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13atoms · 3 years

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Deep Focus: Chapter 3 [Tom Hiddleston x Reader]

Summary: Tom is a successful porn director with a romantic streak which proves very popular with his female audience. His resident porn actress and business partner has been with him through thick and thin, the two of them growing completely inseparable, even as her own career starts taking off. But working in such close proximity is intense, and burgeoning feelings threaten to complicate their professional relationship.

Mature, smut, porn director!AU, ethical porn production discussion, porn-star-and-coworker!reader. Friends to lovers, slow-ish burn. This chapter: no smut, light hurt / comfort, all fluff. Warnings for usual stuff + UTI talk [6k] Ao3 link

You woke up in agony. With an ache through your entire lower body, and that distinctive, painful need to piss that made you want to cry. After a few dazed moments in the bathroom, you realised what was wrong, and bit back tears as at the overwhelming sensation cramping through your entire lower body.

Before you’d even googled the symptoms, you knew Urinary Tract Infection would be at the top of your screen. Next to it, a new message from Tom, asking some question about a file he couldn’t find.

Fuck off, you wanted to send back, crawling back to bed and struggling to focus on the words as the burning sensation refused to subside. Another message followed it:

Tom: Actually no rush, we can go over it in the office.

A few more seconds, and he’d sent:

Tom: Does 12 still work

Tom: I’ll bring snacks :)

That stupid smiley face. He still couldn’t work out emojis. Usually it would endear him to you, but instead it brought tears to your eyes, your duvet both a comfort and unbearably stifling as you wrapped yourself around it, desperately shifting your hips to find a position which might numb the burning pain from that fucking UTI.

You were hungry, shaky, and you knew if you wanted painkillers you’d have to get food. But it was so far away. And the thought of cooking food made you want to throw up. Or scream into the pillow.

Your phone buzzed again.

Tom: ?

It wasn’t his fault. You knew it wasn’t his fault. Even if he had written the script and directed the scene and then trapped you into a heartwarming conversation which had definitely given bacteria the chance to destroy your urethra and bladder after hours of being fucked and fingered and you were going to kill him if he sent one more fucking text.

Grumpy and in pain and curled up in bed, it felt exhausting to even compose a short text which was polite enough to not hurt his feelings.

Sorry, don’t think I can make it in. Need a sick day.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, and considering just sucking it up and going in to the office. Maybe if you could grin and bear it, it might take your mind off things. Then you needed to piss again, pain pulsing in your entire lower abdomen, and you cursed the day you ever took the damn job. As you limped to and back from the bathroom, grabbing a huge glass of water on the way, the insistent buzz of your phone interrupted your pity party.

Of course it was Tom calling you.

You thought about not picking up, but you knew he’d only worry more. And some small part of you wanted the sympathy, as you forced yourself to chug water you knew would burn on the way out and lamented the bloated pain in your bladder.

“Hey, Tom.”

A second after you picked up, he was already in a full blown speech.

“Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on? You should have said you weren’t feeling well yesterday, we didn’t need to shoot. It’s – ”

He trailed off, and you smiled at the sound of his huff down the phone, his frustration at himself as he realised he wasn’t giving you space to talk. Even as the pain in your lower stomach demanded your attention, you caught yourself smiling.

“I’m fine, just feeling a bit worse for wear.”

For a beat he was silent, but you could imagine the furrow in his brow, the way his eyes would soften with concern if you could see his face.

“What’s really wrong?”

His voice was so soft, laced with that rare kind of sincerity that left you feeling like he truly, truly cared, and suddenly you realised you were crying. Stumbling over your words, face screwed up from discomfort, you knew you should be mortified to be sobbing down the phone to him. But Tom wouldn’t care.

“I’ve got a UTI, and it really fucking hurts. I should have peed straight after the shoot yesterday but I forgot and I don’t think I can get out of bed. I’m really sorry, I’ll – I’ll make up on the work. Email me what I need to do I just… I can’t do it today,” you choked out.

On the other end of the phone, you could hear Tom was moving.

“Oh, darling. Don’t even think about the work. You don’t need to apologise. I’m… what do I need to do? I’m on my way over.”

You wouldn’t expect anything less, the unguarded concern and tinge of panic in his voice catching you off-guard with how sweet it was. He was really worried. The conversation from yesterday loomed large in your memory – was he just worried about losing his biggest talent? You knew that wasn’t true, cursing yourself as soon as the thought flitted through your mind. He really cared.

Background noise leaked through the call as he put his phone on speaker, the jangle of keys and the sound of doors slamming telling you he was getting ready to leave.

“Tom, it’s fine. Please. I don’t need you to look after me,” you protested, “just the day off is great.”

He said your name lowly, almost a whine, and you knew he wouldn’t be discouraged whatever you said.

“I’m fine…” you returned, equally stubborn. You expected him to laugh, but instead the phone was returned to his ear, his voice clear as glass, with all of his decisive firmness.

“You said you couldn’t get out of bed. I’m coming over.”

It was enough to forget the discomfort you felt, your heart clenching at his protectiveness. You could keep fighting him – some part of you didn’t want him seeing you sick – but in truth it sounded really nice to be looked after. You curled up tighter in your bed, the screen of the phone cooling against your overheated cheek.

“So I’ll ask again,” he continued, “is there anything I can do to help?”

“Could you grab some cranberry juice on the way over? And maybe some junk food?”

“Of course. You should have just asked.”

“Thank you.”

Your voice sounded impossibly small, some admission of weakness, but Tom didn’t acknowledge it. He chatted for a bit longer, the sounds of the city playing in snatches alongside his baritone as he walked through the streets, blathering and giving you advice and smothering you with sympathy as he rushed over. It made you smile as you just listened, distracted a little from the pain and pressure in your bladder, as he offered completely vague and generic advice about looking after yourself.

It was nice. To have someone care for you that much. He was completely forgiven for his hand in causing you all that pain to start with.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t go to a doctor?”

You heard him stop walking, no longer distracted from his worry as it leeched into his voice. You could imagine the little row of shops he was standing outside of, the faded shopfronts he was staring down.

“I’ll be fine, Tom.”

“There’s a pharmacy on the way –”

“No!” you laughed, imaging his frustration as it was accompanied by the beeping of traffic lights.

He only hung up as he entered a shop, promising he wasn’t too far away, and as the line went dead you realised you’d been smiling for the past five minutes.

When Tom arrived you were just leaving the bathroom, rushing to the door and drying your hands on your sweatpants, fighting to stand normally even as a fresh burning pain demanded your attention.

He was juggling bags as you let him in, one in his arms and a backpack weighing him down.

“Hey!” he greeted, bustling past you to the kitchen, leaving you to close the door behind him.

You privately liked it when he was like this – on a warpath. It happened on set quite a lot, everything else forgotten as he found a goal and the blinders went on. You were usually there to balance him out – to remember to talk to people and do the boring stuff.

His current warpath was rummaging through your cupboards, muttering about all the things you needed to be given to feel better. He turned to face you slightly out of breath, a completely over reactionary panic in his eyes.

“I got you breakfast too, I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten.”

As he set his backpack down on your kitchen counter, unpacking pastries and painkillers and snacks, you wondered what you had done to deserve Tom. Without thinking, ignoring the fact you were just wearing sweats and probably needed a shower, you hugged him. Pulling you closer to him without hesitation, you felt Tom smile against you.

You blamed the pain, the hunger, the stupid bacteria, for the tears pooling in your eyes.

“Thank you,” you murmured into the hug.

Tom squeezed you just a little bit tighter, one hand tensing where it splayed flat against your shoulder blade. He refused to let you go first.

“Of course,” he murmured back.

Finally you stepped back, ducking you head to avoid his eyeline, turning your attention to the stuff he’d brought. Tom seemed to take a second to snap out of his daze, his overwhelming energy momentarily sapped, allowing the moment to fade away.

As he started to unpack the bag, you realised just how overboard he had gone. Every brand of cranberry juice you could imagine. You got a narrative of everything he bought as he stacked it in front of you, batting your hands if you tried to help.

“I know you said not to, but I spoke to a pharmacist on the way over. He said you don’t need to see a doctor unless it’s bad for another three days, then they might give you antibiotics. I got you paracetamol too – he said that was best.”

Two boxes of pills emerged from the bag, followed by chocolate.

“Since you feel rough,” he explained sheepishly, before pulling out more pills, “and I also got Vitamin C tablets. Those are supposed to help. Snacks for lunch…”

He’d practically bought you the whole corner shop, and you bit back a fond smile as he filled the fridge.

“…and cranberry juice. As requested.”

You were about to thank him, the words trapped in your mouth at just how overboard he had gone, but Tom was already speaking again.

“I know he said just to give you painkillers, but if it gets worse I will take you to see a doctor. Your kidneys might be at risk if it doesn’t clear up soon –”

You sat down heavily in the kitchen, pulling your legs closer to yourself as the pain spiked for a moment, making Tom twist to face you in concern. It fucking hurt, but you wouldn’t let him see that. With a huff of laughter, you tugged at his arm to sit beside you.

“Tom! You are mothering me to death,” you teased, feeling your cheeks burn hot at his attention.

“I’m hopefully mothering you to make you feel better, darling.”

Damn him, for being so sweet. You felt yourself blush under the attention.

“Just because you need me to find that file!” you shot back, trying not to stare at the way his teeth worried his bottom lip.

His eyes met yours intensely, purposefully, and for a second you remembered his uncanny ability to be so sincere it felt like he was staring right through you.

“It’s not just work. I care about you,” he told you candidly. You almost couldn’t bear to listen to it. “I was so worried when you said you were sick. I hoped you were just hungover or something.”

Snorting a laugh, you tried to break the heaviness of the atmosphere. It sounded horrifically unnatural. Tom didn’t even crack a smile.

“There’s a reason we start at 12 most days,” you teased, before sensing you’d somehow gotten the mood entirely wrong. Tom stayed quiet.

“Thank you,” you tried again, voice more sincere as you tried to match him, wincing as you shifted your hips, “I do really appreciate it. So much. I was just going to lie in bed and be miserable, and this is actually making me feel better.”

You’re making me feel better. The thought went unsaid.

“I’m glad.”

The pair of you ate in silence for a while, Tom working on an orange as you munched through the breakfast he’d brought you. Every few bites, you caught his concerned gaze on you.

“You should have told me straight away. And we’ll get you the week off work.”

You went to protest, but he’d strategically spoken as you had a mouth full of food. He ploughed on.

“No arguments. We can reschedule the shoot on Thursday, or hire someone else.”

“Tom, no. I’ll be fine once I’ve down the… three cartons of cranberry juice you bought. How much do I owe you, by the way?”

“Not a penny.”

“Tom!”

He ignored your complaints, silently moving to stand instead. As Tom searched for a glass, opening random cupboards, you picked a carton to chug cranberry juice from with all the grace of a frat boy. Tom laughed at first, before resting on hand on your arm as you forced yourself to drink as much as you could.

“You’ll make yourself sick!” he protested, and you finally conceded defeat and put down the remaining half of the carton.

