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thesunisatangerine · 7 months

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against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part three

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 3.4k

You woke again nearing midday and, as expected, Ale was nowhere to be found. If it weren’t for the still sensitive marks that she left on your neck and the soreness between your thighs, you would’ve thought it was all a pleasant dream. Something on your nightstand caught your eye as you stretched and when you picked it up, all the remaining doubt shattered.

On the piece of paper was a phone number with a little note that said ‘text me?’ and you couldn’t help the grin that made its way to your lips at the drawn smiley face at the end of it. You picked your phone up, added her to your contacts and sent her a hello-it’s-me text, noted the notification of an email from Derek, and then you got out of bed to get ready for the day.

When you returned to the bedroom from your shower, a message from Ale was waiting for you.

‘Hey, good morning! Listen, as much as I’d love to… have fun with you again, I can’t see you the next few days.’

You laughed at the varying degrees of sad emojis that superseded her text. Then you messaged her back.

‘That’s fine. Just text me when you’re free. And you already know where I am so…’

You abandoned your phone after that in favor of your laptop as you remembered Derek’s email. Upon opening your mail, you found it immediately.

‘Good news. Robert sealed a deal with a client and they want you to follow FC Barcelona in their Liga F campaign this season. We got 5 match passes so far–Robert believes that the client might be inclined to commission for more photos depending on how the club progresses throughout the season.

Find the passes in the attachment as well as the in-depth commission details but in short, apart from the customary team photos, they want photos of the following players prioritised in order: Alexia Putellas, Maria ‘Mapi’ Leon, and Caroline Graham Hansen. I’ll leave the research to you.

On an informal note, the window to decline is still open. As previously discussed, you don’t have to do this. Let me know what you decide as soon as possible.’

You checked the attached files and sure enough, you found the passes for Barcelona’s matches against the following clubs: Real Madrid, Roma, Alhama, Atletico Madrid, and Sporting Huelva. You noted the date for the one against Real Madrid–it was in a couple of days, the same one Ale suggested and a thrill of excitement went down your spine at the thought of possibly seeing her again. Maybe you should message her to let her know that you were going.

You sent a confirmation to Derek before you created a new tab to begin your research. ‘Alexia Putellas’, you typed and hit enter. When the results came back, you stilled.

You blinked.

Then you blinked again.

Of all the places you’d expect to find Ale’s face, a search result about a professional football player was the last thing you could think of. But memories flashed unbidden through your mind: the exclusive night club, Ale’s vague answer about her job, the way her eyes shone whenever you mentioned sports or football, her reflexes, her physique, Ale… Alexia–it all made sense now.

Groaning, you put your face in your hands as your cheeks and ears burnt from the embarrassment that flooded your veins. Oh, how dense could you get! She must’d thought you ignorant for not knowing who she was. Foolish!

But then again… if she didn’t get a kick out of you not knowing, why did she allow the second time to happen? And why promise a third? The thought calmed you down enough to decide not to text Ale–no, Alexia–about this like you’d originally planned especially since you were most likely going to see her at the game anyway.

After another moment to regain your composure for the time being, you proceeded with your research. You clicked on an article, and an article lead to another, which carried you over to a video, and so on. By the end of it, evening had settled and you only managed to discover little. But from what you found out, there was no question to Alexia Putellas’ nascent legacy, both on and off the pitch–an undisputed, modern trailblazer for current and new generations of female athletes. You were gutted to know about her ACL injury though–a quick deviated search made it known to you how serious of an injury it was, especially for an athletic career–and you wondered when she would be able to play again or if she would be playing in the match against Real Madrid. After all, she did say she was going to be there.

You wrapped up your research about Alexia then and you finally moved on to Mapi Leon, then Caroline Graham Hansen. Afterwards, you briefed yourself on the rest of Barcelona Femeni’s 1st Division players as well as the rules of football to come up with a strategy to tackle this task.

A mixture of anxiety and excitement rushed through you as you settled in for the night at the thought of seeing Alexia again now that you know about her identity. You didn’t know what you had gotten yourself into the moment you let her take you to the dance floor but the pull was there from the very beginning. And you decided you were going to see this through to the end.

No. This wasn’t going to change anything at all.

–––

There it was: Estadi Johan Cruyff, home to Barcelona Femeni, stood proud in its blue and red glory.

There was still about an hour and a half left before kickoff but already, people had gathered and started to enter the stadium, you being one of them. Security scanned your press pass as you entered and you were told to head through a different corridor which lead you out to the pitch. Once inside, it was no surprise that the stadium’s interior was no less grand than the outside, the well-tended grass was just a taste to the quality that this place had to offer.

Greeting the other photographers who’d settled in earlier as you walked, you searched for a spot and found it by the space adjacent to the corner flag farthest from the tunnel entrance. There, you placed your duffel bag and your portable stool as you worked to set up your equipment: you double-checked the batteries, attached the right lens to your camera, unwounded your monopod and connected it to your camera.

By the time you looked up, there was already a significant crowd awaiting the players for their warm-ups. You took this chance to take a few shots of the still half-filled stadium, tweaking your settings as you did so and you waited for the players to come out.

About an hour before kickoff, you spied movements inside the tunnel and immediately, your eye was to your viewfinder.

Players from both teams emerged from the tunnel and names popped in your head as you scanned the faces from Barcelona, taking shots of them as they stepped foot on the grass and took off in a jog. There was no sign of Alexia though but you spotted two of your marks on the pitch so you wasted no time to frame them in your camera.

A moment later though, you heard a sudden cheer from the crowd followed by a collective flutter of camera shutters. You lifted your eye from the viewfinder, turned your head to the side and saw that your fellow photographers had their cameras focused to the direction of the tunnel entrance. Your heart quickened. Could it be? And sure enough as you looked to the sidelines, you could make out Alexia’s blonde hair and her unmistakable silhouette. Through your camera’s lens you were able to see her better.

Alexia had on a black leather jacket paired with a top that revealed a strip of skin before the cut of her jeans, finishing her look off with a pair sneakers on and loose blonde hair. She was conversing with her coach, bumping fists and patting the backs of players from both teams who went over to greet her. Then she turned to the stands, waved at their supporters, and she moved close enough for pictures and autographs. She gave one last wave to the fans, shouted an encouraging word to her teammates with a fist in the air, before she headed back into the tunnel. While all of this was happening, you’d framed her through your lens yourself, taking the photos you needed, cheeks warm despite the cooling afternoon air.

Then all the Barcelona players jogged over to the sidelines and huddled, side to side, arm in arm. You took a shot. Not long after that, all of them left the pitch.

The game was about to start.

Alexia wasn’t lying when she said the stadium would get crowded: the stands were filled with blues and reds, flags were flown and waved about, chanted anthems resounded loud and proud in the air–the atmosphere was nothing short of electric.

You’d moved by the sideline close to the tunnel entrance for the beginning of the match along with your fellow photographers so you could capture Barcelona’s starting eleven. When the players came out, they were welcomed by singing and cheers from the crowd. And as they stood there, you took photos of the entire team first before you moved on to focus on Mapi and Caroline.

When the whistle blew and the match began, you were back to your original spot, looking to the stands above the tunnel entrance as you tried to pick Alexia out from the sea of faces through your camera. You managed to a few minutes later, and you found her looking rather pensive: one arm crossed over her chest, the other resting on it as she rubbed her chin with her thumb, eyes focused down at the pitch with her brows slightly creased. It looked like longing to you, a burning desire to return home–to start playing football again. The sight evoked such a feeling in you that you couldn’t help but capture the moment. This shot, however, you were going to keep for yourself.

Now that you knew where Alexia was, following the client’s requisites just got a lot easier. Up until the final whistle, you immersed yourself in your work and the game, focusing more on Mapi and Caroline as they were playing. There were times that allowed you to shift your camera to the stands to where Alexia was and took shots of her, too. By the time you knew it, the game ended and Barcelona won 1-0.

You expected a celebration from Barcelona because they were in their turf after all so you loaded up your camera with a freshly charged battery. The next thing you knew, Alexia was there with the team, hugging and patting them congratulations and her teammates beamed at her, happy to see her there.

Click You took a shot.

The players then began their procession around the stadium, waving at and signing things for their supporters. Through your camera, you saw Mapi signing the shirt of a young girl. Click. Next to her was Caroline, reaching over the barrier to sign a ball, smiling as she talked to the boy holding it. Click.

The procession was near enough that you could hear their banters, growing louder as they approached where you were and the beating of your heart thumped as loud as the chants from the crowd. You congratulated the players as they passed and kept your camera away out of respect. You looked at the end of the line and you met Alexia’s gaze. She was smiling at you while she talked to Irene Paredes beside her and she never took her eyes off you. There was a gleam in them, something akin to mischief and… a challenge? If so, why?

At that you raised an unimpressed brow at her, both a question and a statement. Your reaction seemed to amuse her because her smile turned into a full smirk.

The procession passed but Alexia lagged behind, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Irene who threw Alexia a questioning look. You watched as Alexia waved her off before she began walking your way and you didn’t miss the fluttering of shutters from your fellow photographers’ cameras. Some called Alexia’s name to get her attention but she ignored them, her attention only at you. You barely had enough time to school your features and hide any signs of familiarity before she was standing in front of you.

“Hey, you. You made it here after all.” Alexia said cooly, lips slanted in a half-smile, one hand in a jean pocket.

“Yeah, I did. Sorry, but do I know you?” You asked in an excessively dry tone paired with an raised eyebrow, but you made sure your voice was just loud enough for her to hear. Catching your drift, Alexia laughed, rubbing the bridge of her nose to try and cover it up.

“I suppose not,” she extended a hand towards you, “I’m Alexia, and I’m sorry about… you know.”

“Nice to officially meet you, Alexia. Congratulations on the win, by the way.” You shook her hand, ignored the way her warmth seeped into your skin, and hummed. “You know, you remind me of someone I know. Your resemblance to her is uncanny.”

Alexia nodded as she took her hand back, lips quirked. “I think I know who you’re talking about. I think she also wants to know if she could stop by later tonight?”

Your cheeks warmed and you didn’t fight the smile that made its way to your face. “I did tell her she could whenever she’s free.”

“So, yes?”

“Yes.”

———

You braced your weight against the headboard, forehead over your folded arms, eyes barely open and the erotic sight in front of you did nothing to help the building flood in you. With your thighs bracing her head and from this angle, you could only see Alexia’s closed eyes but you felt her hands roaming and supporting your lower back as her mouth and tongue worked on you.

She was taking her sweet time though, brushing her tongue over your clit lightly, sucking just enough to build up the pleasure but nothing too much to bring you over the edge. You whined because she did it again only with more pressure this time, circling your clit a few times before she moved away again. You were starting to learn that she liked to play; she liked to take her time and get as many reactions from you until she was satisfied, until she’d completely unravelled you.

A particularly cruel swipe of her tongue, accompanied by the obscenely wet sound it made, nearly incited a sob from your lips but the plea you made was nothing short of similar.

“Ale… please…” You panted.

“–my name.”

“Huh?” You whined out, not hearing what Alexia said after a flick from her tongue sent shivers down your spine.

“Say my name.”

Then she circled your clit with more urgency after she said that–demanding. You keened and ignored her, canting your hips forward to chase that delicious friction you were desperately searching for.

“Ale… Ale… please!”

Then she stilled completely and you cried out in protest, eyes flying open to meet lidded hazel ones.

“What–”

“Say my name.” She licked your inner thigh deliberately close to where you wanted it the most.

“Alexia, pl–” You didn’t even need to beg because right after her name left your mouth, overwhelming heat was all you could feel as she ate you out earnestly. Her hands gripped your thighs so tight that you wouldn’t be able to pull away–not that you could ever do such a thing.

“Oh, fuck!”

Euphoria tore through your body in concurrent waves with brutal intensity that it ripped the strength from your bones while your muscles shook helplessly. Even the gentle touches from Alexia tongue as she cleaned you up were enough to make you hiss from overstimulation.

God… she really did a number on you this time.

After you finally calmed down, you shifted so that you could lay by Alexia’s side, kissing your way up from the column of her neck to her lips where you found your taste heavy on her tongue. You dragged your fingers from the crest of her hip to her breast, feeling the ridges of her hard-earned muscles as you did so and revelled in the way they tensed beneath your touch, the softness of her breast a beautiful contrast to the firmness of her stomach.

Alexia gasped when you rolled her nipple between your fingers and you gladly swallowed it as you deepened the kiss. You slotted your leg to apply pressure between her thighs, ample wetness coated your skin and you couldn’t help but moan at her arousal.

You nipped a path down between the valley of her breasts but not before you had given both of her nipples the attention they deserved. You continued your journey, licking and nipping at her skin as you moved down her toned stomach.

As soon as you reached her navel, she parted her legs to make space for you. You kissed her inner thighs, loving the way they tensed beneath your lips and as you trailed closer to her core, you flashed your gaze upwards to meet hers. When you finally got the first taste of her tonight, you watched intently through lidded eyes as she closed hers, dropping her head on the pillow and sighed out a long, low moan.

You gave her a few slow and broad strokes, closing your eyes as you savoured her taste. When she began to urge her hips quicker, you picked up your pace all the while mapping her thighs and stomach with your palms.

You found you liked how responsive she was to your touches, liked the way she demanded for more which you gladly gave to her as she asked for them. And when she cradled the back of your head and buried her fingers in your hair so she could meet your tongue the way she wanted it, you moaned loudly, taking from the way she took hers from you.

“Yes, right there, just–” Her back arched and you clung to her hips like a lifeline. You rolled your tongue against her and sucked, not wanting to disrupt the pace of her fall.

And fall, she did.

She came on your tongue and you accepted it with a grateful moan, slowing down your pace as she came back down from her high. It was sticky and heady, a reward that you lapped up eagerly, and from the pleased way Alexia threaded her fingers through your hair, she was satisfied. Like her, you took your time cleaning her up because after all it was only polite to do so and you enjoyed the way her leg muscle tensed when you kissed her clit one last time.

Content with your work, you kissed the top of her left thigh as a form of gratitude but instead of making your way up, you traced the line of muscle that lead down to her knee where scars from her injury had carved themselves permanently into her skin.

You’d kissed those same scars the last time you were together without knowing the story behind them and now that you know, you dragged your lips over them ever more softly, looking Alexia in the eye as you did so. She watched you intently with lips slightly parted, eyes dark and lidded.

Alexia bent forward so she could reach out to you, lifting your chin with a gentle hand. Then she brushed her thumb over your upper lip to wipe the wetness there but before she could pull it away, you parted your lips and took her thumb into you mouth, sucking and licking off the taste there, never taking your eyes off hers.

“My god,” came her breathless murmur before she moaned out, “come here.”

Then she guided you to her mouth with her gentle grip on your chin and before you knew it, you were under her again, sighing in grateful surrender to the mercy of her and her hands. She kissed and ravaged you many times over–and you, her–that by the end of the night, you’d completely forgotten the weight of her name.

#ap11 #not proofread #mine #my writing #a/n: a bit late but i finally finished it omfg #ngl i rushed this so im extra sorry for any grammar and spelling mistakes...#and how do people write smut its so bloody difficult ahhhhhh #hope you guys like this and would love to know what you think about the story so far #just a reminder: im tweaking minor details as i go so the most accurate copy of all the parts will be on my ao3 (@thesunisatangerine)#apologies for any grammar and spelling mistakes ill work on em later #woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader

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tempe-brennans · 4 months

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and i'd come back if you'd just call

author's note: soulmate au + apocalypse

summary: you show up in jackson and turn joel's life upside down

warnings: implied smut and handsy touching

word count: 2.7k

There’s gray in his hair. He’s sure he should feel grateful for that–especially now–and some part of him does, he supposes.

He has people.

There’s Ellie and Tommy and Maria. You.

He’s not sure exactly what to do about you.

Besides, he’s more concerned about the ache in his back and the knots in his muscles–much more important problems than the love he’s beginning to think he still feels for you or the sunflower burning on his wrist.

There’s heating pads for his muscles and pain pills for his back–concrete solutions.

You, on the other hand, you’re young and fun and something he can’t quite get his fingers around.

And, you had left him–a fact he can’t quite forget. No matter how much he’d like to.

His throat is sore, scratchy in the way that tells him he spent last night snoring. Sighing as he sits up in bed, he cracks one shoulder and then the other.

His feet don’t want to find the floor. His body doesn’t want to hide behind the curtains in his own home because he can never be sure if you can see him.

Tommy thought he was so funny, making you two neighbors.

Joel does turn, eventually, let his feet land on the too cold floor. Toes slip into slippers he’d left in reach when he’d gotten into bed last night. He reaches blindly for the faded flannel robe that’s draped over the chair in the corner of his room.

He hasn’t had time for such indulgences, too busy running–from life, monsters. Anything. Before, he simply hadn’t wanted them.

But, Ellie had presented them both–a set, though the patterns didn’t match at all–as a gift and he hadn’t been able to say no.

He’s tired of being so sharp, so tough. In his own home, at least, maybe he can rest.

Home.

The thought brings his mind back to you, against his will, and as he pours his coffee he tries to see if your lights are on.

He can’t tell. The sun is working against him. He resolves himself to the fact that he’ll run into you at some point in town, so, really, what does it matter if you see each other sooner rather than later?

Besides, he’s almost positive you aren’t sitting in windowsills, pining after him.

He sits in the recliner Tommy had insisted he just had to have and welcomes the ability to put his feet up. It’s a relic–a handle raises and lowers the foot rest–but, somehow, it still works.

Taking a drink of his coffee, he thinks.

There’s no sound in the house, something Joel still hasn’t gotten used to since Ellie moved out.

I’m 20, she had said when Joel had asked if she was sure she wanted to leave, as if that was an explanation. Besides, don’t you want your own space?

He didn’t, if she wanted to know the truth. He wanted to hear her downstairs cooking breakfast or the sound of her snoring through the crack in her bedroom door.

He knew why she had gone, though. It was the same reason he had left home the moment he turned 18.

Freedom.

