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aziawow · 8 months

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being in love sucks (rodrick heffley x f!reader) 2.9k words

summary: you're in love with your best friend, but all he can talk about is heather hills.

warnings: language, discussions of loss of virginity of a minor (17), brief self sexualization

notes: she/her pronouns, no use of y/n. reblogs, comments, and likes appreciated! interact with me!

You’ve been friends with Rodrick your entire life. There isn’t a time you can’t remember without him being there. Your parents are lifelong friends and it was only natural that they raised you two together. There’s hundreds of pictures of you both in matching onesies, in the bath, at playdates, in your Halloween costumes, every first day of school, and so much more.

Your lives are so intertwined and have been from the very beginning that it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. Out of everyone, you and Rodrick knew each other the best because you spent every second together and talked about anything and everything. Sometimes, you didn’t even need to do that to know.

You knew everything about each other.

Mostly everything, at least.

See, there was this thing. This one thing you kept secret from Rodrick for years. The longest you’ve ever kept a secret from him. The secret that could destroy your friendship of almost 18 years.

You’ve known Rodrick all your life and have been in love with him for half of it.

You’re not sure when the “love” part happened, but it hit you suddenly and all at once one day when you were 13.

Rodrick was doing something stupid and Rodrick-like, making you laugh and laugh and laugh until your insides hurt. When you settled down you looked at him. That’s all it took. Just one look. His eyes were dark and shining, a light you’d give everything to see on his face for as long as possible. You noticed his mouth, the way his big, pouty lips curved in the aftermath of a smile. And you knew.

You were totally gone for this boy.

You didn’t want to be the typical girl who fell in love with her boy best friend, but that’s what happened.

You weren’t immune to him and his charm, and no matter how much they pretend otherwise, neither were other girls you went to school with or random ones you saw in gas station lines late at night. Girls either liked him or they didn’t, and you felt like baring your teeth at everyone who crushed on him or flirted with him because jealousy isn’t a feeling you are exempt from, their infatuation is always brief, and they don’t know him—and never will—like you do.

At the same time, you wanted to wax poetic about Rodrick to those who thought he was a weird emo loser who would never get anywhere in life because they couldn’t be more wrong, and how could they not see the amazing guy right in front of them for who he is?

But you kept quiet. You silenced all the contrasting, confusing, and utterly stupid thoughts in your head and tried to move on.

You tried dating, never stuck with a guy for too long because either they hated Rodrick or Rodrick hated them. “You deserve the best kind of love, and he’s not it,” he’d say. And you’d think, “fuck” because he makes it so goddamn difficult not to love him. But he’s not an option, so forward you continue.

You had your firsts, and so did he, and the aches kept coming.

When you lost your virginity a few months ago (a stupid decision with someone you connected with in your history class just to get it over with) he grew quiet. Scarily, worryingly so. He asked a few questions—who was it, how far did you go, did he wear a condom, did you enjoy it, are you going to see him again? You answered his questions tentatively, not liking this mood shift.

The atmosphere in his room where you were (previously studying) was cold and tense, and you hesitated on your answer when he asked if it hurt. This was uncharted territory—how would he react to the truth? But because you promised to only save one secret for yourself, you told him the truth. When it came to Rodrick, lying was never easy.

It did hurt. At first anyway, and it took you a while to adjust to it. There was pain and pleasure and the guy was kind and gentle with you, and after you couldn’t walk for a good while. You were still sore during this conversation.

He was still quiet, though there was a spark of anger behind his eyes. He tried to hide it, but you know him too well for that. He got up and left the room for a few minutes. When he came back, he brought an ice pack, a towel, an extra pillow, and a bottle of ibuprofen. He gave it to you, face burning, and your heart skipped several beats as you were reminded of how sweet he can be.

You never discussed it again, and it’s like that day never happened. No hesitancy, no awkwardness. Just you and Rodrick. Best friends forever.

Now though, his newest obsession was getting on your nerves.

Heather Hills. Heather fucking Hills.

What were you compared to this beautiful prom queen that had Rodrick practically eating out of the palm of her hand? She’s everything Rodrick wants, and what else could you do about that? You tried being supportive of his crush (thinking of Heather being the love of his life made the ache grow stronger, so you chose not to think about it) but it was hard when Heather made it perfectly clear what she thought about Rodrick. But your sweet, naive, lovestruck best friend was too blinded by her shiny blonde hair and skin tight clothes to see the truth.

It was really annoying. Seriously. You’re not narcissistic, but your hair is fucking amazing even on bad days and you’ve been know to rock form fitting and revealing clothes from time to time. You had enough respect for yourself to dress how you like and not for boys, especially for Rodrick, but it would be nice if he noticed you for once.

Like, you didn’t custom make Löded Diper merch on a tight crop top that showed off your asset really well because you love the mispelt words for what happens when babies defecate displayed on your chest. You’re really supportive and just a bit hormonal, okay? Totally normal.

The thing is, you can deal with it when he says he made out with some girl under the bleachers or got a number from someone in his bio class (“How, Rodrick, you don’t even take biology!”) because they mean nothing to him. Just a one off to relieve stress.

Except, Heather Hills? This crush wasn’t going away anytime soon and you struggled to be okay with it.

Currently, you’re in his room, listening to an album of the latest indie band he found when he brought her up yet again. Just as you were really starting to get into the band, too.

“She is so beautiful, don’t you think?” You refuse, refuse, to glance over at him because if you saw the stars in his eyes you’re sure you’d throw up all over the clean laundry Susan had brought up for him a bit ago. You think, slightly vindictive, that at least she stopped folding his clothes for him and that he’s gonna lose his mind with that task later.

You “uh-huh” at him noncommittally and try to listen to the music.

He sighs, disgusting and dream-like. “Like, I know she wears makeup, and I’ve never seen her without it, but I just know her natural face is just as beautiful. Maybe even better. Definitely better, right?”

Jesus Christ.

You hum again.

“She always wears lip gloss, though. It makes her lips so glittery. I wonder what flavor it is. Cherry? Watermelon? Strawberry? I hope it’s strawberry.” You roll your eyes knowing he can’t see but hold in a sigh. You’ve been wearing strawberry lip gloss since you were, like, 10, which he would've known if ever paid any attention to your lips. “God, I want to kiss it off so bad,” he whines, and that, for some reason over all the others, is what breaks you.

“I have to go home,” you blurt and roll off his bed. You reach over to the music player, pop out the CD, and secure it in the case before stuffing it in your bag. You were gonna go home, enjoy the album, and maybe (probably) ((definitely)) have a good cry. What you were not going to do is sit there and listen to the boy you’re in love with declare it oh so passionately for another girl.

“Wait, what?” he asks, shooting to his feet. You make quick work of gathering your stuff and sliding on your shoes, ignoring him.

He follows you out his door and down the stairs, grabbing at you and asking you to slow down. You brush him off and repeat your excuse.

“Hey, wait. C’mon, what’s wrong? You're just gonna take my CD and dip?” He genuinely sounds upset, and you hate that it’s your fault, but you have to look after yourself.

“Yes,” you hiss, and you hear him make a sound so wounded and entirely unlike him that you stop just before reaching for the handle of the front door. You turn and face him, dying a little when you see his wet, confused eyes.

You try to say something, but Susan’s voice cuts in.

