#this goddamn image always manages to find me every damn year

[cchipollo]

happy pride month

#night at the museum #jedtavius #scribbles #this goddamn image always manages to find me every damn year #here's to another year of course #edit: literally days after this was posted realised i hadnt tagged jedtavius lolol sorry

[wardenparker]

You’re So Vain - Chapter 1

Dieter Bravo x female Reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Oscar winning star Dieter Bravo’s reputation is suffering after the debacle of “Cliff Beasts 6″ and “Beasts of the Bubble”, so his management team has signed him on to a publicity stunt to find his soulmate and show the world a softer side of the erratic and unpredictable star. The plan quickly go awry, though, when Dieter’s soulmate wants nothing to do with him. 

Rating: Teen. But this blog is *always* 18+ Word Count: 5.7k Warnings: *Blanket warning for chronic illness, cursing, and deceased family members. This is a Dieter fic, folks, so there absolutely will be discussions of drugs, drug use, and addiction.* Enemies to lovers, family hardships. Summary: Dieter meets with his team about their new strategy to fix his image problem, and you battle your best friend about how to respond to it when the campaign goes live.  Notes: Welcome to the Soulmate Sunday Family to our favourite Trash Can Man, Dieter Bravo! This is my first time writing anything enemies to lovers and Keri and I are having a blast with the secondary characters for this series. Hopefully you guys will enjoy it as much as we are!

Dieter slouches down in the stiff conference room seat, unsure why they couldn't spring for something more comfortable. Fuck knows they charge through the nose for their services so chairs that didn't feel like the pew at St. Mary's when he was six and forced to go to every damn Mass because his abuela was convinced that his soul was damned, wasn't beyond unreasonable in his opinion. Hungover and desperately craving a snort of something, his eyes narrow behind his sunglasses. Ridiculous indoors to some, but he needs them against the bright florescent lights in the conference room. "It wasn't a big deal." He huffs defensively, folding his arms over his chest and looks over at the grim faced, horribly dressed suits that represented his team.

"Maybe not to you." Libby, his manager of twenty years, shifts in her seat and holds her hands in her lap like an unhappy schoolmarm. "But Paramount rescinded your last offer and I had to dig my claws into the Ray-Ban reps to keep them from ditching your endorsement contract." The venti, 3-pump, skim milk, no foam, extra hot chai tea latte in front of her is now cold and that makes her madder than she likes. If she didn't appreciate the huge fucking percentage she gets from being Dieter Bravo's representation, maybe she wouldn't be sitting here pissed off and she could have enjoyed her coffee. Right now, the fact that she cares about him as a human is secondary to making sure his career doesn’t tank. "Dee, I don't think you understand how bad a beating the Bravo brand is taking right now."

"The Bravo brand." He curls his lip always hating the way Libby would say that. Like he was a fucking sneaker or some shit. "I don't understand why this is being blown out of proportion. I did coke. I always do coke. It's not like it's a big fucking secret. I was bored and fucking trapped in that goddamn hotel shooting the movie you—" He points his finger at PR manager Phil, a snarky little shit that reminded him of a weasel. "Told me would be a fucking piece of cake. An 'easy payday' as you put it."

"It would have been if Carol Cobb hadn't tried to incite a rebellion." Phil contends, draining the last sip of his own coffee from a travel mug that was definitely half whiskey.

"Here's the thing." Libby sits forward in her chair again, wishing she had just put her plan into motion before talking to Dieter about it, but the rest of the team had overruled her on that. "Just because coke is a thing that you do does not mean that the rest of the world was going to be okay with it. Or that your fans were going to be okay with it. Now, we are going to have to do a rehab stint. No," she frowns again. "Don't roll your eyes at me, I already called Promises and got you your usual room. But we're going to need more than that this time."

"So what are we talking about?" He asks, looking around the table, very unhappy about the idea of going back to that fucking facility. He didn't give a shit how nice it was, it was all bullshit. "Visiting a few hospitals and kissing sick kids? I'm not a Marvel character." He scoffs. "I would look like shit in spandex."

"We have a very unique endorsement lined up for you," Phil tells him, looking around at the rest of his team. They had gone around and around on this idea for a week before making a move towards it and the fact that it landed well with the company in question was like early fucking Christmas for them. "Mate Marks."

"The soulmate app?" Dieter frowns, looking between the people on the opposite side of the table from him in confusion. "Wha— no." He spits out, shaking his head. "No, nope, not going to happen." He tells them quickly and starts digging into his pockets, looking for the acid that he had misplaced. "I'm not pretending to endorse that bullshit."

"You're not going to pretend anything." Libby tells him flatly. "It's all already set up."

"After this meeting I'm going to release the first social media burst." Phil adds firmly. "Dieter Bravo is looking for his soulmate."

His agent - Malcolm - pulls a press release out of the folder in the middle of the table and smacks it down in front of their client. "When people hear about this there are going to be a lot more Dieter Bravo fans in the world."

"We're launching an international search for your soulmate." Libby goes on. "Mate Marks will weed out the obvious phonies and pass the decent possibilities on to us while you're in rehab. I'm sure it won't take long to find them. By the time you get out, we should have a name and address. We'll take a camera crew to their front door, and you will be charm itself."

"I don't need to find my soulmate." He whines, pouting and nearly stamping his feet like a petulant child. He doesn't want to find his soulmate. Is actually terrified of it, if the truth were to be told. Afraid of rejection, not being good enough. Needy and petulant were not traits someone wanted in a soulmate. "I'll build a hospital in a third world country or whatever."

"The wheels are already in motion, Dee." Of that, Libby made sure. She's known him long enough to know that finding his soulmate isn't on top of his list of life goals, and therefore long enough to care what happens to him. He thinks she's a cold bitch in a business suit and sometimes she can be, but Libby Pryce does give a fuck about her clients. Finding his soulmate will be good for him. As frustrating as he can be, Dieter has bright spots. "Ten days in rehab and your soulmate. That's the price of getting your career back on track."

"There's nothing else I can do?" Dieter demands, looking around to the stone-cold faces of the fucking vultures he pays. Desperately wanting to be thrown a bone.

"Well," Phil shrugs his shoulders. "You could always do the full two weeks for once."

Dieter slouches back again, glowering at all of them and kicking at another chair under the table. "Fuck me." He groans, begrudgingly accepting his fate.

"If you're lucky." Libby agrees brightly, satisfied that he isn't going to fight back too much on this little publicity stunt. He can be stubborn as a mule when he wants to be. "This is going to work, Dee. And who knows? Maybe you'll even like them a little."

"I fucking doubt it." He huffs, wondering how quickly this incident will blow over so he can go back to his life.

"Well, since we've had a chance to touch base on all this." Sliding the press release back into its folder, Libby surveys the team at the table with satisfaction. "Let's get you home so you can pack, okay? We'll have a car bring you to Promises and you can look forward to a little rest and relaxation while we get down to the dirty work of finding your soulmate."

“Right.” Dieter rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, finally finding the pill that he had been looking for and pops it to his mouth. “My soulmate.” He murmurs, wondering what kind of person the universe picked out for him.

******

"And the man in the back said, "Everyone attack" and it turned into a ballroom blitz...and the girl in the corner said, "Boy I want to warn you it'll turn into a ballroom blitz...ballroom blitz..." Singing along with your After School playlist as you cook dinner in the empty house is fairly par for the course on a weekday. It's your little ritual, enjoyed as an indulgence after you've gotten home from work and before your best friend - and sister-in-law and housemate - returns from picking up her little girl from daycare after her own long workday. Tonight will be a baked chicken and kid-friendly mashed potatoes and zucchini, all things that you have carefully learned to cook to accommodate your niece's copious dietary restrictions. The sound of the front door brings you out of your revelry and you turn down the volume on the speakers in the kitchen. "Steph?" You call your best friend's name as you thoroughly wash your hands in the sink. "How was work?"

Stephanie grunts, dumping her keys and trying to kick off her shoes while she holds the increasingly heavy child in her arm. “Talk about it later.” She calls out, immediately heading up the stairs to bathe Nora where she had had an accident after refusing to wear her pull ups.

"Got it!" You turn to grab the open bottle of wine from the fridge and a glass out of the cupboard, pouring out a glass for Stephanie and topping off your own. Now you're extra glad you picked up some ice cream at the grocery store when you stopped for dinner ingredients on the way home.

There are days Stephanie Valeria swears she would never have survived the last few years without you. You are her best friend, more than that - you are family. Moving in with her when her husband - your brother, Shawn - had succumb to his battle with long Covid, you were the only reason she was barely afloat. Although most months, the medical bills that come in make her soak in the bath and cry after Nora is asleep. “Come on baby girl.” She watches as her daughter holds onto the bar installed in the bathroom to help her from falling as she starts to strip her down. “After we clean you up, we can go see what Aunt Gigi cooked for dinner, okay?”

"'Kay." Nora looks up at her mom with tearful eyes, understanding just enough in her little mind to know that her mother is sad. "I sorry I got messy, Mommy."

“Don’t you worry about that.” Stephanie crouches down and thumbs away the tears in her daughter’s eyes, reminding herself that the young girl couldn’t help her body sometimes doesn’t let her know her needs. She had just wanted to be like the other kids and she wouldn’t shame her for that. “We’ll get everything fixed up like it didn’t happen, okay?”

"'Kay." She nods her little head seriously, being at an age where she tends to take her mother at her word in all things except when extra dessert or watching a movie past bedtime are concerned.

After a quick bath, Stephanie brings her downstairs and walks into the kitchen. “Say hi Aunt Gigi!”

"Hey, there's my girl!" You kneel down and open your arms for a hug when you hear them behind you, guessing that Nora must have had another accident since she's scrubbed clean and in new clothes. The toddler screeches a happy "Gigi!" and comes straight to you, giggling happily when you swing her up in your arms and set her on your hip. "Did you have a good day at daycare today, sweet girl?"

"Uh huh." She nods and gives you a sweet smile before she rocks forward, nearly catapulting herself out of your arms so she can see what you are cooking. Because it's nearly an everyday occurrence, Stephanie doesn't have a heart attack and walks over to the fridge to start pulling out Nora's evening medications to get them ready to take with dinner. "What's dinner?"

“Herb roasted chicken, zucchini, and Nora’s very favorite mashed potatoes.” You smile gratefully when Nora claps at the announcement. Because of how sick she is, sometimes she’s too nauseous or in too much pain to eat and even smelling food can make her cry at those times. Right now, though, she seems to be okay. “And for dessert there’s pound cake and cherry sauce. So we’re definitely gonna eat all our veggies, right sweet girl?”

She pouts but gives you a begrudging nod. She doesn’t love zucchini, but you make it taste almost yummy. Instead, she zeros in on the important thing. “Cake!” She squeals happily.

“That’s my girl.” Carefully setting her down again, you nudge the second glass of wine you poured toward Steph with a tired smile. “And grown-up juice for Mommy and Gigi.”

“When can I have that?” Nora asks, eyeing the liquid that looks like juice.

“Probably never, sweetie,” Steph tells her honestly. “People with the kind of sickness you have can’t drink grown-up juice even when they’re grown-ups.” The list of dietary restrictions for Nora is far longer than the list of what’s good for her, and struggling to make the same bland ingredients taste good in different ways to her four-year-old has been something she has been grateful for your help on. “Remember the word the doctors taught you? Digestion? Grown-up juice is a no-no for digestion.”

“This is bullshit.” Nora huffs under her breath, using her mother’s favorite saying when she isn’t happy with something.

“Nora Skye.” Steph’s eyes narrow at her daughter in that way that looks intimidating, but you can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “What did you just say?”

In the way that young children will do, push boundaries, Nora narrows her eyes back at her mother. “This is bullshit.” She repeats a little louder.

“Alright.” Steph shrugs, crossing her arms at her daughter matter-of-factly. “Little girls who curse don’t get dessert, so I guess no cake for you tonight.”

Nora scrunches her face up in a combination of horror and bewilderment. “You say it.” She accuses plaintively, like that is a good reason that she should be allowed. “All the time, when you look at the ‘fuckin’ bills.”

“That’s three times, Nora Skye.” Steph knows that her daughter knows curse words are bad words, but since she’s self-aware enough to realize that the girl probably wouldn’t be hearing these things if not for her, she just sighs. “No dessert for three days, end of discussion. You know that bad words are for big girls.”

“Not hungry anyway.” The younger girl huffs under her breath, wiggling to get down from your arms with the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

You sigh, leaning back against the stove with a drawn face as Nora runs off to her room as fast as her little legs will carry her. There truly are days when you just don’t know what to say in situations with your niece and being a bystander in this particular moment makes you feel like you’re a shit aunt on top of everything else. “This is why I teach high school.” You murmur softly, shaking your head.

Stephanie scrubs her hand down her face with an exhausted sigh. “Maybe I’m being too hard on her.” She murmurs after a moment. “She’s four, she’s not a teenager.”

“Maybe we just save the swearing until we know she’s gone to bed? She’s getting it from both of us, and the last thing you need is to get a call from her kindergarten teacher next year when she’s moved on to compound swears.” Although the image of a five-year-old saying motherfucker does amuse you more than it should. “How was work?”

Another heavy sigh, and Stephanie pulls the wine glass towards her as if all the answers to her problems can be found in the bottom of the glass. She gulps down a large sip and looks over at you with only a slight amount of panic in her eyes. “They have to cut my hours.” She tells you, biting her lip and taking another large sip of her wine.

“No…” That means your extremely tight budget is about to get tighter, and the stress level in the house is about to go up again. A house that you can’t really afford anymore and a stress level that is already three stories past the roof. “I’m so sorry, honey. Did they give you a reason?”

Her lip trembles as she tries to fight back tears, feeling hopeless once again. “Not enough hours for everyone and I call out a lot.” She closes her eyes, desperately wishing she were stronger, feeling like such a failure in life. “I miss Shawn.” She whispers.

"Steph..." Without hesitation, you set your glass back down on the counter and wrap your friend up in your arms, gently swaying from side to side just like it's Nora against your chest and not her mother. "I miss him, too, honey. Every day." Your brother was always an emotional rock. He had a killer job that he could do from home for half the week, and he had the practical know-how to get things done around the house without having to call a repairman ninety percent of the time.

Shawn and Steph were perfect compliments - a doer and a dreamer who combined forces to make things always feel possible even when they were far-fetched. And Covid had reduced him to a shell of himself before it took him completely. "I'll see if I can find something better than waiting tables for summer work this year. We'll get through it, I promise." Even if you have to take two summer jobs, or god forbid three, you'll do whatever it takes to bring in more money. The school year only has a week left and then you can be working on lesson plans and paperwork any old time of day. You will find a way to help.

"I can't ask you to do that." Steph practically sobs, feeling guilty that she can't do this by herself. The life insurance was quickly eaten up by the medical bills but still didn't put a dent in them, and their savings had dwindled down to nothing while he was battling the virus. "I— I don't know what to do." She confesses softly. "I started looking for another job, but I'm scared to leave. Not have health insurance for Nora - shitty as it is."

"You're not asking me, honey, I'm offering." You just hug her tighter, grabbing a paper towel off the roll on the kitchen counter with one hand and slipping it to her to let her keep crying. "We're family. We take care of each other. End of story."

"I shouldn't have to." She takes the paper towel and wipes her eyes. "I should be able to do this on my own. Shawn trusted me to take care of Nora and myself and I'm - I'm failing."

"Of course Shawn trusts that you'll take care of Nora." The instinct to hold her tighter would probably smother her so you run your thumb soothingly over the peak of her shoulder. "But that also means knowing when to ask for help, Stephy. You're not a failure if you can't do it alone, you're just human." Having moved into the house while your brother was sick, you saw firsthand the way that Steph would look at things as her burden and her burden alone until you just stood in the middle of the mess and forced her to accept your help. "And honey...it's not your fault that Nora is sick. That came from Shawn's and my side of the family, so literally none of this is your fault in any way. We're going to get through this as a family."

"I –" She gives another great, heaving sigh and her shoulders sag under the weight of everything that she is feeling. "Enough with me bringing down the mood." She pulls back and shakes her head as if to shake of the negative feelings. There wasn't a whole hell of a lot that she could do right now anyway.

"Go check on your little sailor and I'll put dinner on the table." You offer, wiping the remnants of tear tracks from her cheeks. "After dinner we can break out Woody, Buzz, and Jessie and watch Toy Story 2?" Nora's current film addiction happened to be a little retro but she's in love with it and it will make it that much better when the Lightyear movie comes out soon.

Steph chuckles and shakes her head. "God save me." She murmurs, reaching out and taking your hand to squeeze gently. "Thank you." She whispers softly.

“Anything for my favorite sister.” You shoot her a wink and a grin as she heads toward the stairs, then start pulling out plates and utensils to set the table. Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll start applying for extra summer work. Whatever it takes.

Stephanie takes the stairs slowly, walking past family photos, Shawn holding Nora with a giant, beaming smile on his face. Running in the yard and chasing after the curly haired girl, both of them laughing and Nora seemingly carefree. Her issues hadn't made themselves known yet, leaving 2020 to dump all the nightmares onto her family in one swoop. Coming up on her daughter's door, she hears the soft hiccups, indicating that she had been crying. Understanding the feeling completely, she knocks so she doesn't startle her and pushes the door open. "Hey sweetheart." She calls softly, seeing her sitting on her little bed and holding her doll in her arms, the last one that her father had given her. Again, making another pang of guilt flood Stephanie. "Are you ready to talk?"

“I’m s-sorry I said bad words, Mommy.” Nora hiccups, kicking her little socked feet on the edge of her bed and looking down at the doll in her lap. While she knows she did something wrong she doesn’t really understand what’s so bad about some silly words. But it still made her mother upset.

"I know." Softening, she walks over and sits down on the bed, wrapping her arm around her daughter and pressing a kiss to her braided hair. "I know we've talked about bad words before, but I know that it's not fair that I say them when I'm frustrated." It’s true, she had gotten bad about hissing the curses under her breath and obviously Nora was picking up that habit. "How about we both promise really hard not to say them, okay?"

“Does Auntie Gigi get to say them?” She asks, sniffling into her mother’s embrace but trying hard to understand the rules.

"Aunt Gigi is going to try hard not to say them too." Steph promises, smiling at how much she loves her Aunt Gigi and wants to be like her. Thank god for you and that silly, sweet nickname you had come up with. Her own mom wanted to be called Gigi. Had cooed and clapped when her only child had announced she was pregnant with her first child. Only to be taken from this earth before she ever got to meet Nora. Six months pregnant and just really starting to show beyond the 'have you gained weight?' comments, you had saved Steph's sanity at the funeral, blurting out that you were going to do double duty. You were going to be Nora's aunt and her Gigi, thus Aunt Gigi was born.

“No more bad words at all.” Nora seems to at least be able to get behind a family effort and she nods in her mother’s arms. “I sorry,” she repeats sadly, not liking when her mom or Gigi is upset.

"It's okay baby." Another kiss to her head, a soft, soothing hand that strokes her gently. "I think I was a little too harsh on your punishment." Stephanie has such a hard time taking away desserts from Nora, especially ones that she can eat, during times when she can eat. "How about instead no dessert, we go to bed thirty minutes early tonight?" She offers. "Ten minutes for every bad word?" It's fair, and still reinforces that there are consequences for bad behavior.

“‘Kay.” Though the prospect of still being punished doesn’t sound like fun, Nora perks up at getting cake back. However, one very important question still remains. “Do I still get to have a bedtime story?”

Stephanie laughs, the first bright spot in her rough afternoon and she grins down at her daughter. "You still get a bedtime story." She assures her, always wanting to reinforce that love of reading and storytelling. "Let's go downstairs and eat, huh? Aunt Gigi might think that we don't like her cooking anymore."

“But we doooooo!” Nora jumps down from her bed and thunders downstairs with the resilience that only little kids seem to have.

Stephanie takes just a second, chuckling and shaking her head before she follows after her daughter.

******

The bottle of wine comes out again after Nora has gone to bed, and you and Steph are sitting in the backyard with your glasses of grown-up juice swapping TikToks or telling stories from the day. Since your seniors have already graduated it’s coming up on final exam time for the rest of your students, which puts you in an interesting spot as an art teacher. Instead of proctoring tests you’re observing presentations, and that means you’ve had some absolute doozies in terms of bullshit that the kids have tried to get away with. Not being particularly artistically talented is one thing, but claiming that your final project was influenced by the great Renaissance painter Kurt Cobain definitely qualified as zero effort.

Steph leans back, looking up at the sky and smiles. She might be drowning in debt and sometimes hanging on by the edges of her fingernails, but she loved this house. Purchased with Shawn, she had conceived Nora in house, brought her home from the hospital and even, devastatingly, lost her soulmate here. This space holding so many memories for her the back yard that she and Shawn had renovated as soon as the keys were in their hands. The plans for a pool never happened but Nora enjoyed the kiddie pools when she got them.

“I just want to watch dumb TikTok dances, why must I watch ads?” You bemoan, having accidentally closed the app while flipping between videos. Now, on the reopen, you’re ready to swipe the ad away immediately when you see that it’s for Mate Marks. There is nothing that the soulmate matching app could possibly offer you, and you self-consciously tug at the long sleeves of your shirt that you wear despite the summer night’s warmth. The less you look at your shared marks, the better for your sanity. It’s in that split second, though, that the audio on the ad erupts. A classic rock-style instrumental track plays over a clip of him. Dieter Bravo hugging fans and waving in a collage of promotional video moments all cherry-picked to make him look his ‘best’ and seem less like the selfish asshole the whole world knows him to be. “Finding my soulmate would mean the world to me.” The audio says, in a way that makes you wonder if it’s just spliced together from interview sound bytes. “I’m hoping they’re out there somewhere, ready with an open mind and an open heart.” You shudder, nearly throwing your phone across the backyard in an effort to shut the damn app quickly, but it’s too late. Steph’s head has already perked up. “Fudge. No.” You tell her immediately, strained with the effort of not immediately letting loose every swear you’ve ever heard in your life. “NO.”

"He's looking for you." Steph rocks forward violently and snatches your phone out of your hand so she can watch the ad. "Oh my God, he's looking for you!" She squeals, looking up at you and grinning. "Come on! You aren't the least bit curious?"

“No.” You repeat rather violently, picking at your long sleeves again. “I have absolutely no desire to be a publicity stunt because I’m sure that’s all that that is.” Any and all mention of your soulmate is considered strictly off limits in your house - even Shawn had abided by that rule despite your older brother loving to tease you - ever since his marks started showing up on you as a preteen to the usual curiosity had been frustration for you. “I’m sure somebody else has gotten his tattoos by now. Let him find them.”

"You still aren't over that?" Stephanie huffs and rolls her eyes, reaching for your arm and shoving up your sleeve to reveal the large black triangle. "It was years ago and it didn't even happen to you. You know, he might have changed? He was just starting out, fame and all that bullsh-oney" She cuts off the curse. "Bologna. Like it or not, you are Dieter Bravo's soulmate."

“I do not like it.” Snatching your arm back, you pull your sleeve back into place with a grimace. “I’m perfectly happy in my life and I don’t need it interrupted by some self-important butthead,” the word does not even begin to describe what you know of the man.

"It could just be his public persona?" Steph doubts it, but there is always that chance. Act obnoxious in front of the cameras either for attention or to keep them from looking too hard at him.

"After this long?" You have no doubt that it could have started that way, but after a few decades it's more than likely just who he is. "Would you really want him around Nora? All the drugs and the completely reckless behaviour? That's not the kind of person who would be a good influence over her."

"I think that he can't be all bad." Stephanie tells you. "Honestly, I've watched all his movies, he's a good actor. A great actor actually." She shrugs when you give her a shocked look. "What? I stream them when I'm in my room since you want to pretend he doesn't exist. I never stopped being a fan, even if I was disappointed."

"Steph, the man looked you straight in the face when you asked for his autograph and walked away." The incident may be ten years past, but it had cemented your poor opinion of the universe's choice for you and you had sworn the day it happened never to give Dieter Bravo the time of day ever again. Since then you have not watched a single minute of film or read any interviews with him, and you certainly do your best to never think of him. "The only reason I give soulmates any credence whatsoever after the train wreck of a match I'm stuck with is because you and Shawn were soulmates."

"And?" Stephanie had been completely crushed at the time and slightly embarrassed but she also realizes that she was perhaps in the wrong for how she had ambushed him. "He is just as entitled to bad days or just saying no as any of us are." She reminds you. "He didn't owe me an answer. Would it have been polite? Yeah, but I also didn't have to walk up asking him for anything."

"I don't understand how you can be so forgiving." You shake your head, finally taking back your phone and closing the app to shove it into your pants pocket. "I hope the closest we ever get to that man is three feet on a sidewalk ten years ago."

“I don’t think you should just ignore your soulmate.” Stephanie murmurs quietly, rubbing the hand where her own soulmate mark, some dumb little tattoo that Shawn had gotten, a little star, had disappeared when he died. She had only gotten it replaced, duplicated on her skin, just after last Christmas. The money was a gift from her parents in Shawn’s memory.

"Well, I'm not entering some stupid contest." That isn't up for debate. Not even for a second. "If he wants to do a Prince Charming tour of southern California and show up on every single doorstep with a shoe and a sob story, maybe I'll actually look him in the eye and say 'no' to his face."

"Would you really?" She huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. "I honestly think you enjoy disliking your soulmate."

Grumbling slightly in indignation, you drain the rest of the wine in your glass in one go and pour a whole new one. "If your soulmate was Dieter fudging Bravo, you'd dislike it, too."

"I don't know." Steph shoots you a grin. "He is kind of hot. In that messy kind of way. Plus, I've heard he's great in bed."

"Oh gross." The gagging noise you make is animated just like the way you shudder in your seat. "Forty-something is too old to be relying on the messy-artists-are-sexy trope. And I want to know how much those girls were paid to sing his praises." Many - many - years ago the two of you had swooned over a younger Dieter Bravo in fan magazines, but those years are far behind you.

She smirks over her wine glass and hums. "It wasn't a girl that was spilling the tea." She doesn't completely believe your stance on your soulmate. You protest too much for it to be true loathing. Always wondering if you were scared of 'Dieter - fucking - Bravo' being your soulmate. Afraid that you wouldn't be enough for the eccentric star.

"Whoever they were, I'm sure they were compensated amply for their positive statement." You slump in your seat, arms crossed while you sip your wine with a scowl. "There is nothing he or I could possibly do for each other to make each other happy. End of story. So I have no interest." It's what you've told yourself for ten years and you'll be damned if you're going to let that philosophy go by the wayside now. Not when you have a career you've worked for and your family to help take care of. You wouldn't let God themselves get in the way of that.

"Whatever you say. " She's learned over the nearly twenty years as your best friend, that sometimes the easiest thing was to let something drop. You had a tendency to dig your heels in and held a grudge like no other. "I'm sure that he will be wrapped around some young starlet soon enough."

"Which is a whole other reason to pay this Mate Marks publicity stunt absolutely no mind." The decision is made in your mind, and that is that. You've gone your entire life with only your closest friends and family knowing the truth about your soulmate. There is no need for anyone else to ever know.

______

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[littleperilstories]

The Prince of Thieves: Every Man Must Choose His Way

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03! | Playlist | Story Intro

Warnings: Gunshot wound, stitches, angst

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Word count: 3189 || Approx reading time: 13 mins

Every Man Must Choose His Way

Teaser: At my gasp—pain is ripping through my entire goddamn abdomen—Bree Cooper jerks awake in the chair where she was dozing. For a moment, I do not know where I am or why everything hurts or what happened that led up to this moment.

Jamie

When Will and I were kids, things were easy and soft, even when they weren’t. He was always pissing someone off, and yet miraculously he always seemed to worm his way out of things, and sometimes he even managed to get what he wanted. Including the time he came home with the dog.

“You can’t keep it,” I remember telling him. “Joe will kill you.” I liked to think of myself as the man of the house back then, when Dad was away building the new railroad along the stretch of coast that would eventually become his tomb. And I knew our landlord Joe wouldn’t be happy if we suddenly had a dog yelping into the deep hours of the night.

That was how it always was: Will did something silly, and I tried to talk him out of it.

He turned his ridiculous eyes to me with a mournful expression that so perfectly matched the puppy he was clutching in his arms that suddenly I forgot all the reasons we couldn’t keep a dog.

Just as I can still hear my time-misted voice, so stern and childish at once, telling him to take it back where he found it, I can still see, too, the look on his face when I went back on my refusal. “Fine,” I said, “but that mutt is yours. You need to take care of it.”

“She’s not a mutt,” he insisted. “She’s perfect.”

She was—which was less than true about the next puppy he brought home a few days later.

“Don’t even think about it!” I had no idea where he was even finding those beasts, and I never found out.

“Jamie, look at her!”

Some cursed compulsion had me stretching out my hand to stroke the dog’s silky ears.  She took one look at me, sank her little puppy teeth into my thumb, and we were inseparable for years.

If Will was chaos, his pup was calm. If I was reason, then my dog was pure bedlam.

“I’ll never understand why you chose that one,” Ma said. It was a few months before she died. Her eyes were still clear, body failing but her mind still with us. I think I was nursing a new scratch along my arm, cursing and swearing while the damn creature sat on her haunches looking at me with a look of innocence on her deceptive goddamn little face.

“Neither do I,” I grumbled, pressing a mass of cotton to my arm to soak up the blood. But I knew—and Ma did, too—that if anything had happened to her, I would have fallen apart.

Ma blinked and smiled and puckered her lips at my little mutt as if to kiss her. The dog growled back.

When I open my eyes, Ma is gone, and so are the dogs. So is Will.

At my gasp—pain is ripping through my entire goddamn abdomen—Bree Cooper jerks awake in the chair where she was dozing. For a moment, I do not know where I am or why everything hurts or what happened that led up to this moment.

Fuck.

“How are you…” Bree’s words trail off when I try to shift. “Wait. Wait for Allan. Don’t pull on the—”

The wound.

God, I took a fucking musket ball in my side.

Allan. I can dimly conjure his image, though he doesn’t seem to be in the room now. Earlier, I woke up with rain pelting me in the face, and he was there, soaked through and perfectly calm, giving Bree Cooper quiet instructions as if he’d been born to patch up torn flesh in the mud.

“Will,” I manage. God, I sound rough. “Is he… Did he…” I remember gasping at her in the mud, feeling the sickening mix of icy rain and blood gushing hot against my skin. He got out. “He did get away, right?”

Bree nods. “With Geoff.”

“Hurt?” She shakes her head. “Both of them?”

“They were both all right, I think.”

Although it seems like she’s about to say something, she cuts herself off when someone else enters—the mysterious Allan, I suppose.

“Hello.” He pauses next to me, and I realize I’m sprawled not on a bed but on a table. “I’m pleased to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Like I got shot? Instead of answering, I say, “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Allan. I’m the med—” He stops. “I’m a doctor. I’ve done my best to patch up that wound in your side.”

“Where the hell did you come from?” Bree and Allan exchange a glance that appears almost wary, and I wonder what the fuck I missed while I was bleeding and unconscious. When no one responds, I ask, “Why are you helping us?”

Again, that long pause.

“I just got out of training,” says Allan, and I’ll take it, even though that doesn’t answer the question. “Wrote my exam a few weeks ago. Took the first job I was offered—for the constabulary.” The moment he sees me trying to jerk upright, he presses a hand to my shoulder. It’s embarrassing how little pressure it takes to push me back down. “I do not work for them anymore.”

“I don’t understand.” Pressure is building in my chest, panic, fuck, it’s getting harder to breathe.

“I’ve seen how they… What they’re like behind closed doors.” He glances at Bree and her cuts. “I cannot respect them. I certainly can’t work for them.”

 Slogging through everything he’s said, I ask, “You met Will?”

“Briefly, yes.”

“Was he hurt bad?”

“Not as badly as before they hired me, from what I understand.” At this, Bree turns her head away. The only one who knows just how bad it was before.

“How do I know we can trust you?” I don’t think I’ll be able to take it if he says, You don’t.