So, he could understand it, even if he wasn’t entirely fond of it.

He sees her every few days anyway.

Coffee now gone, he knows his day has to start, even if the town now feels like a loaded gun is waiting around every corner. He dresses–a flannel still happily coasting between cozy and too threadbare and jeans. He cracks his front door, feels the bite of the winter wind, and shuts it firmly.

An extra jacket wouldn’t hurt.

“I’m telling you,” Joel mumbles, “she probably doesn’t even remember.”

Tommy quirks a brow. “Are you kidding?” Shaking his head, he laughs. “You spent the better half of a year together. The tattoos–”

“I don’t wanna talk about the tattoos,” Joel dismisses. “Besides,” he mutters, “it was eleven months.”

“Oh,” Tommy hums. “My mistake.”

Silence and then, “You know someone will notice, right?”

Joel tilts his head. “You see me wearing a lot of short sleeves in the winter?”

“You can’t use the weather to hide forever, bro. The minute Ellie–hell, anybody–notices the two identical sunflowers on your arms?” He shakes his head. “Secrets out.”

“Yeah?” Joel asks. “What secret is that?”

His little brother leans in, whispers, “You can still find your soulmate after the apocalypse.”

“She’s the one that left.” Joel sighs. “Obviously, she didn’t care that we were soulmates.”

“You don’t even know why she left!” Tommy exclaims, exasperated.

Joel quirks a brow. “Somehow I haven’t had a lot of time, what with the apocalypse and all.”

His brother claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got nothing but time now.”

Joel walks the streets of Jackson, spitting snow beginning to fall around him.

Maybe Tommy is right. It’s not like Joel doesn’t have some extra time on his hands, a strange concept after the last twenty years, he has to admit.

Maybe he should take advantage of it.

It’s that thought that’s rattling around in his brain when he collides with someone else.

“Sorry!” He reaches out, blindly, tries to catch the person or their belongings–something. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” a voice says. It’s a voice he’s never forgotten–couldn’t forget, even if he wanted to–and he kicks himself that this is the way he’d run into you again.

Literally.

“It was really,” you stand, catch sight of his face for the first time, “my fault.”

He’s older now, grayer and a little softer around the edges, but, still, he can see the moment recognition lights on your features.

“Joel?”

He nods, suddenly sheepish. For once, his mind is completely blank. It can’t begin to come up with an adequate greeting for an old flame that, maybe, still burns somewhere behind his rib cage. He settles on an all too casual, “Hi.”

You smile, a soft thing. “Hi.”

On instinct it seems, you take a step closer and hug him. Though it’s been years, the feeling of you pressed against him, your arms around him, it’s familiar.

He wants to hate it, but he doesn’t. Not even a little.

He barely resists the urge to press a kiss to your forehead, take a minute to inhale your scent, before you pull away.

“S’nice to see you.”

Joel nods. “You, too.” Somewhere between the truth and a lie.

“Your hair, it’s…softer,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” Joel reaches up, runs an idle hand through it. “Haven’t had a lot of time for haircuts, I guess.” He shrugs. “I kinda got used to it.”

You nod. “It’s been a long time.”

Joel quirks a brow. “Whose fault was that?”

It’s too sharp, too biting, and he can see the results flash across your face.

Shaking your head, you glare at him, blow out a breath. “I should have known you hadn’t changed.”

You turn on your heel, away from him, and he wants to reach out, tell you he’s sorry, but something won’t let him.

He thinks it’s his heart.

“I’ve changed plenty!” He calls after your shrinking form. “Changed enough to know I should stay away from you.”

You look over your shoulder–just for a second–long enough to cut him to the core. “The feeling is mutual!”

He sighs and continues on his own path, towards his own lonely house, entirely too close to you for comfort.

“So.” Ellie sighs. “That went well.”

Joel chuckles, rolls his eyes. “You think?”

“We can fix it,” she says, sitting on the couch closest to him. “It’ll be fine.”

“Sure about that?,” he asks. “It’s not a leaky sink, you know.”

Her eyes light up in the very particular way that tells Joel she’s had an idea he won’t be fond of.

He’s suddenly nervous.

“That’s it,” she exclaims.

“What’s it?”

Ellie leaves the room, obviously in search of something, and ignores him.

“Ellie,” he calls after her. “Ellie, what’s it?”

It’s her scheming that puts him on your porch, in fact, toolbox in hand and looking for something to fix.

Real or fake, it hadn’t really mattered to Ellie.

He should never have told her he had been a contractor.

The door opens and you glare at him, unsurprisingly.

“What do you want?”

He spits it out, before he can change his mind, run back home and hide.

“I’m sorry for earlier.” He shakes his head. “You left…before. And, I was angry and seeing you again…” He trails off, settles on simplicity. “I’m sorry.”

Something in your face softens as you step aside to let him in.

“I’m sorry for leaving, you know.”

You take him off guard, turn his pulse to a gallop.

“I was…I was afraid,” you murmur, skipping over his own apology in a way that’s entirely you.

Of course it’s the way you’d let him know things are okay.

“I should have told you that, though, instead of disappearing.”

He nods, swallows down a memory he doesn’t exactly want to relive right now, whispers, “It’s okay.”

You nod, smile at him. “You want a drink? Some food?”

He nods, places the toolbox in the floor next to your couch.

“That’d be nice.”

Joel isn’t sure how long the two of you have been talking–minutes or hours. Maybe days. Easy familiarity settles over the pair of you, and things are like they used to be.

He’s glad for it.

“Were there others?” Joel asks, words slipping out before he can stop them.

It’s the question that he somehow desperately wants the answer to and also never wants to hear.

You nod. “A few.” But, then, “None like you.”

It’s more honest than he expected, like your heart has opened to him once again.

You’re vulnerable. He knows you hate that.

“That makes sense.” He nods, rising to his feet, hand curling around the handle of his toolbox, imagining you want him to take his leave. “I’m pretty unforgettable.”

You laugh, look at him with something he would have called affection, once upon a time. “Yeah, you are, Miller.”

Something buzzes inside of him at the knowledge he can still make you laugh, even after everything, and he ducks his head, starts to head for the door.

“Joel?”

He turns, finds apprehension on your features.

He aches to set you at ease.

“Yeah?”

“Could you…would it…” You shake your head, shoulders squaring like you’re heading into a fight. “Would you want to stay? The night? With…with me.”

In a minute, he forgets it all. The pain and heartache and anger disappears with one look at your eyes.

“Yes.”

Simple–the way it’s always been between the two of you.

You crawl on top of him in a way he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined over the years.

His hands find a resting place on either of your hips, squeeze the flesh there lightly.

“Hi,” you murmur, grin on your face.

“Hi.” He smiles.

It’s different when you’re with your soulmate.

Joel had been with others, sure.

Tess comes to mind, but he quickly shakes the thought away–along with the memory of her death.

But, every time, even when stars popped up behind his eyelids and warmth erupted through his every limb, it wasn’t what it had been with you.

The best way he could think to describe it was…more.

As you lean down, press a kiss to his lips, he finally admits to himself how much he’d missed it. You.

Joel feels you pull away and squeezes you closer. “Where you goin’?,” he mumbles, already half asleep.

“Shirt,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, nuzzles his nose into the hollow of your throat.

Chuckling softly, you say, “S’winter, Joel.”

He holds you even closer–if that’s possible. “I’ll keep you warm.” Then, just to tease, fingers dance over your hip bone, inches from the crux of your thighs. “Any way you want.”

“Joel…”

“Or, are you too old for this game?” He hums, getting a rise out of you too tempting to ignore. “You get soft on me while you were away?”

Your own hand–cold from it’s trip beyond the faded quilt that covers you both–dances along the soft skin of his stomach, curls around his still too sensitive length. He jumps, hisses out a breath, interest already simmering at the base of his spine.

“I can still play,” you purr. “Can you?”

Your hand works him over, languid strokes finding a pattern that makes his skin buzz.

Joel rises, mouth desperate to find yours.

He’s always liked to be kissed–especially by you, especially when you’re touching him the way you are.

You indulge him, lips parting to let his tongue tangle with your own. He can’t help but grin into the kiss.

In the morning, he wakes alone. Part of him isn’t shocked. Part of him is heartbroken all over again.

Quickly, he gets dressed–avoiding mirrors with the hopes of missing any evidence you’d left behind of the night before.

He goes to Tommy’s, doesn’t even look towards your house as he walks down the street.

“You’ve been in love before.” Tommy shrugs. “Maybe it could happen again. Nothing says you have to be with your soulmate.”

Joel hadn’t thought about it when he’d fallen in love with Sarah’s mother.

He hadn’t had much choice, if he’s honest. One look at her and he had been done for.

So, the fact she didn’t have a sunflower on the soft skin of her forearm wasn’t of much consequence. The fact she had her own tattoo–purple dahlia petals curling around her own wrist–had never mattered to her either.

They had shared a life and love and had turned that love into something that lived outside of them.

Sarah.

It was only a few months after she was born that Joel had woken up alone to the sound of Sarah’s crying.

He had adjusted, though. The two of them had made a team and found happiness all on their own.

Until…well, Joel didn’t really like to think about that day–that last day. He preferred to imagine her laughing, head thrown back in joy.

“I know,” he murmurs. He adds, almost under his breath, “I don’t think I want to fall in love. Not if it’s not with her.”

Tommy ducks his head, sheepish all of a sudden.

“What is it?”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell you.”

He leans forward, insistent. “Tommy, what is it?”

“She told Maria that she was…thinking of leaving Jackson.”

Joel is off Tommy’s couch and out the door before Tommy can ask where he’s going.

Joel suspects he knows.

His knocks are incessant, barely a pause between them.

“C’mon,” he murmurs to himself. “Please don’t be gone.”

The door opens, shocking Joel, and he almost falls through it.

“You can’t leave Jackson,” he pants. There’s an ache in his side, a pulling at muscles that scream with use more often than they don’t these days. He’s certain he shouldn’t have run to make sure he caught you.

You shake your head, hands coming to rest on either side of his face.

It’s a gesture full of affection and hope ignites in his gut.

“I’m not leaving,” you murmur.

Joel’s tongue is heavy, suddenly too thick to form a reply. “You…you’re not?”

“No.” Gently, your thumb rubs back and forth over his cheekbone. “I thought of something to stick around for.”

“Yeah?” Joel hums. “What’s that?”

“You.”

Joel feels the heat flush his cheeks. The emotions he really feels are too much–too real–so, he settles for a joke.

“That makes sense.” He nods. “I’m pretty unforgettable.”

“Yeah.” You laugh, duck your head for a minute before your eyes meet his again. “Yeah, you are, Miller.”

Later that night, with most of your closet mingled with his own, he pulls you close to him in bed. His lips ghost over your forehead and an arm wraps around your side.

He glances down at his wrist, takes in the bright yellows of the sunflower petals. With gentle fingers, he finds your wrist, brings it to his mouth and kisses the yellow of your own petals.

There’s gray in his hair, but, right now, he couldn’t feel more grateful for it.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #rebeccawrites

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 2 years

Text

Nights at the Circus: Part XIX

Your ‘coming out party’ is exactly as dramatic as you expected, and now you and Loki find yourself on the brink of a really awkward Romeo & Juliet situation. However, in your most precarious moment standing together before Nick Fury and the Avengers, Loki begins to give off some strange vibes, as if some other force is beginning to take over his body.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Content Warning: almost-smut implying oral Word Count: 3.2k

The next morning (following a long night recuperating in your room after your lover held you hostage for nine straight hours), you went by Loki’s apartment at 10:30 sharp. The meeting was at 11am that day (as it always was on Fridays, no matter the week). Everyone was coming, even Nick Fury and Maria Hill. You guess that this was probably because this was the first meeting since the Maximoff twins had been captured and subdued, and everyone needed to be updated on their situation.

“Should we wait until the end of the meeting?” you asked pensively as Loki poured you a second cup of coffee and sat down next to you. “Let them get the serious stuff out of the way? Or would that just put them in a less-receptive mood?”

He shook his head. “I think getting it out of the way quickly will lessen the pain,” he suggested. “Perhaps they will even gloss over it in order to get to the more relevant topics at hand.”

You sighed and took a sip of coffee, letting the bitter ambrosia linger on your tongue a moment before swallowing. Brewing a decent cup of bean water was an odd skill for Loki to have proficiency in, but he could certainly teach Bruce Banner a thing or two about it.

“Do you think Steve will say anything?” you asked.

“I thought you told him last night,” Loki responded.

You shrugged. “I was drunk, and I don’t know exactly what I said, but I get the feeling if he thought I was still yours, he wouldn’t have almost agreed to sleep with me last night.”

Loki nearly dropped his cup onto the table. “He WHAT?”

Oh my god, I never mentioned that when I propositioned him, he nearly said yes! you thought.

“Please, don’t think anything of it! Remember, it was a combination of alcohol and miscommunication, right?” you quickly replied, hoping this would quell his sudden burst of anger.

He grunted and sat back only after looking like he was seriously considering committing murder for a solid thirty seconds. You were relieved and took another sip.

“If what I can remember is correct, he DID say he wouldn’t touch me drunk, but…I think if we were both in our heads, he may have gone for it,” you said quietly, looking down into your teacup.

“Can’t say that I blame the man,” Loki agreed. “Who could resist you flopping into their arms and offering them your body so freely?”

You felt the blush begin to burn your cheeks, and you were conscious of the edges of your hair turning to ember. Loki smiled. “Oh, have I aroused you again? With only a compliment this time! Tsk!”

Putting your cup onto the table, you got up and moved around to Loki’s side, smiling with feigned innocence as you knelt before his chair, looking slyly up at him as you leaned over to where his button fly was, taking the top button into your teeth and fiddling with it a moment before undoing it and moving on to the next one. You made quick work with your mouth, and in thirty seconds, Loki’s pants were unbuttoned.

When you sat up, Loki looked down in genuine wonder. “Norns, Y/N! Where did you learn that magic?”

You grinned, proud of yourself. “Summer camp after eighth grade.”

Loki’s eyes went wide. “What kind of Midgardian summer camp for young girls teaches them something like--?”

“—oh, no!” you corrected. “I should have added: we taught each other how to unwrap starbursts with our mouths. With enough practice, you can do almost anything with your mouth…”

You leaned back in with a coy smile as Loki purred in excitement while you set aside the material of the pants before—

“Y/N, it’s eleven-oh-six!” Loki suddenly interjected, indicating the small clock by the door.

“Oh fuck, were late,” you moaned. “That won’t be a point in our favor.”

Loki helped you to your feet, and you brushed off your knees while he (regrettably) rebuttoned his fly. You quickly went out into the hall and locked the door. Loki took you hand in his.

“Take a deep breath, Firebird,” he recommended. “I know this is making you anxious.”

“Major understatement, but yes,” you replied, taking a breath but not reaping much benefit (and Loki’s coffee was now surging through your veins, delivering caffeine to your nerves and not helping things).

He nodded and gave your hand a firm squeeze. “This will eventually be for the best.” You nodded and took a step towards the elevator. As long as Loki held your hand, you knew that in the end, it would all be okay…

…at least you hoped it would.

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“…so the girl is going to be given Release One status this afternoon,” Fury was informing the team, seated in their usual spots around the conference table (save for two obvious exceptions, to Fury’s annoyance), which was littered with the remains of a donut-and-coffee offering for the group.

“Isn’t that dangerous? It’s been a few days,” Steve asked.

Fury shook his head. “Stark’s new gadget will see to our safety,” he said.

Tony, the only one standing and leaning by a window, nodded. “Banner and I were able to tweak a standard ankle monitor to be able to suppress large psychic energy bursts. Slap it on her leg, and she won’t be able to do more than throw pencils at us and do parlor tricks.”

“And her brother?” asked Natasha.

Fury and Maria looked at one another. “Pietro is a little harder to control, physically.”

“We’re working on it, but it seems even adding weight to him doesn’t slow him down to more than a Force-5 Hurricane,” Bruce added. “It’s his metabolism, we think, so the solution to calming him down might have to be medical—”

“—hey, I have an idea, how about we leave them alone and just wait until they decide to play nice with the other kids?” suggested Clint. “Feels kinda like clipping their wings, wouldn’t you say? We didn’t need to suppress Y/N—”

As if on cue, you arrived in the doorway, still holding Loki’s hand and looking more than a little apprehensive. You repressed the urge to respond to your name, instead choosing to make a pathetic attempt to slip in and find your chair without notice. Obviously, this was quite impossible with a round table in the room, so after only a few steps, you and Loki realized that every eye in the room was on you.

More specifically, on your entangled hands.

“Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me,” muttered Fury, putting a hand to his temple.

“…what?” you asked in the meekest voice you could summon. You felt Loki give your hand another pulse.

Tony looked amused. Steve looked like he was ready to shit all over the floor and trying to hide it, while Bruce was more interested in how Steve was reacting. Natasha and Clint looked at each other and shrugged as if it were a simple HR announcement. Thor, being the only other Avenger already aware of your situation, was the only one to not react, aside from briefly twisting his lip and sighing.

“This! THIS!” Fury yelled, already losing his famously-short temper, indicating your hands. “I thought you two were at each other’s’ throats!”

Steve grunted. “Move north just a little.”

“Or, move south,” said Tony, raising an eyebrow and enjoying his quip more than anyone else in the space.

“I thought you said this was over?” Steve asked you. “Just the other night?”

You and Loki took your seats, still holding on to one another. You shook your head. “We made up.”

Loki raised his nose to look down at Steve from two chairs away. “Does this bother you, Rogers? Or anyone, for that matter?” he turned to the rest of the group, challenging them.

Steve looked Loki in the eye, staying quiet for a moment as Bruce put a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait, you too?” Fury asked. “What the FUCK is going on here? This is Avengers Tower, not the goddamn General Hospital!”

“Is there a policy against it? Excuse me, but I haven’t finished thumbing through the employee manual yet,” Loki snarked.

“I’ll tell you where you can put that employee manual if you don’t watch your step, Laufeyson,” Fury warned.