“Oh no, are you leaving? I just finished dinner! It’s barbeque chicken wings,” she sing-songs, and shit, it’s your favorite meal that Susan makes. It might even be your favorite meal ever. It has been since you were little and you and Rodrick had a food fight with the sauce. You got in so much trouble, but you wouldn’t give that memory for anything.

It was your favorite and Susan knew that. Rodrick knows that. Even Greg, who you had a good relationship with because you don’t tolerate Rodrick bullying him, and Frank, who couldn't be assed to pay attention to his sons unless they fucked up, knows it’s your favorite. It’s your favorite, but…

“I’m sorry, I have to go home. Next time, though,” you add after seeing the shock on their faces.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Rodrick!” Susan scolds.

“One minute we’re fine then the next you don’t want to be around me,” and no, your heart does not break a little more hearing the crack in his voice, absolutely not. “I’m so lost. What’s wrong?”

Something in you snaps. It’s the something holding back the secret you’ve kept from him for years and all the other tiny secrets buried within that one. It’s the something in you that aches, and you just want it to stop.

“You are!” You practically yell at him. Now it’s out, everything else escapes too, whether you want it too or not. “Heather Hills is! You can’t go five minutes without bringing her up! It’s actually kind of pathetic how gone on her you are. She won’t give you the time of day no matter how hard you try. She doesn’t care about you or your music and she thinks you’re a loser and you know that but you’ve successfully deluded yourself into thinking she sees you as anything more than a walking Hot Topic advertisement. That is, if she even knows you exist.”

The look on Rodrick’s face as you rant turns to shock then to a kind of sadness you’ve never seen on him before. You see in real time as you break his heart, but he broke yours first, so the pain between you is shared like everything else.

He tries to speak but you cut him off. “I know you exist. I care about you and your passions. I am probably one of the only people in this world who believes in your dream of having a music career and supports it.”

“What does that have to do with Heather?” he asks, and you want to scream.

“You once told me that I deserve the best kind of love, do you remember that?” He nods. “So do you. That is something I believe in strongly, and I can’t pretend Heather is what you deserve. She doesn’t know you, she doesn’t see you. I’m not going to go on feeding into this fantasy you have because I can’t watch this thing you have with her anymore.”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, looking frustratingly cute as he does so. He shakes his head.

“I don’t understand. Why can’t you watch?”

“Because it hurts, Rodrick! It hurts me and I can’t stop it.” You sigh and tear your gaze away from him. You think back on your shared past, the jokes, the situations, the good, the bad. Every memory pours in, and you know you ruined what was left of forever. Tears spring to your eyes.

“I can’t do this,” you say quietly, “I really can’t.”

Rodrick stays frozen in place as you open the door and leave. He stands there even after you’re gone.

“Wow,” says an irritating voice next to him. “You’re an idiot.”

“Greg! Don’t talk about your brother like that, he’s clearly going through something!” Rodrick, who can’t feel much of anything right now, feels a smidge grateful for his scolding mother. Until— “Except, Rodrick, honey. You are being a little bit of an idiot.”

He whirls around, hope for everything completely gone.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, and when the only response he gets is his mom and Greg sharing a look with a meaning Rodrick can’t define, he loses it.

“What just happened? What does she mean ‘I can’t do this’ and why did she bring up Heather a million times? She refused barbeque chicken! She loves barbecue chicken! What is with that!?” he sits at the table and groans. “I’m so confused. Nothing in this world makes sense.”

“Oh my god, Rodrick, are you serious? I know you’re kinda dumb but you can't seriously be that oblivious,” Greg says.

“What,” Rodrick bites.

“I’m gonna tell you this, not because you’re my brother and I love you, but because the best thing about your life just walked out that door and I don’t want to risk her never coming back.”

“Tell me what,” Rodrick grounds out.

Greg sighs, very much put upon and done with stupid teenagers. “Dude, she’s in love with you.”

Rodrick stops. His whole world comes to a standstill. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, he can't be. That’s not true, right? His little brother is just yanking his chain. Pay back for when Rodrick let Greg believe he used his toothbrush to scrub the toilet bowl last week. Just a prank. A joke.

Right?

Because if it’s not…

“How do you know that?” he asks, and hates how small his voice is.

“How do you not?” Greg retorts.

The rest of dinner is spent in silence, only broken occasionally by Manny, but Rodrick doesn't even make it halfway through. He’s too busy thinking about you and what to do. He sat with his thoughts and absentmindedly started to eat a piece of chicken, but found he couldn’t even take a bite without every memory you two shared filling his every sense. He abruptly leaves the table and suspects the only his mom let him skip family dinner is because he had a great fucking excuse.

This, to him, is life changing news. The most important news he’s ever gotten and will probably ever get. This is something he has to consider, and consider very seriously or he’s screwed forever. The decision is so easy to make.

You're in love with him.

Him, though? Christ, of course he loves you back. How can he not? Heather is whatever, a distraction, something fun, but you? You’re his whole world, you’re forever.

Time to get his girl.

***

There’s a tiny clink at your window. You thought you imagined it at first but it happened again. And again. And again. It kept happening until—

“Rodrick!” You whispered-shout, half hanging out your window. You’re on the first floor, and right in his face. Whoops. “Knock it off, you’ll wake my parents up!”

“Sorry!” he whisper-shouts back. He takes in what you look like, rumpled clothes, red eyes, and tear stained cheeks. “Hey, have you been crying?” He decides fuck it, and leans close to you and takes your face in his hands. He’s gentle, so you let him. Distantly, he can hear the stolen CD playing behind you.

He wipes away the tears and crust, and when he’s done, he brings your foreheads together. You close your eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for not seeing it before,” he apologies softly.

You let out a gentle huff. “The only secret I’ve ever kept from you,” you admit. He chuckles lightly, you can feel his breath on your skin and you shiver. Your heart beat is wild, always wild around him. But there’s a sense of calm and peace between you two now, and you don’t feel nervous. With him, you feel safe and content, even now after everything.

He pulls back and you open your eyes.

“God,” he says, breathless. “I’m so fucking in love with you.”

And the way he looks at you right now, in this moment, tells you everything you need to know. He never looked at Heather like this, not at any girl except you. He would never lie to you. Hope and love and longing soar through your entire body.

Your eyes are wet and your heart is full. “I love you too.”

When you kiss, it’s everything.

He pulls back abruptly, eyes wide. “Strawberry?” he asks, voice in awe.

“Shut up,” you say, and pull him in for another kiss.

#rodrick heffley #rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick heffley x y/n #rodrick heffley x you #rodrick heffley x fem!reader #rodrick heffley fic #rodrick heffley reader insert #diary of a wimpy kid #doawk #lmk what you think!

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diabolicjoy · 2 years

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I love them

[ID: three heart shaped ceramic pendants over a white/transparent background; a Moomin one, one with 3 little tulips, and a Snoopy one - they’re all painted in cobalt blue over the light beige clay. End ID]

#m #ceramic #lmk what you think!#my art

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felloweeper · 4 months

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fellow travelers (2023) || falsettos - william finn, james lapine hawk & jackson || marvin & jason

#fellow travelers #hawkins fuller #jackson fuller #falsettos #see also: “my father's a homo”#hope this hasn't been done already! i've been having fun with these comparisons #this was my first attempt at a post like this #and it took absolutely forever to do #if anyone has any tips on how to make these kinds of posts -- please do send them my way!#lmk what you think!