He absently reaches into what I assume is a bag somewhere behind my head, rummaging quietly within. “I tried…” He clears his throat, as if he isn’t sure how to go on. “I tried. To help your brother with what I could. He wouldn’t let me get too close.”

I think of Will on his knees, held down by the constables, looking at me with hollow terror in his eyes.

“And I don’t blame him.” Allan shudders. “He looked at me with such…” The thought ends abruptly, and he stops fiddling with whatever is in his bag. “I saw the way the constables treated him and everyone else in there. I don’t blame him for not trusting me.”

Somewhere in the distance, I can hear other voices, footsteps, the clattering of pots and pans, the scraping of chairs. Must be some sort of boardinghouse where he lives. A regular house, out in the real world, not the one we made for ourselves through IA, just people going about their lives, unbothered by constables and the back-breaking terror of living on the edge every single day. What would be different if I had worked harder to catch that kind of future in my hands rather than grasping the one I did? How would Will’s life have turned out? Who would he—we—be instead?

“I think he might’ve tried to bite me if he got the chance.” The corners of Allan’s mouth twitch, so I can tell he’s trying to be funny, and I know I should be pissed off at the joke. But I’m so tired, and everything hurts like hell, and if I’m being honest, he’s probably right. Grudgingly, I mutter as much out loud.

“I’m sorry for leaving you on the table like this.” Allan gestures to my less-than-comfortable bedding. “I didn’t want to risk moving you. You lost a lot of blood with all the moving around earlier.”

“I don’t care.” Hell, does he think I haven’t slept on a hard floor before? It’s not much different. “Is it bad?”

He tips his head from side to side, as if he’s deciding how to answer. “The musket ball wasn’t lodged in there, but still—it’s worse than that,” he says, nodding towards Bree, and for the first time I notice the bandage around her upper arm. “I’ll need to watch carefully for infection. Black powder is… Well, it can be nasty.”

“It didn’t hurt when I fell.” I frown as I try to remember. “Not really.”

“Well, it will if it becomes infected.” Allan peers down at the bandages on my side. “I’d prefer not to disturb those just yet. How is your pain now?”

“Unpleasant.”

That gets tight smiles out of both of him and Bree. “I mean, how strong is your pain at the moment?”

“Unpleasantly strong.”

Nodding, sighing softly, Allan steps back and glances around the room. “Would you prefer to stay where you are, or try to shift to the bed?”

I don’t have to waste much energy on that question; the thought of moving anywhere is nauseating. “I’ll stay.”

A memory drifts to mind—Will sprawled on a table just like I am now, bandages around his abdomen, too. “Gonna have a scar to match Will’s.”

Bree murmurs, “I think I saw that scar. What happened?”

“He jumped into a fight about two years ago.” Thinking of it still makes my insides shrivel. “Being chivalrous. Helping some girl. In a fucking snowstorm, no less.”

Helping some girl he didn’t know. Unbidden, the image of him during the trade invades my thoughts again. For all his faults, when he wants to, Will can be selfless. He’s good. Yet they made him suffer… Again and again, they hurt him…

So lost in this spiral, I miss the look on Bree’s face until Allan prods her gently, “What’s the matter?”

“A—A fight?” She looks stricken. “What happened? How’d he—”

“Stabbed. Don’t know much else.” I don’t know why she cares so much about something that happened years ago. “He was always cagey on the details.”

She’s got her hand pressed to her mouth. I take another few moments to realize she’s holding back tears. “I didn’t know he was hurt so badly that night.”

“Why would you have kn…” I stop, realizing what she’s saying. For fuck’s sake, the universe is cruel—it likes to play tricks—but this is too much. “It was you?”

My memory of that night: whipping wind and a stolen kiss. Colette’s tangled skirts and Will’s bloody shirt. Terror we might never find him, and spilled-over anger when we finally did.

Even though Will told us why he got a knife in his gut that night, I never thought much about the other character in the story, the one I never saw.

“I didn’t know,” she says, slightly frantic, “I really didn’t, I never would have just walked away if I had known—”

Allan is glancing between us, brows furrowed. “I can see we’re getting distressed here,” he interrupts, “although I’m not entirely sure why. I’m going to go to the kitchen and heat some water. Make some tea. Get some broth going.” To me, he says, “No getting up.” To her, the command is, “Don’t let him get up, and no more upsetting stories, if you please.”

I’m certain this bluntness will make her cry for real, but Bree laughs hollowly. “No promises.”

“Hmm. I mean it.” He disappears.

After a moment, Bree says, “He’s an…interesting fellow.” She’s completely abandoned the previous thread of conversation, per Allan’s instructions, but her voice still quivers.

I watch the doorway through which he vanished. “Do you think we should be trusting him like this?” It’s a question I’d normally ask Colette. But Colette isn’t here.

Bree waits a moment to answer. “He sent the constables in the wrong direction. Pointed them away from where you fell. Do you remember?” I shake my head. “And he helped you anyway even after I tried to throw a rock at his head.”

The laugh this draws out of me sends a wave of fire through my side. “Tried?”

“I missed.” She points toward the bandage on her arm.

The lure of sleep is dangling over me, trying to pull me into its warm embrace—alluring in its promise to dull the pain at least for a while. The prospect of tea, however, is enticing, even if it won’t be as good as Geoff’s. “Maybe it’s a good thing you did.”

She nods.

Silence falls between us. Sleep pulls a little harder on my mind, and her gaze is far away, thoughts apparently completely elsewhere. But there’s something I need to say before I fall asleep.

“You…” My voice draws back her attention. “You came back for me.”

She doesn’t meet my gaze.

“Thank you,” I say, “for—for running back. I think you might have—”

“I did it for Will,” she says, cutting me off. “He… He would have run back himself. If Geoff had let him.” She blinks rapidly, and I know she’s holding back tears. “After everything, he would have run back anyway. For you.”

I close my eyes against her gaze, where I see the simmering anger I know I deserve. Will was arrested in my place, was tortured trying to protect me, and only didn’t throw himself back into the arms of constables because Bree risked it for him instead.

“I’m sorry,” I say. She, too, suffered. “I—”

“And I know what you did,” she says, every word rushed, as if she can’t stop them now from spilling out, “sending that message. To the constables. Trying to trade yourself for Will.” When I open my eyes, I catch the last moment of her wiping a tear from her cheek. “And that…. That was… It was courageous. And selfless. But then—but lying to everyone about it—and then guilting everyone else about lying to you.” Her cheeks turn red. “That wasn’t.”

Shit.

“So…” I barely know her, and I shouldn’t care what she thinks, and yet… “I didn’t do it for you. It was for him.”

I want to say something, but when I open my mouth, I realize I have nothing to say.

“I didn’t say anything. You tell them yourself.” She still won’t look at me. “So you better not fucking die. Because if you do, it’ll kill Will, too.” She turns away.

“Thank you, anyway,” I say again, not know how else to respond. I think it comes out in a stutter. “For saving my life.”

“I didn’t.” Her fingers flutter against the bandage on her arm. The sleeve of her shirt—my old shirt—is cut just above the cotton, a faint line of rusty brown staining the fraying threads. “He did.”

Heavy silence hits again, and I let it crush me.

I’m about to drift off into what will surely be nightmares when there’s a crash and a yelp from the other room.

“What the—” Allan’s voice bursts into more of a choke.

Someone else is in there with him.

Fuck.

Bree leaps to her feet, paling. Where did they come from? The front door is in this room, which means they got into the kitchen through the—

“I have some questions,” a familiar voice says, “and you’re going to answer them for me. Now.”

I don’t need anything more to know who’s in there, or what the hell she’s doing.

“Colette! Put the knife down!” At my words, Bree’s face goes from stricken to astonished. “I’m in here!”

“Jamie?”

A scuffling sound—a sharp intake of air—footsteps—and then Colette torrents in.

“Oh, god.” She’s here, alive, she’s all right, gripping my hands tightly enough to hurt. “I was so scared you were dead.”

“Well, you know,” I say, so relieved I’d be laughing if I didn’t think it would split my side right open. “Almost.”

Allan hovers in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand pressed against the side of his neck. “You all have very interesting ways of getting to know people. Violent. Perhaps unnecessarily so.”

Colette glares at him, the daggers in her eyes sharper than the one in her hand. “Allan Armstrong Dale, huh?”

Coughing in a way that sounds suspiciously like it’s covering a laugh, Bree takes over the explanation, which I’m grateful for.

“If you’re a turncoat,” Colette says once she’s heard the story, glancing around Allan’s apartment, “coming back here probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Won’t they come looking for you?”

With a gulp, he says, “I didn’t think of that.” Pacing around a little, Allan goes on, “Maybe they think I’m dead?” After a few moments, we realize he’s musing, mumbling to himself more than us. “Well… I suppose I wasn’t supposed to be there, so perhaps not…”

“Jamie,” Colette says, talking over his muttering, “you can’t stay here. Will is going to lose his mind if he doesn’t know you’re all right.”

I wince. “How is he?”

Her fingers squeeze mine again. “As fine as can be, but I’m scared he’ll go looking for you and end up getting arrested again.”

Just like Bree said.

The very thought of moving is a torment, but I have no choice. “All right. Where did you go?”

She hesitates—actually stumbles over her words. “We’re—Well—” She takes a deep breath. “They’re with my family.”

Hearing that is like taking another musket ball. “What?”

“I left them with my family.”

“You have a family?”

“Obviously I—”

“You have a family who’s still alive?”

Huffing a sigh, she drops my hands. “Yes. And I don’t feel like talking about it because—”

“In six years, you never said a damn thing!”

“Um, can I interrupt?”

We both swing our heads to look at Allan, who is done talking to himself and reapproaching warily. “Might I suggest that it’s hardly the time to be having this argument?” He points to me. “You’re going to exhaust yourself even more and I’d really prefer not to redo your stitches if I don’t have to.”

“Fine. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” Colette folds her arms. “He can’t stay here.” Glaring at him, she adds, “He’s coming with us.”

“No.” For the first time, Allan’s voice turns harsh. “Are you mad? Look at him. He needs rest.”

“Then I’ll…” Colette bites her lip. “I’ll send a carriage.”

A rich family who’s still alive, apparently.

With a sigh, she says to Bree and Allan, “It’ll be crowded, I suppose, but it’s best if you come along, too. Unless you have somewhere safe to go.”

Allan frowns as if he isn’t sure.

“May as well,” Colette says, impatience colouring her voice. “If you’re in it, you’re in it. One of us now.”

“I wouldn’t go that f—”

Ignoring him again, Colette says, “Don’t you dare die, Jamie. Will and Geoff are waiting for you.”

Mostly through the conversation, Bree has been silent. Now she glances at me with sharpness—and sadness—in her eyes. “He won’t.”

With a tight smile, Colette presses a kiss against the top of my head, a rare and unexpected show of affection. “Good. Now take your rest. I’ll be back for you. Soon.”

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles, @whither-wander-whump 💕

#lps the prince of thieves #whump #dungeon whump #whump writing #whump story #whump fiction #original fiction #original writing #original story #original content #whumpblr #whump community #writeblr #lps-writes #oc Bree Cooper #oc Will Wardrew #oc Baden Hatchett #oc Jamie Wardrew #oc Colette Haris #oc whump #Gunshot wound #stitches #angst

[slashingdisneypasta]

Human!Freddy Krueger x Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: What The Fuck Now, Freddy!?

Notes:

This is not inherently romantic, at all. Or sexual. Just... Freddy being a bastard, and you are caught in the crosshairs- and are forever linked with him because of it.

I've been listening to Lizzie, a lot lately- and this is inspired by 'What The Fuck Now, Lizzie!?'

Also- I'm thinking this will have a part 2. Due to the ending not being quite enough. Maybe a part for the court proceedings!

Plot: Many will know the story of that terrible day Krueger essentially snapped- killing his wife, Loretta Krueger. She saw the basement, they say, and he didn't like that. Their daughter saw the whole thing and suffered a traumatic response to seeing the sight of her mother, strangled to death, by her father- and forgot the whole thing.

But if she were to remember something, one day.

She may remember something no one knows about that day, aside from Freddy himself.

She may remember, that someone else was there.

She may remember you.

//

Alternatively- you're being blackmailed by Freddy who found out you, another supposedly Plain Jane in Loretta's 'mothers club', is cheating on your husband and calls you up to help deal with the mess he made. Because who else did he have?

Warnings: Okay lemme see, its basically a potluck of triggers. Hm. Murder, swearing, cheating (You, on your husband. Not with Freddy), getting rid of a body, a child gets traumatised (Obviously, Kathy/Maggie), Freddy himself, mention of the basement and all that entails, reader with a very questionable moral compass. Look, I think if you can watch Freddy's Dead, you're good here.

I'm just heading out the door, to go grocery shopping - or, at least, that's the story I tell my husband. When really I don't do the grocery shop until the day after tomorrow. He never notices... - when the phone rings. By very nearly tripping over my feet in my endeavour to catch it before the ringing stops, I manage pick up the phone with very little injury besides an achy, slightly twisted ankle. "Hi! Hi, sorry, I'm here. Hello?"

Pouting, I sit down at the kitchen table; Rubbing my poor ankle to sooth the pain, which would soon diminish anyway. Still- I'm sorry, ankle. I'll try to chill.

When the voice on the other end reveals who it is who's called the house, I lose all need to be pleasant. Damn. I really need to memorise this goddamn number... so I can not answer it. "Whatcha wearin'?"

"Thank god Harrison didn't answer this, you fuck." I deeply roll my eyes. Thank god Har's out. No, this is not my mister, not the man I was going to meet just now- but its bad, enough. In an entirely different way. Its stupid, blackmailing, son of a... hundred maniacs. "What do you want?"

"What a way to answer the phone, Y/N. Gee, seems like every time I we talk, I'm learning how you really aren't in the right place, are you? Cheating on your poor husband, swearing... These aren't really signs of the perfect suburban house wife, is it?" Gritting my teeth, I keep from lashing out. I've learned, if you stay real quiet, Freddy wont have anything to pull from and will get bored quick. "Why so silent, hm?"

"... " Oh, fuck me. I cant help it. "Wondering where you get off judging me on being 'suburban', actually."

"Anywhere I like, thanks."

Oh... oh. Gross?

He doesn't see the disgust tearing my face into two perfect halves right now, but my silence must be enough as he laughs. The sound is directly into the phone, and harsh on my poor eardrums. Ugh... "Oh for gods sake... What are we? Fourteen years old?? Come on- why'd you call?"

"Uhhhh... " Quickly, midway through that drawn out 'um' sound, Freddy's voice transitions, and gets a whole lot darker. Something deep in his chest dislodging, to make it so. Perhaps, his heart. "Well... you might wanna come and see for yourself."

"Uh, I don't think so. I have somewhere to be right now- "

"Oh well you don't, anymore." And its clear what he isn't saying- or else I'll tell Harrison about Carter and set your life on fire. "Tell your boy toy you're takin' a reign check for the day. I think you'll last. In fact... after you come over here, you might be out of the game for a couple a hours at least- maybe days."

Hold on, hold on Freddy what the fuck- "What!?"

"... Believe it or not, I didn't actually mean for that one."

Moron.

~

Nevertheless, no matter how just... off setting, Freddy is, I had to when he asked. I had to jump when he said so.

Because if not, then he would tear my life apart.

So here I am, about to knock on that big red door he lives behind, wondering what I'm walking into. Where's Loretta? Where's Kathy? How long will the visit be? I told Carter I'd be an hour or two late- any longer and I wont see him at all today. Which would absolutely suck.

Just after my knuckles come down on the wood the first time, a hand comes down on my shoulder and I immediately jump out of my skin... then slowly look around.

There's Freddy, a cheeky grin on his face. It does nothing to set my nerves at ease. "Ugh... Why are you out here?"

"We're going to the backyard. Lets go." Taking me by the shoulders, he marches me around the side of the house, instead of through it for some reason, and into the familiar backyard. I've been here numerous times, as Loretta likes to hold our club meetings here - Barbecue's, tea's... that sort of thing. Just to let the kids play together and so the adults can enjoy some adult conversation. Its a nice yard... but depending on what her horrid husband is about to show me, it may not be considered as such anymore... - , but I'm now starting to develop a sick feeling in my stomach.

Honestly- I don't know much about Freddy at all. Yes, I went to school with him, but that doesn't mean much when he was a freaky loner kid the whole time. I remember he killed the class hamster once- that's about the only splash he ever made in the news pool; But it definitely stuck.

Yes, Loretta cleaned up his image a fair bit since getting married, but now he's blackmailing me, and as far as I know I'm now alone with him.

Suspicious of him suddenly, I slip out of his grip with a dirty look flashed his way. Don't touch me.

He just rolls his eyes, leading me around some hedges.

And then everything stops.

Him, me, the air; The air around me, the breeze, the breath in my throat.

There lays Loretta, on the ground. If I was really really naïve, I could imagine she were sleeping... or passed out, at least, due to the way she's sprawled out. No one would lay down like that willingly.

But... her eyes are open.

For a moment I'm tempted to kneel down; Take a closer look. Find out how, myself. Is she bleeding anywhere that I cant see now? Are her lips turning blue? If I moved some short red hair out of the way- would their be marks on her neck yet?

But then I come to my senses...

And freak. The fuck. O u t.

"What, the fuck, did you do!?" I whip around, looking at Freddy now which entirely new eyes. I mean, before I sure wasn't fond- but now I'm filled with something new, looking at him. Something a lot worse, something that makes me want to run. Run, and hide, and stay there.

And all these, even though he hasn't really changed. He still wears a mischievous smirk, stony blue eyes eating up my reactions... like always. But this time its just so so much worse. "Made some dead weight- now you're gonna help me get rid of it. So!" Finally, though its been only a matter of seconds, he turns his gaze off of me and I'm glad. That gaze is far too heavy. "Ideas?"

Only for a moment am I lost for words, struggling to push anything out. "I... I'm sorry??"

His gaze returns to mine, but this time my eyes are hard as his are dark. "Help. Me. Get rid of her. Fucking. Body. Or do you want your dirty laundry aired for the whole community to hear?"

Before I can help myself, I let out a sharp laugh, only succeeding in making Freddy's scowl deeper. "Freddy- this secret's a lot bigger, then mine. Sure, I might get divorced- but you're going to prison!" Does he get that? He's g o i n g to j a i l. Crossing my arms, I try to avoid looking at my ex-friend's body. I cant. "I'm sure as hell not gonna be in there with you, for being an accomplice."

I really cant look at her... I can only focus on Freddy. And that takes a lot of energy- its taking everything in me, in fact. Everything I have. But I have to. If its him or her, there's no choice.

But... then a creepy smile spreads across his face- a vast polarity to the frustrated glower of before. It makes my blood run cold.

"Ohhhh..." He looks almost ferocious, even in his composed state. Like a monster. Like any moment a fanged, inhuman creature is going to burst out of him and I'm going to wake up, and this will have been a nightmare. A horrible nightmare. The kind where that creature haunts me for a long time, after its over. After this over.

He's going to haunt me.

"You must think this is my first time... " My heart turns to ice, mouth hanging a little open... what the fuck have I found myself a part of!? Suddenly all the children's disappearances on the news lately come to the forefront of my brain... "Sweetheart, give a man his dues. I'm a hard working kinda guy... " I watch his gaze flicker to a door - the back door? No... The basement door, - and when a filthy smirk pulls at his mouth, my heart flies up into my throat. God, it makes me feel sick. I want to be violently ill. "My first was my adoptive Dad... pretty sick, huh?"

The fact that he didn't say anything about the basement, makes my imagination go wild. I swallow it down, though.

I just need to get out of here, and never think about this again.

And to do that I need to help Freddy get rid of this goddamn body- and... probably... testify at court... As the panic starts to finally rise up in my, right up to fill my throat, I immediately take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Okay... " No time to freak out. Now's the time for action.

Gaze flickering to Loretta again, I try to acclimatise to the sight. I think its a lost cause, though. "How did you get rid of him? Your Dad?"

"No, that's not gonna work. He was a drunk dead beat, and I just had to tell the police some guy's he owed money to came over to the house." Freddy grins happily at the memory, but then just as quickly, scowls at his poor deceased wife's body- that certainly cant fight back. I just tack this onto the long list of reasons I hate him. "Lore's such a goddamn goody goody- we cant do the same thing. You don't think I woulda thought of that??"

"Hey." I snap, hands braced on my hips as I flash a glare his way. "This is not the time to get defensive!"

"Whatever... "

Then- suddenly, something occurs to me. Confused, I look around; A deeply horrified feeling disturbing my stomach. "Hold on... Where's your daughter?" Seeing no sign of her anywhere, I definitely start to panic again- especially when I look to Freddy and just see a pert look in his eyes as he looks back at me, a smile that strikes something horrid inside me. My eyes narrow. "You sick fuck- where the fuck is she!??"

"Under the bed."

"What the fuck does that mean!?" I exclaim, frustrated and freaking out. He did not- he did not! Killing your spouse is one thing, but the kid?? Your own kid??

I don't wait around for him to be cryptic some more, and rush right into the house to look for her. Under the bed, under the bed, under the fucking bed...? Which fucking bed!? Forcing ferocity out of my voice, I carefully call out to Kathy. Hoping to god she answers. I try to sound normal. Maybe a little bit cheerful; Excited.

But my voice wobbles.

"Kathy?? Sweetheart, its Y/N! Are you hiding? I have something for you... " ?? You have something for her, Y/N?? God... now you have to figure out some kind of treat.

You know what? Whatever. We'll figure that out later.

Lets just hope we aren't searching for a corpse. I'd definitely be sick, seeing a child... the way Loretta is...

Shaking my head and clenching my fists, I try to focus on Kathy.

I check under the bed in the guest room because it comes into view first and she isn't there, then her bedroom and she isn't there either... and get a sick feeling as soon as I enter the last bedroom. Freddy's and Loretta's.

God, I've never been in here before but its like a museum peace now. A horrible one. Like if you would walk into the Titanic... or the Borden house.

"Kathy? You in here?" Flicking on the light I kneel down on the ground, and check under the bed.

And something immediately crashes over me, as the sight of her covering her eyes down there. It isn't exactly relief, because this whole situation is still phenomenally fucked up for her, but I am selfishly glad to not have to see her body... crumpled, just like her mother.

"Hey sweetheart," My voice quivers slightly now, but I quickly swallow. No. No. Now, you must be strong Y/N. "Its just me. Your Daddy was looking for you, and couldn't find you! It got him worried!"

"I... I don't wanna see Daddy. He hurt Mommy." Kathy doesn't remove her hands from her face, and stays firmly by the wall- too far away for anyone to grab. My heart sinks.

Slowly straightening up again, I try to take that piece of information in. Turning to the doorway, I see Freddy there. he must have followed me. I didn't even notice. Slowly, and quietly ferociously, I say; "She saw?!"

He has the good sense to look embarrassed, even if it is just to make fun of me. "It was spur of the moment... " He shrugs. "I didn't have time to get a babysitter!"

What a fucking excuse. For gods sake.

I'm definitely dealing with a psycho- if that was even a question before now.

Swiftly, I look down under the bed again, because I'm afraid that if I continue to engage with him- I'll scream, and I'll lose my breath, and I'll scare Kathy even more. She's at the forefront of my mind; That's all I can think about.

But what to do with her after I get her out from under this bed, I don't know. I cant give her back to her father... but I cant hand her over to the police either because that would involve telling them about Loretta, and... Freddy will definitely kill me, for that.

This is a nightmare of a situation.

I'm just opening my mouth to say something - what, I don't know yet, - when she speaks, instead. "Is he there?"

"... Yes." I wont lie to her; That would be treating her with not nearly as much respect as she deserves.

When she takes a deep breath and rubs her eyes, as if just trying to keep herself together, my heart clenches. God... and to think I might not have picks up Freddy's call today. I would have been leaving her with this. For the first time today, I'm morbidly glad I came.

She speaks in that loud, hissy way that kids think is a whisper. "Can he... can you please make him go away?"

Immediately I straighten back up and look to Freddy again, my eyebrows raised halfway up my forehead. Like well? "Get out."

"I don't think you're in a position to make demands here, bi- "

"Do you want Kathy to live down there now!??" I snap, trying not to be scared. Not really feeling scared, actually. Just happy to have a reason to tell him to get the hell away from me.

A deep frown creases his mouth, deeply unhappy about the situation, but steps back. I only hear him step out of the way of the door, but its good enough. Quickly, I get up and close the door - fighting with myself not to slam it, - and lock it.

Then I return to the floor, and see this time Kathy has uncovered her eyes. She looks so small, smaller then she actually is, and she looks like she's shaking. Little red bows and piggy tails in her hair are messy from crawling under the bed. "He's gone, sweetheart. And I locked the door."

She just nods, so I take the silence as a chance to offer my hand to her. "Take my hand, sweetie? Come on out from under the bed. Its cold down there, and no one wants you getting sick." I need to upkeep the family friend bit, I need to sound caring and collected. I need her to trust me.

Her big eyes, not Loretta's colour or Freddy's, look nervous as hell. And she shakes her head.

Taking a deep breath, and I conjure all the sincerity as I can. And mean it. My eyes soften and I try really hard, to resent myself as someone trustworthy- which is hard, seeing as I've never really been that. I mean, I'm cheating on my husband. I told Carter today the same lie I told Harrison when i knew I was going to be late. The only person I think who knows the truth behind all my lies is Freddy. That says something about a person, that the only person who knows them is a psychopath.

But I want to, I need to, be good for this little girl. And there's no time for me turn my life around so it has to start with this. How fucked is that?

"... I promise, I'll take care of you. He wont hurt you."

After a few whole minutes, in which I stay silent because yes she's a child, but she's still thinking, she crawls over and takes my hand, letting me lead her out. Crawling into my lap as I cross my legs under her, she buries her face in my shirt- hiding. "You promise?"

Taking a deep breath, because I've really done it now, I offer my pinky for her to see if she turned her head. I know Freddy's listening to all of this through the wall, but I try not to freak out. "Pinky swear?"

"Pinky swear." She peaks out from my shirt, and curls her little finger around mine. Okay... "Y/N... I'm scared."

"Yeah... Me too, sweetie."

What am I going to do?

#Freddy Krueger x Fem!Reader #Freddy Krueger x Reader #Slashers #Slashers x Reader #Fem Reader #Freddy Krueger #Loretta Krueger #Katherine Krueger #Kathrine Krueger #Maggie Burroughs #Oneshot #Freddy Krueger x Reader Oneshot

[local-spoon-does-a-thing]

Found (Part 2/2)

[(Bayverse) Optimus Prime x Reader]

A/N: Woooo it’s finished! This part is going to mostly be about Optimus and Reader interacting. Hope you enjoy!

You can find the first part here!

Summary: You and Optimus Prime have a conversation under the starry night sky.

Soon enough, it was time to sleep and recharge. As the Autobots went into their alternate forms to recharge, your footsteps automatically led you to Bumblebee’s vehicle form as you had slept inside there for the past few years. Just as you opened the car door and sat down on the front seat, you were suddenly ejected out and had landed against the hard, rocky ground. You let out a small growl and turned around, only to witness Bee letting Cade, Tessa, and Shane entering inside. Oh, so they were allowed to sleep there but not you? Your eye twitched with annoyance but before you could call him out, Bee’s radio suddenly turned on.

“Turn around, bright eyes~” You knew the song all too well as it was the classic song, Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler.

You listened to the lyric that was played and whipped your head behind you. Optimus was in his truck form, his door open for you. Ohhh, right. You’ve forgotten that he was going to speak with you later. Seems like “later” was right now. Letting out a tired sigh, you were hesitating to walk to him. The nervousness drowned you once more like it had earlier. You still couldn’t figure out why you were nervous. Were you worried that you had lost your place in his spark? No, that was ridiculous. Why would he? It seemed like you were waiting for too long since Bumblebee turned on the radio once more and another old classic song played.

“Listen to your heart

When he’s calling for you.

Listen to your heart

There’s nothing else you can do.

I don’t know where you’re going

And I don’t know why,

But listen to your heart

Before you tell him goodbye.”

You looked back and glared at the sneaky little car, narrowing your eyes at him before walking to Optimus. As you got inside, a strong sense of nostalgia hit you like a truck. You remembered all the times that you would sleep, talk, and drive in here. Like the gentlebot he was, Optimus gently shut the door for you while you made yourself comfortable for one last time. Neither of you said a word. What were you supposed to say to someone you haven’t seen for a long while? A generic “hey” or “hello” was too lame and awkward. Damn it all, why did this have to be more complicated than it needed to be?

“[Y/N],” The old Bot spoke, “There are many things I wish to talk to you about, but it would take time, and unfortunately for us; time is the one thing we no longer have.” You remained silent, not knowing how to respond to that. Optimus was expecting something to be said from you but after a moment, he continued. “You are silent. That is unlike you. Is there nothing you would like to tell me?”

That was far from the truth. Like he wished to, you as well wanted to talk about many, many things. But you had a feeling that if you were to even try to get a word out, everything would just spill and flow out like a waterfall. Overwhelming emotions would just be thrown back and forth, incoherent words would spit out. You wouldn’t know how to deal with it and you doubted that Optimus would know.

“That...that’s not true. That’s not true and you know that.” You felt your throat start to clog up and tighten. Your eyes stung as tears threatened to fall. Damn it, now wasn’t the time to break down. It wasn’t your fault for feeling this way, you knew that. But if this was going to be your last time together with him, you didn’t spend the whole time crying your eyes out. The night could only go for so long and you hated it.

“I...I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say first. I’ve always dreamed and imagined what I would do if I ever get to see you again. I thought that I would be excited and we would just talk about what’s been happening and what changed. But now, I’m...nervous? Scared?” You sighed. This wasn’t going like how you wanted it to plan. “I don’t know what I’m feeling. But I do know that I don’t want to lose you again. The last 5 years were torture to me. We...we lost Sam to the damn corrupt organization. I was forced to leave my home since Bee and the others weren’t the only ones being hunted down. I missed you, Ratchet, ‘Hide, Sam- and I don’t even know if my parents are still alive! I don’t- I don’t understand! I can’t understand anything!”

By now, the tears were pouring out. Each word took your breath away and you began rambling about how everything had broken you. Your sharp inhales turned into shaky sobs. You buried your face into the palms of your hands as you just couldn’t stop crying. Your whole world was spinning and turning upside down and you couldn’t take it-

“[Y/N], stop. Breathe. You need to breathe.” His voice was finally heard. Optimus had tried calling out to your name multiple times, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t hear him. Once your rambling had discontinued, he took a couple of seconds to gather his thoughts before speaking again.

“I understand that you have gone through a lot, I truly do, and you are not the only one who has felt this way. There has not been a single day gone by where I do not worry about you. If I had only known that this would happen...I wouldn’t have run away. I would’ve done everything in my power to protect you.” He told you. His soothing voice managed to help you calm your breathing and you continued to listen to what he had to say. “When this is over, I can't promise that your life will be able to go back to normal. But I can promise that I do not plan on leaving you any time soon. And if for some reason that does happen, I will find my way back to you. No matter how long it takes.”

And you knew that whenever Optimus makes a promise, he never breaks it. Every word that he said held meaning in them. You lifted your head and looked at the radio. Your eyes were red and puffy from all the crying, which you still had yet to stop, your face was slightly pink, and your hands were soaked from the tears. You haven’t even noticed that you’ve been repressing your emotions until the flood gates had opened.  Goddamn, it felt good to get everything off of your chest. With your breathing being much more stable, you laid your forehead against the steering wheel and closed your eyes as more tears were shed.

“I missed you, Boss Bot.”

“And so have I, Tiny Girl.”

The two of you remained there in comfortable silence, along with your occasional sniffs from your stuffy nose. A couple of minutes have passed by and neither of you said anything. Instead, Optimus adjusted his side-view mirrors slightly upwards towards the sky. It was a clear night sky, no clouds to be seen. The stars have been revealed and they were as clear as daylight. Whenever you had your sleepless nights in the past, you would usually come to him and he would tell you about his home planet, Cybertron. He told you about his glorious moments during the war but made sure not to get too into detail. Perhaps, stargazing one more time shouldn’t hurt.