Maria interrupted, taking a just-as-firm but more tactical tone. “How long as this been going on?”

You looked at your lover, who nodded. “Two weeks after I arrived, and pretty much ever since.”

“I’m not allowing it,” Fury said quickly. “It’ll fuck with your heads and make it easier for terrorists, or Hydra, or whatever alien species of the week decides to descend from on high to kick our asses, to defeat us. When the world is on the line, you can’t fuck up!”

“She did do a good job backing me up in Sokovia,” Tony said. “I don’t know if I could’ve gotten the scepter without her.”

“We aren’t naming kids or anything,” you insisted. “My god, how does this mess with anyone’s heads?”

“I’m sorry, I need to go,” Steve suddenly declared, hopping out of his chair and heading for the door. Sam got up to go after him.

“Hey, where are you going?” he asked.

Steve looked over at you and Loki, sitting before him with hands locked and looks of concern on your faces. “Crazy,” was all he replied before leaving the room, attempting to slam the door before noticing the door stopper was still jammed underneath. Loki cracked a smile before you shook your head. Now wasn’t the time for amusement.

Bruce looked at everyone, then looked to you specifically with a look of apology on his face, before going after the jilted Captain.

“See? This is exactly what I mean by fucking things up,” Fury said, throwing his hands up.

“We aren’t children!” you barked back, your voice rising as you felt the first surge of adrenaline course through your head. “You can’t tell us who we can or can’t love.”

“Wait, love?!” Fury responded.

You finally let go of Loki’s hand and got up from your chair. “Well, what did you think this was?”

“I thought y’all were just screwing! Did you invite her to the goddamn prom yet, Romeo?” he answered.

“I regret to inform you, Fury, that Y/N has charmed me well beyond mere physical attraction,” Loki insisted. “Leaving us alone here only served to instigate these feelings, I’m afraid, so truly, if anyone IS to blame…”

Fury growled and Maria’s face softened. “I don’t think YOU understand…”

“...what are you going to do…fire me?” you smiled, holding up your palm and producing a small burst of sparks.

“Ha, nice one,” Clint noted quietly.

Fury gave you a look that made you instantly regret your joke. “Thin ice, girl. Thin ice.”

Loki stood. “You will not talk to her this way.”

“I will talk to Y/N in any way I choose, especially after hearing that the two of you decided to go off and start this shit when we’ve never had more threats against us. WE NEED TO KEEP OUR COOL!” Fury said, the authority in his voice growing more intimidating by the second.

“No, Fury, you will NOT talk to her so disrespectfully,” Loki insisted. “She is my lover now, and I care for her, whether ANY of you like it or not, so I humbly suggest you get used to it, or get out like Soldier Boy so gracefully chose to do.”

“Loki, please don’t lose control,” you pleaded. “You won’t be helping us that way.”

“Nick, I honestly don’t get why you’re so up in arms,” Tony said, moving away from the window and choosing to sit in the seat vacated by Steve moments ago. “It’s not like they’re boning on the table right now.”

Nick shuddered. “BONE?? I hate that word. Jesus Christ, guys,” Fury moaned, turning away from the group to gather his sanity for a moment.

Maria, on the other hand, stepped up. “There isn’t anything against this,” she said with her best airline stewardess impression. “I have to admit, however, I’m concerned about where this may lead.”

You looked at Maria in confusion. “How so? Perhaps we can come to an understanding?”

Maria sighed. “I’m referring to if you fall pregnant, Y/N.”

One thing you did not notice was how, at the word ‘pregnant,’ Loki shifted from foot to foot, a split-second of worry crossing his face in spite of himself, as if something in his mind had been triggered by the word.

“Ah, I…oh.” You didn’t expect a question like this. “I mean, I’ve had the implant for over a year,” you admitted, holding up your left arm. “Hasn’t failed yet.”

She smiled. “That’s good to hear. The only thing I would recommend, in that case, is to see that it doesn’t fail in the future. Also, I’d feel a little more comfortable if you did a quick pelvic exam downstairs in the infirmary in the next few days, just to be sure. Other than that, I don’t see how this would cause any long-term damage to the team.”

In that moment, you developed a new appreciation for Maria Hill. For as ‘lawful good’ as she was, and as much as she was beholden to Nick Fury’s command, you felt like you could vibe with her. At least one person is in our court, you thought gratefully.

Fury turned to Maria, and although they stayed quiet, the looks between them could have been an entire conversation. You hoped you and Loki would get close enough to be able to do that one day.

Fury sighed heavily and looked back at you and Loki. Loki gave you a look of concern, which you met with a small, reassuring smile.

Natasha cut in. “I also don’t think this will be a problem. You can’t help who you fall for,” she said, and you noticed she quickly glanced over at Bruce when she said so.

“I think,” Tony began, “That the best way to handle this is to pretend it’s not happening at all. You two weirdos can go off and have weird god-nookie all day long, but I do ask one thing, and that is not to get too mushy. Some of us don’t work well when we feel nauseous.”

You curtly nodded at Stark, who responded with a casually reassuring look that only he could give.

Fury took another long look at you. “What do you suggest we do about Rogers, then? I’m putting that responsibility squarely on you two,” he said. “Mainly because fuck this drama shit, I have more important things to do.”

“That’s correct,” Loki added, “You DO have things that actually concern you to see to.”

“Don’t antagonize him,” you said, your heart skipping a beat at Loki’s sudden defensiveness just as things were beginning to turn in your favor. “We’re winning.”

Loki didn’t back off. “You take away my magic and my freedom, and now you don’t think twice about taking away the one thing that gives me pleasure in this rotting, filthy tower?”

You saw a patch of blue begin to crawl up his neck. “Loki…” you tried to warn him.

He continued his rant, his voice growing in indignant strength. “And furthermore, I am tired of being your prisoner, Fury. Either you call me up for duty or I rebel.”

“If you rebel, you get sent to Asgard,” Fury reminded him coldly. “And as I recall, that’s a situation you really would like to avoid…so don’t lose your head over it.”

Loki gritted his teeth at the mockery. You tapped his arm, quickly bluing over, and as more of the Avengers noticed, their faces fell into looks of shock. Even you felt the momentary urge to shoot a fireball into Fury’s face for that.

“If it weren’t for her,” he said behind gritted teeth, you tightening your grip on his freezing bicep, “Perhaps I’d be considering it by now.”

Clint pointed at Loki. “Um, why is he smurfing out?”

“No, brother, don’t—” Thor said, shouting to his feet with such strength that the chair nearly flew into the wall when he pushed it.

Loki looked at you, his face nearly half-covered in ice-blue Jotun skin and one eye beginning to redden over, quickly leaving a kiss on your forehead, then bounding away before he could react with even more violence, ruining the small progress you’d made on his behalf.

“That was uncalled for,” Natasha said softly.

Fury grunted. “Now we have an angry version of the genie from Aladdin on our hands, apparently,” Stark added. “Someone get Eiffel-65 on the phone!”

You scowled in Tony’s direction. “This is why we didn’t want to tell anyone. We were BOTH afraid of going through this.”

Bruce nodded and walked over, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “I’m in your corner,” he promised. C’mon, Nick, there’s really no issue here. Especially seeing as we were just talking about a woman who could make this whole place explode with a sneeze,” he added, having returned from trying to chase after Steve.

“How is he?” Fury asked.

Bruce sighed and looked at you. “He wouldn’t want me saying this, but he’s pretty banged up over it. I think he was really into you, Firebird. Like, moonlight and roses and rings and all that.”

“I didn’t ask for him to feel that way,” you replied reflexively. “I swear I never led him on or anything.”

“I know that, and he does too,” answered Bruce. “He just…needs to get away for a few days to get over it, away from you.”

Fury rolled his eyes. “Great, now everyone’s going to want a vacation every time they take a shit, won’t they?”

“Look, Nick,” Stark interjected, “Can we close this subject and move back to the Blunder Twins?”

“Please do,” you seconded.

“Fine, fine,” he finally acquiesced. “But you, Y/N,” he pointed his eyes at you, narrowing them threateningly. “YOU will be the one to answer for him now.”

“What does that mean?” you asked.

Nick looked at Maria before explaining. “Should he put one more toe out of line, you have to answer to the UN for it. Let me put it in perspective: you would be under charges of aiding and abetting an intergalactic criminal who is technically under a death sentence. You wouldn’t die for it like he would, but you’d sure have a difficult time saving the world while wasting away in a permanent cell in Sing-Sing.”

Clint shook his head. “Can we stop talking about executions and stuff? It’s getting to be a downer!”

“Firebird is a level-headed woman,” Nat said. “Loki is in good hands.”

“I’d say so,” muttered Stark before you shot another death-glare at him.

“Well, if it’s settled, I think MY BOYFRIEND needs me,” you said, your voice full of pride (and perhaps a little spite). You quickly left the room and went off to find Loki before he froze half of the building in his anger.

------------------------------------------------------------------

@el-zef @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @lokisgoodgirl @mischief2sarawr @michelleleewise @mochie85 @toozmanykids @xorpsbane @huntress-artemis @itsybitchylittlewitch @the-fantasy-loving-angel @moonlightreader649 @littlemarvelmenfan @ficitve-sl0th

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dreamyfanfix · 1 year

Text

Chapter 3: Unsettling

Previously on the Bachelor. The contestants were separated into two teams of eleven and had to put on a play. Things got heated with group A as Claudia and Maria got came to blows. [insert clip of Claudia and Maria fighting over who should be the lead of their play. The group voted for Maria after her plea of having stage experience as a singer]. In the end, it was Maria's inability to remember lines that lasted longer than 3 minutes that gave group B their edge (with Anthony's brother Benedict here to judge) and it was group B that won the outing with The Bachelor, Anthony [insert clip of group B being announced the winners and some members of group A, Claudia and Rachel, complaining about Maria]

Today, the winners of the last episode will have a nice fun time at a salsa dancing class where each of them will get a chance to dance with Anthony but this class is more than education and whoever Anthony feels he has the best dance chemistry with will be the winner of the first one-on-one date of the season. The stakes are high but remember the first one-on-one date could set the tone for the season and the aforementioned winner could get a rose before the ceremony at the end of the day [insert Anthony talking to a mysterious lady about how much chemistry he is feeling]

Just remember dears, Lady Whistledown will be watching.

"Daphne, what the fuck are you doing here?" Anthony said immediately after shutting the door to his room.

"I just wanted to see you," she said sheepishly.

"Okay you have seen me now get out of here before anyone gets a long look at you and see that you are pregnant," Anthony gesticulates towards the door.

Daphne sniffles and then starts crying "I'm sorry, I just didn't know who else to talk to,"

Anthony immediately feels bad and embraces his sister while directing her to sit down on his soft couch. "Daf what's wrong? Is it Simon?"

Daphne sniffed "Yes and no. These pregnancy hormones are doing a number on me but it's about you,"

"What about me?"

"I know why you are doing this and I feel bad-" he tried to interject but Daphne held her hand up "-please just let me finish," He nodded and Daphne continued "I know you are doing this so no one finds about me and Simon and I feel bad. You never liked having public relationships and now you are dating multiple women on national television and it's all my fault,"

Anthony took a deep breath. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't known what to say to his sister or his family about this situation for months. "I'll handle it," was kind of his motto at this point.

When Daphne and Simon had shown up on his London doorstep 5 months ago having eloped, he was disappointed. Disappointed in his sister's choice of partner but also that Daphne had forgone all of the things that she had always wanted as a little girl: the big wedding with all her family there and yeah it hurt that one of the few things that Anthony looked forward to as the family's pseudo father figure was the ability to walk his sister down the aisle and he missed that chance with Daphne. Despite it all, Anthony swallowed his disappointment and helped Daphne and Simon announce their situation to the rest of the family. Anthony usually sat at the head of the table so he had a clear view of everyone's reactions. His mother Violet Bridgerton looked at him first and then smiled at Daphne and Simon, taking her daughter's hand. Hyacinth and Gregory who hadn't quite learnt any tact yet asked about Fred and everyone looked at Daphne and Simon, while Anthony took another sip of his drink. It burnt his throat as it went down but he needed it.

Daphne thought she might have been helping the situation because even Eloise joined in on complaining about the suddenness of Daphne's nuptials. Daphne looked to Anthony for help but he shrugged his shoulders, he had warned her. Mostly he warned her that if she could not stand up to the scrutiny of the family when Daphne does eventually go public about her and Simon's relationship the scrutiny would be even more heavy. She then exclaimed, "I'm pregnant!" It silenced the table and Anthony had honestly never seen his family so shocked since Colin had run off a month ago to go chasing after a girl who did not want him. His mother stood up to congratulate Daphne in a hug which got Daphne to finally relax while the siblings all murmured congratulations while Fran, Hyacinth ad Greg spoke about who the favourite Aunt/Uncle was going to be.

Anthony thought it was over, at least for a while, until he got an appointment request from Charlotte Queen. Anthony was prepared to grovel for her forgiveness on behalf of his sister but instead of an angry executive, he got a cool and calm one. Which to be honest, was a lot scarier to him. Charlotte came as a courtesy to let Anthony know that she was going to be making her nephew the new Bachelor. At first, Anthony did not understand why that was news until he realised that that would mean people would be asking questions about why Daphne and Friederich did not work and whatever Fred said on the show could make or break Daphne's reputation. Friederich wasn't a bad guy but he was incredibly sincere and a bit naive, it made it hard for people not to be on his side. It could easily make Daphne look bad especially when news of her pregnancy got out. Anthony asked Charlotte if there was anything he could do to get Frederich out of the next season and Charlotte made it clear that she would someone of equal standing to take her nephew's place. Anthony knew what he had to do next. It was excruciating but after cancelling his meetings for the day and having meetings with all his solicitors and media people it became clear that this could do good things not just for Daphne but as a way to clean up his romantic image as well.

Later that week when Anthony announced that he was going to be the next Bachelor his news gave way to a very mixed reception. Ben and Colin went in on the teasing Hy and Greg were intrigued but it was Eloise who was able to figure out that Anthony had secret motives. That is when Anthony had to come clean about why he was doing it. Everyone understood and no one could offer up any other solutions so Violet then proceeded with the Sunday lunch and the family moved on to lighter topics.

After the lunch was over Anthony went outside to get some fresh, not to smoke a stress cigarette, and Simon came out to speak to him. It was stilted at first, in a lot of ways Anthony had lost one of his oldest and dearest friends to his sister and no one knew how he was feeling. Anthony had a line drawn in the sand for their relationship now: Simon was Daphne's husband and that was that. Things took a turn when Simon commented how this could be a good thing for Anthony and his philandering ways when Anthony lost it. He didn't know when he started but he knew that he was punching Simon relentlessly and Simon did not fight back, it only made him angrier. It was only when Ben came to pull Anthony off Simon did Anthony see the damage he had done. Every one of his siblings looked at him like he was something to be afraid of and Anthony did not stop to speak to any of them as he left Bridgerton House.

It had 4 months since the incident and everyone in the family had moved on. Everyone except Daphne, who he hadn't spoken to in months. He got information about how she was doing from their mother and his siblings but he realised that he could not speak to Daphne or Simon without getting angry and he did not want to be angry around his pregnant little sister.

"Daf I don't know what you want me to say," Anthony said softly.

"I want you to speak to Simon," Daphne said looking at him with those bright teary eyes.

"What would we speak about? I already apologised for the punches. It's done now,"

"Except it's not done. Simon was your best friend. The only other people you are close with are Benedict and Fife, and Fife is terrible and Ben is family,"

"Simon's family now too Daphne, that's what happens when you get married,"

"I know I just didn't think you would lose your friendship over this," she said softly

Anthony got up feeling agitated "Well, we did. He went from being my best friend to your husband that's how these things work,"

"He can still be your friend," Daphne pleaded.

"Except he can't Daf. Not the way he used to be. Simon was the person who I could go to outside of this family, whose loyalty was to me first. It was nice it was freeing at times but now he's your husband and that means his loyalty is to you first," Daphne looked like she wanted to interrupt but Anthony continued "And that's okay. I wouldn't want it any other way for you and my baby niece or nephew in there but it just means I have to keep things a little close to the chest a bit. It may not be this glamourized version of how you thought this was going to go when you married your brother's best friend but it is what it has to be. At least for now,"

Daphne sniffed some more and nodded her head "I wish I had done things differently,"

Before Anthony could answer her there was a knock on the dressing room door.

It took Anthony right out of his moment and he went to go answer it. It was Kate.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi," Kate was so beautiful sometimes he needed a moment to adjust "Listen I don't have the time right now to speak,"

"Yeah, I didn't come to speak to you. Well, I did but not like that. Sophie and another line producer are coming to get you so that you can record your confessional for some of the contestants,"

Anthony nodded his head and went to close the door but he must have looked confused because Kate stopped the door from closing and said "I'm telling you this because few people know of your guest and the state she is currently in. We all sign NDA's but things get out. You might want her to put on a cap and leave through the back entrance,"

Anthony sighed and nodded "Thanks Kate,"

"No problem. You have 10 minutes," she said as she quickly walked away.

Anthony tried not to get too distracted by Kate's figure walking confidently and rushed to get a 6 months pregnant Daphne out of the studio lot.

Edwina was a nice girl. Nice being the operative word here. There was technically nothing wrong with her but as he got mic'ed up for their one-on-one date he could not help but feel like he made the wrong choice. Edwina was just one year younger than Daphne but she had already accomplished a lot, she was a principal dancer with the royal ballet, a dancing ability that helped a lot during today's salsa class, she had a degree in psychology and played the piano splendidly. These were all the things he needed reminding of going into this date because although no one could deny Edwina was a beauty, there was nothing distinct about her looks, bright wide eyes, soft delicate features and a smile that made you want to melt inside. It was usually his type but he could not help make the comparison between her and Kate. He did not know why but every time he saw Edwina he thought of Kate. Where Edwina was polite, Kate was cutting. Where Edwina was soft-spoken, Kate was direct and loud. Edwina was pretty, beautiful even but Kate was stunning. A strong beauty with strong features.

