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filthy-rat · 4 years

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Mary Had a Little Lamb

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You were never really one for parties, so you aren’t exactly sure how you managed to let your friend, Angel, drag you out one crisp autumn night.

From what they had said, this party was going to be mostly drinking and smoking weed and playing video games—all things you enjoyed, right? So maybe you would have a good time. You think about the inherent awkwardness of talking to people and the mortifying ordeal of being known, and your stomach clenches in fear. Ugh, maybe not. You make a mental note to do a better job of hiding your melancholy from them the next time they start giving you the Concerned Face.

As you approach the run down apartment building in the heart of the city, apprehension gnaws at your gut. For the third time in your five minute walk, you come to a halt, frowning at your companion.

“I don’t know, dude, I-I really shouldn’t—”

“Ugh, c’mon!” Impatiently, they stomp back to you, latch onto the sleeve of your jacket, and tug you along. “It’ll be fun! I’m sick of you moping around the house!”

“...I wasn’t moping,” you mumble, stuffing your hands into your pockets and shrugging off their hand from your sleeve. “And besides, do you even know anyone at this party?”

“Like, one or two people. But it’s a party, you’re not really supposed to know everyone.” They link arms with you, continuing to pull you down the street. “Listen, if we get any scummy vibes, we’ll bounce, okay?”

“Fine.” Huffing out an irritated sigh, you allow yourself to be pulled.

“There’s supposed to be some really hot guys here, too.” Angel flashes you an excited grin.

“Yeah, ‘cause hot guys have a history of being into me.”

“Oh, my god, stop that or I’m gonna kick your ass.” They nudge your elbow with theirs and give you another look. The dreaded Concerned Face. You hate it when they do that.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get up there before they drink all the good beer.”

“Hell yea.”

Arm in arm, the two of you make your way to the building, and Angel leans in to press the buzzer. A disgruntled, raspy voice on the other end asks shockingly few questions of the two of you before opening the door. There’s no elevator. You groan as you realize you’ll have to hoof it up five flights of stairs.

You can hear the music pounding from about a floor and a half below, and it only gets louder the closer you get to your destination. When you finally reach the correct floor, you’re gasping and clutching at a stitch in your side and regretting your life choices. Why the fuck isn’t there an elevator?

“C’mon, it’s this door,” Angel says, after catching their breath, and they approach a door at the end of the hallway.

The worn wood is absolutely slathered in band stickers and old Halloween decorations and painted-on pentagrams. Though the plaque on the door reads “66”, someone has taken a red marker and added an additional 6 to the end. You give Angel a dubious side eye.

“Listen, these guys are… a little rough. Just give them a chance, though. Most punks and goths are good people.” They give a nervous laugh, grimace, and knock on the door.

After a moment, it opens to reveal a thin youth with multicolored dreadlocks tied in twin tails and a bridge piercing. Arching a perfect brow, she saddles the two of you with an unimpressed eye, and steps back to see if any other partygoers will claim you.

“Who the fuck are these herbs?” asks one of them, putting an emphasis on the letter ‘h’ that makes everyone laugh.

You shoot Angel a glare. Punks and goths are good people, huh? They have the decency to look a little chagrined, and rub anxiously at the back of their neck.

“Angel!” shouts a voice, and you vaguely recognize one of Angel’s friends—you’ve never formally met the guy—as he approaches and pulls them into a one armed hug. “Hey, you finally made it! I was wondering when you were gonna get your slow-ass up here.” With the music so loud, they have to lean close and yet still practically shout to be heard.

“You could’ve fucking warned me there was no elevator,” Angel says, playfully shoving his shoulder. “Show me where the drinks are before I change my mind!”

Without another word, the two of them disappear arm in arm deeper into the shabby apartment, leaving you standing in the door awkwardly. The girl at the door eyes you up and down, her expression blatantly judgemental, but merely gestures inside with a grand sweep of her arm. With a polite but nervous smile, you step over the threshold and immediately glue yourself to the wall just inside the door. There are people milling about everywhere, drinking, laughing, making out.

You’ve never felt more out of place in your entire life. A part of you wants to leave—but you can’t do that to Angel. So you’re stuck there, leaning against the wall and pretending like you don’t exist.

The music pounding through the stereo lulls momentarily as another song is chosen.

“Hey there, sweet thing.” A voice, much too close to your ear, makes you jump and you whirl on the spot. “Tell me you ain’t wearing a fuckin’ Stryper t-shirt.”

Leaning his shoulder against the very same wall, the epitome of rough, roguish charm, is a pale, gaunt-looking young man. His dark hair is pulled down in front of his face in a messy devil lock, and there’s long, red lines of blood—hopefully fake—dribbling down from the crown of his head to his chin and onto the front of his sleeveless Candlemass shirt. A wrinkled, hand-rolled cigarette is tucked behind one ear, and the vest he wears rattles with many pins when he moves. You don’t think you’ve ever seen tighter jeans in your life. It’s like they were fucking painted on. Are those fishnet tights you spy through the shredded knees?

Who is this guy?

As you take in his appearance, eyes wide, he reaches out and gently cups your chin, forcing your eyes back up to his face. He gives you a knowing smirk, eyes hooded, and your whole face feels very warm.

The music starts up again, but quieter this time—a slow power ballad. You’re distantly aware of people pairing up in the background, but your eyes are focused on his.

“You lost, little lamb?” he says, his voice low, almost a purr.

“N-No, I came here with my friend.”

With an arch of his thick brows, the bloodied stranger casts an exaggerated look around you, then resettles against the wall with a shrug. “Don’t see you with anyone.”

“...Yeah, they kinda abandoned me.” A brief, rueful smile tugs your lips.

“That’s okay. I’ll be your friend,” he says, flashing a wicked grin that quickly makes him seem less a friend and more a wolf.

Is that why he called you ‘lamb’?

“...I don’t even know your name.” But, fuck, do you want to. You can’t remember the last time someone this hot even gave you the time of day.

“I don’t know yours either,” he points out, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and placing it between his lips. “Names are so fuckin’ superfluous, kitten, but you can call me Mary.”

“Mary?” Your brow furrows. “That’s a strange—”

As he fishes a lighter from his pocket and brings the flame to the end of the cigarette, he gestures with his free hand to his bloody face. He takes a drag and exhales a plume of smoke, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s a joke.” A beat. He heaves a sigh, and shoots you a scowl. “Why do I even fuckin’—Bloody Mary, get it?”

“Oh. Y-Yeah.” You’re not quite sure you do get it, really, but he seems to be satisfied with this answer. You change the subject. “So, do you live here?”

“Sometimes, if I feel like it.” He plucks the cigarette from his lips and offers it to you, held delicately between two long fingers. The black polish on his nails is chipped, you notice.

“I don’t smoke.”

Mary smirks. “It ain’t tobacco, lamb.”

“Oh.” Frowning, you look down at the smoldering cigarette and a little bubble of panic rises in your chest. “I-I’ve never uh. Done it. This way before.”

Mary arches a brow.

“Me and my friend, w-we usually put it in brownies.” You feel silly just saying it, and avert your gaze with a grimace.

“Oh, well… you wanna shotgun it?”

You look back up at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “What is that?”

“C’mere.”

He leans in closer, until his lips are nearly touching yours. For one heart-stopping second, you think he’s going to kiss you, but no—he stops just shy of contact. The tip of his nose brushes featherlight against yours, though, and goosebumps erupt across your skin. His eyes are hooded, and there’s something so sensual and alluring in those dark depths that it makes your stomach do a little somersault.

“I exhale, you inhale, yeah?” His lip quirks into a crooked smile.

You give a slow nod, afraid that if you moved too suddenly he’d bolt like a wild animal. He lifts the joint to his lips, takes a long hit, and holds it for just a moment. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips. When he exhales a cloud of smoke, you inhale too quickly, and the unfamiliar burn of it makes your lungs spasm and you jerk backward with a cough.

Mary gives a rueful laugh and reaches past you to an open ice chest on the kitchen counter. With his free hand, he fishes out a can of beer and cracks it open. It foams and he holds it out at arms’ length with a quiet, disgruntled ah, fuck as suds splatter onto the carpet.