“I recommend looking out the window, [Y/N]. The stars are clearer than ever.” Optimus said as he rolled down the window.

You opened your eyes and as you looked and poked your head out of the open window. When you turned your head upwards, your eyes widened in astonishment. It had been too long since you looked at the stars since you were too busy trying not to get yourself killed. A graceful smile slowly formed onto your lips and your whole face lit up. At that moment, Optimus saw the bratty little teenager he knew and loved.

“Hey, Optimus? Um, is it ok if you change out of your alternate form? Just for a bit. I want to see you…” Your voice quieted down when your sentence started to drift away.

Optimus didn’t want to accidentally awake the others from their recharge, but the puppy dog eyes he received from you told him to do it. Without another word, he transformed back to his original form as you steadily held onto him, trying not to fall. He kept you sitting on the palm of his hand and looked behind him. Good, no one was awake. Or so he thought. Hound had been awake for most of the time, briefly listening to the conversation between you and the Autobot leader. From what Bumblebee had told him, he knew that you two were close. But actually witnessing the bond you two had from his own eyes; it gave him a warm feeling in his spark. Sure, he displays himself as a bickering wrecker, but he deeply cares for his comrades. And seeing you finally enjoying yourself and being happy made him happy. With peace in mind, he slowly fell into recharge, awaiting for the next day.

Optimus slowly walked away from the camp so he was able to get a bit more privacy with you. He perched you on top of his shoulder and you balanced yourself. As he walked further away, you looked up as the bright moonlight shines upon the two of you. It felt like you were back in your teen years and damn it felt good. Once you two were far enough, he slowly sat down on the dirt floor with a bit of a grunt. He was getting old but not old enough. The weight of everything that had happened, spanning from the war to being hunted down by humans, was starting to take a toll on his body. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve told him that he was starting to act like a tired dad.

You sat down on his shoulder when suddenly, you felt something uncomfortably poking your back. Wincing a bit, you grabbed whatever was making you feel uncomfortable and to your surprise, it was your emergency gun. Throughout the whole day, you’ve forgotten that you kept one. Optimus turned his head towards you and once his optics landed on the gun, he almost flinched away. Let’s just say, despite his massive size, he didn’t like any weapons too close to his head. Also, the image of you holding a gun was something that was too strange for him and he did not like it whatsoever. To him, it was equivalent to giving a 5-year-old a rifle.

“[Y/N]...why do you have a gun?”

You turned to him as your eyes met with his glowing blue ones and a mischievous smile slowly crept onto your face.

“Oh, this old thing? Well, I did manage to steal it from one of the Cemetery Wind soldiers during one of our encounters. I’m pretty much a pro at using guns now.” You boldly said as you twirled it around your finger. 

There goes your inner arrogant self. Unfortunately for you, your little twirling trick almost led to you dropping your gun. You caught in time just as it flew out of your hand. Optimus deadpanned at you and had the urge to roll his optics. Yeap, even when you were in your twenties, you were still somewhat a brat.

“Well then, little pro, I’ll have you know that the safety is off.”

He smirked when he saw the semi-panicked look on your face and went to immediately check it, only to find out that the safety was, in fact, not off and he just wanted to mess around with you. To his amusement, you groaned and whined, almost like you were having a tantrum. A quiet burst of laughter erupted from him and his body slightly shook.

“I know that it is not my business to pry in, but aren’t you too young to be using a weapon as dangerous as that one?” He asked once he had calmed.

“Eh, I’ve grown. I mean, I’m already in my twenties and honestly, I did not expect to spend my early adult life as a fugitive with giant alien mech robots. I guess you can say that I’m no longer little.”

“Perhaps. But you will always be my little one.”

The both of you smiled at each other as you both wished for the night to never end. Then, a recollection of what he said earlier popped into your mind and your sincere smile faded. 

But when I found out who’s behind this, he’s going to die.

“Optimus? Do you really plan on killing the person behind all this chaos? The person who organized Cemetery Wind and KSI...are you really going to kill them? Does that mean you hate humans now?”

Oh no, has he frightened you? Once his face fell, he averted his gaze from you and stared at the dark horizon. Suddenly, he became serious. He had never wanted this; he doubted anyone did. But the humans had forced him into this twisted game and it was either he finally made his move or watched all the people he most cared about die.

“Both Autobots and Decepticons are Cybertronians. Both came from the planet, Cybertron. I fight the Decepticons for a reason, but that does not mean that I hate all Cybertronians. The same goes for your species. I do not hate all humans, but I do hate the humans who forced us to play their little game. If we do not do something about it, you will not be able to return to your parents and we will not be able to gain the peace that we deserve. There can be no winners or losers without a fight. I’m sorry, [Y/N], but this is just the way how things work. If there were any other options, I would’ve taken them.”

You stared at him in awe. He was right. This was a fight for survival, a fight they never wanted to be in. What kind of leader doesn’t lead their team to victory or even try to? The look on your face softened and you slowly stood up. Optimus looked back at you to watch what you were doing, but he was only met with surprise when you pressed your forehead against his. He closed his optics and did his best to reciprocate the kind gesture.

“Well, I’ll have you know that no matter what happens, you’ll always be my favorite Bot. Uh- don’t tell Bee I said that, by the way. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“Duly noted.”

The two of you spent a bit more time together under the stars before he went back to the campsite to recharge, much to your dismay. You protested multiple times even though he kept reminding you that the team had a big mission day tomorrow and that they were leaving early in the morning. He did not want to see you with low energy tomorrow just because you were being stubborn with sleeping. As he gracefully transformed into his vehicle form, you had a not so graceful landing with the seat cushions. Your betraying body forced a yawn to escape and you (badly) covered it up with a fake cough. Of course, that didn’t stop Optimus from saying “told you so.”

“But Optimuuuuussss! I don’t wanna go to sleep!” You whined. “What if I wake up and see that you’re not here? What if you get taken by Cemetery Wind? Or-”

“[Y/N], I assure you that I will very much still be here when you wake up tomorrow. And if by some chance Cemetery Wind does manage to find us, I will wake you up. We have a long day tomorrow. Please get some rest.”

You didn’t say anything else and continued to sit there, staring down at your lap. The night had gone by too soon for your liking. Despite Optimus’s reassurance, that didn’t dull down the worries that filled your head. Just when you were about to complain once more, the radio turned on and played a tune you knew all too well.

“You are my sunshine

My only sunshine.

You make me happy

When skies are grey.

You’ll never know dear,

How much I love you.

Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It was a tune your mother would always sing to you when you were still a little kid. You didn’t know how he knew that was one of your favorite songs, but you weren’t complaining at all. In comforting defeat, you lied down on the cushions and stared at the ceiling above you.

“Goodnight, my little sunshine.”

“Night, Papa Bot.”

Checkmate. The truck then slightly rumbled and shook out of shock and surprise. You guessed that you managed to catch him off-guard, something that you’ve well mastered. He sputtered through the radio, trying to get words out. Now, this was better than any reaction you’ve seen from him. You laughed and laughed and laughed to the point where you were holding your stomach. Once your laughter died down, you patted the seat and waited to be whisked away.

“ ‘Papa Bot’? Really?”

“I love you~”

A tired sigh came from him. You were such a confusing child.

“I love you too.”

#optimus prime x reader #transformers x reader #transformers bayverse #bayverse #transformers #optimus prime #bumblebee #ironhide #ratchet #drift #crosshairs #hound #cade yeager #tessa yeager #shane dyson #i love mr papa bot

[thiswasinevitableid]

Demonic Intervention (Indruck)

Prompt for the 7th: “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” - The Tempest (William Shakespeare). This fill is NSFW

It can't get much worse. 

Indrid is barely scraping by. He can count his friends in town on one hand. He’s gay in a tiny, rural community and one of the few men like him is a goddamn priest. His house is a mess. And his every waking moment is filled with the demons of his past or the devils lurking in his future. There are so many of them in his present too, roaming the streets of Kepler. 

What’s one more in the mix?

He lights the stubby black candle by the bed, scratches the symbols on the floor, and retreats into his cocoon of blankets to wait.

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

Duck hates when it’s his turn on the summoning shifts. All this ancient knowledge and power and he’s stuck waiting to see if some yahoo in a graveyard or a wannabe cult leader will call him up into the world. 

He has brambles that need pruning, damn it. 

His name isn’t well known among humans, so he only gets summoned if someone is just rooting around for a demonic entity without caring who they get. He’s only been summoned twice in the last hundred years. The tingle in his horns tells him it’s about to be three. 

The room he arrives in is gloomier than any graveyard; the lights are off, the curtains are shut, and the place looks like it got hit by a tornado with a grudge. By the light of the candle, a pale-haired head emerges from the blankets of the small bed. A hand reaches for the floor, comes back with a pair of red glasses.

“Greetings, infernal one. Thank you for answering my summons.” The man’s voice is flat.

“Even demons got manners. So, uh, what’s the job?”

“There are so many dishes in the sink that the thought of doing them is an insurmountable task. Please do them for me.”

“...You realize I’m takin somethin’ from you for this, right? Like a piece of soul or a month of your life?”

“Mmmm” The man rolls over and says nothing else. 

“A day of your life for this.” Duck feels like he should haggle more, but then he’d had to pretend he actually thought a higher price was fair. 

“I accept your terms.” A crackle of green and black electricity flickers in the air in the form of  Duck’s signature and the other man’s name: Indrid Cold.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you.” 

Indrid says nothing. Duck is sure to wash and dry before he goes. 

The next day he’s summoned to the exact same room, in the exact same state of depressing mess. 

“Greetings, infernal one. Please clean this room.”

“Same terms?”

“Mmhmm” Indrid is just staring at the ceiling. 

“You gotta say you accept.”

“I accept.” 

Duck snaps, turning on the light, and gets to work. Technically he could do all this with a wave of his hand. But then he’d lose his chance to learn a little more about the guy who’s settled on demonic deals instead of a maid service. It’s the opposite of the usual problem he has in these kinds of situations, where the humans reveal their deepest secrets, desires, and fears within five minutes of meeting him. 

The records he stacks near their player, the clothes all go in the hamper to be magicked clean, then are hung in the closet; they’re loose and soft, not a scratchy fabric to be found. Tarot cards and candles abound, as do art supplies, and under a pile of drawings he finds magazines featuring muscular, hairy men in various sexual positions. Some of them even look like his preferred human form, the one he’s wearing now. 

He glances at the bed; Indrid is on his side, facing him, must have been watching him at some point but has dropped into a restless sleep. The blankets are slipping, showing a The Sonics tank top hanging off skinny shoulders. Right, that was one of the bands in the record stack. 

Duck doesn’t tend to pry into souls or auras or shit like that; there are whole heaps of trouble that lay that direction. But as he flicks the dust from the bookshelf covered in paperbacks, he feels the edges of Indrids and nearly falls on his ass from the wave of exhaustion and loneliness. 

When it’s time to go, he pauses to pull the blankets back up around him, sets his glasses on the bedside table, and turns the calendar on the wall from “September 1974” to “October 1974.”

When he’s summoned right back to Indrid’s room the next evening, he spots the same tank top on him as he sits up in bed.

“Greetings infernal one.”

“You can just call me ‘Duck’. It’s a nickname.” 

“Oh” Indrid blinks, perplexed, “very well. I, ah, there are some bills that need to be paid to keep the lights on.”

“You need the money for them?”

“No, just for someone to fill out the forms and checks and put them in the mail.”

“Okay. But my fee’s a little different this time: you gotta tell me when you last ate.”

“I accept. I ate this morning.”

Duck snaps his fingers

“Two days ago!” Indrid yelps, then slaps his hands over his mouth. He glares, “why does it matter?”

“Because while I’m payin those bills, you’re eatin’ dinner.”

“Everything in the fridge is disgusting and I can’t go to the store.” 

Duck takes the short trip out to the kitchen, opens the fridge to the new sound of Indrid’s footfalls behind him. 

“You got lots of decent stuff in here; could make you some eggs?”

“No, thank you.” Indrid shakes his head, looking a bit ill. 

“Well, what do you want? I can summon it up.”

“I’m out of Lucky Charms.” The humans says sheepishly, staring at his bare feet. 

A fresh box of cereal appears on the table, Duck pulling out the half empty bottle of milk. He thinks back to the drawings he saw yesterday and conjures a bowl covered in a pattern of brightly colored moths. 

He gathers the stack of bills of while hearts, stars, and horseshoes rattle into the bowl. After a few moments of crunching he hears, “May I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why is your nickname Duck? Does that word mean something else in demonic speech?”

Duck stuffs paper into envelopes, “Nah. It’s, uh, kinda silly but, uh, most demons learn how to take on an animal form. When it was my turn, they asked me which I wanted and, uh, I said I wanted to try bein’ a duck. Liked it so much I stayed that way for three months.”

There’s an odd, strangled sound that makes him look up; Indrid has one hand over his mouth and is shaking with little squeaks. He’s laughing. 

“I’m, I’m s-sorry but, but I, I cannot get over the image of you as a little, feathery waterbird.”

Duck smirks, “Only part that ever gave me trouble was the quackin’; always came out too deep.”

He just manages to pull the envelopes back as milk comes out the human’s nose and he giggles uncontrollably. 

“Ow, ow, heeh, oh g-goodness, I’m s-sorry I, I just haven’t laughed in so long, ugh, there’s milk on my shirt-”

“Guess you’re gonna need to shower now too.” 

“Nono, I can just change-”

Duck waves the bills back and forth, “Uh uh, if you want me to actually put these in the mailbox, you gotta agree to shower.”

“But that’s changing the terms!”

“Demon.” Duck grins. 

“Very well. Let me finish my dinner first.” Indrid scarfs the rest of the cereal, pads back towards the bedroom while Duck cleans the table. He waits to hear water running before going to the mailbox. When he gets back he sticks his head into the steamy bathroom.

“I’m gonna go now.”

“Oh, alright. Thank you again.” Indrid pokes his head out from the shower curtain and Duck resists the temptation to make the whole barrier disappear just for a peak. What can he say? He’s always liked his humans a bit unique looking. 

He draws a special sigil in the steamed-up mirror and heads for home. 

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

Indrid sets the candle on the table, lights it, adds the symbol he found in the mirror, and then starts unpacking his groceries. 

“Lookit you doin’ chores.” The whiff of burnt pine needles accompanies Duck’s voice and draws the tension from Indrid’s shoulders. 

“I’ll have you know I swept today as well.” Indrid turns and crunches the bag of potato chips in his fists; Duck hasn’t put his horns or claws away, and his shirt is half unbuttoned. 

“Caught me while I was gardenin, which is why I ain’t as put together as normal. What can I do for you?”

“This may sound strange but, ah, what is the fee for just talking with you?”

Duck’s eyebrows shoot up and then he chuckles, “You’re full of surprises, little moth.”

Indrid touches the luna moth on his shoulder; how much had Duck studied him when he was here? Did he like what he saw? Does he give everyone he makes deals with nicknames that come out in a drawl like summer honey?

“Hows a little nibble of the old soul sound?”

“I accept. Ah, would you like some cookies? A friend of mine brought them over to me.”

“Sure. The fella on the fridge bring ‘em?” The demon indicates the picture of himself and Barclay, the one he can’t bring himself to throw away. 

“No. My friend Dani, she’s in charge of the gardens for the little co-op in town and when the bakery has seconds she often drops them off for me.” 

He really needs to stop staring at Duck’s chest, even demons probably find ogling rude. Duck’s eyes--one blue, one brown-- catch his own and suddenly claw tips are undoing the remaining buttons. Indrid goes pink but manages to get the cookies and two glasses of water on the table without incident. 

“You know, you never told me why you stayed a duck for so long.”

“It’s the least demonic thing you’ve ever heard but, uh, I just thought it was nice. Bein’ out in the woods, paddlin’ on the lake and watchin the world go by. Sleepin under the stars. Just makes you feel like you’re part of somethin’ bigger than yourself. Now, I got a question for you; why go to all the trouble of summonin’ me just to do your chores?”

Indrid bites his lip, “I knew I was in the kind of mental place where I could not manage it myself. And it felt safer to ask you than to ask my friends. Not that they wouldn’t help me. It’s just, when my mind is like that it turns so inward I can’t conceive of a world that might contain things for me.”

The demon says nothing for a moment, sips his water with a thoughtful look. Then he sets down the empty glass, “Glad you’re feelin a little better.” He tilts his head to indicate the sketch on the counter, “that new?”

“Yes” excitement bubbles up in his chest, “I was reading about--ah, well, it’s, it’s sort of a long story, I don’t want to bore you.”

Duck kicks his feet up on the spare chair and gestures for him to continue. So he does, tells the demon about reading every book he could find on the mythology and folklore of the Mexico and the American southwest, about his new inspiration for a series of drawings, his worries that no one will like them or purchase them and he’ll be stuck running his little psychic side business until he dies 

Duck, in turn, tells him about life as a forest demon, about his hellcat, and about the fact he routinely comes up to the human world for french onion soup because the stuff made in his realm never tastes right. When Indrid next looks at the clock, it’s well after midnight. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

“No complaints here. But I oughta get home and feed Winnie before she shreds my cabinets again.” The demon stands, rounding the table, “gotta get my fee first.”

“Right. How should I…” Indrid stiffens as Duck bends forward, wondering if the sharp teeth that smiled at him all night are about to pierce his skin. 

Warm lips meet his forehead and he sighs at the tenderness in the gesture. Duck, however, moans as he pulls back, then quickly covers his mouth.

“Uh, that, that’s a totally, uh, totally not, uh, un-normal reaction, uh, fuck, see you around.” 

He’s gone with a campfire crackle, leaving Indrid to wonder how a demon can be such a terrible liar.

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

“Sweet fuckin hell.” Duck gasps as his living room forms around him. His lips still tingle from kissing the human’s forehead, from the sheer force of the want and yes that came when he took that sip of soul. It’s never like that, never comes so willingly and eagerly, like the soul is searching for someone to look after it. 

Technically, there’s nothing stopping him from zipping right back up there and pinning Indrid to his bed while he takes what the human seems so happy to give. 

Duck takes five deep breaths, then ten, and then goes to retrieve Winnie from the cabinet she clawed her way into.

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

When Barclay suggested Indrid find someone to confide in, Indrid’s going to guess he didn’t mean, “routinely invite a demon into your house to play cards or listen to music.”

Most times, Indrid isn’t even summoning him; they have two standing dates a week, plus a game night with Dani and her new girlfriend, Aubrey (who Duck seems to know but refuses to say more about how). Duck will sometimes drop by unannounced, and he hardly ever collects a fee these days. When he does, it’s always a taste of Indrid’s soul, taken via a kiss on the cheek. 

Indrid would let him take it any way he wanted. He’s well past denying the fact Duck is type in all his forms, that he’s gentler than most humans, and that he’s so charming Indrid would eat out of his hand. 

Duck even goes out with him, like the boyfriend he wishes he had. When he puts on his human form to accompany Indrid around town, he radiates enough residual, demonic energy that the people who normally make Indrid’s life a living hell stay far, far away. In fact, tonight is the first night in months he’s had something close to a disaster, and it was mostly an accident. He’s peeling his beer-soaked shirt over his head when he feels mis-matched eyes on his back.

“Have a little too much fun bartendin’ tonight?” Duck holds out his hand, rendering the shirt fresh and clean when it touches his palm.

“Some caveman hit on one of our regulars and would not back off when asked. She threw a full pint of beer on him and I happened to be standing right behind him when she did.” He wiggles out of his jeans, let’s Duck give them the same treatment he gave the shirt, “ugh, I need a bath, I smell like Rheingold.”

“Allow me.” Duck waves his hand and steam wafts from the bedroom, goes into it and grabs the bubble bath from under the sink as Indrid follows him in his underwear. Duck’s constant glancing at his crotch and legs makes him bold. 

“What’s the fee for such excellent service?”

“No fee, little moth. I’m just doin’ a favor for my friend.”

“And what if your friend wants to repay you anyway?”

When the demon looks up from the tub, his eyes are glowing, “Only if he’s doin’ it because he wants to and not because he owes me.”

“I want to, so very badly.”

In a flash Duck is in the tub, beckoning Indrid to join him. Indrid tests the water with his finger just to be safe.

“Mmm, nice and warm.”

“Hellfire, sugar. Now get your cute ass into the tub or--oh fuck yeah.” Duck growls as Indrid strips and climbs in with him, drags him into his lap and traces his claws up his sides while Indrid yanks him into a kiss.Curious, Indrid reaches one hand up to rub the base of his horn, the dark brown curls like smooth bark beneath his fingers. 

“Fuuuck” Duck groans, “feels like gettin a back-rub.”

“Then I better keep at it. Oh, oh my” Indrid sits back to admire the vines of green appearing in Duck’s skin, “you’re absolutely beautiful.”

“Kinky little thing, you like that I’m a demon.” Duck scrapes his teeth along Indrid’s shoulder, “that really why you summoned me? You were hopin I’d have my, uh, demonic way with you?”

“N-no, I, I, it’s no secret I’m attracted to you but I, you make me feel so happy, I’m so safe when I’m with you, and, and if all your care and affection towards me has been part of some malevolent plan please, please just tell me because I, I think I’m falling in love with you.” He kisses Duck with far more force than before, forestalling the inevitable confession that this was all just a game for his soul and his own, pathetic admission that he’s not sure that changes anything. 

“Oh, sugar” Duck keeps brushing their lips together as he speaks, “First time I tasted your soul I knew I was fucked. Knew I wanted to keep seein’ you, even if you never gave me another goddamn thing.”

Indrid buries his face in Duck’s shoulder, letting out shuddery sighs as Duck pets his back. He’s never leaving this spot, Duck is just going to have to carry him about while he does his infernal business and his housekeeping.

“Tell me what you want, little moth.” Duck kisses the shell of his ear. It still tingles, even when his soul stays put.

“Please fuck me? Oh! Oh that’s very efficient and extremely strange.” He squirms in Duck’s lap as his ass turns slick and stretched, like someone has pulled four fingers from it.

“Do it the traditional way some other time” The curved head of a cock bumps his ass, “you wanna feel just to be sure you can take it?”

He flails in the water a moment, finds a warm, responsive shaft with four, bumpy ridges leading to the head. It’s no bigger than the one toy he splurged on during his last trip to the city.

“Yes, certainly, oh, oh, AHHhnnnn yes.” The cock is hotter than his body as it slides in and he wonders if it will just melt him from the inside out, if Duck’s cum will be just as warm, how it will feel on his tongue and down his throat when he drags the demon into his bed.

“That’s it sugar, take it all the way. Fuck, been jerkin off to the thought of you on my dick for months.”

“Nnngh” Is his eloquent reply, the ridges of Duck’s cock making his toes curl and his fingers dig into Duck’s skin. 

“You like that idea, little moth? Knowin I could be out temptin anyone I wanted to and instead I was in bed thinkin’ about you?”

“Mhhmmm” He whines, the desire pouring off the demon wrapping around him and soothing his insecurities. 

Duck slows the thrusts of his hips and his voice is gentle when he whispers, “Course I did; no one can compare to you, ‘Drid.”

“Ohgod, Duck, please, please, please, want to be yours, always yours-”

“Careful,sugar, that sounds like you’re anglin’ for an infernal marriage.”

“A, a what? OHhhhnnyes” He moans as claws knead his ass.

“It’s a special kind of deal where a human agrees to marry a demon. Soon as they’re dead, they go straight to their spouse, no other options provided.” Duck cups his face, holding it steady so he can look into his eyes, “but there ain’t no need for that right now; way I see it, we can do this like we were just two normal fellas for now.”

“But it sounds fun.” Indrid offers a teasing pout and gets an adoring kiss in return. 

“Yeah? What if I tell you a lot of demons mark their spouses by piercing these” He pinches Indrid’s nipples, the pain making him bounce more determinedly on his dick. His demon growls, drops one hand down to thumb at the head of his aching cock, “pierce here too. Won’t even do it in public like you’re supposed to; do it at home so no one else will see just what a sweet, needy thing you are for me--whoah, fuck, did not expect you to cum just from playin with this nice dick a little.”

“V-very sensitive” Indrid gasps against the green swirls in Duck’s shoulder, his orgasm such a surprise he’s still registering it, hips twitching and tongue threatening to loll out of his mouth.

“Keep that in mind for next time. Might even bring a cage so you don’t cum too early and spoil my plans. Now, hold tight, little moth.” 

Indrid clings to the warm bulk of Duck’s body as his cock pounds up into him, the demon easily holding his hips up and his ass open so all he can do is whimper and writhe on it. When he cums it’s hot enough that Indrid squirms

“Don’t hurt does it?” Duck pets his sides, concerned. 

“Nono, it, it’s nice, just very strange.” Indrid winces as Duck pulls out, watches him wave his fingers to clear away the mess. When the demon makes no move to let go, Indrid looks up, “you really meant what you said? About wanting me as a boyfriend?”

“Damn right I do. Now c’mere, lemme get the beer outta your hair.”

Indrid hums as Duck scrubs his scalp and runs warm water over his skin, talking all the while about how they should go camping as a first date so no one will bother them, says he’ll even turn into a duck to make Indrid smile. 

Indrid says he knows just the spot, let’s his boyfriend dry them off and bundle them to bed and then, for the first time, falls asleep with a devil in his arms.

#indruck #promptober #indrid cold/duck newton #Demon AU #monster boyfriend

[flowersandcorpse]

She’s Optimistic (Not Me) Ch.2

This is a Corpse Husband fic. Chapter Two actually. If you missed chapter one, don’t fret. I’ll leave the link below :) Feel free to comment, share, and send me questions. I love hearing from you all. 

Genre: Slowburn, friends to lovers, angst, pining

TW: abuse, mental and health complications 

Chapter One

Alice.

It was a name Corpse just couldn’t shake. It had been a couple of days since he’d last seen her. Her warm skin pale and her shoulders hunched over. It wasn’t like they were close or anything. Corpse spent his days alone, fingers slaving away at his keyboard as he scrolled through his hundreds of emails. It was his job, he knew that, to read them all; every fake horror story or regurgitated creepy pasta someone thought they could pass off as their own. But everytime he he started to scan an email, his mind wandered back to that morning.

To the girl in the baggy clothes and smeared mascara. There was something about her that was almost… familiar?

Fuck. Corpse winced at the thoughts coursing through his head. They were clouded, no muddled with images of Alice. Her eyes were swollen, red and bruised like her knees. It was obvious she had been crying, obvious there was something fucking wrong. And Corpse just stood there like a dumbass.

I could’ve said anything. Could’ve done anything, but instead I just…

Corpse clenched his fist and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to finish that thought. Didn’t want to admit that he was… attracted to the crying girl; baggy clothes and all. If he wasn’t sure before, he was definitely aware of how fucked up his mind was. There Alice stood. Messy hair, bruised skin, and wet eyes, and all Corpse could do is wonder if she was just as screwed up. She reminded him of him, but smaller, maybe a bit stronger. Perhaps a bit sweeter. Definitely smoother… and warmer.

God, he breathed in sharply, just how warm are you, Alice?

He knew it was wrong, but in the moment he just felt so goddamn lonely. Corpse shut his eyes and let his imagination run rampant. Thoughts of him. Thoughts of Alice. Thought of them together. His body trembled under his touch and he found himself a shuddering mess; his hair curling against his forehead.

Corpse’s voice was laced with rasp. He hadn’t talked much to anyone today and for that his voice was deeper, darker; it had more bite. There was moment, just a couple of seconds, right before Corpse rolled over to his side, where he forgot he was alone. The feeling of hopelessness dissipated leaving only Corpse with a tender feeling in his chest. He thought back to a year ago. He laid in the same place, but that time around he wasn’t alone. She was there. Soft Emerald eyes, and red hair.

“Stop,” Corpse gritted out. He couldn’t think of her while he was doing this.

But it was too late. He threw his head back as he imagined her blushed cheeks.

“Fuck,” he whispered a little quieter. “What is this shit?”

It was almost cruel how suddenly it had all happened. Corpse lived his life in constant search for any distraction away from… her. And yet she managed to find him. Every goddamned time. It was her. Always her, bargarging into his head just when he thought he had gotten enough of her twisted grasp on him.

“God,” He cried out, dropping his hand. “I’m a joke.”

A joke.

A freakshow.

That’s how he felt. Completely wrong. His breath hitched and his chest tightened, but this time he wasn’t focused on how he was feeling or why he was feeling that way. He was just thinking of Her, his ex. If I can even call her that. If I… could even call her anything.

And he began to cry. Low and guttural, his sobs shook throughout his body leaving him cold and weak. He flung his hands into his hair and tugged at his roots. It didn’t hurt. Not the way he wished it did, but there wasn’t much he could do. It took everything in him not to scream.

In the coldness of his apartment, Corpse shuddered to the sounds of his own breath. In. Out. In. Out. In… Hold.

When he held his breath he could almost fade into a different reality. His brain would cloud with fog and he could drift off to where he wanted. Like lucid dreaming, but instead of sleeping he was shutting himself off. Letting his body enter into panic mode as it scrambled to send oxygen to his brain. If he was focused enough he could stop breathing entirely, he was sure of it. All it would take is one breath, one minute of him allowing himself to slip, and he would drift into the cold numbness he had grown accustomed to.

It was 9pm now. The sun had set and he was surprisingly alert. His stomach grumbled to the ticking of his clock.

“Great.” He mumbled to himself.

He knew for a fact there was no food in his fridge, with the exception of a half drunken health shake and maybe some cheap wine coolers. It dawned on him he would have to leave his home to get something. And even though his stomach sunk to his feet as he threw on his heavy outside jacket, he knew he couldn’t put it off. Not for another night.

Corpse made his way to his apartment door and just as he swung open the creaky wood, a small figure stumbled back, knocking into his door frame.

Alice.

Corpse stared at her, lanky limbs and daring stare. He noticed how she held his gaze. Almost as if she was searching for something, anything, in his soft eyes. Corpse’s cheeks held the faintest of blush from earlier. His eyes were no longer wet, but as Alice scanned his face, it was obvious there was pain hidden behind his nonchalant demeanor.

It was the only obvious thing about him actually.

There he stood, she mused to herself. Talk, dark, and mysterious. Corpse felt the tips of his ears burn the longer they stood that way.

“Hey.” He gritted out. “Is everything okay?”

“With me? Yeah…”

Corpse cocked his head at her response. It was in his nature to be apprehensive, and the longer she peered into him, the more he felt like slamming the door in her face and retreating. But he didn’t. He didn’t realize it at first, but he had something to prove. Not to Alice, but to himself.

“So what?” he smiled. “You just here to say ‘hi’”

“Something like that.”

“Well,” he laughed lowly. “Hey”

“Hey-”

“Invite me inside.” She rushed out. Her voice grew louder as she said it, eyes locked with his. The words were enough to send Corpse into a fit of laughter. The noise booming through the apartment hallway.

“What? I don’t even fucking know you?

“So?”

“So.” Corpse was taken aback. Was this girl completely off her rocker. “I- I don’t think that’s a good idea?”

Alice sighed quietly to herself. She looked nervously at him; a strange urgency in her eyes.

“For some reason you don’t strike me as someone who’s scared of bad ideas?”

“I’m not.”

She stepped closer and this time Corpse really got a good look at her. Her cheeks weren’t blushed and her eyes weren’t wet and puffy from tears. She looked effortlessly neat. Almost untouchable. Corpse looked away as if he was some reckless child and she was made of porcelain. It was clear to him now. She made him nervous, uncomfortable, restless. He hadn’t felt that way in what felt like forever. 

In all honesty, he had forgotten what that feeling felt like. But as she took another step closer, her stare facing his chest, he decided he wanted to explore the feeling. Porcelain girl be damned. He looked down at her, his face inches away from hers.“You can come in.” he whispered lowly. “If you want.”

Seconds felt like hours. The air was thick, the weight of Corpse’s words resting heavily on Alice’s shoulders. She took a step closer, her breath hitching to match his.

She did.

#corpse x reader #corpse #corpse husband #corpse fanfiction #corpse party #corpse fanart #corpse husband fanfic #corpse fanfic #youtube #corpse fic #roses for corpse

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Shadows And Pills - 1

Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME. If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.