“Better than this UTI,” you grumbled, “cranberry juice usually clears them pretty quick.”

He left you to it for a while as you forced down the sickly sweet cranberry juice (not your favourite brand, you decided, but it would do) and finished your breakfast.

Assuming he was responding to emails you sat quietly, letting him focus while you enjoyed the food, until you caught the banner of WebMD at the top of his screen. You sighed, and Tom’s focus was on you in a second, worry in the lines of his forehead.

“Is it bad?” he asked quietly, glancing down at the hand firmly place on your lower stomach.

“It’s not ideal,” you conceded.

He bit his lip, and you knew he was sinking further into a pit of worry.

“People have them all the time. Stop reading that, I’ll be okay!”

“I just get scared. Whenever I see what you go through at work, I – ”

“You make it sound like I’m suffering some terrible fate, Tom. It’s my job, and I have to do it. This could have happened from anything.”

You cut yourself off before you could accuse him of overreacting. He was sincerely worried. You didn’t want to mock that.

“You could get a hot water bottle, if you don’t mind?” you suggested, “That helps sometimes.”

He was on his feet before you finished speaking, rummaging through cupboards and flicking the kettle on. It seemed like a good solution, to give him a task. You chewed your last bite of croissant slowly as you watched him.

Sweet, sweet Tom. It was dangerous to admit, but you had no idea what you would do if he wasn’t in your life. You watched the line of his slim build as he strode around your kitchen, filling the hot water bottle and testing the heat of it against his hand before he guided you to stand.

“Come and sit on the sofa, love.”

One hand outstretched, a fluffy water bottle grasped against his side, curls dishevelled, you were taken aback yet again by just how rare Tom was. You often wondered if he had some secret partner you’d never heard about, some situationship or wife or something he kept hidden from you.

It just didn’t seem possible a man like this could go home to an empty house. Your heart ached for him, sometimes. His loneliness, as he fought to climb the ladder in such a harsh industry with that ridiculously soft heart of his.

Then he was calling your name, stepping closer with concern on his face, reaching for your jaw as you stood dazed.

“Sweetheart?”

“Sorry,” you blinked, trying to snap out it, stumbling forwards a little as you tried to reassure him you were fine.

One hand still rested awkwardly on your aching lower stomach, and Tom was shoving the hot water bottle beneath it, arms ready to brace you if you fell. Fuck. Embarrassment overtook your senses, tears starting to well in your eyes, as you realised just how shit you felt.

Tom was muttering about sitting down, guiding you as if you couldn’t navigate to your own sofa without help, a helpless concern on his face which was making your heart ache with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered again as he helped you sit, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to pee, by a fresh pain in your stomach. By Tom’s hands on you, the smell of his cologne and the concerned crinkle of his forehead as he knelt on the ground in front of you.

Leaning forwards, you tried to be subtle as you shoved the hot water bottle tighter against your lap and grit your teeth against the fresh wave of discomfort. Those painkillers had better kick in soon. With your eyes clenched shut you didn’t have to see Tom’s concern, didn’t have to imagine yourself weak and useless in his eyes. Even so, your embarrassment about him witnessing you like this was potent. You hardly felt like you were in your own body, confused and clumsy. You realised you were still gripping Tom’s hand, probably hurting his fingers as you squeezed involuntarily from the pain.

You let go suddenly, gasping as you remembered to breathe, hand covering your own eyes instead.

He was watching silently, and it unnerved you more than his rambling. Under the mask of your fingers you opened your eyes, seeing the fold of his knees against the floor and the wringing of his hands in his lap.

All you could hear was your breathing and his, slow and fast respectively.

Fuck, you needed to piss again. Damn cranberry juice. The knowledge that it would flush your system was all the comfort you could grasp as the uncomfortable pressure in your bladder became abruptly unbearable and the pain seemed to swell further, somehow.

You thought for a moment, your brain ticking along painfully slowly with exhaustion and pain, enjoying the darkness of your eyes screwed closed beneath your palm.

Ignore Tom. Stand up. Get to the bathroom. Pee.

In your confusion-addled brain, it felt like enough of a plan. The discomfort was so potent, it was hard to string thoughts together. After a few seconds of bracing yourself, it felt like every muscle in your body strained to stand back up again, resting a hand on the couch for balance as you swayed for a second, blinking against the sudden brightness bombarding your opened eyes. Tom was asking you what you were doing, but you ignored him. You felt drunk, nauseous, staggering and eyes still welling with tears at the sheer agony of straightening up to walk the few steps to the bathroom.

You could ignore Tom, this fresh well of misery making his words seem miles away, but as you finally got close the bathroom door his hands on your hips halted you in place.

He forced you to look at him, eyes struggling to focus on his features, the deep frown on his face deepening as he saw the tear tracking down your cheek.

“What are you doing?” he asked purposefully, overenunciating the words like he was speaking to a stubborn child, hands grounding you as he held you still.

“Bathroom.”

The words seemed like someone else’s, taking an impossible amount of effort, shaky as they fell from your lips. You realised you were fully crying, and some distant, rational part of you felt a stab of mortification.

“Okay,” Tom nodded in understanding, still using that slow, controlled tone.

He didn’t seem to have anything else to comment, guiding you to the bathroom door and opening it, letting you walk inside before holding it open by the handle.

You frowned, struggling to find the words to complain to him, desperate to pee and try to end the pain in your sensitive bladder. Tom’s face was still creased with concern, a fresh tinge of quiet authority in the set of his jaw.

“Please don’t lock the door,” he insisted, and you frowned. “I won’t… I won’t open it. I promise. But please don’t lock it. Just in case.”

You nodded mutely, unhappy, but not quite having the presence of mind to argue. Tom closed the door, and you sighed, accepting his deal as you nervously sat to pee, eyes fixed on the handle. He was probably pacing outside, and you tried not to think about how embarrassing this all was as you let your face fall to your hands, trying to scrub away the tears which had begun to itch on your cheeks.

It burned, and you exhaled shakily. You reached to turn on a tap, and hoped Tom couldn’t hear.

Fuck this. Fuck this.

The fogginess of reality was cut through sharply by pain, and the all-consuming ache which seemed to suddenly rage through your entire pelvis, your worry about the unlocked door only adding to the sheer misery this day seemed to have planned for you.

“All okay?” Tom called through the door, shocking you with the reminder of just how close he was.

With a wince you cleared your throat, trying to hide the weakness of your voice as you prepared to reply before he got any big ideas about bursting through that fucking door.

“All good!”

“Good.”

His reply was awkward, too loud and too curt, and you wondered what he was thinking. If he was lamenting some other plans for his day. You heard his footsteps retreat, and turned off the running tap.

The pain in your abdomen had lessened now, the burn finally subsiding, and after a few moments staring into space your head started to clear. A few more litres of cranberry juice, and hopefully it’d be all better.

You always forgot the kind of despair that acute kind of illness seemed to bring, the pain and the weakness. Blinking away the confusion, you washed your hands and face. Tried to fix your hair a little. Brushed your teeth. All those little things fixed, and you started to feel better.

It took you a few more minutes, and one more check-in from Tom, for you to emerge. The kitchen had been cleaned up, the hot water bottle ready to be refilled, and Tom was sat uncomfortably on the sofa – it was obvious he’d just sat down as he heard you approaching.

He jumped to his feet again, not quite sure what to do with his arms, and you wished you knew what was going on behind those widened blue eyes. You should ask, you knew he’d tell you everything straight away.

Tom was never insincere.

The movement of his lips suggested he was trying to word a question, and failing. You put him out of his misery.

“I’m feeling a lot better.”

“I’m glad. That’s good.”

He didn’t believe you, and you could see it. You folded yourself onto the couch, and he moved to refill the hot water bottle. Handing it to you wordlessly he hovered nearby, until you shuffled to indicate he could sit beside you.

It was awkward. Things were never awkward with Tom. His weight beside yours dragged the two of you together, even gravity willing you to reconcile from this strange shift in the atmosphere. You resisted, shuffling a little so you could sit up without touching him, one arm on the sofa as you faced him.

“Sorry for zoning out on you there, I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

His face broke into a quiet relief, and it broke your heart a little.

“You weren’t! I didn’t think you were being rude. You just scared me. I was worried.”

Smiling tightly, you hugged the hot water bottle closer to your torso, enjoying the comfort as much as the pain relief from the warmth. The storm of concern on his face lifted a little as he watched, hearing your quiet, unspoken thank you.

“What have you got planned for the rest of your day?” you asked softly, diverting the conversation.

Tom knew what you were doing, and you saw him bite down a laugh.

“Just looking after this stubborn woman, and not leaving her house until she feels better.”

The mocking was light, undercut by the open fondness in his eyes, and you found yourself warmed by it.

“She sounds like a pain in the arse,” you teased.

“She’s really not. Only when she pretends to be fine when she’s not.”

“Sorry.”

His face dropped, immediately reaching for your hand, and he scrambled to backtrack. You were a horrified as tears sprung to your eyes again, trying to blink them away.

“You know I wasn’t serious. I just worry, I’m sorry.”

He was still reaching for you, one hand on yours and the other gently brushing away your fresh tears, his face close to yours as you shuddered out breaths and tried to form words.

“No, you say anything wrong, I think I’m just feeling a bit…”

“Down?” Tom offered.

“Fragile.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You weren’t sure if he opened his arms first, or if you reached for him first. But you were against his chest in a second, head on his shoulder and his arm around you, the hot water bottle displaced as it warmed both of your hips where they were pressed together.

There was comfort in the beating of his heart, in the smell of him and the cologne he’d put on hours ago, in the strength of his arms as they held you to him for the second time that day.

You apologised again against the fabric of his shirt, and he shushed your words.

“You must feel dreadful, love. You’d be well within your rights to tell me to go fuck myself. I think you were very polite, all things considered. Ignoring me was very considerate.”

When he felt you laugh against his chest you could hear Tom’s heart speed up, the rumble of his own chuckle, and you knew the two of you were fine again.

You’d always be fine. The two of you were close like that.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” you teased.

“There won’t be a next time.”

A sombre promise that you’d never get another urinary tract infection was crazy, it didn’t make sense. He was taking far too much accountability, as usual. But you let yourself sink into his confidence, into his comfort. You let yourself believe him.

“You’re so good to me.”

He didn’t say anything, just shuffled you to relax down on the couch, keeping you against him but twisting you. One hand found the hot water bottle and pressed it against your abdomen again, and even when you reached to take it, his hand just stayed there.

It took a few seconds to process that he was spooning you, the solidness of his chest against your back and one hand over your stomach. He was everywhere, against your whole body, warm and smelling amazing, his breath against your neck and his weight pulling you closer to him on the soft cushions.

You wondered if he felt it too. That strange, desperate need to be closer even as you were pressed together. Like you wanted your soul to merge with his, your skin itself to melt together with his.

Maybe you could blame the infection-induced madness for that feeling too.

The pain in your abdomen was barely there anymore, your bladder feeling less raw, the ache no longer acid-sharp. But you knew that was because of him. Because of the warmth and the distraction and his comfort, these stupid endorphins coursing through your veins, and his sweetness in bringing you medicine and sustenance and three fucking cartons of cranberry juice.