When it finishes spewing, he pushes the damp can into your hands, and you gratefully gulp it down to soothe your burning throat.

“Wanna go again?” he asks, once you’ve recovered enough to speak.

You eye him with apprehension. Do you want to go again? You’re pretty sure another close encounter with Mary might kill you. On the other hand, you’re craving more of that closeness.

“Okay.”

“Cool. This time,” Mary says, and he sidles a step closer, centimeters away from his body making contact with yours. “Don’t suck it into your lungs right away. Into your mouth first, like a milkshake.”

Or like something else? Your cheeks flush as this filthy thought enters your head. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice as he leans in. This time, you’re ready, and though your throat burns again, you manage to cut your coughing time by half. The cold beer helps. Mary reaches around you and extinguishes the roach in a nearby ashtray, then settles back against the wall, his shoulder touching yours. For a moment, the two of you sit in silence as the weed works its magic. It isn’t long before you feel yourself loosening up a little.

“So… is Mary your real name?” you ask, casting him an expectant glance.

Before he can answer, however, both your attentions are diverted. In the living room before you, where most of the party seems to be congregated, a girl is sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing idly with an empty bottle of wine. She leans forward and gives the bottle a spin as she talks, and when it finally comes a stop, the mouth of it points to a taller girl leaning on the wall across from her.

“Ha, now you guys have to make out,” giggles another partygoer.

An nervous titter rises up from the other partiers.

Wordlessly, the girl on the floor gets to her feet, approaches the girl on the wall, and draws her lips downwards in a kiss. Several wolf whistles and appreciative hoots rise up from the crowd, and eventually the two part, looking flushed but grinning. The tall girl leaning against the wall grabs the other girl’s hand, and fishes out a marker to scribble a phone number across her palm.

Mary tilts his head back against the wall he’s leaning on and gives you a curious look out of the corner of his eye. You pretend like you don’t see his gaze linger on your body.

“Someone else spin!” demands a partygoer, and another person grabs the wine bottle.

“What is this, a party of stupid horny teenagers?” snorts someone else, and everyone drowns them out with a chorus of boos. Someone throws a pillow at them and everyone laughs.

“You wanna play?” asks Mary, his lip curving into a wolfish smirk. “Get someone’s tongue down your throat?”

“W-What?” Eyes widening, you tear your gaze away from the display before you to look him in the face. “No…” Not unless it’s yours. Even though you don’t say that last part, you can’t help but glance down at his lips as you think it.

“No?” He turns towards you, leaning now on one shoulder instead of two, and lets the side of his head rest lazily on the wall. That smirk only grows more wicked. “Oh, so you want your tongue in—”

A collective squeal rises up from the partiers congregated in the living room as the game of spin the bottle has now become a game of truth or dare, it seems. Instead of making out with a stranger, someone’s been dared to flash everyone. With a gasp of shock, you look away as a dude gets to his feet and starts fumbling with the fly of his pants.

Mary doesn’t look away.

“Do you want to play?” you ask him, looking up at his face.

“Always, kitten.” Tearing his gaze from the flasher, he looks down at you with those gorgeous dark eyes of his, and he gives you a wink.

“Fine.” The weed and beer have made you more confident—perhaps stupidly so. “Let’s play.”

Mary’s face splits into a crooked grin—a wicked flashing of teeth that does very little to soothe your nerves—and his hand grabs yours. You barely have time to grab another beer before he’s yanking you towards the circle of partygoers that’s begun to crowd around the spinning bottle.

You think maybe Mary’s going to sit beside you, but instead, he elbows his way into the circle across from you, and sits cross-legged on the floor. The game continues without interruption, and everyone decides if they’d rather kiss the person the bottle lands on, tell a truth, or do a dare.

Most people pick dare.

In the five minutes it takes for your turn to arrive, you’ve seen a lot of tits and ass from strangers. More than you’d ever care to see, really. You get the impression that these people aren’t exactly creative when it comes to thinking up dares. Or they’re just really horny. Most of the dares involve getting naked or showing off body parts.

Finally, it’s your turn.

You swallow hard, pointedly avoiding Mary’s gaze, and give the bottle a twist. It spins and spins and spins in a seemingly endless loop.

You chance a glimpse at Mary. Those dark eyes of his are hooded and staring at you with such an intensity, as if he’s reading every filthy thought you’ve ever had in your entire life and he’s imagining ways to sweetly torment you with them. Your stomach does a little somersault. Somehow, you just know where the bottle’s going to land. Mary’s lip twists into a subtle, wicked smirk, and the bottle comes to a stop.

It’s pointed to the girl just to Mary’s left.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Mary arches an eyebrow at you, an unasked question lurking in the inky depths of his eyes. But now the girl is asking the question and your attention is diverted away from him.

“Truth or dare?”

“...Dare, I guess.” You make direct eye contact with Mary as you say it. You think he looks a little impressed, but it’s hard to tell.

The girl chews her bottom lip in thought. “Dare you to…” She gives you an impish grin. “Let us look through the pics on your phone for one minute.”

A collective “ooooh” rises up from the congregation and several pair of eager eyes fall on you. A hot blush crawls up your cheeks, and as you fish your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to her, you silently pray you deleted those nudes you took a couple of weeks ago just for fun.

As your darer scrolls through your picture gallery, Mary leans to look over her shoulder, occasionally flicking his eyes up at you and smirking. The minute seems to drag on forever, and you busy yourself with taking sips of your beer, but you can’t help anxiously watching as they go through all your photos.

“Oh my God,” giggles your darer, and she turns your phone around to show you. “Cute selfie but is that a fucking dildo??”

A cackle rises up from the crowd of people as you look at the picture. You’d taken it a couple of days ago but never posted it to your social media for this exact reason. Sitting on the dresser in the background is a large, silky purple dildo. Face hot and red now, you snatch away the phone, grumbling under your breath as you stuff it back into your pocket.

“It’s my roommate’s,” you mumble, but no one hears you.

Mary gives a snorting giggle.

The person to your left gives the bottle a spin and the game continues. Several shotgunned beers, flashed body parts, eaten teaspoons of mustard, and one extremely loud streak later, it’s Mary’s turn.

The bottle lands on you. Mary cocks his head to one side, his eyes patient but there’s an unspoken challenge there that makes your pulse leap with anticipation.

“Dare.” He says it without even waiting to be asked.

“Okay…” You think for a moment, then flash him a grin of your own. “Dare you to sing us a verse from your favorite song.”

This seems to have finally flapped the unflappable Mary. His intense, challenging gaze falters a bit, replaced with utter bewilderment. He blinks, and a subtle blush rises to his cheeks, barely visible beneath the lines of dried blood. A thrill of pride surges through at the thought that you managed to surprise him.

“And no cheating, Goore,” says the girl beside him, elbowing his ribs gently. She flashes him a smug smirk. “They said sing, not growl.”

Mary casts her an irritated glower, before flicking his eyes back to you. For a moment, he contemplates, and his gaze holds yours the whole time. Someone turns down the music so that he can be heard better. With a clear of his throat, he closes his eyes, and begins singing.

I'm crucified Crucified like my savior Saintlike behavior A lifetime I prayed

I'm crucified For the holy dimension Godlike ascension Heavens away

A stunned silence follows this brief display. Everyone is staring at Mary with disbelief in their eyes, including you. Never would you have suspected that such an angelic voice could’ve come out of such a rough-looking guy. Several people clap, but Mary has eyes for only you. The intensity to his gaze fills you with both anxiety and elation. You’re unsure if there’s a punishment or a reward coming for you the next time your turn comes up.

You’re unsure which idea thrills you more.

The game continues, and a few uncreative rounds later, your spin finally selects Mary as your darer again.

He flashes you a mischievous grin, and your pulse spikes with adrenaline. By this point, you’ve had a couple more beers, and you’re really beginning to feel the effect. You’re a little braver, but only a little. A tiny, cowardly part of you wants to chicken out and pick truth, but Mary doesn’t even give you a choice.

“Dare you to make out with the hottest guy here.”

Fuck.

