad music being so loud or this would have gotten incredibly embarrassing, incredibly fast.

Maybe it already is.

If so, you’re just about tipsy enough yourself to push ahead regardless.

“Uh, um…”

Poor Paul is looking around him for a fast exit that’s not there, and you’re half a second from laughing it off and turning to Riley who’ll just have to man up and not be such a baby about having a girl who’s not Erin sit on his lap, when the priest makes a snap decision that takes everyone by surprise.

“Of course, sure”, he says with a slightly forced nonchalant smile, and pushes his chair back.

“Be my guest.”

A silence falls over the table as all eyes turn.

You’re honestly a little stunned that Paul didn’t just get up and bid you all goodnight, but he may not have wanted it to look like he fled.

And this is so, so much better.

Excitement flutters in your stomach.

Hell yes, you’re going to sit on the hot priest’s lap and drink and play cards with your old friends.

At the parents’ end of the table, several pairs of jaws nearly hit the floor.

This will go down in Crockett lore as the time Y/N, notorious flirt in her young years, came home and shamelessly cozied up to the visiting priest.

Good thing neither you, nor Paul are staying for long.

That’s probably the only reason why the priest dares to be this blasé about it.

Except he’s not, you notice with a thrill, as you sit down on his lap and feel his fast, hot breath on your neck.

He swallows a little when you adjust yourself, legs on either side of his thighs and your back to his chest, so you face your friends on the other side of the table.

You’re wearing a short summer dress (way too summery for the weather), and as the skirt hikes up a bit, your exposed thigh makes contact with the grey denim of Paul’s slim jeans.

Even though your legs are covered by the table, it feels positively wicked, and no doubt most of the people in attendance are thinking the same thing.

Even if the parents are now trying their modest best to resume their own conversation.

For Paul’s sake, you hope nobody will throw about snide comments tomorrow.

He’s just being a friendly, hip young’ish priest, showing that he can, um, accommodate all kinds of worshippers’, um, needs.

Right?

You make yourself snort with laughter and have to fake a cough into the new drink, Evelyn has pushed across the table to you.

Bev would combust into flames if she was to walk in.

“Okay, then! Crock Poker it is!” Erin finishes dealing out cards, and you gingerly take up yours while Peter lists off the ‘rules’, making up a couple of new ones along the way.

“We’re playing together”, you say to Paul over your shoulder, and lean back a little to show him your hand.

If he wanted, he could easily rest his chin on your shoulder in this position.

He doesn’t, of course, but even so the intimacy of it all is making your scalp prickle.

“Um, okay. I’m afraid I’m not great at card games, though.”

The priest laughs a little nervously and you assure him that that’s no problem, you’re not great at it either.

“Which is why I may get a bit drunk from this, with all Peter’s rules. Just giving you a warning”, you grin, winking back at him. “You’ll be my designated driver.”

He laughs again, more at ease this time … but his mouth snaps shut so fast it’s almost comical when you adjust yourself once more and ‘accidentally’ grind down on his lap.

You feel the muscles in his thighs tense under you, and it sends waves of heat straight to your core.

The game commences, and as expected, soon you, Evelyn, and Peter are doing shots while Riley and Erin stick with cola and lime.

Paul has a root beer in front of him on the table, but since you sat down on his lap, he hasn’t reached for it, perhaps because he’d have to reach his arm around your waist, and he seems intent on sitting still as a mouse so not to cause any, well, friction between your bodies.

You, however, have no such qualms, and the more you drink, the more you delight in subtly squeezing your legs around Paul’s thighs, and leaning back just a little further whenever you say something to him, your hair brushing against his black buttoned shirt.

Every time you catch a glimpse of his collar, you feel a shameful rush of adrenaline.

He’s keeping up appearances, but to you there’s no mistaking the way his breath hitches in his throat when you lean forward to pick up a card from the table and then sit back, placing a palm on his thigh to steady yourself.

Again, the table and tablecloth are partly covering your movements, but touching him like this with your hands still feels radical.

You’re straightening up to take a sip of drink when you feel it:

The fingers of his right hand near the hemline of your skirt.

You stiffen for a second and so does he, but when you exhale, his fingers move.

Up.

Slowly pushing under the hemline.

Tracing a slow pattern on your bare flesh.

“So, Paul, tell us about your background! I feel like we don’t know you at all.”

Oh, Evelyn…

Totally oblivious to what’s happening, your friend slaps a card on the table, then looks to Paul with slightly unfocused eyes.

“Well…” Paul shifts a little, but his fingers don’t leave you.

Instead, he suddenly becomes rather talkative while his hand continues on its expedition.

Not so chaste after all…

The secrecy, the dare, is a turn on for him, you realize, as you feel him slowly growing hard.

You’re acutely aware that there’re only a couple of layers of fabric separating his cock from the wetness between your legs.

You lean over the table again to take a card from the stack.

…and grind your ass against his length when you sit up.

He stifles a groan in the middle of a sentence, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking.

You feel like the sexiest woman alive, tempting the priest like this in the middle of a room full of people.

