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artificialqueens · 4 years ago

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Volcanic Love (Taywhora) - Holtzmanns

read on ao3 | word count: 6045

“Oh I was aware, alright,” A’whora purses her lips and for a second, Tayce wonders what it would be like to kiss her. “And you know what I saw?”

Oh Christ, she’ll humour her. “What’d you see, then?”

It’s the response A’whora wants, from the way her eyes gleam. “I saw you peeking at me some type of way. A little pout on your face. You jealous, Tayce? Is that it? You want some attention?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

A/N: Thank you guys so much for the love on my other Taywhora oneshot, it made me so happy. Enjoy this one, too - fully a product of Taywhora beginning to occupy my thoughts with no signs of leaving. Title from Volcanic Love by The Aces. Also thank you Writ for betaing and bouncing ideas with me, and Pop for catching any North American slang that may have sneaked in, I appreciate you both ❤️

Tayce isn’t a chicken.

It doesn’t matter what Tia’s said in the past. She’s never had the balls to flirt with Veronica, anyway, she’s the real chicken.

Tayce is just respectful, that’s it. She’s not about to go hit on her best mate in the club, not when they’re going back to the same flat, not when A’whora’s eyes right now are on everyone but her.

Doesn’t matter, anyway. Tayce is here for drinks and to forget about her shitty work week.

Even if A’whora’s talking to a leggy brunette by the barstools. And giggling. And tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Christ.

A tap on Tayce’s arm makes her jump, and Lawrence is looking at her a tad impatiently, gesturing towards the waiting bartender on the other side of the table.

“What d’you want, then? Can’t wait all night while you stare at your woman.”

“She’s not my woman,” Tayce mutters under her breath, trying to ignore the warmth in her cheeks. “Two tequila shots, please and thank you.”

Lawrence raises her eyebrows. “Two already? You that ready to end up with your head in the toilet tonight, are you?”

“Oh, shut it.”

Tayce peeks over again while the bartender prepares their drinks and A’whora’s whispering something into the brunette’s ear, leaning in close to her. Tayce grabs the table just a little bit harder.

She knows that Bimini’s organized this night out for them so that Tayce can finally get her shit together. They’re out far too often as it is, despite graduating uni and beginning adult jobs and working normal hours, but regardless, this evening has a purpose. Not that Tayce wants it to. Her liking for A’whora is clear as day to everyone except for A’whora herself, and part of Tayce wants it to stay that way.

Why ruin it, anyway? They’re friends, best friends at that, and A’whora cares for her and knows all her secrets and is the most important person in the world. Or rather, she knows all of Tayce’s secrets except how much she fancies her.

Tayce clinks her shot glass with Lawrence’s whiskey before she tosses it back, the salt and lime on her tongue straight after enough to start a fresh fire through her veins. Maybe it’s not going to happen, tonight, or ever. Tayce is fine with that, especially when she’s on a night out with her mates and Little Mix is blaring in the DJ’s mix overhead.

That’s all she needs for a good night out.

Ellie pushes through the crowd to reach them, a head taller than everyone else. “Did you get my vodka cran?”

“Course,” Lawrence grins, handing the glass to her. “Even though we both know it tastes like horseshit. You gotta branch out your options, El.”

“Just like you ordering a whiskey every night out like the wee old man you are?” Ellie sticks out her tongue without missing a beat, and Tayce snorts when Lawrence lifts a mock offended hand to her chest.

“Excuse me for having some pride for the homeland. Not about to let the English win around here.” Lawrence tosses her drink back, and the slight wince on her face is just about noticeable.

“Looks divine,” Tayce deadpans, craning her neck towards where A’whora had been standing.

Except she’s not there anymore, and she’s not in the crowd of people either, and-

“She’s coming up behind you, dafty,” Lawrence snickers, and Tayce hardly has a second to retort before a set of arms wraps around her waist.

“Did you miss me?” A’whora’s voice takes on the sing song quality that it always does when she’s a few drinks in, and Tayce has to ignore the way her stomach feels like it’s filling with butterflies.

Because it’s not.

“Kept yourself busy over there, did you?” Tayce gets out, trying her best not to let the bitterness peek through in her voice.

A’whora’s allowed to flirt with whoever she wants. It’s fine, really.

“I love meeting new people, that’s all,” A’whora grins, reaching across Tayce to flag the bartender, “unlike you, you antisocial creature.”

“Lies. I have enough friends already,” Tayce mumbles as A’whora pulls back, the scent of her perfume making Tayce’s breath hitch in her throat.

She needs her second shot.

Tayce tosses it back as A’whora takes a sip of her rum and coke, and the burn of the liquor at the back of her throat isn’t enough to distract her from the way that A’whora wraps her lips around the straw, all round and delicate as not to smudge her lip gloss.

“You’d be a lot less grumpy if you moved away from the bar, y’know,” A’whora says in between sips. “Maybe danced around a bit or something. No more sulking on nights out like you normally do.”

“She really does sulk, doesn’t she?” Lawrence pipes up, another whiskey in hand, and Tayce can’t help but roll her eyes at the pointed tone in her voice.

Lawrence wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit her in the head.

“Come on. We’re all gonna go dance. No more sulking.”

A’whora grabs her hand, and Tayce starts to panic for a second because she’s sure she’s a little bit clammy, but Ellie and Lawrence are following them and maybe Tayce’s brain is running just a little bit too fast for her own good. They end up in the thick of the crowd and it’s sweaty, gross, but it also makes Tayce feel a little nostalgic for uni, when they’d do this too often and end up hungover for class the next afternoon.

The Rihanna that the mix fades into is enough to make Tayce forget about the fact that she’s attracted to her best friend, especially when she’s giggling at Ellie’s attempt to embody the song with her lip-syncing. She joins in at the chorus, and fuck it, there’s nothing on par with screaming out the words to Bitch Better Have My Money with her mates, especially with Lawrence’s rather unmelodic tones.

She does love them.

“Let me squeeze in!”

Bimini’s voice is loud enough to be heard over the music as they pushes themselves in between Lawrence and Ellie, their fur coat miraculously still around their shoulders while balancing a drink in each hand.

“Well there you are!” Lawrence exclaims, and the delight on her face is exactly how Tayce feels, all of her friends together and-

Well, almost all of them. There’s Ellie, and Lawrence, and now Bimini, but where has A’whora gone off to again?

Tayce goes up on her tiptoes, craning her neck because she can’t have gotten that far with the crowds, she has to be near…

Oh.

She’s found a girl to dance up on. Blonde, this time. A lovely sight to see.

The tentative excitement that had been rising in Tayce’s chest bursts like a balloon, the sinking feeling spreading along her insides and pulling her back down to the ground because of course A’whora’s found someone to grind up against and shoot sultry eyes at because she’s good at that, at getting what she wants. It’s fine, it is, because Tayce is having fun watching Lawrence try to rap Taki Taki.

She doesn’t care what A’whora’s doing.

Except that when she peeks over again, A’whora’s crouching down while she dances and she’s got her hands on the girl’s thighs and she’s looking up at her with an expression that can only be described as hungry. And it doesn’t matter that there’s an elbow poking at Tayce’s back, or that the mix overhead weaves in a Beyonce song that she’d normally scream the words to, because right now she’s got tunnel vision, unable to pull her eyes away from A’whora despite the fact that she feels like she’s burning up the longer she does. Despite the ripping in Tayce’s chest and the rushing in her ears, it’s fine, because A’whora’s allowed to do whatever she wants. Tayce is her friend and nothing more, and she’s used to it, she is.

But then A’whora slowly rises up from her crouched position and wraps her arms around the girl’s neck, leaning in to kiss her and Tayce needs to get out of the crowd and off the dance floor.

The club bathroom has suspicious stains on the walls but it’s blissfully empty, a fact that Tayce is thankful for because at least she can lose her mind in private. She doesn’t need anyone else witnessing an absolutely pathetic meltdown over her best friend.

Tayce’s lip colour is smudged when she looks at herself in the dust covered mirror, and she halfheartedly pulls out her lipstick from her clutch to fix it. Not that it matters, when she’ll probably grab a taxi home in a few minutes anyway, because her bed and some sleep will at least help her forget the sight of A’whora practically on her knees.

Once she’s fixed her lipstick, Tayce runs a hand through her hair and lets out a sigh. She’s changed her mind. Going out isn’t so nostalgic anymore. It’s shit.

“You done admiring yourself in the mirror yet?”

“Jesus, fucking-”

Tayce whirls around at the voice and of fucking course A’whora is standing there, her own lipstick a bit smudged and looking too smug for her own good and Tayce hates the way her heart starts to beat just a bit faster.

“Thought you were busy macking on some slag and giving everyone a little front row performance,” Tayce mutters, turning back towards the mirror.

“Oh, so you were watching, then?” A’whora’s voice is positively delighted, and Tayce wants to roll her eyes at the audacity.

“I think people in the nosebleeds could see that even if they didn’t want to. A little careless, no? Nearly shagging on the dance floor?”

Tayce isn’t bitter. She’s not. Not over something this stupid.

“What, are you a nun suddenly preaching chastity and pureness and everything that’s holy? Is that it?” A’whora snickers, not looking fazed in the least as she sidles up to Tayce at the counter.

Tayce scoffs, trying to keep herself from glancing at A’whora in the mirror. “It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more aware of your surroundings, that’s all.”

“Oh I was aware, alright,” A’whora purses her lips and for a second, Tayce wonders what it would be like to kiss her. “And you know what I saw?”

Oh Christ, she’ll humour her. “What’d you see, then?”

It’s the response A’whora wants, from the way her eyes gleam. “I saw you peeking at me some type of way. A little pout on your face. You jealous, Tayce? Is that it? You want some attention?”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

It’s a lie, a flat out lie but A’whora doesn’t need to know that, not when it highlights how absolutely pathetic Tayce feels for having A’whora fucking notice. A new low for her. She might as well trod home with her tail between her legs at this point, not that it would save her from any embarrassment.

So, she’s going to have to pretend it never even happened.

“I wasn’t, but you did that enough for me,” A’whora murmurs, and Jesus, she’s coming up behind Tayce and looking at her in the mirror with the sultry eyes that are usually reserved for other girls. “I like seeing you all worked up in a tizzy.”

“I’m not worked up,” Tayce breathes out, trying her best to hold on to the semblance of control she has before it smashes into pieces.

“So you wouldn’t mind then, if I went back on the dance floor and found another girl to kiss? You wouldn’t care if I brought someone home and let her have her way with me? You’ll be just fine with that, huh?”

It’s hard to think straight when A’whora’s hands are raking up her sides, when she’s looking at her all smug through the mirror because she knows she’s going to get what she wants, the way she always does.

Maybe Tayce will be weak willed if she gives in. Maybe A’whora’s going to be smug for weeks after, or maybe she’s going to tease her mercilessly because she’s just joking around with her hands at her waist. Except A’whora’s hand is trailing to her ass, and she’s biting her own lip in the mirror and fuck-

She gives in.

Tayce turns around, face to face with A’whora whose eyes widen for just a second before Tayce captures her lips in a biting kiss. The hitch in A’whora’s breath and the way she surges forward is enough evidence that she isn’t joking around.

Good.

Tayce grabs A’whora’s waist and flips their positions, so that she has her up against the counter. It’s funny - she’s thought about kissing A’whora before, too many times for her own good, but a dingy club bathroom with her heart beating out of her chest is not how she’d envisioned it happening.

A’whora’s needy, pawing at Tayce’s waist to try and bring her closer than she already is. Tayce nudges A’whora’s legs apart with her own thigh, trailing a hand up her chest and past her collarbone and neck until she’s cupping her jaw. She pulls back from the kiss and A’whora’s lips are slightly parted as she catches her breath, her eyes alight but a little bit hazy.

“Is this what you’ve wanted all night, then?”

Tayce has to applaud herself for the semblance of calmness in her voice, not betraying the fact that her insides feel like they’re catching on fire, her heart beating faster and faster the longer she’s touching A’whora.

A’whora looks as dazed as Tayce herself feels, her lipstick smudged and her lips parted while she catches her breath. Tayce watches as her eyes flick down to look at her lips then back up again, and she takes a step back because she knows that A’whora’s about to lean in and kiss her again. The whine A’whora lets out is more than gratifying.

“You could have just asked, y’know. Dunno why you’ve got to go and make it so complicated for the both of us,” Tayce murmurs, licking her own lips as she steps in closer again.

It’s as if there’s a string between them that’s been pulled taut all night and on the verge of snapping, except now, Tayce is the one controlling it. And after how she’s been on edge all evening, it’s a welcome reprieve, a familiar feeling that she’s been craving for so long.

“I…” A’whora’s words trail off when Tayce leans forward, pressing a kiss to her neck, and then another that slightly nips at her skin, and it’s all Tayce can do to keep herself from smirking against the corner of her jaw.

Because, of all people, she’s the one having this effect on A’whora. A’whora, who could absolutely be classified as a certified babe magnet. A’whora, who can land any girl that she bloody wants. A’whora, who has been on Tayce’s mind for far too long whenever she slips her hand between her legs in the shower. A’whora, who up until now Tayce has had to push down any semblance of feelings for.

But now Tayce has her in her grasp and it’s verging on the edge of being too much, sending her brain into overdrive if she focuses on it for too long.

So instead, Tayce brings her attention back to A’whora, who gasps when her lips focus on the juncture between her neck and collarbone. There’s no way A’whora’s neck isn’t going to be looking ridiculous after this, between Tayce’s lipstick and the fact that she’s being rather liberal with how much she’s tugging at A’whora’s skin, but A’whora’s hands are fisting in her hair and it’s becoming clear that she’s the type to like it like this.

She brings a hand up to grab one of A’whora’s tits, her thumb tracing over her nipple that’s already beginning to harden through the dress fabric because of course A’whora’s not wearing a bra, cheeky slag she is. The whine that A’whora lets out when Tayce pulls her face back is enough to make her want to squeeze her own legs together but she steels herself, putting on the most confident face she can muster without falling apart.

“More,” A’whora gets out in between sharp breaths for air, and part of Tayce wishes that she could frame this sight, keep it in her mind forever.

Instead, she presses her lips together. “I’m not about to fuck you in the loo, Rory. What sort of slag do you take me for?”

A’whora’s brows press together adorably, and Tayce has to resist the urge to smooth them out for her. “But-”

“Let’s go home.”

They end up in A’whora’s room solely because of the shorter distance from the front door, as compared to Tayce’s at the end of the hallway. Tayce kicks the door closed behind them, watching as A’whora flops herself down on the bed, resting her weight on her elbows.

It’s strange - Tayce has been in A’whora’s room thousands of times before, like when they do their makeup together or watch Netflix while passing a spliff back and forth. But right now, the air in the room feels different, a breeze that makes her hair want to stand on end. Or maybe that’s the effect from the look that A’whora’s shooting her from the bed.

She takes her time as she walks over to the mattress, kicking off her heels once she reaches her. There’s a hair elastic on A’whora’s bedside table and Tayce grabs it, tying her hair into a bun and out of her face before she climbs up on the bed herself, straddling A’whora’s lap in a swift movement.

A’whora’s so pretty like this. Not that she isn’t always, when she’s laughing and her eyes scrunch or when she’s tearing up because of a cute kitten video on Instagram. But there’s something about this sight, when A’whora has her hair spread out on the sheets, her chest rising and falling almost erratically, that Tayce wants to absolutely drink up.

She channels her bravado from the club bathroom as she tucks a lock of A’whora’s hair behind her ear, watching as her eyes flutter. “You getting sleepy on me?”

“Better stop boring me, then,” A’whora squeaks out, and Tayce knows, knows that it’s a bluff, but a small part voice in her brain yells at her to accept it as a challenge.

A’whora wants more? She’ll get more.

Tayce grabs at A’whora’s hipbone and flips her over so that she’s on her stomach, revelling in the gasp that A’whora lets out when her face buries itself in her arms on the mattress. She runs a hand up A’whora’s thigh, over the curve of her ass and can feel a satisfaction blooming in her chest when A’whora pushes back into her touch.

“So impatient, for someone who was a little brat and teasing me all night.”

A’whora lifts her face out of her arms, the pout on her lips so quintessentially her. “Tayce, c’mon.”

“Yeah? You think you deserve it?”

Tayce pushes the edge of A’whora’s dress up, exposing more and more of her thighs and tracing along the soft skin. By the time the skirt is bunched up at her hips and the lace of her thong is exposed, Tayce feels like her mind is going into overdrive. She wants nothing more than to speed up the process and just pull the lace down and make A’whora come as fast as possible, but she forces herself to slow down, enjoy the process. Relish in it.

She tugs upwards on A’whora’s hips until A’whora understands the hint and gets up so that she’s resting on her elbows and knees, ass up in the air. Tayce taps the outside of A’whora’s thigh and she parts her legs, and part of Tayce wonders how she’s still upright and breathing herself.

“Good girl,” Tayce murmurs, because there’s really no wrong time to test out the waters and see what makes A’whora tick.

From the little noise A’whora lets out from the back of her throat, it seems like Tayce is on the right track.

Tayce can’t help herself from cupping A’whora’s ass with her hands, kneading the flesh. “You really do have a nice behind, y’know that?”

“Behind? What are you, my eighty year old nan?” A’whora snickers, and despite herself, Tayce lets out a huff.

“Why am I even about to fuck you?”

“Because you’re drawn in by my ass-ets,” A’whora says, a grin on her face as she wiggles her bum slightly, and Tayce has to roll her eyes.

Despite the idiocy, it’s still hot. Tayce is definitely in too deep. She may as well dial for help now.

Her nails are short but she drags them lightly on A’whora’s skin, watching the goosebumps that rise on the surface. She follows the lace of A’whora’s thong with one hand, reaching between her legs, and shit, A’whora’s already damp through the fabric.

Not that Tayce isn’t herself, but that’s another story.

She anchors her other hand on A’whora’s hip as she traces her fingers along the lace, and she can feel a smile spreading on her face when A’whora lets out a little whine. Part of Tayce’s brain feels like it’s still in disbelief, waiting for her to wake up from a particularly saucy dream in which she ends up in her flatmate’s bed with said flatmate a mess beneath her with the sheets bunched up between her fingers. All the pining and the ‘sexual tension,’ in Lawrence’s words, coming to a head feels surreal, almost on par with seeing a dragon in their backyard or with Ellie actually being shorter than someone for once.

But she’s here, and A’whora’s here and fidgeting in the sheets and Tayce needs to stop getting bizarrely tender about hooking up with her flatmate.

It’s easier to push A’whora’s knickers to the side rather than to pull them off entirely, especially when she’s already shaky on her knees. Tayce traces along A’whora’s folds, the wetness that coats the pads of her fingers making her feel dizzy, and A’whora pushes back against her touch, a moan in the back of her throat.

“What, are you waiting for someone to make a speech or something? C’mon.”

Tayce has to grin at the gumption. A’whora’s never been one to hold back what she’s thinking. “See, I would, but you didn’t say please.”

“Fucking bitch,” A’whora groans, dropping her face back into her hands, and Tayce takes the opportunity to still two of her fingers near A’whora’s entrance, not quite pushing in the way she wants.

“Still didn’t hear a please, though.”

“Ugh. Please. You absolute hound,” A’whora grumbles, but her words cut off in a gasp when Tayce decides to give in, pushing in a finger, then another when A’whora spreads her legs apart just a little more.

A’whora’s one of the more responsive girls she’s ever had sex with, already trying to rock back against her when Tayce curls her fingers. It makes Tayce want to give her more, so as much as her wrist is complaining when she maneuvers her position so that she can circle around her clit with her thumb, she keeps at it. Speeds up when A’whora starts to drip down onto her palm.

“God, I…” A’whora gasps, and Tayce can feel the way she’s squeezing around her fingers and it’s hot, A’whora’s fucking hot and so close to the edge and there’s no way Tayce is going to stop now for anything.

Tayce leans down and presses a kiss to A’whora’s shoulder blade, the motions of her hand unforgiving as she keeps up her pace without slowing, and the contrast between the two is almost striking.

“You close, baby?”

She can see the way A’whora’s back muscles are tensing, the way her face drops into her hands as her legs get more unsteady and she drinks it all in, committing it to memory because fuck, she’s had a lot to drink tonight but there’s no way she’s gonna forget a second of this. Not when A’whora is the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen.

A’whora can’t kill Tayce for leaving marks on her back if she can’t see them - it’s flawless logic, really. But it’s enough reason for Tayce to pay attention to the ripple of A’whora’s muscles, the heat emanating from her skin when she kisses and nips because she can’t help herself, A’whora’s back a canvas that isn’t going to stay empty for too long.

Tayce doesn’t dare change her pace, not when A’whora’s squeezing around her and her muscles are tensing and her breaths are coming in little gasps that are somehow endearing. She ignores the burning in her forearm, the way she’s worked up a sweat of her own because A’whora’s eyes are squeezed shut, and the noise in the back of her throat cuts off on a raggedy gasp for breath.

“Fuck, ah, shit-”

A’whora’s whimpering, her face buried in her arms and her legs squeezing Tayce’s hand in a death grip as her knees finally give out in a heap on the mattress. Tayce wipes her fingers on the back of A’whora’s still shaking thighs as she pulls her hand back, pressing a kiss to her hipbone before she turns her onto her back as carefully as she can.

There’s something to be said for a post-orgasm A’whora, from how her chest is rising and falling to the way she has an almost dopey smile on her face that she covers with the back of her hand.

“C’mere,” A’whora mumbles, holding out a hand with grabby motions and Tayce snorts, crossing her arms.

“Postcoital A’whora is a cuddler. Who knew?”

“M’not cuddling,” A’whora pouts, reaching for Tayce’s arm. “I wanna get on top now.”

Tayce yelps when A’whora tugs on her elbow, bracing her hands against the mattress and catching herself on top of her just in time. “You, a top? That’s a thought.”

“Hey!” A’whora whines, wiggling underneath her. “It’s my turn.”

Tayce has to hold back a laugh. “You sound like a child waiting for their go on the swings.”

But then A’whora pushes on Tayce’s hipbone and nudges her leg against her inner thigh and Tayce isn’t sure, really, how A’whora ends up on top of her, though the grin on her face is adorably triumphant.

“Ha! See, I’m strong,” A’whora preens, tossing her hair over her shoulder as her thighs bracket Tayce’s hips and as much as Tayce wants to roll her eyes, she has to admit the sight is kind of hot.

Especially when A’whora licks her lips as her gaze drags down Tayce’s body, a lioness who’s finally gotten her prey. A lioness with highlighter on her cheekbones and a slinky dress that’s still bunched up at her hips.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long, y’know that?” A’whora whispers the words centimeters away from Tayce’s ear, raking a hand through her hair and she can feel the way it makes goosebumps rise on her skin.

Not that Tayce is one to let her facade drop so easily. “Oh, yeah? Why’re you always out there kissing other girls, then?”

She still hasn’t forgotten the sight of A’whora grinding up on some girl on the dance floor. Or how badly she wanted it to be her.

A’whora blinks at her. “How else was I supposed to go and get your attention? It worked, didn’t it?”

“You’re a cheeky little hound, aren’t you?” Tayce snorts, shaking her head against the sheets.

Christ.

Really, A’whora’s not wrong. It had certainly gotten her attention, alright, made her stomach turn and need to leave the dance floor before she had a full on crisis while the beat dropped.

A’whora tsks, a smug smile alighting her features. “And yet, you still have those puppy dog eyes for me.”

“I do not-”

Tayce’s half hearted protest is cut off when A’whora presses her lips to hers, licking into her mouth. It’s bullshit and she knows it, A’whora does too, but it doesn’t matter, not when A’whora’s grinding her hips down onto her and moving her kisses to her jaw and her neck.

A’whora’s not one to waste any time, dragging her nails past Tayce’s collarbone and chest and soothing her path with kisses before she pushes Tayce’s dress straps off of her shoulders, beckoning her forward to pull on her zipper. Tayce follows without question, lifting her hips so that A’whora can tug the dress from underneath and off her legs.

Being flatmates means that they’ve seen each other in various states of undress before - when they’re trying on clothes they’ve just bought, when they’re lounging around the flat in their bras when it’s too bloody hot that one month during that one month a year London becomes a fucking sauna. But the purposeful nature with which A’whora traces a hand up Tayce’s inner thigh, her eyes lingering on the lace on her hips and the straps along her ribs, feels worlds away from those times. Tayce has to resist the urge to cross her arms, pull the sheets up on herself, because the way A’whora’s eyes are widened and her mouth is slightly parted makes no real sense when her brain tries to compute it.

A’whora pushes down on Tayce’s shoulder until she’s laying back against the cushions and winks before she resumes her path downwards, pressing biting kisses along her ribs and above her hip bone that make Tayce draw a breath in between her teeth. A’whora’s touch is delicate when she tugs on the lace sitting in the crease of Tayce’s thigh, pulling the thong down her legs and throwing it on the ground to follow the dress.

“My turn,” A’whora grins as she pushes Tayce’s legs apart, and Tayce feels like she’s going to pass out before A’whora’s even gone and done anything.

A’whora takes her time, trailing a path with her lips past Tayce’s calves, her knees, up her inner thighs, in the crease by her hip bone. Tayce tugs on her hair, a cue to speed up her pace but A’whora falters for only a second, a flutter of her eyes before looking up at Tayce, shaking her head.

“No rushing.”

“Mmh-”

Tayce’s protest cuts off when A’whora drags her tongue up her slit ever so slowly, the contact not enough in the least but also the first she’s gotten so far, which makes it feel almost like a welcome reprieve. A’whora pushes her thighs further apart, looking up with her with eyes that draw her in as her tongue traces a path around her clit, not quite giving her the relief she needs.

“Don’t tease,” Tayce gasps, her hands involuntarily tightening their grip in A’whora’s hair, and A’whora lets out a moan into her cunt in response which Tayce has to file away as the hottest fucking thing she’s ever heard.

A’whora trades her earlier motions for circling Tayce’s clit, and Tayce doesn’t even care at this point if the rest of their flatmates are home and can hear them, because A’whora’s good. Better than good. She’s going to get Tayce there embarrassingly fast and Tayce is sure that she’ll brag about it later, but it doesn’t even matter at this point, not when Tayce’s brain is this hazy and she can feel her own breaths becoming more and more shallow.

There are half moon indents where A’whora’s nails are digging into Tayce’s thighs as her movements speed up, and Tayce can feel the familiar sensation building in her core and god, she’s so fucking weak for A’whora. She looks so hot like this, her face between Tayce’s thighs and Tayce feels like she could come from the sight in front of her alone.

But Tayce instead pulls oxygen from around the room into her lungs, forcing herself to breathe as her hips begin to lift themselves from the mattress and she’s so damn close to tipping over the edge. “Fucking hell, just like that.”

A’whora’s pace is steady as she looks up at her, a glint in her eyes that doesn’t waver when Tayce’s hands wind into her hair, pulling her impossibly closer. Something about the confidence in A’whora’s gaze, the way she’s unwavering with her movements is enough to finally push Tayce over the edge and fuck, the sensations are all too much but also what she’s been craving, waiting for the entire evening, and it’s perfect.

A’whora’s committed, her tongue still making circles around her clit, albeit slower but it’s enough to make Tayce’s ribcage rise and fall all jaggedly, sucking in air that can’t fill her lungs soon enough. She pushes A’whora’s face away from between her legs when it becomes too much, hiding a mewl behind her palm but it doesn’t even matter, not when A’whora’s wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and looking like she’s a cat who’s just gotten the cream.

“Shut up,” Tayce mutters, but there’s no malice behind it, not when A’whora’s smile reaches her eyes and Tayce can’t help but reach out, stroke her cheek with her thumb.

A’whora leans into her touch and Tayce’s heart glows in her chest, lighting up hopes that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t have to be a one off. Tayce isn’t that smashed anymore and A’whora doesn’t look like it either, but it doesn’t feel awkward for Tayce to scoot down on the bed, avoiding the wet patch to lay down beside A’whora when she pats the sheets with her palm.

A’whora’s grinning that cheeky smile that she does when she’s doing a bit and laughing at her own jokes, an expression that Tayce has seen far too often. “Why don’t you just stay the night, yeah? The commute back to yours would take too long. It’s not safe at this hour, really.”