Judging from the smug grin and the intense smolder to his eyes, he knows he’s got you now. He cocks his head to one side, and his tongue pokes out to wet his lips, as if preparing himself for the inevitable.

Well, if he’s going to be so insufferable about it.

Holding his gaze, you turn to the guy immediately to your left, lean in, and capture his lips in a searing kiss. He grunts in surprise, but at least he reciprocates. Several hoots and whistles rise up from the crowd as the kiss continues on for a minute or two. You briefly toy with the notion of sliding into the stranger’s lap, but decide this will suffice for now. After a moment, your eyes open and you meet Mary’s gaze.

That insufferably smug look on his face has utterly evaporated. He stares at you, his expression hovering somewhere between heartbroken and incredulous. Then that, too, dissolves, and he looks away with a scowl.

“I need some air,” he mutters, and he gets to his feet.

Avoiding your gaze, he picks his way through the circle, and strides off. Guilt sinks its hot teeth into your stomach and you break away from your unsuspecting kissing victim.

“Mary, wait.”

With clumsy, drunken movements, you scramble to your feet, tripping only a little, and hurry after him. You find him out on the tiny balcony of the apartment, leaning on the railing and smoking a cigarette. Trying your best to be stealthy, you slip out onto the balcony. He doesn’t look up as you shyly approach the railing beside him.

“...I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Mary exhales a lungful of smoke, and casts you an unreadable glance out of the corner of his eye.

“For that, back there.” You frown. “I don’t know why I—“

“Forget about it.” He gives a shrug, turning his gaze back out to the glittering city stretching out before you, and takes another drag of his cigarette. “Got no fuckin’ reason to be mad, do I?”

Your heart sinks a little. He has a point, but you hate it anyway. Slowly, you shuffle a half step closer, until your arm lightly brushes against his, and look up at him. In your half-drunk state, you can’t find yourself to be ashamed of your ogling. He really is beautiful, even with lines of red dribbling down his face. The neon lights of the city below throw odd shadows across his features, highlighting the curve of his cheekbones, the crooked angularity to his nose, the definition of his brow. His lips look so soft and inviting. You find yourself studying them while biting your own.

“...It’s you, yanno,” you mumble quietly, rotating to lean your elbows on the railing. “I was just… I dunno, being stupid, I guess.” You look away from him, frowning at nothing in particular. “You know it’s you, that’s why you asked.”

“What’s me?” he asks, as he flicks the spent cigarette over the railing. With hooded eyes, he finally turns his head to look at you, and you just can’t resist anymore.

Wordlessly, you reach for his face and pull his lips down to meet yours. Obediently, he lets himself be pulled. He hums out a chuckle against your mouth, low and quiet. There’s some minor adjusting as he sidles closer, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck while the other yanks your hips against his, and his lips part in silent invitation. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and there’s some kind of unnameable metallic tang on his tongue, but holy fuck do you need more.

A soft, desperate moan escapes you, immediately swallowed by his kiss, and he adjusts more, sliding one of his thighs between your legs. You grind yourself against him with a whine. His hands fall to your hips, squeezing you and guiding you just right on his thigh. For a moment or two, he seems content with this—your lips on his, his tongue in your mouth, your crotch grinding against his thigh. With a groan through clenched teeth, he breaks the kiss and brings his lips to your ear.

“Better tell me what it is you’re after, little lamb,” whispers Mary, as your hands fumble with the overly-large belt buckle at his waist. “Or else I ain’t gonna fuckin’ know.”

“Want you,” you mumble incoherently, whining as he gives the thigh you’re riding a bounce. “Fuck me, please. Please.”

“Mm…” He makes a show of considering your proposal, cocking his head to one side. He leans in a little, and you think that he’s going to kiss you again, to get you going, and take it a step further. Then his face splits into a wicked grin.

“Nah.”

And he just pulls away.

You gasp in shock, your mouth hanging open in betrayal. As Mary Goore steps away from you, leaving you panting and needy and utterly unsatisfied, he gives a little cackle. So this is your punishment for disobeying his dare. God, what an asshole!

At the sliding glass door, Mary pauses, flashes you a shit-eating grin accompanied with a two-fingered salute in farewell, and disappears back inside.

What the fuck.

#chittychatty #my scribblins #mary goore #mary mary quite contrary #hhhhhh this is long i'm sorry

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adelabellis · 4 years

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location (N*FW ABCs)

1 of 13. Maxwell x MC (Sovanna Touma). The other 13 letters will be used for Hana x MC.

NSFW Content: a handy and some butt stuff. men get pegged!

Word count: 817

Tag: @the-everlasting-dream, @drakewalkerwhipped

**If you’d like to be tagged for the whole series, let me know. If you only want to be tagged for Hana or Maxwell fics, lemme know. If you want to be tagged for everything, hit me up!

“Please me, baby! Turn around and tease me, baby!” In the shower, Maxwell croons, voice airy as he tries to imitate Bruno Mars. The water’s still hot as the suds wash off him. It’s been an okay kind of day. As he rolls his hips to the rhythm in his head, a sudden cold draft hits his backside. He nearly slips backward, but brown arms hook under his pits, steadying him.

Maxwell grins, craning his head back, readily accepting a kiss from his favorite person. Her fingers scratch at his stomach, creeping lower and lower as she bites his lip, tugging. He feels his knees buckle a bit, sagging into Sovanna’s strong embrace as she toys with his tongue. Her nails graze the cut of his hip. He groans into her mouth, hand reaching to grip her neck and pull her closer until their noses bend against the other.

Citrus-scented clouds of steam billow up, frosting the glass, heat pooling in his gut as rough fingers work their way over his groin, seizing him at the base.

He swears and pulls his hips back, watching her hand slide up his dick as she bites his neck—hard and possessive enough to make his skin prickle with pain and pleasure. He jerks his hips forward, forcing her hand to slide down, firm palm applying the right amount of pressure.

“Someone’s eager,” Sovanna laughs, a puff of hot air blowing into his ear. Maxwell can only nod, as he steadily rocks into her tight grasp, thighs tingling. With her thumb and middle finger, she forms a tight circle around his shaft, shifting the speed to an agonizing pace.

Maxwell whimpers, wet hair sticking to his forehead. “That feels… mmm, so good.”

“It’s about to feel even better in a second.”

A shiver crawls down his back. Dizzy and painfully stiff, he groans in disappointment when her hand leaves him. A kiss to his forehead and Sovanna helps him up to stand, warm water sliding down his back before she’s flush against him. He can feel her nipples, perky against his muscles as she sets a blazing trail of kisses along his shoulder.

“What’s the plan—” Maxwell bites his tongue mid-sentence, tasting blood as her rough fingers brush along the underside of his ballsack. With a twist of her wrist, two knuckles walk along the softness between his balls and his ass. She kneads the flesh there, winding the heat in his gut so fucking tight, his dick starts to twitch. The control behind the altering motion of her knuckles makes his legs spread a bit. But when his feet hit the limits of the shower, he groans in frustration.

“Almost there, and,” her small palm pushes him forward, guiding him to veer towards the wall. As he leans a cheek again against the cold tile, the sound of a cap popping echoes within the bathroom, “are you free tomorrow?”

The lube makes her calloused fingers feel silky, her hand gliding over his dick with ease. He grunts out a reply, words shaky as she gently strokes his foreskin back. “I am now!”

“Great,” Sovanna rests her other hand on his hip, drumming her fingers against his wet skin as the speed of her hand increases, “I’m thinking a light breakfast in bed, fruity and sweet.”

He nods mutely, thrusting to match her pace. His heart beats wickedly, as she stops drumming and slowly inches over the swell of his ass. One long, slick finger circles his hole and Maxwell pushes back, jaw tense in anticipation. She talks as she teases.

“Then a hearty lunch at that Mom & Pop place you like so much. A stroll on the beach— oh, we could go dancing—are you listening to me?” a guttural noise escapes him as she pushes in deep, “and then for dinner, I was thinking we could…” Deep, but gentle thrusts mismatched her quick and strong strokes. And then, and fucking then—she presses down, and all Maxwell can see white, splintering lights. He rocks back and forth, desperately chasing the pleasure, the heat, the climax as she mutters against his neck, hitting that spot with practiced care.