But then Erin shatters your little bubble of lustful bliss when she asks you if you’d mind popping out to the shed at the back of the garden to get a few extra bottles of wine for ‘the parents’, who are going through the ones already on the table at an impressive speed.

Yes, Erin, dearest, you think, I do mind.

“You know the house, please, Y/N”, Erin pleads from her spot wedged in between Riley and Peter (who make no attempt to get up, typically).

It’s true. Also, you are seated closest to the door.

But dammit, you don’t want to move off the priest’s lap.

Not that you can say that out loud.

Grudgingly, you get up (Paul has to push the chair back, his hand quickly leaving you), and you try not to look too sullen as you make your way through the kitchen and out the backdoor to the garden.

The cool evening air against your hot cheeks sobers you up a bit, but your thigh all but burns where Paul’s fingers touched you, and your mind is racing.

Who is this guy?

Did he really come to Crockett voluntarily or is he some kind of renegade priest-gone-bad who’s been specifically sent out here to Nowhere Land by the church to atone for sins committed elsewhere?

It definitely didn’t feel like he had never laid hands on a woman before.

When you left the table, he had been offering Evelyn some vague, yet drawn-out cliché about giving thanks for the present and not looking back which would be quite befitting of someone hiding a shady past.

The stars are out, you notice, and you stop in the middle of the garden to look up and take a few deep breaths.

Gazing at the night sky always calms you. Centers you.

Unlike gazing into Paul’s eyes…

“Hey…”

You turn to find the very same Paul coming down the few wooden steps from the house, his footing a little uncertain although he must be stone-cold sober.

At least you think he is.

“Um, I just wanted to see if you needed help carrying something,” he says, running a hand through that gorgeous raven hair of his, and looking a whole lot less self-assured now that it’s just the two of you.

No convenient tablecloth to hide forbidden desires in plain sight.

The air between you is so charged you want to laugh.

Help you carry something?

Yeah, okay, Father.

A moment of near-awkward silence passes as you look at him and try to find the courage to say anything else than a plain “Sure”.

Which is exactly what you end up saying anyway.

Ugh.

You walk to the shed and step inside, looking for the cases of wine on the shelves lining the walls. Leftovers from Erin’s mom, you think bitterly. Good thing they’re being cleared out.

There’s a single lightbulb dangling overhead, but when you reach up to turn it on, Paul is right there behind you, gently taking your wrist.

You gasp in surprise, and he lets go of you.

Then he closes the door and you’re enveloped in darkness.

You can’t see a thing and your heart is beating out of your chest, but before you can ask him what’s going on, the priest speaks, his velvety soft voice very close to your face.

“I’m sorry for what just happened,” he murmurs. “In there. I put you in a very awkward position, and I feel bad for, uh, taking advantage like that. It was very wrong of me. I don’t know what came over me, but I’m truly, terribly sorry. I’m not that kind of man…”

He inhales as if searching for the words.

“…normally.”

You try very hard to steady your own breathing.

“And do you know what’s come over you now, Father? Having locked us in here and turned off the light, I mean?” you ask him, as innocently as you can manage.

“Um, well, I just thought…”

More silence.

Then:

“No. No, I honestly don’t. And I guess there’s no point in being anything but honest.”

It sounds like he’s smiling.

Okay.

This is happening.

Without being able to see, all your other senses are firing at full power, and you feel the change in the air when he moves a little closer still.

His breath ghosts over your face but he doesn’t touch you.

Goosebumps spread all over as it dawns on you that he won’t; he’s waiting for you.

He’s waiting for permission.

You reach a hand out, your fingertips grazing the buttons of his shirt.

His breathing is heavy, but so is yours.

You place both palms on his heaving chest and slowly run them up to his shoulders (he's so tall!), then down his toned arms while he stands perfectly still, letting you feel your way.

Your eyes have adjusted enough to the dark by now that you can see the outline of him, but only just.

You have no idea what expression he’s wearing, but somehow that makes this whole crazy scenario even hotter.

Whether he personally prefers the dark because he thinks he can hide from God or something ridiculous along those lines, you don’t care to know.

He’s here.

Your hands slide down his waist, his belt.

There’s a sharp intake of breath when your fingers play with the buckle and, smiling in the dark, you lean in closer till you can feel him against you. Feel his hardness through the front of his jeans, and the way his arms twitch in his attempt not to move.

Your hands travel upwards again, and he exhales a little – only to stop breathing when you reach his face and lightly trail his features.

You feel his eyelashes flutter shut.

His mouth is slightly open when you brush your thumb over it, but you resist the impulse to see if he’d actually suck on it.

(He would, you know it.)

You weave your fingers through his soft, thick hair while your other hand caresses his cheek. When he leans into your touch with a small sigh, you feel like the blood in your veins has been replaced with sparkling champagne.

There’s really only one thing to say:

“Kiss me.”

And though you can’t see it, you know he has opened his eyes.

His large hands find your hips, gripping you almost tentatively at first, then with more purpose, as you press yourself to him and one of his hands come up to grab a fistful of your hair.