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thetomorrowshow · 4 months

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response

empires superpowers au masterlist (not up to date)

this takes place about 10 months after the end of ‘poisoned rats’.

cw: past abuse, flashbacks, heavy dissociation, blood & injury

It’s on the news before it’s anywhere else, which is to say, everyone knows before Jimmy.

Lizzie texts him to ask him if he needs anything, and while it’s an odd message to receive out of the blue, Jimmy doesn’t mind it at all. Lizzie checks in occasionally, particularly after big life events, and it’s just nice to hear from her.

Then Joel texts the same thing, and Jimmy starts to feel that something’s wrong.

He only finds out by chance, though—he turns on the TV and it happens to be on the news, and just before he switches away, he sees the scrolling headline.

MAJOR DISAPPEARS AFTER FIGHT WITH THE ORACLE.

His stomach drops.

The clip starts playing moments later, some newscaster narrating it like a sports game, not like his partner’s life is on the line.

“So here we can see the Oracle grab Major—it’s barely contact, but anything goes with that villain—and then, while Major’s disoriented, he slams him into the ground.”

Jimmy watches, mouth slightly open, as Scott indeed is shoved into the asphalt with enough force to knock a few teeth out. He winces, old injuries twinging in sympathy. It doesn’t stop there, though—as Scott is grabbing at the Oracle’s legs, doing anything to pull himself back up, he goes suddenly limp, and the Oracle lands a terrible hit to Scott’s nose, sending blood spurting everywhere.

The Oracle grasps Scott by the hair, then, Scott’s arms flailing out, and slams his head into the road. Jimmy gasps, reaches out as if he can grab Scott through the screen. This is bad. Scott hasn’t had such a bad fight since Xornoth. The Oracle must be getting more powerful, or gotten more training recently or something, because last Jimmy knew he was a local menace, not actually a danger.

Jimmy almost can’t watch. His hands are up at his mouth, and he can’t tear his eyes from the screen as Scott stops trying to fight back and just tries to crawl away. He almost makes it—the Oracle grabs him by the cape, pulls him back as his fingers scrabble for purchase.

The Oracle drags him up, has him in a chokehold—it’s the perfect position to just kill him, he’s already too weak to do much and the Oracle could easily slip a knife from the folds of his clothing and slash Scott’s throat, but he doesn’t. He just holds him as Scott struggles, whacking at his grip with steadily clumsier arms. Scott stops moving after a moment, and Jimmy’s moving forward, toward the TV, he has to help—

Scott’s only gathering strength though, and moments later he manages to buck backward and throw the Oracle’s arms from around his neck. With a spray of ice on the road, Scott collapses and penguin slides down the hill and past the news van, throwing up a curved wall of ice to make a sharp turn to the right. He disappears from view entirely, and when the camera turns back to the Oracle, he’s gone.

It’s barely a minute-long clip, but it leaves Jimmy breathless in the worst way possible. He needs to find Scott, he needs to help him—he’s opening the front door before he even puts his mask on, only in socks and his gym clothes, he’s got to find him—

His phone buzzes, and without even thinking he answers, everything in him tensing at the thought that it could be Scott, it has to be Scott—

“Jimmy, where are you right now?”

Lizzie. His heart utterly sinks. “I’m—do you know where he is? I’m going out to find him—”

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah, yes, but I’m leaving—”

“Do not leave,” she tells him sternly. For the first time, Jimmy registers feedback from her end—as if she’s outside on a windy day, or standing on the pier. “Stay at home.”

“I have to find him,” says Jimmy, and he needs to grab his key—where is his key, it’s usually right on the hook by the door—

“Joel and I are sweeping the city, all right? You need to stay home.”

“I’m not scared,” Jimmy retorts. “I can fight, I will fight, I’ll kill the Oracle if I have to—”

“Jimmy.”

He stops, reluctantly, at her tone.

“You need to stay home right now, because if Scott is his usual stubborn self and doesn’t check himself into a hospital, he’s going to come to you,” she explains. “Now I need you to listen to me, all right?”

He sighs. He’s still burning with a need to get out there, find Scott, but she’s right. Unfortunately. He slams the front door shut, sighs even louder. “Yeah, fine. What is it.”

“Get towels you don’t care about,” she instructs. “I know you have a pack of rubber gloves somewhere, so get those and your first aid kit. Disinfect wherever you’re going to help him—I’d think the dining room table, but it’s your choice. Got all that?”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the closet for the first aid kit, grabbing some bleach-stained hand towels from the bathroom on the way. “Yeah. What else?”

“We’re most worried about a concussion here, so he might be confused—especially after fighting the Oracle. Help him know he’s safe and cared for. Maybe get something he’s familiar with to have near, to ground him?”

“Treat it like a flashback, got it.” Jimmy sets the first aid kit down on the table, runs back to their bedroom. He and Scott had gone on a Build-A-Bear date recently, and Scott had gotten the Frozen’s Elsa bear. That should do for grounding, hopefully.

He brings the bear (and after a thought, his own, a brown bear with roller skates) back to the dining room, then cracks open the rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit and starts rubbing down the table and one of the chairs.

“Take care of him, all right?” Lizzie says, sounding almost far away. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you with more updates. Text me if he shows up.”

Before he can even say goodbye, she hangs up.

Great. He just has to deal with this situation alone, then. Scott’s never been that badly injured since Jimmy’s been dating him—sure, there was the broken arm incident, but Scott had still won that fight. He’s never been so badly injured that he had to flee.

What if he doesn’t remember how to get home? It’s not like he’s lived here his whole life, it’s entirely possible that he gets lost on the way back. Jimmy needs to go looking for him, has to be out there to help—

From the office comes the sound of a window sliding open.

Jimmy drops the rag he’d been using to wipe down the table and sprints for the office.

Sure enough, Scott is there, one leg in the window, and looking absolutely awful.

He looks worse than he had on TV. The collar of his costume is drenched in blood, most of which seems to be stemming from his nose but there’s blood in his bright blue hair and dripping from his mouth and all over—

Blood, there’s so much blood and Jimmy’s not sure if its his own or his opponent’s but as he stares at it he feels nothing, nothing but hope that his master will reward him for being so good—

Scott grunts and Jimmy’s back in the present, but his feelings of detachment remain. He crosses the office to the window and wraps an arm under Scott’s armpit to pull him the rest of the way in (Scott cries out, but Jimmy ignores it), then puts his other arm at his knees and fully lifts his boyfriend up.

Scott’s almost too heavy to carry—sure, Jimmy’s been working out, but the deadweight of a muscular, six foot human isn’t anything that he’s used to. So he gathers all of his strength and hurries down the hallway before his arms can give out, carrying Scott to the dining room and settling him in the chair he’s prepared before cracking open the first aid kit.

Jimmy strips off his mask first, grimacing at the bruises already beginning to ring his eyes. Luckily, Jimmy’s set quite a few broken noses in his time, and he mutters a warning before jerking it back into place. Scott lets out another cry, muffled by Jimmy shoving a wad of cotton under his nose.

He holds it there for a few moments while he categorizes the other wounds. The head wound is probably most important—or rather, most dangerous. There’s scrapes and bruises in various places all over his body, visible through the tears in his costume. Red stains his lips, so Jimmy pries his mouth open—yep, missing tooth and bitten tongue. He knows Scott’s already got an implanted molar, but this is one of his front teeth, leaving a gaping hole in his mouth. That’s going to need some cosmetic surgery.