“You okay?” he mumbled against your neck.

For a second you couldn’t think of anything except a flash of irrational jealousy. The mere thought he’d held other people like this. That there were nights he might have come home from you and whispered against someone else’s neck, raised goosebumps on their skin, warmed their body.

You had to stop yourself from gasping, wondering where the hell that had come from, a strange brand of anger still burning hot in your chest. You were starting to sweat, from his body heat and the hot water bottle and the infection. Maybe a bit from jealousy.

If Tom noticed, he wasn’t disgusted. He stayed right there. While Tom babied you, you were happy to engage in moping around for a bit.

“They don’t warn you about this bit,” you whispered, “when you sign up to do this shit.”

“This shouldn’t happen,” he consoled, “I thought the studio was better than that. We’ll tighten protocols. I’ll see what we can do to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You knew he couldn’t see your smile, and you hoped he couldn’t sense the tightness in your chest at this ridiculous seriousness. A worry for your health that surpassed your own concern.

Was that what love was? You hadn’t really thought about it before.

“Risk of the job,” you dismissed.

He grumbled into your hair, his breath ghosting over your neck. You wondered if his eyes were closed. As he minutes passed his head relaxed a little, the position melting, your bodies wax under that quiet, smouldering flame which you shared.

You closed your eyes, focusing on Tom’s steady breaths lulling you to sleep.

He was still there when you woke up, a heavy arm over your waist, his hand replacing the fluffy hot water bottle which had fallen to the ground. You could feel the five points of his fingertips on your thin shirt.

You weren’t sure if he was awake, his breathing quiet and even, chest moving against your back even as the two of you had fidgeted in sleep. It was delicious, warm, but your bladder was screaming at you. You realised you probably should have drunk more before napping, that burning sensation returning, and sighed as you started to disentangle yourself from Tom without disturbing him.

He must have been asleep, mumbling in confusion as your form was replaced with cool air against his chest, rolling over and opening his eyes sleepily.

It was early afternoon, the room bathed in light, and he squinted as he murmured your name. His voice was deepened and slurred by his nap, and you tried to soothe him back to sleep as you retreated to the bathroom.

“Go back to sleep, it’s fine.”

He was fully awake, rubbing his eyes, and you sighed. Pausing in the doorframe, you watched as he sat up and looked around to fix you with a stare. He had a fairly extraordinary case of bedhead, red creases from the sofa marking his face, confusion on his face as he woke up.

“Where are you going?”

“I… Tom. Go back to sleep. Don’t worry.”

He blinked, and asked again.

“Where are you going?”

You fixed him with a glare of ‘I don’t want to say it’, but he was too sleepy to understand. He cocked his head in confusion.

“I have to pee again,” you admitted, and Tom clambered to his feet.

For some reason.

He seemed more awake now, stretching to his full height as he strode across the room to you.

“Really? You’re embarrassed about that? How long have we known each other?”

“Why are you following me?”

He paused in the doorway, blinking in confusion at himself, pink creeping up his cheeks.

“Right, sorry.”

You smiled to yourself as you used the bathroom, still wincing from pain but blessedly noting an improvement, staring at your reflection in the mirror as you washed your hands. You weren’t sure when you’d started feeling differently about Tom. You weren’t sure if your relationship had changed, or if it was just in your head.

You were sure that this was new. Something beyond the close friendship you had taken for granted for years. You could get used to the feeling of waking up pressed against him. To being spoilt by him, surprised by his thoughtfulness. You could get used to that desperate sincerity, those blue eyes which saw right through to your soul.

Drying your hands on your sweatpants, you re-entered the living room, seeing Tom’s mop of curls as he sat cross-legged on the sofa, back straight and hands folded in his hands. He seemed sheepish, his position almost child-like as his eyes tracked you across the room, waiting for you to settle somewhere.

There were gears turning in that overactive mind of his, and you perched yourself beside him, waiting for him to speak. Finally he did, the words precise and practiced inside his own mind.

“I’m sorry for just barging in. I don’t know if that was too far, I just wanted to help. I couldn’t go to work alone knowing you weren’t well.”

You couldn’t help smiling. Of course that was what he was worried about.

“Tom, it’s okay. I appreciate your help so much, not many people would do that for me. I’m sorry for being so stubborn.”

He winced, lips pressed into a tight line.

“I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.”

“But you were right,” you admitted, “I was being stubborn. I should have just said thank you. So, thank you.”

Tom nodded in acknowledgement, but you knew he hadn’t taken the words in. He kept talking.

“I felt so bad, I knew yesterday was too much. We should’ve taken more breaks. You must be so tired. Or getting sick. Apparently if your immune system is already fighting something off you’re more likely to get ill. And I kept you talking when I should’ve made you to and clean up.”

“You won’t convince me this is your fault, Tom,” you told him lightly, resting on hand on his bent knee.

He stared at your hand for a long second, and you knew he didn’t believe you. You closed your eyes, swallowed, letting your eyes drift across to everything he’d brought. Remembering how he’d dropped everything at the realisation you were sick.

How he wouldn’t take no for an answer until he was with you, helping you. Making sure you were safe. You wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t come over. Would you still be in bed, choking down water and painkillers, debating texting to ask him to bring groceries over?

You couldn’t recall why were so averse to him coming over now. He hadn’t made you feel bad, or weak. He’d been nothing but caring and helpful and, yes, a little overbearing.

But that was part of him. What made Tom, Tom. He put one hand on his thigh, inches from where your thumb rubbed over the inside of his knee, and you took the leap. You laced your fingers which his, staring at how your hands fit together.

“I can’t remember a time anyone was this nice to me. Ever.”

Tom sighed, and you felt a moment of heaviness. A realisation that your life was about to shift. Chapters, ending and beginning. Something new taking root, as Tom met your eyes nervously.

“Then I need to do a better job.”

#tom hiddleston x reader #deep focus #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston x ofc #13atoms #fic #this is a weird af chapter of fic but i thought it was a good vehicle for #forced intimacy and fluff

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chelledoggo · 4 years

Text

Coming Clean

The past few days for me have been...eventful, to say the least.

But it's a new day, I've cooled down from the panic, and am ready to make my final, no-BS statement on this whole controversy. I feel like it needs to be done, and a few tweets on the subject isn't enough.

CW: Transphobia, Ableism, Suicide, Anxiety, Panic attacks, Depression, Rape and Murder mentions

On Sunday, July 12, 2020, I made a meme and posted it to Twitter. Essentially, the meme was comparing issues of mainstream trans and nonbinary people (being killed, being raped, being made fun of, being denied health care under Trump, etc...) to the online xenogender community, a community which I had not previously properly educated myself on.

Xenogenders, as I understand now, are gender identities that are used by some people, typically neurodivergent people, because they feel that these terms describe their gender identity better than the predetermined labels that are more commonly used. (cis, trans, nonbinary, agender, genderqueer, etc.) These identities are often based on unconventional factors, such as aesthetics, creatures, mythical beings, natural phenomena, and so on, and often use pronouns specially coined to compliment them.

In the meme, I depicted a very unflattering stereotype of xenogender youth, and used some tasteless terminology to describe how they present their developed gender identity to the world.

I won't bullshit you anymore. Here is the meme. (CW for Transphobia and Ableism; Rape and Murder mentions)

I posted it to Twitter, closed out, and took a nap. I didn't expect much to come out of it except for a few likes and retweets. I was obviously very wrong.

When I woke up and pulled up Twitter again, I was greeted to my notifications being flooded with replies upset by what I'd posted. Many of them were calling me out for ableism and transphobia. Some of them were just flinging insults and mocking me for my age/appearance/etc. Some of them were just fancams.

I'd finally seen the true impact of my actions.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a fear of angering others or becoming hateful and ignorant. I would never want to intentionally hurt innocent people, especially those of marginalized groups such as the trans and nonbinary communities. And as someone who is neurodivergent herself, I certainly wouldn't want to be willfully ableist. I've faced ableism in one form or another for my entire life.

People could also tell you that for pretty much my entire life, I've suffered with mental illnesses. I've been professionally diagnosed with depression, anxiety disorder, PTSD, and bipolar disorder. As such, I'm prone to panic attacks, outbursts, and suicidal ideation when under extreme distress.

As soon as I saw all the anger and hurt I'd caused, I started spiraling into a severe panic attack. I didn't realize how much this meant to a lot of people. A lot of young, neurodivergent people.

I felt like the scum of the earth. I fucked up, just like I've fucked up and made people hate me so many times before in the past. This is my life. Acting without thinking, and then unintentionally hurting people.

I immediately deleted the tweet and made an admittedly hasty apology.

When I'm in this state, however, I don't think clearly. My immediate reaction was that I was just too much of a fuck-up to go on living. I made a tweet saying I wanted to kill myself without any thought as to how that might be interpreted as guilt-tripping after I fucked up instead of taking responsibility.

Again, I was called out on it. So I deleted my suicidal tweets, too.

I then started posting tweet after tweet after tweet claiming that I was sorry and wanted to “be better.” But this barrage of tweets, as sincere as I thought they were at the time, came off as shallow damage control.

Once again, I was called out on this.

The next day, I tried once again to make a no-bullshit apology. I stated in plain english that I was indeed transphobic, ableist, and 100% in the wrong to make that meme, and that, while I still didn't fully understand xenogender identities, I would be respectful of them from now on.

There were plenty of people who were glad I apologized and learned from my mistakes, and I honestly felt a lot better for it.

I was hoping this would just be a fresh start, and things could slowly go back to normal for me and my friends.

However, there were also people angry at me for “bending the knee,” as they put it. I hid their replies to my apology because some of them (not all of them) were friends of mine, and I didn't want them getting attacked.

Some of my friends took this as “throwing them under the bus,” and were angry at me for it. A few of them decided they didn't want to be my friends anymore.

My friends, whether I agree with them on everything or not, mean a lot to me. They are really the only emotional support I have. I suffer from abandonment issues and my mental illness symptoms spike whenever I lose people I consider close friends.

So I lashed out at them for not respecting my decisions. I felt like they didn't really care about my mental health or my emotional wellbeing. I was hurt. Hurt just like I hurt everyone with the meme that started this whole nightmare.

I then, once again, started posting suicidal tweets. I talked about wanting to “chug a bottle of pills” and “go out like etika.” I actually attempted to strangle myself with a bathrobe belt. But, of course, I'm an all-talk-no-action coward when it comes to suicide.

After this, something just kind of fizzled out inside of me. I came to the conclusion that as much as I wanted to just make everyone happy, I couldn't. I couldn't make everyone believe that I was sorry, and I couldn't make everyone stop seeing me as just someone who wanted to “bend the knee” to avoid backlash.

So I was done. I gave up. I didn't care anymore. I was numb.

I made one last series of tweets stating just that, announced I was taking a break from twitter to heal, privated my account, and left. (I also made a tweet asking for people to report the person who screenshotted my meme and got people on me, but then I got called out for targeting a minor, and deleted this tweet as well.)