He doesn’t pull, but his grip is not exactly light either and it makes you shiver with want while your walls constrict in anticipation for what’s to come.

Then his lips are on yours, and as the world falls down and you melt into him, there is nothing but his touch in the dark, making you feel like you’ve never been kissed before in your life.

Your tongues meet and you nearly mewl with lust while he digs his fingers into your hip with a force that’s bound to leave blue marks.

Paul’s the one to break the kiss, tugging your head back a little by your hair, and a frustrated moan escapes your lips.

The priest chuckles, his thumb rubbing your sore hipbone.

“Are you sure you want this?”

His voice is hoarse with his own desire.

“Are you kidding me? Fuck, yes,” you answer breathlessly, and he chuckles again.

To hell with the fact that you know absolutely nothing about him, or that you’re standing in Erin’s freaking shed, of all places, with a house full of semi-God-fearing townsfolk and school friends behind you.

If you have to rip open those obscene slim jeans with your teeth, you’ll do it (because, honestly, by buying pants like that he’s pretty much begging for it).

You’re reaching for his belt when a thought enters your mind.

“Wait, have you… have you done this before?” you ask, fingers pausing at the buckle.

What if the man’s a virgin?

In that case, a rushed one-night stand in a garden shed in near darkness may not spell great success.

For either of you.

Also, sober Erin may be onto to you at some point within not too long.

Paul lets go of your hair, both his hands coming to rest on your waist.

“Yes,” he answers after a few seconds, a slight strain in his voice.

You have a million questions.

You don’t ask a single one.

Before you can unbuckle his pants though, he turns slightly away from you, and it feels like he’s reaching for something.

“Wait…” he says. “I thought I saw…”

“You can see in here?” you ask incredulously, and he hesitates for just a beat before assuring you that no, he can’t see a thing.

But before closing the door he did notice a stack of deck chair pillows.

“Oh, you just happened to notice those, did you?” you ask playfully and now you’d wish you could see his face. If he’s blushing or he's cool as a cucumber.

“I think you’ll be happy I did,” comes his reply that’s just the right amount of dry sarcasm and mischievousness to make you even wetter.

He lets go of you, and there’s a sound of him moving some things around on the floor, and then he’s taking your hand, guiding you down onto the pillows he’s spread out.

The man knows his way around tight dark spaces.

You’re taking that as a very good sign.

Paul carefully lays you down on your back, and from there you can actually see him a bit better in the faint, pale moonlight now coming through the spaces around the doorframe.

He’s on his knees, one on either side of you, and this time he doesn’t stop you when you reach up to undo his belt.

His cock is straining against his jeans and from what you can make out of his features, his eyes are hooded with desire as he looks down at you.

Somehow it still feels like he can see you a lot better than you can him, but it must be your imagination.

When voices suddenly reach you from the house, with the kitchen window facing the garden, you’re reminded that you don't have all the time in the world, as much as you’d like to.

“Take off your shirt and collar,” you demand, and with what looks like a slight smirk, Paul obliges, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off his shoulders to reveal a very nicely sculpted torso.

The collar he puts down next to you a little more carefully, and you have the good sense not to make any jokes about it.

“Good. Now take off your jeans as well,” you say, and again the priest does as he’s told, and stands up to pull off his boots and socks, then his jeans till he’s standing over you in boxers that barely contain his erection.

With rays of moonlight illuminating parts of his pale skin, accentuating his build, he looks more divine than any god you know.

And slightly dangerous, too.

You don’t know why it comes to you, but it does, and it’s there:

Something within the priest is not quite right.

Besides the obvious breaking of sacred vows, he’s currently engaging in, that is.

You don’t have time to reflect on it though, as Paul now kneels between your legs and slowly pushes your dress up around your waist, then pulls it over your head (taking your bra with it!), revealing your breasts and soaked panties to him.

Hopefully he can’t see as much, but he can sure feel it when he traces the wetness with his fingers, humming appreciatively as he does so.

“Such an eager little lamb…” he muses, and you would have giggled were it not for how swiftly he pulls the garment down and off your legs, one of his knees spreading your thighs wider as soon as your most intimate parts are exposed.

“I think I would have loved to toy with you, to please you in all the way you should be pleased, but I’m afraid our time here may be rather limited…” he whispers, lowering himself down so he’s resting on his arms, his lips leaving kisses down your collarbone, the curves of your breasts...

“… which is why I’ll have to fuck you fast, now.”

Before you can respond – or gasp again – he covers your mouth with his hand.

“And you’ll stay very quiet while I do that, of course. We can’t risk ruining the party.”

His tone is at once both playful and slightly menacing, like he’s on a bit of a power rush.

Somehow it aligns very well with his intense magnetism at church.

He’s a man who loves to lead the way.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” he’s asking you now, and you can only swallow and nod, assuming he can see you.

“I knew you would.”

He removes his hand from your mouth, which he instead covers with his own.

His kiss is hungry, possessive, and when you put your arms around his neck, he breaks away to grab your wrists and pin them over your head, using one hand to hold them there, while his other finds your throbbing sex.