For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.

Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it. If you have any questions, please feel free to message me or send me an ask.

Thank you to @thoughtslikeaminefield and @glassjacket . I would not have made it through this story and would honestly not be here today with the two of you. I will never be able to tell you how much you mean to me.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068

In Case You Missed It: ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

...

Shadows and Pills

1

Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all.

Alexa comes away with a shadow.

In the weeks following the disaster, the public equally lauds and decries the Avengers, but while their opinions are divided over the heroes, the villain is universally denounced as nothing short of Satan himself, and the city throws an actual celebration the day Thor takes Loki back to Asgard to face the justice of their people.

Alexa, having not turned on her television since the day she got home from the hospital, ignores the boisterous celebrants and goes about her shopping, earbuds firmly in place, frown lines now permanently etched between her eyes and around her pinched lips.

“Routine will help you through some of the worst days,” her therapist tells her during one session. “Something familiar and safe to retreat to when the flashbacks are the worst. Just give it a try,” he adds at her disbelieving grimace.

And so she sets a routine.

Morning Routine: wake up. Ignore alarm, lie in bed an extra thirty minutes or so. Shower. Pretend to eat breakfast. Take meds (this one she never skips or shirks). Find something to wear. Stare at it for another ten minutes. Eventually get dressed. Contemplate keys for another fifteen minutes. Leave the goddamned apartment already.

Her routine has varying results, although she does admit to her therapist that life is marginally more bearable with the routine than without.

“It’s nice to have something to look forward to for the next day.”

Her therapist can’t quite hide his grimace at her flat, deadened tone, but she’s not being sarcastic or rude. She finds that going to bed at night is a trifle easier when she knows what’s going to happen the next day.

“So, who are we up to today?” the doctor asks, switching the subject with awkward abruptness. It’s been six weeks since Hell came to New York, and during their twice-weekly meetings, her therapist suggests going through each of the people she saw die in front of her that day, to get closure...or say goodbye...or something.

Sometimes Alexa wonders whether he just wants to hear the details for his own perverse pleasure.

“Brenda.”

Alexa robotically begins to list the personal details she knows...knew...about her floor manager. Unlike the mail room intern she discussed at their last meeting, the list for Brenda goes on for a while. She’s worked with Brenda since she started at the company, learning most of what she knows about her current job from the woman.

Brenda was kind, sharply intelligent, and mothering to everyone under her supervision, and yet she did it in a way that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. She balanced work and a family long and well enough to both receive regular promotions within the company and also, very recently, become a new grandmother.

The backs of Alexa’s eyes sting as she remembers the photo Brenda showed her not twenty minutes before part of the building collapsed on top of half the department. Her jaw locks as the scene plays before her eyes again, the explosions and shrieks of metal drowning out the shrieks of the people only five feet away.

She closes her eyes, but there’s no pause button to freeze the scene, no power button to shut the images off as she turns in her memory and runs, making it to the stairwell and slamming the door open, turning back and screaming for Brenda, straining her eyes through the smoke and dust and mountains of falling debris. Brenda is running, reaching for Alexa even though she seems miles away, and then one of the file cabinets is thrown over, propelled faster and harder than should be possible, and...and…

And then Brenda isn’t running anymore. Her outstretched hand, the only part of her that wasn't crushed by office furniture, spasms against the ruined carpet, as if it thinks it’s reached its destination and is grasping at its savior.

Alexa’s hand tingles, and her fingers lock into her palm, nails fitting easily into the little grooves she dug there weeks ago. No blood, she only dug that deep once, but the furrows remain as permanently etched there as the frown lines on her face.

Alexa struggles to take in a labored breath as her therapist watches her with the appropriate amount of professional, clinical sympathy and detachment.

“Do your counting,” he reminds her.

How could she forget? She counts to three once, letting a breath out at the end. She repeats the process twice more, ignoring her therapist’s brief flash of annoyance at her departure from his “system.” But, for once, he doesn’t ask her why she has to deviate from the standard one-to-ten method and just lets her do the goddamned counting in peace.

Small blessings.

“Have you had any flashbacks since our last session?”

She stares at him, letting her gaze rest heavy and disbelieving as she turns his question over. She’s been averaging about five flashbacks a day, triggered by everything from accidentally brushing a stranger on the sidewalk (Jim knocking past her to get down the stairs just as the door on the stairwell behind her explodes inward; more shrieking, then falling, then dark) to lifting a carton of cold milk from the shelf at the grocery (that impossibly cold hand grasping hers, pulling her up from the rubble, bringing her face to face with...something...something in the...shadows, it was so dark there, and…).

“Yeah. I’ve had some flashbacks since our last session.”

“What sort of coping strategies did you use?”

He’s not even meeting her eyes now, just getting notes down on that damned pad. The scratching of his pen grates into her bones, and Alexa grits her teeth as she glares.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

She slowly recites the list of strategies he suggested during a previous session, none of which have proven particularly effective at lessening the frequency of the episodes, but most of which she grudgingly admits provide some slight relief afterwards and allow her to refocus her mind on the present rather than dwelling in the memory.

“And the shadows?”

How can he get this wrong every time when he’s taking all those fucking notes?

“Still just the one.”

“Has it manifested in any other way? Asked you to do anything? Do you feel different in any way when you notice it?”

There’s a distasteful eagerness to his words that always turns Alexa’s stomach, and she has to physically bite into her tongue to keep from asking what kind of bonus he gets for each symptom she shows of different mental illnesses.

“It’s just there sometimes. I..” She hesitates, feeling vaguely nauseated from his questions, but she has to be honest, right? Because, ultimately, it’s his job to help her, and she’s never going to get through this by hiding symptoms. He can’t help fix her if he doesn’t know what’s broken, and he did suggest the routine, so, okay, he gets a pass for this one.

“I still mostly only see it before I’m falling asleep. I’ve started seeing it in the late afternoon, as well, not often, but sometimes. Always in shadows that are already there. It doesn’t talk or anything, doesn’t really have any face or form except for vaguely person-shaped, but it...it watches me. And it’s...denser than it was last week. More...it’s thicker than it was, like when you see wispy clouds kind of...gather and turn into storm clouds?”

He nods, his pen whizzing over the legal pad he records their session notes on. “So, you feel threatened by the shadow? Like it’s storm clouds gathering to...what? It feels menacing?”

But, like most of the questions Alexa fences in this office, this one isn’t easily answered.

“It feels like it’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know if it’s menacing, exactly. Like, it feels potentially dangerous, but I can’t tell if it’s for me. I don’t know. It’s just...darker and more there this week, but it doesn’t do anything, and I don’t feel different, and it doesn’t speak to me. I. Don’t. Hear. Voices.”

She clips off each word at the end of her rant separately and precisely, repeating her counting in her head, and she forces her breathing to even out. The doctor is just doing his job, he’s just trying to help, he’s supposed to ask these questions, it’s how he helps-

“Hmm. I’ll have to consider that between now and our next meeting. In the meantime, go ahead and move up to the next dosage step with your meds, keep it on the escalating schedule we set.”

You set, she thinks mutinously for a moment before internally shaking her head. She nods, biting her tongue once more. She’s going to have a permanent indentation there as well, at this rate.

“Any side effects? Itching, swelling, difficulty breathing? Any unreasonable lethargy or detachment?”

“I mean...I don’t really have anything to attach to at this point, so…”

He frowns at her again, and she wonders if he’s going to crank up her dosage two notches instead of one.

“Are you having what you feel are typical emotional responses to everyday stimuli? Have you laughed or smiled at anything yet? How long has it been since you emotionally felt anything besides the frustration and panic?”

And, somehow, this question is difficult, too. She struggles through, trying to find a balance between honesty and not making herself look like a complete failure who can't function in life. She doesn’t help her case when she admits she hasn’t followed many of his suggestions beyond establishing a routine.

“Not even exercising?” he asks, his disappointment palpable.

When she silently shakes her head, her lips pinched tight against his disapproval, he shakes his head with a sigh that sings of ultimate betrayal. Instead of berating her as usual, the doctor frowns and looks down at his notes, considering them silently. He clicks his tongue against his teeth for a moment before switching over to end-session mode, robotically delivering his closing remarks, his typical reminders to keep her meds on a strict schedule at the exact time every day, to avoid all alcohol and unprescribed drugs, to keep her diet as clean and unprocessed as possible, and to get plenty of exercise. Even this last bit is delivered with a sharply clinical detachment, as if she has driven him to the brink of her own psychoses by stubbornly refusing to accept his help.

There is a short, silent moment between them where they refuse to look at each other, the doctor perusing his notes once more while Alexa examines the wrinkles creased into her jeans from lack of folding. The doctor flips pages over in his legal pad and slaps the cover shut sharply, breaking the standoff with one last, dismissive comment.

“Routine, Alexa. Stick to the routine. If it’s what brings you comfort, if that's the one thing you’re taking away from these sessions that actually helps, then stick with it. I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”

….

Her afternoons vary, according to her therapy schedule. Her sessions take roughly an hour and a half, so that’s one block of time she doesn’t have to try and fill. On the days she isn’t having her skull cracked open, she can sometimes force herself to work on the files her company sends her way. Grunt work, brainless stuff that any first-year intern could do, but it keeps her on the payroll and covered by health insurance until the doctor clears her to return to the office.

Not that there’s an office to return to yet.

Grocery shopping for food she’ll pretend to eat later, making excuses to stay out of the apartment a little longer each day, watching the shadows of the buildings grow darker and longer until the sunlight disappears from the streets.

And the other shadow, the darkest of all, thick and solid against the brick and stone, pacing her, keeping track as she wanders through the broken city blocks. Sometimes she walks a little faster, pretends to not notice the black spot. Sometimes she pretends it’s keeping her company. With the most conversation she’s had in weeks taking place in her therapy sessions, she occasionally finds the imaginary company of her shadow stalker to be more pleasant than menacing.

Occasionally.

Eventually, though, she and her chimerical companion head back to the silent, encroaching walls of her apartment to begin the night routine.

…

Night Routine: laundry. Pretend to eat dinner. Shower. Finish laundry. Clean already clean kitchen. Another shower (on the bad days, the ash and debris won’t wash off). Rearrange already arranged closet. Braid hair. Take meds, do not skip, no matter how much they screw up her sleep, because they help. They do. Settle into bed. Stare at the wall. Adjust pillows. Re-settle. Stare at the shadow. Start to drift off, slide into a flashback, scream back to full consciousness. Watch the shadow. Doze. Awaken from a fucked up nightmare she can only partially remember. Repeat ad nauseum.

Really, if Alexa could just skip the nights and go straight into morning, that’d be great. Mornings are tedious but tolerable. Afternoons are blurry and tense, especially therapy days, but nights…

Nights just won't shut down.

The drugs are partially responsible, the doctor has told her multiple times. The medicine can either make sleeping more difficult, or it can act like a sedative, dragging and holding her down. Honestly, she’s getting kind of mixed results. It’s difficult to stay awake, easy to slip under, but then she can’t stay asleep for very long, jerking back to consciousness in something close to full panic, unable to figure out if it’s the drugs or the dreams that’s pushing her to the edge.

Because the fucked up dreams...well, that’s all on her and her broken brain. She stopped bringing up the dreams in therapy after the first couple of weeks of sessions. The doctor seemed hell bent on steering Alexa towards the possibility that she was experiencing waking hallucinations, but there’s no way she could possibly be awake for all this shit. Maybe some of the flashbacks, but not…

Not…

Her brain isn’t that broken.

No. No, she can tell from the way she jerks to consciousness afterwards, she knows she’s asleep. Yeah, she’s unstable and has flashbacks, but she’s not delusional. They’re dreams.

Every night.

About…

Something.

Okay, sometimes she can remember. Sometimes the meds dull her down so much she forgets what day it is, but sometimes she can hold on to a detail or two. Cold, slender fingers, impossibly strong. A flash of bright blue that sends nausea racing through her entire body (who knew your toes could feel nauseated?) or a glimpse of bottle green that, conversely, thrills her to her soul. A smooth, velvet voice that penetrates every layer of her being, down to the deepest recesses. Darkness descending...a sense of dreadful awe…

And sometimes she can remember every unhinged detail with a terrifying clarity that she will never even consider mentioning to the therapist. Not if she likes her jacket sleeves to fit properly.

There’s honesty, and then there’s idiocy.

The shadow is larger tonight. Taller, a little broader, definitely denser. She would say looming, even, but it’s not quite that large.

Not quite.

She stares at it openly, no longer trying to avoid acknowledging its presence. What's the point? The doctor knows about it, and it’s not like she’s talking to it. She’s not that far gone yet. And she hasn't lied to the doctor, either. The shadow does watch her, like it’s waiting, gathering. Convalescing. But it hasn't ever talked to her.

She does not hear voices.

She yawns and rolls her shoulders, left then right, sliding a little lower in bed, searching for a cooler place between the sheets. Movement catches her eye, and she looks up as the shadow shifts, leaning left then right, and seems to…

Grow?

No, it’s never moved before. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen it move, but now it pulses and raises up, stretching-

No. No. Sourceless shadows don’t move. They don’t grow, they don’t shift, they don’t-

The shadow stretches upwards abruptly, definitely looming now, and Alexa hits the wall behind the bed, scrambling backwards in a blind panic as she realizes the shadow isn’t growing.

It’s coming closer.

Her breathing speeds up, but her limbs are heavy and dull with narcotic stupor. The foot of her bed darkens as the shadow creeps even closer, and she opens her mouth to protest, to scream, to say something, but her tongue is numb and stupid with the acrid, coppery tang of fear and pharmaceuticals, and she hates, hates this kind of dream where she can’t speak, can't move and she can barely breathe, and...and…

The shadow reaches out, stretches over her foot and slides up her calf in a clammy, viscous caress that tightens on her knee and pulls her several inches down the bed as her throat closes.

Do not shrink from Me. It is not your fear I crave, but your adoration. Come to Me, allow yourself to move past the fear and embrace what I wish to grant you.

Horror, deep and instinctual, floods her veins. Alexa feels the voice more than hears it, and it awakens an ancient fear that finally, though futilely, awakens her drugged limbs. She claws at her sheets uselessly as the shadow moves over her, a freezing oil slick that oozes against her skin as if her blankets and clothes weren’t even there, sending shivers to the very marrow of her bones as her gorge rises, and she chokes on the bile that singes the back of her throat. She can’t fight, can’t move against this intangible force, but neither will her terror let her sink past the fear to blissful unawareness.

Give over. Let go of your stubborn fear that tethers you to this useless reality. Allow Me entrance, and I will grant you the relief you seek. Release your grip on the world that cares nothing for you, and I shall bestow upon you the peace you so desperately crave.

Her skin raises in gooseflesh everywhere the shadow crosses, and her stomach turns as it squeezes its way up her torso, her chest, her throat, slipping over her lips in a sick parody of a lover’s caress. She opens her mouth - to scream, to breathe, to do something - and the shadow plunges inwards, invading her mouth, her throat, coating her inside and out with a thick, glutinous sensation that leaves her mouth hanging obscenely open, tongue thrashing, while her mind screams useless denials.

Submit to Me what you see I can easily take, give Me My due. Give over, drown in Me, and I will save you from this miserable existence.

And she is drowning, the air pressed from her lungs as a dark heaviness settles solidly over her. Her arms are forced over her head, and she is strung out on her twisted sheets, writhing under the weight of the shadow as it presses over every surface, against every entrance. No matter how she strains, her legs are gradually forced apart. The darkness’s lack of speed is affected, some barely functioning bit of her brain whispers to her; it could take her as swiftly as it cares to and is only moving slowly because it wants her to suffer, wants to taste her anguish. She has no chance against the shadow, she can’t even touch it, really she could just save herself the anxiety and fear and just-

NO.

She twists as hard as she can, but the shadow simply moves with her, flows over her, waits until she takes another breath, and then surges between her thighs, driving her torso off the bed with the force of its thrust. Every cell in her body locks, not in pain, but in complete revulsion. And then again, and again, cruel in the thoroughness of its violation, covering and saturating every crevice of her being, coating and tainting everything it touches.

Wrong, can't...stop, stop, stop, wrong, can’t...God, please…

You cannot rely on yourself, on your own mind for proper guidance. Let Me protect you. Let Me save you from yourself.

How long...minutes...hours...years...just stop, please…please-

The alarm clock shrieks right in her goddamned ear, and she can breathe and move and scream and goddammit, she fucking hates those dreams that send her careening onto the floor, scrambling for cover when she can’t even remember what she's running from.

Her morning routine is already in shambles. There’s no ignoring the alarm clock today. A morning shower maybe, to wash off the sticky aftermath of night sweats, definitely, but no lying about, staring at the walls in a sleep-daze. Definitely washing the sheets tonight, too.

She surveys what she can see of her bed from her crumpled position on the floor in front of the closet and sighs. Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare to tear up the covers that badly. She thinks for a moment of trying a little harder to remember, to recall some piece of the dream, but then her stomach flips over, and she summarily rejects that idea in favor of caffeination and medication.

She allows herself another few minutes on the floor, waiting until her respiratory and heart rates return to a less alarming pace before climbing to her quivering knees. The shadow darkens the far corner of the room, as innocuous as always. Though she doesn’t know why, she can’t help an involuntary flinch when she first sees it. It’s not normally present in the morning, at least, she doesn’t think so...well, she can't remember the shadow being so dark in the mornings, at least. But...

She clears her throat against the thickness that seems to coat it suddenly, and readjusts her plan to include a glass of water before she starts in on the coffee. She realizes after another long moment of staring that her hands are trembling along with her legs. Her jaw clenches, and she knows she’s being ridiculous. It’s a damned shadow. It just sits there. It’s a minor manifestation of a mild psychosis secondary to major psychological trauma. It’s just a damned dark spot; it doesn’t change, doesn't want her to do anything, and it definitely doesn’t fucking talk to her.

She. Does. Not. Hear. Voices.

…

Up Now: 2

#mcu #mcu fic #loki #dark loki #rape #torture #abust #self harm #negative portrayal of psychological services #negative portrayal of mental health professional #hallucinations #stalking #supernatural horror #prescription drug use #prescription drug abuse #mental illness #ptsd #flashbacks of violence #gaslighting #physical and mental exhaustion #denial #self neglect #isolation #mental spiraling #mental abuse #emotional abuse #original chracter #original female character

[louiseleblancdiggory]

hey, once in twitter we talk about how much we love Castle, so i was thinking if you could write a rowaelin scene based on caskett ♥️

OI GIO!!!!!! Ok so I had so much fun writing this. I decided to start from the very beginning so everyone (even those who didn’t watch it) know what’s going on. If you never watched Castle, you MUST!!! Also, fyi, the warnings are NOT about Ro or Aelin, they are absolutely fine in here. No sad shit, I promise

Warnings: mentions of graphic death

Gone death

--

Aelin winked at the red headed man in front of her, a grin plastered on her lips.

She handed him back the book, waving off his thank you as he scrunched away to enjoy the rest of the party. She looked around, half paying attention to the hundreds of people who had come to the release of her latest book.

Since Aelin was a seven, she had had a deep fascination with mystery and horror. Thankfully, she was also a fucking amazing writer, which allowed her to transform that fascination into her job. Now, twenty six years later, Aelin was the bestseller author of several stand alone as well as a series of eight books, all of them following the same two main characters while they investigated a series of gruesome murders. She had loved the series, had started writing them at fifteen and published the first one at twenty five. She thought she could write about Sam and Lyria forever.

Until she realized she couldn’t.

Aelin felt a hand gripping her elbow, and had to hold in her sigh as she turned around to stare at her ex husband.

One of Aelin’s biggest regrets in life was marrying so early. Chaol had been her college boyfriend, and they got married few months after they started dating. Looking back now, Aelin could see how stupid she had been, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. They got a divorce less than a year later, and Aelin would have been happy in never looking at him again. Unfortunately, he worked with her publishing team, and if she added that to their past together, she could almost understand why Chaol always felt so entitled to know and control everything in her life.

It was fucking distressing and annoying.

“If it’s not my money sucking ex husband. What did I do this time?”

He had a fake smile on his lips, looking at her as if he didn’t dislike her. “You killed your golden goose, Galathynius. You fucking killed your main characters.”

Aelin shrugged, taking a sip of her white wine. “It was time.” She started walking away, and had to hide her scowl when she realized Chaol was following her.

Some people couldn’t get the fucking hint, could they?

“Why would you do that? Sam and Lyria were making you filthy rich, and everyone loved them.”

“They got boring, that’s why.” Aelin stopped in her tracks, turning back to Chaol. She crossed her arms, raising her chin. “Writing The Guild used to be fun, used to be exciting. Writing Sam used to be interesting, but since the seventh book it has just been work. I don’t write for money, Chaol. I write because I love it. When I stopped loving it, I decided it was time to move on from them.”

“Wow, and God forbid you ever have to actually work like an adult, right?”

“It. Was. Time. Besides, Sam and Lyria are not the golden goose, I am.”

She said the words loud and clear, ignoring the frown on his face. Aelin always knew that Chaol saw her writing more as a job than as a passion, and it pissed her off endlessly. She turned around again, walking to the bar where her cousin and son were sitting. Her heels clinked against the marble floor, and the sound was almost loud enough to hide the fact that Chaol was following her. Again.

She sighed loudly as he began speaking. “You could have made them retire, could have made them get married and leave the force. Hell, you could have made them join the goddamn circus. But no, Aelin Galathynius must be dramatic and put two bullets on her main characters’ heads.” When she ignored him, he just kept talking. “What the hell are you going to do now, Aelin? You permanently ended The Guild with your stupidity, and we both know you don’t have any other ideas.”

At that, Aelin spun on her heels, clenching her fists to stop herself from physically attacking Chaol. The photographers would love seeing her getting into a brawl, and most of the rest of the party would probably find it immensely entertaining. Lysandra, however, wouldn’t find it so amusing. Her PR and best friend loved some mischief, but she also worked hard enough to make sure Aelin’s public image was a good one, so Aelin wouldn’t mess that up by fighting her ex.

“Who says that?”

Chaol snorted. “The nine week delay to publish the eighth book should be indication enough.”

“Can’t rush talent.” Aelin said, a nasty smile on her lips.

“I won’t say you’re not talented, Aelin, but you are out of ideas. You weren’t bored, you had a writer’s block and freaked out.” Chaol said, oblivious to Aelin’s rising temper. He looked at her, giving an infuriating shrug. “You have a month to hand me the new idea. A full and useable idea. The first manuscript, preferably. You’re famous, write any shit and people will eat it up.”

“Fuck off.” Aelin said through clenched teeth.

Chaol merely smiled as he walked away. “A month, Aelin.”

Aelin wanted to go after him and smack his face against one of the piles of books in the room. Fortunately for him, Aelin was stopped by several people who wanted her autograph in the newest and last book of The Guild. It probably took her an hour to get through everyone— talking and giving every single person her full attention— until she finally managed to make her way to the bar.

She spotted Aedion’s head first, his broad figure standing up against the bar and talking to a pitch-black haired boy, Nino, sitting down near him.

“Who does homework at a party?” She heard Aedion asking.

“I have a test next week.”

“So do I. It’s called dealing with your mom while she contemplates hitting her head against a wall to force an idea to come out.”

Nino laughed, looking at his uncle. “She’ll come up with something, she always does.”

Aelin smiled at her son, his words warming her. She had had Nino extremely young— had only been seventeen at the time— and he became her friend along with being her son. She approached her cousin from behind, listening to him ask for a glass of champagne.

“Make that two, please.” Aelin said and Aedion’s eyes immediately snapped to her as she approached the boy sitting down and passed an arm through his shoulders. She kissed him on the cheek. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hey, mom.”

Aedion grinned, raising his glass and gesturing around. “Built yourself an empire, Aeae.”

Aelin smiled in return, winking at her cousin. “Always said I would. But tell me, Aedion…”

“Uh-oh.” The boy Aelin was half hugging said, a humorous smirk on his face. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“Cut it, genius.” Aedion snapped, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “What’s up, Ae?”

“Did you tell Chaol I was having trouble writing?” Aelin smiled sweetly, even though she wanted to strangle her cousin right now. The look on his face was enough to give her the answer.

“I told him nothing of the sort.” Aedion replied quickly, defending himself. Aelin only raised an eyebrow at him. “Ok, I— I might have let slip that for the past nine weeks you have been walking around the apartment with either a cup of coffee or a bottle of wine while you curse the Gods for lack of creativity.”

“I am going to kill you.” Aelin said, a smile still plastered on her face as she noticed some cameras pointed at her. It was always like this whenever she went out with Nino.

“Ae, that’s ok. You’re an artist, that sort of thing is expected.”

“I can’t believe it, Aedion! The deal for you to live with us was plain and simple.”

“No meddling on her work.” Nino reminded Aedion, the boy looking immensely pleased at his uncle’s doom. “And no Chaol.”

“You know how things are with Chaol. No. Talking. About. My. Work.“ Aelin said, temper rising once more.

“What is there to talk about anyways?”

“Uncle!” Nino said exasperatedly.

“Whatever there is or isn’t to talk about,” Aelin was saying, jaw clenched. “I would appreciate if you didn’t share it with my ex husband.”

“Oh, I think I hear Lysandra calling me.” Aedion interrupted, absolutely ignoring Aelin. She narrowed her eyes, knowing damn well that Lysandra would never be calling Aedion judging by the brunette’s deep dislike of her best friend’s cousin. Aelin tried to stop him, but he just started walking away faster, shouting that they could talk at home.

It was just a fancy way of saying they wouldn’t discuss at all.

She turned around, looking at Nino. He had a smirk on his face as he looked down his physics book, a pen on his left hand.

“You should have stopped me.” Aelin grumbled.

“Letting uncle Aed move in?” Nino asked, looking up at his mom. “Nah, I think it’s sweet. Besides, I like him.”

Aelin only grumbled more, taking the two glasses the barista had put in front of her. She smiled in thanks, holding one of the glasses and placing the other in front of Nino. He smiled humorously, raising an eyebrow. “You know I’m only sixteen, right?”

“You’re an old soul.”

“Well me and my old soul can wait until I’m twenty-one.”

Aelin smiled at her son, all anger and tightness leaving her body. Nino had always been her steadying rock, since he was a baby his presence had always been enough to calm her down. Differently from her, however, Nino was extremely serious and responsible, always following the rules, studying and making sure everything was right.

Most times Aelin found it immensely funny to see how different from her he had turned out.

“When I was your age—“ She was saying, a grin on her face. She immediately stopped, frowning. “Can’t tell you that story. Too inappropriate for your innocent ears.”

Nino snickered, pushing the champagne glass away.

“Don’t laugh, boy, this is exactly my point. Don’t you want to have wild, law-breaking, inappropriate stories that you can’t tell your kids one day?” She rested her elbows at the counter, a smile on her lips.

“You’ve lived enough of those for both of us now, mom.”

Aelin snorted, taking a sip of her champagne. “You’re studying physics at a party. At your age I would have been drinking.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were pregnant.” Nino said slowly, a winning smirk at his face.

“Damn it.” Aelin muttered, earning a laugh from Nino. Despite her crazy stories, Nino knew very well how responsible she had been during her pregnancy with him. Nino, since before birth, had been the one thing capable of making her act like a serious adult. “You want to know why I killed Sam and Lyria?”

Nino raised his brows at the change in the topic, but nodded just the same.

“Because life should be an adventure, sweetheart. It should be full of unexpected turns and plot twists. It should be full of funny stories, embarrassing stories, inappropriate stories.” Her smile became soft, and she grabbed one of his hands. “I had to kill them because it wasn’t an adventure anymore, it wasn’t surprising. I knew exactly where they would always go, what they would always do. If my own characters weren’t surprising me, how could I hope they would surprise anyone else?”

“Mom…”

“I’m not telling you to be like I was when I was younger, it’s definitely not your type. I just want to make sure that you know you can make mistakes every now and then. That I don’t expect you to be like me, but I also don’t expect you to be perfect.”

He matched her soft smile, squeezing her hand slightly. “I know, mom.”

“Good.” She straightened, taking her champagne glass and looking around. “You know what else is boring? These parties. After having sixteen of these, the seventeenth seems rather dull.”

Nino rolled his eyes. “Yeah, people praising you seems awfully boring, mom.”

Aelin grinned, resting her hips against the counter as she turned fully to him. “It’s always the same thing. ‘Oh my god, I’m such a big fan’, or maybe the ‘Where’d you get your ideas?’.

“Let’s not forget the fully adult men asking you to sign their chest.” Nino’s face crumbled in disgust.

Aelin laughed out loud, drinking from her glass. “I don’t mind that one very much.”

“Well, I do, if you’re interested in knowing.”

She snorted, putting the now empty glass down. “I don’t know, Nino. I just wanted for someone to surprise me once. I want something new to give me inspiration, to be my new muse. For the past eight years I have been hearing the same thing over and over again. I just want someone to catch me by surprise, to say something so shocking I won’t have a reaction, so surprising that I will—“

“Ms. Galathynius.” She was interrupted by a brisk tap on her shoulder. Nino raised his eyebrows at the person standing behind her, trying to get her attention in such impolite manner.

She forced a polite smile on her face, taking a pen from her bra. She turned around, raising the pen. “Where do I sign?”

A broad shouldered man was now standing in front of her, and even in heels Aelin had to tip her head back to stare at him. His arms her hanging by his side, his clothes extremely casual for him to be part of the party. His white button down and leather jacket hugged his arms and torso, and if his face wasn’t so enthralling, Aelin would probably have had a hard time not staring at the rest of him.

His features looked somewhat tense. His hair— probably blond, but looked so light that it could only be described as silver— a mess, almost as if he had ran his hands too many times through it. There was a crease between his eyebrows, and his pine green eyes were stuck on her face with such intensity that Aelin felt her face heating.

“Detective Whitethorn, OPD.” He said, voice grave and words rolling out of his tongue with a lovely Scottish accent. “I’m here to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight.”

Aelin registered his words, but didn’t have any reaction. She just stared at the man, her eyes looking quickly at the Orynth Police Department badge he was holding.

Nino laughed quietly, reaching over his mom to take the pen out of her hand. “Well, this is new.”

Only then she turned slightly to her son, a scowl at her face. “No shit, Sherlock.”

—----- 

Aelin had always written about this, but she never thought that she would herself be like one of the characters from her story.

Honestly, she wasn’t nervous at all, just curious.

Hundreds of people had seen her all afternoon and night at the party, and she knew that she hadn’t killed anybody, so fear was off the table. Now, why the police thought she had any knowledge about the crime at all was what made her so damn curious.

Upon arriving at the precinct, detective Whitethorn had left her at the care of two identical men. Both had the exact same face, but where one seemed to radiate light, the other one seemed to suck it. As they took her to wait in the interrogation room, she thought that they would make great main characters.

“Whitethorn will be back shortly, ma’am.” The serious twin said, walking out of the room as she sat down. The other twin, however, lingered.

He was staring at her, his head cocked to the side just like a wolf seizing his prey. Aelin stared right back, raising one eyebrow at him. Despite knowing she hadn’t killed anybody, something inside of her was tensing at his staring. Did they think that her involvement with the murder was more serious than she had initially thought?

“You killed your main characters.” He said, and the air rushed out of Aelin’s lungs. She scowled, suddenly pissed that he had made her so tense and it was actually just about a goddamn book.

“Yep. Bullet right through the head.” She made a finger gun and put it against her forehead. “Disappointed?”

He shrugged, resting against the threshold. “It was brilliant, but I adored Sam and Lyria. After eight years following the series, seeing your favorite characters being killed makes you want to kill the author.”

Aelin smiled when he winked at her. “Pardon. If it makes you feel better, I have already been scolded by my ex husband. Said it would have been better if I had just made Sam and Lyria join the circus.”

“Sam would have been a shit clown.”

Aelin nodded. “You’re right. Should have told that to my ex.”

The detective laughed, but was immediately interrupted when Whitethorn’s voice sounded from behind him. “Fenrys.”