That brings us to right now.

I decided that I needed to really sit down, gather up all my thoughts, and recount the entire series of events. I just want everything that happened, including my words and actions, to be understood.

I'm not a bad person. I'm not an ableist or a transphobe. But I am a human. A human who makes mistakes. And when I make mistakes, I want to learn and do right by the people I've hurt.

I'm also a person with an extremely fragile mental and emotional state. A person who doesn't think clearly under pressure. A person who's had to put up with a lifetime of feeling like a failure who should honestly just cease to exist.

The bottom line here is this: I've gone through the suffering that I needed to go through. I realized the consequences of my ignorance. I've tried and am still trying my best to do right by everyone. I need to get this thing off my chest, confess to my sins, and finally let this whole thing go. So I can heal. So that everyone I hurt and everyone who got caught up in this can heal.

I would be lying if I said I completely understood xenogenders at this point. I probably never will. But I don't need to understand. I just need to be respectful. Because at the end of the day, no one's hurting anyone by identifying with a xenogender identity. They're just people trying to find themselves, just like I am. Who the hell am I to put them down? I'm neurodivergent. I've been young. I should know better.

I sincerely apologize to the xenogender community, to the LGBT+ community, to my friends, and to everyone that got caught up in this.

I love you all.

TL;DR: Made a shitty meme. Didn't do my research on xenogenders. Was ableist/transphobic. Had a severe mental health breakdown. Alienated everyone. Am genuinely sorry.

NOTE: At the time of posting this, my Twitter is still on private, and I’m afraid to unprivate it just yet. I would appreciate it if my friends could share this so it can get out there.

#shut up chelle

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theresnosafeharbor4myships · 4 years

Text

Tattoos - Chapter 1 (also on 9L)

A/N: This will be a multi-chapter Caryl fic in which Carol is curious about Daryl’s tattoos and he discusses their origins with her. :)

“Just heard what happened. You okay?”

Daryl turned towards the infirmary door as Carol closed it behind her.

He sat on the patient bed, looking disgruntled, a bandage wrapped like a headband around his forehead.

“’S nuthin’,” he assured her.

“It’s a concussion,” Siddiq countered, lifting his eyebrows at Carol before he finished tying off the gauze.

The bandage sat askew, and some of Daryl’s too-long hair had fallen over it, giving him a flower-child vibe. Carol refrained from smirking, even as concern filled her.

“It ain’t that bad.”

“Thought someone had finally knocked some sense into that thick skull of yours, but…doesn’t sound like it,” she teased before turning to Siddiq. “How bad is it really?”

“He’ll be fine. I stitched the cut and gave him some Tylenol.” He faced Daryl. “I’d recommend staying up for a few hours to make sure your vision stays clear and your eyes don’t dilate. But you shouldn’t be alone. If you get these symptoms or if you get a severe headache, I’ll need to come check on you immediately. Otherwise, check in with me tomorrow morning so I can take a look at that cut.”

“Alright,” Daryl grumbled in agreement. “Told you it ain’t that bad though.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Carol offered.

Siddiq nodded and began cleaning up the medical supplies he’d used. “Thanks. Rosita has watch in just a few minutes, and I’m taking care of Coco, otherwise I’d keep him here for observation.”

Carol waited as Daryl slid his jacket on, then he thanked Siddiq and held the door open for her as they stepped into the darkness. She glanced up at him once as they walked the block and half home, and he seemed alright, if tired, so she waited until after they’d shucked off their coats before speaking.

“You want something warm to drink? That cold has just about seeped into my bones.”

“Sure, thanks.” He got to work building a fire in the fireplace as she filled up the kettle, set it to boil, and placed some of the loose leaf tea the Hilltop had made into a cheesecloth.

We’ve sure adapted well, she thought, watching Daryl strike flint against his knife in a home that still had water and windows and walls surrounding it. How far they’d come…and still…still the two of them were so far.

She’d spent a lot of the evening thinking about him as she’d paced back and forth on watch duty. About the constant ebb and flow of their relationship, the kindred connection they shared that no one—not even the king she’d married—could sever. About their shorthand and the way they often didn’t need words at all. How no matter how close they seemed to get, they never moved beyond what they already and had always been: together but not a couple, two but never one, teamed up but unpaired, a duo but individually.

And why is that?

The screech of chair legs against the floor shook her out of her reverie, and she turned to find Daryl sitting at the dining room table, the only light in the house coming from the fireplace and above her in the kitchen.

The kettle screamed, and she poured the boiling water over the teabag, letting it steep for a few minutes before transferring it to the second cup. When it was done, she set the cheesecloth in the sink and carried the two steaming mugs to the table and placed one in front of Daryl.

She sat next to him and held the steaming cup in her hands, wondering how long she should let his thoughts steep before drawing them out of him.

“So what happened?” she eventually asked, her voice quiet.

He looked at her for a moment before staring into his tea. “A few of the crew and me decided to stay past sundown to finish reinforcing the back wall. Didn’t think it’d take so long… We finished it, and I wanted to have everything in order for the mornin’ crew, so we were pilin’ the unused lumber on the stack. Frank didn’t look around—or I didn’t. He swung a board around pretty fast and clocked me good.” Daryl lifted his hand to the extra padding at his temple and felt around the gauze, testing the pain. “Knocked me out good.”

Her brow furrowed. “For how long?”

“Only a few seconds. I’m alright.” Daryl saw the worry on her face. “I’m pretty hardheaded.”

Carol’s expression lightened. “Don’t I know it. Still, Siddiq said you need to stay awake. So awake we’ll stay.”

He huffed in amusement at her cheeky smile. “Alright then.”

Silence engulfed them, the sounds of the compound at day having faded away hours ago with the setting of the sun, and they sat several minutes in the cocoon of paltry light and warmth.

“Siddiq looks like Jesus, don’t you think?”

Carol’s question came out of nowhere, and it took Daryl a few beats to realize she meant the Savior and not their lost compatriot.

He furrowed his brow. “Never thought about it…but I could see it.”

“Right hair length, right skin color, right calling… Physician, healer,” she answered Daryl’s unspoken question.

He nodded noncommittally. “You still believe in all that?”

His tone held no judgment, no doubt, no condemnation—it was merely a question.

Carol took a sip of her tea before answering. “I want to. I think I do,” she answered quietly, choosing her words carefully. “I can’t fathom that this…this is all for nothing, otherwise what are we fighting so hard for?”

He nodded again, considering her words in silence. He knew she didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t have one even if she did.

He’d read the Bible, had even gone to church with his grandmother as a kid—and enjoyed it more than he’d expected to. The teachers had been kind to him, gentle, in a way even his mother had never been. They’d never looked at him with contempt or disgust in their eyes, but instead treated him like a person. Like he mattered. He’d pretended it was a chore to go so his family didn’t take Sundays with grandma away from him, but he’d looked forward to it all week long, those few hours of living in a warmth he didn’t quite understand. The glow of his teachers, the compassion in their voices, the way they hugged him without hurting him...those kindnesses faded by the hour after he got home on Sunday afternoons, and he’d spend the week wishing Ms. Elizabeth, his favorite teacher, would take him home with her.

He hadn’t thought about that in... He shook the memories from his head, hoping beyond reason that Ms. Elizabeth and all the others who’d done him a kindness they’d never know were safe with the Jesus Carol believed in, the one he wanted to believe in too, if only for people like that.

“You can’t un-see it now, can you?” Carol asked with a half-smile.

Daryl came back to the conversation at hand. “No…don’t think I’ll ever look at him the same way again.”

“You’re welcome,” she stated proudly.

He stared at her without emotion, trying to hold in his amusement, knowing the futility of it. She knew how to read him too well after all these years.

“How’s Frank holding up after knocking you around?”

“He’s alright. He’s the one who ran and got Siddiq. First thing he said when he came back is that he felt like a tool.”

“Yeah, maybe an anvil.”

He chuffed at her wit. “On a roll tonight, aren’t ya?”

“Just trying to keep you on your toes—and awake.”

“Ain’t tired just yet.”

“Your head hurting?”

“Nah, the pills helped.”

Carol nodded. “I’m gonna make some more tea. You want some?”

He chugged down the last few gulps. “Sure.”

She grabbed his cup and set about her task. He watched her move about the kitchen, and though most of the time he tried to keep it at bay, tonight he let his mind wander into what-if. What if they’d met before everything went to shit? What if he’d been the father of her children? Would they still be alive?

Hell yes, some part of him answered defiantly.

Would they have had a home like this one? Would she move about their kitchen with this ease, wanting to take care of him, even as he longed to take care of her?

Would he have been good enough? Better than his father? Would she have even wanted him?

Doubt flooded his mind, and he stopped the train before it crashed into despair. What-if only made him feel worse about his shitty life, and he had too many things to focus on to get distracted by the worthlessness of his heritage.

He swallowed hard, trying to erase the thoughts from his mind as Carol set the steaming cup in front of him again. He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat burn some of the maudlin thoughts from his mind.

“How many tattoos do you have?”

His eyes flicked to Carol, who stared at the back of his hand where a skull, three X’s, and a star had been inked.

“I count that as one, so…five?”

“Hmm,” she hummed, peering at him openly. “Do they all have special meanings?”

“We playin’ twenty questions tonight?” he wondered. It came out more teasingly than he felt, though he was grateful considering the path his thoughts had taken.

“Just curious.”

“Yeah, they all mean somethin’.”

“What does this one mean?” Her eyes darted to his hand, then back to his face.

She was digging in a place he’d just mucked around in, and he wanted to avoid the question, but the curiosity in her bright blue eyes and the expression of expectation on her face had him speaking in spite of himself.

“It represents my family. First tattoo I ever got.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded and laid his palm flat on the table so they could both see the tattoos. “This,” he began, pointing to the star that sat just below the knuckle of his thumb. “is for my ma. She was the only woman in my family. These three,” he indicated the X’s that sat between the knuckles of his fingers. “are for the men in my family.”

“And the skull?” she asked, caught up in the way the print on his hand told a story.

He swallowed, not wanting to answer, knowing more questions would follow. Questions he wasn’t prepared to deal with, had never dealt with, hadn’t had to think about since the living had come back to life.

He stared at the skull on the center of the back of his hand, with X’s for eyes and bared teeth. A vision of death, of anger. A harbinger of the macabre.

“It represents me.”

Though he stared at the ink on his skin, he saw her eyes flick up to his face.

“But I thought the X’s were…”

Her voice trailed off as she caught on, and he let the silence engulf them, though this time it felt heavy and dank, not at all like before. He’d stalled the conversation with his admission, and he didn’t know if he could even speak the words that would help her understand.

He wanted to though, and the realization stunned him. He’d never wanted to speak of it before. And never had. But he would to her if she asked.

She wouldn’t—he knew—but the revelation that he’d tell her filled him with an emotion he couldn’t explain.

With her index finger, Carol tracked the shape of the skull on his skin, and he watched her movement as though in a trance. Her touch both burned and sent shivers racing across his skin, and several moments passed before he looked up at her.

She stared intently at their hands as she continued to trace the print on his skin.