It’s not really a huge concern at the moment, though, so Jimmy moves on, rolling down the neck of Scott’s costume.

Sure enough, bruises are already blossoming around his throat. That’s not something Jimmy can take care of himself—he needs an x-ray to make sure nothing’s broken, probably. In fact, it would be better just to take Scott to the hospital right now.

One last thing to check—across the room, on the hook where he usually leaves it, is his key, a pocket flashlight attached to the key ring. Jimmy retrieves it, shines it in Scott’s eyes.

His pupils don’t dilate smoothly, and the left eye is slower than the right. That’s never good.

“Are you feeling disoriented?”

Scott blinks. “. . . yeah,” he rasps. Jimmy hands him his glass of water, gives him a napkin when he chokes on it.

“We’re going to the hospital,” he announces, clicking off the flashlight. “Put your mask back on, I’ll carry you to the car.”

Scott complies, hands moving slowly and shakily. “I—Jimmy?” he asks, voice small.

“Yeah?”

Scott sniffles. “I don’t feel well.” “That’s why we’re going to the hospital,” Jimmy tells him, voice utterly lacking emotion. He doesn’t feel much of anything, right now. “Do you want to bring anything?”

Scott looks around, blinking slowly. He points to the Elsa bear on the table. Jimmy nods, glances around for a moment before finding a reusable plastic grocery bag and stuffing the bear in it.

“You’ll have to leave it in the car, but that’s fine. Let’s go.”

Scott is, for the most part, complacent as Jimmy picks him up, wrapping his arm around Jimmy’s neck. Jimmy carries him out of the house and into the backseat of the car as quickly as possible, then ducks back inside to look for Scott’s thin work wallet, eventually finding it just outside the office window. He grabs it—it identifies Scott as Major, has his SuperInsurance card, and other necessary cards—then heads back out to the car, swinging into the driver’s seat and snapping a mask over his face. He tosses the bag with the bear in the backseat with Scott, then pulls out of the driveway.

The hands on the steering wheel don’t look like his, and it takes until Jimmy clicks on the turn signal at a stoplight to realize that he’s dissociated. In fact, he thinks he’s been out of it since he helped Scott inside. Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember doing anything to comfort Scott, calm instincts taking over to keep him from panicking.

A glance in his rearview mirror shows that Scott barely looks conscious. “Don’t fall asleep,” Jimmy snaps, and Scott jolts up, gasping, one hand clutching at his other arm. His other arm that looks mysteriously swollen, held carefully close to Scott’s body.

How had he focused so hard on the head wound that he hadn’t even noticed an injured arm? It’s clearly hurting Scott, and he had done nothing—

“Stay awake, okay? Talk to me. What are you feeling?”

“My arm hurts,” Scott manages. “I think—Jimmy, I think it’s broken again. I don’t—where are we going?”

“The hospital. Just hang tight, we’ll be there soon.”

They won’t be there soon. They’re still at least twenty minutes away. Scott had actually been closer to the hospital before he’d headed home, so he could’ve saved them both some time and gone straight there.

The hands that are definitely his but don’t look it tighten on the wheel. None of that matters right now. Right now he just needs to get Scott to somewhere for treatment.

It’s a tense drive, but Jimmy manages to stay levelheaded. He knows he’s speeding, so every cop car he passes he sends a burst of power out toward, hoping whatever accident it causes won’t be very dangerous.

He sees the signs for the hospital and cuts across three lanes of traffic to get into it. Once there, he pulls into a parking spot and looks up.

At the hospital.

The dissociation hits full-force.

It’s not the hospital, not the one where he was taken right after, but it’s still a hospital. It’s still tied to needles and blood and long hours on an exam table and distress and pain, and just looking at it makes his head all woozy.

His head presses against something hard. His hands go slack. He’s not sure where he is. He’s not sure what’s real.

It’s easier to believe that he’s asleep, easier to accept that none of this is real. He doesn’t even know what he doesn’t want to be real.

He’s not sure how long he floats there, feeling nothing but anxiety about how he’s feeling nothing. He doesn’t even register that there’s any sort of outside stimulation until he hears words, tinny and staticky.

“Jimmy? Hey, Jim, what’s happening? Talk to me.”

“I don’t know,” he thinks he says. “What’s happening?”

A sigh. “Scott says you just sort of zoned out. Do you know why?”

He’s not sure how to answer, so he doesn’t.

“Do you know where you are?”

“No,” he admits, because he doesn’t. He has no clue where he is or how he got here, and now that he’s realized that, the anxiety develops into panic.

“Look around, Jim. Tell me five things you can see.”

Five things—that’s a grounding exercise. Jimmy knows that’s a grounding exercise. He glances around. “There’s a steering wheel. Radio. A seat. I’m in the car.” It hits him like a train, the understanding that he was driving, and he can’t remember that he was driving, and he can’t remember why he was driving, but he’s in the car behind the steering wheel. “Um, asphalt. Parking lines.”

“Cool, four things you can touch?”

The hands in front of him don’t exactly look like his own. One of them lays itself on the steering wheel, and he’s not sure if it’s by his own instruction or not.

He’s sitting in the car, though, so he can assume some certain things. “The seat. The armrest. Um.”

“That’s good. Anything else?”

The voice sounds rushed. Jimmy cringes. He can’t really feel much, other than the awareness that a thing is touching him. Another sigh.

“Right, hand the phone back to Scott, okay? Scott, where are you?”

Is he holding something? He’s holding a phone, and that’s where the voice is coming from. Jimmy stares at it, not quite sure what he can do with it. “Hand it back to Scott,” he echoes.

“Jim’s really out of it, Scott, so can you just look out the window and tell us which hospital it is? Then Lizzie and I’ll be over.”

“It’s . . . United. You guys are coming here?”

“Yeah, well, it sounds like you two are being a bit dysfunctional right now. I’ll escort you and Lizzie’ll stay with Jimmy, and that way all bases are covered. Sound good?”

“I guess?”

It’s warm, Jimmy thinks. Like he’s lying next to a heater. At least it’s feeling something. He feels so detached, so out of his body, that he’s not sure of anything anymore.

He doesn’t hear any more speaking, and he’s not sure if that’s good or not. He just sort of . . . exists, less-than-present but not nonexistent.

At least, until there’s someone grabbing his arm.

He’s not exactly snapped back into his body, but he can see it now—someone heaving him out of the car, someone with pink hair, wrapping an arm around him and walking him to the other side of the car. It feels like he’s observing from above, knowing that it’s his body being moved but feeling no real attachment to it.

It all becomes foggy again as he’s set down in the passenger seat, but he manages to register something clicking and then the car moving. He doesn’t know how long the car moves, but at some point, there’s someone talking to him.

“Scott’s all right, you’re all right, everything is fine. Jimmy, are you with me?”

He tries to nod. He’s not sure if he does it properly.

“No, you’re not. Can you hold this?”

Something’s put in his hand. He doesn’t know what it is.

“Smell that, all right?”

He lifts it up to his nose. It smells sharp, citrus-y.

“What’s that smell like?”

“Oranges,” he answers dutifully.

“Keep your hand up, keep smelling it. Can you describe it?”

He sniffs it again. “Nice,” he eventually says. “Clean. Oranges, and lemons.”

“What does an orange taste like?”