“Sorry, Rowan.” Fenrys grimaced exaggeratedly, and Aelin grinned. “See you later, blondie.”

Aelin just nodded, her eyes immediately on Whitethorn when his figure approached the door.

“Ms. Galathynius.”

“Detective Whitethorn.” She eyed the manila folders he was holding. Some papers and photos were sticking out, but Aelin couldn’t really tell what they were.

He sat in front of her after closing the door, opening one of the folders. His eyebrows rose as he read, and he eyed Aelin quickly before sighing and putting the open folder at the table. “You have quite the history with the law for a best selling author, Ms. Galathynius. Public disturbance, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest…”

Aelin shrugged, a small smile on her lips. “Living all your adventures through paper seem a little too nerdish for me.”

Detective Whitethorn rested his forearms on the table, inclining himself forward. Aelin did the same, and his eyes narrowed at her.

“You stole a police horse once.”

“Borrowed.” Her smile widened. Detective Whitethorn, on the other hand, didn’t seem to find it funny in the slightest.

“And you were,” he looked down at the folder before looking at her again. “Nude.”

Aelin shrugged once more. “It was springtime.”

“And every time the charges were dropped.” He drew back, resting against his chair. “Care to explain?”

“The mayor enjoys reading The Guild.” Aelin sighed dramatically, propping on her elbows and resting her face against her hand. “You know how people love to bond over mutual interests. And he loves my son, there’s that too. But that’s besides the point.”

“Oh, is it?” For the first time, the detective seemed entertained.

“Yes. I don’t think you’re here to talk about my college prank of a decade ago, detective.” She half smiled. “So why don’t you make your murder questions so I can go home and convince my son to stop studying so his eyes won’t fall out?”

“Ms. Galathynius.” He said, smirking at her. Aelin didn’t think it was a good smirk, though. “I fully believe that the cocky, irreverent, hot girl slash genius act makes people eat out of the palm of your hand in your glamorous world, but I work for a living, so why don’t you cut the bullshit because in my world, you can be only two things.”

“You think I’m hot, detective?”

Whitethorn’s smirk didn’t waver. “You can be the person who makes my life easier and goes home quickly, or the person who makes my life harder and stays handcuffed here until you decide to be the first option.”

“I could make so many inappropriate jokes right now, you have no idea.” Aelin said, and she could swear his smirk turned more playful. She smirked back, crossing her arms. “I supposed I shouldn’t want to be the one making your life harder.”

He didn’t answer, just let go of the manila folder containing her information and opened the other one. He took out the picture of a brunette woman. Dark hair, brown skin and big black eyes, the girl couldn’t be older than twenty five.

Aelin grabbed the picture, analyzing it. “Hum, pretty.”

“And dead.”

“Gods, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

He didn’t reply, just took another picture out. This time it was a man, probably at the same age, but instead of bright and soft features the girl possessed, his skin was pale and blue eyes glassy.

“Recognize them?”

Aelin shook her head. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She sighed, letting go of the pictures. “I’ve been to dozens of signings, events and parties, detective Whitethorn. I can’t possibly recall every face.”

“Not what I meant. Do you recognize their features?” He asked, tapping the pictures.

Aelin looked back down once more, looking at those faces until something hit her fully. “Sam and Lyria. They look like my characters Sam and Lyria.”

Detective Whitethorn seemed satisfied with her answer, because he took other two pictures and placed in front of her. One of them showed the girl, her body dressed in a series of white cloths, wild flowers surrounding her whole body. Where her eyes should be, two big daisies laid, and looking more carefully, Aelin could also see daisies stuffed in her mouth and nostrils.

The other picture showed the boy, his body laying inside a casket, instead of white cloths hugging his body, his were blood red. The floor around the casket showed a series of markings drawn in white chalk.

“Holy fuck.” She breathed.

Detective Whitethorn was eyeing her carefully. “Her name was Mandy, his was Felix. He was found dead two weeks ago, but we only made the connection after we found her today. The deaths look exactly like the ones described in chapter six and twenty two of your book Gone Death.”

“A fan?” Aelin asked, a humorous smile on her lips.

“Yes, a really deranged fan.”

“Oh, you don’t seem deranged.”

He looked up from the pictures, frowning. “I’m sorry?”

“Detective Whitethorn, I am a best selling author and yet I can count on my fingers the amount of people who even know that Gone Death exists.” She smiled when he rolled his eyes. “It’s ok, I always thought it was a terribly underrated book. Only hardcore groupies ever read that one, though.”

He cleared his throat. “Do you enjoy constantly praising yourself, ma’am?”

“Oh, you have no idea, sir.”

He snorted, crossing his arms. “Does any of these groupies ever write you fan mail?” She just stared at him blankly. “Disturbing ones.”

Aelin shuddered, and this time it wasn’t for show. “Oh, try being a murder mystery writer. Every fan mail I receive is disturbing. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“It’s because sometimes, in cases like this, we find that—“

“The killer attempts to contact the image of his obsession, yes.” Aelin completed his sentence, earning a questioning look back.

She looked back at him, and curiosity beyond this case sparkled inside of her. She could feel an idea brewing, and the more he talked, the more interesting he got.

“I write murders for a living. I’m well versed in psychopathic methodologies and the process of murder. Another occupational hazard, I guess.” She inclined herself forward. “And has anyone ever said you have pretty eyes?”

He stared at her, mouth open as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. He finally rolled his eyes, pulling the pictures back to him. “And so I assume you won’t have any problems with us going over you mail, Ms. Galathynius.”

“Be my guest. I have thrown some out, however.” When he looked at her, she just shrugged. “My son lives in that house, detective. And as much as I’m not a strict mom in the slightest, there are things I will not allow my son to be near. Middle aged man sending naked pictures and blood vials is one example.”

He nodded, getting up. Aelin looked up at him, jerking her chin in the direction of the manila folders.

“Can I get a copy of that?”

“A copy?” He asked dumbfounded.

“Yeah. I have poker night with other best selling authors and you have no idea how jealous this would make them.”

He hesitated for a moment before slowly asking. “Jealous?”

“In my world, detective, having a copycat is like wining the fucking Nobel.” She said, half surprised at the complete incredulity on his face. “So?”

He threw the folders at the table, placing his hands down and bringing his face inches away from hers. “People are dying, Ms. Galathynius.”

“I’m not asking for the bodies.”

He rolled his eyes, drawing back. He took the folders from the table, walking to the door. “I think we’re done here.”

Aelin stared at his back, seeing him leave the room. Once he was out of sight, she took her phone out, looking through her contacts until she found the one.

“Good night, Rolfe.” She greeted the current mayor of Orynth. “You have a direct say in the OPD business, don’t you? Because as you know, The Guild just ended but…”

Aelin looked at the door once more, and even though he wasn’t there, she smiled.

“…but I think I just found my new inspiration for a new series.”

Tags:

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @abookishfreak @faerie-queen-fireheart @maastrash @morganofthewildfire @queen-of-glass @jlinez @courtofjurdan @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @ladywitchling @lexflame @sleeping-and-books @annejulianneh111 @perseusannabeth @linshryver @mu-si-ca-l @camilamartinezdunne @dank-queen7 @minaidss @starborn-faerie-queen @booksofthemoon @loveofbooksandwine @jesstargaryenqueen @bluejaberry @yesdreamblog @multifandommessblog @heirofthenightcourt

#rowaelin #rowaelin au #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin headcanon #castle #rowaelin!castle #rowanaelin #aelin and rowan #rowan x aelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin ashryver galathynius #nino galathynius whitethorn #aedion ashryver #lysandra ennar #fenrys moonbeam #connall moonbeam #tog #throne of glass #throne of glass au #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass oneshot #writing #my writing #castle tv #answered #mardu writes

[staticscreenwriting]

The loneliest time of the year || Part two

Part 2 of 4

Summary: With a broken heart and the fear of having failed as a father, Frankie returns to his parents house for Christmas. What is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year feels quite lonely. Though when an old friend shows up unexpectedly with her young son in tow, Frankie’s Christmas seems to gain a little more happiness. Can they help each other fight the ghosts of their pasts and overcome their fears ?

A/N: This is part of my 12 days of Christmas / Advent special. Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated.

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Four messed up pies

By the morning of December 9th a heavy blanket of snow rests upon the world like a tick coat of marshmallow fluff. 

A restlessness surges through Frankie as he turns from his left to his right to his back then repeats the process all over again. He kicks away the blankets then pulls them back. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days. In fact sleep hasn’t come easy in a while. It’s a price you have to pay for leading the life he leads, has led. For doing the job he did. You see things, bad things, and they stay with you. Not always but in the quiet moments they creep back into your mind and all you can do is stare and hope they fade again soon. Fill your brain with other things. Occupy your mind.

It’s moments like these that his fingers are twitching and his body is aching for release. For something to numb his mind. Help him forget. 

There aren’t a lot of things that Frankie is proud of. In fact he can count them on one hand. One of them is his ability to fly. He's a damn good pilot … most of the time. (He is when someone doesn’t force him to navigate an overloaded plane across the Andes). He’s proud of Rosie. Despite his flaws and shortcomings he managed to create something so utterly perfect, that’s something to be proud of. And the. There’s the little coin in the pocket of his jacket. The one he fumbles with whenever he’s anxious or stressed. It’s gold and smooth and it proudly displays a big number 10 in the middle of a triangle on the front of the coin.

10 months. That’s a proud achievement. 

It could be more. It should be more! He really tried but after coming home from Colombia, one man less than they went in, after his girlfriend broke up with him and took Rosie with her. After everything. He needed the psi to stop. Just for one goddamn minute. He felt immediate regret wash over him when he woke up the next morning. Called Pope. Entered a 12 step program.

10 months and he feels better. He likes himself more now. But in those 10 months the voices have gotten louder, the images clearer, his heart feels heavier. 

With sleep being so far out of reach, he kicks off the blanket and drags his body out of bed. The smell of coffee hits his nose as soon as he steps out of his room, it drifts from the kitchen all the way up the stairs. 

His parents are sitting by the kitchen counter, mom holding onto a big steaming mug of coffee while his dad is deeply invested in the morning. Paper, glasses perched low on his nose. This is home, it sends him straight back to his childhood. If only, he thinks, if only he could provide this sense of warmth and domesticity for his own child. 

A knock on the front door shakes him from his thoughts. As he swings it open, a sharp sting of cold winter air whips at him, nips at his nose, his ears and his bare feet.

“Frankie hey, oh sorry did I wake you?”

(Y/N) is once again bundled up in layers of cozy clothes, keeping her warm and sheltered from the harsh weather. She looks cute. Absolutely fucking adorable. But in that moment, he doesn’t really notice that. Doesn’t notice Leo standing behind her either. His entire attention rests on the steaming pie she holds in her hands. 

“You made a pie?”

“She made 4.” Leo speaks up, his voice dripping with irritation and annoyance. 

“Thanks for throwing me under the bus, dude!”

Frankie regards the exchange with a fond smile pulling at the corners of his lips. There’s something so distinctly familiar in the way she interacts with her son, so unapologetically her. The way she’s always been. But now grown up entirely. A mother. 

“Why did you make 4 pies?” He asks, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Well I didn’t plan on making 4. The first one I mistook salt for sugar so you can imagine how it tasted. The second one I put way too much sugar in, might’ve been trying to compensate for my mistake with the first one but yeah that one did end up in the trash as well. The third … well I got pretty invested in an episode of unsolved mysteries and forgot it was in the oven so it turned out um — “

“Black. It was burned to a crisp.” Leo chimes up again, this time more amused than annoyed by his mother’s baking escapades.

“Yeah. It burned. But number 4 is looking pretty good.”

She looks up at Frankie with a smile so radiant it rivals the sun reflecting on the snowy ground. Pride shines in her eyes as she holds the pie towards him.

“Did you make me a pie?”

“Not exactly. It’s mostly for your folks. They agreed to watch this one while I got shopping for his Christmas presents.” (Y/N) explains, her tumb motioning towards the little boy over her shoulder. “This is a thank you to them for being literal angels. “

“Oh man you wouldn’t be saying that if you had to live with them growing up. I can’t tell you how many times dad unplugged my console while I was in the middle of a game.”

It’s a joke, of course it is. He really lucked out in the parents department and he’s not too proud or too shy to admit it. Maybe, he thinks, the good parent gene might’ve skipped a generation with him. His ex will surely agree with that statement. 

“Hey uh — you mind having some company while shopping ?”

“You wanna go shopping for toys?”

“I need to get some presents for my daughter.”

“Oh that’s right, you have a kid too. “

He doesn’t blame her for not remembering. He doesn’t strike people as the father type. And really, he hasn’t seen his little one in quite some time.doesn’t see her during the entire Christmas time. Is he really much of a father anyway?

“Sure yeah! I’d love some company.”

Maybe, Frankie thinks, this will help him drown out the voice. Those that tell him bad thoughts, whisper mean things. Maybe it will help him filter out the images. The blood. The suffering.

Frankie was never overly fond of the extreme commercialization of what should be a peaceful family holiday. But maybe this year he is,a little bit at least. Because those bright colors, the loud noises, the crowds, the ads assaulting you from every corner, that all will help drown out the dark. At least for a moment. 

“Alright lemme just get changed real quick.”

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Five days a week

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s uh … it’s a … a game?”

“A game where you have to catch a piece of … poop.”

A wave of laughter tumbles from (Y/N)’s lips as Frankie holds up the brightly colored box, proudly displaying a drawing of a smiling turd. 

“It’s so dumb. And that says a lot coming from me, I can appreciate a good fart joke. But this is …. this is just dumb. “

“ It's what the kids these days want. I guess …”

“Would you buy this for Leo?”

“Absolutely not,” (Y/N) replies before taking the box from his hand and placing it back on the shelf between several more games of a similar kind. “But he wouldn’t like it anyway. Leo likes books and animals and fantasy movies. He’s so smart sometimes I wonder where he got it from.”

“You kidding me?” Frankie exclaims, “you’re so smart and if I remember correctly, you always carried around books when you were younger.”

(Y/N) just shrugs at his words though Frankie can’t make out a faint blush of red dusting her cheeks. “Leo is such an easy kid, always has been. Sometimes I wonder if that’s really the way he is or if he just tries to be that way because of me. Because he knows that I have to do all the parenting by myself and he feels he’s responsible for helping me along.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re doing good with him. Least you know what to get him for Christmas, what he cares about, what he’s interested in.”

His heart feels so heavy. His words seem to weigh down on his tongue like a stack of bricks. To admit your own failures to yourself is one thing, to admit them to someone else is quite another story.

“What do you mean ?”

“I — I have no idea what to get for Rosie. I don’t even know when I’ll see her next. She stays with her mom 5 days a week. I only get her on the weekends and even then her mom often finds a reason not to let her stay. Special occasions? I don’t get to spend those with her. Bet she doesn’t even recognize me anymore next time. She’s just a baby …”

This can’t be happening. He’s not going to start crying in the middle of a Toys R Us like a hyperactive toddler on a temper tantrum. Not in front of a beautiful girl who has been nothing but kind to him. This can’t be happening.

(Y/N)’s hand settles on his arm with a gentle touch. Almost as if she’s afraid he’ll break any minute now. And honestly, he might.

“Tell me about Rosie. I know she means the world to you and that’s all that matters Frankie. You’re trying. You’re trying so hard and I’m sure there’s lots about her that you know that no one else does. She’s your baby too. So tell me about her and we’ll figure out what to get her.”

And so they sit down on a swing set, one that’s definitely not meant for adults to sit on and have deep discussions, and Frankie starts talking. Once he starts it’s like a cork has been popped. It pours out of him, all of his pride and admiration and love for Rosie. All that has been brewing for so long now bubbles over. 

“... and she, she loves cuddling onto my chest and just listens to me. She doesn’t understand a word but she looks at me with her big beautiful eyes and it feels like I’m telling her all the biggest secrets of the universe the way she looks at me. Sometimes I sing and she — she falls asleep immediately.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Nah I think it's because my rendition of Eric Clapton is just real bad and boring.”

Their laughter is quiet, almost as if they are afraid of breaking the spell of this moment. Sometimes you find yourself at your most vulnerable during the big moments of your life and sometimes you do in the middle of a Toys R Us, sitting on a swingest that just barely holds your weight while a plastic giraffe looks over your shoulder and Kacey Musgrave’s rendition of “I’ll be home for Christmas” plays over the same overhead speakers that have been installed there in 1983.

“I just don’t want to disappoint her.”

 He’s already disappointing himself and that hurts bad enough.

“Frankie, let me be honest with you. She’s a baby, she’s not gonna care what you get for her. This is more about you than her. Whatever you get she’s gonna like it. Babies are easy to please, gets harder the older they get. We’ll find something cute for her but um … I think you should call her.”

“She’s a baby, she doesn’t have a phone yet.”

“ Really? I had Leo on a newborn data plan the second he popped out.”

Frankie raises his eyebrow in confusion.

“I was joking you dingus. Of course you’re gonna call her mom. There’s this thing, I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, it’s called FaceTime. You can actually see ther person on the other side. “ 

“ Very funny. I know what facetime is … “ 

“ Then call them. You said it yourself, the little one doesn’t understand a word of what you’re saying but that doesn’t matter. You’re there. You’re showing interest and taking initiative. It shows you care. And I think seeing her might be good for you too, even if it’s not in person.” 

“ You know, that sounds like a pretty good plan. “ 

“ Yeah? “ she asks him, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes, in her voice, in her entire being.

“ Yeah. “ 

“ Alright! Now let’s go find some presents for the little princess. May I suggest a cellphone? “ 

This time her laughter isn’t quite. It’s loud and radiant and the way her own joke amuses herself, is so goddamn endearing to Frankie. 

“ Ah shut up. “ he replies though his voice too is dipped in amusement as he throws his arm around her shoulders and they walk down the shiny linoleum floor, past dolls and teddy bears and Star Wars action figures.

And it feels right. Like the fit together perfectly. Like puzzle pieces slotting into place. 

And that feeling is damn scary.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Six-hour flights.

The floor of (Y/N)’s living room is covered in wrapping paper. Reds and greens and silvers and golds hide what once was a nice dark cherry wood floor. There are bows and ribbons and gift tags in all shapes and sizes and colors. 

“ Looks like Santa’s workshop in here, “ Frankie exclaims as he drops down on the floor next to her. All the presents they’ve purchased, neatly lined up in front of them, ready to be wrapped. Though to be fair, Frankie is quite sure he’s not gonna do a lot of wrapping himself. Sometimes you gotta admit defeat. And he ain’t too proud to admit that he is a horrible, horrible wrapper. 

“ Yeah, I know I’m making a big fuss over things like this. Wrapping and the tree and stuff like that. I just — I don’t know it just makes me happy when I see that my actions put a smile on the faces of the people I love. “ 

“ Oh I wasn't judging. It’s sweet. “ 

For a while they stay in comfortable silence. Just them and the radio playing old Christmas songs. (Y/N)’s hands do quick work on the presents, Santa’s elves would be jealous. 

It’s the first time in a long time, that silence doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable. That it doesn’t open up the gates for the voices to grow louder and the bad images to consume his head. No, this silence feels comfortable. It’s soft and warm. It’s tinted in golds and reds. 

Maybe, he thinks, maybe seeking the company of someone who exudes joy and warmth does him good. Someone who knows him but not the bad. Never the bad. The faults, yes, the fears even, but not the blood that stains his hands or the vices he so desperately tries to fight.

“ What was the best Christmas present you ever got? “ (Y/N) speaks up as she glides a pair of scissors along the ribbon turning it into shiny curls. 

“ Millennium Falcon playset.” 

“ You and a million other little boys. “ 

“True. What can I say, I was easily pleased. What was yours ?”

(Y/N) thinks for a moment before a wistful smile settles on her face. 

“My bubblegum pink roller skates.”

“Oh, I remember those!”

And he did. Squeaky pink roller skates with 4 pastel blue wheels and glittery silver laces.

“I remember the following summer all you did was skate up and down the street.  “

“Yeeeah but that wasn’t entirely because of the skates.”

Frankie combs his hair from his face, he really needs to get it cut, and looks at her in confusion. “Huh?”

Another chuckle falls from (Y/N) ‘s lips. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

“ Notice what?”

“That I had the biggest crush on you.”

Frankie is grateful for the fact that he’s not taking a sip of his drink right then, it surely would’ve ended in a spit-take. He was a nerdy kid, a nerdy teenager too. Kinda shy, a little lost. He wasn’t usually the boy that girls fancied.

“Me? You had a crush on me? “

It doesn’t make sense, not really. She was the one that was fascinating and exciting. Though he didn’t think of her that way when they were kids, he knew she was beautiful even back then. He hadn’t been interested in her romantically because she was a few years younger but that didn’t meanie didn’t realize the magic she held.

“Yes, you. You were cool, Frankie. You were older and you knew stuff about cars and planes and you could name every Star Wars spaceship and you had a skateboard. “

“I was a horrible skater.”

“Sure but it wasn’t so much about the skating as it was about the aesthetic. You were cool and you still are cool”

Frankie shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. She thought he was cool, still does. No one ever thought he was cool. He isn’t a smooth talker like Pope and even he himself can admit that look wise he isn’t even playing in the same league as Will and Benny. But if (Y/N) thinks he’s cool that must mean something. Right ?

“You were the one traveling all over the world with your dad and you thought I was cool?”

She sets down the scissors, let’s her hands rest on her lap. There’s a sense of nervousness exuding from her now. Like the words she wants to speak are resting on the tip of her tongue and yet they are so difficult to speak.

“Maybe that was part of it too. I never had a real home. Nothing stable at least. Except for my grandparents’ house. This was home and you were, you are, forever entwined with my idea of home. Sometimes I missed this place so much that I’d sit in my room and my little brain would think of all the fun adventures we could go on if only I was old enough to hop on a 6 hour flight by myself. I’d ask grandma about you every time I called and she always told me what trouble you got into.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah and that only made you more exciting in my eyes. Then she’d offer to let me speak to you but I was too chicken shit to do it. Thought you might look right through my facade and realize how into you I was.”

“I was so oblivious, I can assure you I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Well … it’s too late now.”

“I guess so. Just — next time you fall in love with me let me know, alright.”

Her laugh rings through the room like bells, like songs, like whispers of a childhood magic long forgotten.

“That only sounds fair. It’s a deal.”

“Good, now …. would you mind wrapping my gifts for Rosie?”

“Nope, but in return would you come see Leo’s play with me next week? My dad can’t come and I think Leo would like to have some more people there that support him. And he seems to think you’re cool so …”

“Huh guess if you both think so it must be true.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Of course I’ll come. “

She smiles and it sends a weird flicker through him. Like fire, like electricity. 

“ Now let me teach you how to curl the ribbon properly.”

#francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #frankie morales x you #francisco morales imagine #frankie morales imagines #triple frontier imagine #triple frontier imagines #catfish imagine #catfish x reader #catfish x you #jos2020xmasspecial

[lovelywingsart]

Forgotten Memory

-- Karl Heisenberg X OC (AFAB, She/They) --

So I did a few sketches of Emelia meeting the other lords(and Dimitrescu daughters) a while ago, and I threw in a little something for the Moreau one- well, here's what's basically the small follow-up that I teased for that one.

**Small reminder that I have a small 'Masterlist' for these!**

---------

*Warning?: Lost/regained memory, mentions of wanted parenthood, angst kinda?

Summary: A small, interesting discovery is made during a first visit to Lord Moreaus domain, leading to a heartbreaking revelation.

Emelia was silent. They had returned from her first visit with Moreau, and she had to admit, the 'Fish Man' was kind and rather fun to be around despite Heisenbergs dislike of him. The metal man in question sat at a separate table behind her, tinkering with what she could assume was an experimental piece for the Soldats with his hair in it's normal 'bun' for physical work. But her focus wasn't on him. No, it was on the tape Moreau had excitedly let her borrow. It lay on the corner of the table she had been sitting at, and though she had previously been sketching plans, she was unable to concentrate. Simply finding it at the watermill sent a chill of recognition down her spine, and she couldn't get that familiarity out of her head. It was as if it triggered... something. But she didn't know what, exactly. The cover of the movie alone was scarily familiar, but... she didn't know.

And so, here she sat in silence, staring at the cover of the yellowed and somewhat grimy case, picking at her brain for any possible lead. Not even the occasional German swearing behind her shook her from the concentrated phase she was in as Heisenberg caused a tiny shock among the wires he was currently fiddling with. She had been staring at it since she picked it up... She barely looked away from it on the way back to the factory, nearly tripping over multiple things while Heisenberg practically led her around. But she couldn't quite put her finger on why it was so familiar.

She was suddenly jerked out of her trance as she heard a rather loud 'FUCK', and she turned to see Heisenberg looking at his hand.

"Are you alright...?" She asked quietly. He shook his head, sticking a bleeding finger in his mouth.

"Eh, I'm fine... damn thing shifted on me." He muttered. She was silent for a moment, seemingly spacing out until she spoke again.

"Would you like a bandage...?"

"Nah, I'll be fine." He shrugged, inspecting the digit once more before looking at the thing on his desk. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had the threat of losing a body part." His tone was almost thoughtful as he shifted his left leg. He then turned to face her. "What the hell is with YOU, anyway? You haven't stopped staring at that thing since we left the ugly freak. Usually you'd yell at me to wear gloves."

"Because you should..." Emelia rolled her eye slightly, "And he's a kind man, Karl. Don't be mean." she huffed, shaking her head as he muttered something under his breath. "No, I... I'm fine. Just thinking, is all."

"Ah. Well, don't hurt yourself." He smirked, turning back to his work as she glared at him.

"Twit..." she muttered, her eyes drifting back to the tape. She swore there was something about it...

She finally reached for it, holding it somewhat close to her face. She studied every detail. Every curve of the title letters. Every bit of the scenery. It wasn't until she turned it around to read the back that she paused, her brain picking out a few words to focus on. She simply closed her eye for a moment, only for something... a scene... to flash in her mind;

A woman stood in bright, almost entirely white scenery, holding a small child on her hip. Her other hand held that of an older child, and the childs other hand was held by a man. They seemed... happy. But she couldn't tell... The faces were simple blurs. She could only tell by the distant sound of laughter as the man and woman embraced, the two children huddling to them with giggles. The woman, she noticed, wore her hair longer with a ponytail to the side. No other features were clear. There was a sadness as the scene began to fade away, even as she desperately tried to clear the faces of the individuals.

Emelia jerked into reality once more with a gasp, making the man behind her jump with a startled swear.

"Fucking-" He started, shaking his hand again before looking at her with an irritated grunt. "What now???"

She stared at the tape in silence for a few seconds more before setting it down carefully and pushing herself to stand.

"N-Nothing, I..." she started, her voice wavering just slightly. Heisenbergs irritation all but disappeared as he watched her, switching to confusion.

"Emelia? What's wrong?" He asked, but she shook her head.

"I-I'm fine, I..." she tried, finally just running her hand through her hair and walking towards the door off to the side. "I'm just... tired. I'm going to sleep."

"... Oh." He replied, his confusion still evident. "Make sure you wake up, then."

She couldn't help but crack a small smile. It was always his way of saying 'sleep well'.

"I'll try."

~

Oddly enough, the bed wasn't too comfortable.

Emelia lay on her back, her arms behind her head while staring up at the dark ceiling. She had changed into her casual 'night' attire, thinking she could think better with the light off... But it only clouded her mind. The scene she saw kept playing in her mind. Who were these people? Why did she see them?? She let out a frustrated groan, moving her hands to rub her face. It had to have been a memory, right...? Was she one of the children? Was she remembering her family before this? Of course she had remembered small things as a child, merely second-long snippets of a foggy past that still wasn't entirely clear. COULD she have been one of the children?? While the thought should have calmed her, it only made her question more. If it WAS her original family, why couldn't she see the faces? She should have at least been able to remember her own... Not to mention the scenery itself was entirely different than she ever remembered... None of her memories were ever pure light. Something wasn't sitting right... But she thought back to the children she saw. They were happy... Laughing. They were all laughing a pleasant laugh, even the two adults, who she assumed were the parents. It was the joy of the scene that managed to calm her, and she couldn't help but chuckle from the silliness of it all.

She froze.

Wait.

She gave a confused hum, almost trying to repeat the chuckle. She then thought back to the memory, watching and rewatching the scene in her head, her muscles suddenly tense. Her attention was soon drawn to the woman. The woman's laugh seemed familiar as her face slowly became visible. Almost TOO familiar. It was almost like... Wait, that... Was...

No.

She bolted into an upright position once she saw the womans face clearly, her eye wide as the scene suddenly became uncomfortably clear.

The adult woman was HER.

But why?? HOW???

She threw the covers off her legs and pushed herself away from the bed, nearly ripping the door open with a burst of strength. She nearly ran down the steps, her breathing halted. How could that have been her? How could those memories be hers? She was older in that scene than she remembered to previously have been before all of this, and there was very clearly no sign of childbearing on her own body that she saw or knew of. Hell, she never thought she had BEEN with anyone like 'that' until recently, how could-

She startled Heisenberg once more as she pushed open the door to the workshop, making him jump as she briskly made her way back to the desk she had been sitting at. He spoke to her, but she couldn't hear him as she grabbed the tape and stared at it. Her... A family... Smiling, happy...

Another vision played in her mind, this one she had been familiar with. She was a child, tugging the apron of what she always assumed was her mother. 'Can we? Please?' Her small voice asked. She was a quiet child, that much she assumed from the memories she had unlocked before. She was already greeted with a kind smile as her faceless mother nodded. This memory she had seen, and it was always the same; she led the mother over, sitting on a fluffy couch in front of a large TV. A movie always played, but she couldn't see it... Until now. It was the same movie she currently physically held. But something changed... It was as if a new reel of film was cleaned in her mind, and she saw herself look up at the mother she cuddled to at the point where the memory would have cut off. 'I want a family like that!' She heard herself say excitedly. 'Just like that?' The mother asked, her voice warped somewhat. Emelia watched her child self nod. 'Yeah, a big one, just like that.'

It was then that the previous image of her older self played, vaguely hearing her child-self speak of her own family hopes over the laughter. And that's when it hit her with a wave of brokenhearted nausea. THAT'S why it was so bright... So happy... The vision wasn't a 'memory' at all. No...

It was a DREAM.

A dream...

No.

It was a goal.

A life goal her child-self had.

A goal stripped mostly once she joined the corporation before being taken Miranda years later. A goal that Miranda herself had more or less stripped ENTIRELY with no hope of settling down as soon as that goddamn parasite was embedded into her chest.

An important goal she had entirely forgotten about until now.

The realization hit her like a head-on impact from Sturm, and she dropped the tape. Her eye was wide, staring at seemingly nothing as her breaths came in quiet wheezes. She didn't even know she was crying until she felt a hand on her shoulder, jumping out of her thoughts with a gasp and whirling to meet the concerned face of Heisenberg. He seemed to jump back as well, startled to see face that pure sadness and anger. She could almost hear the memories of singing as she stared at him, her body trembling.

"Emmy??" He asked, taking his hand from her shoulder as if he himself had caused the tears that now streamed down her cheek. She was silent for a moment before her lip trembled.

"I... I remember..." she whimpered, taking deep breaths. Heisenberg paused before suddenly pressing on her shoulders.

"Sit." He said quickly, turning away to grab his own chair as she sat carefully. He brought the chair up in front of hers, sitting directly across from her. "What do you remember?" He asked, his voice genuine as he watched her. She forced herself to speak.

"Do... D-Do you remember... Uhm..." she paused with a shaky breath in attempts not to start sobbing immediately. She HAD to calm herself... "Do you remember when I... When I told you about that memory... The one when I was a child and the movie...?"

"I do... That was months ago." He replied, tilting his head. "What about it?"

"Th-There's... There's more..." she nodded to the tape on the table. "It... It was that... and... a-and..."

She finally broke down, covering her mouth as she let out a wavering sob. She nearly curled in on herself, only stopped by Heisenbergs hands on her shoulders. He then gently grabbed her face, leaning forward and making her look at him.

"Hey... Hey, look at me." He spoke. His jaw tightened as her eye met his, and he saw a painful recognition. "What the hell did that tape do?"