“As if my room isn’t just down the hall.”

A’whora shrugs as she drapes an arm across Tayce’s midsection, shuffling to get closer to her. “See? Much too far. May as well stay here at this point.”

“Very compelling argument, I have to say,” Tayce can’t help but smile, and putting her arms around A’whora’s waist when she snuggles into her feels so normal, so them.

Yeah, A’whora’s half on her lap for movie nights anyway because they’re the only two who enjoy strawberry laces as a snack and they have to share the packet but now they’re snuggling, actually snuggling and Tayce doesn’t feel like running for the hills. Maybe because it’s A’whora, her best friend who knows when she’s annoyed and trying to hide it, the one who knows her coffee order down to the almond milk.

Tayce presses a kiss to the top of A’whora’s head because she can, and the contented sigh that A’whora lets out is enough to bloom the seeds of longing in her chest into strings of ivy that don’t ever want to let her go. She can’t, not anymore, not when she’s seen A’whora come apart but also sees A’whora now, nearly falling asleep on her chest with eyes that she can barely keep open.

She’s so beautiful.

And Tayce is so, absolutely fucked.

Maybe she’ll work out how to properly win A’whora over in the morning, and keep this from being something as stupid as a one night stand because Tayce doesn’t want that, or feel like she can handle the two of them only having something so fleeting. She needs A’whora around as more than just a best friend or a flatmate that always brings home fresh flowers for the kitchen table. The reminder is almost calming, in a way, running through her veins and a part of her after years of attempting to push the thoughts out of view.

Tayce can’t continue to bury the feelings in the farthest corners of her mind anymore, not with A’whora in her arms like this and having it actually mean something. No more pining. She’s going to promise herself.

Maybe she can ask A’whora out properly when they wake up, if she has the guts for it. That is, after asking for a round two first.

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #taywhora #tayce #a'whora #uk2 #smut #lesbian au #holtzmanns

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neverdoingmuch · 4 years ago

Note

I just really love Two Person Love Triangles and Identity Porn. So, maybe a You've Got Mail AU? Or a superhero AU when one of them falls for both the masked hero and the secret identity?

because i love both of these aus i’ve written both!! but they’re pretty long bc i wouldn’t be me if i didn’t plot out an entire fic so the superhero au is here.

as for the you’ve got mail au, i went off and watched the movie for the first time and i am delighted by your taste anon,,, the au works so well!!

(okay for some reason tumblr won’t let me indent my bullets so idk how to fix that so big rip)

so we have lan & sons books, a company that prides itself on providing cheap books for everyone to read. think less evil corporation and more we wanted to provide easily accessible books for all people and ended up getting really rich off it

mr lan dadman was meant to be in charge but he ran off and lqr stepped up until lxc was old enough to take over and now lqr just kinda assists lxc when he needs help and does some other work

lqr is definitely the old guy who had a letter thing with this one woman who was enchanting but instead he was chatting to cssr and she was shameless

anyway lwj works as *random high up job that joe fox has* and his best work friend (and real friend) is jin zixuan

jin zixuan is the heir to some coffee franchise and the two families have a deal which is why you have the cafe inside the bookstores

we gonna give lwj some friends

as for wwx, his mother owned a bookstore, the burial mounds (why did she name it that?? idk she probably told bssr that she wanted to call it that as a joke and bssr tried to call her bluff so she ended up having to call it that a la suibian)

anyway he grew up with his mother and grandmother and they left the store to him (idk what happened to them?? maybe they just retired and are now travelling the world while wwx gets to have the bookstore)

now for the actual plot!!

lwj and wwx met on omegle an instant messaging site and now exchange emails. wwx goes by yiling patriarch and lwj goes by hanguang-jun bc we want that flavour

so they’ve been emailing for years and they never share any personal information - wwx knows that hgj has a pet rabbit but not hgj’s name or his job

as for the significant others?? idk let’s pretend they don’t exist.

wwx’s best friend nhs, who writes a column for so-and-so, always just comes over to his place and now he’s semi moved in and wwx isnt really sure why he’s here but he is.

lwj just vibes bc i can’t see him putting up with a patricia unless his uncle forced him to. even then he’d probably just be ~mysteriously~ gone while she’s home

maybe he has a really annoying pa who thinks its his job to come over and like make him breakfast. it’s su she,, it has to be

so wwx goes into work one morning and wen ning is waiting outside as he always is, ready for him to open and then like ten minutes later wen qing comes in and lastly granny wen comes in

why do they work together?? idk?? granny wen and bssr were close and so the wens and wwx kinda grew up as siblings? yeah i like that let’s go with that

so when cssr decided to go travelling wwx gets left with her store and he kinda knows how to run it but also he doesn’t have enough staff so he ends up hiring the wens (except granny who’s mostly there just to hang out with her family)

bonus: a-yuan always come to the shop after school and wwx gets to recreate the childhood he had with his mother with a-yuan. when the store closes wwx and a-yuan just twirl and twirl until they get too dizzy to stand up and then they lay on the floor and discuss their favourite book they’ve read this week. it’s very sweet

okay so the next day lwj gets to babysit his cousin/uncle/nephew/idk-how-they’re-related-person lan jingyi who is like eight or something?

they go out and hang at a festival and lwj does not buy him a goldfish bc i was very stressed by the way they treated the goldfish in the movie but he does get him balloons and a stuffed toy and plays all the games with him

eventually they’re walking back and see that the small bookstore near the new lan bookstore is hosting a story time so they go inside

lwj walks in and he’s immediately taken by the atmosphere of the store bc that place was absolutely beautiful and then he hears this voice and follows it around to the back of the store to see the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen in his life sitting on a kinda too small chair with a princess hat? cone? thing on top of his head

he’d planned to stay for like one story and then take jingyi home but he ends up staying for the entire book and it’s definitely not because the guy reading the book smiled at him once or twice

after the story time ends, lwj is reluctant to leave so he ends up letting jingyi pick a bunch of books and looks at a few fancy first edition books with wen qing

and maybe his mother used to love collecting books - the old ones with the yellowed pages and beautiful pictures - and that’s why lwj helps out with his family business,, bc he wants everyone to be able to have books like that (never mind that all their books are like mass produced and lack any sentimentality & the staff dont actually care about the books)

anyway he sees wwx help jingyi pick out books and lets him borrow his handkerchief when he sneezes and lwj’s like oh nooo he’s good with kids too so now he has to talk to him

so he goes up to buy the books and wwx’s telling jingyi about how much he likes daisies and lwj just blurts out “can i ask what your name is?” and wwx blinks but then smiles and is like i’m wei wuxian, but you can call me wei ying, and i own this store. what about you? and lwj is like wangji, you can call me wangji

wen qing takes one look at lwj and the way he’s staring at wwx and goes you’re going to come back aren’t you and lwj is trying so hard not to just run away so he just ignores her but then she mentions something about lan books and he’s Panicking and jingyi almost says that he’s a lan and lwj just kinda guides him over to a table and then goes back to flirt talk with wwx

anyway wwx ends up going on this big tangent about books and what they mean to people and the whole when you read a book as a child it becomes a part of your identity and who you’re going to become the way nothing else does (and lwj remembers his mother and her books) and then he apologises for going on and lwj is mentally going marry me, but he ends up calling wwx and his mother shameless

but it’s okay!! wwx & cssr are proud of it!

and then yada yada lwj buys the kinda expensive books and ends up awkwardly shepherding jingyi out of the store

cut to the next day when the lan book store opens properly and lwj ends up telling lqr about how he met wwx and lqr is like >:/ the son of that shameless woman,, how terrible,, it’s okay he won’t be a problem for long bc they’ll be driven out of business. which isn’t the response lwj wanted but lxc seems supportive enough if a bit concerned about how it would work with them as business enemies

business is already bad for wwx and it’s barely been a week since the lan store opened and he’s pretty bummed out but hopeful that maybe it’s a fluke

then nhs invites him to some fancy dinner with him bc wei-xiong they’re all so boring and smart and have opinions, please don’t make me have opinions so wwx gets dragged along

he ends up talking to lwj at the bar bc how could he not talk to the man who’s standing in front of all that fancy alcohol and getting some fruit juice. (he’d get water but lwj has had to put up with su she all evening so he needs something stronger)

anyway they chat and it’s pleasant but then after wwx gets approached by someone who’s like wow im surprised you’re talking to lan wangji and wwx is like lan?!

cue their passive aggressive argument around the food table complete with caviar and a turkey knife.

now bc it’s lan wangji,, instead of making scathing comebacks he just makes like factual and to-the-point statements that end up being really bitchy (or does he intend them to be that way? it’s a mix of both of them tbh but in this case he’s definitely being bitchy on purpose) and wwx is spluttering bc that boy does not stand up well against hot and mad people

nhs ends up coming over and defusing the situation but wwx makes a point of stealing the rest of the caviar off lwj’s plate before leaving

lwj ends up ducking out early as well to avoid su she and emails wwx that night at like 9:45 bc the guilt of being so rude kept him up late and yllz is like oh no that’s so sad ): but impressive! i wish i could zing people,, my brain just turns off the second i need to make a comeback

creative liberties,, wwx is good at teasing but not being genuinely mean? lets go with that

anyway now we get the delightful montage of wwx hiding behind cheese displays and lwj walking out of coffee stores with a newspaper covering his face as they try to avoid each other

when wwx gets in the wrong line at the supermarket lwj comes over and kinda glares the checkout woman into submission and gets her to let wwx use his card which wwx is really conflicted about bc why would he help me?? and once again angry lwj = hot lwj

a few weeks later wwx ends up asking hgj for help bc business isn’t getting any better but refuses to give any details and i refuse to have lwj watch the godfather so lwj just straight up messages him and is like tear that bitch apart

and so wwx decides to tear that bitch apart and asks nhs for help. nhs, fan of the arts and small businesses and local culture, is 100% down for it and writes a scathing article about lan books and how they’re destroying all the aforementioned things nhs cares about

it ends up getting a lot of traction and people show up to protest and wwx even goes on television

lwj ends up seeing the news coverage on the matter while he’s at the gym with jzx

jzx is 100% the guy who goes to the gym just to apathetically walk on the treadmill while lwj jogs

he sees the interview with wwx and lwj is like he’s not this nice in real life and jzx is like you met him?? and lwj is like mn. then jzx is like i bet he’s not as hot and lwj is completely silent but his ears are bright red and that’s how jzx knows that wwx is just that hot

also?? lwj goes on tv and says like three words and he’s kinda annoyed how the news decided to spin that but he also said like three words so what did he expect?

but, despite all the publicity, sales don’t get any better so wwx is like fine can we meet in person and lwj is like sure

he brings jzx along bc he doesn’t know the way there, it’s not because he’s nervous and kind of in love with yllz, it’s because he doesn’t know how to get to the cafe. (it’s two blocks from his apartment)

anyway jzx is like oof man it’s seems like yllz is wwx but he is that hot so not all is lost and lwj is like yikes no not happening im not going in but he also feels bad about standing wwx up so he ends up going in and sitting down in front of wwx

and lwj is like wei wuxian, all this publicity will do nothing to save your business and wwx is like lan wangji who do you think you are (or however that scene goes) but instead of lwj being asked to leave wwx decides he’s not gonna chicken out first so they end up spending like two hours having the most aggressive cup of coffee and chat he’s ever had

lwj is exhausted but he also refuses to give up

but then wwx spits something about how lwj is some cold, heartless suit who doesn’t actually care about or appreciate books so how can he possibly dare to think that he’s better than wwx and that hurts bc lwj had thought that he’d been doing exactly that so he leaves

anyway the next morning wwx is moping around the bookstore bc he didn’t get stood up, he swears. am i not cute enough he moans to wen qing and she’s like your hgj doesn’t know what you look like. but what about my personality? is that cute enough? and wen qing eventually manages to grit out that yes it is cute enough

wen ning comes in and is like are you okay? you got stood up? that’s good! your date might have been the rooftop killer xue yang! he got caught last night! and wwx is like i wish, i just got stood up like a chump

so they ignore each other for a few weeks bc wwx is very hurt and lwj doesn’t know what he’s going to say but wwx ends up caving and emails hgj about how guilty he feels and how even though wwx probably means nothing to lwj, he’s worried that maybe he did hurt lwj and also please hgj i still want to talk to you

now hgj never says a lot, he’s always really succinct and direct but this time he takes the time to write a proper apology. it’s not an explanation bc he doesn’t want to give this up, even if the yllz he thinks he loves is the wwx that he hates, but it is an apology

the next day wwx goes to lunch with granny wen and finally dares to ask her whether it would be okay to shut the store down. he doesn’t want, of course he doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t think he can afford to keep it open. granny just tells him that it’s okay and that if the time has come, the time has come

we don’t have to worry about wwx breaking up with anyone, so he just goes home and asks nhs if he can have some space and nhs quickly packs his stuff and goes home. as he stands in the doorway with his last box of stuff he tells wwx that he’s sorry and wishes he could help more and wwx sends him this tremulous smile but manages to hold it together until nhs leaves and then he cries and cries

the next day he goes back to work and tries to stay bubbly and cheery even as he sees all of his shelves slowly being emptied and people who haven’t stepped foot in his store in six months are telling him what a shame it is and how they wish it didnt have to come to this and wwx is internally screaming

he manages to stave off any actual screaming but when he closes up that day he ends up going to the children’s section of lan bookstore and just as he had thought, none of the staff care about the books, none of them know any books and he ends up recommending a series to some young mother

lwj, who’d spotted wwx and come over to see if whether he was here to pick a fight, comes to the awful realisation that maybe wwx is right about his store lacking heart

he goes home that night and su she tags along even though lwj just wants space and the elevator breaks. he’s sitting there on the ground listening to his neighbour talk about reconnecting with family and the elevator button pressing dude talks about getting engaged and su she is just there whining about his job and the inconvenience and lwj goes fuck this. when the elevator starts working again he grabs his rabbit and goes back down to the ground floor, ignores su she’s shouts, and goes back to his childhood home

wwx gets stuck closing his store down. he looks around at the shelves and tables he’d grown up with and sees his childhood and a-yuan’s and countless moments he’s had with people he’s loved and realises he’s going to lose it all forever. he grabs the bell, the last thing he has left of the store and closes up for the very last time

in the meantime, lwj is living the high life. he hangs out with his bunny, gets to read pride and prejudice for fun and actually manages to get all the way through it and then his brother comes to visit

apparently he’d broken up with jgy bc he was gold digger-esque and had decided to run off with someone richer and lwj is like oh thats so sad ): anyway nmj is right there and he fills your heart with joy and lxc is like have you ever had someone like that? and lwj immediately thinks of wwx and is like fuck

his first order of business is to buy wwx’s shop bc it broke my heart that she didn’t get it back in the og movie and he starts filling it with books again. he buys ten copies of his mother’s favourite books and places them on the shelf by the door and then he sees a book that reminds him of jingyi so gets some of them and he sees a book covered in daisies and thinks of wwx. and slowly, slowly he’s building up his own library, his own store, and this time every single book means something and for once lwj looks out across the floor with pride and satisfaction

his second order of business is to apologise to wwx for being a dick. he buys some daisies and goes to his place and comes in and cooks soup for wwx. lwj apologises and tells him it wasn’t personal and wwx is like that’s not true, it was personal to me and it’s personal to a lot of people and lwj understands that now. he remembers the way he’d filled wwx’s store and left his own touch and bared his heart through each of those books and he understands. he doesn’t actually say this and just tells wwx that he wants to be friends

lwj considers coming clean about being hgj but he knows now that he definitely loves wwx and knows that wwx currently hates him but damn is it hard not to say anything when wwx is telling him how much he loves hgj

anyway he’s like organise a meeting again with hgj

i’d say it’s ooc for lwj not to come clean but this is the man who pined for x decades and just didnt tell wwx that his son was alive so like not ooc at all

so lwj decides he’s going to woo wwx as best as he can and organises to meet up with yllz and then goes and meets with wwx and they end up going to hang out and for some strange reason, even though wwx keeps getting stood up, he doesn’t seem to care too much. he keeps agreeing to meet hgj and when he doesn’t show is more than happy to spend the rest of his day with lwj

and slowly, they start to get closer. wwx takes a sip of lwj’s coffee and lwj buys him daisies. wwx brings him an interesting book and lwj tells him about his mother. they chat freely about hgj and lwj is happy for the first time in a long time

eventually lwj organises the final meeting. wwx is really confused about the place he picked but he’s hopeful that maybe this time hgj will show. after wwx and lwj’s farmers market date ends, lwj ends up asking wwx if he could love lwj and wwx is like you put me in such an uncomfortable situation. ie stammering and blushing and eventually going oh no ill be late and running off

anyway a couple hours later wwx finds himself standing outside his old bookstore and he refuses to look at it bc he doesn’t want to see what it’s become but then, through the open door of the store, a bunny hops out and over to wwx

lwj comes running out after it calling out its name (bichen?? flopsy?? rabbit?? one of them) and wwx looks up and is like oh,, it’s you, i’d hoped it was you and he’s all teary and lwj has a handkerchief that he’d embroidered himself (with gentians of course) and he’s like dont cry yllz and then they kiss and it’s beautiful

bonus: lwj takes wwx inside the store and shows him everything and explains the meaning behind every book that they’ve picked and then wwx does cry for real bc there is definitely an entire two walls dedicated just to wwx

do they open the store as a bookstore again and work together? does wwx end up writing books?? idk up to you. i like the idea that they open the store for story time and sell children’s books but lwj still works with lan & sons to get some heart in their stores and wwx works on his own books in his spare time

#Anonymous #mdzs #modao zushi #mo dao zu shi #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #cql #the untamed #asks #thank you so much for the ask i had a lot of fun making this!#let me know if you'd like anything else!!

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terrorsbeauty · 5 years ago

Text

Two Months // adult!Bill Denbrough x pregnant!Reader

Request: could you do a 2019!bill with a pregnant wife during the events with pennywise? if not it’s fine

a/n: hope this is what you wanted! sorry it came so late! hope you enjoy! <3

Reuniting with the losers was truly one of the happiest times in your life. It was oddly strange how much you have forgotten about the friends who made your childhood more bearable and much more fun than you thought it could be. Being back together brought back memories and feelings that seemed buried so deep down in your memory, to the verge of slipping away.

You knew what you had to do this time though, and it seemed like you had a lot more to loose now than when you were thirteen.

You and Bill somehow found each other again after moving out of Derry — coincidence, fate, who knows? He says it was a bit of both. You both decided that your childhood was a deeply disturbing subject that you didn’t feel comfortable talking about, and between forgetting all that happened in Derry and daily coffees and drinks, you fell in love. Again. It happened so quickly that you wondered if it was always there. You got married, bought a house and did all the cliche couple things that you found so gross in your childhood.

Facing Pennywise now had a greater risk than before—losing the rock of your life, and your baby, that he may have not found out about. You feared that telling him would make him send you home, and you couldn’t do that to the losers. An oath is an oath, and you knew you had a little more reason to fight than the others, and that only made you more determined.

The first time you faced Pennywise was at your old school, in the cheerleaders’ dressing room. You went there because that’s when you and Bill first met, because he accidentally entered the girls’ locker room. You loved cheerleading, even though most of the girls were mean popular bitches and you stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of blondes. You liked the rush when you were at the top of the pyramid, you liked when people looked at you , and most importantly you liked when Bill smiled and blushed when he saw you. You ended hanging out with the losers a lot, not just with Bill, and a wonderful bond was created.

It still amazed you how much you didn’t remember but as you walked along the showers you saw them suddenly turn on. You could feel it in the air— someone else was there and you knew who. You turned around but you didn’t see anyone, and the second you turned back, that damned clown was in front of you.

“Does your little one want to play?” he asked morbidly, saliva dropping from his lower lip, reaching his claws towards your belly.

Your eyes widened in horror as you heard a baby scream, your baby’s scream. The locker door seemed to have vanished and you were back at the showers, where there was Bill heavily making out with..Beverly?

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real.” you kept mumbling to yourself as Bill and Beverly laughed at you.

The scenery changed and you were in an old nursing home, creepy children songs playing all over again. There was a woman on a bed, weeping and sobbing, holding something very tightly to her chest. As you got closer you recognized yourself, in a miserable state, and you saw that the thing you were clutching so bad was a baby covered in blood. Dead. There was a calendar: 2017, december. That was too soon. To soon for your little baby, to soon for everything. A nurse came and started talking to you about something, but you couldn’t help but notice the strange things about her. Only when she plunged her claws into her abdomen, her face started to distort and Pennywise started to laugh, you came back to your senses and tried to get away. The hospital was like a labyrinth and you could hear Pennywise follow your each step, calling for you and your baby. There was no way out.

“ This is not real. This isn’t fucking real!” you screamed and you came back to the lockers, with no trace of Pennywise.

You went to the Hotel faster than you thought it was humanly possible, trying to mend your wounds and hoping nothing harmed the child.

The second, and last time you faced Pennywise was below the sewers, or whatever that place was.

You put a drawing Bill did of you when you were little, that you always kept in a secret place in your locker. As you held hands and chanted together, the Deadlights lowered themselves into the artifact and you felt a sense of relieve, until you saw the red balloon. Why didn’t it work? Mike said this was the only way of defeating It for good.

The Losers scattered around, Bill hovering over you to protect you from a now giant Pennywise. Both of you kept taking steps back until you were at the edge of the little island. Pennywise turned around the room and that’s when Bill grabbed your hand and said jump. And you did.

You hit the cold water but your husband was nowhere to be seen. The water started to turn red, and you feared the worst, looking for Bill. You managed to reach the surface, but this wasn’t the cave anymore. It was the lake you knew so well as a child... The lake your mother brought you to so many times, near that lake your mother left you alone forever. You had many fears, but being responsible for your mother’s death, and being like her was one of the worst.

“Mommy?” the little girl near the lake said. Next to you, your mother was starting to sink, cold and lifeless.

“It’s your fault, it’s your fault!” the younger you said with a demonic voice, but you couldn’t respond because you were dragged away into the water, by your own dead mother.

“We’re the same, dear.” she said caressing your cheek with her hand.

“No, no we’re not the same at all. I won’t abandon my child, I won’t hate my child..” you thought but you couldn’t speak, running out of air.

“Join me.” she said in such a serene voice that you almost forgot how much she put you through, like a siren prowling.

“Y/N!” you heard a faint voice and you looked up to see a small light. Bill’s voice. Bill’s there, you had to go.

Your mother’s limbs started to become bigger and wrapped around you like an octopus clinging onto her prey, and no matter how much you tried you couldn’t break free.

“Bill!”

“ I love you, Y/N! Always and forever!” he shouted and your heart melted. He hadn’t said i love you in a long time.

“ I love you too!” you said, and you felt the limbs grow weaker, and you stronger, pushing through the water to find yourself at the surface with your husband. You didn’t let him say anything; just jumped on him and gave him a quick kiss.

“ I love you, I’m pregnant, now let’s kill this fucking clown.” she said getting out of the water.

——————————————————

“I am so mad that you haven’t told me, you have no idea.” Bill said as you and the other losers were heading to the quarry.

“We had other things to worry about. Our little baby is fine.” you said smiling at your belly.

“ I’m sorry, how ling have you been hiding this?” he asked with raised eyebrows and you bit your lip.

“Two months... If it helps, i wanted to tell you, but then we got the call from Mike, and I knew you wouldn’t let me come, even though you knew I couldn’t have left you alone, and—“ you were interrupted by him kissing your temple.

“ Damn right I wouldn’t have.”

“ I do want to be the godmother, thanks for asking.” Beverly said and you laughed.

“ You knew it was you anyway. If I could, I would let all of you guys be his godparents.” you smiled kindly at them.

“What do you think it’s going to be?” Ben asked.

“ I have this feeling that it’s a boy.”

“ Any idea of names?” Richie said, speaking for the first time since Neibilt crashed down.

“ I think Edward Stanley Denbrough sounds amazing...” you said, your eyes watering.

“ I do too.” you heard Bill said and smiled sadly.

You knew they would have loved your little baby, as much as you do.

With the heartache of losing two members of your family—two friends—, you welcomed a new one. Edward Stanley Debrough was born healthy, surrounded by the most loving parents one could ever have. Everything was going to be fine.

#bill denbrough imagine #bill denbrough x reader #it chapter two imagine #it #it chapter two #it chapter 2 imagine #it chapter 2 #bill denbrough #beverly marsh #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #stan uris #ben hanscom #mike hanlon #it imagine

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madame-brioche · 5 years ago

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CAMP TOCCOA SERIES HEADCANON

Part 1: Meet the Counselors 🦋

Winters — The Nutritional Counselor:

-teaches math during the off-season

-affectionately calls his campers "little chicken nuggets"

-gets up at 5 in the morning for a quiet hike

-makes sure you take your required medication and vitamins and use your inhaler, whatever you need

-goes around to let everyone know it's time for light's out

-will comfort campers with ice cream if they're feeling homesick

-secretly planning a fun last day of camp prank with Counselor Nixon

-lots of pastels in his uniform

-rescues injured birds and squirrels, and nurses them back to health

-knows every camper's name, hobbies, favorite color, allergies

-pinkie promises on everything

-makes the best ice tea and coffee in the cafeteria

-“I love all of you equally”

Nixon — The Chaotic Functional Counselor

-used to pull legendary pranks before becoming a head counselor but now just does mostly paperwork

-tells nightmare-fuel scary stories and then abruptly says "well goodnight" afterwards & leaves

-carries a secret flask and gets wasted at the campfire

-hungover af at breakfast the next morning

-pets every dog he comes across, and even lets his campers sneak one into the bunks to keep

-wears baggy shorts, a baseball cap backwards and rocks sunglasses indoors

-gets hyped for taco Tuesday's in the cafeteria

-hosts wine Wednesday's in the counselors' lounge

-takes spiders outside rather than killing them

-oddly competitive during icebreaker games

-talks shit about other counselors to his campers

-“can I get a double shot americano with bourbon?”

Lipton — The Mom Counselor

-ray of fucking sunshine

-keeps in touch with his campers after they leave

-has been working there for an insanely long time

-arts and crafts leader, orchestrating friendship bracelet making

-gets along with all the other counselors, never has beef with anyone

-gives the best advice, even if you don't want to hear it

-the best bear hugs omfg just makes you feel so safe and protected

-smells like campfire and s'mores

-literally made out of happiness and gummy worms

-surprises everyone with a pajama pizza party

-makes sure you're staying hydrated and getting enough sleep, applying sunscreen/bug spray, and having a good time

-come to him with any injuries, aches, or pains

-“What do you mean you’re not having fun?”

Speirs — The Varsity Wilderness Survival Counselor

-how did this guy get to be a counselor?

-hides contraband in a shallow hole by the obstacle course

-breaks all the rules but upholds them for his campers

-will come in and scare the living shit out of you if you don't listen to Counselor Winters' lights out warning

-only one who hits Counselor Sobel with a water balloon

-gets up at 4am to lift and run around the campgrounds

-only wears tank tops, even in the cold

-will test his campers by leaving them in the woods at night and expect them to find their way back

-maybe sheds one tear on the last day, maybe

-really high stakes trust exercises

-will suck the venom out of a snake bite to save your life

-moves through the forest without making a sound

-“I will throw you to the mountain lions”

Welsh — The Hip Counselor

-plays Wonderwall on his acoustic guitar during campfire performances

-hasn't showered in a week and it's noticeable

-grows a goatee and runs around barefoot

-is banned from helping out in the kitchen

-will set up your tent for you in exchange for drugs

-reigning tie-dye shirt making champ

-recycling king™️

-makes sure there's vegetarian options in the cafeteria

-smells like mother nature's armpit

-wears a bandana around his head

-can be found avoiding duties and playing ultimate frisbee with his campers

-“tbh, I’ve had five existential crises since we’ve been here!”

Compton — The Cool Friend Counselor

-wears a different flannel everyday

-calls you out for your bullshit during cabin meetings

-gives the best pep talks before games of capture the flag

-somehow manages to read 4+ books over the course of camp

-knows how to sew/patch up clothes

-leads most of the cheers and rallying songs

-hangs out with campers instead of other counselors in his free time

-always down for darts, archery, swimming, sailing, kayaking, you name it

-overshares personal life details during campfire sharing time

-will totally help you TP Counselor Sobel’s cabin

-once ate a bee on a dare

-“guys, I’m not mad but who put weed killer in my shampoo?”