“Sovanna,” his voice is shot, hoarse and cracking, “please don’t stop.”

The shower’s water is cold now, but that means nothing as his body thrums, legs trembling as he anchors himself against the wet tile. He chokes on a moan once her finger and hand match speeds, dropping to a slow push and pull—he’s close, close, close, close, closer still and—

Sovanna loosens her grasp on his dick and her finger pulls out with a pop! A string of Greek curses leaves him as he glances over his shoulder just in time to see her climb out the shower as carefree as ever.

She laughs from the other side of the sliding door, bright and innocent, “That was for yesterday, baby! See you tomorrow!”

#Maxwell Beaumont #trr maxwell #maxwell x mc #maxwell beaumont x mc #choices fanfic #adela's fic tag

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stereksecretsanta · 5 years

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Merry Christmas, @nevermoree-tr!

This is for @nevermoree-tr, who asked for text messages and time travel, and alive Hales. I didn't hit everything for your ask, but this is what the Muse left at my door in a ding-dong-ditch. Hope you like it!

******

…

Who are you? Derek texted. How do you know all this stuff?

There was a pause of about a minute, Derek watched the clock on his screen change, before 404 replied.

Technomage from the future.

thats not a thing, was Derek’s immediate reply, or, rather, as immediate as one could be when clicking through letter options on his keypad.

Says the werewolf.

Ice cascaded down Derek’s spine.

how do you know about that he typed, hoping the frantic punching of his fingers didn’t crack the buttons of the phone’s keypad.

The same way I know everything. Wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff. 404 sent another message before Derek had time to puzzle that unhelpful statement out. You’ll get that reference in the future.

Derek scowled at the screen. say I believe you why me are you texting me?

The future is in danger, Derek. And I’m our only hope.

Another pause between texts, in which Derek has to forcibly lock the muscles of his hand, lest the fragile plastic in his hand shatter.

You did get that reference, right?

…

The first text came after class, the day he had finally planned to ask Paige if she would go out with him to the winter formal.

Mom wants you home right now, better hurry.

The tone rang irritatingly in his sister’s tone, so Derek didn’t bother to check whether Laura was actually the sender. He had only had the phone for less than a week, so who else would be texting him?

With a final glance back at Paige, laughing against her locker with her ensemble friends, Derek hitched his bag further up over his shoulder, and made for the bike racks.

When he finally made it home, out of breath, wondering why he was in trouble, it was to find his mother pulling a sheet of cookies out of the oven. Her brows rose as he fidgeted in the doorway of the kitchen, exuding anxiety.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Derek?” she said, hands migrating to her hips in a practiced stance.

He clutched the straps of his backpack tightly, bunching his shirt around his shoulders. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it, no matter what Laura says!”

His mother stared down at him. He scuffed the tile floor with his sneakers.

Later that evening, after Talia had taken Laura aside for another lecture about teasing her siblings, Derek took a closer look at the message.

In place of the name of a contact, or a string of ten unknown numbers, was the address Error 404.

Derek scowled, and flipped his phone shut. He wouldn’t put it past Laura to hide any evidence by doing… something so her number wouldn’t show up. Maybe she used a pay phone. Did those even do texts?

The thought drifted idly in his mind through the next day, when he heard through the rumor mill that Paige had been asked to the dance by Chaz Greenberg.

Unpleasant heartbreak knocked any thought of strange text messages right out of his head.

…

The next text came the day the new substitute English teacher asked him to stay behind.

Hunters use sandalwood and rosemary to hide the scent of wolfsbane bullets.

Derek choked on a lungful of air, earthy herbs clogging his nose. Nightmares of lost cousins and bedtime story-warnings of crossbows, of his grandmother’s missing arm where she cut it off to stop black poison reaching her heart, cascaded behind his eyes.

Miss Silver, ‘call me Kate’ , tilted her head, golden hair dripping over her shoulder, revealing her neck, and another puff of rosemary.

“Hey there big guy, you all right there?” Her hand lingered on his arm, and his skin broke out in goosebumps.

“I- just- my, uh, mom.” Derek waved his cell phone in the air as he backed up to the door, lungs burning as he held his breath.

Later, Uncle Peter found him viciously scrubbing the spot where she had touched him. Peter opened his mouth, no doubt to make a cutting joke, but stopped when he noticed how raw the skin of his nephew’s arm was under the suds.

Haltingly, Derek explained the scent of rosemary, the lingering touches, the glances in class. Peter’s face grew more blank with each word, until finally there were no more to say. Derek rubbed at his face, noticing his cheeks and eyes were hot. Peter enveloped the teen in a hug, told him to get a drink (not specifically of water) and walked away.

The next day, Miss Kate Silver was not in class. Rumor had it, a police cruiser escorted her from her first period class, after heroine was found in the trunk of her car.

Derek hunched low in his seat, skin still crawling where she touched. His hand clenched around the flip phone in his pocket.

…

By the third text, Derek was properly suspicious. He had mentally prepared a litany of replies, should 404 attempt to inconveniently contact him again. None were used when the message finally came.

The hunters will attack when your family hosts peace talks.

Derek’s blood curdled, and he found himself at a loss for words, hands shaking too much to hold his phone.

No one was supposed to know about the talks between the hunters and the neighboring pack to the north. Derek wasn’t even supposed to know, but it’s hard to keep a secret in a house full of nosey teenagers with super-hearing. And Derek could never turn down a dare when both Laura and Cora ganged up on him.

He took a deep breath, clenching an unclenching his hands, claws sliding over his fragile human nails several times, until his heart rate slowed enough to keep his hands steady.

who are you? Derek texted. how do you know all this stuff?

…

You did get that reference, right?

Derek unclenched his hands, letting the phone clatter to the desk while he shook out his wrists. His claws had popped out, gouging a row of neat dents into the wood surface. His phone beeped, alerting his to another incoming message.

Hello? Sourwolf???

Deliberately, Derek kept his hands steady as he typed, painstakingly scrolling through the buttons to convey, without distraction, his message. what do you want

To save the future. Didn’t I already say? I just looked back, and I totally already said that.

say I believe you. what do you want from me?

A pause from the usual rapid fire of texts, as if 404 was thinking.

Ok, so here’s where things get complicated…

…

Derek hovered in an alley behind of the Beacon Hills police station, phone clutched in his sweaty hand. His eyes darted from the screen, faintly glowing green in the twilight, to the lighted window two stories above the dumpster, back to his phone.

The bathroom window of the side office has a loose latch. At 7pm, all the officers not on call will leave and lock up the back rooms. Use those wolfy powers to sneak in, all sneaky like.

The light in the window clicked off, and the faint sounds of keys jangling and doors closing touched his ears through the cement walls.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” Derek hissed, shoving his phone into his pocket. It hung heavy against his thigh.

Backing up a step, Derek sucked in a breath, and took off at a sprint for the wall. Jumping to the edge of the dumpster, he used the momentum to leap up the brick to the window ledge. Sneakers scrabbling against the gritty wall, Derek dug his claws into the crumbling brick ledge, heart in his throat. Heaving himself up by his fingertips, he leaned against the window, praying his elbow wouldn’t slip.

“If it’s locked, I’ll go home and forget all this,” he told himself between clenched teeth.

Freeing one hand, he jostled the window.

The latch jiggled and slipped, allowing the sill to slide up an inch.

Not allowing the sinking feeling in his mind to pull him under, Derek levered the window open, just enough to wriggle through. His shoulders scraped both sides, but were narrow enough to allow Derek to slip onto the tiled bathroom floor.

It was a single stall, barely bigger than a closet. Getting to his feet, Derek tried the door. It opened, revealing a dimly lit hallway, breaking off into a series of glass windowed doors, ending in a staircase.

He fished his phone out of his pocket.

Luckily for you, the spare riot gear is stored on the third floor too. They have never, to my knowledge, changed the password on the locker. Or, at least, they won’t have, yet. Heh. Anyway, it’s the door closest to the stairs on the right. Here’s the combination:

Stepping carefully, Derek crept closer to the head of the stairs. A dull orange light, no doubt a light left on at the secretarial desk, emanated from the floor below, casting the hall with dim grey shadows.