You arch your back off the pillows and bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out when two fingers part your slick folds, but when he proceeds to penetrate you, pumping his fingers gently in and out, you can’t stifle a desperate whimper.

You’re so turned on, you can already feel the coil tightening in your core, and when you squeeze your walls around the priest’s fingers, he’s the one trying not to moan.

“Don’t worry, I won’t deny you what you need”, he pants, removing his fingers from you so he can pull off his own underwear and settle between your legs.

He’s still holding your wrists, so you can only squirm under him when he aligns himself against your entrance and very slowly, so slowly you think you’ll lose your mind, pushes his cock into you.

It’s for your benefit though – he’s so big it actually hurts a bit when he stretches you, and you try to remember to breathe to accommodate him better.

“That’s it,” he praises you between his own gasps. “Just take it all, like that.”

The muscles in his shoulders and arms tense hard from refraining to thrust into you before you’re ready, but you’re so overcome with thirst for him that every delaying effort makes you want to scream.

“Please, Paul,” you moan, straining against his hold on your wrists.

His eyes immediately find yours and his movements stop.

Oh god, is he thinking you want him to stop?

You look him dead in the eyes.

“Just fuck me, Father. Hard.”

He kisses you again, then whispers:

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” but you can tell he’s smiling, even if he’s too close for you to see it.

You’re about to say something back, when he pushes all the way into you, filling you so perfectly it’s nearly enough to make you lose it right then and there.

As if he can tell, the priest tightens his grip on your wrists in warning.

“Oh, you’re not allowed to come before I say so, okay?”

You nod, remembering to keep quiet for him like a good girl, and he starts thrusting into you with deep, hard blows that knocks the air out of your lungs every time his hips snap against yours.

You’ve never been fucked like this before, but you never want him to stop.

And yet you know he has to, soon.

He knows it too, and when he reaches a hand down between your bodies to massage your clit, you think he’s going to let you come.

“Ughhh, yes, please”, you beg, not able to hold it in, as Paul works you quickly towards the edge.

But he’s not letting you off that easy.

A devilish glint flashes in the priest’s eyes, and he pulls out of you, quickly flipping you onto your stomach on the pillows, and then grabbing your hips to pull your ass up.

“I didn’t tell you you could come yet, did I?” he growls, pressing his cock past your dripping entrance again, and you scramble to get up on your elbows.

“Well, did I?” he’s asking you, pushing deep inside you.

“No,” you gasp.

Then, throwing caution to the wind, you add:

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

You feel his cock twitch inside you, and he tightens his grip on your hips.

“What did you just say?” he asks through clenched teeth, his breathing ragged, thrusts slowing to a halt.

“Forgive me, Father”, you mewl, going with it.

“I have sinned and need to be punis---” The last word is hardly more than a muffled sound as he thrusts into you so hard, your face is pushed into the pillows.

“You are a little sinner, aren’t you?” he rasps, gamely playing along, and as in reward, he reaches around your body to tease your swollen bundle of nerves while continuing his thrusts.

His fingers are slick from sweat and your juices, and they slip and slide over your clit while you fist into the pillows and whimper pathetically, trying not to come before he gives you permission.

He’s clearly enjoying delaying your pleasure, but finally – finally – he bends forward, plants a kiss on your glistening back, and speaks the words.

“Now, little lamb, now you can come for me. Come for me, and I’ll absolve you of your sins.”

His fingers don’t stop moving over your overstimulated nub and you come so hard you can’t hold yourself up anymore, exploding stars blinding your mind.

He fucks you through your orgasm while you writhe under him, and only when you’re completely spent, your body going limp on the pillows, does he let go himself, gasping as he spills his seed inside you.

For a while, none of you move, your labored breathing filling the shed, but then there’s a sound outside and you both start, Paul pulling out of you and straightening up.

Someone just opened the backdoor to the garden.

“Fuckfuckfuck!” you mutter and push yourself up to you knees, desperately searching for your panties on the floor.

Paul is a lot more efficient.

Somehow, he’s up in a flash, pulling on his boxers and handing you your underwear, and by the time you’ve managed to get hold of your dress and pull it over your head, he appears to be all dressed.

How?!

There are at least a thousand buttons on his shirt for christsake!

“Y/N,” he whispers urgently, grabbing your arm and pulling you in close as steps approach the shed.

He smells of sex and aftershave and something that’s just him, and the blend is intoxicating.

You have to actively shake your head to focus.

“Say that I left. That I went home.”

So dominant just minutes ago and now legitimately frightened to being found out.

You want to whisper back something smart about him maybe not thinking things through before stripping off in someone’s back yard, but then the door to the shed is being opened, and Paul steps behind it, shielding himself from sight.

Evelyn, who else, pops her head in, squinting in the darkness.

“Helloooo”, she croons, having crossed over from tipsy to plastered since you last saw her.

“What on Earth are you doing out here, Y/N?? Erin sent me to rescue you…and the wine. Or maybe she just sent me to get wine…”

You’re so relieved you don’t have to deal with Erin or Riley asking actual sober person questions that you laugh and put an arm around your friend, gently steering her out of the shed again as she tries to cross the threshold.