She seemed to hesitate for a moment before finally opening her mouth.

"... I... I wanted a family, Karl..." she whimpered.

He froze.

'Family'.

It was a word he grew to despise over the years. He hated it. He hated it with a burning, goddamn passion. The meaning of it was lost to time and trauma, and yet it sounded... innocent coming from her. It wasn't malicious like Miranda, or insulting like Alcina. It didn't even sound like a pathetic joke as it would have with Donna or Moreau. There was true pain behind the word as she spoke it, and he frowned as he watched her break down in front of him despite clearly attempting to hold it together. She always told him her memories... Hell, he encouraged her too. He knew what it was like, and he hated the thought of the same happening to her. But this time, he didn't know what to do. 'Family' was a sore subject around the factory. She let out a shaky sigh.

"I-I'm sorry, I..."

"No, no, just... Don't..." he started, only to sigh, himself. "Damn it-... Come here."

Emelia froze as Heisenberg pulled her into an awkward hug, though it wasn't enough to stop the tears. Instead, she reached up to hold his arms while her head threatened to fall onto his shoulder. He was silent for a moment, feeling as she almost curled to him, only stopped by the chairs. He couldn't quite think of anything to say. Nothing to help. Not even anything witty.

"... Keep talking." He said finally, feeling her breath halt.

"... What...?"

"I said, keep talking. Tell me about it... I guess." He managed. He felt her head shift while she managed to breath enough to sniffle.

"Is that a joke..." she asked quietly. He rolled his eyes.

"You really think I'd joke about that?"

"... Do you really want me to answer that..."

"Just keep talking, Emelia." He groaned. She was quiet before letting out a shaky breath and speaking.

"I-I... I remember..." she started, clearing her throat slightly and sniffling once more, "I remember begging her to watch it... I guess she never argued... Not that I could tell."

"Hm." He hummed quietly, setting his chin on top of her head. "How many times did you watch it, then?"

"I... I'm not sure... A lot, I suppose...?" Her voice was quiet as she sighed. "All I can hear is singing, I don't know..."

He raised a brow.

"Singing??"

"Shush..." she mumbled, earning a chuckle.

"So what does that have to do with wanting..." he paused. Hell, SAYING the word felt like poison to him... But she knew. She took a shaky breath before pushing away from him, wiping furiously at her eye as she sat back in her chair. She looked over at the tape for a moment with a frown.

"I told her I wanted a family..." she managed, reaching to pick up the tape and turning it over. "'A big one just like them', I told her... I guess I loved it enough to dream of it. Children, a husband... I suppose I could have had... SOMETHING like that with the corporation, but... NOW..." Her voice then gained a hint of bitterness as she leaned forward to put her head in her hand while holding the tape with the other. "It's impossible thanks to HER... And yet, I feel as if I still want it, now that I know..." The sadness quickly turned into a hint of anger as she lightly tossed the tape back on to the table. She was unable to stop the new flow of tears that started, glancing at her right arm. "Bloody hell... How damn stupid am I... A goddamn 'family' from THIS bloody mess..."

Heisenberg was quiet for once, watching as she wiped at her face furiously once more. What the hell was he even SUPPOSED to say to that?? That she was right?? No, he wasn't actively trying to upset her... Maybe he would joke normally, but even he knew that now wasn't the time. Oh, hell...

"Don't be hasty, Emmy. You've, ah... you've got a lot of life to live." He spoke awkwardly, clearing his throat slightly. "Or... um... something."

He jerked back as Emelia gave a disbelieving snort before choking back a sob as she looked to the movie again.

"'Or something'... Not like anyone would be willing to contribute while I'm like this..." she muttered, not seeing the look he gave with her voice still bitter as she frowned with a trembling lip. "That bitch stole every hope I had of being normal... I can barely remember everything still, and yet this is what I get when I do..." her voice lowered, but cracked with a mixture of pain and anger. It was a mix Heisenberg himself knew all too well. "I wanted a family and she tore that away for her own..."

"You could still-" he started, only to stop and snap his mouth shut as she looked up at him. What the fuck was he just about to say?

"I could still WHAT, Karl...??" Her voice was nearly pleading as she looked up at him. "Even if I tried, she'd still... She'd..."

She had to breathe. It felt as if her chest was collapsing in on itself as she doubled over with a sudden gasping sob. She was robbed... The life she once dreamed about wasn't at all possible. Even if she tried. Even if she somehow found a way, she knew it would be ripped from her again by the woman in selfish attempts to fix her own 'family'. And yet, she felt the distant longing she remembered feeling as a child... It wasn't until she felt arms around her once more that she started to look up, only to be nearly yanked off the chair as she was hugged with a sudden force and nearly brought into the man's lap.

"Don't say that." He growled quietly, making her freeze. "You still have a goddamn chance. Fuck Miranda and fuck her plans, she's not gonna do anything if you do." He paused for a moment. "She CAN'T do anything if you do, because I won't fucking let her."

Emelia froze in his arms, decently stunned. She said nothing, though couldn't help but curl into his shoulder as she fought off more tears. She knew he did it to make her feel better... And that's what seemed to hurt the most. He wasn't the most affectionate or reassuring person, especially with this. Sure, he had his odd ways of giving comfort, but it was never easy for either of them. But she managed to take a few breaths, returning the hug somewhat as he set his chin on her head. There was silence for a few moments before the reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the tape, looking at the cover with a light fondness despite her anger.

"... I think I'll visit Moreau tomorrow..." she said quietly, almost feeling his look of disgust.

"Why??"

"Unless you would like to watch it with me." She said simply, glancing up at him. He seemed to calm slightly, but still shook his head.

"You sure watching that is the best idea?" He asked, releasing his hold on her slowly. It was as if he didn't want to let go. She shrugged, wiping at her face.

"Potentially not, but... I don't know..." she sighed, pushing herself back on her own chair. She almost smiled as Heisenberg kept a gentle hold on her arms. "Maybe... maybe it would help... He said it was one of his favorites as well, I think it would be nice to have... willing company."

"I wouldn't be 'willing'?"

"Would you REALLY be, Karl?"

He raised a brow for a moment before giving a huff, but he didn't speak. She couldn't help but give a laughing snort before sniffling. It was then that another thought entered her mind, and she pondered over if for a few seconds, chewing the inside of her cheek.

"I think I'm going to get dressed." She said finally, slowly standing from the chair. She was met with a confused stare.

"I thought you said you were tired?" Heisenberg asked, watching as she walked to the door with the tape clutched in her hands. She paused to look back at him for a moment.

"Oh, I am. But now I'm more angry than I am tired." She said simply. "Have you got any disposable Soldats?"

She felt a little better as she watched a broad, toothy grin form on his face.

"I can figure something out." He said, suddenly standing and moving over to his desk to grab something. "Go ahead, I'll meet you down there."

Emelia only nodded, going through the door quickly. She knew it might not help entirely, but she felt the deep need to destroy despite not showing it on the surface. Whatever he was able to put together, she planned on imagining Miranda's face on every single creature she tore apart while mentally preparing herself for the trip the next day. WOULD watching the movie help? Would it assist with more memories? Or was it the worst idea she had ever had? She didn't know, and she couldn't keep her eye off the case as she retrieved her own clothing. She felt the pulses of her mutation even before she slipped on her own shirt, eventually letting the tendrils of muscle expand and grow along her skin. The bone spurs were the last to form, allowing her to flex and adjust her arm slightly. There was a moment of silence as the muscle hardened, feeling her heart beat against her chest. She took one last look at the tape before letting out a growling huff, letting the anger of the forgotten memories flow through her as she finally walked out the door and ran down to the depths of the factory walls.

#oc #resident evil #resident evil oc #resident evil village #resident evil village oc #re8oc #re8 #re8 heisenberg #heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #lord heisenberg #heisenberg fanfiction #lovelywingsocs #LovelyWings Writes #Metalworks Fanfiction

[maariarogers]

i’m still a little bit yours

Summary: Katsuki took the bullet for Deku and awaits Deku to wake up in Chapter 298. In the meantime, he dreams of a familiar scene from their childhood. Inspired by: This cover. You know the one. Spoiler for: Chapter 298 of the manga!

READ HERE ON AO3!

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It takes him a while to know where he is.

It takes him a while, and an instant. The water is cold, he thinks. Or maybe it’s just lukewarm. Maybe it’s nothing at all, except this wetness, pulling down on his gears and uniform. He is half-submerged in the water, sitting there like he’s - supposed to do something, but he’s forgotten what it is.

All he knows is that there is a sting. He knows it’s supposed to be his head, or his leg. That’s how he’d fallen, after all. A slip during the walk. Except this sting envelops his stomach, runs up to his chest.

Katsuki feels like he can’t breathe.

Which is - fucking ridiculous, if someone asks him. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, because it’s too damn shallow, this small river — not even a whole-ass river, really, just a creek, or a stream; a tiny body of water flowing from one end to another — and he could get up, he’s not drowning, but everything about him how he breathes, how he moves hurts.

“Are you okay?” A small voice cuts through his panic.

Katsuki turns, like he’s startled immediately into a fight and he’s ready to blast anything in his perimeter off, but he stops. Because — Deku. Deku is standing there, waddling into the stream, trying to reach to him. He’s concerned, Katsuki could tell; he could recognise that stupid fucking look anywhere. He used to hate it; used to want to spit at it, want it gone and never appear in front of him again.

He doesn’t need Deku looking at him like that, after all.

Deku’s fucking quirkless. He doesn’t have any fucking business pretending he’s any better than any of them.

But there’s also something about that look that kills any reactions he may have reserved only seconds ago.

Maybe it’s because Deku is — small. He’s, what, five years old? Four? Katsuki isn’t sure, except that Deku really is small, coming up to him right now, with that stitched-together eyebrows he does whenever he’s seriously worried. But as much as Katsuki’s startled by this appearance, he doesn’t voice it out. It almost as if, the moment he could recognise that it’s out place, whatever holds of the reality smoothens out and assured him that it’s okay.

This is normal.

Deku, too, seems unperturbed. Never mind that they were childhood friends, which meant that they grew up together. If Deku’s small, Katsuki should — by all logical explanation — be just as small, or look relatively the same age and height. Yet, even sitting down, saddled in the muddy floor of the stream, but still towering over Deku all the same, the little twerp barely blinks an eye at this change.

Apart of Katsuki feels like he’s swallowing around a rock, like he isn’t sure why he ought to be surprised that Deku doesn’t even care. To the stupid head, it probably doesn’t even matter whatever version Katsuki comes by: young, teenage, an adult. Deku would still extend that goddamn hand. Deku would still come, wanting only to help.

“Can you stand?” Deku asks him, snatching him from his deep thoughts.

Right, Katsuki thinks dumbly. It’s summer. They’ve been out playing - playing God knows what, but they’ve been out almost the whole day. Deku hadn’t shown any signs of having a quirk any time soon, his last visit to the doctor confirmed that, and he’d told Katsuki this, sniffling while Katsuki’s trying to show his latest All Might merchandise

It’s so annoying, Katsuki remembers thinking that night when Deku just kept crying — but, Katsuki also remembers that he’d let Deku cry all the same.

Even begged his Dad to make that chocolate milkshake he knew stupid Deku likes just to shut him up.

They’re friends still - sort of, during this time. Or were forced to, together, because the old hag kept nagging at him about it. But that won’t stay true for too long. Deku never really came to his house after that. Dad never made Deku another chocolate milkshake again.

Katsuki doesn’t know why recalling this suddenly hurts so much.

“Kacchan?” 

Katsuki snaps his attention to the boy again and - it’s surreal, he thinks. Deku is looking at him with that big dumb eyes, and Katsuki wants nothing more than to let Deku continue to look at him like that. Like they’re friends, like Deku knows the only person who would stick by him were Katsuki even when the world failed him. Deku looks at him like he trusts Katsuki, and it’s fucking painful, because Katsuki knows how much he’d torched that trust again and again.

His stomach, he recalls in this faraway after-thought, hurts.

“Kacchan, are you okay?” The little toddler Deku shows sign of panic. He’s coming forward still, as if they’re an ocean away, painfully wanting to help Katsuki, again and again, unfailing, and, for a moment, Katsuki catches himself just staring at the little guy.

There isn’t much else to say. Sorry, maybe. He could try with that. But as usual, his pride is too big for him to spit the apology around. His stubbornness, even stronger. Katsuki remains silent.

Deku, this small Deku whom he hasn’t hurt quite yet, makes frustrated tiny noises.

“No,” Katsuki finally says, his voice rough to his own ears. Like he hasn’t used them in a long time. Like it isn’t his at all. “Stay there.”

I don’t want you hurt, are more things he could never say. I don’t want you coming over and slip on some stupid rock and hit your head, instead. I don’t - want to hurt you more than I did. Not on my fucking watch. Not anymore.

“I can’t let Kacchan stay here on his own!” Deku insists, and his palm is open. There, for Katsuki to grasp. Katsuki finds himself staring at it, this palm, and it’s - heartbreaking, for some reason, to not see scars there. Heartbreaking only, because Katsuki has a feeling that the only reason propelling Deku forward into essentially destroying his body had been his stupid need, to be—what, how had he put it, this image of victory that Katsuki has?

To chase after Katsuki’s shadow. Or - rather, to be rid of it.

After all, being called ‘Useless’ so much, who wouldn’t push themselves to the death proving otherwise?

That’s another thing again, Katsuki considers with this hollowed-out feeling, for him to atone for, he supposes. Just another sin he wants to be cleansed off of, but knows, deep inside, that he will never.

“Take my hand, Kacchan!” Deku reaches for him. Small. He’s so small. Why would anyone want to hurt him? Why would anyone want to— “I’ll help you.”

Idiot, he thinks, feeling his chest tightened somehow. Feeling like he’ll drown where he is, even if the water isn’t nowhere near his mouth of nose. That’s what got you here in the first place.

“I’m fucking fine,” Katsuki finds himself responding, slow. Quieter than his usual tone.

The summer heat burns.

“It’s okay!” Deku tries, cheerful. Smiling. “I’ll help Kacchan anyways!”

“Why would you?” Katsuki asks suddenly, and his voice breaks near the end. His lips are quivering, despite the fact that everything inside of Katsuki wishes he’d shut the fuck up and get it together.

Little Deku is startled. He pauses in his steps. Blinks. “What does Kacchan mean?”

“I mean,” He chokes, and Katsuki can feeling something inside of him crawling up and up and up, and it’s bursting at the seams, and it’s so easy, so easy to fucking yell, because this is familiar. This is what he’s always done. This is where he always finds himself at, “Why would you fucking help me!? Every-fucking-time, Deku. Every time! I hurt you, don’t you fucking get it?! I’ve been hurting you. I pushed you down, I kicked you, I terrorised you. I made your school life a living hell!”

He’s breathing hard, and Deku is still staring at him. He is still small, but he’s not - the look that he had is gone now. He’s just - he's quiet. Confused and, maybe, Katsuki notices with this heaviness in him, even a bit scared.

“Every time,” Katsuki bites out, his voice is a balloon of anguish, and it’s seeping out from that tiny hole that he’d poked. It’s leaking out, and nothing Katsuki could do would contain it right back. “I come back, and it’s you, and I do my best to — to — to fucking destroy you, to demand you out of my life, and every time, you... you’re right there again. You’ll help me out...”

Just like that, whatever burst of a fight he has ebbs away. Katsuki kneels there, heaving. Distraught. His stomach hurts.

“Why?” He asks brokenly, looking at the water that’s passing them by near his knees. He can’t recognise the reflection he’s seeing there. It’s distorted from how much he’s moved. Katsuki thinks that image fits somehow: this jagged version of him.

This incomplete masterpiece that’s only been proven to be faulty and full of holes no matter the kind of temper he uses as a means to cover it up.

It’s all there. His shortcomings, his failure.

“Because Kacchan’s my friend, of course.” Toddler Deku sounds honest.

Katsuki looks up, and he realises his face is wet. Ah shit, he realises pathetically, but does nothing about it. He’s crying.

“I can’t be your fucking friend, stupid Deku,” He manages somehow. “Don’t you get it? I just hurt you.”

“I forgave Kacchan,” Deku says with no trace of malice at all, no trace of contempt. He’s sincere, and Katsuki knows so horribly, so hideously, that that’s true. “I forgave Kacchan a long time ago.”

Katsuki finally wipes an eye. “You shouldn’t, idiot.”

“Well, I did!” the little twerp has the audacity to look mad and that - that makes Katsuki smile somehow. Just a small one. Deku doesn’t look impressed, standing there with his babyfat-dumpling cheeks and impossibly size-of-plates eyes. “Now, let’s get Kacchan out of the water.”

Katsuki, to his surprise, finally — finally — takes Deku’s hand.

“Come on!” Little Deku is impatient. He pulls Katsuki forward. “Let’s get Kacchan out.”

“Stupid Deku.” Katsuki murmurs and then—

Then, the scene changes. They’re out of the water, and the forest is familiar. It’s still summer, Katsuki knows this somehow. And he’s tired all of a sudden. Like he’s been running all morning and night, and his body has finally had enough. It’s time to rest.

Deku is next to him, and Deku is still small. He is holding a box full of cicadas they just caught. The guy seems happy, blatantly making pleasant noises while the creatures inside the white-transparent container hops and moves.

“You’re too fucking easy to be impressed, Deku.” Katsuki says it with a grin, the one that’s a little mad. A little feral, as one of the media had called it.

Deku doesn’t seem to mind it. He hums happily, his feet scraping by the forest floor, tracking mud by the soles. “We just caught so many, Kacchan!”

Katsuki thinks he can stay here forever, just preserving this moment of quietness between them. No arguments, no heads butting. No quirks. Just a summer day with cicadas in a box, and their feet and hands dirty from climbing up trees and pushing past bushes. Deku had looked pink from the sun, and Katsuki hadn’t mind the sweat down his back, no matter if it means the old hag will nag him again for being way too high-strung and ruining his clothes.

Suddenly, there’s a grunt.

Deku turns, his eyebrows stitched together again in that stupid concerned way he has. Katsuki wants to wipe that away. This quiet moment is too short.

Deku puts a hand out and Katsuki realises he’s been clutching at his stomach with a gloved hand. The same gloved hand that’s torn and worn away around the edges. There’s even that familiar smell of burnt caramel that he knows come with each use of his power. Deku presses his open, scar-free palm above the glove. He puts a pressure.

The box of cicadas on his laps are gone.

Katsuki thinks he’s tasting blood at the roof of his mouth.

“Why’d you have to do it, Kacchan?” Deku asks him, his voice is small. Scared.

Katsuki feels like crying again. He doesn’t know why. “Because I want to, dumbass.” He says instead, gritting his teeth together, and convincing himself that there is all to it. He won’t be accepting anymore argument on the subject.

Deku, classic idiot, seems like he doesn’t care. “You’re hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s what taking the bullet usually does to the person who, you know, took the fucking bullet.” He spits, wanting to push Deku’s hand away.

Deku doesn’t answer him.

He looks so serious, so quiet, for a four year old.

Katsuki wants to cry. He wants to have that moment again. He wants to sit with Deku a little longer, and just talk about cicadas and what they’ll be doing tomorrow. Play, more like. Deku trailing behind him. Katsuki leading. But never without the other, even if one is always slightly ahead. Never without the other.

“Shut it,” Katsuki growls. “I wasn’t gonna let him kill you. You’re not gonna fucking die on me, you hear?! Like I’m gonna let your stupid ass gets handed to you just because you were fucking reckless. Said you were gonna surpass me, my ass. Was that all a fucking joke?!”

“But you could’ve—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Katsuki pants. Shit. It hurts more than it should. The adrenaline must’ve worn off. “It’s done.”

“Kacchan,” Deku calls.

“What?”

“You know I’d do it again, right?” Deku is holding his hand now. Scarred hand, this time. Right in his burnt gloves. Deku squeezes. “Every time.”

And Katsuki knows.

“Deku, don’t you fucking dare—”

Suddenly, Deku is small again. A four year old. And Katsuki, he realises he’s young too. They’re the same height, and he’s not in his uniform. Just some printed shirt and short pants. This is okay, somehow. Nothing is misplaced. Except it’s still too early, and Deku, he - he’s gonna leave.

“I have to go, Kacchan.”

“No, you don’t.” His own voice is small. Stubborn. Angry. “You don’t! Come back here, Deku!”

“Kacchan,” Deku smiles, stepping away. “It’s been really nice playing with you! I’ll treasure it forever, but I really need to go.”

“No!” Katsuki can’t let him leave. They aren’t done yet. It’s not time yet. All the cicadas they haven’t caught, all the heroes game they haven’t played. Katsuki swears he’ll be nice this time. He won’t even care that Deku’s a— “No! Deku, come back here!”

“I can’t, Kacchan.” Deku tells him. “I can’t stay.”

The path where Deku is going, it’s too bright. Katsuki doesn’t know - he isn’t sure if he can keep Deku safe if Deku steps into it. He isn’t sure if he can follow. “No! You don’t know what that place is! Your mom will be mad at you, stupid! Auntie Inko... What will you tell your mom, huh?! You’re gonna make Auntie cry?!”

“Kacchan, it’s okay,” Deku’s hand is so firm. So gentle. He pries Katsuki’s fingers off. Katsuki’s vision is glassier now. The tears are harder to control. “I won’t be long. I’ll come back, okay?”

“You won’t!” Katsuki yells, his voice is breaking in between. Why isn’t anyone else seeing this? Deku is leaving! And no one is stopping him! “If you go, you won’t! You won’t come back!”

“Kacchan...”

“Stupid! Stupid Deku!” Katsuki sobs. “I saved you! So you have to stay! You have to stay here, where I can see you! Where I can keep you safe!”

“It’s okay, Kacchan.” Deku is reassuring him. He’s crying too. Katsuki’s hands on Deku’s wrist is slipping. Deku keeps getting away. “It’s okay. Let me go.”

“No!”

Katsuki wakes up with a gasp.

Deku’s body is still on his hospital bed, and he is still not moving. Still looks like he’s barely breathing. Katsuki acknowledges that it might’ve been a bad idea after all to camp here in Deku’s ward in ICU when his own body is half-healed. Although he’d already threatened the doctors into negotiating this small deal, so - there really isn’t much he could do except pushes it through.

Still, Katsuki finds himself reaching over, buzzing for a nurse.

When an anxious one walks in, he immediately leans back in his chair and he’s - tired, he thinks. Exhausted. Katsuki wonders what time it is, but it must be late. The sky outside is dark, and the hallways are only half-lit.

The nurse looks at Deku disappointedly, perhaps wondering why she’s called when the patient hadn’t shown signs of waking up nor was the monitor displaying abnormal reading. Katsuki decides to end her suffering.

“I think my stitches are open,” he tells her.

He’s right, of course. 

An hour later, he finds himself splayed back on a bed they brought in while a doctor sews him back up. Katsuki is staring numbly at the ceiling. The night-shift doctor is clicking his tongue. “We’re not going to convince you to go to your own ward tonight, huh?”

Katsuki doesn’t even bother glaring. “I’m not leaving him,” is all he says.

“He’ll be in safe hands, Bakugou-san.” Another nurse pipes in.

“No, he won’t,” Katsuki bares his teeth then, sniping. “You don’t fucking know him, and you don’t fucking know us. I’m not leaving him, and that’s it.”

When the doctor and nurses finally leave, reluctantly leaving the bed there for him, Katsuki turns. Faces Deku. He pretends his eyes aren’t shedding a single line of tear that soaks down to the mattress. “You hear that, nerd? I’m not going fucking nowhere. So come back soon, you got it, you piece of shit? I’m right here.”

He whispers, “I’m waiting.”

The medical staff says nothing about the fact that not once has Bakugou Katsuki lets go of Midoriya Izuku’s hand the entire time.

#bakudeku #bkdk #i am here for pain only and not much else

[soulwillower]

if you’re too shy • richie tozier

(richie tozier x cam girl!reader smut)

[based off the song if you’re too shy (let me know) by the 1975.]

requested: i can't find it lol BUT 🤍anon (i think) requested a fic based off of the 1975′s new song, if you’re too shy let me know !!

warnings: swearing, alcohol use, switch!richie kinda, smut, unprotected sex, a tiny bit of cumplay i guess, mentions of phone sex, oral sex (female receiving), face sitting, a bit of dirty talking, UNEDITED as always

also i wrote this in a different style than usual and idk if i like it much but u can let me know what u guys think,, if its weird i can go in and change the povs since its 3rd person richie

[losers + reader are 21+ in this.]

7.4k words lol

♡

i see her online all the time i'm trying not to stare down there while she talks about her tough time

"h-hey, man, who's that?" the voice from right next to richie makes him damn near leap out of his seat. it makes beverly chuckle a bit as she takes a bite of her apple, shaking her head. "it’s nobody." richie says quickly as he tilts his phone towards his chest and shoots a toothy grin to bill. his friend raises his full eyebrows, "wh-what, so n-nobody was sending you n-nudes?"

"something like that." richie mutters, stomach fluttering as the image flashes in his mind’s eye - the curves, the dark red lace, the plush skin painting a perfect scene in richie’s vivid imagination.

richie looks back down at the photo. his his thumbs hover over the profile picture; he'd found her originally on his instagram explore page, the photos teasing and immediately he had to know more. y/n.

and then a few days later, he'd subscribed to her only fans, which he never quite thought he'd do with anyone, but he couldn't help it. she was so enticing, so perfect and so alluring. it was the playfulness that pulled him in; and he swears he's never lusted after somebody like he has with her. it was kind of starting to freak him out.

"is that o-onlyfans?" bill says and richie shoves bill's nosy face off his shoulder with a panicked grunt. "fuck off, mushmouth."

bill laughs and stan and bev perk up from across the table, staring at the two, interests suddenly piqued. "did you subscribe to a girl's onlyfans, rich?" stan says with a grin, setting his pen down on his notebook. 

richie just smirks and wiggles his brows a bit, enough to confirm his question. bill chuckles from next to richie.

"let me see." bev says, wiggling her manicured nails in a "gimme" motion. richie hands his phone over with red cheeks. normally he wouldn't care about his friends discovering he's paid money just to see a hot chick's bod, but this was different. for some reason, he felt connected to her. god, that thought made him want to slam his head against a brick wall. she doesn't even know him,  for all he knows she could live in the middle of.... montana, or like, ohio.

bev whistles and stan nods, "if i looked like that," bev mumbles as she tosses richie's phone back towards him, "i'd do that too. mad props."

noises of agreement fill the table but richie's just looking at the small smirk that peeks from the corner of one of the photos and he can't help but wonder what her eyes are like in real life. he wishes he could meet her.

girl of your dreams, you know what i mean there's something 'bout her stare that makes you nervous and you say things that you don't mean

it's a cold day when bill and richie find themselves stumbling in to the coffee shop for a drink. bill's muttering about some girl in his creative writing class that gave him head when richie's eyes catch a figure so familiar yet foreign that he stops dead in his tracks. bill turns to him, face confused. "r-richie, what's wrong w-with you?"

richie shakes his head, stammering in disbelief, "that-that's her, bill. the girl, from onlyfans. y/n." he whispers, gesturing with his eyes towards the girl working the register.

bill’s jaw goes slack, green eyes raking over her form and igniting richie’s stomach with boiling rage. as if bill’s doing something that only richie is allowed to do – as if they're not both being total creeps.

“h-holy sh-shit. she’s b-beautiful.” bill mumbles. richie elbows him in the ribs, shooting him a glare that prompts an eye-roll from his auburn haired friend.

richie swallows and watches, his throat feeling like sandpaper as she laughs at something the customer in front of them said. bill nudges richie, "i-i'm gonna get a s-seat. t-talk to her."

he winks and grins as he walks away, leaving richie with his reckless self. he thinks he's sweating through his sweater as he walks up, finding himself face-to-face with her. "hi, how can i help you?" she asks, giving him a smile

holyshitholyshitholyshit.

he might've just came right then and there. okay, he's gotta say something cool, something smooth. don't be a dumbass, tozier. 

"howdy, sugar. i'll have my coffee like i like my women." his mouth blurts as his brain sirens go off, PUT ON THE BRAKES, RICH – "a hot shock to the lap.”

she glares at him, cheeks light pink and eyebrows pulled together in annoyance and yep, richie's probably going to get hard because of that look but he's also probably going to toss his body off a bridge because what the fuck, tozier?

he can hear bill laughing quietly from a ways away and he quickly shakes his head, muttering quietly, "jail. jail, richard."

"funny." she deadpans, clearly not amused. because of course she isn't.

"sorry, i'll have a black coffee, y/n." he mutters, eyes widening to himself when he realizes she was not wearing a goddamn name tag and he just said her name.

this is a disaster. she gives him a bewildered, slightly creeped out look and if richie wasn't panicking, he'd gape at how she still managed to be effortlessly gorgeous even now.

he sighs, shaking his head, the door of the cafe opening and blowing a gust of frigid air through the warm room. fitting - douche chill. 

"look, toots, i don't want this to be weird. i- um, i recognize you." he says, cheeks aflame. she raises a brow, face straight for a few moments, unsure what he means.

it's not long after when recognition flashes over her own face - must have ruled out coffee shop, university and her local gym - and she nods with a tight, almost uncomfortable smile. 

he tries not to think of the livestream he watched last night where she showed all her new gifts and modeled lingerie, and how he’d spent his time to himself with his left hand immediately after watching. his cheeks are red with shame. 

"okay." is all she says, writing down a scribbled order on the coffee cup. her eyes shoot back up and give richie a once-over that really makes his fingers itch - god, why did he have to be this way? 

he almost runs his fingers through his curls but decides against it, eyes opting to focus on her own gorgeous eyes as they meet him. "i'm impressed i have a fan who looks like you, i must say. even if you are a complete jack ass." she purrs and his jaw nearly smacks the floor at its velocity as it flies open.

"what's that supposed to mean?" he asks then with a small grin, flattered at the tiniest of compliments that just barely, in his mind, eclipsed the insult that he so very much deserved.

"i'm saying you're kind of a dick. it's too bad, because you're real cute." she says casually, handing him his change. his stomach flips and butterflies release in his chest, a feeling that he's not felt in almost five years.

but damn, of course he messed up - he got the chance to talk to the hottest girl on earth and he started it by saying an awful joke that wasn't funny at all. of course she though he was a dick, he is one.

he's shocked, though, as he waits for his coffee with bill, who is still snickering into his hand every few moments, to find his coffee cup with extra sharpie scribbled on the white paper. a name.

y/n. and below it is a phone number with a small heart scribbled, and richie can't tell if it's a seven or a one but he figures he'd try every phone number in the damn state if it meant he could fucking text her. holy fuck.

"maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i'm not playing with you, baby i think that you should give it a go" she said, "maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i wanna see, and stop thinking if you're too shy, then let me too shy, then let me know"

he didn't text her for two days and three hours. yes, he counted it. no, he won't think about why he was obsessing over the numbers - but since the time he'd finally had found the courage to text her today, things have escalated proficiently. 

she'd just mentioned how hot it was in her apartment since her heater had gone haywire - even though the winter winds were cold, she'd claimed she was burning up in what she was wearing.

and the mere mention of her clothing had sent richie into somewhat of a spiral, spending at least seven minutes glued to his phone and scrolling through the saved album he had of those photos of her that she'd posted; his sweatpants getting increasingly tight and his palm suddenly aching to slip through the fabric and find some release.

but, in true trashmouth fashion, he apparently needed that sweet, sweet rejection from a hot cam girl he'd somehow weaseled into getting the number of in order to wank off properly, so he types out a text and hits send immediately.

what are you wearing?

and then he almost vomits in embarrassment – what was she going to think? did he just royally fuck up? oh god, he’s going to have to shave his head and move to canada.

his phone buzzes and he nearly passes out when he lays his eyes upon the image attached – there her body is again, curvy and full and beautiful, her skin glowing in the fading light of what he assumes is her bedroom. and with it:

this. what are you wearing, rich?

and then he pulls his gaze from his phone and stands, breathing heavily because holy shit.

he's gotten nudes before, but.... none from someone like her. holy shit.

he walks to his bathroom, splashing water on his beet-red cheeks. he swallows, staring at himself in the mirror. fuck.

he slaps his cheek once, then winking at himself in attempt to muster any sliver of confidence. and then he snaps a picture, only in his boxers.

and then he has to physically refrain from making a joke about wearing the same lingerie set as her, instead sending a flirty text that he knows any other woman would blush at. he just doesn’t know with y/n, and maybe that’s why he loves it so much. she's keeping him on his toes.

you like what you see?

he sends that one afterwards, shaking his head because oh my god, she's going to respond with "no" and then bill him $40 for the nude she sent him. not that he wouldn't pay, but...

his phone dings and he nearly breaks an ankle running to his desk. 

yeah, i do. but maybe i'd like you better without any clothes on.

he almost yells out loud at this, but he has a feeling that waking up stan in the middle of the night would not be optimal after their 'roommate agreement' they'd made that explicitly states richie cannot scream between 1am - 9am. so instead he smirks to himself, face turning red.

he's getting harder by the moment, and as he stares at that picture she'd sent earlier, he lets out a breathy groan. the lace....

we could face time yk

or we don't have to.

he reads her words in live time, watching the thought bubble appear again and watching it like a hawk. he can just imagine her sitting there with a small smirk as another text comes in and he almost groans as his dick twitches.

like, if you're too shy or something ;)

he stares at the screen for two seconds at that sinful photo she'd sent just before those texts and then sighs, shaking his head and pressing the green face-time call button.

i've been wearing nothing every time i call you and i'm starting to feel weird about it sometimes it's better if you think about it this time, i think i'm gonna drink through it

three days later, richie was undeniably and unequivocally drunk. but, as he's just explained about three times to mike, he knows that it is just easier to not think right, especially about her, right now - and the best way to do that is by getting so piss drunk that even if he tried to "hit her line," as he so eloquently put it, his dick would be too whiskey'd out to make a full appearance.

it's for the best. mike had fake gagged at richie’s cadence with a laugh, but richie was dead serious because he was starting to think he had a real issue.

it was obviously just a fun thing to do between two near-strangers, but he'd found that he was starting to almost pavlov-style condition himself into getting turned on every time the name y/n came across his recent texts or face times, and it was getting to be too much.

especially when her post notification popped up and he cracked a fatty in the middle of his econ lecture. christ, the point of elasticity of markers in the u.s. was not something he pictured when he usually had to quell a pitch in his tent. so yeah, it's too much.

because yes, he loves her fucking body and wants nothing more than her, but in truth he longs for the feeling of her skin against his; to touch her, to kiss her, to make her his. all the time.

but yet, it was just a good way to get off without all the strings and ribbons and yarn and whatever the fuck her soft-looking knit bra is made from attached.

so much for not thinking about her.

but i see her online (and don't think that i should be calling) all the time (i just wanted a happy ending) and i'm pretending i don't care about her stare while she's giving me a tough time

it’s noon the next day and he's laying in (for some reason) stan's bed instead of his own with a blinding, mind-splitting headache and an insatiable craving for a cheeseburger, eyes squinting in lust and something akin to shame as he watches the livestream y/n had just started. she’s in a slip – a very thin, silk and see through slip and it makes him more frustrated than he’s willing to admit.

as he stares at her smooth skin and wonders how it'd be to touch it all, her eyes catch something in the chat and she smiles coyly. "hi, rich." she purrs and richie almost chokes - holy shit, she saw him join.

"do you like my gift i just got?" she asks coyly, snapping the straps of her bra with a small smile and he stiffens almost instantly, thinking of how many times he'd seen her skin in videos and photos that were just for him.

how she'd moaned his name two nights ago on face time, her fingers buried inside herself slightly off-camera. and oh, how he wishes he could see all of her, but they'd not crossed that line yet - anything they'd done hadn't been yet proven visually, only from facial expressions, noises, and the brutal honestly of being together through face time.

he wants her so fucking bad, he needs her like he needs water to drink and air to breathe and it's murdering him as he watches her react to the chat of her livestream, playing with the hem of her black lace panties.

god, he needs a cold shower or something if he's going to get anything done today.

and then he's calling her an a few hours after her stream ends because he just can't wait - he feels his stomach twist with shame as he realizes he should not be doing such a certainly a terrible idea. but she answers after three rings. "richie." her siren voice purrs and he literally feels himself fall deeper into the pit.

"hi there, toots. got any coffee in the pot for me?" he asks, sounding surprisingly eloquent compared to how she normally makes him feel. 

she hums in fake thought, and it makes richie grin. she's fucking adorable. "come to the shop, i have my break in ten." and then she hangs up. he sighs, rubbing his face with his hand as he shakes his head. he's utterly fucked.

he's there in record time, a smirk plastered on his face as he walks in and sees her sitting at a table, lookin' all pretty. just for him.

"what made you think of calling?" she says in loo of a greeting. he sits across from her and wills his eyes to meet hers. "nothin' toots." he says with a half shrug, taking a sip of the coffee placed in front of him that has the the name 'dick' written on it in her handwriting. he rolls his eyes affectionately.

"oh, so it wasn't anything to do with my livestream this morning?" she asks with a look, eyeing him. her eyes are swimmable, they hold so many stories and secrets and maybe richie's just hungover, but he's feeling very flustered.

"we-w, uh, no. what... what are you talking about?" he rolls his eyes at himself inwardly, cursing stuttering bill and his contagious speech patterns. "-i don't know what you're talking about, sugar." he recovers fairly smoothly, if he may toot his own horn. and honestly, he can pretend not to care as long as he doesn't look into that goddamn stare of hers.

he chuckles awkwardly, cheeks aflame as she stares at him with a bored look and a small hum. she still looks perfect and he's even more nervous now, because oh god, oh fuck, he's gonna get slapped in the face by y/n.

it was pretty unspoken since they'd started doing... stuff... that richie probably still watched her content online, but she'd never fully addressed it until today during the livestream in front of a thousand others. 

he's choking on his spit in shame but then a smile splits her face and richie's sure he's suffocated on his own saliva and gone to a sinner's heaven. or maybe hell.

"oh, richie, i'm just teasing you. look at your face!" she says with an airy laugh, pinching his cheeks and making him want to shrivel up as he turns even redder. what the fuck? "-so cute. alright, i've got to get back to work. i'll see you around, rich." she says with a wink, taking her coffee and tossing it into the trash bin as she stalks towards the employee back room.

he gapes as he watches her leave and then gets up and makes his way to the exit, clutching the coffee like it was trying to jump out of his grasp and make a run for it. god, she's too much.

"maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i'm not playing with you, baby i think that you should give it a go" she said, "maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i wanna see, and stop thinking If you're too shy, then let me too shy, then let me know"

"-babe, you'll have to try harder than that." richie says with a chuckle, watching his phone screen as the beautiful girl on face time gives him a sly, challenging look. she's in a green lace bra, one richie's not seen yet and he can feel himself stiffen as she absently trails her fingers over her chest.

they'd been much closer over the last week since he last saw her in person, enough so that in the three-is weeks of knowing her, he's positive he's head over ass for her in a way that he shouldn't be. and yet, she still comes back every time, still texts him and answers those face time calls. he's baffled, honestly.

"i know you hate me because i'm right." he adds, not even totally remembering what point he's trying to prove as y/n shifts back a bit and more of her body is revealed, her hair glowing dimly in the soft lighting of her room. his eyes run over her curves, her full thighs and stomach and hips that fill over her panties and he almost groans.

"whatever, maybe i'd like you better if you took off your clothes." she says coyly. and richie's half flattered, as usual, but the more he thinks of it the more deflated he feels. he kind of thought they were growing something more than just getting each other off over face time like horny fifteen year olds. he grins nonetheless.

"you say that a lot, you know." richie says breathlessly as he stares at her. she tilts her head ever so slightly and grins, biting her lip as her eyes move around her screen with a conflicted look. "-why?" he adds.

she hums again.

"well. okay, so there's the visual world - like, the internet, onlyfans, instagram- it tells us that everything is amazing. and we should want everything. and it makes us yearn for everything that we don’t have and everything that’s unobtainable. you know, love, a relationship beyond physical. and even physical, it's different when it's online."

her words confuse him much more than they aid him. "you think... that because of the internet, love is unattainable?" he asks with furrowed brows, unsure how somebody so perfect and, quite frankly, lovable, would think that.

"it is for me." she says it with a small sense of forlorning but mostly it's whispered. enough that richie's heart skips a beat and he's, for the first time, not having a hard time keeping his eyes on her face instead of her body.

"what?" he asks dumbly. she just laughs, shaking her head and he stares at her on his tiny phone screen in the dark.

"that’s something that, you know. in real life, person to person, it has a lot of connotations of... trust and vulnerability and connection. doing what i do- and what we're doing… on the internet - it has the opposite of those connotations. like, before you, i didn't- i didn't really do this, i just was selling stuff. because guys don't want to fuck the girl who sells her body online. and you know now, i want to..." she trails off and richie doesn't dare interrupt her because he thinks she's about to say something he's wanted to tell her for a while now.

"i don't know, i guess. exploring someone's body in physical presence isn't seen at all as voyeuristic, or anything apart from...like, an intimate exchange." she says it casually, brushing hair from her face and shit, richie's swooning. he's in fucking love, he knows it, because y/n is so smart and intelligent and he's so fucking trashed for her. as she speaks, her hands move and distract him slightly from her body, doused in blue light from the screen and splayed out for him and only him on her phone camera.

the soft lace on her hips and chest make his body stiffen and it causes him to suppress a groan as she sighs, but richie knows he can’t screenshot this heavenly sight because she’ll definitely notice and she can probably already tell he’s having a hard time not staring at her alluring figure as she talks.

"-whereas, you know. as soon as it happens on the internet, it becomes kinky and cam-girly. and, you know, that's fine. i love doing it. it's just, i'm not sure where the authentic communication even is now. or if i get to have a happy ending." she says and he finally sees her blush for the first time.

he wishes he was there with her, he wishes that he could touch the redness on her cheeks and caress her curvy body and taste her skin on his tongue. he wants to feel himself inside her, he wants to be with her and kiss her lips and yet he can't, so he sighs and shifts in his position, moving to turn up the brightness of his phone so he can see better.

"shouldn't you get to be the one to decide that, doll?" is all he adds. because he feels kind of lost and just as confused as y/n is with this.

he's starting to feel weird about it, because... is this authentic? what makes things like hookups or whatever the hell they've been doing authentic? shouldn't this be easy? it's just phone sex, phone sex with a really hot girl.

a girl who is complex and alive and full of sincerity and richie is definitely falling harder than he should.

she just sighs but makes no other comment. and then they just stare at each other, richie's face illuminated in his dark room by the phone's reflection.

well, i found a motel it looked like the bins i think there'd been a murder so we couldn't get in i need to get back i've gotta see the girl on the screen

"come over and watch a movie with me." he says into the phone, biting his lip. the silence from the other end of the line is deafening as she makes her decision, because they both know she's not about to come over just to watch the shining or psycho. 

they've never done that before, and richie knows if she does come over, then whatever they have will crash down in a fiery mess. and he hates how excited that makes him as he waits in silence for her to drop the ball. so to speak.

"okay." she says, sounding shocked herself, and richie can't contain the excited grin from eclipsing his face. "yeah?" he asks breathlessly, and she's quiet for a little longer. "yeah. text me your address." 

she hangs up after that, and richie's thumbs shake as he types his address and sprints out to where stan, mike, ben, and bill are playing video games in he and stan's living room, wheezing at all of them to get out because someone fucking unbelievable is about to walk through that door.

she's there about an hour later, cheeks flushed when richie opens his door, looking just as nervous and flustered. "hi, chee." she says breathlessly, staring up at him with those goddamn eyes, the eyes that pulled him in the first time. his stomach flips in affection at her nickname and he offers her a drink as she takes in his shitty apartment. he wonders briefly if stan ended up buying that rosé that he'd given him shit for considering, and then prays that stan will stay the night elsewhere.

she's already pouring out glasses of wine when he snaps back to reality, and he grins at her, mumbling in thanks as she passes him a glass that's certainly poured almost to the brim.

"what are we watching, then?" she asks coyly, lifting a brow at him. his cheeks are red, but he tugs her arm down the hall towards his room with a grin, their wine sloshing from their glasses as they move erratically.

"we're watching psycho, y/n/n." he says as he pulls her into his room, glancing back to see she's already swallowed down almost half her glass, a lipstick stain on the side of it. faintly he knows stan will be frustrated if richie doesn't clean that off, but he's more distracted by her lips.

"i like psycho." she says with a nod and a cheeky grin, "the whole 'voyeuristic gaze' thing with hitchcock." she mumbles, and richie recalls faintly learning about that in one of his film classes freshman year and he grins as he takes a hefty gulp of his rosé, figuring he's already given himself away and if she's going to do that, he can too.

he hums, setting down his glass and grabbing hers to set it besides his on the bedside table. he turns around, intending on grabbing his laptop so they could watch the film, but she's so much closer that he'd expected and her hands fall onto his shoulders and he almost shits himself.

unpleasant, but honest. just richie's style.

"can i try something?" she asks with a grin, and richie nods, knowing that she could do anything to him and he'd gladly let it happen and most likely pay out of pocket for the damages afterwards.

and then she's pulling him from her grip on his shoulders, her lips sliding against his and making him grip her hips. his mind almost explodes at with y/n-sensory-overload because he feels her everywhere - on his lips, against his hands, on his shoulders, and pressing against his front.

her lips taste like chamomile and rosé.

she thinks his lips taste like vanilla and cigarette smoke, just as she'd always imagined. he feels so real, pressed against her lips and his body against hers, and she sighs as her tongue slips into his mouth because god, she's needed him for so long. and now she has him.

his hands move, touching every inch of her as their tongues fight for dominance. she pulls back, smirking as she gently pushes him onto his mattress, sliding onto his lap smoothly afterwards, grinding her hips against his slowly.

the moan he emits is heavenly and she could cry because she finally gets to hear it in person and not through the crackling static frequency of the phone.

so she grinds down on him again, eager to feel all of him. he's hardening against her core and she whimpers into his mouth in need as his fingers slip under her top, rubbing circles on her bare skin and making her shiver. she's noticed to this gentleness; it was rare when she did get to enjoy the comfort of another body with her own, and when she did they were hardly half as loving or caring as him.

she's desperate now, she needs to feel him inside her after all these weeks of teasing and waiting, so her hand snakes down to palm him through his sweats. he lets out a small groan into her mouth, biting her lip as he pulls back slightly. their eyes meet and his are hooded with lust, lips parted as she pumps him slowly from outside his sweats. his hips buck up lightly into her palm and she smiles gently, kissing him slowly.

"let me make you feel good, y/n." he mutters, eyes pleading as he stares up at her. her stomach flutters with butterflies and she nods, shocked that he wants to pleasure her.

he gently pulls her off his lap until she's laying on his mattress and he stares down at her, biting his lip as he takes her in. he can't fucking believe she's really here. she slowly pulls off her top, leaving her in her bra and jeans as she stares up at him with a wry, seductive smile. then she unzips her jeans and slides them off, leaving her in his favorite set of hers - black, lacy, and revealing. she looks utterly stunning and he groans, his hands falling to run over the skin, tracing the lace on her breasts. her cheeks are red as she gazes up at him.

"touch me, richie." she orders and he almost groans as he drags his lips over the valley of her breasts, sucking on the soft flesh and admiring the splashes of budding purple and pink that he's created. her heartbeat is quick under his fingertips and he moves to unclip her bra, kissing her skin as the fabric falls away.

she's slightly cold in his room, and goosebumps appear over her flesh as richie leans to catch a nipple in her mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. she lets out a quiet whine that has richie rutting into the mattress next to her, his fingers trailing down to dance at the waistline of her underwear.

and then he's pulling aside her panties, his fingers running up and down her slick folds and making her jump in lust. he can't wait, just like her, and he's rubbing her clit teasingly as she pleads, "chee, please."  her eyes are eyes closed in bliss as his finger slips inside her, crooking slightly as he moves it. he presses his lips to the skin of her breast, pumping his finger and then soon adding another, crooking them both in a way that makes her let out guttural moans of pleasure. he marks her breasts with littered pink and red marks, smiling to himself at her figure.

she can't help but swoon as she watches him, his hair in his face slightly until she brushes it back, his fingers curling inside her and making her gasp, pleasure coursing through her body. his thumb softly comes up to rub her neglected clit and she grabs his shoulders to steady herself, the pleasure almost too much.

she's honestly slightly shocked - knowing richie as little as she really does outside of the literal booty calls at two in the morning and the accumulative forty five minutes they'd spent in person, she'd expected him to be... well, good. just good. because there's no way someone so funny, caring, and smart could also be that good in the sheets.

but right now, he's making her see goddamn stars.

"i've been wanting to touch you for so long, sugar." he mutters, eyes raking over her figure as her breath comes in stuttering gasps. she watches him with blown-wide eyes as his demeanor changes right before her, making her fall apart at his fingertips.

"that feel good, honey?" he asks, smirking as she whimpers, clenching around his fingers. "yes, god you feel so good." she utters, making him groan in approval from where he's sat back, watching her face contort in pleasure. she lets out another moan and richie stares at her body, watching his fingers as they fuck into her. he can't take it, then.

"will you sit on my face, doll?" he blurts, and she nearly yelps out as his fingers leave her. it's abrupt, but she's started to notice that this is how he operates - impulsivity is his second nature. and she loves it.

her face burns as she nods, the thought of richie under her making her whimper with anticipation. "yes, richie, please." she moans out again and he's grinning, laying back on the mattress with a wink. "c'mere, need to taste that pretty little pussy." he mutters and she feels herself clench around nothing, desperate for him as she swings a leg around to straddle his head.

immediately, his hands wrap around her thighs, thumbs smoothing over her stretch marks as he stares up at her, eyes glinting with desire. slowly, his finger pulls the seat of her lace panties to the side and his breath hits her bare, throbbing pussy, making her breath hitch. she cards her fingers through his hair and lowers herself slightly, gasping in shock as his tongue darts out to lick a bold stripe up from her entrance to her clit.

"chee," she moans out, tightening her grip in his hair and sending a groan through his body that reverberates and makes her shiver. his lips attach to her clit and fiery pleasure snakes through her body making her legs shake, a moan escaping her lips immediately. he sucks lightly before releasing to swirl his tongue, her moans making richie impossibly harder through his sweats.

"so good, rich." she mutters and he groans, tongue spreading her wet folds and slowly prodding at her entrance, dipping in slowly before pulling out, teasing her.

she can't help but grind down slightly, making richie grip her tightly, tongue sliding into her again and making her yelp. "you taste so good, baby." he mutters lowly before slowly reattaching himself to her heat, her eyes rolling slightly at the sensation as he fucks his tongue into her. one of his hands snakes up to her ass, gripping it tightly and then slapping it, the stinging pleasure making her buck her hips against him, emitting a hiss from her.

"rich, i-" she cuts herself off with a sharp gasp, the pleasure from richie's mouth making it increasingly harder to speak. her toes curl and her head tilts back as his tongue flicks over her clit, teeth grazing it slightly and making her buck.

she's embarrassingly close already, and judging by the way richie's smirking under her, he can tell. "please, please." she mutters, hips rocking on him as his tongue swirls, nipping softly at her clit and making her cry out. "please, make me cum, 'chee." she mutters and his tongue moves quicker, hand slapping her ass again.

and then she's clenching her thighs on either side of him and grinding down as she hits her peak, moaning quietly as she shakes in pleasure on top of him. he rides through her high, lapping at her and pulling away with a grin as she moans his name dejectedly. she's worn out from the best orgasm she's ever had and he gently nudges her so he slides in between her thighs, her back now on the mattress. he kisses her cheek and she keens quietly.

"fuck me, richie." she mutters, eyes still closed. his eyes snap to hers, surprised at the dominance in her voice after how she was two seconds ago.

he moans quietly, kissing her deeply as he ruts against her and relishes in the feeling. he's pulling off his sweats and boxers in record time and then he's pumping himself as he grips her hips, turning her so she's on her stomach, ass propped up slightly. his hand runs over the smooth skin of her ass, snapping the elastic of her panties and making her moan quietly.

then he's lining up her hips with his, pulling aside the lacy seat of her underwear to press against her entrance. he waits a moment as he leans to press a soft kiss to her spine, slowly easing into her. she moans loudly as he eases in, her face pressing against the pillows. she smiles as she smells the scent she'd just recently come to know as his, his cock stretching her and filling her up fully as he buries himself to the hilt inside her.

"so tight, sugar." he mutters and she whimpers, getting antsy as she adjusts to his size. "richie, please, need it so bad." she mutters, bucking her hips back against him in need.

"say that again." he mutters, sounding strangled, and she grins into the sheets. "please fuck me, richie. need it so bad, need to feel you ruin me." she whimpers, chest fluttering in anticipation. his hands grip her hips as he pulls out of her slowly, almost as slowly as he entered, before stopping almost all the way out. she moans loudly in pleasure as he pushes back in, snapping his hips against hers and filling her completely.

she briefly thanks god that his roommate seemed to be out for the night as she moans his name loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

he sets a brutal pace, his cock thick as it fills her up and makes her toes curl. he pushes her hair away from her neck and presses kisses to it as he hits a spot inside her that makes her scream his name. his fingers move to pinch her nipples, rolling them as he fucks into her.

she's completely blissed out at the feeling of him inside her, so glad that he invited her over and that they finally get to touch each other. "rich, oh my god." she emits, eyes squinted shut in complete pleasure.

"fuck, toots, takin' me so well, aren't you?" he asks, hands kneading her ass before slapping her right ass cheek harshly, making her arch her back. at the new angle they both let out a groan and richie knows he'll fucking cum too soon if they stay like this, so without warning he pulls out completely.

y/n whines, breathing heavily as his hands come to flip her around. now on her back, they make eye contact and she bites her lip, pulling him in for a searing kiss that knocks the wind out of both of them. images of richie in his room alone, snaps and late-night face times play through her mind as he grips her and slides her hips down towards him on the mattress and lines himself to her again, pulling her legs up so they're against his chest before pushing in.

he gives no time to adjust to this angle and it makes her moan loudly as he hits a spot deep inside her that pulls her closer and closer to her second orgasm.

his name leaves her cherry lips like a mantra and he can't stop staring at her as he fucks her into the mattress - the way her tits bounce with his brutal pace, the way her face is twisted in pleasure, the way she clenches and spasms around his cock.

one hand grips her breast, rubbing her nipple with his thumb and forefinger as he kisses her again, addicted to her taste as he feels himself coming closer and closer to the edge.

"chee, fuck, right there." she moans out and he groans in pleasure, the feeling of her walls clenching around him making his hips stutter. he keeps his thrusts up, though, as her fingernails rake down his back leaving small trails of burning pleasure in their wake.

her skin is covered with a sheen line of sweat as she looks up at him, hair wild and lips kiss-bruised. "god, don't stop, 'm gonna cum." she mutters and he snaps his hips harder, eager to make her cum so hard all she can think of is his name.

he moves a hand down to rub at her clit and he moans into her neck as she clenches hard around him, her hips bucking spastically. he can tell she's about to cum, and after a hard thrust, she does for the second time, spasming around him and sending waves of pleasure up his body. she's moaning his name, pulling him closer in bliss as she becomes sensitive and god damn it, she's so fucking beautiful.

"please cum, richie." she whispers against his lips, "please."  and then at her will, he's spilling into her, hips stuttering as he pushes as deep into her as he can, loving how she clenches in sensitivity around him. he stays inside her for a moment as they breathe, coming down from their highs and eyes closed as they take in what just happened.

"holy shit." he says because yeah, that's like all he can say right now because he just got to fuck y/n and she's kissing his fucking collarbones right now and its making him blush and his heart flutter.

"that was...incredible." she whispers against his skin and he can feel her smile against his skin. it makes him feel all soft inside as he pulls out of her and flops next to her, kissing her forehead.

his fingers flutter over her sensitive core, smiling as he sees how wrecked she is, some cum dripping down her leg. he then soothes over the lace panties, patting her lightly and kissing her red cheek.

"rich?" she asks, making him look up at her. he hums in question, pushing some of her hair back. "can we still watch the movie?"

his heart swells and he grins, kissing her softly. "of course, doll. you're too cute." he says with a wink, making her roll her eyes. he hands her his shirt and then pulls sweats on himself, mumbling "stay here" and padding out to the kitchen to get her water and snacks,  then returning minutes later to see her holding his phone in her clutch with a smirk.

"what're you doing?" he asks with a smile, but she shakes her head, making grabby hands for him and the snacks. so he laughs, cuddling up with the girl of his dreams and watching a flick, falling sleep with tangled limbs and a lipstick-stained neck.

and after she leaves the next morning with a kiss and a wink, he checks his phone and smirks to himself as he notices the lock screen she'd apparently made last night while he was making snacks.

a photo of her in his bed, wearing his shirt, a soft smirk on her face, neck littered in budding hickeys and a hand between her thighs next to her black lace panties.

god, she's going to be the absolute death of him.

//tag list:  @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @simplesammyx @dickology64 @clownsloveyou @emnotm @moon-shine-baby @toziershmozier @daughter-of-the-stars11 @lets-vibe-bro @trashedfortozier @oceandog13 @beauregard-s@finnskindofwoman  @kait-tozier @upamongthestarss \\

#richie tozier x reader #richie tozier smut #richie has adhd #losers x reader #losers club x reader

[arse-crack-thistle]

physical touch

rwrb and the five love languages | part three

in which a young ellen and oscar make a life-altering decision

The sun boils Ellen Claremont and Oscar Diaz as they stand outside Marlene’s Diner. Even in December, the Texas heat shows no mercy. The parking lot is full of cars for the lunch rush, and as much as her manager hates it, Ellen had to take her fifteen now. Oscar is on his way home.

Seems like yesterday he and a bunch of his white-collared buddies popped into Marlene’s and sat down at a table in Ellen’s section, but it was eight months ago. She thought she was about to get catcalled and a two-penny tip, but instead she gave the table advice on how to help David Morwitz, an Austin democratic candidate for state representative, gain more votes among young people. And Oscar wouldn’t leave until he got her number—for political reasons of course. That is until she made out with him after a Young Texas Democrats rally and he discovered the blue bonnet tattoo on her lower back.

He was fresh out of law school, hoping to build his political resume so he could run for office one day, and she was just finishing up her second year, living on tips and volunteering where she could. And, like all young lovers, they spent the whole summer and fall talking about their hopes and fears, their darkest secrets and greatest dreams.

“The Supreme Court, eh? One of the justices?”

“No,” she told him, “I just want to argue a case there. Set precedent.”

He smiled, showing off that goddamn dimple on his cheek. “You could go farther—the highest point even.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m looking to help the little guy, Diaz. I can do that anywhere.”

“Then why not the presidency?” When she scoffed, he said, “Fuck you, I’m serious. I’ve seen you in action, Claremont. The protest you organized for the clinic they shut down? You’re incredible.”

That moment hugs her as she struggles to let go of Oscar’s hands. They’re rough from the field work he did in high school but also calloused from his guitar. She spent months learning the lines on his hands; she can draw them from memory, as he can with the curves of her hips.

His flight leaves in two hours. Ellen will have to watch the blue sky for planes, imagining him soaring away with his Walkman playing a worn-out Latin tape. Maybe if Morwitz won, things could be different.

But they’re not. She’s still filling coffee cups and handing out “yes, ma’ams” and “yes, sirs” like they’re pocket change. And he’s still going back to California to join an immigration law firm.

“Claremont,” he starts, “I don’t know what to say. These past few months—”

“I know,” she says. Lord, do not let her bawl in front of this man—not like she hasn’t before when the anniversary of her mother’s death came around. But still, she’s got to leave him with the image of the take-no-shit, strawberry-blond fireball she is.

They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment. God, she’ll never forget this man even if she tries. His curly black hair swoops over his eyebrows and behind his ears. His sleeves seem permanently rolled up, his tie loosened. Oscar somehow carries the lackadaisical Cali-boy in his smile and the strength against generational oppression in his eyes. The sorrow of goodbye shows in his drooping shoulders. Ellen knows she can set them straight with one kiss on the lips and a hand somewhere else.

Instead, she drops his hands and looks away.

“Ask me to stay,” Oscar says, reaching for her waist.

Ellen can’t bear to look into his warm, brown eyes and tell him to go. She puts her hands on his chest and feels his heart beating under them. His beautiful, fighting heart. “I won’t do that, Diaz. If the situation were reversed, I’d slap you for suggesting it.”

He pulls her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “The situation’s not reversed, Ellen. Ask me to stay.”

Lord, every time her first name rolls off his tongue electricity shoots down her back, and now it meets the lightning rod that is his hand on her tattoo. It takes everything in her not to jump him in this parking lot. Damn the cars driving past them. Damn the diner patrons watching through the windows. Damn the Bible-thumper preaching from the street corner. The world should stop for her goodbye to the man that shocks her too her very core with one touch.

“Oscar.”

“Ellen.”

His forehead presses into hers, and his hand meets the other on the small of her back. She can’t help but wrap her arms around his neck, like they’re about to sway to an overrated pop song at a high school dance. He smells like he always does: cheap cologne and sweat, and holding him—being held by him—feels like taking a wrong turn on the drive home just so you can finish your favorite song.

“You don’t want me to leave, right?” Oscar asks.

“No, but this is crazy. You can’t stay here. What would you do? What would we do?”

Favorite song—favorite person be damned, too. Hasn’t it crossed his mind that his life can’t just transfer to Texas? The campaign is over, and his family and career are back in California. He’s being stupid, and she’s letting him.

Touching him makes her irrational, so Ellen lets go and steps back. “I mean, Lord help us, Diaz! Have you even thought about this?”

“What’s there more to think about? I love you and you love me! We’ll figure out the rest.”

“Oh, do not give me that ‘love conquers all’ bullshit! You’re smarter than that!” she says.

Her fifteen has got to be over by now, but fuck it. Her manager can wait. She’ll stand her and scream at Oscar; she’s developed quite an affinity for it. God bless him.

“Maybe it does—”

“Bull-fucking-sh—”

“No!” He grabs her hands, and she doesn’t fight it. “With all the shit we’ve been through, can’t you see it’s brought us here? Right now, Claremont. You and me. We’ve got something; we want the same things. Let’s do it. Come on, Ellen, let’s just fucking do it!”

And he kisses her. It’s not desperate, but gentle and resolute. Her hands find the nape of his neck again, and she tangles her fingers in his soft curls. Sunflowers bloom in her belly. Oscar squeezes her hips in his hands. Sweet baby Jesus. She can’t let him go. She’ll have to kill him first.

He pulls away—only a centimeter or two—and says again, “Ask me to stay.”

Eight months of this shit. Eight months of diner banter and canvassing and takeout movie nights and fucking in his motel room or her tiny-ass apartment or one of their cars. Eight months of law school papers and screaming matches and tequila and talking for hours until one of them crashes and the other cuddles up to fall asleep. Eight months of hands—his and hers—intertwined like they’re holding the Earth together.

“Stay,” she whispers. A car blares its horn, so she barely hears herself say it. But she does.

“Stay with me, and we’ll change the fucking world.”

As stubborn as she is, so is he. They match in some weird way, and Ellen can’t remember the last time she found a person like that. Fucking Oscar Fucking Diaz. She’ll get on her knees for him or step on his neck if he asks nicely enough. She’ll spend hours critiquing his debate strategies or peering over his shoulder while he proofs one of her assignments. She’ll bake him peach cobbler or devour his mole and anything it touches. Oscar’ll play the guitar, and she’ll sing along.

“Good because I already accepted a job with Representative Acosta. He’s from 54.”

“Fuck you!” Frustrated, angry, and smiling, Ellen shoves his shoulders. “I know where he’s goddamn from! But what the hell were you pulling my leg that far for?”

He puts on that Diaz smirk and trails a finger down her hip. “Pretty legs though.”