The only door with a combination keypad was, of course, right at the top of the landing.

Derek breathed shallowly, listening for any heartbeats below. For a terror filled instant he imagined he heard a shuffle of footsteps, but it resolved itself into the hummingbird fast body of a mouse scratching the corners of the floor.

The werewolf wondered how such a creature managed to stay in the police station, when at least three of Derek’s cousins were deputies- not to mention his grandfather still reigning as active sheriff. Usually prey ran from the scent of wolves, but perhaps this mouse was desensitized.

Shaking off the stray thought, Derek punched the key code into the lock. It clicked, and he slid inside. Racks of bullet proof vests, gas masks, shields, and other gear hung off the walls. A safe in the corner, locked with keys, contained an array of guns, but Derek paid it no mind.

Hand shaking, he shrugged on one of the vests, tightening the straps till it more or less fit snugly around his body. He found an empty duffel bag in the corner, and filled it with the gas masks, a canister of pepper spray, and more vests and odds and ends, until it was difficult to zip closed.

Hoisting the bag over his shoulder, Derek crept from the room. Shutting the door behind him, he scooted across the hall, back to the bathroom window. Maneuvering the bag out before his body was difficult, and he more fell than jumped back to the ground, but Derek was in one piece. And so was his bulging bag of contraband.

His heard began to race, knees wobbling, head light.

His pocket buzzed. Automatically, he reached in and pulled out his phone.

Good job! Now, you need to get to the warehouse. IDK when the meeting was supposed to be exactly, but it was some time in the morning. So better run Sourwolf!

i just robbed the sheriffs station give me a minute

The answer came fast.

Don’t worry, your life of crime gets better.

you are not helping

Suck it up Lassie.

Derek could practically hear the snark behind the words. His lips twitched, and he stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

…

why are you doing this?

Derek sat on the roof of an abandoned warehouse, watching the sun creep over the horizon. The adrenaline of the night was fading in his veins, prompting the lack of sleep to weigh upon his eyes. He propped his back against the bulging bag in an effort to remain awake, but his eyelids were drooping.

404’s reply was slow, as if they too were dozing.

I told you, saving the future.

but why do you care?

Why me? Derek didn’t type.

A longer pause.

A lot of not so good things happen. Most of them start here. You deserve to have good things Derek, and I just happen to be here to help you get them.

do you know me in the future?

Spoilers! I can’t tell you!

well what can you tell me?

That you have never, ever, to my knowledge, changed you cell phone number. Hell, I’m pretty sure you still use the same silver flip phone! Hello, put that dumb phone out of its misery! But not yet, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to bend time and space to my bidding and contact you.

my phone is not dum. Derek’s ears flared red as he typed, fingers tapping the silver painted plastic.

So many lost jokes you won’t understand for years, so little time.

Derek rolled his eyes. so if you’re from the future and im changing the future whats going to happen to you?

Derek tilted his bead back to watch the gibbous moon dip below the roof line of warehouses. Unbidden, his jaw cracked open in a sighing yawn. His phone vibrated.

I guess it depends on whether we’re using Back to the Future or parallel worlds rules. Either I’ll vanish, or I won’t.

A complicated emotion of disbelief and tired horror tangled in Derek’s chest.

is there anything i can do? since you might not exist any more after this?

Maybe.

Then a moment later as a separate message.

You don’t have to do it or anything, but you could if you wanted to as like a favor or something.

Derek’s lips twitched upwards at the rambling text.

what?

Another pause, longer this time.

I’ll tell you when this is all over. Let’s game plan about what you’re going to do. You got the gas masks, right?

yes

Ok, well the are going to use a vaporizer. Turns the wolfsbane into a mist- harmless to humans, but a wolf will suffocate. It looks like an asthma attack- lungs filling with fluid, that kind of thing. So here’s the game plan…

…

Of course, when the time came, none of 404’s game plans ended up being used.

Derek was crouched atop a skylight, straining to look through the dirty glass. Shadowy forms rippled beneath the grime on the warehouse floor, and the werewolf wished he could scent the air to identify friend from foe. Suddenly, a hiss of escaping gas, and the view through the skylight clouded white with vapor.

He read through the plan one more time on his phone. The protective vest restricted access to his pants pocket, so Derek shifted his weight to tuck the phone into the front pocket of his shirt. A heart stopping crack sounded from beneath his feet.

Derek fell through the ceiling in a shower of glass. Several bullets immediately thunked against the back of his vest, and one richoched off the side of his riot helmet, but the gas mask over his face remained in place. Whirling the dufflebag over his shoulder, Derek wrenched out a spare mask, and pushed it onto the face of the nearest werewolf.

The wolf, light hair with red eyes, streaming from the wolfsbane smoke, clutched the breathing apparatus to his face, coughing. Derek darted away before he could see if the man recovered, shouldering a hunter to the floor, before he could check a bullet into the skull of another choking wolf. Too late, the bullet connected, though not as fatally as it could have.

Black lines seeped up the beta’s neck from the bullet wound in the shoulder. Derek cursed, and fumbled in the pockets of the duffle, frantically trying to remember if he had brought a lighter.

“No!” It was the first wolf, the light haired man, the alpha if his blood shot eyes were anything to go by. “No!” The man said again, pulling a lighter out of his own pocket. “Go help the others. We need to breathe!”

Nodding, Derek darted away to another fallen wolf. The hunters seemed to realize something was going on, as a few had moved from shooting the fallen prey to aiming at the new comers.

Derek’s heart raced as another bullet cracked against his riot helmet, sending a spiderweb of cracks across his vision. He ducked down, pulling a final gas mask out of the bag to press to a gasping face.

“D-Derek?” He looked down into the face of his cousin Mike, out of his deputy uniform for the negotiations. Taking a breath through the bask, Mike grabbed Derek by the shoulders and rolled them together away from where a hunter’s shot chipped the cement floor. Another bullet fired, shattering the faceplate of Derek’s helmet.

“You’re in so much trouble when your mother finds out,” the older wolf gasped, voice betraying his relieved tone. He pulled one of the spare vests from the bag, and dragged it over his shoulders. He pulled the dufflebag out of Derek’s grip. “I’ll handle this- you get under cover!”

“But-!” Derek protested, but a growl and flash of blue eyes silenced him.

Unburdened, Derek army crawled across the floor. Enough werewolves had recovered with gas masks, that the hunters were being pushed back.

“Not so fast, sweetie!” A sickeningly sweet voice chirped. A boot connected with Derek’s ribs, sending him rolling over onto his back.

A woman- no, that old substitute teacher?- smiled at him, lips red, down the length of a shotgun. “Scurrying off with your tail between your legs? Someone ought to put you down.”

Her voice was so cheerful, casual, flirtatious almost, as if she were only discussing the weather over coffee. It made Derek’s skin crawl under the heavy jacket and protective gear. The visor of his helmet was gone, though it wouldn’t provide much protection against a point blank shot.

The hunter cocked her gun, familiar blonde hair flashing through the wolfsbane vapor like the gleam of her honey pot smile. His substitute Kate Silver- and gosh wasn’t Derek an idiot for not noticing it sooner- finger squeezed on the trigger.

A scuffle- the red eyed alpha roaring, knocking back a crowd of bodies- a flailing limb behind blonde hair- a gun shot-

Derek’s lungs seized, vision blurring. His lungs felt full of water.

Another roar answered the first alpha’s, further away but coming closer. Claws tearing though metal doors like paper- triumphant howls.

And Derek knew no more.

…

A buzz of light fixtures, beeping mechanical heartbeats, antiseptic and bleach, scratchy sheets. Familiar touch of skin against his hand, stroking in time with the other heartbeat in the room.

Derek opened his eyes, too white ceiling of the Beacon Hills Hospital blinding him. He groaned, lids squeezing shut once more.

The stroking paused, and strong fingers squeezed his hand. “Derek, sweetie, you have to wake up now.”