Anthony had to shake himself off from thinking about Kate. It was strange but also it made him uncomfortable that he looked at one Indian woman and saw another. Edwina and Kate may share similarities but it's not like he looked at Josie or Anika and saw Kate so why did Edwina remind him so much of Kate? Was he a racist? No way.

As the date with Edwina went on, they spoke about a few things. Anthony asked if she ever went horseriding and Edwina made a face "No not really. I'm not a big fan of horses. I like the small cute kind of animals that curl up in my lap,"

"The really cute ones like you," Anthony internally cringed at his comment but Edwina seemed to like it.

"Thank you. Tell me about you," Edwina prompted.

"What do you want to know?" He asked.

"What animals do you like? What books have you read? I want to know everything," she said sweetly.

"Everything huh? Well, I like cats and horses. My family owns a breed of horses," Anthony could feel that not only was he losing the interest of Edwina but the crew who seemed bored at the conversation unfolding. It was embarrassing, to say the least, he had never had his romantic charisma on display like this before "But if I had to be honest. The last thing I read was accounts and ledgers for my family company. I know it's incredibly boring,"

Edwina giggled "I don't think so. I love to read so I can keep you appraised about what the shelves are being stocked with for the both of us,"

Anthony chuckled a little bit and said "I'm glad, I always loved being read to. Especially by someone with a smooth voice like yours,"

Edwina visibly blushed and Anthony knew he had her hooked. He really was good at this. They spoke about family, Anthony told her to her shock that he had seven siblings and Edwina was nervous but said she did not have any siblings. Anthony figured her nervousness came from the thought of having seven members of his family she might have to impress.

After the end of his date with Edwina, Anthony was feeling invigorated. He liked her. Not as much as someone like Siena, Claudia or Maria but he did not want to give Siena a big head by showing his interest just yet. After recording his confessional, Anthony was able to spot Kate walking around on the grounds.

She was pacing staring at her phone and Anthony knew he should stay clear of her thinking about all the things he has been thinking about since he met her. The way she had already worked her way into his dreams. He convinced himself to go and speak to her by saying it was merely to thank her for the warning about Daphne earlier.

"...Yes, but she may be a bit over her head here. She is only doing this because of her grandparents and what they said," Kate said to Mary, her stepmother over the phone.

"Those people are vile Kate but Edwina can handle herself unless there is another reason why you think Edwina should not be in the running for one of England's most eligible Bachelors?" Mary asked with a sweeter tone

'Yeah, Edwina's gay mom' Kate thought but did not say, this was something Edwina was going to have to figure out on her own and she sure as hell was not going to be the one to out her sister.

Kate then heard someone behind her and saw Anthony heading her way. "Hey, Mom I gotta go. Send my love to Newton please,"

"Will do sweetie. I love you,"

"Love you too," As Kate ended the call Anthony had just reached her. Man, he smelled good. If she did not draw the short straw and had to rally footage for the girls in the house today then she would have been able to see his date with Edwina. She was nervous. Edwina was always good at putting on a show she just hopes that she didn't hurt anyone in the process.

"Who's Newton?" Anthony asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked.

"Why did you answer my question with another question? Is he your boyfriend?" He asked.

Kate was surprised by his boldness then again he had a way of making her heart beat faster. "Would that be any of your business?"

"Maybe not but I feel like I have to know," Anthony said.

Was it just her or did his voice get deeper at the end of that sentence? Kate felt herself heating up and said "He's my dog. A small little corgi,"

Anthony said "A dog huh? Why am I still jealous?"

Kate tried not to be affected by his question but she always loved showing pictures of her little boy so she brought her phone out and asked "Do you want to see how cute he is and how no one stands a chance next to him?"

"Sure,"

Kate showed Anthony a picture of her and Edwina lying on the grass with Newton stretched over her legs. Anthony looked taken back and then pointed at the picture it was then that she realised that Edwina was in the picture "You know Edwina?"

"Yes, she's my little sister. I told you I was here for family reasons just like you," Kate said nervously because she knew she should not have shown him that picture but at the same time hoped that it might prompt him to expel her sooner.

"That's surprising,"

"Surprising? Come on we look alike a bit," Kate said self-consciously about the fact that people liked to make jokes about how Edwina was the pretty one and Kate was the smart one. It was condescending but also opened Edwina up to people who liked to take advantage of her because she might not be historically clever.

"I know you look alike. The minute I saw her I thought of you. It was weird I thought I was racist for a second," Anthony was rambling but Kate found it cute.

"Well, take this as a warning to treat her with kindness," Kate said poking him in the chest.

Anthony grabbed her finger that lingered on her chest and Kate's heart skipped a beat "And why aren't you concerned that she might be the one who would be the mean one?"

"Edwina is kind and sweet and one of the few pure things in this world," she said.

Anthony quirked his brow "Is that so?"

"It is," she said.

"Well, I promise to treat her with the exact amount of kindness she gives out," Anthony said as he dropped Kate's finger to her surprise and disappointment.

Anthony walked away even though wanted him to stay. For what? She doesn't know but Kate knew she had to get a grip quickly because Anthony was supposed to be finding love on this show and she cannot be one of those women who is known for sleeping with people on the job.

Later as Kate watched footage of Edwina's date with Anthony did she realise Anthony's confusion. Edwina did not claim her. To be fair they were only half-sisters and a lot of Western families do not claim siblings that were not full but that was not how she and Edwina were raised so even though it hurt she kept on and tried to find the best angle for Edwina to come out of this date.

#anthony bridgerton #kate sharma #bridgerton #kanthony #kathony fanfic #kate x anthony #the unreal viscount

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lostsouldierbye · 2 years

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@knowseverythingaboutyou: wanna go down on me?

He’s running late from a mission. Though it was really more of a half-mission because he hadn’t seen that much action and his evening had been mostly reconnaissance. By the time he comes home to Maria’s apartment, the clock reads half past eleven and he can hear the shower running. He calls out Maria’s name as he starts stripping off his heavier gear, leaving it in a pile in the corner of the room, before he pulls the bathroom door ajar and peeks in. He lets the door open further and leans against the door jamb as he takes in the sight of Maria through the slightly fogged up glass doors of the shower.

He really needs a shower himself. ‘ Sorry I’m late, ’ he says, and he is sorry that he’s missed the first half of this show. He steps inside, stripping down the rest of the way, and then opens the shower door to join her. He’s met with hot steam and warm water pattering on his back, and he pulls her in by the waist to kiss her deeply. It had been a long 24 hours of recon work, the high stakes kind that had taken all his focus and he couldn’t afford even the simplest of distraction of taking a moment to text Maria during the day. So he’s missed her. Some might call what he’s had co-dependency and the conversation had come up in his most recent therapy session about how much he thinks he owes Maria for his current life and how he would cope without her. He’d walked out of that session 23 minutes early.

Maria already smells like shampoo and soap, a few suds remaining on her skin. Bucky’s hair is soon drenched all the way through, and it doesn’t take long for his kisses to change frequency, edgier, with more bite, and as his mouth trails down along her neck, licking away the slightly bitter taste of soap to get to the earthier taste of her skin, hands gently massaging her breasts, she whispers that question and Bucky doesn’t need to be asked twice.

His hands slide down her body as he drops down to his knees, pushing his hair out of his face as the water sprays down on him. He looks up at her, a cloud of steam rising above her as it escapes above the shower, the slight flush to her skin, unsure whether that was the hot water’s doing, or his own mouth and hands that had taken to her body the instant he’d stepped inside. He leans forward and closes his mouth over her, tongue sliding between her lips and immediately licking after the sweet wetness gathered there with a soft, grateful moan. Several minutes has his hands gripping her beneath her hips, holding her to his face as he kisses her hungrily, helping her thigh go over his shoulder so he can reach her deeper, hands steady on her hips to catch her from slipping on the tile.

By the time he stands up, the lines of grout have indented into his knees, and lines of Maria’s nails have indented into his shoulders. His mouth is pink with the lingering taste and sent of her, slightly breathless, and he’s hard with no way to hide it. Not that he wants to, or if there was any point to it because by now Maria knows that anything done for her is something done for him, too. He can’t remember how much experience he has, but either the same muscle memory that makes him one of the best shots in the world applies to this activity, too, or he’s just a hell of a fast learner.

He shuts off the water and wraps Maria up in a towel as he leads her out of the shower, grabbing one for himself too so he’s not tracking water all the way back to the bedroom. The remnants of his day in the form of his discarded gear still remain in the corner, but he shuts it out to focus on the moment, leaning down to kiss Maria once she’s seated on the bed because the moment is far from over.

#knowseverythingaboutyou #❪ ⠀ * ⠀ bucky ⠀﹕ ⠀ic. ⠀ ❫#❪ ⠀ * ⠀ bucky ⠀﹕ ⠀interactions * knowseverythingaboutyou. ⠀ ❫#❪ ⠀ * ⠀ bucky ⠀﹕ ⠀verse * assassin not for hire. ⠀ ❫

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fruityfourgalore · 2 years

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for the "give me a letter..." ask meme: s!

!!!! thank you thank you! i am so happy you sent me a letter! *cracks knuckles* ok ok

+ shapeshift (jenna doe): currently listening over and over. i can't remember how i cam across this one recently, but. her voice? her writing? the way she gives me nostalgic feels? *grabby hands* it's been a while since i have found an artist on my own (not like maya and joe, that was brought to me by themselves and the fandom). i love that feeling of needing more from an artist and just sitting at the edge of your seat for the next single they graciously hand feed you. //and she's so sweet, bubblegum, cherry; and i'm salty, might make your gums bleed//

+ sophmore slump or comeback of the year (fall out boy): fob, fob, fob. this song. the way their track titles read like a millennial magazine cover and the way they have their unique way of talking to the listener in their songs. idk. fuck. i will always love these fuckers. //we're the kids you used to love, but then we grew old. we're the lifers, here 'til the bitter end, condemned from the start, ashamed of the way the songs and the words own the beating of our hearts// annnnd //there's a drug in the thermostat to warm the room up and there's another around to have us bend your trust; got a sunset in my veins and i need to take a pill to make this town feel okay// been slowly working on a tattoo for the second bit lyric for years because. its perfect. this song is perfect.

+ seventy times 7 (brand new): ever since the cutest cheerleader in my 4th period world history ap class made me a mix cd with this song on it i haven't released my chokehold on it. it is my go to song when i am pissed at anyone, especially when platonic relationships come to a crashing end. its mean, but fuck if they don't know how to capture this very specific feeling, when friendships die. //so is that what you call a getaway? tell me what you got away with cause i've seen more spine in jellyfish, i've seen more guts in eleven year old kids. have another drink and drive yourself home. i hope there's ice on all the roads and you can think of me when you forget your seat belt and again when your head goes through the windshield. is that what you call tact, you're as subtle as a brick in the small of my back. so let's end this call and end this conversation. and is that what you call a getaway? tell me what you got away with cause you left the frays from the ties you severed when you say "bEST FRIENDS" MEANS FRIENDS FOREVER// 🔥

+ she's in love with a boy (trisha yearwood): listen, the venn diagram of my parents' taste in music is two separate circles. they did not have any doubles in their vinyls and cassettes when they got together, okay? my dad was all bob dylan, jethro tull, and steve miller band while my mom was all fleetwood mac, barbra streisand, and james taylor. and my dad would make pick fun at my mom (lovingly) whenever she'd play a trisha yearwood cd saturday mornings. and personally, i found this song fascinating at the ripe age of 7 (it came out when i was 2, but it was mom's fave album ok) because my name was in it AND katie was in love with tommy? you mean the cute power ranger tommy? lmao. // katie looks at tommy like i still look at you//

+ sex & candy (marcy playground): i remember listening to this one back when i was like 15 and writing too much roswell fanfiction during 5th period english lit (not that i was sitting in class with my iPod playing) it was the song for maria/michael. //who's that casting devious stares in my direction? mama this surely is a dream//

send me a letter and i will write too much about my top 5 songs that start with that letter :)

#i didnt mean for this to be a lil novel? i just love music ok?#ask game #send me more please thanks #theres 25 other letters #about me

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noficciondelacreole · 2 years

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HER

BY MARIA SHAKERA KALAN

I love to question and to be questioned. I think that is what completes my “I am..” life description since my mother vomited on me in her womb back when she was eighteen. So young of her. So pure of you, mother. I did question being born several times, but not even once of her being a parent to me. Yes, I lied. She birthed I from an indigenous environment, yet never grew up with the culture system she taught me. For I saw a lot of holes, mother; holes of rationality by our fellow tribe justifying the rights of men to own four wives. Holes of truth by embracing capabilities of women is not defined as provoking men to make them do less, mother. We are not a pet waiting for one another as a pet companion.

We, mother, did not have to be standing behind a man. We, mother are more than that. I thought that being friends with curiosity would lessen the question marks fleeing around side–to–side of my head wherever I go but—it made me ask for much beyond, mother. “Did I fail you as your daughter, mother?” Reminiscing the part as far as I can remember when my troubles started from a trade. Words of my father being spitted from his dark lips due to cigarettes still fresh like a new born child in my head. “I will give you a present, kay, ” he uttered my innocent nickname that I no longer recognize. “But swear to me that you will be staying inside of your room, ” says in his sweetest voice. And as young as bud wanting to be handed that surprise present. I began to grant him what I do not understand.

Never minding who the girl he is with in our living room. Father arms kissing her nape, circling her neck, savoring their moment like a teenager lover. That girl does not have the same visage as my mother. Not until I turned eleven. People taught I the meaning of one word containing eight letters called cheating. The irony of father being my former teacher who challenged me to learn nouns and counting, yet forgot to tell me how to tell mother the words of truth passing through between the gaps of my teeth. “How could you sin to us, father?” Mother flew to miles–and–miles away they call; abroad to be a domestic helper. I do not have any idea of its meaning as a six–year–old but—they say, a mother is going to care for a child she does not own.

Made grandmother prepare my breakfast every morning. Pile my clothes after getting dry. Wake me up for school. Speak to me of her wisdom. Brush my hair when I cry. Hold my filthy hand and step on stones with her to walk towards being a woman. She treated me like she was the one who carried me for months and months since she felt sick by me, until now I became sick to her. Grandmother did not make me seek a mothers' hug. Did not let me feel longing for a mothers' lullaby. Grandmother made me question the people sending regards for my—mother. “Which one of my two mothers?” I became the daughter of a broken family. Depression handed me itself says; “am here, always. Trust me.” And I did.

Blade razor and academic pressure started to be friends with me, says, “worry not, kid. I will be slicing off your anxiety on that wrist. I will make you meet your desire grades brought of procrastination and academic validation.” Yes, they did. We became close, really. Even along walking two kilometres from school to home, not wearing student shoes from hiding it caused by bullying I viewed as a normal happening in every. Single. Day. Of. My. Life. “Is this what life supposed to be?” Never mind. Maybe it is. Maybe life really meant to suffer. Maybe life really meant trouble. Maybe life meant to question me about the existence of our known God. Maybe life meant for me to become atheist. And maybe, that is exactly what life must be.

“Can I still carry to live like this?’’

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tablefourtwo · 2 years

Text

just another player in your drinking games (rt)

based on this song

✮ wc : 2k

✮ content : angst, clueless (douche) richie

✮ synopsis : this isn’t the cliche first kiss with richie that she had hoped for. this isn’t the richie she had romanticized in her head.

✮ a/n : this is a rewrite of this! this one is so much better and written completely different. this is so long overdue and so many people have been asking for a part 2 to this but i figured before i write a part 2 i might as well rewrite it because my writings progressed from a year ago. i’m satisfied with this fix being a one and done but if you have ideas of a part 2 lmk.

richie was there first. he sits on one of the extra-wide lawn chairs that’s tucked away in the corner of sally mueller’s yard. richie’s knowledge of the girl was limited to ben describing her as a “stuck-up snob due to her rich family with nice clothes and permed hair.” (so basically a duplicate of greta keene and the other one. richie doesn't remember her name– maybe it’s the buzz he’s starting to get. marie? maria? something like that.)

somewhere from, what richie decided, was the largest backyard he has ever stepped onto, beverly calls. “rich!” he watches her as she trips over herself, trying her best to keep her shaky hands steady, half of the contents in the red solo cups clasped in her hands already spilling onto the floor.

extending her arm, beverly grins from ear to ear. “for you.” she sits at richie’s feet as he breathes an inadequate thank you. cringing at the sticky feeling, he thinks for a moment before opening his mouth, rubbing his palm off on his jeans. “where’s yn?” richie says with none of his usual smartmouth, mumbling around the rim of his drink.

he instantly regrets it. beverly’s been convinced that the boy was in love with her since they were eleven— he’s too drunk to figure out how many years ago that is. he figures bev is too because it completely flys over her head. it’s a shame, normally she would’ve jumped at the chance to pinch his arm, tease him about ashley and yn and ashley and yn and ashley—”

“i was at her house like–” beverly’s eyes dart down to her wristwatch. “thirty minutes ago. we got ready at her place but she wanted to stop by at keenes’ and told me to get a head start.”

“did she forget that you were a lightweight?” richie says amused as beverly yawns. “come on man, you’ve been here, what? two minutes?”

“shut up, stan’s inside, go help him. the chess clubs trying to rope him into their... i dunno... cult?”

after leaving bev with one of her girlfriends he steps into the house, suddenly aware of how flushed his cheeks are. “richie?” finally. he exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. “ynn.” richie melts.