“I’ll fry you up and serve you for dinner if you ain’t careful,” she deadpans.

“Promise?” Oh, good Lord.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Ellen grabs his jaw, rubs a finger over that fucking dimple, and pulls him to her lips.

“I do,” she says.

check out the rest of my rwrb and the five love languages series: part one, part two, part four, and part five. (links to come as they’re released)

so yeah it’s fairly obvious that i have a hard time keeping to a schedule BUT i think this turned out very cute (even if it’s not actually set during valentine’s) and even if i go past v-day, which will probably happen, i’m determined to finish romance week! anyways, thanks for all of your support! <3

rwrb romance week | @rwrb-fests

#rwrb #president ellen claremont #oscar diaz #throwback #my writing #rwrbromanceweek #rwrb fest #rwrb fanfic #fanfic #red white and royal blue #casey mcquiston #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #june claremont diaz #nora holleran #pez okonjo #princess bea #rafael luna #zahra bankston #valentines #valentines day #texas #election #queer books #queer lit #queer authors #love languages #physical touch #claremont 2020 #ellen claremont

[cockasinthebird]

ahhh grats on the milestone!! also holy shit youve got 500 prompts stored away somewhere??? im gonna go with my favourite number combo..... 317 👀 im super excited to see what you come up with!! 💖 -bbsitterpng

@babysitterpng  Thank you so much!!! And yes, 500 goddamn prompts, all carefully curated, only the best for my beloved mutuals and followers!!

I got SO ELATED when I saw that you sent me a mystery prompt request!!!! ❤️💕 I would have finished it yesterday, but I got uhhh distracted 😏😏😏

317. “I think you’ll be happy to know I’m not wearing any underwear.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again and again and again; I knew exactly what I wanted to write for this immediately, and while I worry the exposition seems too rushed, I am very satisfied with the rest, all near 4k words!

So please, enjoy~

-

Today has been a long day that started when the sun had barely found its place in the sky.

Neil was beating at his bedroom door, asking why it’s locked, threatening to kick it down, demanding that Billy get up right now to mow the lawn, just to complain about what a shitty job he did after, shouting about how he has to do everything himself.

Billy would beat his pillows, lift weights till his muscles hurt, and smoke like a chimney, all to alleviate stress in one way or another.

At 12 Max was leaving to go play DnD with her little loser friends, ready to skate her way over there, but Billy needed to get out of the house, have a valid excuse, and it doesn’t get better than “watching out for his little sister.”

They’re on good terms now, after they had gotten in an intense fight and she screamed at him to just leave her and her friends alone, and after not spending every waking hour hating and antagonizing her, she’s not as annoying anymore, and Billy thinks that perhaps his anger was the issue here, not her being a little shit.

That realisation helped him a lot in general. It’s around that time he “apologised” to Harrington the best he could, but when Steve was nice and understanding of his issues, it only made him angry again. Billy doesn’t believe he deserves to be forgiven so easily, no, Harrington should have hit him, defended himself, gotten pissed and told Billy to fuck off.

Instead they wound up at Benny’s diner, sharing a giant plate of fries and a milkshake each.

“My treat,” Steve insisted.

And that’s when old issues resurfaced; the same exact issues that meant they had to leave California. The same exact issues that brought Billy’s wrath upon this pretty boy. The same exact issues that led one thing to another, and now Billy knows the route from his house to the Harrington Mansion like the back of his hand; could drive it with his eyes closed now.

But he doesn’t want to seem needy or clingy. Doesn’t want to be what he is - the way he is.

So after dropping Max off at the Wheeler’s house, the fiery redhead even going as far as to offer him a bit of a smile, he didn’t go home. Didn’t drive to Steve’s house either no matter how much he wanted to.

Don’t be needy, don’t be clingy. You’ll see him later.

So for four hours he drove around town, smoked by the quarry, got admired at a gas station when he refilled, passed Steve’s street far too many times, went to the empty pool that’s closed for the year and sat with his feet over the edge and smoked some more, restlessly kicking the tiling. Over the course of this time he checked his watch at least a billion times.

When it was finally 4pm, he drove to pick up his sister and El - the gang having managed to convince both Steve and Billy to take them to the movies to watch the last screening of The Neverending Story, which doesn’t exactly sound like something he wants to watch, but knowing Steve will be there, he agreed all too readily.

And as he pulls back up to the Wheeler’s again, he sees the brown BMW, Steve leaning against the door as he waits for the boys to pile into his car. Billy’s heart is beating like a painful drum in his aching chest, and when Steve sees him sitting and waiting for the girls, he smiles at him and waves.

Billy is as always astounded and breathless by the way Steve smiles, the way Steve looks at him now, like he’s happy to see him. He can’t smile back, he wants to, but his face feels dull and incapacitated. He wants to just kick open his car door, stomp up to Steve and fucking kiss him. Instead he simply waves back.

Then Max breaks the trance as she pulls open the door and crawls in to sit in the back with El.

“What the hell took you guys so long, I’m starving,” Billy complains as he looks over his shoulder at them.

Max is smart and doesn’t answer, and Billy is smart and doesn’t ask again. No he remains quiet as they follow the beemer, Max and El laughing loud and joyous behind him like girls their age do, talking about shit he doesn’t care for, just focuses on the car in front as they drive to Benny’s diner for early dinner before going to wolf down popcorn at the cinema.

-

The gang is eager and excited, like kids should be, running to the diner as they talk all too frantically about whatever it is kids talk about, Billy is really not paying attention, when Steve is right there.

“Find a booth where we can all sit!” Steve shouts after them, and Billy’s not sure if they heard him at all. “Hey Hargrove, got a smoke?” his voice kinder and friendly, too friendly, as he addresses Billy.

Steve leans against the hood of the camaro, smiling all too wide. He’s dressed in high waisted jeans and a red crop top that shows just enough of a midriff for it to be too much for Billy.

He takes up a spot next to Steve, just far away enough for it to not be suspicious, but absolutely too far away for it to not be enough, yet even from here he can smell the floral soap and honey shampoo. Can’t help but think of how soft Steve’s skin is, how silky his hair is, all newly washed and clean of him. Wonders if the purple hickeys are still visible across his chest, up his thighs.

Even though Steve is trying his best to meet Billy’s gaze, he refuses to look at him just in case it would be too obvious what he’s thinking about, as he unwraps a fresh pack of Marlboro and offers one up.

When Billy ignites his lighter and reaches forth, Steve touches his hand, holds it steady as he leans in to bring his cigarette to the flame. There’s a burning sensation where his pale, soft hand connects them, and when Steve dares rub Billy’s wrist with his fingers, there’s a pain shooting through his heart, a sharp wanting for more. No, a need for more. He’s caught staring at those pretty, pink lips when Steve pulls away and exhales a cloud.

“What’s wrong?” he asks with a wry smile, clearly aware.

“You know damn well ‘what’s wrong’,” Billy snaps a bit harsher than intended as he continues to force himself to look away.

Thankfully Steve takes it well and huffs a laugh filled with smoke.

They end up in silence after that; the comfortable kind that comes from being at peace together, easy and relaxed and pleasant, one where they don’t need words because there’s no longer any doubt between them. Perhaps that’s what love is, as cheesy and gross as that may be, Billy ponders. To be able to just exist together without it being awkward or stilted. Perhaps he’s fallen a bit in love with his ex-rival. Or perhaps he’s just in love with how he feels when he’s with Steve, both physical and not.

It isn’t till Steve finishes his cigarette, drops it on the asphalt and stomps it out, that he speaks,

“Oh, I almost forgot, I wanted to tell you something.” He’s smiling like the cat that got the cream, licking his lips a bit too slowly as he goes to whisper in Billy’s ear, “I think you’ll be happy to know I’m not wearing any underwear.”

Billy’s heart skips several beats at that, before then going too fast - rapidly pumping blood through him, and there’s a certain rush of it going straight to his dick. He stares too long into those deep, dark eyes, mischievous and satisfied with the response as Billy short circuits.

“What?”

Steve shrugs and tips his head to the side a bit, acting all innocent and oblivious, lips drawn tight in a smile that goes from ear to ear. He opens his mouth and takes a long inhale, insinuating that he’s about to say something, then simply turns around, hands in his pockets as he walks towards the diner.

Leaving Billy behind, baffled, astonished, dumbfounded.

-

The next two hours feels like days.

They sit in the diner, Billy and Steve across from one another.

The kids are still as energetic as before, their voices a jumble of words and phrases and retellings of DnD from today’s session. Steve chews on his straw as he tries to follow along with whatever they’re talking about, laughing when they laugh, nodding on occasions. Whenever he looks over at Billy, blue eyes flee to stare out the window instead, finding great interest in the pattern of how one street light flickers.

Before the movie starts, they go to let out water by the urinals of the cinema, Billy standing right next to Steve, having hoped to catch a glimpse, see if he’s telling the truth, the urge near irresistible to just take a quick look, but the other men around them might not take too kindly to something like that.

And during the movie they sit together at the end of the row.

Steve, Billy, Max, El, Mike, Will, Dustin, Lucas.

He didn’t care for the movie before, only going along as a sign of friendliness and to have an excuse to not be home, but now. Now he’s almost hating having to sit here, next to Steve, shoulders nearly touching, shoes pressed together on the dark floor, only an armrest between them.

For the first twenty arduous minutes, Steve doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything, showing no sign of registering how near they are, just watches the movie in silence with a smile, while Billy is sat next to him, burning up despite his shirt being unbuttoned as always, mind racing with thoughts and images of Steve Steve Steve.

So distracted by all of that, that he nearly jumps when Steve touches his hand. Same softness and tenderness from earlier on the parking lot, the way Steve always touches him with just a hint of hesitance when they’re not completely alone.

But the cinema is dark, the kids are entranced, and there’s barely a handful of people besides them, so maybe it’s safe enough.

Billy raises his fingers into the touch, thinking that Steve wants to hold hands, intertwine them, any of that stupid romantic shit that he loves and Billy pretends to only barely tolerate, but the touch moves past that, a feather across the back of his hand, up to gently and carefully grab him by the wrist.

At that, Billy finally looks down, keeps facing the big screen but pays acute attention to what Steve is doing, where he’s leading his hand, placing it on his knee, Billy’s fingers in between spread legs. He continues to guide the hand further up, towards the heat of where his thighs meet, effectively sending Billy’s heart rate sky high.

When he finally turns his head, he finds Steve staring right back, a small and restrained smile, and in that moment, Billy feels like he can read Steve’s thoughts, knows exactly what’s on his mind, never doubts it for a second, and is proved right when Steve stands up and climbs over the seat to walk along the empty row behind them.

Billy whips around to Max, and hisses out, “We’re going for a smoke, don’t fucking go anywhere.”

“Yeah yeah,” she groans all indifferent and waves him away, eyes big and caught in the movie.

-

The bathroom at the Hawk is as clean as it ever gets, and perhaps not too shockingly, empty. Movies are running and people are seated.

Steve stands looking at himself in the mirror, fixing his hair, not that it looks any different to Billy now than before.

He takes heavy steps towards the brunette, announcing himself and catches Steve’s eyes in the mirror, watching as Billy approaches and steps behind him. Billy leans in to run his nose up Steve’s neck, inhaling deeply and humming out pleasantly, blinking slowly as he keeps pressing his face into the crook there, not quite kissing yet.

Eyes dart back to the mirror where heavenly blue meets chocolate brown, a feverish intensity there as Steve stares back. Gently, but with no hesitation, Billy snakes his arms around Steve’s waist, past the belt and up to touch where skin shows between jeans and the top.

When there’s no ‘stop’, he keeps going, curls his fingers around the red fabric and lifts up, exposing Steve’s chest to the both of them in the mirror. Bitten and marked, purple and red, Billy eyes his masterwork with an appreciative gaze, and with one hand keeping the shirt away, he moves the other up to graze his fingers across each little bruise his lips left just two days ago.

Steve hums a bit, erotic and turned on, and if more were to happen now, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d found their way together in public. And perhaps that thought strikes Steve just as it does Billy, for he pushes back into him, rubbing his soft ass against where he finds a slight bulge already.

“Fuck, Stevie…” Billy huffs and breathes against Steve’s neck, eyes closed as he relishes in the slow friction, kissing sloppy and half-minded against pale skin. “You really wanna do this here? Where the kids could just walk in any moment?”

“I would have maybe pushed you into a stall first,” Steve laughs, a slight stutter to it. “But I was thinking your car? The movie is like two hours, we could find an alley, park there, let me ride your cock?”

A growl escapes by the enchantment of those words, and Billy bites into Steve’s neck, earning him an illicit little hiss and smirk.

“How am I supposed to say no when you put it like that?”

-

Neither of them feel particularly bad for just abandoning the gang like that, but they’ll be quick, hidden in this alleyway, not too far away from the theatre, a bit of fun while the others gawk and gape at the magic of movies.

But it’s hard to be remorseful, when Steve is moaning like this, Billy two fingers deep in him in the driver's seat of the camaro.

Steve didn't lie about going commando today; told Billy, “When I found out you were tagging along, I hoped I’d get to have you alone like this.”

It took Steve less than two seconds to start getting undressed when Billy turned off the engine, whereafter he crawled right onto his lap, hard and bottomless, knees over Billy’s shoulders, feet locked behind the headrest, back against the steering wheel. 

“Ah-h, mmh, fuck, Billy-” he whines, hands placed firm on Billy’s legs for support as he lifts and angles his ass to allow Billy access with lubed up fingers.

His other hand squeezes Steve’s leaking prick, using the precum to slick up the flesh, keeping him hard and crying like that. His own lonesome cock aches where it lies full against his stomach; the button down having been opened completely to avoid staining it, and giving Steve something to admire.

“Billy, please, just- oh- just fuck me already!” Steve’s voice pitched high with lust and impatience, brows drawn together, his arms shaking underneath his own weight.

“Just don’t wanna hurt you, baby,” Billy purrs.

He watches with great interest as he pumps two fingers in and out of Steve’s wet hole, making a scissoring motion to stretch him properly.

“Mmh, we don’t exactly have time for that, and I need you so bad,” Steve says with the sweetest, most alluring tone he can.

And God if that doesn’t go straight to Billy’s twitching dick.

“You sure?” He wants to double check anyways.

“Yes- yes! Just- get a condom, I don’t wanna ruin my favourite pants.”

Billy chuckles lightly at that thought as he leans to reach for the glovebox, absolutely turned on by the idea of Steve walking around brimming with him, his cum dripping out and running down his thighs. Perhaps another time.

The condom rolls on with ease, Billy having become quite the expert with one through time, but he has been getting a lot of practice lately what with Steve and his more adventurous side, and wearing a rubber when fucking in public makes for an easy and quick cleanup. He gives himself a few good strokes to lube up good and nice, ensuring that Steve gets a smooth ride as he aligns himself with the hole that flutters eagerly to suck him in.

Greedy, starved, zealous, Steve sits himself on that veiny dick, ass fully flush with Billy’s hips, breathlessly gasping and cursing around his name, “Fuck Billy…”

“Mmmh,” Billy hums and licks his lips, staring down with adoration at how he’s buried deep inside of Steve’s ass, tight with lack of preparation, but- “You feel so good baby, taking my cock so well.”

He brings his hands to grab Steve by the hips and guide him in a circular motion, muscles clenching around him that can only be described as beautiful, eliciting groans and causing him to dig in his nails.

Steve’s panting, bangs sticking to his forehead from sweat, the windows fogged up, telling anyone that would walk by exactly what was going on, and when he lifts up to fuck himself on Billy’s fat erection, they shake the entire car with his fervor; each time he sinks down he moans more; moans with less and less self control.

“Take off your shirt, pretty boy,” Billy drawls out and swipes his tongue across shiny and sharp teeth. “Wanna see you.”

It’s a hurried motion that takes less than three seconds for Steve to yank off the crop top and grab on to Billy’s knees again, refusing to wait even one moment in the haze of his neediness. 

Billy, however, faced with marks of his own making, takes time to appreciate how perfectly purple suits Steve’s pale skin, blooming across his pecs, his tits, near nipples that strut now, begging to be touched. And who is he not to oblige. Hands travel up from hips, past the waist, to Steve’s chest - the brunette seemingly lost in chasing his own high, that he doesn’t notice where Billy is going till he presses hard against the sensitive buds.

“A-ah! Fuck, Billy!” And he throws his head back.

Steve’s entire body tenses at that, each muscle flexing and twitching, contracting around Billy’s steely cock, and he can’t help himself but to thrust into the clenching hole, the rim taking a chokehold on the base of his prick. Steve has to bring up a hand against the roof of the car to keep himself from hitting his head, while also giving him the ideal leverage to push down hard, bodies colliding, skin slapping together in a lascivious and erotic rhythm.

“God, you’re such a little slut for my cock, huh baby?” Billy growls like a ravenous wolf as he pounds into Steve, forcing out every little cry and moan, telling him that he’s hitting just the right spot.

“Billy- Billy, ah-a, fuck- fuck-” Steve whimpers and looks down to watch one hand on his hip that pulls him down, another rubbing hard against his nipple. 

“Yeah, harrh, listen to yourself,” and Billy pauses to listen to how Steve mewls, revelling in the fact that he’s the cause of that. “So loud and lewd, baby, calling out my name like that.”

“Billy.”

He’s a confident guy, Keg King and lady killer, and while shit like emotions and feelings stuns him, this brings him alive, lust coiling in his gut, burning hot and white, ramping up to a fever pitch as he fucks with wild abandon into Steve’s wet cunt.

Billy hasn’t bothered masturbating in a good while, no, he saves all of that pent up energy for Steve, to fill him up; desire blinding him to anyone else but his princess.

“Mmhnn- ahh, fuck, Stevie, can’t wait to get you alone tonight,” he says, voice fucked out and perverted, Steve looking at him as he speaks, “Drop off all the little shits and then fuck you into your mattress till you’re a mess, pump you full of my cum.”

Steve’s eyes screws shut tight, mouth wide open as he moans, “Yes, oh God, Billy-”

“Yeah? You want that?”

“Yes! Please! Fuck-” He nods the best he can, hair bouncing.

“You’re such a good little whore for me, princess, so needy for my cock.”

“Billy- Billy please,” Steve croons, all pathetic and close.

“Anything,” Billy responds with fast devotion, a promise that he gladly lives up to, knowing well what it is Steve is begging for, wants to hear him say it anyways.

“Touch me, please, ah-h- I’m so so close, fuck…”

Billy grins wide, so self satisfied it’s nearly disgusting, and he closes his fingers firm around Steve’s slick erection; he gets so fucking wet, leaking profusely, swears it only happens when he’s with Billy like this.

“Just like that, yes! Oh fuck, I’m- ah-”

“Yeah, cum for me baby, wanna watch you- show me what I do to you.”

Billy jerks him off quick and crude, knows how Steve likes it, how he needs it; loves being manhandled, talks about that whenever he’s with Billy he feels small and light.

And Steve cums with a loud and unadulterated moan, stilling his entire body in a tense pose as Billy fucks him fast; slamming quickly against his prostate, hand milking him good till he’s emptied out on his own chest.

It is a glorious thing to watch, a masterpiece of performance only for him, a grand show for a one man audience that Billy gets to relive again and again and again. Steve’s jaw drops as he continues to cry out like he’s a goddamn porn star, overstimulated and loving it.

Billy’s own orgasm is far less showy; a few shallow, brutish thrusts, grunting through gritted teeth, he shoves Steve down onto him hard as his hips stutter through completion, waves of impossible heat pouring out and leaving him a puddle of bliss and euphoria.

Time is lost to them, as they sit like that; Steve’s one leg having fallen between the seats as he went limp with exhaustion, still firmly planted in Billy’s lap, who’s soft and complacent and fucking tired, both of them breathing heavy.

“We should… we should go back…” Steve mumbles with closed eyes.

Billy’s watching the way Steve’s cum slowly slips down his chest, running over his abs and nearing his pubic hair.

“Do we have to?” he eventually manages to ask.

And Steve chuckles at that, the vibrations through his body clenching around Billy’s spent cock and he can’t help the sore “ooh”s and “ahh”s as he tries to pull away from it.

“Sadly we do. Can’t have the kids walk home alone in the dark, besides…” Steve grinds his ass onto Billy’s lap, making him wince in not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but definitely too much. “Think you promised to… fuck me into my mattress?”

#Harringrove #My Writing #Lemon #Mystery Prompt #500 followers #Babysitterpng #hope it was as good for you as it was for me sweets #😌 #Anonymous

[davidmann95]

So... Crossover #1: any thoughts?

Anonymous said: You seemed not to think much of Crossover #1 on Twitter. Your full thoughts?

wcwit said: So Cates' Crossover #1, best bad comic of the year or just regular pretentious trash?

An incidental note upfront: What you’re seeing there is the apparently SUPER-RARE SECRET VARIANT COVER I unwittingly picked up at the store - at first glance indistinguishable from the standard cover, the kid getting four-color-fucked by mysterious comic book rays is in fact themselves reading a variant cover of the book, rather than the main cover again in an infinite painting-within-a-painting sort of deal that’s the standard.

So I wasn’t gonna get this: my initial post on the comic and what an obviously awful idea it was back when we only knew half the premise and it was known as Pray The Capes Away actually got some out-of-nowhere traction recently, and I’ve grown rapidly tired of Cates’ Marvel work. Even learning that it was going to be Image’s biggest debut in decades - Jesus fuck, how and why - mostly just made me wish it was Commanders in Crisis getting those kinds of numbers. But Sean Dillon/@deathchrist2000 and Ritesh Babu both got early looks at it and assured me that I, specifically, needed to see the last page, so in I dove. I’ll be posting my reaction to the last page below because I recorded it for their amusement, and below that I’ll talk about said last page. It may surprise you, however, that that wasn’t my main takeaway from the issue.

Let’s accentuate the positive first! This book is gorgeous. Geoff Shaw was terrific back with Thanos Wins, but this is an incredible stylistic level-up aided and abetted by Dee Cunniffe’s colors: it’s rote as hell to say “They mix the elevated and the mundane so well!”, but even beyond the obvious ben-day dots stuff there’s such a tangible sense that the comic book beings don’t belong here, that they’re of higher, misty, platonic stuff and we squishy non-paper-people inevitably crumble and break and bleed in their wake, communicating that big idea so much more powerfully than the actual loads of text on the subject. And if we’re talking good things, I’ll concede it’s possible that there could be subtleties that play out in more interesting ways as it goes on, and that not everything is meant to be taken at face value: a smart friend who actually did like it mentioned being interested in it as clumsy but potentially effective exploration of ‘what if the fun hobby you had inadvertently became contaminated and stigmatized by forces beyond your control?’ In a post-Comicsgate world where we recently ended up inches away from the Superman logo almost certainly becoming a fascist propaganda symbol ala the Punisher skull for at least a generation, that’s a defensible lens to view this book through.

For all Donny Cates’ legitimate talents however, I don’t think an expectation of subtlety is gonna work out with this one.

Okay first off getting into the rest of it the main characters’ name is Ellipsis because “Those three little dots...they can become anything”, so there’s that. More importantly, in the world of this story where comic fans face social oppression after superpeople materialize and fuck up Colorado, they face EVERY KIND OF OPPRESSION: there are clear parallels drawn in here to the violence and harassment faced by people persecuted for their religion, people seeking abortions, queer people, and people of color; this motherfucker even drops a “hates and fears” to let us know comic collecting basically makes you one of the goddamn X-Men. Which in theory could be a purely misjudged allegory rather than stemming from actual, obscenely inflated to the point of disgusting fears of ‘nerd oppression’, except that the book literally opens with a quote from Wertham. If Cates didn’t want to make the message “Hating comics? That’s bad. Like, racism bad”, he utterly, grotesquely failed by inextricably intermingling imagery of real-world bigotry with systemic, deluded fanboy paranoia, at least as of this first issue that’s supposed to meaningfully convey the premise. As a queer dude I think I’m somewhat in my lane to say it’s too blunt and broad and dopey to be particularly offensive, but the co-opting of oppression is what this is rooted in.

The idea of ‘comics good no matter what people think, ain’t it?’ extends to the last traditional local comic store standing in this world: much as superheroes are the primary cause of suffering in this world but the point of the story is still supposed to reveal the beauty in them, part of this is that the comics community isn’t perfect but it sure is great. Which is expressed here via Ellie’s boss Otto, a loveable asshole who yells at people coming in trying to sell the wrong kind of comics to fuck off, but at heart is we’re supposed to understand a good enough dude that the shop he runs is “the only home a lot of (the benighted nerds) have left” (because I guess in this alternate universe the physical stores are still the main hub through which comics fans talk with one another?).

So here’s a story of my very own! That’s me in 2013, it must’ve been some kind of special day because I’m wearing a shirt with a button. I’d at that point only frequented one of what would be my thus far four regular comic shops. The first was a great place, and while to say I had a sense of community there would be overstating it a bit, I was on really good terms with the owner and we regularly chatted when we had the time. When I left for college my store there wasn’t as well-stocked, and for some damn reason all variant covers were double-price, but I got along really well with the owner there too. The third I wasn’t so lucky; the guy regularly behind the desk was never overtly hostile, but clearly wanted to wring my neck every time I asked when a missing comic might get in or if I could update my pull list, and given I’m in the ‘ideal’ demographic for being a comic book store regular and was dropping a solid lump of money there every week, I wonder how others were treated there (the store nearly went under, was saved on the last day of operation by another store that wanted to incorporate it as part of its franchise, then shortly afterwards DID go under and is now I believe a beef jerky place). My current store is fine, I didn’t chat much with the folks behind the counter even before we all had medical incentive to get in and out of places fairly quickly but it almost always has what I’m looking for.

Just because those were my regular stores of course doesn’t mean those are the only ones I’ve ever gone to. About a year before that picture was taken - it’s the closest I could find - when I was 17 my store didn’t have something or another I was looking for, so I head across town to see if another place I had looked up had it. This other place didn’t have what I was looking for either, though I distinctly remember picking up a few issues of Hickman’s FF while I was there since I had foolishly fallen off, hence my remembering the year. I bought a couple issues, but hung around for a bit looking to see if I might grab something else out of a dollar box, setting my comics down. Without realizing it, I’d set my books down on top of another issue, and when I decided I wasn’t getting anything else, I just picked that up along with the rest of the pile and was about to walk out before the owner stopped me. He explained what I had done though assumed it had been deliberate, and because I was a good-hearted little geek I even recall thinking “Well, he’s gonna chew me out, but I guess I deserve it. I’ll try and take this to heart as a learning experience.”

Then he pulled up his shirt a little to show me the gun on his belt. He pointed at the security camera monitors at his desk, and explained to me that if I ever did something like that again, he would have it on tape, and he would pull that gun on me and hold me there while he called the cops.

As it turned out, the comic was free.

The whole thing was so sudden and bizarre and unexpected I didn’t actually freak out until the drive home. It wasn’t until weeks or maybe months later that I managed to tell my dad about the experience, because I *had* nearly stolen a (free) comic and my guilt was mixed in with my nerves and I guess I was somehow too close to register just how disproportionate his response was. It wasn’t until now, nearly a decade later and thinking about it for the first time in a long time as I write this, that I wondered if that might have gone differently - especially living in the midwest - if I hadn’t been a white, squeaky-voiced 17-year-old.

So, minor spoiler, when our cantankerous but well-meaning LCS owner yells to call the cops and grabs and yells at a small kid for pocketing a comic (and later displays fantasy racism towards said kid), I am not filled with nostalgic love for the brotherly safe space that is comic book stores, where this guy while not meant to be seen as perfect is still framed in part as a charming, witty representation of Why We Love These Places, And This Community, And This Genre, And This Medium. Cates is clearly drawing on real time at his local stores, but he equally clearly has a very different takeaway from those experiences than me. And I am, again, in a demographic - white, cis-male, abled, bi but more interested in women, disposable income, a lifelong collector - that the industry and a lot of the guys who sell it to us contort themselves around catering to, even if I had a single very negative experience and later an ongoing low-key uncomfortable one to help disabuse me of any notions of the purity of the dork community. In the world of Crossover as of #1, toxicity is intertwined, deliberately or not on the part of the creators, with what we love on the cosmic and small business scales alike, but at least in the latter case it’s the whole picture that’s beautiful, not any single kernel that needs to be worked on to be dug up.

So underneath is my video reaction to the last page of Crossover #1. Very minor spoilers because I mutter the last two words of the comic to myself, but under the video I discuss said final page and some other scattered thoughts. Whether you read that or not, my takeaway is this: I’m fascinated with wherever the hell this thing is going, I’m glad my dad liked it well enough to want to keep getting it because now I’ll get to see where it heads, but my first impression is that this is at heart meant as cheapass Oscar-bait for people who only read Batman. It’s big and high-concept but also small and intimate! It’s meta and about how great you, the reader are for your consumption, especially the consumption of this! It’s going to be in large part about a forbidden love between a couple divided across impermeable social lines (a couple where they’re a seemingly straight white man and woman, but one likes comics)! Maybe it’ll become Not That, and I’m sure it’ll do at least something interesting along the way because Cates has done good stuff before and there are some inherently interesting big ideas for him to play with here, but for the love of god if you’re thinking about getting this buy Commanders in Crisis too or instead, it’s another new book out of Image about superheroes dealing with the collapse of the multiverse but that one is really fucking good.

So the final page splash reveal is that when the comic book child discovered in here got out of Colorado, which has had an impenetrable energy shield erected around it by one of the heroes for years, she and others were ferried out of there...by Superman, as the narration declares that “This is a story...about hope.” They don’t say the word, but she sketches her savior, Ellie and Otto freak out and go “Is that---” when they see it, and on that last page we see that while a crude drawing it isn’t a rough analogue character, it’s a guy with a cape and trunks with an S on his chest. Surprisingly, I don’t have much to say: it’s just another blunt signifier that superheroes rule and are the best, paired with the most utterly devalued notion as of late of what makes Superman special in ‘hope’. I mean, I’m perversely excited to see whether this is building the entire series on a hook it can never deliver on, or if Cates actually has talked DC into an intercompany crossover; believable given they’ve done a bunch of those over the last several years, and why else would Mark Waid be supervising as ‘story editor’ on this? I guess it’ll shake out one way or another with #6 given Cates has said it “has one of the more epic and — I would argue historic — sequences in comic book history in it.” But I’m far less convinced this is gonna truly go into the meaty question of “What does Superman mean and what makes him unique in this world where superheroes in general are indisputably either failures or monstrous bastards given the scale of destruction their presence has brought about, and he himself failed to stop that?” than as some kind of holy grail of how great superheroes are despite how dang violent they’ve gotten these days for the crew to chase after, whatever additional twist will surely be placed upon it. At least he’s kinda helping an immigrant kid get over a wall, if that’s deliberate?

Random final thoughts:

* If I wrote the opening essay and turned it in in a college course, I would be expelled for plagiarizing Grant Morrison. This is not a joke.

* If mainstream American superhero comics ended January 2017 in this universe, its own last ‘crossover’ was Civil War II, which is hilarious.

* God, please tell me if it takes the dive after all that this isn’t somehow tied into whatever Waid’s Superman project is.

* I wouldn’t normally crap on issues with the finer details of worldbuilding, but A. This is rooted in a nominally ‘real’ world playing by recognizable rules, B. I’m ragging on this anyway so what’s the harm, and C. It’s really obvious. So: Why is one of the racists against the superheroes the guy who loves superheroes so much he’s the last holdout in the entire world still selling comic books about them? How does this modestly-sized shop exist long-term with apparently a significant regular customer base if there are no new comics or even reprints to restock with, ever? Who’s buying the serialized cop/cowboy comics that the U.S. government apparently created pretty much overnight (nobody, it’s just another Wertham dig)?

* The solicit for issue #3 proclaims “Don't miss this one, folks. If you do, it just might drive you...mad.”, so now I fear some kind of Ultra Comics riff.

* “Kids love chains” is the most metal-ass quote of all time and I hate that it’s being wasted as an arc title on this book.

#Donny Cates #Geoff Shaw #Dee Cunniffe #John J. Hill #Mark Waid #Me #Superman #Opinion