“Thank you, Evie, for rescuing me. I was just, um, deciding which bottles to bring in. So much stuff out here, you know”.

Evelyn nods dramatically.

“Yes. Very sad,” she slurs. “You know what else is sad, Y/N? The hot priest left! Didn’t even say goodbye…”

“Oh?” you respond, trying to sound casual, but you might as well not have bothered. Evelyn is already moving on.

“But! But, Y/N, look at the moooon!”

She staggers into the middle of the garden to look up, swaying dangerously from side to side.

You hastily step back inside the shed and look around you for the wine, but Paul shoves four bottles into your arms before you can get your bearings.

Again, how?!

He pushes the door closed with his foot, and takes your face in his hands, kissing you.

You pray Evelyn is as drunk as she looks and sounds.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “This was a rare gift.”

He brushes a lock of hair out of your face, and you want to touch him so badly, but you have the stupid bottles to hold on to.

“I thought so, too,” you reply, not wanting this to be your last exchange.

You’re trying to think of something else to say, but he beats you to it.

“Um, maybe, if you want, and you don’t wake tomorrow with a paralyzing moral hangover, you could come by the rectory sometime during the day? Just to talk, I mean. I feel like we…skipped past the talking part rather quickly tonight.”

His hands are by his sides now. Something about that feels so wrong, so demonstrably distant, seeing as your naked bodies were just pressed against each other.

And his cum is leaking into your underwear.

“Please touch me…”, you whisper, and he immediately puts his arms around you.

“I’ll come by,” you smile up at him, certain that he can see you, even if you can’t see his face now the door has closed behind you again.

“I’d love to talk. I’m sure you’ve got some fascinating stories to share.”

He chuckles softly.

“See you tomorrow then,” he says, planting a parting kiss on your nose in a gesture so sweet, it feels as intimate as the fucking you did on the floor.

You giggle like a schoolgirl.

“Okay, Resident Hot Priest of Crockett. Sweet dreams till then.”

You leave the shed and find Evelyn twirling on the grass, still looking up at the sky.

“The moon is fuuull, Y/N, have you seen? I think me and Petey are finally gonna do it tonight. Full moons make people SO HORNY!!!”

She shouts the last part at the top of her lungs into the night, and you nearly drop the bottles laughing.

Things are definitely looking up on Crockett Island, you're sure of it.

Thank you for reading!

You can check out my other Father Paul and John Tyler smut fics here:

MASTERLIST

#father paul fanfiction #midnight mass fanfiction #hamish linklater #father paul #midnight mass #father paul hill #monsignor john pruitt #monsignor pruitt #father paul fic #hamish linklater x reader #father paul x reader #john pruitt #father paul smut #midnight mass smut #priest smut

2K notes · View notes

alwaysahiccupandastrid · 4 years

Text

Social Media AU - Richie Tozier comes out during a show

I decided that this AU works better with a written headcanon to go with it, and so I’ve included it underneath the cut. It’s a little rough because it’s been a LONG time since I sat down and properly wrote something, but I tried!

Enjoy!

Holy shit.

He couldn’t believe he’d done that.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His manager was talking shit in his ear, prowling after him like fuck knows what, talking about “there’ll be backlash for this” and “not part of the plan”, and even “you’ve ruined your whole fucking career”. The usual stuff, really. Richie couldn’t bring himself to give a shit though, not right now. His heart was pounding ridiculously loud in his chest, blood rushing through him and making him feel dizzy – adrenaline mostly, but also some anxiety too.

Somehow he found himself in his backstage dressing room, manager still nagging him and furiously demanding answers. Pull it together, Tozier, pull it together.

“What in God’s name were you thinking?!” Brad hissed, slamming his hand down on the dressing table; the bottle of water next to the mirror topped slightly from the force of it. “This is a PR nightmare!”

“I don’t give a shit,” Richie said simply, giving a shrug. “What can I say, man? Gotta be true to myself.”

A vein seemed to throb in his manager’s forehead. “You just announced that you’re gay in front of hundreds of people, Richie, most of whom are within the demographic that are the least accepting of homosexuality! You think you’re the first gay person to be in this position? Because you’re fucking not, okay, there’s a reason PR is a thing! Your image is going to be ruined within just a few short hours of all of this!”

“So you want me to lie about it?” Richie snapped. “I’m done lying, okay? I’m done with the dumb girlfriend jokes, I’m done with the misogynistic shit that I’m having to recite, I’m fucking done! I shouldn’t be ashamed about this, it’s 2017 for fuck sake!”

“Alright, sure, it’s a more accepting time, but your fan base...in case it escaped your notice, you have a certain demographic, and it’s not ‘woke’ gay people. The people who came to your show tonight wanted to see the Richie Tozier they know and love, they wanted those jokes and that humor - not your life story and an impromptu coming out!”

“Well, tough shit to them - like I said, if I’m doing these shows, I’ll do it with my own jokes, not hiding who I am anymore.”