“Do you want to know about the others?”

His voice, genuine but strained, aching and heavy, surprised even him.

He saw her swallow hard and shake her head before her eyes lifted to his and she gripped his hand in hers.

“Some other time,” she promised.

He nodded, wondering if another time would happen. His heart thundered recklessly in his chest, overcome by both fear and memories.

“Right now, let’s make sure you’re okay,” she said softly, her free hand reaching up to brush the hair away from his forehead and the bandage there.

She squeezed his hand once before letting it go, and he felt emboldened and at a loss as they both picked up their cups and sipped the warm liquid.

“Told you I’m fine.” He managed to sound normal, though they both knew the air sat too thick and heavy at the moment.

“I know,” she acknowledged, letting him have the space he needed. “And I’m here to make sure you are.”

#caryl #caryl fanfic #caryl fanfiction #carol x daryl #daryl x carol #my writing #personal #tattoos

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imlovemytrash · 5 years

Link

Description - Creepypasta boyfriend scenarios, but with a twist!

Ben Drowned

Rating: PG

You had moved to the small town of Bristol only a week ago. The town had 5,375 people, with a church, a bar and grill, the “school zone”, a grocery store and an old park with one rusty slide, three swings and a sandbox that the local cats used as a litterbox. There were four sets of neighborhoods, too.

You lived in Green Valley, where the middle class dwelled. Your family had enough money to be comfortable, but not quite enough money to just spend recklessly. The house you and your family had moved into was a two-level abode, two bedrooms upstairs, one downstairs. Your parents took the master bedroom in the basement while you and your sister took the two upstairs bedrooms.

Your bedroom was the second largest. Your sister sat on your bed, looking around the room. She seemed jealous that she had gotten the smaller room while you had the larger one.

“Why do you get this bedroom? It’s not even fair. I had the smallest bedroom last time!” She pouted, and you merely shook your head. Your sister was only ten, with you being eight years older.

“It’s because I’m older.”

“It’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, Miranda.” You shot back, raising your brows at her. She merely huffed, crossed her arms over her chest with a look of irritation on her face. Your sister was strong in spirit, and didn’t like taking no for an answer. You two would probably fight over who got the room for the next few weeks.

“That’s what mom says.” Miranda glared at you before literally slamming herself into the bed. You just shake your head and continue to decorate your new room.

Your bed was against the farthest wall running horizontally, with a spacious arching ceiling and a hanging light fixture in the middle. You had moved your dresser upstairs with your dad earlier that afternoon, and now it sat on the left side of the room. You still had to move your desk up, but that would be for tomorrow.

You’re going through a box before something twinkles at you from beneath a bunch of clothes. It’s a picture frame with you and all of your friends from back home. You feel your lip quiver as emotions run rampant through you, and you run your thumb over the glass. You’re going to miss them.

“Girls! There’s a garage sale going on next door! Why don’t you go outside and check it out?” Your mom called from down the stairs, and both you and your sister grumble.

“It’s hot outside!” Miranda groaned, and your mom merely tsked.

“It’s beautiful. You need the sun.”

You see this as an opportunity to get your sister out of your room, and you take it graciously. You set down the picture on the shelf before turning to Miranda, who had the biggest pouting face that you had ever seen.

“C’mon, let’s go. It’ll be fun.” You reason and she sighs out loud, now feeling as if going outside was a mildly better idea instead of sitting inside, complaining over who got what room.

So you and your sister walk downstairs, talk with your mom and then you’re outside in the summer warmth. It wasn’t all that hot, as the last few days had been nothing but rain and more rain. It felt humid, though, and you could feel it pressing against your skin like a tight-fitting shirt. You walk across the street, seeing the neighbor's garage sale set up.

Three tables stood on the driveway. Miranda’s eyes catch on a pile of stuffed animals and she was running over to it. You take your time, meeting your sister as she hugs a Pikachu plushie.

“Y/n! Can you buy me this? Please?” You look down at your sister’s sweet, darling face, and with the power of a god, you respond with a smirk on your face.

“No.”

“What?! Why?!” She dragged, holding onto the plushie even tighter now.

“God, I’m kidding. I’ll get you it.” You reply before looking at the ear of the Pikachu, noticing the tag there. Five bucks, huh? Not bad.

You continue to browse, looking through the things that could possibly interest you. A fairy figurine caught your eye, and you picked it up to reveal an old, beaten up cartridge with Majora scrawled in fat permanent marker. You were well versed in Legend of Zelda, though, and you instantly recognized it with mild interest.

There wasn’t a price tag on it. You looked up to see an old man, sitting in a lawn chair staring at you. You pause, feeling alarm shoot through you before you calmed yourself. He was just a harmless old man with a staring problem. He probably couldn’t even see you without his glasses, and you made your way over to him.

“How much for the game?” You asked, and he merely sniffed at you before glancing at the game.

“You can jus’ take it, girly. I don’ want it anymore.” He said, and you raised a brow. Hey, what can you say? You were glad to take the game off his hands. Your little sister came over then with the Pikachu in hand.

“I’ll take the Pikachu and the fairy, please.”

“Tha’ll be eleven bucks, girly.” You take out your wallet from your back pocket and pay up. You and your sister bid him farewell, and you leave back to your house with the Pikachu, the fairy and the game in hand.

Jeff The Killer

Rating: PG-13 for Alcohol Use

You and your best friend had been preparing this for a week now, and damn it you were excited. Not just excited, but ecstatic that you two would be attending a party and it wasn’t just any party. It was Tricia’s party, and she hosted the best parties north of the equator. At least, that’s what you thought.

You were all decked out. You wore a tight cocktail dress with flats. The outfit was from Goodwill, but you spruced it up and it looked to be an outfit from Gucci. Leah, your best friend, had done all your makeup. You had some experience in makeup, sure, but Leah would never let her best friend with just a bit of eyeliner and mascara.

“Oh, hell to the no!” She had exclaimed before sitting you down in front of the mirror. Now, you two were at the party and having a great time. The music swelled with the bass, the piano and the guitars and the instruments. Then the voice started and you couldn’t help but swoon at the feeling of the rhythm flowing through your every move.

Leah was walking towards you with two red solo cups in her hands. She handed one of them to you before leaning forward to talk over the boom of the song.

“It’s vodka with some fruit! It’s supposed to be super good.” Leah grinned at you, and you couldn’t help but grin right back. Leah was intoxicating, to say the least, and you took a sip of your drink to distract yourself. The alcohol burned your throat and made you cough, and Leah giggled.

“Stir it up a little, silly!” You felt yourself flush as you did so.

For the next few hours, you and your best friend partied your hearts out. You ended up seeing more of your friend group and moved to dance near them. They all greeted you with cheers and grins and laughter as you all drank, danced and partied in unison.

It was one of the most fun times in your life. That was probably the alcohol talking but you had gotten used to the burn, and it was no longer really something you noticed. The taste of the fruit mixed with the alcohol had you seeing stars, and you danced, danced, danced.

Leah was beside you again once a slow song started to a play. A few had already come on, but you had disappeared to the snack line to get a bag of chips, or another drink. This time, though, Leah meant business.

“Dance with me, baby.” Leah slurred, and you couldn’t help but laugh. She was adorable drunk, with her cheeks red and her gaze lidded as she stared up at you. You felt your heart skip a beat as you chugged the rest of your drink down, setting the cup on a table to be forgotten.

Leah’s hands landed on your hips, pulling you in close. You bit on your lip at the sight of her, and then she was sliding her hands to your back until she was hugging you, dancing slowly to the song.

You let out a content giggle as you rested your hands on her shoulders. Leah had always captivated you, and she kept looking at you with those eyes and you couldn’t look away. Then, before you knew it, the song was over and Leah didn’t let go. She held you against her with that sweet, oh-so-drunk smile on her face.

“I love you, Y/n.” Leah announced, and you knew that you would need to get her home in one piece.

“I love you too, Leah. But we need to go home now.”

“No… the party is only… starting!” She protested, and you wiggled out of her hold. But it wasn’t long before your hand was in Leah’s, and you were leading her out to the driveway. You called an Uber, and waited with Leah on the sidewalk for a bit, ignoring a few of the couples making out by the house and in the bushes.

One strangler had come up to them, spoke a few choice words about being “absolutely shit-faced” and proceeding to throw up against a tree before passing out.

“He should be fine, right?” You murmured to Leah, who only giggled in response.

Someone out of the corner of your eye made you look towards the woods beside Tricia’s house. It was black in those woods, with a faint wind rustling the leaves. But something large and white was sticking out among the blackness, which made you raise your brows in confusion.

It was a person, and as you focused on the person you noticed dark red stains on the hoodie. Something was wrong, but you were too drunk to be able to make out what was actually wrong.

Then the Uber had arrived and that was your cue to leave. You ushered Leah into the car before getting in on the other side. As you shut the door, you looked back to see that the man was gone.

The next day you woke up with a raging headache. Leah was still out cold, sleeping on the other side of your queen sized bed. You groaned, getting out of bed to make a pot of coffee. It took you at least a half hour to make coffee, take a shower and pop four pills of pain-killer, and even then Leah remained asleep.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

You could hear your phone vibrating on the dresser. You don’t remember putting it there. But then again you don’t remember a whole lot about what happened last night once you arrived in your dorm with Leah.

You unlocked your phone before scrolling through the texts.

Have you heard from Jerry? I can’t find him.

Did you hear? Jerry went missing.

Yo, check out the news.

You furrowed your brows together before pulling up the news website on your phone, but once you did you felt your stomach drop.

Jerry Figgins reported missing last night after a frat party gone wrong. Multiple stabbed, one dead, one missing. If you have any information on what happened, please contact the Renbold City Police.

You felt yourself beginning to remember the party. The songs, the dancing, the drinks. But you never remember anyone being stabbed, or killed, for that matter.

But you did remember that man in the woods with blood on the hoodie. You instantly felt apprehensive, frightened before you dialed the police station and you told them you saw a figure in the woods.

Slenderman

Rating: PG-13 for drug use

You were a dumb teenager in a forest with a bunch of your dumb teenage friends. It was the summer right before college would start, and you all agreed to camp out right before you all had to go your separate ways. You could feel your heart breaking, piece by piece, as the days went on.

You were going to miss these morons, no matter how dumb they were. You’ve grown up with a lot of them. Clarice popped up in Kindergarten, about a month after the school year had started. She had been out sick with the flu, and at that time most of the kids had already made their friend groups. So you had reached out your tiny, child hand and invited her to become a part of a two-person group: Clarice and Y/n.

Then, in third grade, Quinn and Jacob had joined. They had moved to your little town. Jacob’s parents had split while Quinn’s mom had passed away and her father could no longer take care of such a large house.

Jae showed up in seventh grade after you had begun your spooky, creepy supernatural phase. Jae had also been in that phase, and when your science teacher had paired you up with Jae you had made an unlikely friendship.

Last but not least was Rowan. Rowan was just Rowan, a nonbinary friend that you had met through a summer camp. Joe was as sweet as they came, and all of your friends loved Joe with all their hearts.