Martin — The Don’t F With Me Counselor

-resting bitch face during camp cheers

-aggressively salutes the flag during morning assembly

-inexplicably good at memorizing everyone’s name on the first day

-openly drinks gin and tonic in the cafeteria

-the reason a few campers wanted to go home

-somehow ends up being one of your favorite counselors by the last day

-is not subtle about playing favorites

-cooks most of the food for the camp and will be insulted if you don’t eat what’s on your plate

-can do that loud whistle with his fingers to get everyone’s attention

-low key freaks out if one of his campers is missing and will not rest until they’re found

-mood can go from 0 to 100 over the pettiest things

-“Yeah I’m gonna need you to kindly pipe the fuck down with the crazy glue for the rest of craft time”

Randleman — The Boy Scout Counselor

-wears a lot of camo at all times

-scary good at poker

-smokes on the premises even though it’s forbidden

-talks fast and direct, commands your attention

-makes a mean s’more and prefers the marshmallow to be burnt

-will let his campers get away with the most shenanigans so long as it’s not hurting anyone

-actually cries the last day of camp

-kickball and flag football champion

-has wrestled a grizzly bear and won

-collects pocket knives and random critters

-bff’s with Counselor Martin and sometimes takes charge of Martin’s campers and vice versa

-has never gotten bit by a mosquito

-snores loudly and will sleep through anything

-has been granted camp counselor tenure because he’s been there so dang long

-“y’all wanna go sink a canoe?”

Peacock — The Cute But Clueless Counselor

-wears a lot of band t-shirts merch

-has song lyrics tattooed on various body parts

-rocks an intentional mullet

-constantly getting lost when leading hikes but great at improvising

-has a tan even if the sun hasn’t been out

-blood smells like cologne

-instructs canoeing and determines whether you pass the swim test or not

-has a way with animals and manages the small camp petting zoo

-got six stitches last year from doing a flip off the dock

-gets scared from the scary stories Counselor Nixon tells

-“la la la la if I can’t hear the ghosts they can’t hurt me”

Dike — The Absentee Counselor

-says “oof” after any minor inconvenience

-oversleeps and misses morning assembly

-a camper may die on his watch, you never know

-gives sub par motivational speeches

-tries to comfort homesick campers but ends up crying himself

-has a fear of swimming without water wings

-might get mauled by a bear later

-given up on learning his campers’ names

-calls other counselors for help

-has one facial expression at all times

-spits when he talks

-constantly stressed during outdoor camping

-passive aggressiveness af during cabin meetings

-sleeps with a night light

-“wait am I responsible for all of you?”

Sobel — The Narc Counselor

-literally no one likes him

-mission is to make sure everyone follows his rules

-carries around a bullhorn and a backup whistle

-failed the swim test

-says “fight me” but would get his ass kicked

-misspells everything

-will give you latrine duty if you leave your bunk bed unmade or the dishes aren’t in alphabetical order

-doesn’t participate in campfire games or sing alongs

-got left behind on a trail for 9 hours once

-confiscates any and all contraband camp items including non regulated shoes

-likes noodles with ketchup

-perpetual disappointed glare

-has a cold like once a week

-only allows one s’more per camper

-“and you will know my name is the lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee, now put this can of peaches back where it belongs!”

Stay tuned for Part 2: The Campers

#band of brothers #hboshow #easy company #camp toccoa #dick winters #lewis nixon #carwood lipton #ronald speirs #harry welsh #captain sobel #norman dike #thomas peacock #johnny martin #bull randleman #buck compton #headcanon

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traumatized-motherfuckers · 4 years ago

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Stress-based sickness, psychosomatic disorders, and the F word. Fibromyalgia.

Read up or listen up @t-mfrs.com (podcast available wherever you stream.)

Waking up, like I didn’t sleep for weeks. Falling asleep after five minutes on my feet. A pounding head. That sense of dread. Sticky sharp pains through in my shoulders and neck. Brain short on energy, missing a few cards from the deck. Waves of nausea and stomach cramps. Chills and sweats, depending on the body amps. Swollen lymph nodes. Muscle weakness poorly bodes. Insatiable hunger but nothing sounds edible - shit, now desire to throw up is incredible. Eyes shriveling, dry, back into my skull. The aches in my legs, pulsing and dull. Foggy thoughts. Racing heart. When will this end, why did this start?

Did I finally catch the ‘rona? Or am I just past my limit for being stressed out again? Well, I just moved, so this time I know that the answer is very likely… stressed.

So who wants to talk about getting sick? Yeah, among this group, the answer might be surprising. A lot of us do.

Why? Not because we love bitching and complaining when we feel less than ideal - spoilers, that’s every day, there’s really nothing left to say about the raging shit storms inside of us after a few years of it. We’re tired of hearing about it, too… just like we’re tired of living it, feeling it, and fearing it.

No, for us, it’s because it feels like there’s always a surprising ailment right around the corner when we least expect it. One that seemingly has no logical basis or reasonable solution. One that no one else understands. One that feels like it’s born of mental illness, somehow, while being very physically present. One that we don’t even bother bringing to doctors anymore, because no one needs to be shamed and shoved out the door again by their flippant disinterest in anything we say after the words, “Yes, I have anxiety.”

Yep. If you haven’t tried to mingle mental health with western medicine before, let me give you a quick disclaimer: unless you’re missing an arm, don’t bother. In my experience, the only thing you’ll get is an eye roll, possibly a prescription bandaid that somehow makes you feel worse, and a bored recommendation to see a psychiatrist - even if you already do.

All of this, of course, has the effect of only making you feel more upset. First, mentally, as you ruminate over the disrespect of essentially being called a liar just because the doctor doesn’t have enough training. Then, physically, as your increased stress and systemic arousal pushes your body into a new level of overdrive.

Oh, was it a mindfuck just to make the doctor appointment, get yourself there, and deal with the social anxiety of a waiting room for 30-120 minutes? I bet it felt great for someone to then invalidate your health concerns, recommend you calm down, and send you out the door without even looking you in the eye. Feeling more upset, now on a highly emotional basis? Enjoy the shame, hypertension, and lost sleep, as if you needed any more of that.

Today, I want to talk about the stress-central area of my health that hasn’t been completely figured out… and the label that I - embarrassingly - just recently learned is highly applicable to my physical condition.

But also, the outrage that I feel over said label, because, well, it explains nothing. In fact, if anything, it probably does all of us a huge disservice after we’re granted this diagnosis by pushing us into the express lane for being written off. It also separates two issues that are poorly explained, rather than combining them into one full picture that might actually yield answers. Oh, and should I mention that I think this is a larger problem of gender bias in the healthcare system? Yeah, why the fuck not. Might as well air all my grievances as a nice lead-in to another upcoming episode; is mental illness diagnosis skewed by gender?

I don’t want to let my pounding head and aching shoulders deter me too much, so let’s just get started.

History of ailments

I’ve talked about this before, but to briefly cover how fucked up this body is… let’s take a trip back to 2013 when my system failed me out of the blue. And by “out of the blue,” I mean that I had chronically overworked myself running on anxiety, obligation, and starvation for 2 years, leading to physiological revolt.

So, looking back, “duh.”

But at the time? This was all-new. It was crisis-inducing and beyond comprehension that I went from a perfectly healthy, physically resilient, surprisingly strong and low maintenance specimen to a chronically pained, systemically ill, digestively impaired, and constantly exhausted sack of wallowing self-hated.

After a lifetime of zero health concerns, I found myself bedridden and obsessed with every weird thing my body was doing to me. Which, as you’ve probably guessed, came hand in hand with the new weird things my brain was doing to me.

You’ve probably heard the “What IS CPTSD?” episode by now, so I’m guessing you’re not a stranger to the details about the common emergence of complex trauma symptoms. Yes, that’s based on a lot of research, but it’s also a throwback to my own experience. I was a long time depression and anxiety lurker, first time complex trauma contributor around age 23, when my brain was suddenly uprooted by a series of new social and therapy-based traumas.

My depression became debilitating negative self-regard and stronger suicidal ideation. Suddenly, my social anxiety became agoraphobia. My new health issues became topics of obsessive and intrusive thoughts… you know, when I wasn’t ruminating about my role in every trauma, my worthlessness as a human, and my recently-unsettled childhood memories. My early twenties were a great time.

And with all the mental strain, came the unresolvable insomnia. Which fed right into the health problems. Which circled back to spark more mental duress. Health anxiety is not a fun way to live.

So, to call my illnesses psychosomatic is completely appropriate. But, also, completely insulting when a western medicine practitioner utters the phrase as if it was a turd slowly coming out the wrong end. And that’s exactly what happened every time I tried to seek help.

To be clear - back in the day I had some very easily detectable physical problems. I understand that doctors have a difficult job when it comes to interpreting the immeasurable inner experiences that their patients detail, but that wasn’t entirely the case here. When your body stops digesting food, well, there’s some evidence to prove that it’s a fact. When a 96oz medical grade laxative used for colonoscopy prep results in zero percent colon cleanse… uh… somebody isn’t doing their duty (pun intended). And boy, did my digestive system just decide that it was DONE doing its only job.

Everything I ate seemed to spark unpleasant physical responses, but moving materials through my guts and extracting nutrients wasn’t one of them. After months of garbage disposal failure, I was basically a walking sewer mixed with a compost pile. I found myself chronically starving, exhausted, puffy, distended, intestinally inflamed, and generally sickly. Your body doesn’t fare so well when it has no sustenance, it turns out.

At the same time, or maybe slightly predating my digestive protests, I started getting ill in weird ways. Things I had never experienced before started popping up, like chronic respiratory tract infections, sinus infections, and gum infections. I was having what seemed like allergic responses to something in my inner or outer environment. I was often covered in hives or my face and stomach were inflating like balloons for no apparent reason. I had near-constant pain in my continually-locked shoulders and neck. My actual skin, itself, hurt, as if I was being stretched to the brink of bursting. My lifelong migraines transformed into something new - disorienting tension migraines that came with horrifying loss-of-vision auras and feverish shakes.

Generally speaking, I was so tired all the time that I could barely get out of bed for more than a few moments before retreating back to my safe place to feel like garbage. My limbs felt like someone had tied weights to them and extracted several major muscle groups. I struggled even showering or washing my face, because both required holding my arms up higher than I was capable of enacting. I was so deliriously tired that I couldn’t see straight, think, or complete basic tasks.

On top of giving up my impressive life trajectory in the aftermath of the physical breakdown - because I was too fucking exhausted to consider the next steps I needed to take for grad school - this is also where I’ve previously mentioned my drive-aphobia coming into play. When you can’t count on your own faculties, you definitely don’t want to be behind the wheel. And suddenly, life gets very restricted.

I gave up my… anything life trajectory at that point. I went from a wildly social and focused student with a fantastic sense of humor about life and stronghold of self-determination to… Hiding indoors. Keeping isolated. Obsessing over my health. Googling the most embarrassing things late at night. Having no answers. Feeling like a crazy person. Hating myself. Fearing that this was the end. Assuming that my future was over. Guilting myself for fucking up my past. Replaying my tragic story of a rapid flight and a crash, after everything I had fought so hard to accomplish. Giving up.

This is riiiiight about where I pull most of my inspiration for talking about living in perpetual “trauma states” from. Being consistently triggered, out of control, and terrified. Having no answers and no one to even ask. Watching mental illness take over my world without the slightest clue of what was happening. And, oh, the perpetual torment of unpredictable physical breakdowns.

Everyday a new surprise. Every moment the opportunity for a shocking change in vitality. Every night a battle of my brain versus my chronic pains versus sleep.

And so it persisted, throughout 2013 and into several later years… despite the fact that I actually came up with an answer for myself that vastly improved a good part of the sickness struggle... but definitely didn’t fix it all.

Finding AN answer

I’m sure I’ve already mentioned this, too… but eventually I found some respite in my health struggles through no help from modern medicine. In fact, I helped myself thanks to familial clues when I decided to exclusion-diet my way into an answer. My grandpa had celiac’s disease long before it was trendy and I decided gluten was a logical place to start. And what do you know? That helped about 60% of my ailments.

So began years of obsessing over figuring out the gluten free life. Which, contrary to popular opinion, fucking sucks. I get that it became a trendy idea at exactly the wrong point in my life, but goddamnit, I hate the question, "Are you ACTUALLY gluten free, or is it by choice?" It is not a dietary walk in the park when essentially every item is contaminated with some form or another of secret sauce and your body is going to flip out at the slightest dusting.

I remember being so distraught over having these drastic dietary considerations to figure out on my own that I would spontaneously break down into tears in all sorts of places - the fridge, the grocery store, restaurants, social contexts when people kindly asked, “how about you choose where to eat this time.” I can’t choose! I can’t eat anything! I would privately bawl to myself. What a fun time that was.

But that was not nearly the end of it.

It turned out, yes, entirely cutting the glutens helped immensely. I also realized that sugar was not my friend. In fact, processed anything was not going to have a great outcome. But then… there was this other weird pattern that I started noticing in my life… sometimes I was pretty healthy and (relatively speaking) happy with the way things were going off-wheat. But sometimes I was just as sickly and digestively screwed when I definitely hadn’t consumed anything questionable. As if other tried and true components of my diet randomly became gluten analogs that upset me just as much.

Plus, there were some ailments that just never seemed to go away. The insomnia was a persistent problem that stretched back to being about 5 years old, but got more severe with time. The aches and pains in my neck and shoulders only worsened, no matter how many tennis balls I rolled on, yoga classes I attended, or muscle relaxers I popped. The exhaustion came and went with connections to my mental health and diet, but not directly related to bready food items. The brain fog didn’t clear up when I had a strictly regimented diet. The tension migraines never fully returned from where they came.

I was still finding myself bedridden and ready to give up on the whole idea of living on a semi-regular basis. Sometimes it was every two weeks, sometimes once a month, sometimes a few months apart. But I never knew why, how long it would last, or how to control the system-wide failures.

And if you want to know how western medicine helped me with any of these continued challenges… it didn’t. I tried to get answers for years before I finally gave up. Every doctor turned me away. Every specialist was critically uninterested. Even the Mayo Clinic neglected to listen to what I said or utilize applicable resources, after I was so sure they could solve the medical mystery of my life.

So. I stopped trying at a certain point. I resolved myself to being health anxious and perpetually confused by myself. I realized that I would never know what any day was going to bring, because my discomforts and continued sicknesses seemed to come and go with the tides.

Eventually, after years of this bullshit, it got a bit better. I buckled down with - you guessed it - strict routines designed to circumvent some of the challenges.

I realized that my diet needed to be incredibly tight, and by that, I mean “boring.” Beyond gluten, I cut out basically everything sugary, carby, and processed. I noticed that without a certain variety of physical exercise on a regimented basis, everything started slipping. I prioritized finding ways to get to sleep at night, even if it meant being rigid and assessed as “dramatic” by less slumber-impaired humans. I gave up any activities that caused neck and shoulder strain, and tried to be better about things like stretching. I also noticed that dealing with my emotions was a gateway to pain and discomfort relief, which was an uphill battle all it’s own. And, you know, eventually I learned about this Complex Trauma thing that explained a HUGE part of early to mid twenties, including a majority of the physical ailments.

But, although I began to live like an above-averagely healthy human again… I’ve still always had a few mysteries about my health.

Sure, over the course of many years I’ve figured out how to live with a semi-predictable body after long periods of never knowing what tomorrow would bring. But, unfortunately, there are still times when my system throws me a curveball. During those unanticipated spans of health failure, I’m left ruminating on a question or three that haven’t ever been answered consistently.

One of the most common inquiries is coming at you next.

Stress or sick?

So, even after all my life changes and careful modifications. All my sacrifices and seemingly over-the-top regimes. I’ve still had an ongoing health obsession that pops up from time to time when my shit starts to go downhill.

The incrementally-observed question that runs through my head on repeat… “Wait, am I communicably sick, or am I just fucking stressed out again?”

I realized a while back - maybe in my mid-late twenties - that holy hell, I sure felt like I was coming down with the flu more often than it was logical. The thing was, my symptoms only ever progressed to the point of feeling like I was still actively fighting off the sickness as it took hold. I would get the temperature dysregulation, the headache, the muscle pain, the foggy feeling, and oh boy, the exhaustion - that generally serve as your first signs of contagious trouble.

I would be too deliriously tired to get up and do anything. If I made myself go to work, it felt like wading through a dream. Half present, half falling asleep at my desk. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Even my head was too heavy for my neck to manage the task.

Beyond the energy void, I would genuinely start to experience pre-illness complaints, like swollen lymph nodes, congestion, and the aforementioned shivers and shakes. I would find myself incredibly hungry, as though my immune system was ramping up for a fight. I would get weak, like all my electrolytes were purged from my body. I would characterize the experience as feeling “generally under the weather” in preparation for something much larger slamming into town.

Beyond the energy void, I would genuinely start to experience pre-illness complaints, like swollen lymph nodes, congestion, and the aforementioned shivers and shakes. I would find myself incredibly hungry, as though my immune system was ramping up for a fight. I would get incredibly weak, like all my electrolytes were purged from my body. I would characterize the experience as feeling “generally under the weather” in preparation for something much larger slamming into town.

And I would respond in kind. I would retreat to bed, Nyquil and vitamin C showering over me on frequent intervals, gearing up for the systemic war of a lifetime. I would drift in and out of sleep for a day or two, fending off the weird muscle aches and sweat sessions that come with an emerging fever. Interestingly, many of my old food reactivities would rear up during this period. I would get my neti pot and vomit-bags ready for action.

And then… nothing else would happen. Assuming I chilled out and retreated to a state of forfeit when I actually treated myself with kindness and care, everything would work out. After 1-5 days of being back in my bedridden state, determined that significant contagious sickness was headed my way, it would seem to just disappear overnight. Or, clear up by about 70% overnight, to be more realistic.

It took several rounds of this pattern - I couldn’t tell you how many - before I finally realized… heyyo, my body shuts the fuck down when I’m stressed out. Every time I experienced one of these sudden falls from health, it followed (or ran in tandem with) a period of significant stress, anxiety, and/or depression. And if I let myself relax for a week, it would all be okay. If I tried to push through it because ObLiGaTiOnS, I was signing myself up for a prolonged and far more serious health failure. It happened too many times; I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Like I had postulated earlier in my adulthood - my health seemed to be drastically affected by my mental state. Particularly, my interpretations of stress, obligations, and fears.

And I can tell you, my health anxiety quieted down for a while in the aftermath of the acceptance. Call it immersion therapy. When you’ve experienced the same event over and over again, but A never leads to B, and C-alming your shit makes condition A disappear back into the ethers... well, eventually you take it for what it is and just stop panicking so much. I think I got tired of preoccupying myself with the whole dumpster fire at some point and preferred to extinguish the flames by letting them run their course.

This is where I’ve lived for the past many years now. Realizing that if I push myself too hard mentally or physically, or if I let too many stress signals infiltrate my brain… I’m about to get fucked up. My health will slip quickly. I will be reactive to essentially every food on this planet. My body will be puffy, inflamed, and painful. Not to mention, so goddamn tired all the time. But that’s it. It won’t last forever. I’m not going to die. Telling myself the opposite makes it all last a lot longer. Don’t pile stress about your stress-induced sickness onto your existing stress, and you'll be better soon.

And yet, when it’s happening, I also never know for a fact that my stress-based illness is definitely what’s going on. The result is getting trapped in a “will I or won’t I” obsessive spiral of anticipating the worst while reassuring myself that it might be nothing at all. There’s a lot of internal and external conversation about it, as people want to know if you’re sick and you want to be able to warn them that you feel like death… but also have to throw in the caveat, “Iunno, you have to realize that this happens to me all the time and it’s usually nothing, though.”

Of course, this creates the opportunity for my brain to 1) tell me I’m probably fine, quit complaining, pussy, and 2) compare myself to everyone else on the planet, who doesn’t crumble when their brain interprets times are hard. Because, of course, I have to make myself feel mentally ridiculous for feeling physically horrible. Other people are always happy to help in this regard, too. "You sure get sick a lot. I thought you had the flu last month. Wow, it always seems like something is wrong with you." Mhm, I feel the same on all accounts.

And, Fuckers, that’s why I stopped talking about it or looking for answers a long time ago. Instead, I've just relied on the most logical answer and quit worrying. I’ve done enough research on my own, not to mention all my Animal Science schooling, to know how stress responses work. They’re significant. They have the potential to disrupt your entire body through hormonal dysregulation. And they work differently - as far as we can tell - depending on the organism.

So that’s what I’ve leaned on. Acknowledgement that stress really screws with me. It zaps my energy. It fogs up my brain. It makes me overstimulated. It causes weird pains and immune system responses. It churns up my digestive problems. It also makes me feel like I’m starving but nauseous all at once. Over long periods of time, it can lead to infections. It, obviously, ruins my sleep, which reaaaaally doesn’t help with any of it.

That’s that. Pretty complicated but simple. Try not to stress yourself out and god help you, if you do. Chill for a few days and you’ll be alright, probably. No one knows why it happens. Doctors don’t care. Just watch out for yourself, because no one else deals with this shit.

Unless… they totally do.

So, that’s fibromyalgia

I guess this is where I tell you something that a lot of folks have probably already figured out. Sorry if you’ve been yelling at me through your headphones this whole time - chill, I’m getting to it.

There definitely is a term for everything I’ve described. There are millions of other people who experience it. And, yeah, doctors often still don’t believe it’s real… but the numbers and anecdotal evidence don’t lie.

Ever heard of fibromyalgia?

Of course you have. But have you ever really looked into what it meant? Because… I hadn’t.

Annnnd then a listener and I were chatting on Instagram a few weeks ago. And she mentioned... everything I just mentioned. And her diagnosis had been? Fibromyalgia.

Via DM, your fellow Fucker started telling me about being tired all the time, mysterious aches and pains that worsen with stress, IBS symptoms, improper temperature regulation, and over-exertion that leads to required days of recovery. My jaw hit the floor.

You know I hopped online and started doing more research of my own. And all of the information was confirmed and expanded upon in a way that drove my mandible straight into the basement.

Hey, you know how fibromyalgia is synonymous with “widespread pain?” Oh shit, if you dig into it, there is a lot more to learn. Here’s a (maybe, complete?) list of the currently known associated symptoms. Keep in mind, I couldn’t find a single comprehensive resource for this information. This list is compiled of information from the the peer-reviewed article I'm going to read from later, the American College of Rheumatology, the CDC, Healthline, and Medical News Today. And if it sounds like a bit of a "catch all" pile, I think you're right.

Pain and stiffness all over the body

Fatigue and tiredness

Depression and anxiety

Sleep problems

Problems with thinking, memory, and concentration, known as “fibro-fog”

Headaches, including migraines

Tingling or numbness in hands and feet

Pain in the face or jaw

Digestive problems, such as abdominal pain, bloating, constipation, and irritable bowel syndrome

Tenderness to touch or pressure affecting muscles, sometimes joints or even the skin

Irritable or overactive bladder

Pelvic pain

Trouble focusing or paying attention

Pain or a dull ache in the lower belly

Dry eyes

Sleeping for long periods of time without feeling rested (nonrestorative sleep)

Acid reflux

Restless leg syndrome

Sensitivity to cold or heat

Problems with vision

Nausea

Weight gain

Dizziness

Cold or flu-like symptoms

Skin problems

Chest symptoms

Breathing problems

Insulin resistance

Wait, wait, wait. THAT’S what fibro is? Because, I’m sorry, I have literally never heard any of that detail before… and although it gets so ambiguous that I suspect these ailments are all the conditions that just haven't been explained before by medical science... this list just described my life. All the way down to the tiniest detail of dry eyes, as I now recall chronically dumping drops into mine for those same years in my 20s. What. The. Shit.

Prior to this research, my symptomatic knowledge of fibro was essentially - pain, of the unexplained and incurable variety. No one ever once has mentioned anything else about the condition to me, or allll the ways that it correlated with my years of health trauma. Not my peers, not my doctors, and not even my amazing, well-informed therapist.

So, maybe I’m really late to the game here, but long story short, my mind was blown when I heard that there’s actually a term for this experience which I had forfeited to processing as a “unique way that my body individually destroys me” for all these years. I thought I was just uniquely uncomfortable all the time and stopped burdening others with my experiences.

Maybe that’s why I never had anyone clue me in to the diagnosis - I honestly stopped talking about the cyclical sickness a while back, after recognizing that people didn’t respond favorably to the narrative, “I just get too stressed out to function.” Shutting my mouth and writing off my experiences may have halted my potential for hearing a realistic account of living with fibromyalgia. Oh, how the trauma shame shenanigans never stop royally fucking you.

Of course, based on my own recent education, now I’m wondering if fibromyalgia applies to far more of us in the trauma community. Because if I hadn’t found reliable information on it in all my trauma and inflammatory illness research over the years… how many other people are in the same boat?

And this brings me to my next point. I really hate the term fibromyalgia.

Why I hate the term

There’s actually another explanation for why I never heard about everything that fibromyalgia describes. Uh, you’re going to hate me for this, but I didn’t think it was a “real” diagnosis.

Yep. I’m telling you with moderate guilt that for the longest time, I appraised fibro in the same way that western medicine considers all psychosomatic illnesses - not valid. And I’m unhappy with myself, too. Believe me, I feel like my least favorite kind of person... a hypocrite. But this also points to the systemic issue that undermines so many of our attempts to get help, and that makes me far more unhappy.

You see, a number of years ago, as a budding counselor with a few years of experience, my therapist friend mentioned something about fibro. Specifically, that it was a common label granted to more seriously mentally affected patients… and it wasn’t believed to be a real thing. I wish I could remember more detail on the context, but the basis of the story is, someone that I trusted - someone with many trauma patients - told me that in her experience, no one took fibromyalgia seriously. People with intense mental illnesses regularly presented with unfounded complaints of pain, and this is the term they were assigned as a result.

There was no proof of their physical discomfort. The patients tended to have myriad mental and physical health issues. They tended to be more difficult clients. Professionals had doubts about how serious the complaints were. No evidence, no respect. It was just about that simple.

To give more weight to the story, here’s one quick excerpt that is actually validating to read, from an article titled, The management of fibromyalgia from a psychosomatic perspective: an overview.

“People with FM often reported dismissive attitudes from others, such as disbelief, stigmatization, lack of acceptance by their relatives, friends, coworkers, and the healthcare system, that consider them as ‘lazy’ or ‘attention seeking’ people, with their symptoms ‘all in their head’. Such dismissiveness can have a substantial negative impact on patients, who are already distressed, and also on the degree of their pain.”

So… similar to the asshole social associates described above… for years after that, I paid no attention to fibromyalgia. When people brought it up, I nodded and moved on. I didn’t disbelieve that there would be a connection between mental illness and the onset of bodily pains after my own experiences, but the term had also been shuttled to a file in my head that sidled up next to, “seeking prescription pain meds.” This was an incorrect judgement based on incorrect, oversimplified information. But unfortunately, it left an impression.

So… similar to the assholes described above… for years after that, I paid no attention to fibromyalgia. When people brought it up, I nodded and moved on. I didn’t disbelieve that there would be a connection between mental illness and the onset of bodily pains after my own experiences, but the term had also been shuttled to a file in my head that sidled up next to, “seeking prescription pain meds.” This was an incorrect judgement based on incorrect, oversimplified information. But unfortunately, it left an impression.

It took the real life account of someone with the diagnosis to show me all the ways that my previous perception was completely incorrect. I suddenly realized how reductive and insulting the false information had been. Annnd all the ways that I could have really helped myself and a few others a lot sooner if I had just investigated the term on my own, rather than lazily falling back on someone else’s casually-expressed opinion.

So, I’m saying… fuck me. 100%. That makes me really upset with myself. But it makes me even more frustrated with the medical field.

And this is why I hate the term fibromyalgia.

It doesn’t actually explain a fucking thing… and it doesn’t seem like anyone is actually trying to.