“why are you here?” there’s concern in her voice, she sounds genuine. “why... wouldn’t i be?”

yn’s confused but it was common for richie to mess about. she goes back and forth before deciding to answer seriously. “yesterday…”

richie visibly deflated. “come on, ynn” he whined, tugging on her sleeve. “are you serious right now. rich, we talked about this you can’t just pretend like–” he threw his head back, hand making it’s way down his red face, “it’s not a big deal. just–” god, he’s a child. yn was friends with a child. “just– let’s do shots.” yn just stared at him open-mouthed, “you want to cheer me up so bad, so be my partner in a round of beer pong.” “this is so unhealthy.”

yn stood awkwardly next to richie, across from them were curtis allen and marcia fadden. that’s the name he was trying to remember. richie tugs on her sleeve as he picks up the red solo cup curtis just landed his ball in, reaching in and delicately handing the light ball to yn before knocking back the contents of the cup. yn languidly tossed the ball, it bounces, and misses. she sighs and turns to richie with a look on her face. are you happy now? marcia drunkenly bends over, clutching her stomach as she searches for the dainty ball.

yn’s so over this— but richie’s mind is somewhere else.

she follows his gaze and eventually lands on ashley martin. yn’s bottom lip juts forward for a second before she bites down on it, hard. ashley’s here alone, she’s in a pretty dress. she’s visibly glowing. yn bites harder on her lip as she feels jealous. she feels like she needs to throw up.

she turns back to richie, he’s mesmerized. who wouldn't be. he snaps out of it when ashley throws him a smile. “hey, you have another turn. i’llberightback–” he doesn't spare yn a glance, and he’s gone.

she’s left wide-eyed and embarrassed, distracted, the same ping pong ball from earlier lands in one of her cups, and marcia squeals. yn reaches for it but is stopped by fingers holding her hand back. “don’t fucking drink that. let’s go.” eddie grimaces and leads her away from the make-shift beer pong table. a “hey!” and a “sore loser!” going into her ear and coming out the other as she follows eddie out the house onto the lawn.

“you have to talk some sense into richie.”

“what? about what?” eddie pulls a face. “i don’t have the energy for this right now. i just walked past richie and ashley talking. don’t know what the last reason they broke up was or even how they resolved it and sure ashley’s great and all but she’s fucking crazy and i can’t handle another meltdown from richie when she breaks up with him for the fucking twelfth time.” it’s silent for a second before eddie speaks again. “that’s why you guys are weird right now, right?”

yn turns her head to the side, thinking before taking a seat on the couch that had been drunkenly pulled onto the lawn by god knows who. “he came in through my window at like three in the morning and looked like he was about to punch a wall down. he didn't say anything though.”

“bingo.” eddie rolls his eyes and falls back onto the couch next to yn. “just try and if he tells you to fuck off you can say i told you so; next time he throws a tantrum. i would do it but i can’t deal with him right now and my mom also needs me home like yesterday. i am so fucking dead and grounded. i can’t drive you and ben to the quarry tomorrow. sorry, hope you still get to do your nerdy watercolor shit.”

yn feels a crease in her eyebrow as she struggles to keep up with what eddie’s rambling on about. “it’s good. i’ll get a ride with stan or something— speak of the devil.”

“no fucking way— after the way you trashed my car last time? i’ll think about it though because i know it was mostly bev and not you.” stan says nonchalantly, he doesn't stop walking to greet yn, his main goal right now to get beverly into the car. “i was super stoned, that doesn't count.” beverly slurs, hand gripped in stanley’s. not in a romantic way but almost a forceful one. “i need to get her home before she starts whatever she was trying to start over there.” stan stops to explain before walking, purpose in his strides, once more.

“gotta go, he’s my ride.” eddie says before jogging to catch up with the pair. a “see you!” and drunken “byyyee!” reverberating around the lawn from her friends.

“talk to rich!” is the last thing eddie booms before they take a turn outside of the lawn and disappear from yn’s eyesight. yn can imagine stan’s low reply of ‘talk to rich about what?’ that would send eddie into a spiral.

it had been about five minutes before a hand was placed on yn’s shoulder. she didn’t believe in god but if he was real he’d be laughing down at her right about now. “hey, sorry i ditched, what’ve you been up to?” it’s richie, he steps over the back of the couch and drops down next to yn. he’s using a twizzler as a straw (something bill showed him) as he sips on the odd purple liquid in his drink.

“not much. you just missed stan, bev and eds, actually.” “oooh— no shit.” richie smirks as he runs his fingers across the brown couch, falling against it with a soft twirl. richie’s hair is in his flushed face as he turns to face her. “how much did you have to drink after beer pong?” yn cross-examined the boy‘s face.

richie puffs his cheeks out before jokingly darting his eyes around. “i’m not sure… about to have a lot more though.” he grins before nodding his head towards something behind the couch with a raised brow. yn straightens her back to look at what her friend was motioning at. she feels her heart drop to her ass as her eyes land on ashley.

she clears her throat before turning back. “you’re back with ashley?“ “oh yeah.” he says lamely, running his tongue across the inside of his cheek. “i can’t believe you.” she sighs, shifting in her seat while she brings her converse clad feet onto the couch— the only thing separating her knees and chest being her crossed arms.

“ynn, don’t be like that.” he weakly drawls out. “rich, what’s wrong with you? you were sobbing cause of her yesterday.” she raises her fingers to her forehead as she smooths out the crease in between her brows. “it wasn’t like that. that was a misunderstanding.”

she needs him to stop thinking with his dick— god, richie needs a good slap in the face. “was it, really? even eddie’s fed up with you and ashley.”

“you and eds are talking shit about my love life?”

“what love life.”

richie scoffs dramatically before letting a laugh slip. “jeez, yn. tell me how you really feel.” drunk richie would never let that comment slide, she thinks. does she need to make the first move? is that it?

god, this is so cliche. now she’s going to lean in and after, he’s going to admit his undying love for her.

“i just care about you a lot— ok?”

“ok.” he smiled clumsily and his eyes glisten. “i care about you too.” the warmth in his cheeks are still prominent but now yn can clearly see the sharp points of his face highlighted by the moonlight. his cheekbones, nose, jawline, and just above his eyebrows all luminous.

she feels a lump form in her throat at that detail. so she waits. waits for the lump to disappear and waits for richie to say something snarky— he doesn’t.

then, she kisses him. richie’s rigid and it’s awkward, and when she pulls away he doesn't look into her eyes. she’s on fire and her breaths are shallow.

africa by toto starts playing through the speakers for the second time that night when she finally decides to speak. “holy shit–” all she can do is swear at herself over and over in her head as she tries to come up with an apology.

this isn’t the cliche first kiss with richie that she had hoped for. this isn’t the richie she had romanticized in her head.

“rich... are you ready to go?” it’s ashley again, purse under her arm and car keys in her hand, she puts the other hand on richie’s shoulder. “um,” he glances at yn before pausing and gets up from his seat next to her. his cheeks are no longer red and his carefree nature is gone. “yeah.” richie’s already stumbling towards ashley’s car and yn’s heart splits.

ashley greets yn with a wave and bright smile before catching up to richie— just like that, she’s left alone for the second time that night.

yn and richie don’t speak again that night, but she receives a call the day after. (in which she apologized for the kiss while he laughed it off.) on good terms again, richie would still inevitably use yn as a safe haven but, inescapably, she would always find herself alone at the end of the night, and the night after that, and the one after that.

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just-dreaming-marvel · 2 years

Text

Meant To Be ~ 1

MEANT TO BE MASTERLIST

Word Count: 3,000ish

Summary: The beginning of Y/N and Tony’s story.

Notes: Lol, I obviously ended up posting it early. There is a time jump, I can always go back and do one shots for, but I didn’t want this series to be as long as some of my others. Hope you guys enjoy the first chapter!

Y/N thought her grandmother was the most amazing person in the world. Losing her parents before she was even one, her grandmother has been her sole guardian as long as she can remember. Her grandfather, who had passed away as well, was a wealthy businessman, with her grandmother as his partner. They lived in a beautiful mansion.

Y/N prided herself in being all of the things her grandmother had taught her to be. Kind. Courageous. Outspoken. Smart. Giving. Her grandmother was her hero and she was the most important person in her life. Well, besides Tony.

Anthony Edward Stark was Y/N’s best friend. The two were introduced at a very young age due to the Starks being Y/N and her grandmother’s neighbors. The two instantly clicked despite Tony’s ego and Y/N’s more conservative nature. Guess that’s why Howard, Maria, and Y/N’s grandmother thought they’d be great friends. Tony would help Y/N break out from her comfort zone and Y/N would help bring his ego down a view notches. All throughout their grade school years, Y/N was always second to Tony in academics. But she didn’t mind as long as they were by each other’s sides.

When Tony got shipped off to boarding school at age eleven, it was terribly hard for both of them. They had been inseparable for so long that this was awful for them both. While Y/N struggled more openly during their times apart, Tony would never admit it aloud that being apart from Y/N was the hardest thing he had ever done. They talked as much as they could; phone calls, emails, packages, and letters. Tony also visited home as often as he could.

Though Tony’s father Howard liked the good influence that Y/N had over Tony, he felt that she was a distraction while Tony was attending school. So it would often be Y/N’s grandmother and Tony’s mother Maria who would help get Tony home for a visit. Maria loved Y/N like she was her own and wished that one day the two would realize that they were meant to be much more than friends. Y/N’s grandmother agreed, able to see the way the young pair looked at each other.

Throughout the years, Y/N’s feelings toward her best friend had grown into much more than friendship. But she would never let him know that. She didn’t want to lose her best friend. It killed her though to see Tony with the many other girls he waltzed around with, knowing that he deserved better. Y/N didn’t necessarily believe that she was better for him, but she did know that the girls he was choosing to bring around were not good enough for Tony. She also spent a lot of time comparing herself to the other girls. Her looks, her smarts, her talents.

Y/N believed that no one, especially the girls Tony would bring around, could possibly appreciate or understand Tony enough to truly love him. The way his big, brown eyes lit up when he got excited or had an idea, no matter how crazy or over the top it was. The way he wiggled his eyebrows around while he teased. He laugh. His love for cars and technology. Anything and everything that made Tony, well, Tony.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, Tony was in love with her as well. Her smile. The way she walked. How she cared for everything and everyone around her. It killed him to see her around other guys. Of course, she didn’t bring many around because she could be shy at times. But the ones that did come around, Tony usually scared them off pretty quickly. Tony believed that Y/N deserved better than the guys she chose to hang around, better than Tony himself. And that’s what kept him from telling her how he felt. He would never be good enough for her. And that belief is what broke them.

~~~

“Is he here yet?” Y/N asked as she ran up to the front window and eagerly looked out of it.

Her grandmother chuckled from where she was sitting. “I’m sure he’ll knock when he gets here, sweetie.”

“I know, I know. It’s just been so long! It’s December and we haven’t been able to see each other since September. And there’s my MIT letter sitting on the counter and I don’t know if I was accepted or if he was accepted and I’m kind of—“

Y/N’s rambling got interrupted by a car racing up the driveway and honking. She spun to face the window again and jumped for joy.

“He’s here!” She squealed.

She ran to the front doors and threw one of them open. She raced done the steps of her mansion home.

“Tony!” Y/N shouted as he stepped out of the drivers side of his car.

The young man’s smile grew upon hearing her voice. Y/N threw herself into Tony before he could shut his car door.

“Ooof,” he grunted, stumbled back as his arms wrapped around her.

“You’re here!” She exclaimed, burying her face into his neck.

“You didn’t think I’d make it?” He chuckled.

“No, I knew you would. I’m just so glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” He kissed her cheek, holding her close to him.

“You two lovebirds are going to catch a cold out there!” Grandmother teased from the doorway. The pair laughed as they pulled a part.

“We’re coming, Grandmother!” Y/N responded. “Let’s hurry and get your bags before she comes after us.”

“Alright.” He led her to the trunk of the car, opening it with his key. The two quickly grabbed the bags and headed up the stairs to the house. “Have you opened the letter yet?”

“No.” She shook her head swiftly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Good. Cause mine’s burning a hole in my back pocket.”

“Anthony,” Grandmother greeted with a large smile, reaching to hug him. “It’s so good to see you.”

Tony willingly gives the older lady a hug. “It’s good to see you too, Grandmother.” He pulled away and she cupped his cheeks.

“You get more handsome each time I see you.”

“Well, I try.” Tony shrugged, pulling back with a wink.

“And doesn’t Y/N get more beautiful?”

“Grandmother,” Y/N whined.

“No, Grandmother is right,” Tony quickly said.

Y/N’s lips parted in shock as her face heated up. “Thanks,” she responded softly. Tony smiled as her before heading into the house.

“Are you two going to open your letters now?” Grandmother asked as she closed the door behind the young pair. “Or, Anthony, are you going to wait to do it with your parents?”

Tony scoffed. “They’ve already left for a meeting. Mom said she doesn’t know how long they’ll be gone.”

“So you’ll be staying here for Christmas?” Y/N asked, trying not to seem too eager.

“Of course he is!” Grandmother answered for him. “We wouldn’t let him spend it alone.”

“Thank you, Grandmother,” Tony said sincerely with a light smile. “Now,” he set his bags down, signaling Y/N to do so as well, “where’s your envelope? Let’s open this suckers up!”

Y/N giggled as she led them to where her letter was on the counter. She took a deep breath as she took the envelope in her hand and turned to face the two most important people in her life.

“Ready?” Tony asked. Y/N nodded. “Okay, on three. One, two, three.”

The two quickly ripped open their envelopes and pulled out the letters. They read them quietly, mouthing the words as their eyes rushed over each word.

“So…?” Grandmother said, impatiently.

The pair meet each others eyes, faces not giving anything away. Gradually the two began smiling. The laugh as they jump into each others arms. Tony spun Y/N around.

“We did it!” They yell together. “We’re in!”

“Oh my gosh! I’m so proud of you both!” Grandmother congratulated.

Tony set Y/N down, but they kept hold of one another. They stared at each other, lightly panting.

“We did it,” Y/N whispered.

“We did it,” Tony repeated with a smile.

~~~

Tony graduated from his boarding school early, starting at MIT a semester before Y/N. During this time, the two were able to talk a lot more because there wasn’t anymore boarding school rules preventing them from doing so.

Tony also made a new friend, James Rhodes. He was planning on graduating from MIT early before joining the Air Force. Tony told Y/N all about her and Rhodey’s, his new nickname for his friend, adventures. Always getting into trouble. He even brought her out to visit for a few weekends, getting her to meet his knew friend. Rhodey was definitely a mix of Y/N and Tony, and was a welcome addition to their small friend group. Y/N felt comfort knowing there was someone more sensible watching out for Tony when she wasn’t able to.

Y/N graduated from high school; Tony, Rhodey, Grandmother, and the Starks attending her graduation. Tony tried to not feel bitter that his father had shown up to her graduation and not his own sons. But it didn’t really matter, because now Y/N was going to join him at MIT.

Tony and Rhodey helped Y/N pack up her childhood bedroom and move to MIT. Tony comforted Y/N as she cried, feeling bad for leaving her Grandmother all alone. Grandmother had promised that she would be fine and that they would talk often, but it still didn’t soothe all of Y/N’s worries.

While at MIT, it was clear to Rhodey that the two had feelings for one another. He would talk to both of them separately about it, and would just get excuses.

“There’s no way he sees me like that,” Y/N would say, shaking her head. “You’ve seen the girls he goes out with. He has a type, I’m not it.”

Tony’s responses were no better. “I’m not good enough for her. She deserves someone so much better than me. Who wouldn’t hurt her and who could give her the world.”

It annoyed Rhodey, but he knew there was nothing he could really do about him. Both Tony and Rhodey ended up graduating early and Rhodey left soon after for the Air Force. Tony was then a wandering man, set to take over his father’s company when he was older but there was no telling when that would be. So he just began inventing his own things, like he had already but this time selling them and showing them off.

Y/N supporting him as she continued her schooling to be a neurologist, wanting to cure many of the world’s neurological problems. She watched as he showed a crowd his invention and then would disappear with one of the easily impressed women there. She would then be forced to wait, as they would drive together. Tony would always apologize to her, guilt eating away at his heart for hurting her. Though he never realized just how much.

It was now December and they were 21. Howard and Maria had already told Tony that they won’t be around for Christmas, so the pair were heading to spend Christmas with Grandmother again.

“There are my two favorite young adults,” Grandmother greeted happily at the door. She brought them both in for a hug. “I’ve missed you both so much.”

“We’ve missed you too,” Y/N said.

Grandmother pulled away and grabbed Y/N’s hand. “Anthony, why don’t you go put the bags away? I need a moment to talk to my granddaughter.”

“Of course,” he responded.

Tony gathered all the bags and headed further into the house. Grandmother guided Y/N into the living room and beckoned her to sit on the couch next to the older woman.

“What would you like to talk to me about Grandmother?” Y/N wondered.

Grandmother patted Y/N’s hand that she was holding. “Have you told Anthony about your feelings for him, yet?”

“Grandmother… you know I can’t do that.”

“I’m just worried about you and your future. I won’t be here for—“

“Wait. Are you… are you dying? Please tell me that you’re not.”

“Y/N, I haven’t been doing well. My health is decreasing as well as my mind.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have dropped everything to take care of you.”

“I know that, which is why I need you to tell Anthony how you feel. I do not want you to go through my death alone.”

“He’ll be by my side no matter what. I don’t understand why him knowing—“

“Because I need to know you have someone taking care of you, and that you’re taking care of someone else too. Just, please, think about it for me?”

Y/N sighed and nodded. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

Grandmother cupped her cheek and Y/N grabbed hold of the hand. “Thank you. I love you, my child.”

“I love you too, Grandmother.” Y/N brought the older woman into a hug.

“Okay, so, I was thinking—woah. What did I miss?” Tony asked, coming to a halt in the doorway.

“We were just having a nice conversation,” Grandmother replied. “Now what were you thinking about, Anthony?”

“I was thinking that Y/N and I could go to that club we used to party at. But we could always—“

“No, that sounds fun,” Y/N interrupted with a smile. “When should we go?”

“I was thinking that we could get changed and then head out.”

“Okay.” Y/N stood up. “I’m going to go get ready then. I’ll meet you down here soon.”

Tony watched Y/N as she walked up the stairs and disappeared down the hall. Grandmother watched the young man with a smirk.

“Just tell her already,” Grandmother said.

“Huh? What?” Tony questioned, trying to face her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Grandmother scoffed. “Anthony, I’ve known you since you were born, I know you better than you think. You love her. Why not just tell her?”

“Because she deserves a great man.”