He puts the thing in his mouth.

“No—! No, Jimmy, don’t eat that! That’s—that’s an air freshener, it’s not an orange! Please take it out of your mouth!”

It’s bitter, he thinks, as he obeys. Not like how oranges usually taste. Oranges usually taste sweet, a bit sour, and have all those stringy bits that you have to get off otherwise eating the segments aren’t worth it. It’s one of his favorite tastes, though; the fridge always has orange juice in it and there’s usually oranges on the table. Not just because they taste good, but because they’re decent tools for grounding. The peel has a strong smell and texture, and when you’re done peeling you can taste it.

This isn’t an orange. But it feels suspiciously like a grounding exercise. Why would he be doing grounding?

He blinks, looks up at Lizzie. She’s here. He doesn’t remember her getting here. “Am I dissociating?” he asks.

She laughs a little. “Yeah, I think you might be. Can you smell the air freshener again?”

It’s wet with his own saliva in his hand, but he raises it to his nose anyway. “I’m smelling the air freshener.”

“Good job. Don’t eat it.”

“Don’t eat the air freshener.”

“Smell it.”

“Yes.”

“It smells like orange.”

“Mhm.”

Jimmy closes his eyes and breathes in deep. It smells like orange, but not quite. More bitter than an actual orange. Like the way it tasted bitter. “Did I put an air freshener in my mouth?”

Lizzie laughs again. “You very much did. Are you back?”

“No,” he tells her, then goes back to smelling. He can smell something else on his hands, something just as familiar as an orange. Something clean, yet bad. Something that hurts.

“Jimmy, you’re crying. Can you keep smelling the air freshener? Lift your hand back up. What’s it smell like?”

He smells it. “Orange.”

“That’s right. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it.”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

Jimmy likes oranges, so it only makes sense for him to like this scent, right? But in the same way it tastes bad, he’s not sure that the smell of it can hold a candle to real oranges.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly.

“All right. What do you know?”

He sniffs the air freshener. “It smells like oranges. I’m holding it. It tastes bad. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” agrees Lizzie. “Do you want me to hold your hand?”

Jimmy frowns. “Holding the air freshener.”

“You have two hands.”

Oh. Right. He extends his other hand, Lizzie taking it in hers. Her hands are cool, but not nearly as cool as Scott’s. Her nails are pointy, brushing against his skin. The skin. Of the hand. It doesn’t look like his.

“I’m dissociating real bad, I think,” he murmurs. Lizzie’s hand grips his tighter.

“That’s all right. I’m here until you feel better.”

It’s a long time until Jimmy feels more like himself. When he fully becomes aware again, he’s sitting on his couch next to Lizzie, sharing some leftover pasta between them. He blinks at it, vaguely remembering the process it had taken to get him to eat it at all.

“I’m back, I think,” he says, blinking a couple of times. He licks his lips, tastes the pasta sauce there.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Lizzie sighs in relief. “I was just going to try getting you to nap next, I was completely out of ideas.”

Jimmy laughs a little, thoughts still somewhat out of order from all the fog settled around his brain. “Norman usually helps. Did you get him?”

“Check your feet.”

He looks down. Sure enough, Norman is curled up on his feet, purring loudly.

Jimmy doesn’t remember much from the past—however long it’s been. He has bits and pieces of the drive home from the hospital, but he has no idea when Lizzie turned up or what happened to Scott.

Scott.

He jolts up, almost knocking his plate of pasta to the floor. “Scott,” he gasps out, “is he—did—”

“Scott’s fine,” Lizzie says placatingly, gesturing for him to relax. “Joel just texted me a few minutes ago. He got some stitches and they just finished his scans, they’re waiting on the results. They got him on some pretty good pain meds, I heard, so he’s doing fine.”

Reluctantly, Jimmy sits back, wringing his hands. Sure, Lizzie can tell him that Scott’s fine. But he hasn’t seen that, he doesn’t know for sure, all he knows is that he barely did anything to treat Scott’s wounds and then couldn’t even walk him into the hospital.

His head hurts.

“We can call him, maybe?” suggests Lizzie. Jimmy nods after a moment. That might help.

He sits in silence as she fiddles with her phone, doing who knows what. Every second that passes is another second that Jimmy doesn’t know how Scott’s doing.

Then Lizzie’s phone rings.

She answers, grimaces at the screen, then hands it over to Jimmy.

It’s a video call, and Scott’s there. His nose is properly bandaged, now, and Jimmy can see through the eyeholes in his mask that his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. There’s a large bandage along his jawline, and his split lip is actively bleeding. The ring of bruises around his throat is stark against the hospital gown.

He looks absolutely beautiful.

“Jimmy!” Scott cries, delighted, then sheepishly ducks his head when Joel shushes him offscreen. “Joel—sorry, the King says I can’t say your name.”

Jimmy chuckles, nerves quieting as he gazes at Scott. “That’s fine, Major. How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” Scott admits. He shrugs. “My head hurts, but they put some good drugs in my arm and I can’t really feel it so that’s good!” He tips the screen to show an IV. Jimmy shudders and looks away.

When he looks back, Scott’s turned it back to his face, concern written all over it. “Are you okay? You were . . . uh, what’s the word. . . .”

“Dissociating,” Jimmy finishes.

“Yeah. That. Lizzie said it got really bad, but when we got to United, you just sorta . . . blanked out.”

Jimmy bites back a retort. He doesn’t actually want to be mean to Scott, especially not when he’s floating on pain drugs. He’s just exhausted and foggy from the dissociation. “I’m good, just worried about you. And maybe don’t say real names, yeah?”

“Oh. Right. Joel, how much longer?”

A sigh from offscreen. “Probably half an hour, maybe more. Done talking to your man?”

“J—the King wants his phone back,” Scott whispers. “Are you really okay? Do you need a nap?”

Jimmy can’t help but laugh. “I’ll go rest if you rest, yeah? Love you, keep annoying the Mad King.”

“I love you so much,” Scott says seriously. “I wanna kiss you right now, but I don’t wish you were here because that would be bad for you. So I can wait until we go home.”

Suddenly choked up, Jimmy manages a wave, which Scott sets the phone down to return. Then Jimmy passes it back to Lizzie, who exchanges a few words with Joel before hanging up.

Jimmy doesn’t go to bed. He curls up on the couch and turns on some episode of a 90s sitcom to watch in silence.

“You didn’t fail him,” Lizzie says during a commercial. “You did good.”

Jimmy sighs. “Lizzie, I was dissociating before I even helped him into the house. I didn’t call you, I didn’t actually do anything to help him, and I couldn’t even go into the hospital with him. I freaked out and couldn’t help when he needed me.”

“You fought a trauma response to assess your boyfriend’s injuries and were able to drive him to the hospital,” Lizzie counters. “You set his broken nose and kept your head, despite having triggers all around you. Not to mention, driving him to the hospital was probably the best choice you could’ve made—I don’t have a car, and Joel was halfway across the city. There was no way we could get him to help. You did everything you could.”

Jimmy doesn’t argue. He’s too tired. He just turns his attention back to the TV as the commercial break ends.

When Joel helps Scott in the house several hours later, Lizzie’s made pancakes for them all, and Jimmy’s set out plates and spreads. Scott eats a single pancake, eyelids heavy, before limping off for bed. Jimmy follows him, rearranges the pillows so that Scott’s newly-casted arm can be elevated.