At this point, there is no known cause for the development or persistence of the disorder. Fibromyalgia has essentially become more of a label for a grouping of symptoms that we “allow” people to assume when we don’t know what the hell might be wrong with them. I say “allow” very purposely, because it feels like our medical overlords have granted us this word as a way to pacify the uncomfortable masses - not treat them.

At this point, there is no known cause or organic mechanism for the development or persistence of the disorder. Fibromyalgia has essentially become more of a label for a grouping of symptoms that we “allow” people to assume when we don’t know what the hell might be wrong with them. I say “allow” very purposely, because it feels like our medical overlords have granted us this word as a way to pacify the uncomfortable masses - not treat them.

Millions of humans have detailed the same experiences, but science hasn’t yet come up with a way to explain them, so let’s go ahead and give them a new diagnosis that boils down to “Not sure what’s going on, but they say it’s unpleasant and it sounds a little something like widespread pain. Cool, let’s call it a day. Nah, we don’t need to educate the medical community or the public - we don’t need a single list of all the known comorbidities - because we don’t get it, ourselves. Let’s make sure we put that disclaimer right in the definition, so everyone knows it’s a controversial topic."

And implicit in saying that doctors and scientists don’t understand the term, comes a negative connotation of assumed delusion or attention-seeking complaints.

Essentially, what I’m bitching about is the tendency of researchers and practitioners to shuttle things they can’t directly measure to the back of the relevancy line. Despite all of the anecdotal evidence from fibro sufferers that corroborate the same causes, symptoms, and outcomes… we can’t see what they’re talking about and we don’t have an easy explanation, so we put this in the “fake news” stack of information - AKA psychosomatic illness.

Now, it’s also worth mentioning that fibromyalgia is deeply intertwined with trauma. Something like 2/3rds of fibro patients also have confirmed PTSD symptoms, if not higher. Exact numbers depend on which study you trust. Just know, it is a prevalent, accepted, correlation between trauma and the development of fibromyalgia. And of course, no one has determined the causative or affective relationship between the two at this point in time.

Hell, we all know that a lot of mental and physical health professionals don’t even want to acknowledge trauma at this point - or, do so with a smirk and an eyebrow raise, at best. So tethering the two poorly-comprehended disorders together? Oh boy, it’s a sure-fire way to ensure that no one listens to a word you say after honestly answering their background information questions. Might as well throw down your wallet and walk yourself right out of the office at that point.

The medical field’s lack of trauma education is a big problem. Making “psychosomatic” a dirty word isn’t helping millions of folks out there. Being invalidated by the people who could possibly help you is another mental health crisis waiting to happen. And all of this is infuriating to me, following my own experiences and thinking about other people’s.

Should we take this one outrage step further? Sure.

You know that a vast majority of fibromyalgia sufferers are… women. Sorry, about to get a tad feminist. Is anyone here surprised that primarily female voices tend to be written off by medical professionals? Ha, ha, ha. No, probably not.

For all of human history, the ladies have been getting the shit end of the stick when it comes to medical care. We all know that women were given amazing explanations for their ailments, such as having “hysterics” or "the vapors" not so long ago.

Furthermore, there is research showing that doctors do not take women’s accounts of pain severity seriously, in particular. Even fellow female doctors and nurses are given different treatment by staff when they go to the ER, versus male counterparts. And if you’re a minority or socioeconomically challenged woman? The data says you might as well take two aspirin and see what happens the next morning, because the medical attention research is even worse for those demographics. Huge surprise.

So, pulling this all together: Considering that the majority of us who receive complex trauma diagnoses are women… considering that implicit in this label, comes the increased likelihood that we’re not economically well-to-do and belong to minority groups one way or another… how do you figure we’ve ever had a chance of receiving real help for our unmeasurable physical conditions?

So, pulling this all together: Considering that the majority of us who receive complex trauma diagnoses are women… considering that implicit in this label, comes the increased likelihood that we’re not economically well-to-do and belong to minority groups… how do you figure we’ve ever had a chance of receiving real help for our unmeasurable physical conditions?

Yeah, we haven’t.

We’ve been given a term - complete with a wink and a nudge - that no one wants to meaningfully research or prioritize understanding. We’ve received a new phrase that doctors will “generously grant us” when we’re drowning in unexplained symptoms and pain. We’re then labeled with a word that essentially amounts to “disregard and humor” for all our future appointments. On top of it all, we’re carrying the burden of traumatic histories, which immediately qualify us for misunderstood diagnoses that more or less equate “ghosts in their blood” - because, hell, we can’t quantify mental illness, either.

The whole ordeal makes me really upset. The fact that I was inadvertently pulled into this biased disbelief makes me more upset. It also serves as quite a demonstration of how powerful or deleterious knowledge can be after it worms its way into your head involuntarily and becomes your only “go-to” piece of data, true or false.

One seemingly-trustworthy person mentioning a negative opinion of fibromyalgia one time in my past somehow infiltrated my thoughts to the extent that I didn’t have a second thought for 5 years? And we're talking about a goddamn trauma researcher - with, what I consider - an otherwise open and connection-happy mind?

The power of assumed authority and truth in opinion is significant. If I can be swayed in this way, how could less mental health informed medical professionals stand a chance in responding differently? That’s frightening and clarifying… though immensely upsetting.

So, since biomedicine hasn’t bothered to find any great information for us, despite the rapidly increasing rate of fibromyalgia diagnoses in the past two decades - how can we make sense of the information to actually help ourselves?

Let’s talk about that next.

What we can conclude

So it kindof blows finding out that you probably qualify for a new medical term… only to find out that we don’t actually know anything about said term. I say this, because if you’re waiting for me to pop off with some sweet research on fibromyalgia… uh… I haven’t found it yet. But not for lack of trying. So far every article I’ve seen has been pretty basic and uninspired.

Does fibromyalgia correspond with trauma? It does. Does stress mediate and moderate fibromyalgia, PTSD symptoms, GI problems, and depression? It does. Does it take a long time and numerous appointments to receive medical help for fibromyalgia complaints? It does. Does the comorbidity of post-traumatic symptoms make fibro more uncomfortable and challenging to overcome? What do you know - it fucking does.

(Wow. So enlightening. Having two debilitating disorders is less fun than having one. Who’s funding these research studies, anyways?)

The first thing I can conclude is, there’s not that much to conclude. This is to say, no one - that I’ve seen, so far - has revealed anything super shocking or thought-provoking about fibromyalgia.

Really, the most interesting things I learned from my reading are that

1) insulin resistance is another associated disorder, which explains even more of my baffling life

2) sex hormones are leached from your system under stress, which, refer to point number one... explains another huge chunk of my existence, and

3) the recommendations for treating fibro long term are the same recommendations I’ve given for getting your trauma life re-ordered.

You know how I always push for people to find out what’s manageable on their own through trial and error, rather than approaching trauma recovery with preventable fires burning in every area? Hey - someone agrees.

Namely, it's recommended that in order to manage fibromyalgia you establish routines including strictly nutrition-based eating habits, non-threatening forms of consistent exercising, prioritizing tons of sleep, and controlling your environment as much as possible for stressful stimuli. Doctors can also supplement your rehab with antidepressants, because, again, fibromyalgia is related to the same underlying hormonal imbalances as depression - but the larger health issues are managed best by changing your behaviors. Just like I’ve said.

I suppose this is no surprise, since this entire time I’ve unknowingly been talking, in large part, about how I’ve controlled my own fibromyalgia symptoms. I just thought it was mandatory trauma pains I was dampening. But the word is out! There's a separate phrase for it. The doctors and I agree; stop treating yourself like a turd, and maybe you’ll stop feeling like one. Whatdoyouknow. Sometimes there are reasons for the things I notice experientially, even if they aren’t originally informed by medical lingo.

Secondly, looking at what we can conclude at this point about fibro… Well, it justifies my previous hypothesis that stress is the root of my body’s evil. There’s not much to definitively say about fibromyalgia at this point, but we know for a fact that it is agitated and potentially caused by stress.

This perfectly aligns with my observations that a terrible work week mixed with a personally challenging month on top of a physically exhausting cleaning marathon will lead to a systemic breakdown every time. And, conversely, those times when life has actually been pretty chill correspond to periods of bodily health and limited upset - the times when I wonder “was I ever really sick at all?” and start to health gaslight my damn self.

Realizing the link between stress and sickness, of course, also begins to explain the correlation to trauma, and particularly, complex trauma.

Now, let me start by saying that there’s some debate over the downstream effects of PTSD - some researchers swear that it decreases system arousal in the face of later stress, others have collected data reflecting that a nervous system hyper-sensitization takes place. From my own trauma involvement, I’ve seen and heard more cases of the latter; we’re quick to upset and easily pushed into stressed territory. I don’t know many, if any, trauma folks who are non-responsive to disturbing life events... but that sounds more like a deep, dangerous, clinical depression symptom to me.

Personally, once I’ve been chronically stressed for a few weeks or months, then I notice the loss of stress response take over. My limbic system gives up, the HPA axis stops responding, and therefore nothing can rattle me. Perhaps you’ve also had the experience of laughing when your car breaks down, because it’s already been 3 months of disaster around every turn and there’s nothing else you can do for yourself. So, sure, people can reach a point where they legitimately don’t respond to the chaos anymore, but I’m not so sure that’s a consistent norm. I think it’s more likely that you turn off your stress reactions if you’ve been adequately prepped to dissociate for the sake of sanity or your chemical balance is so wack that your danger center has powered down.

I can tell you without a doubt that before the point when my stress threshold has been raised sky-high thanks to repeat exposures and wiring disconnections... I’m a rapid-responder when anxiety comes calling. Stimulus - rapid survival reaction - no space in between being startled and shaking from head to toe. And this is the case for basically every Motherfucker I know. I’m no expert, but I think we tend to fall more into the hypervigilant camp surrounding this podcast, rather than the laxadonical one. Always on the lookout, always ready, often bowled over by our own responses.

I’m a rapid-responder when anxiety comes calling. Stimulus - rapid survival reaction - no space in between being startled and shaking from head to toe. And this is the case for every Motherfucker I know. I’m no expert, but I think we tend to fall more into the hypervigilant camp surrounding this podcast, rather than the laxadonical one. Always on the lookout, always ready, often bowled over by our own responses

This nervous system sensitization, as they call it, explains a lot of trauma symptoms. I’ve regularly discussed the hypersensitivity problem it creates, when your brain doesn’t adequately filter out or assess neutral stimuli because it considers basically everything to be a threat. This can also contribute to the ADD and ADHD diagnoses that we receive, when our heads are too busy trying to sort all that data streaming in to direct our thoughts in a steady way. Or, the ways that we’re uniquely thrown immediately into panic mode when we sense a risk. Plus, we’ve probably all had the experience of tiny, secret triggers sneakily upsetting our bodies when the stimulation wasn’t even significant enough to pass through our cognitive recognition centers. These are all caused by the same systemic over-sensitization problem.

In general: yes, we trauma folk are sensitive to our environments - inner and outer. We are easily pushed down survival pathways to fight/flight/freeze/fawn responses. We rapidly catastrophize ambiguous information, which can convince our brains and bodies that the worst has already happened. We’re hyperaware and easily overstimulated, often agitated, and regularly on edge.

I maintain, in the face of controversial evidence, that we get stressed out easily. And our bodies react dramatically.

I feel like I should also state that this is especially true, as most of us have read, when we have unresolved emotional strain floating around in our meat jackets. We can be overstimulated and aroused (in a bad way) from the inside, out. Since the majority of us are not skilled in emotional recognition or resolution, we’re often walking around with a lifetime of hard feelings stored in our guts. And there’s been roughly zero doubt in my head about emotional and environmental stress contributing to dissociation, contributing to a vagal nerve shutdown as a big part of the digestive failure that characterizes fibromyalgia, IBS, Crohns, and so many autoimmune disorders.

On top of the unresolved emotional root of stress, this pings another episode that I've previously released. The one about being overly restrictive in your diet and exercise for the sake of appearance perfectionism. If you physically exert yourself too strongly through caloric deprivation or extreme work outs, you can easily stress your body into a survival response. It can't tell the difference between starvation for bikini season and starvation for lack of food. Running your ass off for your upcoming wedding or running your ass off for your upcoming bear attack. Your danger sensing center is sensitive and it overreacts, much like myself.

Now, considering that all these examples of central nervous system sensitization and physiological survival states that go hand in hand with Complex Trauma and Fibromyalgia, so many weird health mysteries are potentially resolved. But, not exactly the pain component. Or, is it.

Again, the authors out of Italy and Brazil who penned, The management of fibromyalgia from a psychosomatic perspective: an overview, have a potential way to think about that. They state:

“Even if the causes and pathophysiology of FM are not completely known, widespread chronic pain could be explained by a vulnerability due to a perturbation in the central processing of sensory information, named ‘central sensitivity’ or ‘central sensitization’, that amplifies the response of the central nervous system to a peripheral input. Hence, people with FM and/or other central sensitivity syndromes have a lower threshold for interpreting sensory information as noxious. Several factors, such as genetic predisposition, deficiencies in neurotransmitter levels, biochemical changes in the body, endocrine dysfunction, mood states, anxiety, sociocultural environment, psychological trauma and past experiences in general, expectancy beliefs, and catastrophization have been proposed as explanatory mechanisms of patients’ subjective experience of central sensitivity. Current research indicates that abnormal sensory and pain processing is a key factor in the pathophysiology of FM. There is robust evidence that abnormalities in central pain processing, rather than damage or inflammation of peripheral structures, play an important role in the development and maintenance of chronic pain in patients with FM.”

Interesting, huh? I still think inflammatory responses are a big part of the 1000 piece stress puzzle, but I don’t disagree with the idea that our finely-tuned danger detection systems amplify pain and discomfort signals to deafening levels. Putting all the system data together, you can deduce a fairly complete picture of how strain, physical degradation, and pain are all related.

Finally, I have confirmation that being overly stimulated causes everything from my energy drain to my dietary responses, migraines, and autoimmune attacks... all the way down to my temperature sensitivity, random presentation of allergic reactions, and even that occasional sharp pain in my jaw… not to mention all my life-altering functional problems, like being unable to sleep at night, existing with debilitating pain, and living while feeling sedated?

All of my strange health complaints from the past decade have aligned with this new label. And that label corresponds perfectly with my inkling that running on cortisol and overzealous guardsmen have been the major source of my health anxiety sauce. Welp, it’s been validating research for all of my educated guesses, to say the least.

Long story short, there’s not a ton of helpful information about the reasons for developing fibromyalgia or what makes it get worse. But there’s one thing we do know for a fact; stress is the enemy. At least I think it’s comforting to conclude that stress is the root of many of our C-PTSD complaints, as well as depression, anxiety, insomnia, obsessive thoughts, and now… a whole list of common maladies, labeled fibromyalgia.

Whether or not it’s really understood, at least there is a connection between everything. At least there’s something that ties ALL the random, disjointed pieces of torture together. I’m guessing that for many of us, fibromyalgia is similar to complex trauma, again, in that regard.

And, lastly, I can conclude that… I have more questions

More questions than answers

Here’s one last excerpt from the aforementioned article, which is the only one I found that’s worth hearing from.

They state: “FM is labelled, often with a negative connotation, as a ‘functional somatic syndrome’, part of a ‘somatization disorder’, ‘fashionable diagnosis’, ‘idiopathic pain disorder’, ‘non-disease’, ‘psychosomatic syndrome’, dismissing the true suffering of the patients. In the absence of a univocal identified biological cause, subjective reports of symptoms by the patients are often viewed derogatorily and discredited as ‘psychogenic.’”

Like I said, there isn’t a lot of helpful information out there if you’re looking to learn more about this controversial condition. Unfortunately, it has been categorized as a “functional somatic disorder” which essentially means that we don’t have an explanation for the organic basis of the disorder.

Uh, I don’t know what could be more organic than the endogenous hormones in our own bodies creating downstream health effects, but hey, I’m not a biologist anymore, what do I know?

The fact remains - there’s a lot more to understand about the assorted mechanisms that lead from trauma into depression, generalized stress disorder, and physical manifestations of a biochemical system that’s running off-balance. And this is where I have the biggest questions.

First, I have to get this out of the way. I’m wondering about the known gender split in fibro. The numbers are horrendously skewed towards women as the primary sufferers, and that’s not helping the medical legitimacy case. So, what are the chances that men just don’t have fibromyalgia at the same rate as women? Either they don’t get stressed to the same magnitude or their bodies respond completely differently? It’s possible. OR. Is it something else?

It seems to me like this follows another similar mystery - what are the chances that men just don’t suffer from Complex Trauma at the same rate as women? Pretty poor? Probably more of a diagnostic or seeking-help issue? Yeah, I think so, too. Yet, if you look strictly at the numbers, it sure seems like there are more women hearing about C-PTSD than men.

This analogous labeling issue between the genders makes me think of a few explanations…

1) Men don’t seek help for their physical ailments the way that women do, either because they’re less in tune with their bodies or because they’re shamed for not being tough enough if they complain. Just like C-PTSD.

2) Men don’t hear about fibromyalgia, because it is an engendered diagnosis reserved for dramatic women at this point. Just like C-PTSD. They receive other partial diagnoses, like IBS, that are less controversial. This leads me into a whole spiraling rant about several genital-dependent psychological diagnoses that I feel similarly about, but one of them is…

3) Men don’t receive the same level of fibromyalgia labels as women because men don’t often receive Complex-PTSD labels, which would serve as a hint to their doctors, since trauma is a well-known predisposing factor…

This brings me to the next set of questions.

It’s unpopular opinion time, but, frankly, I don’t know that any of these trauma and fibro issues are really that separate.

It seems to me like we’re talking a lot about one particular problem that splinters off into a thousand different outcomes, depending on the circumstances, the biology, and the human in question. Not separate conditions.

First comes the trauma, then comes the presentation of downstream physical and mental symptoms. Presentation, magnitude, and personal recognition of these symptoms varies, just like severity of Complex Trauma does. But under both conditions, our experiences are often so similar - the hard part is that we struggle to describe them and often lean on abstract language which can be used in such diverse ways. We focus on different problems, depending on our own life impacts.

So, maybe we notice and report internal events differently, but it’s hard for me to believe that the two disorders aren’t more than corresponding diagnoses - and are, in fact, one and the same.

I could be very wrong, but I’d sure like to find out.

So, to the small percentage of fibromyalgia sufferers who don’t have trauma… you sure? To the depressed and anxious folks who can’t seem to get a grip on their physical health, but never saw their life as traumatic… want to take another look? To all the traumatized folks with Raynauds, food allergies, hypertension, ADD, aches, and migraines… have you really looked into the full definition of fibromyalgia?

ARE these conditions of trauma and fibromyalgia different? Or is this another complication in identifying unseeable symptoms in a population of folks who never learned to name their mental and physical experiences? Is this an artifact from a group who tends to underestimate and under-report their own experiences in light of unhealthy others’ core beliefs? How prevalent is fibromyalgia, really? Especially in the context of Trauma?

Is it possible that everything boils down to one underlying event - trauma - that produces a whole host of other biological adaptations down the line? Did we create a separate term for it, simply based on a lack of standardization?

Or is this an exclusionary problem?

Have all the various ways we’ve learned to categorize and describe our experiences actually separated one full disorder into two half-disorders; one that encompasses the brain and another that covers the body? Is it our societal misunderstanding of the connection between our perceptions and our meaty husks, forcing us to separate the issues of mental and physical health that would be better understood together, as one?

I’m not sure! But I’m definitely thinking a lot about it.

Partially, from personal bias. I always considered my physical issues to be part of my trauma life, not separate from it - and that explanation made perfect sense to me. Where do these disorders really split? Maybe it’s possible to have Complex PTSD without the physical symptoms, but that's really not what I hear from people. The most of us have at least some periods of physical ailments, even if they're not persistent. To me, it seems like a distinction that should be made within the trauma diagnosis - with or without physical wellness degradation - rather than piling a separate, largely-ineffective diagnosis on the vast majority of us who have some variety of said bodily ailments.

I feel like the real issue isn’t “what is fibromyalgia?” The actual problem is a lack of biological understanding in the Psychology field. And a mirrored failure to understand Psychology in the medical field. Then, throw in a reluctance to study the conglomerate of bio-physiology and mental health issues in the scientific research literature because both experiences are difficult to measure or confirm and the studies would be less elegant.

If more psychologists actually learned system biology and more medical practitioners actually studied abnormal psychology, maybe we wouldn’t have disparate diagnoses that each come with a half-recognition. Maybe we could have one term that encompassed the full experience of trauma. Maybe these professionals could confirm all the details that we don’t understand by working with a more comprehensive approach to how humans work as a whole, rather than organ by organ. Just a fucking thought.

Because, I can tell you, if my therapist friend had the same biological education that I did at the time, I guarantee that she wouldn’t have told me fibromyalgia was a “pseudo diagnosis.” If she had knowledge of the connection between stress hormones and bodily breakdown, plus the trauma physiology that determines our sensitivity to stress - there’s no way she would have been so flippant or insensitive with her words. But under the influence of her counseling peers, the diagnosis became a fallacy.

I think this highlights the danger of the problem at hand. It only took one industry-determined void of knowledge to pass along an unfair opinion that skewed at least my perception for years down the line. And, think about it, how many times has one innocently-baseless comment in the psychology or medical fields probably created a lifetime of bias in an up-and-coming professional?

Maybe this is why we have the self-perpetuating negative connotation of psychosomatic illness in our society that seems to crawl its way towards improvement, while every other disorder makes significant strides. A lack of personal understanding of the biology-psychology connection is easily turned into a respected opinion, and readily transmitted to unknowing people who are eager to learn from their wise mentors. And so, the next generation inherits the same set of half-baked progress-stunting ideas. Over and over and over.

Depressing! And enlightening.

And that’s roughly where I stand today, after days of fibromyalgia research and very few satisfactory answers. Depressed and enlightened.

More or less, asking myself more questions about the legitimacy of our entire mental and physical healthcare system and all the lines we draw in the sand. Confident that trauma leads to increased stress leads to increased brain and body trauma. Somewhat happy to know that I’m actually not the only one who consistently apologizes for feeling like shit and questions if it’s “valid” or not because it seems connected to my brain. But also, pretty pissed off that we’ve been given a word that comes with no explanations and a hellofalot of medical field judgement, as if we needed more of that.

Oh, one more factoid to throw into the end of this conversation. There’s a link between low socioeconomic status and fibromyalgia.

Hey, the same link exists between socioeconomic status and complex trauma. Hey, it’s another predisposing factor for post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms’ emergence. Hey, big surprise, if you have a stable and predictable physical and financial environment, you’re less likely to develop the terror-based conditions brought on by earlier trauma.

If you have financial resources, you’re also less likely to be chronically stressed by the demands of life. You’re probably also more likely to receive respectable medical care. Therefore, meaning that you’re both less likely to have enough perturbation to develop over-sensitive nervous system responses and less likely to be dismissed by doctors with a label they don’t believe exists. Plus, probably more likely to have access to mental health care that could prevent the onset of Complex Trauma presentation, and likely fibromyalgia, altogether.

Oh, look, logic explains so many things. Or, fuckit, let’s just choose to believe that poor people are lazy and always want to complain about something, whether it’s in their heads or their bodies. Whatever the rich white men say.

Big issues to think about.

Like I state way too often on this show, it’s the small things in this trauma life that bring you comfort. And monumental societal failures that make you scream. (Okay, I just added that last part today.)

Wrap it

Okay, let me get out of here before I question more beliefs that are way out of my paygrade. Sorry, medical and psychological practitioners. I know that I’m just a critical observer who, like that kid everyone hates in class, perpetually asks too many questions.

At the bottom of all my complaints, I just wish that we could come up with a way to characterize these disorders that actually helped people understand what was happening. If you know how your body is reacting to what stimuli and how the symptoms are all related, that's a lot more powerful than throwing assorted barely-defined titles at them.

If we can't definitively say that fibromyalgia and trauma symptoms are one and the same, fine. Let there be a distinction. But I think it would be preferable to call fibro something more telling and true to the accepted cause. Call it semantics, but something like Stress Affective Syndrome would be more useful than the made-up word of fibromyalgia. Please, anyone feel free to come up with a better phrase, because I just made "Stress Affective Syndrome" up so I could say "I've got SAS." It already fits the bill.

I guess I’m just up in arms that I’ve tried to find answers for my brain and body health all these years, and turned up completely empty handed until random connections have eventually given me the information I’ve needed after a decade of effort. Maybe if I had my complex trauma diagnosis before I had my health complaints, someone would have mentioned fibromyalgia. Maybe, they would have knowingly smirked and sent me to a psychiatrist. Hard to say.

Even if I had gotten that information about fibro, would it have helped separate from the C-PTSD diagnosis? Honestly, probably not. I would have just been harder on myself for suddenly being too weak in the face of stress. And after reading that medical professionals doubt the validity of fibromyalgia, in the first place? Well that would have been a whole other source of disbelief, anger, and negative self-regard. Maybe a whole new crisis, once my inner critic got a chance to hammer away at my head.

I suppose that figuring out the patterns of my strange bodily conditions actually needed to happen organically for this Fucker, because any semi-questioned diagnosis would have just been more fuel for my trauma fire at that point when I so thoroughly despised myself. Confirming to myself, for a fact, that stress fucks me up may have been a prerequisite for accepting that I might be “one of those fibro people.” You know, the ones who lie about their symptoms. Ha.

And, again, this says a lot about the potential damage that poorly-described labels can do to people… just as much as it says about my own reluctance to be considered a weak-minded over-reactor by outsiders.

All of this being said, I’m so grateful for finally finding out exactly what all fibromyalgia actually entails. It took too long, but honestly, the information came at the perfect time. Two days after I got it, I was stress-sick. Ahhh, it's fibro time. How’s that for irony?

As always, I do think there is some empowerment in the basic root understanding that you aren’t the only one who’s dealt with any of this. The mysterious illnesses, the pain, or the lack of care from modern medicine aren’t individual experiences. Hey, you might even be relieved to know that someone else on this planet routinely asks herself, “Do I have cancer for real this time, or am I just overworked again?”

After years of nobody I spoke to having a tale that even mildly resembled my autoimmune breakdown, finding anybody who related to my issues was extremely relieving. Not only was it a common experience, but it meant that I hadn’t somehow brought the discomfort on myself - through mental illness, physical shenanigans, or plain old weakness - the ways that I feared.

Furthermore, it proved that I hadn’t imagined it all. Because believe it or not, you’re surprisingly willing to throw yourself under the bus after all the pain has passed. I’ve spent the past decade telling people, “I think I have the glutens, as I call it... but I don’t really know though, it’s never been explained, sometimes other things bother me, and sometimes it’s really not a big deal, I don't know what it is” as an almost-apology. A disclaimer that I, too, doubt my own memories and conclusions because they weren’t properly validated by who I considered authority figures.

Hearing that other people had digestive disorders and autoimmune disasters in the wake of Complex Trauma, via the book The Body Keeps The Score, shocked me into self-acceptance of my prior experiences. Hearing that all of it can be encapsulated by this term fibromyalgia a few days ago - well, shit. This is a more mainstream occurrence than I ever previously thought.

And you know what? It does matter to me that I’m not the only one who falls apart when my brain gets overwhelmed. Even if it doesn’t fix anything. Even if my own postulations for how fibromyalgia is born from trauma feel more applicable than the scientifically proven ones. Even if I don’t believe the term deserves to stand alone as a medical label without further delineation - especially of the connection to and overlap with trauma. Even if I think… it might be inseparable.

And you know what? It does matter to me that I’m not the only one who falls apart when my brain gets overwhelmed. Even if it doesn’t fix anything. Even if my own postulations for how fibromyalgia is born from trauma are more enlightening than the scientifically proven ones. Even if I don’t believe the term deserves to stand alone as a medical label without further delineation - especially of the connection to and overlap with trauma. Even if I think… it might be inseparable.

Now I know. When I feel a physical breakdown coming on, with the suspected cause being stress… I don’t have to apologize for it. I don’t need to tell people that I just can’t handle the pressure with unfettered shame for my own biochemistry. I can rest assured that what I’m going through is common - far more common than we know - and completely valid. Even if there are people ready to tell you that it's not.