“Richie, it’s not that simple-”

There was a knock on the still-open door; a stagehand gawked at them, a little nervously, before clearing her throat. “Um… I’m sorry to interrupt, I… Well… These guests have VIP passes, and they wanted to see Rich- I mean, Mr Tozier right away.”

Behind her, Richie could see the rest of the Losers Club waiting awkwardly, clearly trying not to look at him or his manager. He cleared his throat and gave what he hoped was an at least somewhat polite nod. “Yeah, they’re friends of mine. Thank you. Brad,” He turned to his manager and gave him a meaningful look. “Some privacy please?”

Brad straightened his blazer but nodded too. “Of course. I have...things to try and fix. We’ll discuss this later, Richie.”

He waited until both the stagehand and his manager were out of earshot before gesturing for his friends to come into the dressing room; all of them looked nervous, clearly trying to pretend that they hadn’t overheard the argument, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind - he was just so glad to see them all right now.

“So…” He said, closing the door behind them and trying to look like he was holding it together. “What- What did you think?”

“You were great, Richie,” Bill said sincerely - and that seemed to make the others more comfortable too, judging by how they all started to smile and rush to embrace him.

“You did a wonderful job, Richie,” Beverly told him, giving him a squeeze and beaming at him. “You had us all laughing the entire show.”

Ben was grinning widely. “Far funnier than any of your old material, that’s for sure.”

“You were actually funny,” Stan said, though he was smiling fondly. “Never thought I’d say that, Trashmouth, but it’s true - if only you were that funny when we were kids.”

“Ha, fuck you too, Stan Urine,” Richie joked, but he was unable to stop himself from exhaling in relief. “I’m glad you all enjoyed the show - was kinda worried it wouldn’t get the same laughs as my old stuff.”

“Your old stuff was fake,” Mike brushed off, giving him a kind smile. “We could see it was really you up there, being yourself.”

Richie felt a little dazed by all the attention; he was briefly aware of Bill and Mike both patting him on the back, of Stan and Patty sharing a small laugh as they recounted something he’d said during the show, Audra congratulating him and saying how happy she was to finally meet all of her husband’s friends, Ben grinning widely, Beverly holding his arm and stating that she was so proud-

Eddie.

Fuck.

“Has anyone seen Eddie?” He blurted out, unable to stop himself. Everyone else fell into silence. “Oh shit. Fucking shit-”

“He just went out for some air,” Beverly said quickly, though she looked uncertain. “I think it’s just...a lot for him.”

“I gotta go find him,” Richie muttered, immediately heading for the door. “Fucking fuck...”

Ben’s arm stopped him before he could touch the handle. “Rich, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“No, I need to apologize to him, I need to explain-”

“Richie,” Bill said quietly. “You just said you’ve been in love with him since we were kids, in front of hundreds of people. Everyone will know by tomorrow, even if they weren’t at tonight’s show. It’s a lot for him to take in.”

Something anxious and vile reared up in Richie’s chest, making him feel like it was difficult to breathe. “I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked this up, oh fuck...I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Richie-”

“It’s okay, Richie, don’t panic-”

“Shit, what’s he gonna think?! Fuck, I’ve ruined our whole friendship, what the fuck is wrong with me?!”

“You haven’t fucked anything up, Richie.”

“Rich, please just breathe, okay?”

He was only somewhat aware of Beverly’s hand in his arm, gently pulling him over to the nearby chair and sitting him down. “Richie, honey, have some water and just focus on breathing, okay?”

Knowing he had no choice in the matter, he took a gulp from the water bottle she passed him, focusing on her voice and doing his best to push his fears away. Tonight was supposed to have been the opposite of this - he was supposed to be brave, to stand tall, to not be ashamed of who he was. Instead he was terrified, filled with regret and uncertainty.

A part of him was briefly aware of someone (Bill, he figured) saying they were going to find Eddie before stepping out of the room. A minute or so later, he noticed the others starting to filter out of his dressing room, muttering that they were going to give him some space to breathe and not overcrowd him - they’d wait for him outside. He could only hope that security had managed to get any fans waiting out back to go away - normally he didn’t mind signing autographs or saying hello to people, but after tonight’s show...no. He couldn’t.

You’ve really fucked this up, Tozier.

---

Beverly walked with him as they left, her presence welcome and calming; she didn’t speak, and he was grateful for that - he just knew that she understood, that she was on his side no matter what was to come. Then again, he was sure all the Losers would be there for him no matter what - they were like a family, he sometimes thought, a family of misfits and nobodies that found each other, found a group where they could be themselves.

Fuck, he loved his friends so much.

“You want me to drive?” Beverly asked finally when they reached the car park, looking around; the others were nearby, crowded together and talking amongst themselves. “Or do you have a limo these days, Mr Comedian?”

“Hilarious,” He said dryly. “No, but I have a driver sometimes. I can call him and tell him to head home for the night though.”

They had nearly reached the others before Richie realized that all of his friends were there.

Eddie was there.

His throat closed up. No, no, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t-

“Eds,” Beverly said softly, giving him a kind smile.

Eddie gave a small nod, hands in his pockets and suddenly looking awkward. “Yeah… Erm… Hi, Richie.”