“You’re gonna be here a while, mister,” Jimmy tells him, handing him an ice pack. “Doctor’s orders. A week of bed rest, all for you.”

“At least I can give you kisses,” Scott slurs, smiling the best he can with a split lip and swollen mouth. Jimmy giggles, stripping off his shirt and climbing into bed next to him.

“I think even kisses are gonna hurt, baby. It’s okay, though. You’ll be okay.”

Scott nods sleepily, eyes already closed. “Yeah. We both will be.”

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grishaverse-said · 2 months

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"Tired of just deserving better. Gonna start taking it by force."

#trying out this new format #lmk what you think!#polls #incorrect grishaverse #grishaverse #six of crows #incorrect quotes #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #nina zenik #matthias helvar #wylan hendriks #incorrect six of crows

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sam-loves-seb · 1 month

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i'm not the way i was -- chapter 4

“No, fuck you,” he spits back, pointing right at Ian. “Not all of us have had six months to figure our shit out, okay? Some of us were just focused on staying alive.” “Figure my—” Ian shakes his head. “I don’t have anything figured out!” he yells. “I’m a fucking janitor, Mickey, does that sound like I have my shit figured out to you?” Mickey rolls his eyes. “It’s a job with a paycheck, Ian, don’t pretend you’re all high and mighty now.” “Oh, fuck off,” Ian says, scrunching up his face. “That doesn’t mean I—” “You know what you want!” Mickey yells, cutting him off.

read the rest on ao3

#chapter 4 is live !!#lmk what you think!#intwiw #i'm not the way i was #gallavich #my gallavich fic #my shameless fic #shameless

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virescent-v · 3 months

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Part II:

Summary: Emily talks more with Addie as time winds down on her decision. Warnings: none -- our ladies just talk Word count: 2.5k

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck?

Emily tried to calm her racing mind, wishing she could bring her hands up and rub at her temple. Pros and cons flitted through her mind at a rapid pace, not really allowing her to focus on anything.

Either way, she figured, she was dead.

There wasn’t much to a life living as a vampire, was there?

She knew that she would have to talk to Addie more to get some questions answered before she could reasonably make an informed decision, but she wanted to have some idea of what her mind was thinking.

As the virus slowly took over her body, Emily tried to piece together what was happening internally. She closed her eyes, taking an internal catalog. Her head was pounding, a thickness that ebbed and flowed with her pulse, which was irregular and fast. Her entire body ached, as if she had run a marathon the day before. Her stomach felt queasy, that weird sensation where you can’t tell if you’re going to throw up or if you need to eat.

Overall, she felt like shit.

Her brain tried to rationalize what was going on, but she still couldn’t believe that vampires were real. That she would be one if she decided to be.

But she still wasn’t sure exactly what that meant.

As the sun began to set, Emily had a list of questions ready for Addie’s return to the room. She was fairly certain that she didn’t want to die die, to cease to exist from this world completely. She still felt like she had so much left to do, so much left to see.

But.

On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly sure she wanted to be a vampire either.

Emily’s mind was convoluted with media-based stories of the mythical creatures. Flashes of Twilight and Underworld vampires running through her mind. It couldn’t be like that, though, right? Never allowed out in the sun, blood thirsty, impossible speed?

But, she really needed to talk to Addie first, to clarify everything, to get her perspective on the way she was living her life.

Speaking of Addie, Emily questioned how the woman was near her in the warehouse at all. Had she been responsible for some of the murders? Was she an ally to the unsub?

Could Emily even trust her?

As Emily’s mind continued to question the woman’s existence, there was a quiet knock at the door.

Emily tilted her head in the direction of the knock, watching as the door slid slowly open. Addie peaked her head in, glancing curiously at Emily before entering and closing the door behind her.

Emily finally took Addie in, watching the way the woman carried herself.

Addie was slightly shorter than Emily, and curvier. Her skin was pale, but still looked sun-kissed, somehow. She had long, wavy, auburn hair that complimented her strikingly beautiful eyes. Her face seemed perfectly structured, as if she was carved from marble. Each step she took towards Emily reverberated throughout the room, her heels commanding attention. She walked with a grace that echoed years of existing.

Pulling over a chair she had snagged from the desk by the corner, Addie sat down with a long sigh. She smoothed her hands over her thighs. “I can tell by the look on your face that you have a lot of questions for me.” She met Emily’s eyes. “Before you ask them, I figured we could skip some and I can just tell you a little about me.”

Emily scanned the other woman’s face. She found no trace of anything that raised Emily’s internal alarms, so she just nodded.

Addie smoothed the skirt of her black dress down, crossing her legs at the ankles and relaxed back into the chair. “As I said before, my name is Adelaide Turner. But, I’ve been known by many other names.” She shrugged. “An issue with being alive as long as I have.”

Addie played with a loose thread on her skirt. “I was born in May of 1826. I died in late autumn of 1861. I’ve been thirty-five for well over one-hundred and fifty years.”

Emily felt her eyes widened, disbelieving.

“I know. I don’t look a day over one-hundred and twenty,” she winked, chuckling lightly at Emily’s facial expressions.

“I grew up in America, to a wealthy family. My father worked in trade, owned land, and later worked in politics. I’ve continued to build onto his fortune since his passing. I have many business ventures, which I will not get into right now,” she trailed off.

Emily quirked an eyebrow at her, silently asking about the most pressing question. Why was Addie in the warehouse?

As if able to read her mind, Addie shook her head. “I won’t be answering questions about the warehouse. Not yet at least. Just know that I am one of the good ones, Emily. But, there are a lot of us out there that are not,” she said, disgust written across her face.

Another deep sigh. “I got sick– pneumonia. The doctors couldn’t do anything. They were expecting me to die within the night. But, my father brought this man to my bedside. His name was Charlie. He claimed he could cure me and I jumped at the chance. The rest is…well, a very extensive history.”

Addie looked at Emily as the brunette tried to piece together what information she had. Not that it was much. Something about this woman was captivating, alluring in a mysterious way. Emily felt like she could listen to her for ages.

“What was the turning process like?” Emily asked.

Addie’s eyebrows shot up, surprised. “Not the first question I thought that you’d ask, but an important one, I suppose.” Addie leaned forward, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “It’s not pleasant. I won’t lie to you. In the next day, you’ll start having fevers, your headache will worsen, there will be sensitivity to light, not just the sun. Eventually, you will begin to thirst for blood, an insatiable need.”

Emily gasped slightly. The one thing that truly worried her. She wasn’t sure she could kill people to fulfill her hunger, becoming like one of the people she spent her career chasing down.

“Don’t worry about the blood, Emily. It’s locally sourced, with consent from volunteers.”

Emily just gaped, awaiting further explanation.

“There are people in this world that are human and know of our kind. They volunteer their bodies to us to feed from. Some of them like to be bitten, some just donate blood.” Addie smiled mischievously. “We drink blood from pouches. Like Capri-Suns,” she giggled.

Emily caught herself almost smiling, enjoying the way this woman carried herself, finding humor and laughs in the midst of a heavy conversation. Quickly, though, her smile faded.

“Why would they do that, though?”

Addie’s laughter faded out. “Well, sometimes, they need something from us. Protection, money, whatever.” She shrugged, “Some just enjoy it, as it can be a sort of… sexually charged phenomenon. Others do it hoping one day they’ll get turned, too. Death is a fear felt by many.”