But, to be honest, I still probably won’t tell anyone that it’s called fibromyalgia. I’m not proud to say, I wouldn’t want them to think I’m just being dramatic.

UGH.

#cptsd #healcptsd #actually CPTSD #just cptsd things #traumabrain #Complex Trauma #trauma recovery #complextrauma #complexptsd

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amplesalty · 4 years ago

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Christmas 2020: Day 5 - Rudolph and Frosty's Christmas in July (1979)

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

FIVE EVIL KINGS!

“Christmas...in July?!” I hear you scoff “What a preposterous idea.” Well, maybe not. After such an unprecedented year as 2020 has been, governments around the world find themselves in the delicate position of trying to further the public health whilst trying to stimulate their economies that are circling the drain. Plus, do you want to be seen as the Grinch figure who cancelled Christmas? That’s going to look real good come next election season, isn’t it? Well, what if we didn’t cancel Christmas..just postpone it instead. Did you know that the retail industry does 50% of its business between December 1st and December 25? That’s half a year’s business in just one month’s time. But with the inherent risk of everyone piling into stores and the already lost time from all these lockdowns, why not delay things slightly to allow us all time to get this new vaccination. Seems to me that Boris Johnson would be wise to legislate a second such gift giving holiday. Create, say, a Christmas 2 next Summer to stimulate growth.

Thank you, Danny Trejo. I’m just surprised it took me this long to mention COVID-19. It took me like the very first sentence of the October marathon. I suppose the Christmas season doesn’t really lend itself to it as much, though Kevin McCallister was doing pioneering work in that whole social distancing thing back in the day.

But yes, Rudolph and Frosty. After seeing both their specials over the past couple of years, why not watch them together in some sort of superstar tag team in their own feature length motion picture epic? I’m jumping ahead slightly in the Rankin/Bass cinematic universe which apparently was a little unwise as I missed a couple of important plot points.

Like, apparently Frosty had kids at some point? How does that work? Do snowmen fuck? I mean, Frosty was always a little dim so it kinda feels a bit weird like Buddy the Elf having kids by the end of Elf. Did kids build him a wife, bring her to life and then their combined magic allows them to have sentient children? Or do they have to be built and brought to life too? How many magic hats to these kids have access to? Is there just a factory somewhere pumping these things out? I can’t believe I have so many questions about an anthropomorphic snowman.

Nevermind that shit though, there’s a whole backstory going on that we need to dive into full of evil wizards and deities appearing on Earth in human form. Many years ago the wicked King Winterbolt ruled over the land with an iron first and a frosty sceptre capable of great magic. But against him stood Lady Boreal.

Queen of the Northern Lights! Oh for God’s sake, first It’s a Wonderful Life comes back to haunt me and now this. Why do so many Christmas movies have so many instances of the goddamn aurora borealis?! Anyway, she rocks up and is like “Stop all this evil tyranny business.” and he’s like “lol, no” and tries to shoot her with his magic missile, to which she’s like “Bitch, please.” and puts him into a deep slumber. But nothing lasts forever and eventually Winterbolt awakens and finds like the North land has a much more jolly leader in the form of Santa and vows to overthrow him with a rather longwinded scheme involving him winning the love of all the children of the world by making Santa get lost in a great snow storm. Then, Winterbolt can emerge with his own supply of toys and become the new Santa!

But with her last ounce of strength, Lady Boreal transfers her remaining magic into baby Rudolph’s shiny nose. Or maybe this is some Biblical level shit and she put Rudolph upon the Earth to be the saviour of Christmas, that he might grow up to lead Santa’s sleigh through the dark and stormy night. Where was this angle in the original Rudolph?! Kinda re-writes that whole part about him being shunned by Santa and his own Father too. Does kinda take that whole ‘embrace who you are’ thing to a new level when you were pretty much created by a God to have this one seemingly life altering feature about you that actually means you’re destined for greatness. Bit of a test of these other reindeer too, this is how you treat he I have delivered unto you?!

So, now that we have some meddlesome reindeer getting in the way, Winterbolt sets off on some longwinded and convoluted plan that involves Rudolph and Frosty going to a 4th of July circus in order to trick Rudolph into committing an evil act that will void Lady Boreal’s magic. Plus, he gives Frosty and family some amulets that will prevent them from melting but only up until the last firework fades. And to do all this he uses some sort of magic snow which can implant ideas in peoples heads? So he gets this ice cream guy to encourage Rudolph and Frosty to be in the show to boost ticket sales and help his girlfriend. This guy by the way rides around in a hot air balloon and keeps a supply of ice cream at the North Pole. Dude, it’s called a freezer.

I love how they make this big thing about what an attraction Rudolph will be but his act is literally him standing in the middle of the tent, they use a fog machine on him and he uses his nose to shine through the fog. Then he just flies away. I mean, I suppose just having a flying reindeer is pretty spectacular in and of itself but give them a little more for their money, tell a joke or something.

This whole middle portion of the movie is a bit of a drag though. Just really boring and full of filler songs about the circus. I don’t know why this movie is as long as it is at like 98 mins. If you trimmed it down you’d have something a lot more solid. I’d say the one highlight in this portion is when Winterbolt goes to what seems to be this movies equivalent of a doss house and finds this really shady reindeer he can use to trick Rudolph. Just seeing this evil genius in Winterbolt interacting with this scuzzy landlord and finding this bum reindeer is just really weird.

youtube

There’s a neat version of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree too. Has this slight country, Dolly Parton feel to it and is a bit more uptempo than the original.

I was pretty disappointed during this whole section and was worried that it would end up like Frosty but it won me back again in the end by tapping into some of that uncharacteristic dark Christmas feel that Rudolph had. Where that was more cynical, this gets oddly morbid.

Like, the plan is for Santa to swing by and pick up Frosty and family in order to take them back to the North Pole before the fireworks finish so they don’t melt. Frosty is still really antsy though and is keen to duck out, even if that means missing the fireworks. Bizarrely, his kids question him on this and ask him what kind of patriot he is. I guess I never really thought of Frosty being American like that but I guess they did refer to him as having just being born when they put that hat on him. Plus he’s always saying ‘Happy birthday!’ when he wakes up so you could say he was born in America. Only trouble is, Winterbolt has whipped up a ferocious storm that means Santa is heavily delayed.

So you get these scenes of Frosty, his wife and kids all coming to terms with their own fragile mortality as they watch these 100 fireworks going off one by one, with each rocket flying into the sky acting like another grain of sand in the egg timer of their life, another second ticking away toward their impending doom. Just these kids looking up to their mother and telling her that they promise they’ll be brave...oh my God.

Or Rudolph having to give a false confession to stealing the takings from the circus in exchange for Winterbolt keeping the amulets powers going so that Frosty wont melt. Only Frosty knows the real truth, so everyone just shuns Rudolph. His friends turn their back on him, the crowd boo him and his nose wont light up anymore. Cue a mournful Rudolph solo which culminates in him crying as he sticks his nose in some glitter trying to replicate the beaming light it once gave off. Poor little guy.

But apparently not everyone has given up on Rudolph becomes he comes... a whale with a clock on it?! Apparently this guy was in one of the Rudolph films that came before this, just what in the hell did I miss?

Even after a showdown between Rudolph and Winterbolt where Rudolph gets Frosty’s hat back, Winterbolt is still out for vengeance and comes to the circus for a final showdown. To which the lady that runs the circus has the most appropriate response possible...

Reach for the skies, pilgrim! Only, her guns are just props that fire blanks so she just hurls the guns at Winterbolt and they promptly shatter his magic staff and he turns into a tree. Ooooooookay then.

I feel like Lady Boreal could have saved us a lot of hassle if she’d put Winterbolt to sleep and then took his staff away rather than just leaving it laying around for him to use again when he finally awoke.

For a second there in the middle I thought that this would be more of a Frosty than a Rudolph but it redeemed itself a bit by the end. Probably not quite to the levels of Rudolph but I enjoyed the bookends of it. If they’d cut some of the middle out and kept it under an hour, I’d be a lot happier with it. Apparently there’s another Rudolph movie that came out in the early 2000’s that revists a lot of those characters from the first one so I’m really tempted to watch that as well but I feel like I already rode my luck here and I’d really tarnish my positive memories of the original by watching a cheap cash in. I probably will just watch it anyway though so I guess we’ll find out next year.

#Christmas 2020 #Rudolph #Frosty #Rudolph and Frosty's Christmas in July

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fanforthefics · 5 years ago

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Landesbarrie post-retirement AU?

And again, very very late but apparently on a roll...

1) Tyson retires good.

Of course, there’s no good, per se, in retiring, but it means that he talks to his doctors and thinks about his body and has a good, final season, and announces a few days ahead of the final game of the regular season that this is his last year. His team makes it a respectable second round in the playoffs, and he has a respectable final skate around the ice to the cheers of the crowd that’s made him theirs, an A on his shoulder and a Stanley Cup ring on his metaphorical finger. It is, everyone agrees, a very dignified end to a very respectable career. It is, everyone also agrees, not a very characteristic end.

2) (A few days later, footage appears on various players and retired players’ social media feeds, of Tyson standing on a stage of a Vancouver ballroom, decorated with uncharacteristic discretion. “Hello all!” Tyson says, into a microphone.

“Hi!” Comes a yell back.

“We love you Tys!”

“And I love you,” Tyson agree beneficently, blowing a kiss. “All of you. As you all know, and have gathered here to celebrate, I have officially retired from the NHL.”

“Oh god, he’s going to give a speech,” someone says, near the camera.

“I don’t know what you just said, Landy, but I can feel you bringing down the room, so I’m gonna need you to bring it up,” Tyson says into the microphone.

“Anyway, as I was saying. I have retired from the NHL. And so, now that the NHL and shitty people no longer have power over me, I have gathered all of you here, my dearest friends and a few of my enemies—you know who you are—for an announcement.” He waits. Takes a breath. Then,

“Welcome to my coming out party, bitches!” he yells, and banners striped pink, lavender, and blue fall from the sides of the room as rainbow balloons tumble from the ceiling onto everyone, and Lady Gaga’s Born This Way plays.

It is, everyone agrees, a much more fitting end to Tyson Barrie’s hockey career).

(Somewhere, Matt Duchene: “Wait, he really was flirting with all the boys?”)

3) Gabe retires bad.

All retirements are bad, of course, but this means that he’s playing and he goes down, and he doesn’t get back up. He does the rehab and the PT and the surgery, and he still—doesn’t get back up. He retires on what ends up being a loss, angry and frustrated with a body that’s finally not doing what he wanted it to do, and goes back to Sweden to disappear into his frustration.

None of which stops Tyson from showing up at his door, just around when the regular season would be starting.

“Tyson?” Gabe asks, blinking. Of all the people he expected when he opened the door, Tyson Barrie was very low on the list. If only because last he heard—and he hears a fair amount—Tyson was in Seattle, working for the team.

“Brilliant observation as always,” Tyson retorts, with the bright sort of smile he always gave when he was getting away with something no one should get away just because he was cute and shameless. “You going to let me in, Landeskog?”

Gabe hasn’t talked to anyone since he retired, other than a few angry sulky texts and his family. He definitely hasn’t gone to talk to any NHL players. He hasn’t talked to Tyson, really talked, for—years. After Toronto but before Seattle, probably. There’d been some group dinners, Gabe had been at the Coming Out Party laughing with the rest of them, and he’d kept up with the gossip mainly through Nate, who made it his responsibility to keep all of Tyson’s old friends up to date minute to minute, but—they hadn’t talked.

Tyson’s still smiling. Gabe steps aside, and lets Tyson in.

4) The thing is—the thing is, they never were really a thing. Tyson and Gabe. They hooked up, sometimes, when Tyson was on the Avs. Well, a lot. Tyson would still like to see the person who could hook up with Gabe Landeskog who wouldn’t hook up with Gabe Landeskog. So like, they hooked up, and they were friends, and maybe they slept over a lot, and maybe Gabe looked at Tyson sometimes like he mattered, like he was the entirety of his world, or laughed at Tyson like he was hysterical, and maybe Tyson sometimes looked at Gabe being ridiculous and dramatic and leadery and pretending to be sensible and felt things in his stomach, but it wasn’t a thing. Or, well, they never talked about it, so it wasn’t a thing.

Then Gabe got a girlfriend and they stopped, and Tyson got a girlfriend, and they were still friends, and sometimes Gabe still looked at Tyson like that, but they still didn’t talk about it. Then Tyson got traded and they were far apart, and—things changed. The thing that wasn’t a thing changed. Disappeared. Which was fine. Tyson had had girlfriends and a few discrete boyfriends and he’d been in love and out of it, and on the list of heartbreaks of his life, Gabe and him never really happening barely ranked.

Except now, he was in Gabe’s house, and Gabe was still sulking around very loudly making sure Tyson was paying attention to him but also that Tyson knew he was in a Mood, and Tyson would say it’s not cute, but like, it’s still Gabe, who’s only aged with the dignity of a fine wine. Tyson, whose hair has been retreating faster and faster, is not jealous because if he were jealous of Gabe’s looks than he’d have burned out years ago, but still, it’s unfair. And it means that even sulking he’s not unattractive.

“Why are you here?” Gabe asks, after he’s given Tyson the tour and Tyson’s dropped his bags.

“Can’t I want to visit Sweden?”

“Tyson,” Gabe says, and it’s the same tone he’d always used to cut through Tyson’s bullshit.

“I’ve been elected representative of the ‘stop Gabe from being a sad sack’ club,” Tyson informs him, rolling his eyes. “Which I did not even put my name in for, it was a whole write in situation, but unfortunately it doesn’t seem like a refusable position, or not while Nate’s chair of it, because you know, he might always break my leg again, and—“

“I’m not a sad sack,” Gabe retorts, trying to pout but Tyson can see his lips twitching.

Tyson looks around, very pointedly, then focuses on Gabe’s sweatpants.

“I’m not,” Gabe repeats. He’s not smiling anymore.

Tyson doesn’t know this Gabe, really, but he knows the Gabe of years ago, and he’s grown up enough that he can resist pushing buttons even when they’re right there and flashing big red DO NOT PUSH signs at him. “Yeah, well, you’ve been bragging to me about the superiority of real Swedish meatballs for twenty years, so it’s time to put up, Landeskog,” he says, and Gabe’s shoulders don’t relax, exactly, but some of that anger banks.

5) It’s not exactly a fun time. Gabe’s still so angry, all the time, and it gets worse as the Avs start slow. He probably shouldn’t be watching, but he can’t help it. He should be there.

Tyson watches with him, sometimes, when he catches Gabe doing it. “I hope you know how unhealthy this is,” he says, but he sits down next to Gabe, because Tyson’s never forced Gabe into healthy choices. He’s just—there, a warm snarky bulwark dragging Gabe back up when he gets too in his head, a constant running commentary on the game until Gabe has to give him shit for being more of a commentator than the actual commentators, and then Tyson starts doing his Don Cherry impression, and somehow it’s—easier. To watch the game. To watch his team lose.

It’s like that all the time. It’s not easy. Gabe’s leg still aches, even months later, and the pain sets him on edge all the time, and he’s just so—bored. He’s used to a schedule that was regimented all the time, about all things, and now—now he has the vast expanse of years reaching out in front of him, with nothing there, and he hates it. He hates that, and he hates his friends who are still playing, and he hates his family for always asking how he is and worrying when he hasn’t had someone worrying over him like that for years.

He sort of hates Tyson too, for not giving him any of that shit, for being there even though he knows Tyson has better places to be, for somehow getting him up and out of the house, but Tyson’s always been frustratingly unhateable. Even at his most annoying, Gabe’s never managed it. And for all Tyson’s grown up, and Gabe can recognize that he is different, that he sometimes thinks before he talks and that he doesn’t go off on his half-cocked adventures anymore or any of that, he’s still—Tyson, with his ridiculous jokes and the brilliance of his smile and the caring that he hides under all of his banter. He’s still the guy who Gabe fell into twenty years ago, whose support built him up until he knew he could stand on his own. He’s still the guy who pokes at Gabe until he’s out of his head, until he remembers how to smile, even when everything else is awful.

6) “I used to dream about you coming here,” Gabe says, one night when they’re hanging out in front of the TV after dinner. Tyson had been trying to decipher the Swedish sitcom that was on the TV, mostly hopelessly, but he glances over when Gabe says it. Gabe’s half-shadowed, and he’s looking at the TV, not at Tyson.

“If this is you trying to get me to admit to jerking off in your guest room—“

Gabe rolls his eyes. “Of you visiting me here. In Sweden,” he amends, neatly cutting off that distraction. “Back—at the beginning, when we were kids.”

“So you could prove Sweden’s superiority over Canada? Because you’ve been trying and I’m still not convinced.”

“Because I wanted to share it with you,” Gabe says, still serious. Still so fucking earnest, knocking down all of Tyson’s humor with his sincerity. “You were important to me, and so is Sweden, and I wanted you to see it.”

“I’ve been here with you,” Tyson points out. “Remember? Kerf almost died and didn’t tell anyone? Dutchy beat us, just to really put a cap on everything?”

Gabe snorts. “Yeah, because that was really the time to take you sightseeing.”

“I would have.” Tyson swallows. “I mean, you were super busy with family or whatever, so I didn’t—“

“I thought about asking you to come with me. To meet everyone. But…”

“But then Nate would have tagged along, and he’s hard to explain, I know,” Tyson agrees, and Gabe sighs.

“Tys.”

“Gabriel,” Tyson retorts. Gabe still hasn’t looked away, and he’s still so—Gabe. “Are we talking about this? Now?”

“You did have a whole party and everything saying that you were ready.”

“That party was an excuse for presents. Which I haven’t gotten from you, let me say. I don’t forget that.”

“I don’t think a coming out party is like a baby shower—“ Gabe shakes his head. “Maybe we should talk about it, though. It’s been long enough.”

Long enough. Years and years of history. Of friendship, and of facing each other on the ice, and the way Gabe had squeezed Tyson’s shoulder that summer in Toronto, the way he’d said, ‘I’ll miss you, four,’ like it meant so much more, even though they weren’t—anything.

“What’s there to say?” Tyson shrugs, looking at the TV. He can barely see it and definitely can’t understand it, but it’s better than looking at Gabe. “We hooked up, then we didn’t.”

“It wasn’t that simple.”

Tyson likes to think he’s more mature than he was, that he can have a conversation when he’s cornered into it. “It sort of was, though. The timing wasn’t right. We were kids, it was the NHL, and, like—there’s a reason my party happened after I was out.”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t—we were good, right?” Gabe runs his hand over his beard, that Tyson finally got him to trim back from Viking wild to something neat.

Tyson rolls his eyes. “Are you asking about the sex? Because I mean, we were twenty, so no, it wasn’t great, but we tried, so we get an A for effort.”

Gabe chuckles. “Fine. But, I meant—the two of us. We worked, right?”

“We didn’t—Gabe, that wasn’t a relationship. You know that, right?”

“No, I didn’t notice,” Gabe drawls, then shakes his head. “Of course. Like you said, the timing wasn’t right.”

“Yeah.” Maybe they’re done with this now.

Except—Gabe’s closer on the couch, suddenly. Nearer to Tyson. Tyson looks up at him again, can feel his eyes widen. Gabe’s looking at him, and Tyson remembers that look. It still hits him the same as it did when he was twenty and so fucking easy for his beautiful, brilliant captain. “The timing’s changed.”

“Gabe—“ Tyson doesn’t know what he’s going to say. Gabe’s still Gabe, but…

“I’m not in the NHL anymore, am I?” Gabe’s lips twist, and there’s the bitterness. There’s the but. “Something good should come out of that, and we were good. We could be good.”

“Gabe.” Tyson gets up. It’s easier with distance. “Come on, man.”

“What? Do you not want me anymore?” Gabe smirks, because they both know how ridiculous that is.

“Don’t do that,” Tyson snaps at him. “Don’t—“

“Then why?”

“Because this is still shitty timing!” Tyson retorts, draws his hands into fists. This tastes like maturity, he thinks; like growing up enough to know when it’s better not to touch something. “Because you’re still so fucked up over your injury.”

“I’m not fucked up!”

“Yes you are! You’re all—angry, all the time, and you’re messed up and don’t know what to do and, I get it, Gabe. I was there, I went through it—“

“No you didn’t!” Gabe yells, and there’s that anger, finally on the surface. “You got to choose this, I wasn’t ready, I didn’t want to go out like this, it was supposed to be—“ As Tyson watches, Gabe runs out of words, just shaking his head—just shaking, his hands balled into fists.

“Yeah, very not fucked up,” Tyson agrees, sarcastic. Gabe’s eyes narrow. Tyson glares back. “You just want it because it’s—something. Because you lost hockey and you’re looking for something else to latch onto.”

“Wow, that sounds smart, did some reading?”

Tyson ignores Gabe’s vicious streak. “Yeah, Mac bullied me into therapy when I was fucked up over retiring. Learned some things.” He takes a breath. “Look, maybe I don’t get it get it, but I sort of do. And what you want—that’s not fair to either of us. We’re supposed to be adults or whatever, haven’t we moved past using each other for stability?”

For a second, it looks like Gabe’s going to keep fighting, but then the air drains out of him, his shoulders slumping and his expression going abashed at that. “I—it’s not just that,” he says. Earnest again. The bitterness under the surface but not gone. “I really did dream about you being here. About us being more. We’re still good together, Tys.”

“Yeah.” Tyson knows that, but—he’s not that kid anymore, easy for whatever his captain needed. Ready to take whatever was on offer because he didn’t understand he should have more. That he wanted more. “And if you still think that when you aren’t fucked up, you can talk to me then.”

“I—“

Tyson is so very done with this conversation. “Okay, no, you have to explain this to me,” he cuts Gabe off firmly, and sits back down, facing the TV. “Is he her kid or her boyfriend? Or her brother?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tyson can see Gabe deciding whether or not to push it. In the end, he decides not too. “Her step-brother. Well. It’s complicated,” he replies, and sits back down too, respectably far apart on the couch. Tyson tries really hard not to regret anything.

7) They don’t talk about it again. Tyson stays for another few weeks, and they keep doing their easy domesticity where Gabe figures out how to live with a leg that doesn’t always like him and a world that isn’t regimented for him, and Tyson bullies, cajoles, and annoys him into actually dealing with it. They clearly both know it’s there, more in the open than it has been for years, but they’ve lived with all of that under the surface between them before; they know how to sublimate it into their friendship. Sure, it’s harder for Tyson to stop himself from noticing that Gabe hasn’t let himself go or anything, that his hands are still stupid big and all, and Gabe can’t help but look at Tyson, all the time—he’d always been magnetic, in a way that he didn’t like to acknowledge, his easy charm and how much he loves being the center of attention, but now that Gabe’s acknowledged it it’s harder to resist.

But they ignore it, well enough, and then it’s time for Tyson to go home, because he does have a job that he can’t put off forever, and Gabe’s—doing better. He thinks. Maybe. He doesn’t know how well he’ll do after Tyson leaves, but it’s better, now.

“Yes, I’ll text you when I land,” Tyson tells Gabe, at the doorway, rolling his eyes. “I have been basically a professional traveler for my whole life, whatever.”

“You managed to break your leg in a pillow—“

“For the last time, that was Nate’s fault!” Tyson protests, but he’s laughing. Gabe’s going to miss that laugh.

It’s because of that, maybe, that he leans down, kisses Tyson’s cheek. “Thank you,” he says, low and meaning every word.

This close, he can see Tyson swallow. “Yeah, whatever, maybe now Nate and EJ’ll stop bugging me,” he mutters, like that’s why he did it. Gabe has to smile. It’s easier, these days.

“They’ll just find something else to bug you about, they can’t help it,” he points out, and Tyson lets out an irritated breath.

“No kidding.” Then he looks up, too suddenly for Gabe to move away, and they’re—they haven’t been this in years, maybe since Gabe hugged him goodbye in Toronto, that summer Tyson left. “Look, I just—if I could help, I’m glad, okay? We’re still—I still care, or whatever.” He bites off the last words, like he hates having to admit it, and has to smile again. Tyson’s always so Tyson.

He could—if he kissed Tyson right now, he doesn’t think Tyson would stop him. He wants to. He’s wanted to for weeks, but Tyson’s right. Too much of why he wants to is the urge to have something good, to leech off of Tyson’s settledness, to keep Tyson here to have something.

He steps back. “Have a good flight. Text—“

“I already said I would, god, you haven’t been my captain for a decade, honestly,” Tyson starts, and Gabe herds him out the door with him still talking. He’s still smiling as Tyson’s uber drives away.

8) Tyson goes home, and back to work. He and Gabe talk more than they have since Tyson was traded, and from what he can tell Gabe’s doing better, but Tyson’s got his work with the team and his Seattle friends to distract him, and when Nate plays Seattle he comes over and they have a good catch up which they haven’t had in too long and Tyson tells Nate everything and Nate approves, which makes Tyson feel better, and it’s—Tyson’s life, as it was. The life he’s made and he’s happy with. Maybe it’s better now that Gabe’s in it more, giving him shit and earnest praise in equal measures, bantering with him and laughing at him and all of the things that made Tyson into him in the first place, but whatever. This is enough of Gabe. Tyson doesn’t want more of Gabe than he can give.

Then, months later—Tyson’s doorbell rings.

Tyson’s not expecting anyone, but it’s not like it’s unusual for someone to drop by.

“Hello?” He says, opening the door, then stops.

Gabe is standing there, looking for all the world like a romcom hero, his hair glistening with the Seattle rain and his eyes bright. “Hey,” he says, and his smile is a little smirky, like he knows just what a dramatic moment he’s doing and he’s really enjoying it. “You said when I wasn’t fucked up, I could talk to you again.”

Tyson swallows. “And?”

“And I’m still figuring shit out, but I think it’s better.” Gabe takes a step forward. “And it’s still, always, better with you.” He pauses, then. “Can I come in?”

Tyson takes a breath, but it’s still—it’s still Gabe, and he’s not wrong. It is always better with him. “Yeah,” says Tyson, and lets Gabe in.

9) (“It’s got to be you going to Sweden,” Nate had said, and Tyson sighed.

“Why? We’re not close anymore.”

“Yeah, but he’s miserable.”

“So?”

“So he needs someone who makes him happy, and that’s always been you.”)

#avs fic #my fic #avs tumblr fic #leafs fic #i guess?#:(#anyway sorry for the delay!#hope this domesticity angst makes up for it #also I just like the image of Tyson having a coming out party tbh #maybe this whole thing was an excuse to write that #eafay70 #izzy answers

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emoboijk · 6 years ago

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MYG | Lo-Fi Beats (05)

Lo-Fi: an aesthetic of recorded music in which the sound quality is lower than the usual contemporary standards so that imperfections of the recording and production are audible.—fluff, angst, idol!au

prologue :: 01 :: 02 :: 03 :: 04 :: 05 :: 06 :: epilogue

1,928 words

p.cred

Despite everything, it is nice to be home. The familiar smell of your grandmother’s cooking as she putters around the kitchen. The sky, which looks so different than the one in Seoul. The sounds are different too, although you can’t pinpoint why. If you were going to force a banishment on yourself, this would be the place to go. And of course, that’s exactly what you had done.

You turn with a sigh away from the window and go back to your grandmother in the kitchen. She’s stirring a large pot on the stove, and you lean against the counter when you say, “That smells delicious.”

“I have many skills,” she says, adding a seasoning you don’t recognize, “but this one is by far the most useful of them all.” She steps away from the stove to press her lips to your cheek comfortingly, “Hungry?”

You shrug, “Not right now. I’m thinking of taking a walk actually.”

“By yourself?” she asks from the fridge, her eyebrows raised.

“Yes?” you say cautiously, confused.

She sighs and turns back toward you. “I’m worried about you dear,” she says with a frown. “You loved that job in Seoul. And the Mins tell me that you and Yoongi have had a fight? What’s so serious you had to come back home, hmm?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek before leaning in to squeeze her shoulder, “I’m fine, I just missed you is all. And there are lots of jobs here. I wanted to be home.”

She looks at you skeptically but goes back to her cooking. You walk out before you’re further tempted to tell her the truth.