Derek risked tilting his head, and squinting at the person seated at his bedside. “Mom?”

Her eyes were red, though not from any supernatural cause. She sniffed, wiping one hand across her face, before returning it to squeeze at his.

Her voice shook. “The bullet broke the seal of your gas mask, and would have hit your chest if it wasn’t for your phone.”

Derek’s heart lurched. “My phone?”

Hi mother petted a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry sweetie, we’ll buy you another one.”

“But I’ll have the same number and everything, right?”

His mother raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a girlfriend we should be aware of?”

He shook his head fiercely, blush betraying nothing.

She laughed. “The sim card was destroyed, but I’m sure you can give your new friend your number again later. Which reminds me.”

The hand in his hair stilled, and Derek looked up into his mother’s red red eyes.

“You saved a lot of lives with what you did, and we’re going to be talking about exactly what you did, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you, and you are grounded forever.”

…

Derek was, in fact, only grounded until he was thirty.

His punishment seemed to consist mostly of hugs from various pack members, and a standing offer from Deucalion, the alpha he saved from the warehouse, to visit whenever he wanted. Derek’s mother didn’t comment on how the other alpha’s pack treated him as Deucalion’s heir apparent when visiting, though she did make a point to ensure her son spent time with his own family.

That was how Derek found himself volunteering at the local hospital. His great aunt worked there as a nurse, and insisted he should learn the family knack towards healing.

While heading towards the break room one day, Derek heard a sniffling coming from behind one of the vending machines.

He paused. There, wedged between the soda and snacks, a small figure covered in dust wiped at his eyes.

“Hey are you ok?” Derek asked.

The kid looked up, brown eyes glinting amber through his tears. He wiped a hand across his face, revealing a collection of cheek moles under the grime.

Crouching down, voice lowering to a soft soothing tone, he reached a hand into the space. “Hey, come on out, it’s fine. Let me help you.”

The kid wrinkled his nose, thinking. He sniffed again, and took the werewolf’s hand.

He allowed himself to be pulled out, cheeks still stained with dusty tear tracks.

Casting about through his limited knowledge of what kids liked, Derek floundered. “Um, do you want some hot milk, or something?”

“I’m not a baby, I’m eleven!” A skip in his heart. “Or nearly, anyway…” The kid wiped across his face again.

“Ok,” Derek soothed, patting dust off the kid’s back. “Can you tell me where your parents are then?”

Fresh tears budded from the kid’s eyes, and his lower lip trembled.

Derek raised his hands to push back the new wave of emotion. “Woah, hey. you’re all right! It’s ok! You’re going to be ok!”

The kid threw himself into Derek’s unguarded embrace, arms wrapping, python like, around the werewolf’s neck. Derek tensed in anticipation of his wolf’s discomfort of a stranger so near his neck, but no surge of adrenaline, no telltale flash of eyes, nothing.

Sniffling near his shoulder pulled him from further internal investigation. His arms touched feather light against the kid’s back.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’ll help you. My name’s Derek, what’s yours?”

More sniffles, though the scent of salty sadness began to dry, which Derek counted as a win. The kid mumbled something into his neck.

“What was that?”

The kid pulled back, just far enough to meet the werewolf’s eye. “Stiles,” the kid sniffed again, wiping a sleeve over his streaming face. “I’m Stiles.”

…

Notes:

I’m playing fast and loose with the timeline here.

2003 nov derek would have killed paige

2004 Kali tries to kill jennifer, assume late in the year for this story

2005 jan hale house fire

…

My favorite head cannon is that Beacon Hills was just full of members of the Hale family, and the reason why the fire was not investigated was because the sheriff’s department was full of werewolves who were killed in said fire.

Also, Derek freaked when he got the text about rosemary, because I see werewolves having very acute scent-memories and associations.

I apologize for the abrupt ending.

- <3 your secret santa

…

#nevermoree-tr #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18 #*late post because the mod is an idiot

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forestwater87 · 7 years

Link

Who did they think they were kidding, anyway?

(Beta’d by @raenbowsofficial)

Summer 2017

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Gwen groaned, rolling over and pawing blindly at her phone. That was, what, her third time hitting snooze? That meant it was around 6:45, and she had fifteen minutes before breakfast.

Which . . . didn’t seem right. She sat up, double-checking the time on her phone with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Yep, 6:46 a.m., stark white letters against the New York City skyline that’d been her phone background for years.

David usually woke her up before now. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept in this late, without the gentle rap on her bedroom door and a sunny “Good morning, Gwen!” Of course, it could be a coincidence that the one morning he didn’t come to get her also happened to be the morning after he’d turned her down for sex and she’d had a major freakout. It could definitely just be unfortunate timing; hell, maybe David had overslept for once.

It was always possible, right?

And if he wasn’t in the main room of the cabin, and if his bedroom door was wide open and neatly put together and empty, then that was just another unfortunate coincidence.

Gwen wasn't very good at positive thinking, not like David. But she managed to wrestle her brain into something resembling optimism — or at least not blind, shrieking panic — as she stumbled through her morning routine, and was proud that she only felt slightly nauseous as she approached the mess hall.

David was standing by the breakfast line, overseeing the Quartermaster as he served the campers. (This was deemed necessary after he “accidentally” impaled the hand of a camper who’d been trying to steal an extra pudding cup. Poor Chucky never quite regained total mobility of his pinky.) Technically the counselors were supposed to trade off this job, but he always volunteered to take her “shifts,” because he liked the extra time to greet the campers as they came to the end of the line.

Usually she was too tired to give much of a shit about anything that was going on before her second cup of coffee, but this morning she couldn’t help but let her eyes linger on the back of the mess hall, watching as David playfully ruffled Max’s hair — easily dodging the boy’s sleep-clumsy shove — and asked Nikki about the caterpillar she was keeping in her overall bib pocket. His smile was happy and relaxed, effortless like it always seemed to be in the mornings. By the end of the day there’d be a bit more strain holding up that expression, but David was a morning person, of course. She’d hadn’t forgotten how much she missed seeing him first thing in the morning, but watching him put a hand on Space Kid’s helmet and comfort him over something QM had threatened, she was struck with a wave of homesickness so bad it felt like a weight on her chest, one that made her shoulders hunch up and her back bow. And for once that feeling wasn’t from seeing the city skyline on TV or from hearing a distant siren from town.

“Morning, Gwen.” David set her tray down in front of her — she hadn’t even thought of getting her own food, she was so used to him insisting — with a small smile that didn’t burn as brightly as the one he’d favored the campers with. “How’d you sleep?”

“Um . . . okay. Pretty well?” After curling up and crying with her teeth sank into her pillow so he wouldn’t overhear and wonder what was wrong. That kind of empty-your-insides sobbing was draining, and as awful as it seemed she actually had slept better than usual. “Overslept a little, I guess.”

She didn’t have the courage to be any more explicit than that, to come right out and ask if he was mad at her and that’s why he hadn’t gotten her up, but he nodded down at his breakfast like she’d asked anyway, twirling the gummy eggs with his fork and gnawing on his lower lip. “Of course. You must’ve been exhausted.” He swallowed, letting the eggs drip back onto the tray and coalesce back with the rest of the goo. “The first few weeks at camp are always pretty tiring, huh?”

His eyes met hers, then, and in them was that uncertain flicker Gwen had grown accustomed to lately, that waver of hope and nervousness like he was hoping she’d take the excuse he was offering and grant him some peace of mind. Just a little bit more, just to hold them together for a few more hours.

She nodded, dropping her gaze to her coffee and swirling it absently. “Yeah, it’s hard to get back into the swing of things.”

“It is!” And again Pavlov, that motherfucker, sprang to mind. Because it was just too automatic, mindless even. A reflex.

David smiled, Gwen felt better.

She felt better, she wanted him to keep smiling.

Which meant . . . lying. Lying until neither of them had the energy to buy it anymore.

But it seemed like the potency of their bullshit was starting to fade. Because that smile, the feeling better, only lasted as long as a quiet breakfast before David climbed to his feet, clapping to get the kids’ attention and beaming. “All right, kiddos! Why don’t you go brush your teeth and Gwen and I will meet you out on the activities field!”