Emily brought her lip between her teeth. “Why am I tied down?”

Addie tilted her head. “For your protection, and ours. If you decide to go through with the transformation, once the blood lust kicks in, you will be almost impossible to stop. You will go after anything with blood, including us.”

Emily’s face screwed up again. “Even you?”

Addie smirked, a common occurrence for her. “I still have blood, Emily. I just don’t need my heart to pump it. It’s constantly being produced by my bone marrow. Vamps can actually feed off of each other. But if we’re not careful, it can create a blood bond.” She waved her hand dismissively. “A topic for another time.”

Emily opened and closed her fists a few times, feeling her blood and the virus pumping through her. The tingling, burning sensation was growing steadily, working its way towards her chest. Taking a deep breath, she refocused on Adelaide, pulling her lip between her teeth. “What should I do?” Emily whispered.

Addie uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her gaze heavy on Emily’s. “I cannot answer that for you. There are pros and cons to both. You will be nearly immortal – there are ways for us to die – and you will watch everyone you love die as you remain the same. There are very strict rules for our kind, ones that prevent us from just turning whoever we want.”

Emily furrowed her brow, again, for what felt like the millionth time in the past few minutes. “Why did you choose me, then?”

Addie leaned back in her chair. “I’ve been watching you, Emily. For reasons I cannot – will not – get into right now. Just know, you have been on our list for quite some time. Finding you in that warehouse was almost an act of fate. However, the choice is still yours. I refuse to turn anyone without their consent, without the knowledge of what this really means for you.”

Emily looked at the auburn-haired woman’s expression, her nonverbal cues. Being a profiler was a hard skill to turn off sometimes. There was a disdain there, which Emily figured as much by the consent comment. A trauma hidden under years of emotional walls. Emily found herself wanting to know more, wanting to know all of the intimate knowledge of the mysterious woman’s life.

Emily chose to not dig deeper, not wanting to sully the woman’s playful spirit. Emily glanced towards Addie, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So,” Emily smirked, watching Addie’s attention divide between her eyes and smile. “Is this like Twilight?”

At that, Addie’s head fell back in full belly laughter, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. It was a deep rumble, melodic almost. A sound that Emily realized she wanted to hear more.

Through her laughter, “No, Emily, I don’t sparkle in the sun.” She wiped an errant tear from her eye. She shook her head from side to side, enjoying the banter to lighten the mood a little.

Emily’s eyes grew, lit up a little. “If I turn, do I get powers?”

Addie rolled her eyes, but did not seem surprised by the question. “Our profile on you said you had your childish moments, liked to joke, but you are far exceeding my expectations.”

Emily smiled widely, but then paused. “Profile?”

Addie lifted a brow. “I told you, I’ve been watching you, Agent Prentiss.”

Emily continued to stare at the woman, waiting for an answer to her original question. Adelaide sighed, “There are certain…perks, yes. Some of the myths and stories about us are based on facts, you know.”

In a moment, a swift blur moved some of Emily’s hair. Within a flash, Addie was across the room near the fireplace, looking composed. “We can move quickly, that is true.” She picked up the iron poker and swiftly bent it in half. “We are stronger than you can imagine.” In another flash, she was back at Emily’s side, her face close to the brunette’s.

Emily’s breath stuttered, her body caught off guard by the quick movements and closeness. It felt like every hair on her body stood up.

Addie’s eyes seemed to almost glow gold, connecting with Emily’s in an almost trance. “We have the ability to dominate human minds, sending people into an almost trance-like state. We can read the minds of people we feed from, harness their memories, but only if we bite them. Depending on the human’s will, they can hold us off on entering their minds, but not forever. We can destroy their sanity if we want. But, again, that’s one of our heavily enforced rules.” She tilted her head a little, her eyes glancing past Emily through the door, a little lost almost. “We can communicate with each other telepathically if we share a blood bond.” Emily wondered what that was about.

Coming back to herself, Addie trailed her hand down Emily’s arm, sending shivers through her. “We have greater sensitivity – to sounds, to touch, to cold and hot. It can make for some…interesting moments.” As Addie’s hand brushed Emily’s, the innuendo was apparent. It was intriguing to say the least.

Addie walked around Emily, settling back into the chair. “As we age and mature, we can gain what you call powers,” she rolled her eyes again. “But they aren’t like Twilight. Simplistic elemental changes, mind control, the ability to defy gravity. Nothing crazy like Bella’s shield or Jane’s pain illusion.”

Emily looked confused. “Everything you’re telling me sounds like a win, really. Immortality, super speed, strength, mind control? Doesn’t seem like many downsides, really.”

Addie just tilted her head, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “Humans,” she muttered. “Such simplistic beings.” She cleared her throat, leaning forward in the chair again, making sure Emily was paying attention.

“There are downsides, Emily. You have to keep them in mind. We are semi-immortal. Yes, we live forever, but we can still die. There are ways to kill us. We are hunted by those that do not agree with our existence.” Addie’s face seemed to fall, more saddened and serious than Emily had seen. “Your friends and family cannot know of your status as a vamp, Emily. You can still visit them for a little after you turn, but eventually you will have to leave them. They will continue to age and you will not. They will die and you won’t be allowed near them. Everyone you know today will be dead. Any human you meet will die and you will still be here.”

Emily pondered that for a moment. She didn’t have many family – her relationship with her mother was already strained. Her only true family was her team. She wasn’t sure she could watch them die. She looked at Addie, trying to piece together the missing pieces. “You said human. You must have other vamps that you are close with?”

Addie chewed on her lip, her eyes downcast. Her voice sounded more raw, more emotional than Emily had seen. “Yes, of course. Vampires usually belong to a coven, an order. They become your family.” A stifled sniffle. When Addie looked up, her eyes were red-rimmed. “We aren’t invincible, Emily. We lose each other, too.”

Emily knew not to push. The emotion barely hidden behind the strong facade Adelaide put out. Asking for more details right now wouldn’t get her far, and she didn’t want to push her luck with the woman who held her life in her hands.

Addie cleared her throat, trying to shove the emotion back down. “Do you have any other questions?”

“You said you were watching me, chose me. That your presence in the warehouse was almost fate-like. Why? Why me? What do you want with me?”

Addie once again rose from the chair and looked out the window. “We’re running out of time for your decision.” She walked to the door and paused in the entryway. She tried to smile a little, tried to convey everything to Emily in a single look. “This life is full of… interesting characters. It’s my job to keep them in line. I figured I could use your help, Agent Prentiss. Are you up for the challenge?” She asked, eyebrow lifted once more.

With that, Addie closed the door and left Emily to her thoughts, her decision looming over her.

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss fanfic #virescent v fanfic #secrets and stakes #idk besties im just posting things at this point lol #i dont have any of the next part done so itll be a few days before anything #but i figured it would be best to get this out now #lmk what you think!

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siriusblack-the-third · 12 days

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Matching Misfortunes: Susan Pevensie

I enjoyed writing this one so much. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much!

Susan’s cheeks hurt.

She smiles at the boy as he throws an arm around her and winks, and she feels the muscles of her face ache with the effort of holding a smile for hours and hours on end. She wants to shrug off the black-haired boy’s arm, wants to tell him to piss off and not bother her again lest she ask Peter to ensure his distance from her with violence, but she simply smiles at him.

She straightens her spine and smiles.