You like to think the air is warmer now that you’re further south, but that could just be your imagination. The roads are quiet as you walk down a well-memorized path, waving to a few neighborhood kids and ahjummas as you go. You don’t even have to think about where you’re going, your feet are already taking you there.

You try to make it at least as far as Yoongi’s house before checking your phone. But you never do.

And you’re not sure why you check, there’s never anything you want to see. You’ve been ignoring texts from Jihoon and Minji for weeks now. None of the members have bothered reaching out, and other work contacts have all given up. The only text you replied to was from Bang-sajangnim, apologizing. And of course, the only person you really wanted to text you was Yoongi. And he never did.

You’re in front of Yoongi’s house by the time you tuck your phone away again, feeling like crying. You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear your name called. You turn around to find a familiar ahjumma in the window. Yoongi’s mom.

She runs down the porch steps, which you refuse to look at because of the memories, and greets you on the sidewalk. You bow respectfully and she pats your arm, “Aish, why are you so formal now? You’re practically my daughter!”

You chuckle, pain spreading through your chest like heartburn. “How are you?” you ask politely, hoping she’ll let you leave soon enough. You’re surprised she still speaks to you at all after what you did.

“I’d be better if you and Yoongi made up,” she scowls. Mrs. Min never was one to beat around the bush.

“Ahjumma,” you sigh, a fresh set of tears pressing against your eyes as you aim your gaze anywhere but at her (and those damn porch steps).

“I know what you did,” she says so seriously that it makes you look up. And she’s frowning, nodding her head mournfully, “You broke his heart.” She says it so definitively that you feel it like a knife through your chest. She looks up again and adds, “But I know you love him. You were there for him...even when his family wasn’t. So whatever has happened...just fix it. I won’t accept anyone else as my daughter-in-law!” She makes this last, bold, claim with a laugh before running back into her house at the sound of an oven timer.

It makes you want to smile, but you can’t get your lips to work that hard anymore. You immediately turn around and go back the way you came.

By the time you get back to your grandmother’s place, you’re already late for work. You change quickly, rushing out of the house with an apple half-eaten in your mouth and your grandmother scowling at you; she’s disappointed you’re only eating an apple and she’s disappointed because you’re working at a grocery store (“And with all your potential!”).

But the grocery store gig isn’t bad. It’s routine, requires very little thought process, kills time. Although the mundanity of the tasks does you give you almost too much time to think about...everything. You kept telling your grandmother that there were lots of jobs here...you’re not sure that’s true. For video editing and production Seoul might be the only place.

You’re knee deep in these thoughts when you hear a familiar, cold voice say your name. You turn around in your workstation to see Minji, her face dark and her arms crossed. She’s glaring at you like she has no other purpose in life.

“You bitch,” she scowls.

You sigh, a small smile on your lips. You missed her. “How did you find me?”

“Your grandmother’s address was in the staff directory,” she rolls her eyes, glaring at a customer who dared approach your counter before doing so herself. She leans against it and says, “I went there first, and she told me where you work. Big upgrade. Definitely see why you left the city.”

“Minji,” you sigh, “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” she says, looking at you for the first time without a glare or scowl, just confusion and hurt, “I wouldn’t know, huh? Since you haven’t bothered talking to me in over a month.” You sigh again, shaking your head, but she cuts you off, “And you are going to talk to me now because I used vacation time for this. I’m risking my trip to Jeju for you. When are you off?”

By the time your shift is over, Minji has deflated slightly. She’s still angry, sure, but now that her mood has settled you see the real pain and betrayal in her eyes. She’s sitting across from you at the coffee shop next door, staring at the latte she ordered.

You don’t speak first; couldn’t if you tried. Your throat is choked up, something like guilt stuck there. A few minutes pass before she finally sighs, “What happened?”

When she looks up there are tears in your eyes, and she frowns at the sight. You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out. Minji sniffles and talks, less to you and more just...aloud, like she’s thinking out loud, “Everything’s messed up now. Yoongi’s this close to moving to Japan with Daniel Ito, the boys are all acting weird…” she looks up, “You love Yoongi,” she sniffles again, “I know I joke about it a lot...but you guys...you’re soulmates. Why would you break his heart like that? Why would you leave?”

You’re crying now, slow tears that fall down your cheeks rapidly, but you don’t make a move. There’s a knife in your chest twisting slowly at her words, at her news of BigHit. Your fists are clenched beneath the table and her expression strikes the killing blow. You tell her everything.

“Why would he blackmail you?” she says once you’ve finished. There’s a pile of napkins on your side of the table from all of your crying and blowing your nose.

“He said Yoongi would be easier to manipulate,” you sigh. Minji snorts and you almost crack a smile at her response. But then you remember what she said earlier, “It worked, though, if he’s considering moving to Japan—he’s considering that deal.”

“And it’s a crap deal,” Minji says, frowning, “I guess the original contract would have granted him all this creative and travel freedom, but they revised it—it’s less money, less freedom…”

“Then why would he take it?”

Minji looks at you seriously, “You’re not there.”

“Well,” you say, feeling frustration in your chest like an ever-expanding balloon that’s going to pop, “tell him not to do it; force him not to.”

Now she’s looking at you like you’re stupid. “As if,” she rolls her eyes, drawing on the table with her finger, “You and I both know that there are only a few people who could talk him out of it, and I’m definitely not one of them.”

“Then...the boys? Ask them to do it; surely, they don’t want him to go.”

“No,” Minji sighs, defeated, “Of course they don’t. But they also want what’s best for him, and they won’t fight him on his decisions...He’s usually so well thought out...plus, they know this will just cause a bigger rift than is worth it. His decision is made.”

“He can’t…” you ground your teeth together, clenching your fists. Pain runs through you so deeply that you didn’t know it was possible outside of a physical injury, but it hurts like you’ve been eviscerated.

“If you don’t want him to go, you’ll have to tell him yourself.”

“I can’t go back there, Minji,” you run your hands through your hair, “if Daniel finds out…”

“What does he have on you?” Minji reaches across the table and clasps your hand, squeezing tightly, “There has to be some way around it.”

“He threatened my grandmother,” you sigh.

“To kill her?” Minji whispers.

You almost laugh, “No, no. Just...her mortgage and hospital bills...we’re barely hanging on as it is.”

Minji sits back with her eyebrows raised, and you can almost see the cogs in her head turning. She chews on the end of one of her fingernails as she thinks. “Financial stuff, huh? How could he manipulate that?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “I just...I freaked and came home.” Now that you’re talking about it aloud, you feel stupid for not asking those questions earlier. But you’d been so scared...aside from Yoongi, your grandmother was all you had. Now she was all you had.

“Let me do some research, okay?”

You nod your consent and Minji stands from the table and heads for one of the public use computers in the corner, busily typing away on the keys. You suppose there’s a reason she’s one of the main researches for the video department.

You watch her for a moment, counting the seconds to see how long you last. But you can’t help yourself. You pull out your phone and open up your text thread with Yoongi. The last message you’d received from him was a picture of Taehyung and JK goofing around; it made you smile despite yourself. Before that was a message asking if you were alright, and before that his confirmation that he would meet you at 5:45. You felt a pang in your chest.

Before you could think anymore you typed out a quick message and hit send, your heart racing.

Just don’t go.

You stared at it for a long time, but a reply never came. You suppose you shouldn’t expect one. But before you could dwell on it any longer, Minji came back to your table. She folded her hands over yours and said, “Two things. One, you suck. It didn’t even take me twenty minutes to realize this guy is full of shit. And two, Daniel Ito is full. Of. Shit.”

author’s note—okay so the whole story up until this point has been in past tense but this chapter is in present tense which i totally did on purpose because of art and creativity

06: reunited ↝

for more of my works check out my m.list

#rosynamjoon #bts #hyunglinenetwork #bangtanbuds #bts x reader #suga #suga x reader #min yoongi #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor, 5 (Branjie) (and background everyone) - Ortega

a/n: HOORAY last of the strictly rewrites!!! thank u sm for ur patience if ur still waiting on chapter 6, i promise i’ll make it soon! lots of lo-ove, by-ee!!

fic summary: Strictly Come Dancing enters its 18th series and its producers, after being goaded by a rival dance show on its inclusivity, commission it to be an all-female cast. Unlike Akeria who’s just here to bone her potential dance partner, dancer Vanessa is ready to act like a professional.

And then TV presenter Brooke Lynn walks into the rehearsal room.

***

“And…one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three-”

“Goddamnit shit cunt bitch fuck piss in my mouth,” Brooke exhales frustratedly all at once, and Vanessa holds back an involuntary chuckle. It would be funny if it didn’t hit so close to home. It’s only twelve o’clock and it’s day three of rehearsals but already Brooke’s entire body language is defeated, like a burst balloon, and Vanessa is worried.

It’s all her fault, really. The scores from Saturday night still burn her brain if she thinks about them too much, hot coals on a grate. Twenty one out of forty. If it were a grade in a test it’d barely be a pass, and Vanessa can practically see her eyes turn green in the studio mirrors if she thinks about the fact they were sixth on the leaderboard behind Jan and Jackie, Crystal and Gigi, Monique and Monet, Akeria and Asia and Jaida and Yvie. Vanessa does not do sixth. Vanessa does not do anything other than top three, and the fact that she ended last week in the middle of the leaderboard enrages her. Okay, she knows this isn’t her journey- it’s Brooke’s, but Vanessa has a reputation to uphold; it’s her first year and she cannot be seen as a dud pro. So on Sunday she’d channeled her fighting spirit into an appropriate dance, and this week they’re doing a Paso Doble. Well. They’re meant to be doing a Paso Doble, but it’s fast and it’s frenetic and Brooke isn’t managing to get her head around this one particular section. Vanessa feels like packing it in, to tell the producers they’re doing something else, but really what kind of person would she be if she pulled that stunt? So instead she’s been watching Brooke become increasingly irritated at herself since 8 this morning and tried to come up with a way she can teach it that’ll work.

“This is my fault,” Vanessa verbalises what she’s thinking and bites her lip. “I’ve made this too hard.”

Brooke suddenly freezes and glares at her. “Are you saying I’m shit?”

PANIC. “No, fuck no! That’s not it at all, I just-”

Vanessa suddenly relaxes as Brooke splutters a held-in laugh, thumping her on the arm. “Shut the fuck up, bitch! I was nervous.”

“Not as nervous as I am about this fucking dance,” Brooke sighs, running her hands down her face slowly. Vanessa looks at the clock and makes a decision.

“You hungry?”

Brooke shrugs. “I am quite, now you mention it.”

“Good. Get your jacket. We’re gonna get lunch.”

Brooke winces. “But I still haven’t got-”

“We have got all damn day to learn this motherfuckin’ dance, now will you put your jacket on and let’s go?” Vanessa says firmly, Brooke giving a little laugh, shaking her head in resignation before crossing the room to grab her things. Vanessa’s pleased, and there’s small fireworks going off in her heart. She’s just asked Brooke to lunch and she’s said yes, not that Vanessa gave her much of a choice admittedly. As Brooke holds the door of the studio open for her, Vanessa starts wondering about where they could go to eat. She’s distracted by the way they’re walking down the corridor side-by-side, the way that Brooke stays close to her despite the fact there’s plenty room for them to have their own space. Vanessa feels like putting an arm around her waist, then decides against it. That kind of contact is special, reserved for a Saturday night after their dance is over and they’re standing together in front of the judges.

They walk out into the chilly October air, and Vanessa’s regretting only taking her hoodie out with her. The weather is quintessentially British- it had been raining that morning but now it has subsided, so the paving slabs glisten with puddles and the cars that go by roll smoothly through the rain-sheened roads and the grey clouds still hang heavy and ominous in the sky. Normally weather like this makes Vanessa yearn for her trips back to Puerto Rico, where the October temperatures are what the UK could only dream of in Summer, but standing outside in the cold and damp doesn’t seem so bad with Brooke looking at her expectantly.

“Where d’you wanna go?” she asks her. Brooke shrugs.

“Starbucks? Take it back and we can eat while we practise?”

Vanessa lets out a laugh and rolls her eyes, both irritated and impressed by Brooke’s dedication. She has a think and then remembers that place a few streets along from the studios where she, Akeria and Monique had grabbed brunch one time before a pro dance rehearsal. The thought of poached eggs with golden yolks on avocado toast makes her stomach rumble and she jerks her head in its direction. “C’mon.”

The walk and the fresh, icy air works a treat at clearing Vanessa’s head and by the time she and Brooke grab a wobbly wooden table by the steamed-up window in the cafe she’s feeling loads better about their Paso even though technically it’s still a mess. She picks up the menu despite knowing exactly what she wants and gives it a scan before Brooke plucks it unceremoniously out of her hands.

“Hey!”

“What?” Brooke smirks knowingly. Vanessa doesn’t complain further, instead indulging in the way Brooke’s eyes dart about as she scans the dishes on the menu, the way her brow furrows and the way she bites her bottom lip as she thinks. When Brooke looks at her again, Vanessa rushes to pretend she hadn’t had her eyes on her first.

“They have some really nice stuff here.”

Vanessa nudges the fork on the table a little to the left. “Me, Kiki an’ Monique went here a couple weeks back. They both had pancakes and they were really good apparently, so…”

She tails off, and Brooke nods. “You’re close with them, huh?”

“Well, we’re all kind of like sisters. All the dancers. In, like…the most literal way possible. We bicker and bitch and steal each others’ makeup and clothes but we love each other underneath it all. But yeah, those two are my girls,” Vanessa smiles involuntarily as she thinks about her friends. She thinks before adding, “They helped me through all the shit last year.”

Brooke smiles sympathetically and nods. “That’s cute that you’re all, like, a family.”

“It’s real nice. ‘Specially since all I really have here is my Mom, and I don’t get to see her all that often.”

Brooke leans her chin on her hands, listening intently. Vanessa realises she’s left her last sentence a little cryptic, so she elaborates. “We came over from San Juan when I was two. Fuck knows why my Mom wanted to leave, but we did. The rest of my family’s still over there- my Abuela, my Tia and Tio, all my lil’ cousins.”

“Do you get to visit much?” Brooke asks. Vanessa nods a yes.

“Way more nowadays than I ever got to when I was little. Obviously when we first came here we didn’t have a huge amount of money but my Mom always made sure to save enough to fly back every Summer for the school holidays an’ stuff.”

Vanessa pauses and looks out of the window. Her stomach feels tight with guilt. “But obviously it got harder when I started wanting to dance, cuz hell, if this country don’t like giving out free school meals then they sure as hell hate subsidisin’ your dance classes.”

Brooke laughs humourlessly in agreement. Vanessa picks at her cuticles as she keeps talking, stares at the table to avoid Brooke’s eyes. “So there were sometimes Summers when we couldn’t afford to go back over because of me. That was hard. My Mom was always really good about it and encouraged me and said it was fine but I still remember her on the phone to my family and how much she cried afterwards…damn. I felt like shit. Guess I still do.”

Brooke pulls a sympathetic face. “But I mean, you’ve been able to go back since then, right? So what do you have to be guilty for?”

“I don’t know,” Vanessa shrugs sharply, frowns a little. “I guess it was just selfish of me. Lookin’ back I should’ve thought about my Mom more.”

“Yeah, but it all worked out for the best. You’re now able to fly her out way more frequently because of the career you’re in, because of the sacrifices you both made back then. Right?”

Vanessa feels something bloom in her ribcage as she smiles at Brooke. Her eyes are kind and she’s talking like a therapist and listening to all of Vanessa’s pent-up guilt and regret even though she has absolutely no responsibility or obligation to do so. “Yeah. Sorry. I just kinda dumped all that on you.”

Brooke shakes her head. “Don’t be silly. This is nice.”

Nice. It is nice. It’s nice to sit in a busy, cosy cafe with Brooke while outside is cold and damp and talk about her life and be listened to. Vanessa feels content and peaceful for the first time perhaps since this competition started. Her mind hasn’t been this clear in a while.

“What about your family?” Vanessa asks. Brooke smiles involuntarily as she gazes at the ceiling. It’s cute.

“Aw, I miss them so much. My Mommy, my total queen and my rock. I love her,” she says happily. Vanessa can’t help but smile at her words. She knows what it’s like to cling to her Mom as growing up they only really had each other. Brooke folds her arms as she continues. “And then I’ve got my older brother and two older sisters who I love to death as well. But I don’t miss my sisters. Well, I don’t miss the way they borrow half my fucking outfits.”

Vanessa snorts a laugh as Brooke shakes her head long-sufferingly. “So you’re the baby of the family then?”

Brooke shrugs. “An overgrown baby at thirty years old, but yeah. All my siblings are either in relationships or married so you can imagine how fun that is whenever I go back to Canada, getting questioned by the fucking relationship Gestapo.”

The sentence makes Vanessa’s heart start climbing the stairs of hope, and she’s not even attempting to stop it. She fidgets with a corner of her paper napkin as she speaks again. “Oh, so you ain’t…you’re not seeing anyone at the moment, then?”

“Why, who’s asking?” Brooke cocks an eyebrow. Vanessa instantly feels her cheeks flood scarlet, and Brooke lets out a howl of a laugh. “Kidding, kidding! No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Right, right,” Vanessa nods as nonchalantly as she can. She thinks about testing deeper conversational waters, considers killing two birds of curiosity with one stone. They’re on the topic of relationships, and who knows when they’ll get onto it again, so she decides to dive in. “Just thought you might, y’know…have a boyfriend. Or somethin’.”

“No, no boyfriend,” Brooke says simply. She leans her head on the fist she’s made and raises her eyebrows a little, giving Vanessa a quick once-over. “Or girlfriend.”

It’s the answer she’s been hoping for, confirming her suspicions that Brooke’s into girls, but the flirting panics her and so Vanessa reaches for the discarded menu to fidget with as she lightly shrugs, moving the conversation along with all the tact and delicacy of a steamroller. “So you live on your own then?”

“Yeah. Just me.”

“Me too. You like it?”

Brooke pulls a face, looks down in thought for a second. “Sometimes. Part of me likes the feeling of being completely on my own, because I can do literally whatever the hell I want, take things at my own pace. There’s nobody to nag me or tell me what to do. I realise that makes me sound literally half my age, but it’s true. I can sing as loud as I want.”

“You sing?” Vanessa asks, intrigued. Brooke laughs.

“I didn’t say I sing well!” she snorts, and Vanessa lets out a giggle too. Brooke continues, her gaze focused on the world outside the window as she speaks. “It’s nice though, that feeling of freedom. On the other hand I just miss, like…coexisting with someone? I don’t know. Like when I came to uni over here and I had flatmates and there was that feeling of comfort to know that there was always someone in the next room to talk to, or make dinner with, or just watch TV with. Just someone to do normal shit with. You know?” Brooke narrows her eyes as she finishes her sentence, appealing to Vanessa.

“Yeah, I get it,” Vanessa replies, letting out a little sigh as she lets a few memories in and then slams that particular door firmly shut. “I miss that too, sometimes.”

The silence lingers between the two of them for a second before Brooke speaks again, her tone upbeat and cheerful. “But I mean, for the most part, my flat’s great. It’s part of this new-build, hi-tech apartment complex that only got done building last year. We’ve got a gym, there’s a shop at the bottom, there’s meeting rooms we can book…”

“Yeah, I think you told me about the gym once,” Vanessa nods in recognition, and Brooke’s smile widens as she has an idea.

“You should come round some time. You’d love it.”

Vanessa tries to stop the blush that threatens to hit her face. The invitation is personal and not rehearsal or show related, and that fact shouldn’t make her as happy as it does. She fixes Brooke with a smile and nods shyly. “Yeah. That’d be cool.”

Still visibly buoyed, Brooke reaches across the table and rests her hand on top of Vanessa’s, patting it gently. There’s a little spark of static when they touch, a metaphor come to life. When Brooke smiles at her, Vanessa feels comfortable.

“This was a good idea. Thanks for dragging me out.”

Vanessa shrugs, doesn’t move her hand. She smiles lazily at her dance partner. “It’s okay. We both needed a break.”

As the waiter comes to take their order Brooke’s hand flies out from its position on top of hers, but Vanessa doesn’t mind. There’s a connection that’s been forged that isn’t physical, and she knows it’s still there even if Brooke’s hand isn’t.

Rehearsal ends up going smoother the rest of that day. Okay- it’s not perfect, but Brooke starts picking it up and Vanessa’s mind is less cloudy. Thursday brings more rain and full runs of the dance that don’t go smoothly but Vanessa is relieved because at least they’ve fucking learned it. By Friday they’re exhausted and worn out and Vanessa hates this dance, hates this fucking dance, but it’s one step closer to being over for good. She’s disappointed when it occurs to her that they’re not going to get particularly favourable scores- their run is still riddled with mistakes, but at least Brooke’s worked hard on what she was critiqued for last week. Her core is stronger due to the planks Vanessa’s been making them both do at the start of every rehearsal and her elbow hasn’t drooped once- not that there’s much chance for it to during a Paso, but at least the judges will be able to see that she’s taking their comments on board. Vanessa’s proud of her. She tells Brooke so before they go home on Friday night, when it’s quiet outside and different shades of dark. She thinks Brooke might be blushing as she thanks her and says goodbye, but she can’t be sure.

Saturday happens in a frighteningly fast blur- there’s excitement but it’s nervous instead of anticipative, as everybody knows that tonight one couple will be eliminated. Vanessa’s not really worried about that though- the bottom of the leaderboard last week was comprised of Courtney and Blair, Plastique and Scarlet, Willam and Phi Phi and Aja and Farrah, so in comparison she supposes sixth isn’t too bad. Her aim for tonight’s dance had been to climb up the leaderboard a bit, but knowing how their Paso’s been going Vanessa will call it a success if they both stay where they are.

It turns out they drop down to seventh behind Shea and Peppermint, after their American Smooth has the judges on their feet. Brooke and Vanessa’s Paso goes…well, it goes. It’s not the best they’ve done it but it’s done, thank God, and they never have to do it again.

Unless of course they’re in the dance off. But Vanessa doesn’t permit herself to think about that. Instead, she thinks about the warmth of Brooke’s hand in hers as they walk through the corridor together after their judge’s critiques and their interview. Neither of them address the fact their hands are entwined, and that’s okay. Vanessa likes it like that.

“You okay?” she asks Brooke, halfway down the hallway, as their character shoes squeak quietly against the laminate flooring and they cast fleeting shadows against the manila walls.

Brooke sighs a little, gives a half-hearted shrug. “Yeah.”

“No you’re not. C’mere,” Vanessa frowns, using the hand she’s holding to pull Brooke into a hug. It’s gentle and tight all at once, the way Brooke’s strong arms are holding her close contrasting with the way her hands are light against her back. Brooke smells of a Saturday night: tan in a bottle and hairspray and Jimmy Choo Flash perfume. It’s not like her usual scent of freshly-washed hair and her fabric softener (Lenor Gold Orchid- Vanessa had smelt them all rather self-indulgently on her last trip to Tesco to work out which was Brooke’s).

“I don’t want to let you down,” Brooke whispers above her, and Vanessa can tell she’s got tears in her eyes without even having to look into them. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head against her chest.

“You could go out there, forget the entire dance and do the fucking Macarena for all I care. You always make me proud.”

Vanessa feels Brooke press a kiss to the top of her head and it sets off a blush she can feel spreading down her face onto her neck and across her chest. Brooke had kissed her again after their dance had finished, quick and emphatic against her temple, and it had set off butterflies in her stomach that threatened to fly up into the rigging of the lights. Vanessa wants to get caught up in the moment, wants even to hold her gaze and see how she’d react if she asked to kiss her properly, but instead she pulls herself out of the hug. She keeps their hands connected though and as she meets Brooke’s eyes and finds that she’s smiling at her, Vanessa concludes it was the right decision to make.

“Fuck the scores,” she says, remembering each paddle (4, 5, 5, 5) with a sting as if she’s been smacked with them. “The Paso wasn’t for us and it’s over now. On to the next one.”

“Unless we’re in the dance off.”

“Brooke Lynn, Bianca gave Blair a two. I think we’ll be fine.”

Vanessa isn’t wrong, and it turns out their position looks better compared to some of the other dances they see once they’ve been through makeup to get neatened up again. Poor Scarlet tries her best to get through her Jive with Plastique but her feet just aren’t doing the things Vanessa knows Scarlet wants them to, and the judges give them a combined score of fifteen. Scarlet looks deflated as she leaves the dancefloor and the moment their interview is over Vanessa watches as Yvie pulls her into a hug (Vanessa knows that type of hug because she’s just given Brooke the exact same one). Aja and Farrah’s Samba wasn’t great either and they earn themselves a mark of seventeen. Despite this, though, by the time the show finishes and they have to assemble to film the results (which are pre-recorded and then broadcast on a Sunday), they’re both a bag of nerves. She and Brooke are placed on the stairs with a spotlight burning down onto them, ants under a magnifying glass. The mood between the couples is decidedly tense, and as Vanessa looks down at the girls on the dancefloor she sees Monet squeeze Monique’s waist as Monique sighs and rests her head against the other girl’s shoulder. Vanessa wants to scoff at the fact they both seem nervous. The waltz they did almost brought the house down and they even got a nine from Laganja, so unless the only votes they got were ones they gave themselves, they’re very likely to be safe.

Michelle does her intro and, as the lights go down, Vanessa feels as if her heart is going to break her ribcage it’s beating so heavily.

“I can now reveal that the first couple safe and through to next week is…”

Long pause. The beat of a drum and Brooke’s pulse that Vanessa can feel through the hand she’s holding. Vanessa is so nervous that she casts her eyes up to the heavens. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

“Jan and Jackie!”

Jan screams and Jackie falls gratefully into her arms as she yells a “thank you!” at the camera that’s barely heard over the applause.

“The second couple safe is…”

Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Vanessa gives a minute bow of her head like her Mom taught her to do at mass when she was little. Is it sacreligious to pray if you’re lapsed? Some priests probably think so. Vanessa hopes it’s working in their favour anyway.

“Heidi and Vixen!”

Vanessa can’t see their reaction as they’re positioned above them at the very top of the stairs, and she doesn’t want to turn around in case…it’s bad luck? She doesn’t know. At this point she’s not risking anything, not even looking up to see Brooke’s face.

“The next couple safe and through to next week is…”

Holy Mary, Mother of God…you take away the sins of the world? Nah, that’s the wrong one. Fuck.

“Gigi and Crystal!”

Vanessa wants to roll her eyes, much as she’s happy for her friend. Of course they’re safe. They were second on the leaderboard last week and first tonight after a scarily in-sync Charleston. It comes as no surprise to her.

“The first couple in tonight’s dance-off will be…”

Vanessa feels truly nauseous. It wouldn’t be impossible for it to be them, stranger things have happened on the show. What the fuck is that next line? Holy Mary, Mother of God…

“Blair and Courtney.”

Vanessa’s heart feels as if it’s been shocked by jumpleads. She feels Brooke give an involuntary squeeze of her hand, and Vanessa strokes her thumb against hers in return. They just need to not be the other couple in the dance off. It’s doable.

“The next couple safe and through to next week is…”

…pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death-

“Brooke and Vanessa!”

Vanessa doesn’t screech or scream. Instead she finally turns to Brooke, who’s meeting her smile with a matching one plastered across her own face. She falls into her outstretched arms in relief, and mumbles a “thank you” to the camera while Brooke holds her tight. They’ve made it. They live to fight another week.

Amen.

Of course, one couple isn’t so lucky and, after a tense dance-off between Scarlet and Plastique and Blair and Courtney, it turns out Blair is the first celebrity to leave the competition. The girls get upset- the celebrities have all become a part of their big, crazy family now, and it’s sad that Vanessa will no longer hear Blair laugh at something Vixen has said, or compliment her on her makeup, or ask to get selfies with everyone in the dressing room. It’s Vixen, though, who is affected the most by Blair’s departure. Vanessa knows they’re good friends but she wonders if perhaps they’ll ever become something more as she watches Vixen cling to Yvie and sob and sob. The moment they’re all allowed, the pros and celebrities flood the dancefloor as Blair and Courtney dance their last dance. Vixen makes a beeline for Blair and Courtney graciously steps out of her way so the pair of them can hug and cry in tandem.