Rowan was also the person in the group that loved to push people to do better things with themselves. Sometimes, though, Joe didn’t have a great meter of what “good” and “bad” was. They always said that “There is no good or bad, it just is, man.” Then Joe would proceed to punch the arm of anyone closest and ask if it felt good or bad.

“So, as preplanned… I brought weed.” Rowan grinned devilishly. They took out a little baggie from their bag as well as a bowl. You couldn’t help but feel a bit cautious. You had never actually gotten high before, except for when you were put under to get a tooth taken out. But that didn’t count, right? But nonetheless, you were nervous about trying an illegal substance, yet so excited that you were breaking the law! How scandalous.

Rowan did their thing with the bowl and weed before grabbing their lighter. They made eye contact with everyone there, making sure that everyone was comfortable as well as ready before explaining how to inhale, keep it in for a few seconds, then letting out the smoke.

“And for fuck’s sake, people, only take two or three puffs or you’ll get sick. Also-” They broke off, reaching right back into their bag to take out a few bottles of water.

“Trust me, guys, water will do wonders. Don’t be afraid to drink it. Now, if you don’t want to smoke that is fine. But just make sure to pass it on, okay? Okay.”

The next hour was just a fest of laughter, the scent of weed strong in the air. Every single one of you had taken a hit, with a few of you taking a two more. You, on the other hand… Well, just like how you were a dumb teenager… You were dumb.

You took six hits when nobody was watching. You don’t notice anything odd until about twenty minutes into the discussion and hoo boy are you feeling the effects. You felt good. A little too good, but good nonetheless.

Everybody seemed so bright and funny, and you couldn’t stop giggling. Everything was funny and you could not stop laughing. Soon enough it became apparent that your dumbass had smoked a little too much pot and Rowan was sitting next to you.

“You’re not supposed to smoke that much, Y/n.” They said softly while Clarice and Jacob talked about aliens beside you. It was all so surreal.

You leaned against your friend, closed your eyes for a moment with a wide grin spread across your face. You sat there for a good while until an annoying buzz began to play through your head. At first, you had just assumed it was the weed playing with you. But then it became persistent with a slight pain ringing through your ears. You moaned pitifully, looking over to Rowan for sympathy.

“My head hurts…” You mumbled, and Rowan chuckled, sliding their fingers through your hair.

“You’ll be okay, Y/n.” They replied, massaging your back as you leaned against them.

You opened your eyes, your gaze set on the woods all around you. It was thick, with leaves and branches and brush and you wondered how your little clown posse had managed to get all the way here. In the distance, though, you noticed an odd sound coming from the trees.

A buzzing sound that rolled through your head like a boulder, hot and heady with no resistance. It was like little shocks being administered to your brain, and it set you apart from yourself. It was like a mini seizure, but only effecting your head.

Then, you blinked for a second and there was something in the woods. You could feel the hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand up as gooseflesh broke out along your arms. You couldn’t stop staring at the thing that stood in the trees. You wondered how you had even noticed it in the first place when you saw its face.

There was no face. It was just a blank slate, completely white and it made you want to run as fast and as far as you could away from that place.

“Rowan… I don’t want to be here.”

“Shh… It’s okay.”

You watched as the thing began to shake its head back and forth, twitching. It was tall, so tall that you could barely tell how tall it was as it touched one of the trees with a long, gaunt hand.

You blinked again, and it was gone. You blinked again, and your eyes remained closed until morning.

Eyeless Jack

Rating: PG

You had never slept soundly like your family and your friends. You tossed and turned and woke up at the faintest sound, like your cat sneaking across the floor, or the quietest wind brushing against your bedroom wall. Melatonin, Ambien, Lunesta, nothing worked. You were exhausted and you wished you knew a way to put yourself to sleep (besides physically knocking yourself out. You had tried that, too, but you just woke up with a raging bruise an hour later).

So every night went the same. You took a hot shower, which was supposed to calm the nerves and make you sleepy. You followed all the Wiki How instructions to sleep to the best of your ability. Then you would typically lay in bed for around an hour, your eyes closed but you never quite reached that spot of pure, unimaginable, blank and unconscious bliss.

You hated it.

You hated it so, so very much. You didn’t have words to describe how much you hated your sleep insomnia, so instead of describing how much you hated it you would get onto your computer and spend your time fucking around on the internet until around 4 in the morning, to which, finally, you would fall asleep.

You sat there, around 3:30 in the morning, watching YouTube and painting your nails. Believe it or not, you had a fascination with colors and being an artist. With the last flick of your wrist, you painted your thumb a vibrant shade of sparkling, glittering blue. You admired your work before your gaze went back to your computer screen.

Every night, right around this time, your mom would wake up to use the bathroom. The sound of the toilet flushing overhead alerted to you that within an hour, you’d be asleep. Exhaustion and relief flooded through you. You wanted desperately to knock yourself out into a comfortable doze, and it seemed as if it was fast approaching.

You teased yourself for the next five minutes, knowing that forcing yourself to stay awake until absolute fatigue would result in you passing out. So you watched the rest of your video, letting your nails dry before shutting your laptop, putting it on the ground and curling up beneath your sheets for a well deserved night of sleep.

Or, just for a few hours before you had to go back to school.

It was slow, so slow, but then you were in that mindless blackness that you so craved.

Until the sound of your door opening hit your ears and you could have practically screamed if the rest of the house was asleep. The sound of footsteps coming into your room had you awake, now, and you could only assume it was your little brother.

You were going to kill him.

“Get the fuck out of my room, John, before I get the fuck up and strangle your stupid little ass for actually fucking WAKING ME UP!” You turned on your light, your face red with rage and your heart beating erratically. Then you turned back to your brother only to not find your brother.

“You’re… not John.” Before you stood a figure, bathed in black with a mask resembling the pigment of your painted nails. The thing stood like a human, but it was much, much more frightening than any old human. A black, tar-like substance dripped from the eye sockets of the blue mask, and you felt absolutely paralyzed.

This has to be sleep apnea. Please. Please please please oh my god please go away you scary thing please. You thought to yourself, but you were able to move your eyes, wiggle your toes and turn on the lamp for fuck’s sake.

The thing only paused, tilting its head to the side as if curious.

“I can’t say that I am John.” It spoke in a deep, raspy voice. It approached you with long steps, and then it was at your bedside. You sat there, staring up at its eyes, or attempting to as there was literally nothing coming out.

Then you started screaming. It was the loudest thing you could think to do, and damn you did it well. You screamed and screamed until the thing’s gloved hand clamped around your mouth. The damage was done, though, and it hissed at you in annoyance and rage. You didn’t care, though. You finally were coming to your senses and you reached up to grab at the creature’s hand and wrist, lurching your body up from the bed to struggle.

Then your father was bursting into your basement bedroom. Your father was a huge man with not an ounce of the word “small” on him. He was a mixture of fat and pure muscle, and nobody wanted to mess with him.

Especially this guy.

Your father was on the creature in an instant, prying it off of you with the strength of a wildebeest. The creature seemed almost as strong, though, but it’s agility and speed to get out of your father’s grasp. It landed on the floor on its legs before stepping back into the wall. The masked thing growled a low, angry growl resounding from the pit of its throat as it prepared to spring.

“Get the fuck out of my house before i-” Your father was interrupted as the thing launched itself at your father. But instead of attacking him, it sprung right over him before sprinting up the stairs. You remained on the bed, shock and anguish beginning to hit you full force.

This motherfucker not only threatened her but also disturbed her delicate sense of sleep.

How fucking dare son of a bitch. He better hope to never see me again. Wait, did I just refer to it as he? Oh, my god. It’s like I gave it a name. I’ll get attached, and then get Stockholm- You passed out.

Masky and Hoodie

Rating: PG; suggestion of alcohol use.

You were nothing but a college student, missing your family, getting a majority of good grades and doing stupid shit on the days you didn’t have class. You were living the college dream, as most people liked to call it. You drank, smoked pot, fucked a little… You were having the time of your life.

You were also a hunter on the side. It wasn’t big or anything. All you did was research creeps around the world and report back to your “boss”. You were quick to pick up details from any recent murders even suspected of having an involvement with creepypastas. You were a hunter, and you had it as your main mission to kill as many of these motherfuckers as you could.

Or, at least, help kill them. You weren’t all that skilled with killing people. Blood made you nauseous.

After a good raging party at the frat house, you were on your way back to the dorm room. You were exhausted and drunk as hell. The dorm’s greeters eyed you up and down before letting you in, but not without saying a few choice words to “Don’t get caught lookin’ like that or you might get into some trouble with the police around here. You smell like whiskey.”

You roll your eyes at the front desk person. “I’m fine.” You snark back before walking into the stairwell and made your way up. Tomorrow morning would be a doozy trying to do anything with the raging hangover that would soon arrive.

“Fuck me, I guess.” You mumble to yourself as you make it back to your dorm room. Your roommate was already fast asleep, and there was a body beside her. You raised a brow before realizing it was his boyfriend.

“Oh, ain’t that adorable.” You grin, taking out your phone to get some good candid shots to show your roommate in the morning. Then you face planted into your bed and passed out at around 2:33 AM.

You woke up at 11 from the sound of your alarm. Your head felt like it was going to split from the amount of pain you were under. At that point all you wanted to do was launch yourself from the roof to end the pain. Fuck you for drinking that much.

Your roommate and his boyfriend were still there. Rylin sat on the bed, an arm wrapped around your roommate, Trent. You looked at them through bleary eyes before remembering the photo you had taken of them.

“Guys… I came back last night and… you two were so fucking cute. I had to take a picture.” You said through the haze of your hangover. God, your head hurt. “Do you have any painkillers by the way?” You asked, yawning as you sat up to get your phone.

You were quick to unlock your phone. Trent shook his head at you.

“Y/n, you know you’re supposed to ask before taking pictures of us. Now show me the damn photo.” Rylin chuckled as you showed them your phone. Trent’s cheeks turned a rosy shade of red before burying his face into Rylin’s neck.

“That is so fucking awful yet so adorable. Why did you have to get me drooling, though?” Trent groaned as Rylin studied the picture.

“You have my number, right, Y/n? Send me that.” He said before his brows raised into his forehead.

“Um… check your text.” Rylin said, and you tilted your head to the side, confused. Your phone hadn’t buzzed or anything. You turned your phone to see a message from an unknown number. It disappeared before you had the chance to read it. “Yeah, I’ll send you it. Hold on, though.” You replied, crossing your legs on your bed as Trent handed you the bottle of painkillers.

“Thanks, man.” You said. You were quick to down four pills. Too bad you’d have to wait for the release. Then you were reading the message, and a surge of unease went through you.

From: Unknown

Message: Hello, Y/n. We’ve heard quite a bit about you. We don’t like that you’re attempting to commit acts against our kind. Expect to see us soon.

You stared at the message in horror before you pulled up your computer to email your boss. This is not good.

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l-lovelyl-loser-blog · 6 years

Text

Verbatim.