She ignores the glares her female classmates are throwing at her from all corners of the classroom. She is beautiful, she knows she is, but that does not mean he enjoys being the nectar to the bees that are the hormonal, idiotic boys of Westbrook. She has never enjoyed being known for her beauty, for it has always been nothing but a miserable curse— three wars had been fought for her hand in marriage over the course of twenty years, and Edmund has sometimes called her Helen of Troy for her troubles.

She hates that fucking name.

Her cheeks hurt. Yet, she smiles her most charming smile as she subtly leans away from Raymond— she has heard of the way he treats girls, and she has no interest in being one of his thrice-damned conquests. She has no interest in being a challenge, a trophy to be earned, a thing to be owned. She is to be respected, dammit, she is smart and keen-eyed and knowledgeable. Heaven’s sake, she is a Queen—

She breathes. Pushes the thought out of her mind. Maintains her smile.

Raymond smirks back, dull greyish blue eyes glinting like a broken steel sword in the sunlight that streams in through the windows, and tries to draw her closer to him using the arm that he has around her shoulder. Susan does not deign to move. She does not bother to pretend that she is not stronger than this arrogant youngling, this boy playing at being a man, and simply sits there, unmoving and seemingly oblivious, until he furrows his eyebrows and stops trying to move her without her permission.

Her cheeks hurt.

“C’mon, Pevensie,” he leers at her, and she stops herself from lifting a hand to her back. Five and a half years, and she still hasn’t forgotten the phantom presence of her quiver full of arrows, her bow made of the finest wood covered in intricate carvings.

“Say yes, darling,” he says, and she smiles so that she does not try to stab. “The party would be boring without the prettiest girl in school there.”

Susan has heard that compliment fall from the lips of powerful Kings and lovesick fools alike, and she has never been affected by it. Raymond falls into the third category of the people who have called her pretty, the one where they simply want to be known as the one who broke the prettiest girl’s heart, who claimed the love of the Beauty of Narnia—

She breathes in. Pushes the thought out of her mind. Maintains her smile.

“Well, I don’t know about that, Raymond,” she says in the smoothest, most convincing one that she can muster, and she does not fail to notice the way boys and girls alike sway towards her just to listen to her speak. She ignores the way her heart hums at being listened to, a song she has tried (and failed) to forget for five and a half years. “Parties aren’t really my fancy, you see.”

Raymond waves a hand lazily, and Susan wants to scoff at how far the action is from the effortlessness she is sure he wants to portray. He is an arrogant airbag of a boy with an inflated sense of importance playing at being a powerful man. “Oh, now we both know you’re lying, my darling.”

Susan feels the sudden urge to cut off his tongue, for daring to refer to him as his darling. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and laughs softly, notices the way the students gathered around laugh with her as if following her lead. Her throat feels tight and her eyes burn, and she pushes both feelings away.

“No, I’m telling the truth,” she says, laughter colouring her words in just the right amount that tells everyone that they are welcome to laugh along and sure enough, they do. They do not take their eyes off of her, and follow her unspoken command by laughing along. She ignores the strange warmth that settles behind her heart in her chest. “I get too tired at parties, they’re too much for me.”

She loves parties. She has loved parties for ages and ages, since she was a nine-year-old child and she dressed up to let her father take her and mum out for dancing, and then a twenty-something year old Queen dressed in the finest silks and talking circles around Princes enchanted by her beauty and Kings madly in love with her—

She breathes in. Pushes the thought out of her mind. Maintains her smile.

Raymond’s arm tightens around her shoulders. Susan’s fingers twitch, but she forcefully presses her hand into her lap to stop herself from reaching for the quiver that no longer hangs from her back. There is no quiver. There is no bow. She is a schoolgirl, not an archer. She has textbooks in the bag that hangs from her back. She is a schoolgirl.

“Oh, be a sport, Pevensie,” Raymond scoffs, and Susan wants to rise to her full height and demand that he treat her with the respect she deserves. “It’s just one party, and it’s the first party of term. C’mon, you can even be my date.”

Susan ignores the way the glares are once again aimed at her, ignores the disgust that roils in her stomach, and masterfully stops her smile from curving into a disdainful sneer. An arrogant boy playing at being a powerful man, who wishes that she would clamour for his love. Ha. She has seen many thousands of men just like him.

Many thousands of men trying to seem more important than they are, vying for her attention, looking to claim her, looking to own her, aiming for her throne and her kingdom—

All of them learnt to fear her over time.

All of them learnt over time that she was not just Beauty. They learnt that she was not just respected for her looks. They learnt, over time, that she was Beauty and Brains and Brawn. She was beautiful, she was the peacekeeper, and she was the most talented archer in all the known lands. She was a dangerous enemy to make, and despite her preference for non-violence, would not hesitate to hand out gruesome and painful deaths if needed.

Susan is Gentle, not Harmless.

Men learnt over time, in Narnia, and so will Raymond learn it in England.

She straightens her spine and gently shrugs off Raymond’s arm. He tries to move it back to its former place, and she stares at him with a smile she knows looks too wide and too sharp, making him stop halfway through his movement. That is one good thing that comes out of being truly beautiful— Beauty, true Beauty, is terrifying. It is deadly. It is something that a simple human cannot help but be bewitched by, and Susan knows this. She has known this for decades. She has successfully used this piece of knowledge to her kingdom’s benefit time and again.

Raymond does not try to throw his arm over her shoulder again, and Susan makes sure her smile goes back to its most charming as she engages the rest of the students.

“I will have to decline your.. generous offer,” she says, laying the sarcasm on so thinly that only Edmund would have noticed.

Alas, her dearest younger brother is not here to witness her exercise her power over her classmates. If he were, he would have enjoyed watching them move to her word like mice moved to the Pied Piper’s tune. He is absurd like that, but who is she to deny him his entertainment?

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she sighs as she pushes herself off the desk and stands to her full, impressive height. She brushes her hands over her skirt, takes her water bottle from a boy with a soft smile that has him blushing bright red, and waves to everyone. Without saying a word more, she walks out of the classroom with her head held high and her shoulders pulled back.

Her cheeks hurt.

She walks in silence, ignoring the students that mill around in the corridors of the school. The girl’s bathroom is on the floor above, and it takes her barely a minute to reach it; people clear a way for her, moving out of her path as she walks with measured and careful steps. They do it almost without noticing that they are, almost like a force is making them do it.

Susan locks the door of the bathroom behind her, takes a good look around to make sure she is alone, and bursts into silent tears.

She drops her bag to the floor and leans her back against the door, screwing her eyes shut and letting the tears run down her cheeks and drip off her jaw. Her chest heaves with quiet sobs, and she sucks in shuddering breaths as she slides down to sit on the floor with her head buried between her knees. The warmth behind her heart turns into a painful burning sensation, and she chokes on her tears and emotions that she cannot fully understand.

No matter how much she tries to bury her memories behind smiles that sway the students, no matter how much she tries to forget, she knows what she is. She knows what she always was, and what she always will be.

She is Queen Susan the Gentle of Narnia, the Eagle-Eyed Marksman Queen, Second of the Beloved Four, Defender of the People.

#susan pevensie #narnia #the chronicles of narnia #lww #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #amrut writes #the pevensies #pevensie siblings #my gods i adore susan so much #lmk what you think!#matching misfortunes #lucy pevensie #peter pevensie #edmund pevensie

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