“Shit, this is rough,” Vanessa mutters to nobody in particular. Monique, who’s materialised beside her, shrugs.

“Yep, well. I don’t plan on havin’ to go through it, so it’s not a problem for me.”

Vanessa snorts at her friend’s cockiness, then pulls a sympathetic face as Blair approaches the pair of them, all streaming mascara and sniffles.

“C’mere, baby. You did so well, be proud of yourself,” Vanessa offers to her, and Blair smiles gently before her face crumples again.

“Just…look after my girl, okay?” she asks them hopefully. Monique smiles, rubs her forearm gently.

“Oh, sweetie, Courtney will be fine, she’s a big girl.”

“Courtney?” Blair asks, confused. Then she appears to realise something and she smiles back at Monique, a little embarrassed. “Oh no, um…I meant Toni. Can you both look out for her? Make sure she’s okay after I’m gone? I mean I know her and Heidi are going to go far, but…y’know.”

Vanessa wants to cock an eyebrow at Monique in recognition, but she doesn’t. Instead she gives Blair a reassuring look, takes her hand and squeezes it gently. “Sure we will.”

Appeased, Blair thanks them and gives them both a hug before moving on to say goodbye to some of the other girls. As she walks away, Vanessa hears Monique give a big sigh beside her. She tilts her head at her friend inquisitively. “You ‘kay?”

“Yeah, uh…” Monique sighs, rubs her eyes a little. “Could we do lunch at some point this week? Me, you, Kiki. I just need my girls’ advice.”

“About what?” Vanessa asks her. Then, as she follows Monique’s gaze over to where Monet is standing talking to Shea and Aja, the penny drops. “Oh. OH. Okay. Yeah, we’ll do lunch, bitch.”

Monique smiles gratefully at her, then gives her a hug and a goodnight as she’s starting choreography early tomorrow. The coming week’s theme is movies, which is always fun, and Vanessa already has a number in mind. It’s ridiculous, and so quintessentially Strictly. She can’t wait to show it to Brooke.

As Vanessa thinks of Brooke, she finds her eyes scanning the group of girls to see where she is. She’s smiling as she’s talking to Plastique and Scarlet, her smile bright and dazzling and her eyes kind. The lights are hitting her highlight and making it look as if she’s glowing, and her hair catches the light too in its smooth and glossy bun.

Vanessa feels her heart yearn, and she considers the possibility that perhaps it won’t just be Monique talking about the feelings she has for her partner when they both go to lunch with Akeria.

#rpdr fanfiction #ortega #bet you look good on the dancefloor #strictly au #lesbian au #branjie #vanessa vanjie mateo #brooke lynn hytes #monique heart #monet x change #blair st clair #the vixen #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #background momo #background scyvie #background crygi

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worryinglyinnocent · 6 years ago

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The Real Housewives of Storybrooke

A ficlet series based on this premise here, following the lives of Storybrooke’s elite wives, with all the scandal, bitching and backstabbing that goes on behind the scenes of high society…

This verse is open for prompts!

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Previously on the Real Housewives of Storybrooke: It was Regina’s garden party, and Mary Margaret offered to have Bae to stay with their family so that Belle and Cameron could have an adult weekend away.

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [AO3]

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Part Four

BELLE

“So, how was it?”

Belle raised an eyebrow as Ursula leaned in over the dining table, her face full of morbid interest.

“You were at the party too, Ursula. Surely you don’t need me to tell you how it was.”

“Yes, but I didn’t get to speak to you as much as I wanted to because I was busy trying to prevent Carrie from making a spectacle of herself after a few too many glasses of bubbly.”

“I did not make a spectacle of myself!” Carrie protested. “Pass the bacon.”

“The only reason you did not make a spectacle of yourself is because I was there to stop you from initiating a karaoke tournament,” Ursula pointed out. “Sometimes I wonder why I bring you to these things.”

“Well, someone’s got to liven them up.” Carrie sniffed emphatically as she took the bacon. “I’m sure that David Nolan would have been up for karaoke. I needed to entertain myself somehow. You were talking shop with Ariel and Eric Prince all evening and I was bored!”

Sometimes Belle found it hard to believe that Carrie was a top lawyer in the family court known for her ball-breaking, take no prisoners attitude, able to make even the most hardened of judges quake in their boots at the mere mention of her name. She and Cameron had met years ago when they had interned at the same partnership and had remained in touch long after Cameron had left the legal profession. Carrie and Ursula’s arrival in Storybrooke had certainly caused more than a few raised eyebrows among the gossips, Carrie’s outrageous appearance being the main cause of the whispers, but Carrie had never cared what anyone thought of her, and her presence in Belle’s life was a breath of fresh air in the stuffy society that she had found herself in.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to ask is how was the party for you?” Ursula brought them deftly back to the point. “There were no raised voices or flying foodstuffs so I’m counting that one as a success.”

“Well, I managed to avoid Zelena West all evening by hiding whenever it looked like she was coming near.” Belle shuddered at the thought of having to talk to the woman who had styled herself as her rival without any input from Belle herself.

“She’s a piece of work that one,” Ursula muttered, glaring at the toast rack as if it had done something to offend her. “Airing everyone’s dirty laundry, as if she hasn’t got any of her own. You know I’m not entirely sure that Robyn’s father is the man she’s always claimed him to be. She just wants an excuse to stick around here and meddle. I know she’s Regina’s stepsister, but I don’t think that there’s a lot of love lost there either.”

“At this point I wouldn’t put anything past her,” Cameron said from the other end of the table. “Put her and Cora together and you have an absolutely lethal combination. It’s a great relief that Zelena didn’t take up the family business. Can you imagine her in local government?”

“You know, I keep expecting her to get a seat on the council just so that she can spend meetings ogling you, Cameron,” Carrie said. “She’s hardly been subtle in her admiration.”

“Yes, and don’t I know it.” Cameron shook his head. “Nothing about that woman is subtle. Short of a restraining order, I’m not quite sure how to get her away from me.”

“It makes no sense in my book,” Ursula mused. “If, in some weird parallel universe, she succeeded in her mission and got Cameron to have an affair with her or leave Belle for her entirely, then she’s only making herself into the villain of the piece. No amount of poison that she could spread would change that or garner any sympathy for her, and it wouldn’t paint her precious Cameron in the best of lights either.”

“Well, no-one ever claimed that common sense was one of Zelena’s strong points,” Belle said. “I don’t think that she ever thinks about anything more than what she wants in the present, and what she wants in the present is Cam.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t already have a nice hunk of man candy on her arm,” Carrie said. “What? I’m bi, I’m not blind. What do you think her latest catch thinks of all this?”

“I doubt he’s realised yet.” Ursula snorted. “She does seem to change them as often as she changes her underwear. I think she has them on rotation, a different one for every day of the week.”

Belle burst out laughing and tried to cover it with a discreet cough into her napkin. Carrie just gave her an amused look.

“It’s all right, dear, we’re all as bad as each other,” she said.

“I know, I know. I just don’t want to be as bad as Zelena.” Belle sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy our little brunch bitching sessions like this, but I can’t help thinking that the one we’re bitching about is doing exactly the same thing this morning and I don’t want to sink to her level.”

“When it comes to people like Zelena, there’s no point in taking the moral high ground because it’s completely meaningless to them,” Ursula said sagely. “Don’t feel bad about it. Besides, you know that we only talk about these things within the confines of this lovely conservatory. We don’t go spreading our thoughts all around the town.”

“And come on, after all the poison that she puts out about everyone else, it’s nice to get our own back,” Carrie said. She swirled the straw of her Bloody Mary around in her glass. “It’s Robyn that I feel sorry for. She’s getting to that age when the things that her mother says and does are going to affect her. But speaking of, when’s Tilly next coming?”

Belle smiled. Cameron’s goddaughter had certainly hit it off with Robyn the last time that she had visited, and Belle couldn’t wait to see that relationship blossom.

“She hasn’t said, but she’s overdue a visit. She’ll probably come before summer’s over.”

“It’ll be good to see her again.”

They fell into silence as they continued to eat, hunger outweighing the need to gossip.

“Speaking of young love, though, I did notice that Emma and Bae were spending a lot of time together yesterday,” Carrie said presently. “I think that you might want to keep an eye on those two. They’re getting to that age now.”

Belle cast her mind back to what Mary Margaret had said about having Bae to stay for a few days so that she and Cameron could have some alone time for uninterrupted baby-making. Maybe they ought to stipulate that the two teens be chaperoned all the time.

“Yes, well,” she said quickly, deciding that it would probably be a good idea to change the subject. “What’s the next big event? I know that Regina’s organising Roland’s birthday party, but I don’t think we’ll be invited to that.”

“No, I think that would be smalls and the parents of smalls only,” Carrie said. “Not that the parents won’t be in dire need of a drink by the end of it. A dozen kids under the age of ten running around hyped on sugar and food colouring is not my idea of fun.”

Belle gave a somewhat wistful sigh. Although it was still a way off, she was already thinking about brightly coloured frosting and balloons. Cameron reached under the table and squeezed her hand.

“I think that the next event in our social calendar would be Ariel’s birthday in two weeks,” Belle said, dragging her thoughts away from what could have been. “I think she’s just planning something small with a few friends; she’s never been great at organising big parties and she and Eric have been so caught up in doing up the boat and opening up their New York office recently that she doesn’t have the energy for party planning.”

“Yes, it’s always much easier when you can just turn up and get drunk instead of having to be a nice responsible host,” Carrie mused. “Maybe that’s why I always enjoy other people’s parties far more than my own.”

“You turn up and get drunk at your own parties,” Ursula pointed out. “I ended up hosting your fortieth because you were too busy dancing on the punch table.”

“And an excellent night was had by all,” Carrie said with a grin of nostalgia. “We ended the evening sitting on lilos in the swimming pool with Cameron teaching us some incredibly rude songs about kilts.”

Belle looked sideways at her husband. “I take it that this is from before we were an item.”

Gold nodded. “You’d only just moved to town and I’d only just got divorced. Things were a bit lively then.”

“A Scotsman clad in kilt left the bar one evening fair,” Carrie began to sing, breaking off when Ursula stamped on her foot under the table.

“Carrie, we have polite company and it’s not even twelve o’clock yet, have some decorum!”

“I really don’t mind,” Belle protested, but the rest of the song remained unsung. She’d have to get Cameron to tell her the rest of the lyrics later.

Brunch continued to be a riotous affair, and by the end of it, any lingering stresses that Belle might have had from the previous evening had been thoroughly squashed. It always lightened her heart to know that whatever happened, Carrie and Ursula would always stand by her and Cameron’s side.

As they were walking back along the road towards the pink house, Belle slipped her arm through Cameron’s, enjoying their closeness.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he began presently. “About Mary Margaret’s offer.”

“Yes?”

“I think we’re a little overdue a break, and I’m sure that Bae wouldn’t mind being able to spend more time with Emma. I’ll call Dove and get him to make sure that the cabin’s ready for next weekend.”

Belle smiled.

“Thank you, Cam.”

Even if nothing did come of it, it would certainly be nice to spend a romantic weekend away. As Cameron had said, they were overdue, with other stresses of life and business and work eating into their time with each other. It would be nice to take a day or two to reconnect as husband and wife.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #sea devil #Belle French #Mr Gold #Ursula #Cruella De Vil #The Real Housewives of Storybrooke

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grotesquegabby · 7 years ago

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Papa Cecilio

finally I’m writing this. I wrote a future vision scene where Lennie got to meet the guy and now its finally happening.

@clownsgobeepbeep @post-itpenny tagging you cause your clowns are involved uwu

Lennie had the day off, but as Jelly was busy with work he decided to take a walk in the park. He hadn’t done that since Pierre had run into him there the last time. Which had...deterred him from going back for quite a while.

The day was beautiful, bright and sunny. A few white clouds gently passing overhead. As Lennie took his walk, music could be heard throughout the park along with the laughter of children. Perhaps a carnival was going on today. But there was no sign of one, maybe it was the icecream truck passing through the park. That always got kids excited. Lennie thought to himself, if he happened to pass by. He’d grab one for himself. The closer he got back to the gates of the park, the louder the music and children got. Up ahead he could see balloons of many colors, and children gathered around a tall clown. Lennie squinted a bit due to the sun in his eyes, but he swore he recognized the clown from somewhere. But where? He was a few feet away when finally a few clouds rolled over the sun. Letting Lennie see some more. The clown happened to look up and smile when he saw Lennie. He handed all the balloons away to the kids, “Alright kiddos run along. Old Cecilio has to take care of something.” Some of the kids whined. “Now now no need to whine, I’ll be back tomorrow. Remind your parents.” With that they all ran off. Cecilio walked over to Lennie, while he was lost in thought. “Wow....You’re all grown up.” Lennie looked up at him surprised, “What?” “I’ve been gone way too long.” He bent down and placed his gloved hand on top of Lennie’s head, “I missed so much.” Cecilio sighed then smiled, “but I’m so glad you’re alive.” Lennie was confused, “What....Who are you?” He frowned, “What you don’t recognize your old man? Wait your sniffer isn’t the best that’s why. But you gotta recognize my scent a little bit, right?” Lennie was very confused. Yes his nose wasn’t very good at picking up scents but there were subtle things it could detect. Deep down he knew he recognized this clown. “I should probably tell you my name huh. Cecilio the Jokester~ at your service.” He stood up then gave an exaggerated bow. “And you are~” he motioned to Lennie to introduce himself.

“um.....” Lennie was a bit at a loss for words. His dad was dead, that’s what Thyone told him and he told Billy. She said she killed him. Was she lying? “Lennie....” Cecilio made a go on motion. “Lazy Lennie...” Lennie flushed from embarrassment. this encounter felt a little awkward on his part. “Did you name yourself that, or did your brother give you that name?” “uh I..my brother gave it to me. I like it though.” Lennie stated not wanting some stranger to judge it harshly. It was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think I can take this any longer.” mumbled Cecilio. Before Lennie could react he was picked up quickly and pulled into a tight hug. “Oh my gosh I’ve been wanting to meet you for the longest time. I’m so happy you have no idea. Your mother is such a bitch, I just....eeeeeee” He squealed in delight much to Lennie’s surprise. “I know what would make this better. Let’s go get your brother!” Cecilio tucked Lennie under his arm like a sack of potatoes. “What?!” shouted Lennie, “What are you doing? Le-Let me go!” “Come on lets go!” And so Cecilio ran off to find Billy.

Meanwhile Billy was in yet another boring meeting. His temper though he had been working on it, was getting the best of him. He was ready to slaughter everyone in the room. That is till the door burst open. And a voice called out, “Sir I am so sorry I tried to stop him. I saw he h-had your brother but I just...” “Leave.” Was all Billy said in response. “Ye-yes sir.” They gave a bow and quickly left. Cecilio was grinning ear to ear by now, “You look exactly how I remember.” Billy pinched the bridge of his nose and then glared, “Who the hell are you?” “oh my~ He has a temper just her.” Cecilio chuckled, “Well, I’m here to take you out. Lets go!” Billy stood up and backed up as Cecilio stepped forward, “What the hell are you talking about. Do not touch me!” He looked over to see Lennie under one of his arms. “Why do you have my brother? Release him!” Lennie gulped, “Billy calm down for a sec.” Cecilio grabbed Billy and he ended up under his other arm. Arms tightly kept in place so he couldn’t try anything. “Let me go now! I will devour you, Fool!!” he started cursing in another language none of the humans could understand. “Well damn you have quite the mouth on you!” laughed Cecilio, “We’re doing family bonding! Let’s a Go!” He left with the two of them laughing hysterically. Leaving everyone in the meeting very worried, and confused.

It took a while but eventually Billy calmed down. Though still quite angry as he was held like a sack of potatoes just like his twin. Cecilio had been talking non stop. “Okay...so I can understand why Lennie couldn’t recognize me right away. But you, you have too.” “I have never met you in my ENTIRE life up till now....” hissed Billy. “Pfft you are such a spit fire huh?~ Just like your mother, woo you have her temper.” stated Cecilio as he slowed down since he was going too fast. He may have bumped into someone. “What do you know about our mother?” Billy grumbled out as he struggled to get free. “ooooh i know a lot. And it ain’t pretty. She may look sexy but she is literally Hell on Heels. A stone cold Bi...Hey whose that?” Cecilio motioned to a red haired woman not too far off. “Your scent is all over her.” He smirked as he looked down at Billy. “Why don’t we go say hello~” Billy growled, “Don’t you dare involve her in this. I will Kill you!” “Too late, it’s already happening. See my feet walking on their own. I’m already halfway there!” Laughed Cecilio.

Maggie turned hearing shouting behind her. She almost jumped back seeing A clown holding not only Lennie but a shouting struggling Billy. A gasp was heard from the taller clown, “you two are mates aren’t you. She’s so beautiful, heheheh. So wonderful to meet you miss. My name is Cecilio and who might you be?~” Maggie was taken aback having recognized the clown and she laughed. “My name is Maggie, it’s nice to meet you Cecilio” “What why are you acting so friendly with him. Can’t you see I’m trapped!” Maggie just held back another laugh at the situation, apparently Cecilio hadn’t said anything to him yet. She wasn’t going to give it away. “Well Maggie I hope I get to see you more often~” Cecilio gave her a wink and she giggled, “Are you going to be staying in town then?” “Oooh yeah, I plan on staying for quite a while~. Well now that I met you I wonder does my boy Lennie here have a mate as well?” Lennie’s eyes opened wide and he flushed brightly. Maggie smirked, “oooh yes he does, in fact in human terms. They are in fact married. Also you might learn a few other interesting things when you meet her.” Lennie almost choked, “Maggie!” she just shrugged with a smile. Cecilio winked and smirked, “Thanks for your time Maggie dear~. “ He walked past her the boys struggling in his arms, “ooh I like her. She’s got a fire to her, boy you sure know how to pick em hehehe.” Billy growled under his breath in that odd language again. “woah....rude! My mother was a saint...well as much as a saint a interdimensional monster can be of course. HA!”

It was another few hours that Cecilio was sniffing around town to finally find the building Jelly worked at. “ooooh she’s a fancy business person just like your brother too.........” Cecilio nodded, “hmmm...hmm.....lets go say hello~” “No no no no! Not like this!” argued Lennie. But Cecilio wouldn’t listen he marched on in anyway. Everyone recognized Lennie and Billy. Though their faces betrayed them when they showed concern with the man holding them. Someone tried to intervene and get in Cecilio’s path to stop him but he swerved an avoided. “Sorry lady but I have a daughter in law to meet~” He slid into the elevator with the two boys and used his foot to hit the buttons. security having tried to get to them but the door closed before they could. “heh that was odd. Does that always happen to you?” Cecilio asked Lennie as if he wasn’t the cause of it. “....no. They know me.” Lennie stated. “Gee...maybe it was because a strange clown just came waltzing in like he owned the place!” shouted Billy. “You know boy that temper is going to get you into a lot of trouble someday. Have you thought of anger management? It’s something humans do when they are too aggressive and..” “I KNOW WHAT ANGER MANAGEMENT IS!!” Billy shouted once again, breathing heavily as his sharp teeth were bared. “well sorry Mr. grumpy pants.” Cecilio rolled his eyes and laughed, “Is he always like this?” Lennie shook his head. “Also....with him having these..outbursts. I think he hasn’t recognized me due to how grumpy he is~” Cecilio teased. “Billy you should take a minute to calm down.” Lennie suggested to him and Billy glared, “Why should I?” “just do it....trust me.” Lennie sighed. Billy did his best, but it as hard with the elevator music playing. But it was just enough for Billy to focus on it, and he glared up at Cecilio, “Aren’t you supposed to be dead...” “What? I’m not about to go dying when I worked so hard for you two to be born! Pssh!” Lennie made a squicked out face at that comment. “I.....we will talk about that later.” said Cecilio. Lennie’s face became disgusted, “Ew I hope we don’t!”

the elevator door dinged and opened up. Cecilio broke out into a huge smile, “Has anyone seen the wife of my son Lennie!” People just stopped what they were doing and stared at the man who came out of the elevator. Cecilio sniffed the air, “ooh never mind!” He marched on. “wait wait please stop. Not like this!” Lennie struggled in his fathers arm trying to get free. He was embarrassed to be help like a sack. Cecilio came to some doors, and let himself in, “Hello daughter in law!” Jelly looked up surprised and a bit angry that someone just came bursting in. Then she saw Billy....then Lennie, “Lennie whats..” Lennie tried to explain “This isn’t bad I swear this is just...” “The name is Cecilio, it is such a pleasure to meet you. you are so pretty, my boys sure know how to pick em. “ He sniffed and an even bigger cheesier smile came onto his face. He squealed as he dropped the boys, “You’re pregnant! I’m gonna be a grandpa!” He picked up Jelly and hugged her. Billy stood up and brushed himself off. Lennie did the same and interrupted, “You know um...D-Dad.” That caught Cecilio’s attention. He still was hugging a very surprised Jelly though. “Billy has a daughter of his own. From his o-old mate.” Cecilio looked at Billy who was grumbling under his breath. When he heard his name he looked up eyes wide. “I’m already a grandpa!” He squealed and let go of Jelly and pulled Billy into a tight hug. Lennie ran over to Jelly, “you alright?” She nodded and straightened out her shirt, “yes I...that’s your dad I thought he was..you know?” “Me too, apparently Thyone lied.” stated Lennie. Cecilio nuzzled Billy and squeezed him, “I’m so happy.” he had a few tears in his eyes. “Well this is fantastic news, he seems like a really nice guy. Though....i’d like to know why he just showed up.” stated Jelly. Lennie nodded, “Me too. I figured I’d ask him once all the excitement dies down a bit.”

The day went great, Billy calmed down. Cecilio met some of the new family and his boys. Even meeting Amaranthus who was cautious at first but loved him by the end of the day. Once everything was calm it was time to catch up and talk. But that is a story for another day.

#Cecilio the Jokester #Billy the Bumbling Clown #Lazy Lennie #Maggie the Clown #Jelly the Clown #fic

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calmcal · 7 years ago

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the arcade fiasco

adventures in babysitting series { 002 out of ??? }

masterlist

Summary: you and steve fall into a babysitting job for mike, dustin, lucas, max, will and eleven. but things never seem to be easy. prepare to have adventures no babysitter would ever dream of doing.

Paring: steve harrington X insert reader { female }

Requested: no

Word count: 3.2 k

Warnings: language

Author Note: your girl is back with the second installment of this series and it feels v good. and also you guys are legit faves, you make me feel so good about this series.

also if you want to be tagged in this series all you have to do is ask, and you shall receive :) let me know what you think !

the arcade was brightly lit, the neon lights from the games lit the room with vibrancy. there was noise coming from everywhere, weather it be music, or game sound effects or just random chatter from the people in the arcade.

there was a thick stench of greasy foods and plastic, and the smell made you feel nostalgic of times where things weren’t so crazy, when you would find yourself in this very arcade with your group of friends, playing rounds of pac man and donkey kong while eating greasy fries with cheese.

now you were here as an unofficial baby sitter with steve harrington, your life had totally flipped upside-down, pun intended.

your sneaker clad feet walked almost soundlessly as you followed closing behind steve to a bright yellow neon sign in the shape of pac-man.

“ready to lose y/l/n?” steve asked with a shit eating grin. his tone was heavily laced with humor.

you let out a laugh, shaking your head. “you already lost once taday harrington, and you really prepared to take another?” you retorted with a pointed look, referring to the small argument that happened in the car.

“those kids don’t know how great of a babysitter I am” steve boasted as he puffed out his chest with pride.

“okay sure, if that helps you sleep at night” you teased poking at his chest, deflating him like a balloon, that made you smile.

“just for that, I am totally going to kick your ass” steve pointed a finger at you, smiling.

you and steve huddled around the small game, the darkly lit screen casting a yellow glow on your face. steve rummaged through his pockets to pull out a silver coin and pushing it into the coin slot of the machine, a whirlwind of noise emitting from the machine.

suddenly everything on the screen came to life, and the game was ready to be played. you wanted as steve pressed on the buttons harshly, his eyes glues to the screen, watching everything moving item.

your eyes drifted away from the screen to look at his face. there were creases on his forehead, brows furrowed in concentration. his teeth biting down harshly on his bottom lip. this made a shiver run down your spine, the redness spreading on his lips, and in that moment you wanted to kiss him. you tried to shake the feeling away, but you couldn’t help it, he just looked to good not to notice. you felt your cheeks warming as you continued to stare at him, stray stands of brown hair falling over his eyes, it was a heart warming sight.

there was a commotion that made you tear your eyes away from steve to see dustin, lucas and max standing in front of a freckly boy wearing a purple pinstripe uniform that belonged to the arcade. from where you were standing, you couldn’t see lucas or dustin’s face, but you could clearly see the workers face.

it was bright red with anger as he spoke at a rapid pace, you couldn’t hear what he was saying, but you knew it wasn’t pleasant.

“hey” you said tearing your gaze away from the commotion to look back at steve.

“huh” he moved his head back enough to hear you speak, but his eyes staying glued to the screen, fingers moving at an even faster rate.

“I’ll uh be right back, I need to fix a situation” you said simple, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

“can’t take the heat of my pac-man skills” steve snickered.

you rolled your eyes. “no, your pac-man skill are mediocre at best” you shrugged your shoulders, playfulness oozing from your words.

steve scoffed and motioned you away with a wave of his hand, before continuing his button pressing.

you giggle in response before turning of the heels of your feet. dustin and lucas were still being yelled at by this worker, it was drawing the gazes of strangers around them, although you were sure they didn’t mind.

you cleared your throat loudly when you stood being the two boys, making the freckled boy stop in his wake, his words pausing. lucas and dustin turned their heads to see you standing behind them, they had wide smiles on their lips now.

“is there a problem?” you asked in a sweet tone, placing a hand on each of the boys shoulders.

the words straightened his posture, his hand that was pointing an accusing finger, fell to his side. his face was still bright red with anger, and sent you an annoyed look.

“these shitheads were flinging quarters at me” he said in an accusing tone.

you spared a look at the two boys, who were already looking at you with sheepish smiles. your lips twitched at the ends, there was a smile forming on your face. you covered the twitch with a cough and sternly looked at the worker.

“and you knew it was them, i mean there are plenty of people in this arcade” you said, stating the obvious.

now you knew dustin and lucas and been the culprits, you didn’t have to see it to know, you just knew them to well. the freckled boy looked shocked at your answer, you had just blatantly said that they wren’t the ones who did it, as if he didn’t see it with his own eyes.

“I-I-I saw them do it!” he spoke a little louder now, clearly angered by your response.

“maybe, just maybe you’re seeing things” you said, shrugging your shoulders.

“i am not seeing things!” he continued to shout at you. “these little dicks were throwing their money at me!”

“okay firstly” you gave to boy a harsh glare, and he slunk back slightly. “they aren’t dicks, they are kids so don’t think it’s okay to call them that and secondly” you paused for a moment as the freckled boy tried interrupt. “do not interrupt me, secondly you should be happy they were throwing money at you there are worse things”

“wh- what the hell” were the few words that slipped from his lips.

“I mean she’s right” lucas said nodded his head, speaking for the first time since you arrived.

“yeah, we were contemplating throwing some cheese fries instead, but then that’s kind of a stick mess, so we kept throwing quarters at you instead” dustin smiled cheekly.

his reasoning didn’t seem to help the situation, it only angered the worker further.

“okay so they threw so quarters at you, big deal, pick ‘em up and keep them” you said, sure you would be annoyed if you were to one being pelted with coins, but this guy was being kind of ridiculous in his yelling. they were kids throwing money, not killing his pet.

“who even are you anyway?” the worker spat the question at with.

“okay michael” you said in a sarcastic tone, reading the fine print of his name tag. “i’m there babysitter” you said with certainty.

“oh you’re a great babysitter” michael spat at you.

“oh thanks for noticing” you retorted as sarcastically as possible, you were now pushing his buttons, you could clearly see it.

“as fun as this has been, we’re gonna go” you started to back yourself and the boys out of the heated argument, but it seemed michael was’t going to let any of you go that easy.