Pairing: Richie Tozier/Reader

Description: The reader is apart of the losers club and parties and does a lot of drugs and drinks a lot as a way of forgetting about her shitting home life and Pennywise and the fact that Richie Tozier will never love and Richie is getting fed up with worrying about her and finally confronts her (They are aged up to 17 in this and its the summer of ‘93)

Warnings: Drugs, alcohol, sex and of course Tradhmouth Tozier ;)

A/N: In case you don’t know what verbatim means it basically means being blunt and straight up honest

School only ended a week ago and you’ve already gone to 7 parties, and currently getting ready for your 8th one tonight. Your goal is to go to at least 3 parties every week but by the looks of it you’ll be going to one every day if the summer. But the difference with this party is that you finally convinced all the losers to come too. This is by no means any of their first parties, you’re the biggest party animal at your school, and you’ve convinced every loser to come one at a time but never all of them at one party. You and Bev are getting ready at your house together because she’s the only one that is nearly crazy as you are. Everyone else gets upset when you start drinking and smoking before you even get to the party. You and Bev finish getting ready moments before Eddie gets to your house, since he’s designated driver for the night, and you guys head off to get everyone else and then head to the party.

When you guys get to the party it’s in the full swing. Music is blaring, the house is practically bouncing, there are couples having clothes on sex against the wall and there are drugs and alcohol scattered everywhere. The second you walk in you grab Stan (because let’s be honest, Stan might not party a lot but when he does he might be more hardcore than Y/N) and immediately head to the kitchen to get something to drink, you don’t see Richie huff and have the most aggravated face but Stan does, but he lets it be, you wave off the rest of the losers and you all spread out to do your own thing.

The next time you see Richie he’s watching people play beer pong.

“You think we should show them how it’s done?” You ask him.

“Definitely.” Richie responds with.

So as the next game ends you and Richie team up as perusal and completely dominate the other team, who up until this point are the champions of the night. But by the time you and Richie get to them they’re both completely wasted, not that it matters, you and Rich are the king and queen of beer pong, and everyone knows. Both you and Richie are pretty happy, but the smile drops from his face when you start chugging your beer cups.

“I’ll see you later.” He mumbles but you don’t hear him. It isn’t until you finish chugging your third cup you turn around to high five Richie that realize he’s gone and it’s your smile that drops this time. But instead of going and looking for him you chug another two cups and start flirting with some random guy who was watching and commented that it was hot watching you win and chug all those cups of beer and hardly feel anything.

“But you’re Y/F/N Y/L/N, you’re the party queen, you can handle your liquor.” He says with a smug smile. You just wink and grab his arm and drag him on the makeshift dance floor.

You don’t see Richie for another good 45 minutes. He steps out into the backyard to get some air where all the potheads have a bonfire going and low and behold there you are right in the middle taking the biggest hit Richie has ever seen out of a bong.

“Rich!” You yell out at him, in the 45 minutes you haven’t seen him you’ve managed to get yourself pretty tipsy but not necessarily drunk and you’re about to be completely stoned.

“Hey Y/N/N” He says with a small smile, cause he’s upset with seeing you like this. He hates it and that’s why he never goes to any parties.

Even in your state of mind you can tell something is wrong with Richie. You’ve been best friends with him for 12 years, lived next to him for 14, and been in love with him 9. You know the boy better than you know yourself.

“What’s wrong?” You ask.

“Nothing.”

“Rich, I know you better than anyone on this planet. What’s wrong.” You demand.

“Seriously Y/N, it’s nothing, I think I’ve just had too much to drink.” He laughs, you still feel like something is wrong but you don’t wanna make him mad so you just leave it be and laugh along with him.

“Alright well I’m going back to the dance floor, care to join me?”

“No I think I’m gonna stay out here a little longer.”

“Suite yourself. You know where to find me.” You wink and dash off into the house.

Sure enough ten minutes later Richie comes into the house and on the dance floor, but stays on the outside and doesn’t dance, but he still immediately sees you in the middle on a table grinding against some guy. He rolls his eyes and scoffs, and goes to find some girl to do the same with. But as you take the hand of a different guy and lead him upstairs for a quicky, Richie pushes the girl off and goes to the kitchen because the girl just wasn’t enough to keep him from getting mad with Y/N anymore.

Richie doesn’t see you again for another hour, going upstairs again, but this time you’re with 2 girls and 2 guys and you keep searching around the room to make sure no one sees you guys, Richie doesn’t have goof feeling about this so he follows and the group of 5 go into the bathroom and Richie leans against the wall waiting patiently for you to come out again. It doesn’t take long either, and the second you come out Richie knows. You have white powder on your nose and your sniffing, you haven’t seen him but he grabs your arm and drags you into an empty room.

“What the hell Y/N?!” He yells at you.

“God, I thought you guys were going to have a fucking orgy or something but this is so much worse, what were you thinking?! You weren’t were you?! Otherwise you wouldn’t have done fucking COKE Y/N!!”

“I’m sorry...” You mutter.

“Sorry?! SORRY?! Sorry isn’t gonna fucking cut it when you get addicted and your future goes right down the drain and you’re sitting in rehab!”

You keep your head down, ashamed of yourself.

“How many times?” He asks.

“What?”

“How many times have you done it?”

“Every night this week...”

“Jesus Christ! Are you trying to ruin your life?! You’re so fucking stupid! You must literally have no brain up there! I’m so disappointed in you oh my God.” He’s pacing across the room running his hands through his hair and over his face. Meanwhile you’re quietly crying and reaching into your bag for a bottle of pills.

“What the fuck are those?!” And tries to snatch them from you, but you’re faster.

“Xanax. Don’t worry they’re prescribed. Which you would know if you payed attention.” You bark out and bitterly laugh and pop a pill into your mouth.

“What?” He softens instantly.

“They’re prescribed. From my doctor. You know because of my anxiety.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t think you cared.” You respond as you stand up and try to leave but Richie blocks the door.

“Of course I fucking care! How long have you had these?”

“A year. They just got bumped up to xanax a month ago.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!”

“Like I said, I didn’t think you cared.” You answer with a deadly emtionless face looking directly into his eyes.

“And why would you think I don’t care?” He questions softly.

“Because you stopped paying attention. You never noticed that I harmed myself or that I tried to kill myself multiple times, although no one knew about that so I can’t blame you. You never noticed the change. You just continued pinning after girl after girl. You never even said anything when I became the party queen. So I never told you that I’ve been diganosed with six mental illnesses because I thought you stopped caring.” You say all this dead into his eues showing no emtion. Richie on the other hand is crying, he grabs your face and looks deeply into your eyes.

“You really are so fucking stupid. I didn’t ‘pay attention’ because you pushed me away. And little miss party queen pisses me off beyond repair. But I thought you were so far lost that I couldn’t get save you. I’m so sorry I didn’t try to save you.” He says as more tears rapidly fall from his face.

“I’m sorry for pushing you away. I didn’t think you would stay when I told you. And I couldn’t stabd the thought of losing you.” Tears now falling down your face again.

“So fucking stupid..” Richie mutters as he pulls you closer and closes the gap between you both.

You rest your foreheads against each other as you pull away.

“I hope you know party queen isn’t going anywhere though. I actually enjoy her.” You bite back a smile.

“Good. I enjoy her too. But only when she’s by my side and mine only.” Richie responds pulling you in for another kiss.

“C’mon let’s go home. It’s late and all the losers are beyond wasted.” Richie laughs.

“Yeah okay let’s go.”

#richie tozier x reader #richie tozier #bill denbrough #stanley uris #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #mike hanlon #eddie kaspbrak #the losers club #it 2017

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ecotone99 · 4 years

Text

[SF] Time Like Waves (first pages of a novel/short story idea I have)

“Time like waves, and the unmistakable feeling of being lost”

A city that never slept was now deserted for the first time in weeks, cars went by, trucks and taxis, but not a soul could be seen on its boulevards. A monstrous storm attacked its streets and made everyone look for shelter wherever they could, everyone except for Saryn. She found joy in the stinging wind against her skin, and the freshness of the water that poured down from the sky. The rain was so dense she could barely see what was in front of her. It was the bright lights of street signs that guided her through the darkened city, which looked as if covered in a thick haze. Thunders roared as she arrived at her apartment building, a quick flash of light illuminated the entrance door and she saw an elderly homeless woman, sheltering herself from the heavy rain. Saryn could only move her aside as she opened the door, since she had no money nor food to spare.

Once inside, the rain could no longer wash away the blood that ran from her nose onto her mouth. Those idiots! she thought, cleaning the blood from her lips*.* Two hours earlier, she had gone to visit one of her suppliers, Caeleb. A hotheaded mess and a sexist asshole, her now-ex-boyfriend used to sell her mechanical equipment, and a few experimental drugs that she used to keep herself awake for more than 48 hours. A quick visit to replenish herself with materials had quickly turned into a heated discussion, since, according to him, Saryn owed them money—which she didn’t. He had had his fun bruising her face after getting upset, and when his arm got tired, he made his hired thugs finish her. And they have taken their time as well.

The only pleasure she could get out of the situation was that she no longer had to deal with that Caeleb and his ass-licking gorillas.

Dripping wet she turned the pale white lights on, walked toward the fridge and grabbed a beer. While drinking, she walked toward the bathroom, and took off her wet clothes, leaving only her underpants on. She washed her face and made sure the blood stopped running. Saryn looked at herself in the mirror, the image of a bruised and tired body imitating every subtle movement she did—her decaying health was so noticeable, that even her brown skin looked pale, accentuating the dark circles under her eyes. Without taking care of her other wounds, she walked toward the living room, or what at least where the living room should be placed. Instead, she had flat cushions and a large coffee table that she used for work. The young woman had all kinds of tools for fixing all kinds of domestic machines. Though, at the moment her priority was something a little less trivial.

After stumbling upon an ancient book called “The Secret Book of Dzyan ,” she found herself obsessed with the occult and mystic. Her new project consisted of a series of ceremonies where she needed to model artifacts in the most delicate fashion. These artifacts will give her the ability to travel beyond any human has traveled before. However, the materials needed to build them were scarce on Earth, and their structure highly difficult to recreate. The book was written on a dead tongue, long forgotten by humans. In order to understand this language, often referred to as “Enoch’s tongue” in Christian books, one needed to be an expert linguist. Nevertheless, she had been studying ancient tongues for a little over a decade now and was able to come up with hints on what the book was about.

She stared at nothing for a few minutes, chugging the cold drink down her throat, which she liked not for its taste but for the cool feeling it gave her. And just when she was about to finish the can, she walked toward a hook on the wall near the entrance door, where she had hanged her windbreaker. She then took a small container from the inside pocket of the jacket, grabbed a pill, and swallowed with the remaining alcohol. This small tablet should give her just enough energy to continue her work without resting for one more day. It was so little time that she used for sleeping, that she only had an old mattress laying on the floor in one corner of the apartment, and she barely used it for sleeping—mostly, it was used for casual sex and as a temporary closet. After grabbing another can of beer, she sat in a flat, over-used cushion in front of the coffee table, and started reading and scribing notes on her journal.

After a few hours working, she turned to her backpack and grabbed a piece of bright metal, a rock no larger than her fist.