Everyone was silent. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife as they all debated what to do, none of them clearly sure of what to say in this situation. Richie tried to meet Eddie’s eye, only to find the other man staring at the floor resolutely; anxiety and worry gnawed at Richie’s insides at the sight.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of awkwardness, Mike cleared his throat and looked around at everyone. “How about we go grab a drink?” He prompted. “You know, to celebrate.”

“Sounds like a good idea, Mikey,” Bill sighed with relief, quickly glancing at Richie and Eddie.

“We’re all booked in the same hotel, right?” Beverly decided quickly, not waiting for an answer before continuing. “How about we go for a drink at the bar? That way none of us need to worry about driving or trying to find our way home.”

The others murmured in agreement, though it was clear that things were still awkward. As they started to make their way out of the car park, Stan and Bill navigating and leading the way, Richie noticed Beverly’s hand leave his arm; before he could question her, however, he found himself face-to-face with Eddie - immediately his throat felt dry, voice mysteriously gone for once in his life.

“Richie.” Eddie’s expression was hard to read; he didn’t seem angry but he didn’t seem happy or pleased either, just...carefully neutral. “Look, we need to… We need to talk.”

“Yeah,” Richie managed. “I guess so.”

Eddie hesitated for a second or two before turning to call to the others over his shoulder. “We’ll meet you guys there.”

None of the other Losers commented on this; instead, Bill merely nodded and gestured in the direction that they were heading. “Sure. Take your time.”

As soon as their friends were far away enough not to overhear, Eddie looked at Richie pointedly. “Is there somewhere private we can go or…?”

“Err… Dressing rooms might still be open?”

“And we won’t be overheard?”

“No. I have a private dressing room, dude.”

Eddie rolled his eyes at this but gestured back towards the theatre. “Alright, fine. Lead the way, Trashmouth.”

Weirdly enough, the nickname made him feel more comfortable - it was almost like nothing had changed, like he didn’t just admit in front of hundreds of people that he was in love with this man, like he didn’t admit it in front of said man. For a moment, Richie allowed himself to think that everything would be fine; they’d talk it out, maybe be able to laugh it off, and it would be good. Not great, to be honest, but better than this hiding and lying.

---

Thankfully security had allowed him to go back to his dressing room, under the guise that he had “forgotten” something, and they didn’t ask about Eddie accompanying him - awkward questions would have made it much more humiliating for all parties involved, he thought. Richie wasted no time in opening the dressing room door to let Eddie in before closing and locking it for good measure, just to be sure that they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“Here, urgh… You take the chair, I can sit on the table,” He offered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie brushed off, crossing his arms and suddenly avoiding his eye. “I’m kinda too nervous to sit.”

“Oh. Thank fuck, me too.”

He noticed Eddie’s lips quirk upwards, as if he was trying not to let himself smile - that was definitely a good sign. He waited for the other man to speak first, partly to be fair but also because, frankly, he had no idea what to say.

“So… Congrats on coming out?” Eddie finally offered - and then they both burst into laughter. “Fuck, that sounds so dumb.”

“Yeah, but it’s kinda cute,” Richie chuckled before he could stop himself - and then he froze up again. “I mean… I don’t mean…”

Eddie seemed to realize what he meant and his smile faded. “Right. That.”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Richie said quickly. “I should have told you in private or something, not on a fucking stage in a stand-up routine. I mean, I was going to imply that I’m gay as fuck, that was planned, but I wasn’t going to just put it out there like that, it just happened. And shit, I wasn’t even intending on saying all that about you, but I saw you sitting in the front row and… Jesus, Eddie, I just saw you laughing and I-”

“Richie,” Eddie interrupted, and the other man fell silent. “Look, man, this is all… Okay. Alright.” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before speaking again. “What you said during the show about me…about how you feel...you meant it.”

Richie swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I meant it.”

“Since we were kids?” Eddie continued, waiting for the other man to nod. “Okay… Richie, I swear to God, if this is some practical fucking joke or whatever - something for you to get laughs or make fun of me or whatever dumb shit goes through your head - then I will punch you in the face right fucking now.”

“What? No, no this isn’t a fucking joke!” Richie retorted, almost offended by this accusation. “You think I would say all that shit on-stage in front of hundreds of fucking people just for a joke?! Fuck off.”

“Okay, okay, I know, I’m sorry, I just… It’s a lot to take in,” Eddie muttered. When his friend didn’t say anything, he cast a look at him, seeming to study his face, before sighing. “Rich, I’m not about to turn around and start screaming slurs at you just because you had a crush on me.”

“I didn’t-”

“I can see it on your face, dumbass. Richie,” He leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re my friend - one of my best friends, actually. Nothing you say could make me hate you...well, not anymore than I do already.”

Richie gave a small, pained laugh, though the relief was evident on his face. “Right. Yeah. Thanks, Eds.”

For a long moment that seemed to stretch on for a lifetime, neither of them said anything else; Eddie’s hand remained on Richie’s shoulder, the taller man just looking at him gratefully. There was still a nagging feeling within him, something eating up at his insides and wondering if Eddie was just hiding any anger or disgust, maybe he just didn’t want to ruin a good night; they still hadn’t really addressed the whole “hey, I’m in love with my best friend Eddie” thing either, that could be awkward-

“Me too.”