“no these kids are going to pay for what they did” michael said sternly, stepping forward and taking a hold of your wrist.

your hands were still placed on the boys shoulder, so when michael grabbed you, your hand tightened against lucas’ shoulder as a chain reaction. lucas flinched as the sudden tightening of your grip, and you winced, letting your hand drop, sending him a small smile.

“let me go” you said calmly as you tried to pull your wrist from his tight grip.

you underestimated his strength as his grip tightened even more. you moved you other hand from dustins shoulder and moved a step in front of the boy younger boys, protecting them from this jerkwad.

“they don’t have to pay for anything, stop being a shithead” you spat harshly at michael.

michael scoffed loudly “yeah they do, so pay up bitch” michael replied.

your eyes squinted in a tight glare, he was really trying you, his beady eyes were staring you down harshly, his lips were pulling into a snarl. you could compare him to a rapid dog, but you held your comment back.

“let me go asshole” you sternly said and he didn’t waver from his stance.

you eyes strayed away from his freckled face to your surroundings, there were people scattered everywhere in the arcade, some were looking in your direction with concerned looks, others were glued to their respective games and the rest were completely oblivious what was happening around them. there was a small group was young girls who were making their way towards you, the closets one to you help a large Styrofoam cup of soda.

you made quick thinking as she was close enough to you. “I asked nicely before, but you ignored me so . . .” you didn’t finish your sentence as you reached out to take the cup fro the girls hand and throwing the red dark liquid in michale’s face.

he spluttered as the dark liquid covered his face, his eyes screwed shut and his tight grip on your wrist released. you let the cup fall from your hands and it fell to the ground silently. there was a satisfied smile on your lisp as you watched michael try to wipe the sticky liquid away from his eyes.

“you bitch” michael spat.

“yeah well I you should have listened to me the first time” you rested her hand on your hips as you stared at him.

“hey y/n where- what the hell happened!” steve came up from behind you, shocked at the state of michael, drenched in soda, red faced and furious.

“these stupid kids were pegging quarters at me, and your bitch friend dumped soda on me” michael exposed the lot of you before you could even open your mouth.

you looked at steve and watched as his shell shocked reaction wore off and he looked like he wanted to laugh.

“yeah well you know- i mean- it’s- you know what lets go” steve stumbled over his words until he came to the decision to take you by the arm and pull you towards the exit. “mike, will, el and max we’re leaving now!” steve shouted through the arcade.

dustin and lucas were hot on your tail, they were then joined by mas, el, will and mike.

“hey get back here!” michael shouted loudly and angrily.

“run, run!” you shouted as you motioned the kids in front of you, hurrying them out of the arcade.

“that was so cool!” dustin shouted with a wide smile as you all ran towards your car.

“what the heck happened in there?” mike asked in confusion.

lucas and dustin shared a ecstatic glance before launching into the story of what happened the everyone who didn’t see. the group of eight stood around your car as you unlocked the car, everyone climbing in and settling.

“it was so cool!” lucas grinned widely at the end of the story. “I totally think y/n is the better babysitter now” he continued.

you smiled slightly at his excitement but you felt a little jumpy, your wrist felt sore and you were almost certain that you were going to have a bruise tomorrow. you put the key in the ignition and the car roared to life, and soft music floated through the radio.

“so uh this babysitting adventured was chaotic” steve commented leaning back in his chair, turning his head to loom at you.

you didn’t look at him, keeping your eyes glues to the road ahead of you as you pulled out of the car park.

“yeah” you mumbled under your breath.

“and i didn’t even get to beat you at pac-man with my clearly superior skills” he continued on in a distracting manner, cracking his knuckled loudly.

“okay quit it grub” you laughed swatting his hands to stop him from making the weird sound again.

steve smiled in satisfaction, you weren’t sure if it was because if antics annoyed you or because he made you laugh, but you didn’t mind either way.

“so uh throwing a drink, nice touch” he laughed.

“now you know not to mess with me harrington” you threw back as you spared him a look.

“you wouldn’t” he gasped in fake shock.

“yeah yeah I totally would” you nodded along with your words.

steve laughed at you, and the sound of the kids chattering became the only sound between you as you drove along the road.

“hey y/n!” max called from the back seat.

you looked in the rear view mirror and hummed in response, waiting for her to speak again.

“next time you decide to throw a drink on another jerkwad, let me know so I can watch” max smiled sweetly, and everyone in the car erupted in laughter.

“you got it mad max”

you drove everyone back to dustins house, where all six kids hopped out of the car. each one thanked you for driving them, while dustin thank you for ‘the great entertainment you provided’

when everyone had piled into the house, that’s when you deemed it okay to start driving steve back home.

“so what shall we call this babysitting adventures miss y/n?” steve asked as you drove.

“are we going to give all our babysitting things a mission name?” you asked in return.

“um yes, mission names are crucial” steve said as if pointing out the obvious.

“you hand out with dustin to much” you teased.

“okay no, he hangs out with me” steve reversed your statement with a smug grin.

“sure” you said with a smile.

“you know what, lets call this adventures in babysitting ‘the arcade fiasco’” steve suggested with a proud smile.

“oh did you come up with that one on your own?” you asked in a teasing tone.

“‘did you make that one on you own’ yes i did thank you very much, and it’s great, much like everything else i do” he mocked you with a wide lipped grin on his face, he looked proud to have come up with such a name.

you did say anything in response, you only shook your head as bubbles of laughter emitted from your parted lips.

steve stopped talking as he watched you from the passenger seat, his eyes were looking at your wrist. the normally clear skin was rubbed red raw from michael’s tight grip, you shifted under his careful gaze, trying to take the attention away from the red skin.

“did he do that?” steve asked in a soft voice as he pointed to your wrist.

“mhm but it’s okay” you said quickly, trying to divert the situation, you didn’t want to talk about what that jerk did, because you gave him his karma.

steve didn’t say anything, but he reached out to take young much smalled hand in his large calloused one, his fingers touched the red skin lightly, making you wince softly.

“sorry” he mumbled under his breath.

the one hand you had resting on the steering wheel tightened, your knuckles turning a faded white. “it’s okay steve, I've had worse injuries, you know that” you said, and it was true, you can’t fight a demogorgon and come out unharmed.

“I know” he replied, but his hand stayed wrapped around yours, fingers linking with your own.

your heart thumped loudly in your chest as you spared a look at your intertwined hands. his large pale hands almost engulfed your smaller hand, the feeling of his calloused skin scraping against you smooth palms made shivers shoot up and down your arm. it was a nice feeling, having him hold your hand, not that you would say it out loud.

you could see steve’s large house further down the road, and it made your heart plummet to your stomach, you didn’t him to go, not yet.

“thanks for coming, even after originally saying no” you said as you pulled into the driveway.

“yeah, i’m glad you asked me cause then I never would have seen you own that arcade guy, which was completely awesome by the way” steve sent you a charming smile that almost made you swoon, almost.

“just being the better babysitter” you flexed the statement out, which made steve scowl.

“and you didn’t even get to be a sore looser after being left in the dust of my out of this world pac-man skills” steve boasted.

“well i’m not sure i’ll ever be allowed back there, but i’ll owe you a pac-man game” you giggled.

you were certain you would be banned from the arcade for a while, throwing a drink in someones face could warrant that, even if they were a huge dick who deserved it.

“maybe not a pac-man game then” steve chuckled. “how about lunch, tomorrow?” steve asked, a sheepish smile on his lips.

you froze in your spot, the smile you had on your lips seemed to slip away as shock encased your features. was steve freaking harrington asking you on a date? did you hear him correctly? were you dreaming?

“w-what like a-a date?” you fumbled over your words as you tired to ease the string of words out of your mouth into a sentence that he could comprehend.

steve chuckled at your stumbling, it made your cheeks warm. “yeah a date” he nodded.

there was a lump forming in the back of your throat, your stomach was full of fluttering butterflies, you were sure your face was a deep red by now. your lips slowly pulled into a wide grin, there wasn’t any chance that you were going to be able to hide your cheer excitement. your eyes scanned over steve’s face, his dazzling brown eyes watching you and your every move, waiting for an answer. and a sheepish grin on his lips at the mere sight of your flustered cheeks.

“uh yeah okay, lunch tomorrow” you finally agreed, the words coming out rushed and laced with excitement.

“great, i’ll pick you up at eleven?” steve asked, his hand detangeling from yours leaving your palm cold.

“yep” was the only thing that came out of your mouth.

steve chuckled. “okay, see you tomorrow” steve said as he pushed open the car door.

you wanted from your spot in the drives seat as steve walked to the frontdoor of his house, turning back once to wave you goodbye, his ever so charming smile making your heart flutter, before you disappeared behind the hard wood.

once he was out of sight and ear shot you let out a happy scream. this was totally amazing. who knew a adventures in babysitting would lead to a date.

adventures in babysitting tag list: @electra-mesmeric @panic-at-space-camp @galaxy-moon @leaningtowerof-not-pisa @em-ughhh @yojakey-d @queenlalybug

#steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington au #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington and reader #steve harrington self incert imagine #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #adventured in babysitting #actuallyremus

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satoruvt · 7 years ago

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what was found - part one

this is completely different from the first one i posted and also a LOT fuckin longer so everyone saddle up and grab a snack

pairing → bill x reader

word count → 1300

summary → moving sucked, it always did - but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this time.

It was never easy moving to a new place. You know that, you understand that - it’s happened to you many times before. You and your parents moved around a lot, and after a while you simply got used to it. This was no difference, so why were you so nervous?

From what your mother had told you, Derry, Maine, was a small town that was relatively quiet aside from a few parades or celebrations for holidays. Everybody knew everybody - not in a snobby way, in a homey, there-aren’t-new-people-here kind of way. Perhaps that’s why you were so nervous - you were the new kid, now, the one that everyone knew about but no one actually knew. You were the outsider.

So as you pulled onto your street you noticed people stopping and staring at your car pulling into the empty driveway at the new house on Jackson Street. A medium-sized moving van pulled up in front of your house after you and your parents.

It isn’t long before you have most everything in the house, and it only takes another hour or so for everything to be put in its place. There are still a few extra boxes here and there but they’re full of simple things like coat hangers or VHS tapes. Your mother’s baking cookies - “To give to the neighbors, we have to make a good impression - this is a small town, you annoy one person and you annoy everyone,” she had said - and dancing to Crazy Little Thing Called Love by Queen and your father’s sitting in a chair, dozing off.

You have most of the things in your room set up, and you just need to add the small decorations you had. A few polaroids of friends from recent towns, a few more printed photos here and there.

“Y/N!” Your mother calls from downstairs. “I need you to give this batch to the neighbors!”

You run a hand through your hair and walk down the steps of your new house. You pull on a quick pair of slip-ons and grab the nicely decorated plate of cookies with a thankful smile from your mother, then exit the house. You pause for a moment once you’re in front of your house - Which neighbor do I go to? You think - then start walking to the right.

The neighbor’s house is quite nice, even just from the outside. You see from outside that there’s a piano in one room and smile to yourself, just a little. Balancing the plate of cookies on one hand, you ring the doorbell with another and wait patiently.

The door opens within a few seconds and reveals a boy around your age. He’s a bit taller than you, with dark hair and some of the most stunning eyes you’ve ever seen. You think a moment passes and then you realize that you’ve spent the last little bit just staring at this boy, and you blink as your cheeks flush because he’s cute.

“Cuh-Cuh-Can I h-help you?” The boy says, and it’s not rude, just confused.

“Oh, um, yeah,” You say with a soft smile. “My name’s Y/N L/N, my family and I just moved in next door.” You tell him, pointing to your house on the left. He follows your gaze and nods a bit, then turns to you and offers a barely-visible smile.

“I’m Buh-Buh-Bill D-Denbrough,” he says simply, and you smile just a bit wider.

“Anyways, my mom made these cookies and wanted me to give you and your family some.” You say as you hand him the plate, and he takes it from you. You start to leave and then Bill stops you with a call of you name.

“H-H-Hey, L/N!” He calls, and you turn around. “M-Me and a f-f-few f-f-riends and I a-are g-going to the qu-qu-quarry tomorrow, i-if you wanna cuh-cuh-come. A-Around noon.”

You send him a smile and nod, then wave as you walk away.

“See you later, Bill Denbrough,” you say with a wink, and you swear Bill’s cheeks are just a bit redder than they were before.

The day after you officially move to Derry is when things get crazy - for a town as small as it is, Derry’s got a lot of shit going on.

You were on your way to the quarry - Bill had knocked on your door just a few hours after you knocked on his to tell you where the quarry actually was - when someone stepped in your way. He was at least five inches taller than you and by the way he and the rest of his friends surrounded you, he didn’t want you going anywhere.

“And who might you be?” You ask him, and he smirks, which makes your stomach churn.

“I don’t think you should be asking the questions, new girl,” The guy says, and you raise an eyebrow. “But to answer your question, I’m Henry Bowers.”

You nod, and then try to leave, but you’re blocked. “Well, Henry Bowers, I have somewhere to be, so I think it’s time to end this little chat,” You tell Henry, but he doesn’t move.

“Not so fast. See, thing is, I actually find you pretty fucking hot, and I wouldn’t mind having a toy to play with, so whaddya say?” Henry asks, and you look him dead in the eye.

“Bite me, that’s what I say.”

Henry’s amused smirk falls and the expression on his face immediately becomes angry. “Well, I think I need to teach you a lesson, bitch,” Henry tells you, and you barely get in one word before he punches you.

It doesn’t take long for Henry to beat the shit out of you, but by the time him and his goons are done you’re laying on the ground with a bloody nose and bruised body and a grin on your face that’s spread from ear to ear.

You get up off the ground with a head rush and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. You don’t know why you’re smiling, exactly, but you are, and you reckon it’s better to feel as good as you do than to be crying, right?

You walk the last five minutes to the quarry, and when Bill sees you, he flips his shit.

“Wuh-What the h-h-hell hah-happened? Juh-Juh-Jesus Christ, you’re buh-bleeding!” He exclaims, and you only grin in response as you take off your dress to swim with everyone. Bill shuts up quite quickly after that.

“So are you gonna introduce me or what?” You say instead, motioning to the five others in front of you.

Bill rolls his eyes playfully and introduces you to everyone - Stanley, Eddie, Richie (who kisses your hand with a suggestive wink), Ben, and Beverly.

It doesn’t take long for you to get acquainted with everyone - the second you speak a word to them it feels like you’ve known them for years. You feel right at home with them, a feeling you haven’t felt in a while.

The seven of you splash around in the water, commencing chicken fights and splashing and laughing. For being beaten up not even an hour prior, you’re feeling almost euphoric.

You swim away from everyone for a moment, watching from the sidelines. Bill ends up swimming next to you, asking about what happened earlier.

“This dude - Henry Bowers, he said his name was - came up to me, asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend, and when I said no, he beat the shit out of me.” You say simply, and Bill looks angry.

“B-Bowers is a d-d-dick, honestly,” is all he says, and you giggle.

You look up at the sky, which is turning just the slightest bit orange in the late summer light, and furrow your brows, because you think you see a red balloon floating in the sky.

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littleshebear · 7 years ago

Note

For the meme: Saladin/Jolder, #7 or #9!

Sorry this took so long, Nonny, it’s been a combination of real life being a bitch and what was intended to be a drabble ballooning to over 2,000 words. So you get a long-ass fic too, Nonny. I went with #7: Laughing kiss, I thought that would be more of a challenge with these two. Angst is the easy route with Saladin/Jolder. This starts out a touch angsty but ends with fluff, both metaphorical and literal. Foundlings.Saladin Forge | Lady Jolder | Saladin x Jolder | Iron Lords | Established Relationship | Fluff | Smooching | Excessive Cute | cw: brief mention of animal death

“Saladin Forge, what have you done?”

Jolder should have known he’d been up to something. Thinking back, he’d been characteristically quiet after the battle. He always needed time to himself after a fight, but he was very gloomy this time, even for him. His mood had blackened significantly when they’d found the wolves.

They couldn’t be sure who’s attack had done for them, theirs or the warlord’s but the result was depressingly clear to see. The poor beasts’ bodies were burned, scattered, mangled. Blood and gore marred the ground beneath them.

“It would have been quick,” Jolder had said, squeezing his hand in hers, “I doubt they felt anything.”

“That’s not the point,” he’d growled in response. “This had nothing to do with them. They were innocent.”

“Collateral damage, Saladin. It happens.” Radegast’s calm, measured contribution only served to make Saladin’s scowl deepen. The guilt settled on him, heavy, like drifting snow. He stalked off, separating himself from the rest of the group after mumbling an assurance to Jolder that he would be fine and that he would catch up to them later.

No one witnessed him return to Felwinter Peak. When Jolder finally saw him he was evasive and his normally pristine armour was caked in mud and grime. After a furtive couple of hours, he finally invited Jolder to follow him with a silent, conspiratorial nod of his head. Jolder wasn’t sure what to expect but it certainly wasn’t four wolf pups play-fighting on their bedroom floor.

“What did you do?” Jolder reiterates.

“I tracked back to their den, i wanted to make sure that the pack we killed didn’t have young. They did. So…” He shrugs, as if his actions were perfectly natural, the only reasonable response to the situation. “I crawled in after them.”

“You don’t know that we killed them.”

“They got caught in the crossfire of our fight.” He states simply, obviously in no mood to brook any argument. “We killed them, we’re responsible.”

Jolder shakes her head, “It was an accident.”

“That doesn’t make these cubs any less orphaned.”

Jolder drags her hands down her face and makes a strangulated noise, something between a groan and a growl. “Saladin,” she begins, imbuing her voice with as much compassion and understanding as possible. “I love you. Never doubt that. I love that you care so much but this?” She gestures to the pups, “This is a terrible idea!”

“What else was I supposed to do? Let them starve to death?”

“These are wild animals, they’re not pets.”

“I know that, I’m not keeping them-”

“They’re in our bedroom!” Jolder interjects.

I’m just taking care of them until they can take care of themselves.”

“Be practical,” Jolder presses her hands together and looks at him entreatingly,”How are you going to feed them? Do you have a secret supply of wolf’s milk stashed somewhere?”

“I think they’re weaned…” He glances back and forth between Jolder and the pups. “I think they’re weaned. Don’t they look weaned to you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m Jolder the titan, you must be confusing me with Jolder the wolf expert.”

“This is no time for sarcasm, Jolder,” Saladin says, frowning.

“This is the perfect time for sarcasm!” Jolder retorts, throwing her hands in the air. “You have no idea what you’re doing, you don’t know what to feed them, I’m not sure the others will be thrilled to know there are wolves running around under our roof, and okay, they’re cute now but in a few months they’ll have grown into massive, untameable murder-dogs.”

“They’re not going to be staying after they’re adults, I told you. Just until they can fend for themselves.”

“And who is going to teach them to hunt, you?”

Saladin shrugs. “Perun might help?” Jolder shoots him an exasperated, sceptical look. “She said she likes wolves,” Saladin adds by way of explanation.

“I think she likes them in the abstract, that doesn’t mean she’ll like them running around the Iron Temple.”

“Efrideet?” Saladin suggests, just the hint of a wince in his features.

“You know what?” Jolder laughs mirthlessly, “You’re probably right, she’s reckless enough to go along with this nonsense.”

Saladin looks away, suddenly distracted by movement in the corner of his eye. He sighs and crosses over to the bed, disentangling a pup from the bed clothes as it tries to burrow underneath. “No,” he admonishes gently, petting him behind his ears with his free hand. “Go play with your litter-mates.”

Jolder can’t help but hear the affection in Saladin’s voice and her heart sinks. “Please don’t get attached. The others might not like this. Don’t assume they’ll let you keep them.”

“I’ll tell the others…” He hesitates, depositing the pup on the floor, “…soon.”

“Keeping them secret will not go down well.”

“Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll tell them tomorrow.” He heads for the door. “Can you keep an eye on them for a while?”

“Where are you going?” Asks Jolder.

“I should put in an appearance at the forge and the armoury. My absence has probably been noticed. Then I’ll see if I can get them something to eat from the stores.”

“There’s probably some spare bones they could chew on, I guess.”

Saladin turns back to face her, looking horrified. “No! No bones. They splinter, they can cause a lot of damage to a pup.”

“So how do they manage in the wild?” Asks Jolder, incredulous.

“The adult wolves regurgitate partially digested meat for them.”

Jolder wrinkles her nose, “Please tell me you won’t be doing that?”

Saladin raises an eyebrow.

“That’s disgusting and not even remotely funny,” says Jolder, the look of revulsion still on her face.

Saladin chuckles and opens the door. “I’ll see you soon.” He turns his attention to the pups. “Be good,” he intones to them before leaving and closing the door after him.

Jolder sighs deeply and runs her hand through her hair as she watches the cubs. Two of them are play-fighting, rolling around and snapping at eachother. Jolder wonders if she should break it up at some point. The pup that had been so interested in the bedclothes now has his nose pressed firmly against Jolder’s boot, investigating her scent. Where’s the other one? She wonders. There were four, weren’t there?Jolder crosses the room to check the other side of the bed. Sure enough, there she is, squatting down on her haunches.

“Oh no,” breathes Jolder, “No, no, no, not that, not in here!” The pup stands, leaving a little puddle in her wake. She toddles over to Jolder and begins pawing at her leg, looking rather pleased with herself.

“Forge,” Jolder shakes her head, regarding the mess on the floor, “You did not think this through.”

~*~

Saladin makes his way back from the stores with some food for the pups. He doesn’t think the off-cuts of meat he swiped will be missed but he suspects he may be pushing it with the venison steaks. He hesitates before opening the door, hearing Jolder’s voice on the other side. He presses his ear to the door and listens.

“No, no! Put that down!” There’s a brief pause before he hears her again, “Okay, fine. I can get another one.”

Saladin opens the door very carefully, making as little noise as possible. He waits in the doorway, smiling softly at the scene in front of him. Jolder is seated, cross-legged on the floor, with the pups competing for a chance to climb on her.

“Okay,” She says, gently lifting them down off of her, “take turns, play nice. There’s enough Jolder for everyone.” Two of them begin playing tug of war with a tattered piece of cloth, that looks like it’s what’s left of Jolder’s Mark. They muster the most blood-curdling growls their little lungs can manage.

“It’s all right guys, honestly,” she says, quietly laughing at their antics, “I didn’t need that Mark, truly.” She turns her attention to the remaining two, who have flopped onto the floor beside her, positioning themselves to lay their heads on either side of her lap. “What’s up you two? You tired? Are you tired, little ones?” Jolder pets the wolves snuggled up against her, scratching behind their ears and talking gently to them.

“You okay, Fenrir?” She asks quietly. “Do you miss your family, hm?” The little wolf stretches and grumbles as if in answer. “I know, it’s rough. You’re lucky though, you have no idea how lucky you are that he was the one to find you.” The other pup rolls over on her back, yawning expansively.

Jolder carries on talking while absently rubbing the pup’s belly. “I was like you, you know. Alone, no family. But he found me too.” She laughs at a sudden recollection, “And then I punched him because I was scared and I didn’t know who he was, I didn’t know he was one of the good ones. Didn’t put him off though, he wanted to make sure I was okay, bloody nose and all.” Her smile fades a little, taking on a more wistful, distant look, while Saladin looks on, silently. He covers his mouth, hiding his smile behind his fist.

“And he is one of the good ones. The best, actually.” Jolder’s smile broadens again. “So you be good for him! Or I’ll hand you over to Felwinter, and you won’t like that, believe me.” She jostles the female pup playfully who responds by rolling over and leaping at her, licking at her face. The male pup takes this as an invitation to follow suit.

Jolder shrieks, “Raksha! Fenrir, no! Down!” For all her protestations, she giggles uncontrollably and ruffles the pups’ fur throughout the affectionate attack.

Saladin finally gives voice to the laughter that’s been threatening to escape since he saw Jolder with the cubs. Jolder gasps and looks up at him.

“How long have you been standing there?” She asks, wide-eyed.

“Long enough,” He replies, closing the door before any of his charges can escape. They rush over to him and alternate between nipping at his heels and glueing their noses to the bag containing the meat Saladin has procured for their dinner. He chuckles as he begins distributing the meat among them. “You’re not getting attached now, are you?”

“Shut up,” she’s smiling but the colour is rising in her cheeks. “Okay, they’re cute. But they won’t stay cute. I still say this is a bad idea.”

“You gave them names!” He settles on the floor beside her and nudges her.

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Jolder protests, pushing back against him. “I just thought it was easier than calling them, ‘Smelly Inconvenience One Through Four.’” She points at each cub in turn, “Okay. The one that’s running off with the best cut of meat? That’s Raksha. The one overseeing the feeding schedule? That’s Fenrir, he’s a bossy one. And the two that utterly destroyed my Mark are Luperca and Radegast. They’re trouble.”

“Radegast?” Saladin asks, his voice quavering with amusement.

“Yeah,” she shrugs, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. “He looks like Radegast.”

“How can a wolf look like-” Saladin cocks his head when he looks at the newly-christened Radegast. “Oh, actually…”

Jolder snorts and collapses into giggles again, leaning against Saladin. He Puts his arm around her and whispers in her ear.

“Admit it. You like them.”

“They tore up my mark.”

“You were playing with them.”

“Luperca peed on the floor.”

“You named them.”

There’s a brief silence, then all Jolder can come back with is, “Shut up.” She tries to fashion a scowl but her smile breaks through. She tips her head to the side, granting his lips access to her neck. He kisses her softly, starting at her earlobe and working his way down the side of her neck. Jolder closes her eyes and bites her lip, doing her best to rein in that treacherous grin. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What isn’t going to work?” He purrs.

“What you’re doing to my neck.”

“Was I doing something to your neck?” Saladin grazes his teeth lightly over her skin, eliciting a delighted squeal from her.

“Fine!” Jolder exclaims. “Fine you win. They’re adorable. You were right. It would have been wrong to leave them. Pleased?”

“Of course I’m pleased,” He encircles her in his arms and pulls her close, “You admitted you were wrong, I’m going to ask Tyra to record this in the annals.”

“Oh ho, really? Don’t push your luck, Forge!” Jolder turns to straddle Saladin’s lap and puts her hands on his shoulders. Her push is gentle, but he acquiesces to her touch immediately, tumbling back onto the floor, laughing uproariously. She muffles his laughter with her lips, while he threads his fingers through her hair and cups her head in his hands.

Saladin breaks the away briefly to say a breathy, “Thank you,” before closing the gap between them again. His lips are softer now that his mirth has faded a little and she takes her time, luxuriating in the kiss, savouring his closeness. She eventually pulls back and rests her forehead against his.

“It’s worth it to see you this happy. One thing though.” She places her index finger over his lips and holds his gaze. “They’re sleeping in your workshop. They’re not spending the night in here.”

Saladin purses his lips before replying with a simple but sceptical, “Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I believe you,” he assures her, even as his shoulders begin shaking, a portent of another laughing fit.

“Shut up.”

~*~

Jolder and Saladin lie in bed, any and all attempts at sleep thwarted by the sound of the pups crying from a couple of rooms away. Jolder does her best to ignore the pitiful whines, telling herself that they’ll tire themselves out. She finally throws off the covers and gets up when the howling starts.

“Traveler’s Light!” She hisses in the dark of their room, “They’re going to wake up the whole temple.” Saladin hears her pad across the floor and open the bedroom door. He then hears another door swing open and the crying stops and is immediately replaced by the sound of sixteen sets of claws skittering across the stone floor. He feels the bed being shaken from all sides, no doubt the pups scrabbling their way up onto the mattress.

“Ah-ah!” Jolder admonishes one of them. “That’s my spot. Move.” She slips back into bed beside him.

“We’ll figure out something more practical,” Saladin reassures her as the cubs lie down on the bed; one each on their feet, one wedged between them and one pressed up against the back of Saladin’s knees. “Maybe we can persuade Silimar to build a kennel?”

He feels her tense up in his arms. “Not right away? We’re not going to make them sleep outside right away, are we?” Jolder asks uncertainly. “They’re only babies.”

Saladin buries his face in her shoulder, stifling his laughter.

Jolder sighs. “Shut up.”

#destiny fanfiction #my writing #lord saladin #lady jolder #saladin x jolder #kiss meme #ask and answer #destiny #fluff

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