She glanced up at him, confused. Normally they split up after breakfast so that she could watch over (and wrangle) the kids and David and QM would do dishes, but . . . “Who’s gonna take roundup duty?”

His smile didn’t falter, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes as he turned to her. “The Quartermaster agreed to supervise the campers so we can stay behind and clean up before morning activities. Sound good?”

It wasn’t really a question; the kids were already filing out of the mess hall, and QM had disappeared to . . . somewhere mysterious. Either way, this was clearly something they’d worked out while she was still asleep. So she picked up her tray and started to one of the other tables, snagging abandoned silverware and napkins and trying to figure out a way to avoid this conversation.

She had about five minutes to think, as they wiped down the tables and brought the dishes into the kitchen, as she scraped leftover food and campers’ experiments (and she couldn’t always tell them apart) into the trash and tried not to gag, as she joined David over the giant industrial sink and buried her hands in sickly gray-green suds and got to work. About five minutes of near-total silence, of clinking plastic and rustling clothing and not much else. In those five minutes, she failed to come up with anything to say.

But it seemed David had. "Gwen . . ." He swallowed, looking away for a second before taking a deep breath and forcing his eyes back to hers. "What'd I do wrong?"

It took her a second to recover, to swallow her surprise and meet his gaze, and it was just long enough to make every word that followed ring hollow. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Wh —”

Gwen cut herself off. Because what was the point in pretending that she had no idea where this question was coming from?

Instead she shrugged and returned to wiping out a glass with her washcloth. “Really, David, it’s nothing. It’s . . . I’m just —”

“Don’t say you’re tired,” he snapped, and it wasn’t quite angry but it was close, something anger-like but with a little wound in the center, bleeding frustration and impatience and a bone-deep weariness that felt too, too familiar. It was the same kind of pleading aching fatigue that she’d heard just over a year ago, in the words “times have changed, whether I like it or not.”

Times had changed. Whether they liked it or not.

She opened her mouth but he held up one soapy hand, bracing the other against the lip of the sink. “Please, Gwen. I . . .” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m tired of you being tired.”

Something warm and barbed coiled in her stomach, and it was better than frigid dread or acidic guilt so she grabbed onto it with hands that would be lacerated bloody. He was tired of it? How the fuck did he think she felt having to live it every goddamn day? “Listen, David, I’m trying real hard to hide it and just be ‘happy sunshine camp counselor,’ but maybe it doesn’t come so fucking easily to everyone, okay?”

“Easily?” he repeated with a look of utter disbelief. “Who ever said that anything about . . . who said any of this was easy?”

“I’m just dealing with a lot of shit,” she said, forcing herself to take a deep breath and a few steps back, wiping her hand on a rag she really hoped had always been gray. “I’ve got a lot going on —”

“Like what, Gwen?” They both froze, realizing what he’d just said at the same time, and no sooner had the words left his mouth than he was covering it, ignoring the brackish water dripping down his fingers and wrists. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like — I just —”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, and her lips felt almost too numb to form the words, but it wasn’t David’s fault. She could hardly hate him for understanding how it was with her — how little it took to leave her moody and overwhelmed and a terrible girlfriend. How “a lot of shit” sometimes consisted of a few sad thoughts that clung to her brain like spiderwebs and gummed up everything that was supposed to make her work like normal people. An idiot would’ve noticed something as obvious as how pathetic she was, and despite his other faults, David wasn’t an idiot.

David shook his head, all the anger leeching out with the tears that threatened to spill over his eyelashes. “No, Gwen, I don’t . . . of course you have plenty going on, I just . . .” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I want to be a part of it. I miss you. I’ve — every time we aren’t together, I miss you. And since we’ve been back, even though we are . . .”

God, he was sweet. Sweeter than she deserved, sweeter than was good for him. And even though it was the worst way to respond, even though the Audree in her head was furious and wailing, she tightened her grip on the thorns of anger and dug her nails in, asked herself if she was honestly supposed to believe that he missed being teased and complained at by a bitch like her. He might be a closet masochist, but even he had limits. What kind of misguided hero’s complex kept him trotting back to her side, when her side was full of bad manners and a hideous apartment and no friends and a miserable family, a miserable life, a miserable person?

The same hero’s complex, she realized with a sickening lurch, that kept him chasing after Max. Another joyless, caustic fuckup who didn’t know what to do with such blatant affection and who almost compulsively had to throw it back in his face. Someone with so much potential, if only he had a friend who’d believe in him. A project to nurture and feel good about at the end of the day, a success story that probably only existed in David’s head, a DIY he was still working on.

Did David see her as a project, too?

"Please." She snorted, crossing her arms and feeling the barbs shred through another layer of skin. "You just miss having someone to fuck."

"Wha — ? I . . ." His lips hardened into a thin line. "That's unfair and you know it."

They were jolted back to earth by a shrill beeping, the Camp Campbell theme song that signaled the end of the free period.

He glanced down at his phone, then at the half-finished dishes, and sighed, wiping off his hands without meeting her eyes. “It’s time for the morning activity.”

This wasn't one of their busiest days — Harrison had a magic show, which meant most of the afternoon was spent on the rough wooden benches facing the camp stage — and under normal circumstances the two of them would take the downtime as an opportunity to talk, plan for the rest of the week or mutter snarky comments (while David tried to keep her quiet and pretend he wasn't trying not to laugh), their fingers would find each other's. But he kept his face turned toward the stage and his hands in his lap, so she followed his lead and kept her mouth shut, watching Harrison unfurl a flower from between his fingers with her face blank and her mind racing.

By the time the curtain fell to lukewarm applause, the anger had completely leached out of her, and what was left was cold and sick and sad. By the time they’d sat through a dinner full of stilted small talk and playing with food neither of them were interested in eating, Gwen was pretty sure she was going to throw up the next time she opened her mouth.

By the time they’d returned to the cabin after putting the kids to bed — no stilted, pathetic attempts at small talk, not this time — she was close to a nervous breakdown. Calm down, she told herself, focusing on keeping her breaths steady and regular. This is fixable. You were a cunt, so just apologize and try harder to not be so . . . yourself all the fucking time. David’s forgiving. You’ll be fine.

Probably.

He held open the cabin door for her, as usual, but as she slipped through his fingers caught around her upper arm. “Um, Gwen?”

Her stomach clenched.

Oh god.

David cleared his throat and let her go, stepping inside and locking the cabin door behind them. “Could we . . . talk? I think we need to.”

Oh god.

She was going to be sick. If she opened her mouth she was going to throw up all over the hallway and then she’d have to spend the evening scrubbing partially-digested broccoli out of the carpet and at least that’d be better because then they wouldn’t have to have The Talk — David couldn’t possibly break up with her if she was sick, so vomiting was starting to look like a better idea by the minute . . .

“Yeah,” she said, and she wasn’t sure how she sounded so casual, like she wasn’t talking around a throat thick with acid. “Probably a good idea.”

No it wasn’t. It was an awful idea. It was the fucking worst idea she’d ever heard of.

She followed him into the cramped living room, perching on the edge of her armchair. He didn’t sit down, to her surprise; he just started pacing back and forth, rubbing at the narrow pink scars on the backs of his hands. A nervous habit.

The knot in her stomach grew just a bit tighter.

The silence stretched for almost a full minute, broke only by the light scuffing of his boots against the floor, when she cracked. “Listen, David, I was a total bitch earlier and I’m sorry, I —”

“Wait.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. H- . . . how to say it. So please, just let me — I just need to get it out.”

She wanted to interrupt, drown whatever he was about to say in apologies because there was nothing good coming next, but his eyes popped open and focused on her just long enough to sever her vocal chords before he resumed pacing, wringing his hands and looking everywhere but at her.

“I’m . . .” His hands kept clenching into fists and releasing, like he was trying to grab the words long enough to force them out. “I’m not happy,” he finally said in a rush of breath, and it was like the tension had been sapped out of him. His shoulders slumped, relaxed, and his hands unfurled. When he turned to look at her, there was something like relief on his face. “I’m not. And — and I don’t think you are, either.” He paused, glancing at her like she hoped she would respond, confirm or deny or make still more excuses.