— I fucking took the beating of my life for this stupid piece of trash— she talked to herself out loud from habit— I’m sort of lucky that Caeleb has a crush on me still: even when he made those brutes hit me to the ground, he still gave me what I asked for.

“Surely, this will be the last piece of the puzzle that will give me the key to everything…

According to an encyclopedia, this metal had a remarkably low melting point, the perfect material for her to work with the equipment in her apartment. She had everything in her power to achieve this incredible task, however, some of the mathematical equations seemed to be beyond her understanding. Every time she tried to solve them, she found herself lost in a labyrinth full of dead ends. But, in theory, when you encounter several dead ends, eventually, by elimination process you will get to the exit, she thought.

The rising sun marked the end of yet another restless night, and the aching in her eyes, a sign of tiredness. This was the fourth day without rest; she felt so close to achieving her goal that nothing could make her stop working.

A sudden sound coming from her portable communications device attracted her attention, a notification from her personal computer. She ran the server and opened a chat room where she usually communicates with her most trusted contact, “BaTiO3” was his username, and written beside it, a single word in Cyrillic: “Сделано.” Promptly, she looked for a loose piece of paper in one of her journals, where she kept some translated words from English to Russian and vice versa. Done, she read in her mind, it is done.

She came to know “BaTiO3” when she was looking for a component, native of Lakhesis, an industrial planet where the cheapest metals and other materials are mined to be used in the Space Mechanical Engineering Industry. Back then, she knew him only by “12047-27-7,” which she immediately recognized as a Chemical Abstract Service Number—because she used one as well: 107-44-8. But after a year of doing business together, and using the minimum speech possible, they grew comfortable with each other, and talked from time to time. Boris was his real name.

Six months ago, she requested a special metal from him, but it still too soon. She needed more time to solve most of the equations, which, once solved, will bring a single, last equation. An equation Saryn called the “omega equation,” that once graphed in three dimensions, it will show how the metal should be shaped to form an artifact. The artifact will be used in a ceremony that will then create an “omega opening.” A door that will allow her to travel to a different dimension, the home of ancient gods.

She requested from Boris several small pieces of machinery, essential to fix a ship she owned, its damaged engine needed many repairs. The space-craft remained hidden in the outskirts of the city, in an old and long-unused robot farm. The ship was an old model, with parts difficult to get, and its fuel even more so. Being one of the last ships manufactured that used thermonuclear propulsion, its use was not only dangerous but also illegal. Luckily, the people that had it knew nothing about this model, they only thought if the ship as an old and “useless piece of junk” and sold it to her for an excellent price.

Saryn knew it would take about eleven months for the assets to arrive on Earth. This was the average time it took for the slowest ships to travel from Lakhesis to Earth. As little time as it was, she would have to work non-stop.

Another message arrived shortly: “Сложности впереди. Работой осторожней.”

“Trouble ahead. Work cautiously.”

The message meant that Boris had problems falsifying the digital data to transport the assets. And, like a hawk watching over its prey, either governmental or private military agents, or mercenaries will guard the spaceport.

She now needed to make a plan for extraction. She needed the help of others. At least three more people that might have experience in these situations. It was to her advantage that her list of friends was small enough to have at least two trusted contacts here, on Earth. However, she might find herself pushed to ask Caeleb for help in finding the third. She cursed at the thought of talking to him again.

While seeking in between the pages of one of her many journals for the contacts, she felt a rush of pain through her body. It was this moment she most hated when the effect of the energy drugs fades, her body ached and burned like hell, for now, it was time to let it rest. Unable to move the things from her bed, her body heavy as a rock, she was paralyzed in fatigue. And just like lightning, oh shi… she fell hard on the floor. Asleep.

So as for you to have a general idea of what I want to make here's a small synopsis:

In a futuristic Earth, where deep space travel and colonizing other planets have been around for several decades, where artificial intelligence has already been accepted as a new form of life. The mundane life of Saryn, an addict to energy pills, an engineer and occultist, becomes the starting point of our story, as she seeks to find meaning to her life by finding a way to open interdimensional portals. She befriends self-liberated androids and travels to industrial planets in her quest to contact beings beyond our physical dimension.

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#Blogger #Story

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stcrytcllerxinspo · 5 years

Text

Bend Until I Break || Self Para

I just ran out of band-aids I don't even know where to start 'Cause you can bandage the damage You never really can fix a heart

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Drugs, alcohol, mental illness, death, grief

It was nice to be back in Nashville for once. Ever since Kinsley was fourteen years old, she had been living the celebrity life in Los Angeles, but the fame did get old after a few years. Especially since she was now more famous for her scandals than her work. Her life had reached a point where she wasn’t even sure she wanted this anymore. Lately, she had been thinking about purchasing a house and moving back home for good.

She hadn’t even made an actual film in two years, just guest appearances on TV shows and a brief run on Broadway. But it was safe to say that her career was at a standstill for the time being. She spent more time at nightclubs than movie sets and, truthfully, she didn’t really mind. Booze relieved her troubled mind more than work ever could.

She chugged a bottle of whiskey as she stumbled around her hotel room. She could have stayed with her mom, but she hadn’t exactly told anyone that she was in town. She was here because it had been six years since Jade died and she was planning to go to her sister’s grave later.

She probably should visit Devon and Alyssa too. She hadn’t spent enough time with her niece and she was having plenty of regrets about that.

In fact, she had a lot of regrets. Many involved Jade, who died before the twins could repair their relationship, which had been broken after Kinsley’s rise to fame. Maybe Kinsley had gotten too caught up in the celebrity life. She bought her first house (with her aunt’s help) at seventeen, she had dated some of the hottest guys in Hollywood, and she had a ton of money. She had let that take over her life and Jade had called her out on it two weeks before the robbery. They never spoke again after that argument.

She was just about to grab her purse when she heard a knock on the door. “Who the--” She started to mumble, stumbling over to the door. She looked through the peep hole and came face to face with Devon, nearly falling over. “How the hell did you find me?!”

“Jax texted me and said that he saw you around, so I came right over.” Devon walked back her and shut the door. “Do you really think I don’t know where you stay when you’re in town?”

Kinsley could only roll her eyes because honestly, why couldn’t this guy just back off? He’d always been a bit critical of her, but it had worsened in the past six years. Now he couldn’t seem to stop going on and on about how irresponsible she was, how selfish she was, blah blah blah. It was a never ending cycle of "Kinsley is a screw-up, so let’s be sure to remind her.”

“If you’re here to give me shit, don’t bother.” She sat her near empty whiskey bottle on the nightstand and picked up a pack of cigarettes.

“Why are you here?” Devon said quietly as he watched her light the cigarette. She scoffed. Was he serious?

“Here to visit my dead sister and reminisce all my screw-ups. What about you?” She retorted as she took a drag, watching him. She just knew he would have something to say. He always did.

“You haven’t visited Jade’s grave in six years, so why now?” He finally whispered.

Kinsley paused for a brief moment to gather her thoughts. She really didn’t want to say anything that she would regret later. After all, it wasn’t Devon’s fault that she had neglected Jade all those years. It wasn’t his fault that her last words to her sister were said in anger.

“Because I was ready?” She turned to face him.

“Or because you had nothing better to do.” Devon probably thought she hadn’t heard him, but she had. She had heard him too easily. Hell, he didn’t even need to say anything for her to know what he was thinking. He partially blamed her for Jade’s death. It was so obvious...why else would he have so much resentment towards her?

“No, I was ready to see her, okay? God, what do I have to do for you to see that?!”

“Really? Because judging from the cigarette, the booze, and the pills on the table, it doesn’t seem that way!” Devon snapped.

Suddenly, Kinsley was overcome with emotion. She couldn’t take the criticism anymore. Not from him, not from her mom, not from the media, not from online trolls, none of it. She was done taking it.

“Okay, I get that you’re completely heartbroken and the fact that you watched her die definitely doesn’t help that, but don’t you dare act like it’s my fault!” She walked closer. “I am sorry that it happened and believe me, if I had known she was in danger, I would have invited her to that premiere in a heartbeat!”

“Ever since your career took off, that’s been your whole life. Studying a new script, getting fitted for whatever awards show you were nominated at...I mean, you were a damn Oscars winner by your eighteenth birthday. You had everything you could want, so there was no use for your family anymore.” Devon’s voice was thick with anger, his fists clenched. “You never invited Jade to anything, including that premiere that took place on the night that a bullet took her out!”

“I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!” Kinsley yelled at him as she put out her cigarette, grabbing the whiskey again. Once she took another sip, she heaved a sigh before continuing in a much calmer tone. “I am so damn sorry that it happened. You had to watch her die and that is just...I can’t even imagine what that must have felt like, and you have to deal with to this day...but I have my own shit that I’m dealing with. Your last words to her were that you loved her. Her last memory was with you. But me? I have to live my life knowing that my last conversation with her was an argument. She had called me out on the same shit you’ve been bringing up, so believe me, I know I let fame take over my life. And yes, there is a part of me that blames myself.” She could feel a sob bubbling up in her throat. “I live every day with the regret of not trying harder, of not calling her more often and not visiting more. You, Devon, have memories with her. Beautiful, special memories. But I don’t. Not anything after childhood. I-I wish I could change that. I wish I could bring her back more than you know...”

She was crying too hard now, so she did what she always did. She retreated to the bathroom and locked the door, sliding to the floor in a puddle of tears.

“OUR BABY IS DEAD!”

“NO! GOD, NO!”

“BABY, COME BACK! PLEASE COME BACK!”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up...” She cried as she combed her fingers through her hair, her heart feeling as though it might actually jump out of her chest. Maybe this was her breaking point. Maybe she had finally snapped and she was going to wake up in a psych ward somewhere. Because she had to be going crazy. It felt like she had actually gone insane.

“Kinsley? Look, open the door and we can--”

"SHE’S GONE! SHE DIDN’T MAKE IT!”

“Rest in peace...”

“SHUT UP!” Kinsley pounded her fists against the wall. Then a voice broke through the cloud of insanity, grasping her attention.

“Just open the door. I...Look, I don’t blame you. I never blamed you. The reason I avoided you...it wasn’t because I was angry at you. I avoided you because you look like her. You look like her and it’s hard for me to look at you and not see her. It was never about you...”

Kinsley was shaking and felt like she might collapse, but at least she found enough strength to unlock the door, allowing Devon to enter the bathroom. Then she glanced in the mirror and instead of seeing herself, she saw Jade on the other side of the mirror with a hand touching the glass. But as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.

“Kinsley,” Devon grabbed the shaking girl’s shoulders. “Shit, you’re shaking--”

“Please go.” Kinsley gulped, shrugging off his hands. “Please.”

“Are you--”

“Please.” She repeated, much more firm this time. “Go.”

“Fine, but just...” He sighed as he turned to leave. “Try to drop by the house while you’re in town. Alyssa would like to see you. But just...sober up first.”

And just like that, he was gone.

“Sober up.” Kinsley muttered as she finished the whiskey. “Wish me luck with that.”

#{self para; kinsley}

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