“And what makes you think you are not that? Is it your father? Because I have told him off and I can do it again.”

Tony chuckled. “I know you can Grandmother. Y/N is just… she’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever known, besides you and Mom of course. She deserves the world.”

“And you can’t give that to her?”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Anthony—“

“I need to go get ready.”

~~~

Tony hand called a car to drive them, so that they’d be able to really party. It was waiting out front while he waited by the front doors. He had dressed in his usually black dress pants, black jacket and a band tee shirt. Y/N always told him she loved that look on him, so he made sure to wear it.

For some reason, Tony was feeling nervous about going out. It confused him because the two had gone out like this hundreds of times. Perhaps it was the holidays getting to him, or what Grandmother had spoke to him about earlier. As he thought about it all, he glanced up at the stairs. Tony almost lost his breath at the sight of Y/N. She was wearing a simple dress, in the color that Tony always loved to see her in.

“You look amazing,” Tony complimented as he grabbed her hand and pulled it to his lips for a kiss.

Y/N’s face grew warm. “Thank you, Tony. You don’t look too had yourself.”

Still holding her hand, Tony led Y/N’s arm through his own and guided her out the door. In the car, the two were silent but were seated close to each other so their sides were touching.

The club was packed, but they didn’t care. Tony had already called ahead and reserved their normal table, so they didn’t have to worry about finding a place to hang around for the night. He escorted Y/N to the table before heading to the bar for drinks. The pair danced and drank until the bar kicked them out in the early hours of the morning.

Though they didn’t tell each other, they both noticed a change that night. Every time they touched each other, it was like a shock to their systems and they craved more of it. So they didn’t leave each other, always touching the whole night.

Y/N fell asleep on Tony’s shoulder on the way home. Tony wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in closer, enjoying every second of being this close to her. He didn’t deserve to have a friend like her, he didn’t he deserve to love her the way he did.

When they reached the house, Tony really didn’t want to wake her. She looked so beautiful and peaceful asleep against him. The driver opened the door for them and Tony carefully slipped his arms underneath her and carried her into the mansion. Grandmother was in the room off the entry way, reading with a simple lap on. She smirked at the sight of Tony carrying Y/N into the house.

“I take it that it was a good night,” Grandmother commented.

“Goodnight Grandmother,” Tony said, walking up the stairs.

“Goodnight Anthony.”

Tony carried Y/N to her bedroom. He laid her on the bed before pulling back the covers and getting her situated underneath them. Leaning in, he hold a kiss to her forehead, lips lingering a little longer than he normally would have. Tony breathed Y/N in, being extremely grateful for her. Then he walked out and put himself to bed.

next chapter >

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letters-to-lgbt-kids · 3 years

Text

My dear readers,

This is not one of my usual letters and it may actually not belong on here at all - this is a short story I wrote. I originally published it on instagram last year. If I remember correctly, it was my submission to some halloween-themed writing contest with the prompt being “bloody handprint” or something like that. I took some creative freedom with that theme and made it an autobiographical story instead of a horror one.

Needless to say, I didn’t win the contest - but the story still holds a special place in my heart and when I deleted my instagram account, I didn’t want to delete the story with it. So, here, it’s yours now! We will be back to my usual content after this.

With all my love,

Oliver

(Trigger Warnings: Despite the theme, there is no gore or anything halloween-y in here. But it takes place in a hospital and there are mentions of suicide attempts and drug use. Due to these heavy topics, this story may not be suitable for my youngest readers)

If this was a horror movie, there would be a bloody handprint on this door. There isn’t one. I don't hear any screams or desperate knocking on walls, either. Just my heartbeat, and it's way too loud in this silent hallway. Should I knock and wait for someone to let me in? Or can I just quickly walk in, keep my head down, sit down in the back row and hope that nobody notices me? I don't know why I even expect there to be a back row like in a classroom. This is not a school and I am not a little kid. Even though it feels like that right now, in this long hallway with all those doors that all look the same, with the timetable in my hand and the tears on my face. Come on now, Oliver, just open the door. It squeaks a little and I want to close my eyes or run away or die. Any of that would be fine with me. Now ten confused faces stare at me. No rows, just a circle of chairs. Another person, number eleven, is standing in the middle of it.

"I'm too late." I hear myself say. Far too squeaky, far too whiny. "I'm sorry, I just got my therapy plan." “No problem.” says Number-Eleven. “It happens all the time. Who are you? I have a list here but there weren’t any new names on there.”

He doesn't sound like a teacher. I think he might not be much older than me, he might even be nice. But I am still the new kid who came too late to his very first class and that can’t be a good role in a horror movie. Can I try to be a good kid, at least? I tell him my name and room number so he can put me on the list. I sit down somewhere, blindly. I keep my head down. "Oliver." He repeats. It sounds like he’s frowning. “Were you an emergency walk-in? I checked, you really aren’t on the list."

"He wants to know if you're here after a suicide attempt," adds a voice somewhere across the room. I open my mouth and Number-Eleven stops me. “Nobody has to answer that in front of the group. Nobody has to say anything at all here. You can come to me after the session and then we will figure out why you are not on the list”. I nod. I want to throw up.

"I think Oliver is one of the PTSD people." This voice is closer, maybe right next to me. I should look up. I can’t. "They got two new people yesterday.” "Ah." says Number-Eleven. “The new patient in the PTSD ward, yes. I see that on the list. Next time, please tell me right away that you are one of the PTSD ones, so I know who I’m talking to." I nod again. I imagine a sign around my neck, with the word traumatized scrawled on it in a bloody red color. Yes, I am in a horror movie. "Can someone explain to the newcomer what this group is all about? Anyone? Come on, people." “We are all diagnosed with severe depression. And we're talking about medication in this group."

"Thanks Maria! Last time we talked about medication, that’s true. This time we will talk about something else. " The conversation goes on but it doesn’t reach me anymore. I hide from the words, here behind my bloody red sign. I wish I could lift my head and match the voices to faces. "Oli? Is it okay if I call you Oli? ”Someone touches my shoulder. I wince. "Oli, he said we should partner up"

That is Voice-From-Across-The-Room. He has a face now. Turns out to be a blonde man, around thirty. "All three of us can be partners. I mean, if you want to." I look at the girl standing next to him. So much younger. She looks at the floor, dark hair falls in front of her face. I don't see any signs with bloody red words, on neither of them. They are just a tall man and a petite girl. I wonder what they see in me. Number-Eleven says: “Think about at least three activities that make you happy." We look at each other. And then we look around. I see people my age, much younger than me, much older than me. So many different faces. I don't see a single horror movie character.

“Nobody is talking,” the girl notes and the man laughs a little. She is right. Eleven people in chairs and none of them say anything. I can’t think of anything happy - and realize that nobody else here can, either. “Happy.” I repeat, just because the silence hurts in my ears. "Like hobbies?" "Something you've done in the last three months that made you feel good," explains the blonde man. And then: “I've been here for a while. They always repeat the same tasks. " A couple of hands slowly go up. “Can I say weed?” The young girl asks that very quietly. “As my happy thing?” Number-Eleven praises her honesty. And then he says “No. Drugs and alcohol don't count.”

All the hands go down again. Someone asks if they can leave the room for a minute. They start crying before they even reach the door.

Maybe the bloody handprint would hurt less. The door closes with a loud bang. Now there’s only silence left, again. “Okay, maybe smoking counts.” Number-Eleven is frowning again. "We are all grown-ups here, right? I’ll let weed count today." The hands stay down. "You have to get out of bed to smoke," whispers the blonde man. "None of us ever get out of bed voluntarily." I laugh a little. It sounds bizarre in the heavy silence. He's right. “Going for a walk would be a happy thing,” Someone suggests that in a quiet, insecure voice but Number-Eleven smiles, encourages them to go on. “Like... just going outside to watch people? I haven't done that for a long time. But I used to. "

This leads to some hesitant nods. To some more answers. Oh, right, used to. There used to be stuff. Happy things. Reading. Music. Meeting friends. Favorite foods. Soccer. Sex. Playing with the kids. Used to, yeah, we all used to do stuff. Back then. Back when we got out of bed voluntarily.

I slowly remember writing and singing. Two happy things, at least. It’s better than zero. My blonde group partner shrugs when I ask him if he remembers any. “Going for walks sounds okay.” I wonder if he says that everytime they repeat this task.

“Are you allowed to go for walks, Oli? Probably not, right? You are not allowed to leave the hospital for now. I wasn’t allowed to for the first two weeks, either.” I wonder why it sounds so normal for him to say that. This feels like a conversation, not like bad lines in a bad movie. Oh. That’s what happy things feel like, right? They feel real. I nod slowly. “Yeah. Can’t leave for now.” He smiles. He didn’t expect any other reply, I realize. Right now and here, my answer is perfectly normal.

”They will give us some homework. We will have to do a happy thing before the next group session. Do you want to go for a walk? We can just walk up and down the staircase, so you don’t need to leave the hospital. It’s easier to do these things together.” I nod again, smile back. For a horror movie, we are actually pretty nice.

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cullen-collective · 3 years

Note

do it. write it. do it

Say. Less.

There’s never anyone actually interesting in these chats.

There’s me, who actually wants to discuss music, the way it feels, the lyrics’ poetic meanings, the way the drums crash like they’re my own heartbeat. And then there’s guys who might want to discuss that, but are probably here for the other occupants of the forum: girls obsessed with band members. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against them, and I fully understand geeking out over Pete Wentz (although I’ve always been more of a Stump girl) or Gerard Way or even Chester Bennington. I just keep having to switch to new forums when it’s clear that no one else wants to talk about the music, but instead have guys who claim to look like Adam Lazarra scam the email addresses and photos off those girls.

Which brings me here, to another new forum chat, scrolling through older posts about who drums harder: Travis Barker or Mike Kinsella, as the chat scrolls by on the right side of the screen. I was mindlessly scrolling, mentally agreeing or disparaging the opinions of other posters, too scared to comment. This site was pretty neat, and the account I’d had to create to post comments and chat had spaces for a list of my favorites, which I’d happily included. It also had a little bio, which I’d filled in with my name and age, as well as one of my favorite lyrics.

I kept one eye on the chat as it went, keeping up with the current discussion of how best to cut your bangs. I typed up a quick note that the best way to cut your bangs was to see a local hairdresser so you didn’t end up with Buffy season three bangs instead of the side-sweep you wanted.

Emo-ward: But is it really, truly in the spirit of punk rock if you don’t cut them yourself?

HellsBells: I think to be a real punk, you’d probably need to like different bands. To be alt, you can visit a salon or resign yourself to botched hair.

Emo-ward: Seems like the majority is going to choose the second option.

HellsBells: Well, sometimes we must suffer for the cause.

Emo-Ward wants to send you a private message. Accept. Decline.

I was stunned. No one ever requested me. My cursor hovered over “Accept”, my finger twitching. My mother, as scattered as she was, had always warned me about being too open online. What if this was like, a forty-five year old man who preyed on kids in chat rooms? What if it was a serial killer? What if it was someone from school trying to humiliate me? What if it was a kid from school who wanted to humiliate me and also did a little serial killing on the side?

Okay, I was being ridiculous. I knew nothing about this person. Hell, I hadn’t even looked at their profile. So I right-clicked the name in the chat and opened another window to his profile. Like mine, the profile had no picture, and instead had a graphic. It was Gerard Way but his hair had been edited to be bright green. I snorted, remembering my own, which was Britney Spears edited with a scene girl haircut that this chick in my Western Civ class had emailed to me as a joke after seeing the Ataris CD in my portable player. The name listed was Edward, the age as 16, and he had a lyric on his profile too.

“Watching from the floor.”

I recognized it, small as it was. It was from “Dear Maria, Count Me In”. I was a little surprised. Great song choice.

It seemed he wasn’t too sketchy.

I went back to the original page, steeled my nerves and hit “Accept.”

Emo-ward: Do you really have time in your veins?

My tongue pressed to the inside of my cheek. If this really was a sixteen-year-old boy, I was in trouble. He had just referenced the lyric in my bio, (from “Understanding In A Car Crash”: “It starts and stops and starts and stops again.”) and made it a joke. I had to one-up him.

HellsBells: Yes. I am also a pen.

Emo-ward: Where are you from, girl with time in her veins who is somehow also a pen?

I smiled at my screen. I couldn’t help it. He was kind of funny.

HellsBells: Forgive me, sir, if I’m not very specific. I’m from the Southwest. You?

Emo-ward: Well, miss, I will follow suit. I’m from the Northwest.

There was something about the way he wrote that made me want to trust him. Maybe it was that we had similar chat styles. Although… My mother had always said I talked like I was sixty. What if he was sixty?! Edward is an old man's name.

HellsBells: You kind of talk like an old guy, you know that, right?

Emo-ward: That’s because I’m 104.

HellsBells: Wow. You use the internet pretty well for a senior citizen.

Emo-ward: They had us take a class. So, what’s your favorite album right now?

I smiled. Funny, and hopefully not an old guy.

HellsBells: Will you stop talking to me if I say Take This to Your Grave?

Emo-ward: Only if you stop talking to me for saying mine is Meteora.

HellsBells: Only if you tell me your favorite song off the album is Numb. That’s where I draw the line.

Emo-ward: While that song isn’t my favorite, it’s pretty good. Anyway, the actual favorite is Somewhere I Belong.

I thought about that for a minute. I liked that song, but I hadn’t listened to it a lot. I’d have to give it another go. I had Meteora around here somewhere. I found the album in my bookshelf, put it in my portable player, and put the headphones on. I skipped to the right track, and let it play while I answered.

HellsBells: Not that you asked, but mine is Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes.

Emo-ward: Aggressive. I like it.

I burst out laughing. Out loud. In my house. On a school night. At eleven.

“Bella?” my mom called from across the hall. “Are you on the computer?”

Shit. “Uh… no?”

I heard Mom start giggling. “Go to bed, kid!”

“Okay!” I grimaced at the screen. No way I was ever going to hear from this guy again. But… I had to try, right? He was funny, and he had great taste in music.

HellsBells: Well, grandpa, if you can get the orderlies at the nursing home to let you use the computer on Friday, I’ll be here. Until then, I’m not an adult and have to deal with things like school nights.

Emo-ward: I’m sorry about that. I never sleep, so my school nights are exactly like regular nights. I’ll be here.

I shook my head at that, holding in a giant smile. You know what, fuck it, I let the smile loose. It wasn’t like he could see me. And I let “Somewhere I Belong” play on repeat until I fell asleep.

#twilight #the twilight saga #edward cullen #bella swan #fic #my writing #thanks so much for the permission #like for part two

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cozycryptidcorner · 3 years

Photo

Étienne the Fae, Part One of Two

This was commissioned by the illustrious and fantastical @monsterfolkandfiction! Thank you so much, and I hope that everyone enjoys this story as well. A second part is being drafted now.

tw: disordered eating, manipulative and abusive mother

You shouldn’t have gone into your grandfather’s basement.

You shouldn’t have gone into your grandfather’s basement. .

There were voices. Lots of voices, and you thought that a show of brilliance might grant your grandfather’s coveted attention above your cousins’. The door was unlocked, how could you not sneak a peek down the forbidden stairwell? So you crept down, hand on the rail for safety, eyes wide in the hopes of spotting something.

You remember how to summon him. Always. You’ve blocked out everything else about him, but you always remember how to call him back, even if you never will. Only in an emergency, you would always think, glaring at your mark as though he can see you through the mottled purple flesh.

You wipe a bit of sweat from your face, chewing on your lower lip as you glance over your shoulder at the ticking clock—almost midnight. The little vagrant who caused the muddy disaster you’re cleaning is asleep already, hand clutching her rag still as she lays limp on the wooden floor.

Maria is a good kid. Troubled, yes, a mischief-maker for sure, but she’s good. She’s just the type who needs a little guidance, that’s all. You didn’t bother trying to wake her back up, mostly because you know it would do no good, and honestly, it’s probably easier to finish the mess yourself without dealing with a cranky, tired child. Besides, it’s not that big of a deal, it’s not like she hasn’t managed to clean up her messes before.

Just a little bit, you tell yourself as you scrub the rest of the mud from the floor,she’s lost.

It doesn’t take you much longer to finish up the mud, the water in the bucket sloshing an earthy brown the more you pollute it with the dirt slurry on your rag. None of the nuns have walked by the entrance, which is good, because you don’t exactly want to face them. You wouldn’t even have to come up with an explanation, they’ll know, especially the head of the abbey. The last thing you’d want is for Maria to be whipped with that reedy switch some of the nuns carry around to punish unruly children.

After dumping out the bucket of dirt, you wipe your sweaty palms on your apron, letting out a bated breath. The moon has already sunk behind the hills, the night only lit by the dim candles you managed to steal out from the servant’s noses. While one might think that a place of worship would have plenty of access to such supplies, it seems like everything is scarce in the days where the darkness licks and poisons like a snake.

“Are you alright, young sister?”

Though you jump, it’s only Sister Anya, a soft, young-looking nun looking down at you with the utmost concern.

Her pale hair is highlighted by the candlelight in the most martyr-like way that you feel the urge to fall on your knees and plead for her to pray for you. Everything about her is ethereal, almost almost horrendously beautiful, blue eyes so deep and dark your lungs fill with water as though drowning when you look at her.

Trying to steady yourself, you place a hand on the wooden bannister, then nod, shakily.

She glances at the bucket you’re holding, and her gaze softens considerably. “Were the children giving you a difficult time today?”

Since you know Anya isn’t one of the nuns who believe that pain is the path to godliness, so you’re more willing to express any frustrations you might have with her. So you shrug, then roll your eyes, trying to force your tongue to work but settle for gestures instead.

Sister Anya places a hand on your shoulder sympathetic gesture.” Your nerves are high today, hm?”

Thankful you don’t have to bother explaining yourself, verbally or through a thousand of different hand positions, you nod.

Sister Anya lets out a gentle sigh. “I’m so sorry, dove, the children ought to know not to press against your patience.”

Again, you shrug, walking over to the door in order to dump the muddied bucket, before passing it to her waiting hands.

“Again,” Sister Anya says softly, “I know that you’re not obligated to be here, but you know that the children love you. Even if they aren’t always so well behaved.”