Richie blinked. “What?”

Eddie’s hand fell away, and he merely just shrugged as he looked away from Richie. “Me too. I’m...I’m gay.”

“Oh. Oh. Eddie…”

“During the divorce proceedings with Myra, I...I started to think,” He continued, almost to himself. “Actually, it was before that, before I even left Derry. I would hate myself, you know, for every time I looked at a cute guy too long, every time I thought they were handsome in their best clothes or whatever. I’d push it away because I’d think it was not okay, that I was being disgusting or dirty or…”

Richie was stunned by this, suddenly at a loss for words. “Dirty? Come on, dude, you’re like the cleanest asshole I know - there’s not a microbe of dirt or whatever the fuck on you.”

“Hilarious. Really.” But Eddie wasn’t smiling. “Look, ever since the day we...we defeated IT, I’ve thought about it. I have. I thought about you helping me out before that fucking nightmare of a house collapsed, thought about you dragging my ass to hospital and demanding I get immediate attention, about how brave you were that day. After that I decided that I wanted to be brave too - you made me want to be brave and stand up for myself.” He paused. “That sounds cheesey as fuck, I know, but it’s true. And tonight, when you were telling your own jokes, stuff you’d written and worked hard on, I realized it again - that I want to be brave. I don’t want to be scared to admit it.”

“Really?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. But there’s something else, Rich...the only person I told before now is Bev, and that’s because she guessed, you know? She could tell, but I also knew she’d listen and not judge.” He took a deep breath. “When I was in the hospital, every time I woke up, you were there - you refused to leave me. The others would be there too, usually taking turns, but you didn’t do that - you were always there. And before that, when we were stuck in that fucking thing’s lair, I saw you…” His voice failed for a moment, and he hurriedly looked away. “Fuck, Richie, you were under the deadlights and I...I thought I was going to lose you. I couldn’t bear it, Rich - I just couldn’t. I had to do something, I had to save you even if it meant putting myself in danger.”

“Well…” Richie wasn’t sure what to say - this wasn’t how he imagined this conversation going at all. “It worked. I’m not dead.”

“No, I know. But do you get what I’m trying to say, Richie?” Eddie asked anxiously. “Why I’m telling you all this?”

“I dunno, man,” Richie said dazedly, trying not to get his hopes up - he couldn’t, he couldn’t let himself think one thing and be brought down when it was not true, not if he could help it. “This whole night has been a clusterfuck for me, and I’m not entirely convinced I’m not high and hallucinating right now.”

It wasn’t true - he hadn’t been high in nearly five years, and he’d given up excessive drinking after reuniting with the Losers. He knew Eddie knew that already, but it was the first excuse he found himself latching onto.

“Jesus Christ, Richie.” The smaller man rolled his eyes but remained otherwise serious. “I’m trying to say that I’ve...I’ve liked you since we were kids too. Loved you, actually. God knows why since you’re an idiot who annoys the shit out of me, but damn it, I love you, Richie Tozier.”

“…Fuck.”

“I was never going to tell you,” Eddie admitted, folding his arms and looking rather uncomfortable. “Even though I decided I was going to try to be brave, that I wasn’t going to keep up with a sham of a marriage, I thought that you weren’t…you know. And I thought that even if you were, then I’d be the last one you’d want to be with.” Strangely, he gave a smile. “Fucking dumb, right?”

Richie nodded. “Very fucking dumb. Jesus, Eddie, do you not see the way I’ve been looking at you? Fuck, there’s been days you’ve given me boners in public just because I was thinking about you.”

“Urgh, too much information, asshole,” Eddie huffed – but the affection behind it was obvious, his facial expression softening. “So…where does this leave us, Richie? What happens next?”

“Next?” Richie considered this. “Well, being honest, I’d love to take you out and do this shit properly, but…”

“But?”

He hesitated, giving the other man a surprisingly serious look. “But that’s your choice – if you wanna stay friends, I respect that.”

To his surprise, Eddie huffed before stepping forwards; before Richie could say anything else, he was being kissed firmly on the mouth, hands cupping his face and pulling him close. He wasted no time in closing his eyes and kissing him back, his heart soaring as his entire body came alive.

For the first time all night, the panic and anxiety that had set him on edge flowed away completely: all he felt was exhilaration and relief – and love, love for this man in his arms. Suddenly it didn’t matter about what anyone else thought – whether ‘fans’ would send him hate online, how this could impact his entire career, his manager hounding him with how much he’d regret this – because none of it was important, not as important as this, as finally being able to hold the person he loved, who he’d always loved, and being able to be open with himself as well as those closest to him.

Yeah, Richie thought to himself blissfully, he didn’t regret his decision in the slightest.

#the written part is so bad but lol whatevs i guess #reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #social media au #it #bill denbrough #mike hanlon #beverly marsh #stan uris #stanley uris #ben hanscom #my writing

4K notes · View notes