She didn’t. She didn’t know what she’d even say. Because she wasn’t happy, not even close. But she hadn’t been happy since graduating college, so what the fuck did it matter? And she couldn’t explain that, not to someone like David, someone who’d never understand, so she pressed her lips together and stared down at her thighs and idly wished they were smaller, more girly. As if having skinnier legs would make him want to be with her.

“This is . . . it isn’t working, and it used to. At least, I think it used to. And I don’t know what’s changed, if I did something or if you — or if maybe I was just misunderstanding things? And now . . .” David sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know how you feel, about anything. Gwen, I'm trying so hard to be patient, but . . ." He shook his head, running his hands through his hair. "I mean — goodness, do you even actually like me?"

He looked up at her again, all big eyes and sincerity, and it didn’t make sense because the words coming out of his mouth were so goddamn stupid, but he was looking at her like they made sense, like he believed them. Like he thought she didn’t . . . that she could possibly . . .

He was waiting for an answer, she realized after a moment. The speech was done, and it was time to explain herself. But what was she supposed to say when she didn’t even understand what the fuck he was thinking? "That's — don't be — I —"

That's ridiculous.

Don't be crazy.

I do. Of course I do.

I like you so much I don't know what to do with myself.

"Gwen?" She snapped back to herself and realized that she had clutched the neck of her shirt and was crinkling it in one sweaty fist. Forcing her hands to relax, she avoided his eyes, because if she looked at him she'd shatter into pieces.

He wasn’t happy. David, the happiest person she’d ever met, the only man who could be tied to a spit-roast and smile, was unhappy. And she’d done that to him. All of this desperate clinging, excuses and being “tired” and half-smiles that must’ve looked as hollow and dead as she felt — it was for her benefit, and it was making him unhappy.

It was selfish, her wanting to be with him. If she had a heart she’d cut him free.

"Listen, David, I . . . like assholes. Guys who are self-involved, who make me feel like shit and who leave. That's my type." She shrugged, feeling oddly weightless. "This has been, I dunno, a fluke, an anomaly, whatever. It was bound to end sometime."

This was better. A dramatic speech, a tearful departure, maybe a little crying in the moonlight; it was downright Byronic. But most importantly, it was her leaving him. If it had to happen anyway, if the right thing to do was make it happen, she wanted it to be on her terms.

She'd been dumped by a lot of people, but she didn't think she could stand being rejected by David.

"Bound to end? I don't . . ." He moved closer, reaching out to take her hand. "Gwen, please —” oh god, his voice cracked and with it her resolve, “— just tell me what’s wrong. We can . . . can’t we talk about it?”

Goddamn it. Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it. She couldn’t do this. She had to get out.

She had to say whatever it took to get out.

"I almost fucked someone else!" The words exploded out of her, totally unbidden; she covered her mouth but it was too late, they were in the air and they'd reached him, he'd heard them, she could see it in the way color bled from his face, making his freckles, usually almost invisible against his pink complexion, stand out in stark relief. And now that she'd started she couldn't stop, blurting out more and more things she'd never wanted to say. "I wasn't even that drunk, he kissed me and I let him, I thought about going home with him seriously thought about it, David! Okay? All this 'we can talk things out' bullshit? That only works with someone who — who —" Who works right in the first place .

For a second he just stared at her, frozen and white like a statue, all bloodless lips and wide eyes and hurt . "Wh . . ." He swallowed, licked his lips, looked down at his toes. "Why?"

His voice was so small. She'd never, ever heard him sound that small.

And that was painful, so she dug the knife in deeper, twisted it with everything she had as though it wasn't her own chest she was stabbing. "Because I make terrible decisions," she spat; he flinched away from her voice, wrapping his arms around his ribs like he needed a hug so badly he'd give one to himself. "It's fucking obvious! It's why I'm stuck in a job I hate, with an education that doesn't do shit for me or anybody else, and dreams that . . . that don't . . . matter." Her voice dropped, almost without her noticing. "All I do is make mistakes," she finally muttered.

Because when God was putting together all the little boys and girls of the world He must've dropped her, something was broken inside her chest, something was missing and there were monsters rattling around in that empty jagged space and everyone she'd fallen in love with left, because she could only pretend to be whole for so long before the rattling became loud enough that everyone could hear it, and no one could sleep next to that kind of racket. Even if they could, even if like David someone managed to ignore it or not hear it — the monsters brought out their claws, because it was a hell of a lot harder to avoid scratches and they wanted her all to themselves, to eat up all her insides and walk around her body.

And that all sounded good, but it was bullshit because Gwen knew there weren't any monsters inside her. She could blame God or her parents or whatever she wanted but she was the only one inside her head and she was the one who kept fucking up, and she was the one who knew David was too good for her and she went and fell for him anyway like the selfish idiot she was. Because if there was a monster it was her, and the only person being hollowed out and destroyed was him.

And there'd been a part of her that'd known that, and it hadn't stopped her.

"Oh." For a second he just looked at her, reading her face and she hated it because she didn't know what he was seeing but it couldn't be good. And she hated even more that his eyes still made her shiver, even looking at her the way he was she still preferred it to him not looking at her at all, even when she was trying to cut him free she still wanted to hold on as tight as she possibly could. "Okay, then!"

She didn't know how to respond, because his voice was taut and too bright, to the point where she glanced around to see if any of the kids had snuck into the cabin without her noticing and he was pretending everything was fine.

But it was just them, and it wasn't fine, and he wasn't pretending.

"I'm sorry," he said after another moment, still strange and cheery and broken, like she was watching a movie that'd been dubbed over badly, and nothing sounded like it came from where it should. And he wasn't smiling, his face was terrifyingly neutral but he straightened his back and squared his jaw and looked away and continued. "I didn't mean to be a mistake. I . . ." He trailed off, swallowing thickly, and now she couldn't look at him either and this was the longest they'd ever gone without eye contact and it just felt so wrong, "I'm going to go check on the campers."

Gwen wanted to leap forward and take his arm, touch his shoulder, say something because he didn't understand, but she just nodded and he left and then all she could hear was her own ragged breathing.

It wasn't fair for him to think that, not when the truth was just the opposite, and no small part of her wanted to chase him down and explain that dating him had been one of the few things she felt like she'd done right — for herself, anyway. Maybe not for him, because how could anything be right if it made him this sad?

And that was what kept her rooted to the ground, and when she eventually started walking it was what directed her toward her bedroom.

The thing was, if she told him he wasn't a mistake he might think they could still work out. Because he was too good, he didn't understand that some people weren't fixable and weren't meant to be happy and there was nothing he could do about it, but if she gave him even half a reason to hope he would try, try until his fingers were bloody and there was nothing left of his smile, and she wasn't going to let that happen.

She'd had her heart broken before and she was still here, and David was a lot more resilient than her so he'd be fine. It'd be a rough few months, he'd probably be sad for the rest of the summer but then he'd go home and next year she wouldn't be here, not even if this was the only job available and Campbell offered her a raise, because she couldn't do that to him and she definitely couldn't do it to herself. She couldn't watch him move on.

He would, of that she had no doubt. He was cute and sweet and sunny, and it was only a matter of time before someone scooped him up, some pretty girl with an easy laugh or a broad-shouldered guy who could give him hugs that'd swallow him. Someone else with the same tenacious optimism, who was so happy they made David look gloomy and short-tempered in comparison, with his favorite-colored hair, pink or green or yellow maybe, that didn't get tangled or knotted or kinked when he tried to play with it but fell through his fingers like cornsilk and reflected the light. Someone he could love effortlessly, without thinking. Someone considerate and perceptive who didn't insult him or push him away, who knew how to say they appreciated him, who never let a day go by without making sure he knew he was good, and special, and important.

Gwen wanted that for him. She wanted him to feel so loved he could drown in it.

She just didn't want to watch it happen.

#rest of the chapter under the cut #campcamp #cc david #cc gwen #gwenvid #my stuff #guess who hates this piece of shit chapter?#it me #because i can't writeeeee #forestwriting

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