You nod in acknowledgement, having had this conversation with her before. No matter the chaos the orphanage children might instil during sunlight, you always return, knowing that the kids truly mean well at the end of the day. Memories of blood bubble in your throat, your empathy digging too deeply in your past that you feel a sense of fear.

Quickly, you bid your leave, knowing that you should have long been back in your bed. God, if your mother finds out you’ve been loitering this late-

“Oh,” Sister Anya concedes, “of course, should I walk you back?”

Quickly, you shake your head, not wishing that she put herself at risk for your own sake. After once more asking over your assuredness, Sister Anya concedes, though her concern is not at all lacking. You know that the woods host a very numerous amount of creatures, though none have dared to ever bother you. The contrast has been so stark against the countless first-hand stories than you’ve heard that you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re invisible to their otherworldly eyes, although you still hold healthy regard for what you might not understand.

Still, on the way back, all the negative attention you might receive is brief and fleeting, most crackling within the woods retreating as though you were about to set fire to the numerous dried foliage of the coming winter. Besides, your family estate is alarmingly close, you should be within the safety of its walls shortly after embarking, the sprites and critters almost obnoxiously ignoring your presence. Ever since… the incident, you haven’t needed to take the same precautions as the rest of your peers, and thus you manage to get yourself home earlier than someone might have estimated.

There is a lot to be happy about your life, you suppose, staring blankly up at the family portrait up on the wall. Happy mother. Happy father. Their absolute disgrace of an eldest child, which is you, unfortunately. You know that there are children in that abbey who would kill to have the same privileges you do, warm bed, food whenever you need, and water that doesn’t have a rusty undertaste of dirt, so you try not to feel… ungrateful.

You lick your lips, peeking out from the hall to check for anyone making their rounds, then quickly and quietly walk by the window towards your room. It’s late, so no one should be up, but that��s never stopped your mother when she’s in one of her worse moods, and just as you predicted, you hear her rapidly approach. Now entering panic mode, you move twice as quickly, slipping into your room and shutting the door quietly behind you.

Your muscles are stiff, fingers shaking, as you desperately try to pull the pins in your hair that kept everything marginally in place as you worked, knowing that you should be at least in your nightgown at this time. The scent of roses is thick, putrid, and always the choice of perfume for your mother. You suppose that it’s nice that you can at least smell her before she fully arrives, but now you can hardly look at those flowers without feeling a pinch of anxiety flowing through your chest.

The door wrenches open, your mother neither gentle nor willing to give you those extra precious moments where you might hide something. Your brush is in hand, and you are in the process of working through the knots that had accumulated through the day, but by the look of her face in the candlelight, your supposed innocence will be deeply in question.

“Where have you been?” Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, it’s all you can do to not wince when she speaks.

I was at the orphanage, mother. You can’t even look her in the eye.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to work among those pathetic waifs, girl.”

Mother doesn’t even bother with your name, especially when she’s angry. And, judging by the tone of her voice, she’s incensed by something, only you don’t even know what it is she’s accusing you of, so you can’t even offer up any meagre defences.

“Did I say you were allowed to stay until the night turns to morning? What kind of a reputation are you trying to gain, you stupid, ungrateful child?”

The only ‘men’ in that orphanage are younger than eleven, but you know that this outburst isn’t at all over your chastity.

She raises her hand, and you flinch, but the strike doesn’t come this time. Instead, she walks up behind you, snagging the brush out of your hand and begins an aggressive grooming routine. “You should be grateful for what I give you and stop trying my patience. Everything I do for you is always met with silence, do you think the Bennet girls treat their poor mother like this? Or has the devil cursed me with you?”

You know that any attempt to escape her gnarled, rough fingers would be met with even more violence, so you sit still, digging your fingernails into the cushion of your chair. Everything in your body is on edge, your jaw is tight, your stomach still, all your muscles frozen in place to keep from crying out as the onslaught of your scalp continues. Silently resigned, you stare at yourself in the mirror, hating everything you see in the reflective glass.

“You would think that the gods would give me a child who shows a modicum of mercy for her poor mother, but no, all I get is this pathetic excuse of a lady. I know everyone goes behind my back and talks about what a joke you are, and yet you don’t even care enough about the person who put you into this world to even care enough to change.”

Your throat is dry, your eyes are not. Stubbornly, though, you refuse to give her tears, because she’ll only think that crying is a method of trying to guilt her into stopping. So you’re quiet, and you accept the onslaught of verbal terror, trying to let it all wash over you like water running over stones in a river.

“I should have never let you stay that summer with your grandfather, he put in all the wrong ideas in your head. And where did that get him, anyway? In a casket, six feet under.” Eventually, she tires herself out, as she always does. As she places the brushes back on the vanity, she notices the little jar of candies you like to keep around for both yourself and your younger siblings. Her brow furrows, and she takes it, “you don’t need to eat more than you already do.”

You don’t turn to watch her leave, letting the dull slamming of the door speak for itself. Once you’re certain she’s not going to come back for another round, you reach up and start braiding your hair for the night, fingers separating the strands and weaving them together. A strange sort of numbness takes over your body, a tugging emptiness draining your chest and veins of any life. When you lay your head on the pillow, there’s dampness on your cheek that you hadn’t noticed prior.

Luckily for you, in the morning, you are left to be ignored once more. You suppose that you are grateful that your mother only seeks you out when she is angry because that offers more freedom to do as you please when she isn’t. A strange thing to enjoy, but you are still willing to count your blessings nonetheless.

Every day goes by more or less the same. You pretend to be a fancy lady for the minimum amount of time, though thankfully you’re so often ignored you can slip away and head down to the orphanage. You have no official schedule of volunteering, since some days your mother is more persistently present than others, but the nuns are thankful for your appearance more or less.

And you tell yourself that you’re satisfied with everything. It’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie, but the moment you begin to move past that safe little untruth, you think your world will fall apart. So you wait. And you watch. And you’re silent.

The day your mother is uncharacteristically cheerful is the day you feel genuine fear.

She’s humming while going over the cook’s menu ideas. Humming. And she requested to see you… which… is rather unusual. As you walk in, you try to peek over her shoulder, though she shifts the papers ever so slightly out of your sight, offering a warning grunt in your direction. Still unsure of where she might be taking this nonexistent conversation, you take your book and sit on the other side of the table, trying to keep calm.

“There’s going to be a wedding,” she says in a sing-songy voice.

Normally, when your peers are wed off, she takes it like a personal attack, as though each girl is mocking your family by daring to marry before you. Now you’re even more nervous, trying to think over which of your siblings could be of marrying age. Surely they haven’t roped any poor waif into marrying your idiot brother, right?

“Tell me what colors you think would be appropriate for a spring ceremony,” she says, so dreamily it shakes you to your core.

You open your mouth, but your chest is so constricted by fear that it can’t possibly push air through your throat. Instead, you just look down and shrug, trying to steady yourself as you sit. God, you’re so hungry. That breakfast never really fills you up, but you never dare try to scavenge for more food in the daytime.

“I didn’t think you would have the good sense to know, anyways,” your mother dismisses your opinion with the wave of her hand. “A light lavender, maybe? Oh, perhaps daisies would be lovely, but that might seem too ‘country…’ or would that be fashionable?”

You nervously let her ramble, wishing you had it in you to just… get up. Leave. Go someplace where you would be alone and lie down. Your body itches to be surrounded by the greenery in the garden, let yourself become one with the earth. Never worrying about the court, about gentlemen of good breeding, or your mother again. She’s taking tea with biscuits, enough food on that platter to share, but you know better than to try to reach your hand over to grasp one.

But fate is a cruel mistress, and your mother even crueler. You don’t have much more warning than the click of your father’s office door as he and an unfamiliar person exit, and adrenaline laces along your veins. You don’t like how your mother looks at him, you don’t like how he looks at you, and you would very much like to no longer be perceived as a physical being. As your mother stands, you follow suit, just out of shock.

“Mr. Andreas,” your mother croons, a shiver of horror running down your spine.

The stranger nods, then glances over you with a critical kind of look, one that makes your insides squirm so uncomfortably you almost vomit.

“We’ve agreed to the terms,” your father says, then nods in your direction. “The wedding will be set in the spring.”

You’re dizzy, all the blood rushing from your head.

To make things worse, your mother is closer, the pungent scent of flowers invading your lungs with such a pervasive efficiency you can’t even breathe. She’s holding your hand, squeezing your pulse so tightly you know the blood is pooling out between her fingertips, and says, “say hello to your fiance, darling. Don’t be rude.”

It feels like a blink. A quick moment of absolutely nothing, your soul floating up above you like a spectre, and then you’re back. And in bed.

It’s dark outside, and a candle faithfully burns on the table by your bed. Leaning over, you blow it out, knowing that someone not nearly as blessed as you could use the precious light more. Your window rattles, a black shape writhing and clicking against the glass, but it doesn’t break through.

Your head feels empty, a thick, persistent kind of nothingness frying the different pathways to thought. Something important happened, something…. something you should be wary of, but it takes you quite a long time to remember the day’s events until a glimpse of that man’s smarmy face surfaces.

Engaged.

The word makes you gag, but there’s nothing in your stomach to retch. You have no clear idea of how long you’ve been in bed, but as you place your feet on the cold ground, a wave of empty dizziness fizzles through your head. It’s a hungry kind of dizziness, one where your body is at its last leg trying to keep itself upright.

There’s a hot, white pinching in your chest as you rise to a hand, legs and arms shaking like a leaf in a storm. Kitchen, you have to get to the kitchen, your vision blurry and faint. Still, you do your best to keep yourself together as you silently slip out of your room.

The halls are eerily silent, candlelight keeping the night’s terrors at bay. Servants occasionally make rounds to make sure the light doesn’t snuff itself out, but you’ve long timed the carefully coordinated efforts. Arms wrapped around your chest, you slowly make your way back to the kitchens, careful to dodge any straggling staff in the halls.

For the most part, the kitchen is rather modestly sized in comparison to the rest of the house, something the servants and cooks gripe about during the wasteful parties your parents throw to uphold some kind of ridiculous facade of class and wealth. But for you, in your occasional midnight snack, it’s just the right size to feel homely, but also with enough books and crannies for you to duck behind if someone unexpected makes a surprise cameo.

But today, it looks like the last person you wanted to see has been anticipating your visit though.

“Really,” your mother says, arms crossed, the steady glare of rage on her brow, “you faint to embarrass me and then, instead of apologizing, the first thing you think to do is to eat more?”

You swallow thickly, knowing you’re about to get an apocalyptic lecture.

“Look at yourself, girl,” your mother makes a wide, gestural sweep over your body, “your obsession with eating is what made you so difficult to marry in the first place. No one wants to marry a whale! And now that you think you’ve landed a man, you can settle back to your old bad habits?”

You shake your head, clammy and afraid.

“Of course not,” she doesn’t raise her voice, not once, and that somehow makes everything worse, “I told you all you needed was to lose those flaps at your waist, but you can’t even adhere to the diet I’ve set you on.”

If you faint again, she’s going to claim you only did so to guilt her, so you hold your dizzying head together with spit and empty determination. There’s a half-eaten loaf of bread covered on the stove, mocking you with its closeness, laughing at your desperation.

“Everything I do for you, and all you give me in return is your spiteful attitude.” She sighs dramatically and shakes her head. “Go back to bed, girl, I can’t even look at you without feeling disgusting. I don’t know how you can live the way you do.”

You don’t. But you accept the out, shakily wobbling back to your room, hearing your mother call out behind you.

“The engagement party is three days away. You know the rules.”

No sneaking food. Of course you do, she doesn’t allow you to forget it. You go back to your room and lay down on the bed, trying to ignore the painful punches in your starving stomach. Breakfasts in the morning. Breakfast in the morning. Breakfast in the morning.

The party is the epitome of everything you hate.

Bright, gaudy, the food so rich and plentiful despite the nearly starving children barely a mile away. Already you’re mentally calculating how much food you can sneak out to the abbey as soon as the night comes to a close, figuring that you might even be able to make two trips if you truly had to. Sister Anya would protest against you moving through the night, but you’ve never had any issues with the sprites.

Folding your hands together, you try to remain present in the moment, but you quickly find your fingernails scratching invisible streaks down your arms, landing on the palm of your hand... to the mark on your wrist. The doctor speculated that it must have been some kind of chemical burn, mostly because there seemed to be no other explanation about it. A toxic liquid spilt onto your wrist when you were wandering somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, and so now you must bear the speculations and the whispers whenever someone new catches a glimpse of the marking.

It’s an odd kind of thing, all angles and thin lines, coalescing in a shape that seems too particular and sharp to be an accidental blob. When you press your thumb down and close your eyes, though, you can see the exact moment you received it, smell the harsh sanitized basement, but somehow catch a whiff of summer lavender.

Could this be your emergency?

Quickly, you try to fill your mind with a thousand other thoughts, flooding your head to the point that scent is once again a distant memory. Everything that followed that day was filled to the brim with misfortune and misery, and you don’t wish to relive it in the slightest. Not until you absolutely have to.

Your mother is right, the duke is only interested in the land your father offers. To her, though, that’s some kind of blessing. For you, however, seated at the table, it feels like the darkest wickedness. Only once does that man glance in your direction, and you can see his nose briefly wrinkle as he silently dresses you down, as though he feels that fucking you would be some kind of burden that he would skip if allowed.

Everything about him fills you up with a strange sense of terror. It’s the way he holds himself, you think, looking over his posture and general facial expression. Tall. High. He might not be the largest man in the room, but he certainly acts the part, stepping over those he doesn’t necessarily deem to be equal.

To your parents though, that’s just a sign of good breeding. Something that you somehow don’t possess, even though ancestry is theoretically squeaky clean. Through your eyelashes, you observe him, lips glued shut with the waxy lipstick smeared against them. You want to crawl out of your skin, melt into the floorboards, fade into the wall, but you’re stuck in place beneath your mother’s critical glare.

Knowing exactly what she might be thinking, you try to mingle, but everyone has long learned that you’re not the type for conversation. Your search for a discussion amounts to you wandering circles around the ballroom, doing your best to seem interested in what’s going on, but ultimately being ignored.

Eventually, you end up back at the table, filled to the brim with foods so decadent and delicious your mouth waters at the scent. Cautiously, you look over your shoulder as you reach down, to find your mother staring at you from a nearby corner. Your hand freezes, and you retract it, almost ashamed.

The mark on your wrist throbs, gently reminding you of a possibility you can allow yourself to have.

Biting down on your tongue, you merely pour yourself some of the lemon flavored water laid out to the side, hoping to fill your stomach if only for a few moments. Everything is too bright, too much, you’re drowning in the absence of everything you could possibly want.

Even though you know your mother will be at her wit’s end, you snag a champagne flute and decide to go back to your room. The bubbles burn as you drink the flute down faster than should be done, retreating back through the crowded hallway. On your way out, you see a servant carrying another tray of alcohol, and you recklessly switch out your empty cup.

Bitterness swells in your throat. You don’t fucking deserve this, you never have. A part of you wants to burn the mansion down and let the sweeping darkness devour the ashes, but you’ve never had the courage or smarts to pull such a feat off. You spot another platter of champagne and make the trade once more.

Just as you begin sipping the brightly flavored alcohol, you bump into someone sturdy. Hard, dark, tall… your fiancé, unfortunately, you notice. Quickly, you lose all confidence you had been building up and instead curtsy out an apology.

“When your father said you were as quiet as a mouse I didn’t think it was possible,” he laughs, almost good naturally, “I didn’t think a woman could be quiet even if her life depended on it.”

The tops of your ears flare.

“But this is a nice surprise, I think it might make up for your other shortcomings.” He waves his hand in your face, as though you are deaf, not mute, then laughs again. “I suppose we’ll see whether or not you can squeal on the wedding night.”

An almost extinct temper raises its ugly head, you’re furious, but above all else, you’re embarrassed. The alcohol makes your anger boil over more, and to add insult to injury, he doesn’t seem to take the hint to stop talking.

“At least you wouldn’t be able to complain. I hate it when women think they deserve to be heard.” And just like that, he abandons you, wandering off towards a group of people you recognize as your neighbors.

Angrily, you drink more of the champagne, going up the stairs and trying to keep yourself calm. But you’re not calm, you’re furious. At yourself, at your parents, and at that babyfaced ass who has the audacity to mock you in the middle of your joint engagement party. By the time you get to your room, your face is hot and boiling with rage, the empty champagne flute mindlessly left on some random surface, and you bury yourself in the bed. You’ve drunk a fat more tonight than you have in years.

You can’t call a servant to help you out of this satin nightmare, not without your mother being informed, so you’re stuck trying to dislocate both your shoulders in order to reach at the strings lacing the top together. Nothing seems to be working, and you are getting more and more frustrated with your progress, each fucking second wasted on your struggles, making you more upset at the overall predicament.

And then, a thought.

Your drunken mind thinks it’s brilliant. The last thread of your sanity warns you that it’s stupid. But both parties involved agree that it would be very, very funny.

Your thumb finds the mark on your wrist.

Call an eternal being forth just to untie your corset? Absolutely ludicrous. Stupid, even. But definitely hilarious. At least, your drunken mind thinks it’s funny. Slowly, you trace the mark around with your indent finger, your eyesight blurry with drink.

Touch the mark. You place two of your fingers against the pulse of your wrist. Recite my name. Three times, unbroken.

It’s not an incredibly complicated ritual. You’ve recited it in your head many times, staring out of your window, tongue making the motions in your mouth. One favor, you get only but one favor, and every single day you’ve had to deal with another one of your mother’s lectures, your father’s criticism, or some other critical motion from most other people in your life, you’ve thought of him.

But now, while drunk, and after the party, it seems like a fine time to bring him forth from the Otherworld. If only to cause a bit of much-needed chaos. You close your eyes, urging your tongue to move, and you say-

“Étienne. Étienne. Étienne.”

Nothing happens. There is an overwhelming silence, one that causes your body to collapse further into the mattress, your brain slowly shutting itself off in a desperate attempt to sleep off the inordinate amount of alcohol that you’ve consumed. Your tongue and mouth are dry, almost as though they were stuffed with towels and cloth, a hazy exhaustion blocking your vision from comprehension.

And you’re asleep.

You don’t exactly know how long you were asleep for, only that you wake up with a throat as dry as the Dark Desert, lips cracked and bleeding, wrist tingling almost painfully like a thousand little pins are piercing into your flesh, though your face is oddly wet. The candle flickers at your side, likely lit by a servant, illuminating red dampness left on your pillow. A headache pinches between your eyes as you try to process those different elements.

“Here,” a smooth, low voice says, a gloved hand offering up a linen handkerchief.

You accept it, then realize who the hand belongs to. Quickly, you scoot yourself back right up to your headboard, spine pressing almost uncomfortably against the heavy wood.

He’s silent for a moment, eyes so dark and blue you feel like they’re sucking you in as though they’re a whirlpool, and you’re adrift in an ocean clinging to a piece of wood. Then he laughs, shockingly youthfully, hand over his mouth as you yank the handkerchief out from his fingers, pushing it up to your nose to catch the continuous drip of blood. Your mouth tastes like hot copper laid out in the sun, and droplets of redstart swimming in your vision.

“My dear,” he says, cocking his head to the side, curiously, “you called me here.”

“No I di-” fuck, the memory of what must have been only a fe hours prior swimming upward in your mind. “Well, I didn’t mean it.”

“Unfortunately whatever your intentions are, I cannot leave until your wish is fulfilled.” Luckily, he doesn’t seem at all annoyed. Only mildly disinterested in what your problems might be.

“Can’t you just go back?” You ask, voice losing its rasp as you swallow a mouthful of blood.

“That’s not how this works,” he says, almost disappointed in your desperate attempts to make him leave.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You’re shaking,” He observes, settling on the edge of your bed.

It’s as though the spirit of your mother possesses your body, vomiting out a sentence about your chastity as a lady, “there’s a man in my room, at night, with no chaperone present.”

A perfectly manicured eyebrow pops up. “You know I cannot hurt you.”

“It’s not about you, it’s- it’s about my reputation as a lady-”

The other eyebrow follows suit, and he’s looking at you so sceptically it appears he thinks this is some sort of trick. He reaches over and grabs hold of your hand, drawing your wrist close as to double-check for the mark. “I don’t remember you being such a meek little thing.”

“I was ten the last time we met.” You say, trying to keep your voice even.

“And you bit me, if I remember correctly.” And he smiles, as though the memory of a precocious child is somehow a fond one.

This can’t be happening, you can’t be having this conversation with him. A conversation. Talking. You swallow thickly, raking your nails through your scalp, trying to breathe. “I was only trying to defend myself! You- you ki- you killed-”

“He deserved it,” he says, and you are unfortunately inclined to agree.

You can’t tell if the droplet of liquid running down the side of your cheek is blood or sweat. Taking in a shaking, angry breath, and you stare down at your hands, eyes stinging. Ah, tears, okay. This is fine. Everything is fine.

“Ah, darling, I’ve forgotten myself.” He reaches over, and you flinch, so he quickly retracts his hand. “Let’s try again. What do you want from me?”

You think back to all the tiny, ugly little pinpricks of insults you’ve garnered every goddamn day of your life since the incident. You think about your husband to be, you think about your mother, you think about your long-dead grandfather. Everything hurts. Everything is wrong. Slowly, you close your eyes and breathe, trying to keep yourself together, just for another few moments.

“I’m to be married to a nearby heir,” you say.

He cocks his head.

“I don’t want to be.”

#fae/reader #fae #fae x reader #exophilia #monster/reader

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chocoholicannanymous · 3 years

Text

Gonna Come True (Glee)

AN: This is a follow-up to There's a Miracle Due which was written for the Glee Twistfest, “What if Mercedes & Kurt got Maria & Tony?” back in 2014 (yikes). I had the storyline for this already back then (hello, all of three lines in a document), it's just taken me until now to actually write it.

For @krummavisur who wanted it.

Thanks to @elledelajoie for looking it over .

The title is taken from “Something Coming”, West Side Story.

Oh, and I am not trying to follow any kind of canon time-line. Just, go with it.

Gonna Come True

Kurt throws himself into preparing for West Side Story with an energy that makes Mercedes envious. She understands though – he doesn't feel like he got the role honestly, which is bullshit, but. He still thinks he needs to prove himself. In her eyes he did so during his audition, and it's everyone else who needs to prove themselves to him, but he doesn't see it that way. Years of Lima bullshit stops him from seeing it.

He doesn't drop out of the race for senior class president though, not even when he's complaining about balancing that with Tony and school and Blaine. She asks him why and gets an answer she should have expected.

“At first this was about getting at least something on my resume. But that's not it any longer. I'm running as a reminder that bullying is a problem at this school, and that something needs to be done. If I win – and I don't expect to, not here – then I have a shot at making the administration do something. If I lose I still raise awareness. Every time I speak about my agenda I force the people listening to remember that bullying is an issue, that bullying kills, and that it is not okay.

“That's worth losing a little sleep.”

Mercedes's heart swells at hearing her boo speak so passionately about it, and it breaks as she hears an angry Santana tell Brittany that she should run against Kurt.

Kurt who is currently pulling down unicorn posters around the school while pushing back tears.

She waits until Brittany walks away before cornering Santana.

“We need to talk. What you just told Brit? That's a shit thing to do.”

Santana starts to argue, all fire, and under other circumstances Mercedes would admire her willingness to go to bat for her girl, but not now.

“No. Don't you dare. Do you know why Kurt is so upset over those posters? It's because to him they represent everything that he's been bullied over. And that? Has a lot to do with you. You have been sitting in the choir room for two years, mocking him for what he likes and for who he is.

“So here we are. Him running on an anti-bullying platform, and your girlfriend plastering the school with posters reminding him of exactly that bullying. Do I really need to explain to you why it is that when Kurt looks at those posters he doesn't see Brit's intentions, her meaning – he sees your bullying.”

Mercedes sees her words are hitting home, even if Santana is putting up a good front.

“Oh, and Santana? When you mock Kurt for being gay it makes you a hypocrite. But when you mock him for being 'girly'? It's even worse. Because when you say that there's something wrong with being like a girl, you're implying that there's something wrong with being a girl. And I'm not okay with that.

“Now, you are going to go back to Brit and tell her exactly what happened here, and you're going to make sure that she forgets all about running against him. He's had enough of his so-called friends doing that, I'd think.

“I'm not saying this – any of this – to be mean. I'm trying to be a good friend, to Kurt and to you. But make no mistake. You ruin this for Kurt? I'll ruin you.”

Mercedes might not be popular like a cheerleader, but she's got friends and she's got contacts outside of school. Her threat's not an empty one, and Santana knows it.

Her phone's ringing. There's something hitting her window, and her phone's ringing. At half past eleven on a school night.

Whoever it is, Mercedes is going to cut them.

Except it's Kurt, and he's not looking right.

As she lets him in through the back-door Mercedes notices the wrinkled clothes and the mussed hair that doesn't fit with a night of dancing. More making out, but Kurt doesn't have that well-kissed look. Plus, he's pale and shaky.

Something's wrong.

It takes her a long time to coax the story out of him, about Blaine trying to rape him. Except when she says that Kurt denies it, vehemently.

“Are you serious right now? Are you defending him? No! Okay? No. Hell no even.

“Look, if I showed up at your place and told you Shane had pulled me into the backseat of a car, had tried to get my clothes off and wouldn't stop touching me even though I said no, what would you tell me? Would you tell me it was okay because we're dating? That he's allowed to do that because I'm in love with him and he treats me good the rest of the time? Would you tell me to suck it up and forgive him?

“Would you explain away that and tell me that if he won't respect my 'no' the solution is to say 'yes' instead?”

Kurt's even paler now, his eyes blown and unfocused. He doesn't say anything though. Instead he just whimpers and rushes out to the bathroom.

When he comes back he's regained some color. He still looks like shit though. Mercedes pulls out some comfortable clothes that were bought for her brother, but got conscripted as backup for unplanned Kurt-visits, and leaves him to change while she gets them some chamomile tea.

Later, as the lights are out and they're curled up together, trying to get what rest they can Kurt whispers: “I'm going to have to break up with him, aren't I?”

She holds him as he cries himself to sleep.

The next day Kurt pretends like nothing's happened. He doesn't want to rock the boat before the West Side Story premiere, he says, or deal with the bitchfit Rachel would throw. “I'll do it after the final performance on Sunday” he promises, and Mercedes doesn't have it in her to push him. Not with the memory of his tears so fresh.

Dress rehearsal that night goes well, right up to the point where Artie comes to talk to them after. They need more fire, more passion, he claims and then proceeds to tell them that they should hurry up and have sex before their first show so they can portray lovers more believably. Oh, he doesn't put it quite like that, but it's pretty obvious that's what he means.

Mercedes is stunned at first, and then furious. She's surprised that Kurt's not ripping into him, with everything, and oh. Hell no.

“Are you telling me to have sex to improve the show you're directing? Really? How about you get some classes or something, to improve your part? You know, instead of sexually harassing me.”

Artie sputters out what's probably meant as a denial, but she just talks right over him.

“If you as much as breathe about this again, to anyone, I will report you. And then my mama will go have a talk with your parents about how they've failed at raising you to be a decent human being.

“Do you get me?”

He nods quickly, mumbles something and makes a hasty retreat. Just as he goes out the door Kurt's voice rings out, cold.

“And to think I remember a boy who grieved that his first time wasn't romantic enough. I wonder what he would think of you now.”

Artie doesn't say anything, or slow down, but he slumps a little in his chair as the barb hits home. Mercedes shifts her attention to Kurt and sees pale skin, rigid posture and shaky hands. He's thinking the same thing she is.

“Boo...”

“No, 'Cedes, please. Let's not speculate about whether or not he had that speech with the others first. I can't, not now.”

So she lets it go. For now.

Mercedes is on stage for the opening show Friday night along with Kurt. Not in the spotlight, sure, but still there. She can't help but compare Rachel and Blaine's performance with what she and Kurt can do, and they come up short. Tomorrow night, she thinks. Tomorrow night we're going to show them how it's really done.

She says as much to Kurt as they leave together and he laughs, the first sign of happiness she's heard from him in two days. The laughter dies out soon as he spots a bunch of well-dressed boys waiting outside. She recognizes a few from Kurt's time at Dalton, but not all of them. She'd think it nice of them to come see their friends perform, except judging from Kurt's reaction they're not an entirely welcome sight.

He still greets them politely, smiling that small “company smile” she doesn't like while asking if they remember Mercedes.

“And this,” he says with strained, icy politeness, “is Sebastian Smythe, this year's new transfer to Dalton.”

This then is the reason they're not welcome. Still, she follows Kurt's example and pulls out church manners.

Apparently the boys have been given tickets by Blaine, the tall new boy explains, before trying to needle Kurt.

“So, Officer Krupke? How did that feel, such a...manly role?”

Ouch.

“Oh, you know, it's not about the role, it's what you put into it. And it makes for an interesting contrast to tomorrow and playing Tony. ”

Everyone quiets at that and the mood gets slightly uncomfortable. Trent is about to break the silence, but Sebastian talks right over him.

“Right. Well, we'll have to withhold judgment until after of course, but I'd say you'll have a hard time measuring up to Blaine. And you,” he turns to Mercedes, “are you also playing another role tomorrow? This one's Maria perhaps?”

She nods without explaining, and then listens as the boys stumble over excuses about not knowing exactly who'll be there tomorrow, but “We're sure you'll do great, Kurt!”

Once they're out of sight Kurt sags a little.

“He didn't tell them. He went to Dalton to tell them about the show, and give them tickets, and he didn't tell them I was in it. Didn't tell them I was also playing Tony. They tried to cover it up, but... They were my friends too, and he didn't tell them.”

She loops an arm around his waist and snuggles close.

He deserves so much better.

There's a group of Dalton boys there next evening again, making Kurt smile and Blaine startle. Some are from the evening before, including the sharp Sebastian, some are new. They all applaud enthusiastically, and wait so they can congratulate Kurt on his performance. Mercedes pays extra attention to Sebastian, for some reason, but all he says is “not bad”. It sounds genuine though, and so is Kurt's smile as he nods and thanks the other boy.

Mercedes knows they did better than “not bad”. They were awesome together. She doesn't need to hear it from this reluctant boy though. She's got a better source.

They skip the cast party. Kurt's not eager to be with Blaine, especially since there might be alcohol involved, and Mercedes prefers celebrating with her boyfriend who has been a rock. There's a small sting as Kurt walks away alone, but it slips away as she accepts Shane's flowers and kiss and walks out on his arm.

The next morning Mercedes shows up at the Hummel-Hudson house almost uncomfortably early. She drags a still sleep-tussled Kurt to the dining table and spreads out the Gazette in front of him. It's already open to the right page and she sees exactly when Kurt realizes what she's got.

“You read that, I'll fix breakfast.”

She's brought coffee from home along with juice and fresh croissants from the bakery a block away and a small carton of strawberries. It's a luxury, but it's a well-deserved one. It's the work of no time to put it all out along with cups and plates, and as she does that she hears Kurt's voice rise, reading select paragraphs out loud.

“Rachel Berry's 'Maria' is technically perfect, with the singer hitting every note. Sadly that excellence does not extend to the rest of her performance. Ms Berry fails to provide personality and emotion, and simply put she lacks the ability to bring Maria to life.”

He stops, shakes his head and looks at her.

“Ehm, ouch?”

Yes.

“Blaine Anderson as Tony does not help. Where a better singer and actor could shore up his counterpart Anderson falls flat. 'Flat' is in fact the word that comes to mind most often when seeing and listening to him performing. Anderson fails to hit the notes in several of the songs, and often resorts to what must be described as screaming instead of singing. He lacks the range needed to play Tony, and obviously also the training needed to make up for his shortcomings.

“On the acting side it's equally flat. Anderson's body language and facial expressions are mostly too subtle – or possibly non-existent – to come across from the stage, making it like watching a cardboard cut-out most of the time. On the other hand, when he does come across it's much too exaggerated, making his Tony look like a caricature. (I find myself looking at the playbill to see if this is meant to be a comedic take on this epic show. It's not.)

“Holy shit, 'Cedes!”

Yessssss.

“Finally, the dancing. Here, Anderson does better – most of the time. He clearly favors certain parts of the choreography, and there he does very well. In other parts it is obvious that Anderson lacks either the desire or the ability to perform according to choreography. This shows, as other cast members – including Ms Berry's Maria – often have to adjust their own moves to accommodate Anderson, either because he takes up too much space or because he simply isn't where he is supposed to be.

“Towards the end of the show Anderson also shows a surprising lack of stamina, and almost literally falls flat as he stumbles through some of the steps.

“The rest of the cast...”

Kurt's voice peters off, and he looks at her, stunned. Mercedes only smiles, satisfied.

“You should read on. Really.”

Kurt looks at her with skepticism, but does as she says. She knows exactly when he hits the part she wanted him to see, because he looks up at her, wide-eyed and slightly stunned.

“After this the pair playing Maria and Tony during Saturday's performance – as well as today's matinée – is a pleasant surprise. Mercedes Jones and Kurt Hummel bring our lovers to life in a way that looks more like a professional setup than a high school play. Not only are they both talented singers, but they also manage to communicate the story to the audience and play off each other in a way that lifts the entire show.

“It is noticeable, having seen both sets of performers that like Anderson Jones has some difficulty with the choreography. However the adjustments made to cater to her limitations in no way come off as a lesser version of what Berry performs, and does in fact make her look better than Anderson's attempt at a more complex choreography. Meanwhile Hummel needs no such adjustments and manages to pair vocals with dancing in a truly impressive manner.

“Hummel's vocals could take up an article of its own, and so this reporter will just note that it comes as no surprise that Hummel is pursuing schooling and later a career in performing arts. We are looking forward to seeing him on stage on many more occasions.”

Kurt drops the paper and blinks like an owl.

“Am I dreaming? Did an actual reporter not only attend a West Side Story performance at McKinley to write about it in the Gazette, but they actually went twice?”

“Yeah boo.”

“And they actually wrote that we did better than Rachel and Blaine?”

“Yeah, they did. And they were right, you know. You did so much better than Blaine that he should be embarrassed.”

Kurt blushes a little, then pulls a grimace.

“What?”

“I was just thinking... I've been wondering if breaking up with Blaine over what happened was an overreaction, because...” He meets her eye, and looks away. “Anyway, I'm reading this and instead of being happy for me – for us – I can't help but think that Blaine's going to go ballistic. And that waiting for the show to be over probably wasn't that great of an idea. He's going to expect me to listen to him whine about this.”

Mercedes isn't surprised to hear that Kurt's been considering forgiving his boyfriend. A bit disappointed, sure, but not surprised. He always was more loyal than people deserved. She is surprised that he's being that clear-sighted about Blaine though. That's good. That means he's probably going to follow through.

As if cued Kurt's phone starts buzzing and they both look at the screen. Blaine. Mercedes makes an unhappy face. Kurt... Kurt looks upset and rejects the call before turning the sound off.

“Boo?”

“I am not going to ruin my afterglow by listening to him complain about how no one appreciates him. Not when I'm already going to break up with him. Just, no.

“Instead I'm going to enjoy this lovely breakfast with my gorgeous leading lady, and then I'm going to read that article again and gloat. Oh, and then I'm going out to get myself a couple of extra copies as proof that even in Lima people can see our talent.

“I don't know how you did it, but you, my dear, pulled off a miracle.”

And she has, hasn't she? Not by making someone see and recognize Kurt's talent, though, but by making him smile, wide and open.

That's her miracle, right there.

~ The End ~

#chocoholic fics #mercedes jones #kurt hummel #not for the klaint of heart #not rachel or blaine friendly #i guess

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