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rafesbabygirlx · 1 month ago

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I Love Him Though

Masterlist

Toxic Rafe x Kook Reader

Contents: NONCON/DUBCON, smut, breeding kink, oral (m+f receiving) name callings turns into pet name calling, daddy kink, degradation, physical abuse mentions. Unsuccessful offering (prostitution) Rafe is back and forth with emotions. Ward is dead but I still picture curtain bangs S2 Rafe when he’s ’toxic.’ That should be everything.

Not read over

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: someone let me know if I’m using warnings right. Please also I’m working in better dialogue and hope it’s improving. :)

You were the quintessential heiress princess, born into OBX’s most prominent family. The youngest of four brothers and your parents’ only daughter, you just graduated from USC in California with a business degree and returned to the island, stepping into the role of Chief Operations Officer, second only to your father. Your beauty was legendary on Figure Eight—admired by girls and desired by boys.

Alongside you was your boyfriend, Rafe Cameron—handsome, irresistible, and undeniably complicated. He went to UCLA for business. Not his first choice but he’d be damned to let you be across the country on your own. You started dating sophomore year, and despite the ups and downs, you stayed together, much to your parents’ dismay. They had warned you about the Cameron family, especially Rafe’s drug and anger issues. But the relationship felt like the one thing that was truly yours, and you didn’t care.

Not when he slapped you in front of your friends. Not when he tried to offer you to Barry as payback for a debt. (Thankfully, Barry had some decency.) Not even when he ruined a family dinner, barging in during a coke-fueled rage. You excused yourself to take care of him, understanding that it always came back to his issues with his father. This all happened during his downward spiral and issues with the Pogues. All this you heard from Sarah and not the supposed love of your life and yet you still stayed. None of these behaviors changing in LA at school.

You thought Rafe would change after his dad passed—become softer, more loving, and respectful. Instead, it pushed him deeper into anger and bitterness. While you thrived at work, earning the admiration of your family and employees, Rafe’s messages grew increasingly hostile throughout the day. You couldn’t understand how he had the time for this, given that he had taken over his father’s company. But not shocked how he just rode through it without care.

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Rafe 8:50 AM: “Hey, are we getting dinner tonight?”

Rafe 12:00 PM: “Are you fucking kidding me? Three hours?!”

12:30 PM: 7 missed calls from Rafe.

Rafe 2:00 PM: “Why do I even bother with a stupid bitch like you? I could fuck anyone I want.”

You 2:05 PM: “We’re still on for dinner. Jesus Christ, Rafe, I’ve been in meetings since 7:30 AM. Do you not have anything better to do?”

Rafe 4:00 PM: “You’re questioning me about what I do? I work hard to keep my dad’s legacy alive while you probably have your daddy’s help. You’re pathetic, and I should slap some sense into you.”

Rafe 5:00 PM: “What time are you gonna be home?”

You 5:05 PM: “Six.”

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Moments like these, unfortunately frequent, made you regret ever giving Rafe a key to your apartment. Even after all this time, you refused to move in with him at Tannyhill. You loved him, but the thought of living together was unbearable until he got his issues under control.

As expected, when you arrived home, Rafe was already in your kitchen. You didn’t even have a chance to put your bags down before he started. “What the fuck is your problem?!” His face was red, fists clenched.

“Rafe, I’m not doing this. I work—I actually work—and you harassing me all day with your bullshit is no—”

Before you could finish, he slapped you, grabbing you by the hair and dragging you to the bedroom, throwing you onto the bed. Your mind spun as your face burned from the sting.

Rafe's hands were rough as they tore at your clothes, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. You tried to struggle against him, but he was too strong, pinning you down with ease. His grip on your throat tightened, and you felt the sting of his words as he spat, "You wouldn't have to be treated like such a whore if you weren't such a bitch with a mouth on you."

“Fuck you Rafe, get off of me!” Your protests fell on deaf ears as Rafe's grip only tightened, his voice low and menacing. "Go ahead, finish telling me what you think," he growled, his teeth bared in a snarl. He dragged you up the bed, your head hitting the headboard with a thud, before climbing over you and trapping your arms beneath his knees. “Just be a good girl for me. Alright?”

His hand stroked his hardened length, the tip brushing against your lips as he smeared precum across your mouth. You tried to resist, but Rafe's anger only escalated. "Fine, I guess we can do this the hard way," he sneered, his grip on your throat becoming a vice.

You struggled for breath as Rafe's hand closed around your throat, his grip tightening until you could barely gasp for air. Just as you thought you would suffocate, Rafe thrust himself inside you, his hands gripping your hair as he pumped furiously. He didn't care about your comfort or your well-being; all that mattered was his pleasure and your punishment.

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You were suffocating, your airway constricted by Rafe's girth and your own helplessness. His cock felt like a vice around your throat, choking the life out of you as he thrust deeper, his grunts echoing in your ears. "Open up and look at me, let me know who your daddy is," he growled, his voice low and menacing.

You struggled to open your eyes, but the discomfort was too much, and tears streamed down your cheeks, blurring your vision. Rafe yanked your hair, the pain searing through you, and slapped you hard across the cheek. "LOOK!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the room.

You complied, your eyes watering as you gazed up at him, your vision a blurry mess. Rafe's eyes lit up with perverse pleasure. "Yeah, there are those pretty eyes, my pretty fucking slut looks so good choking on me," he crooned, his voice dripping with sick satisfaction.

His thrusts became sloppy and erratic, his cock slipping in and out of your throat with a wet, slapping sound. Drool pooled at your chin, his balls slapping it making the drool drip down to your chest as you struggled to breathe. Your body felt numb, your mind foggy with pain and fear.

Rafe didn't seem to care, lost in his own pleasure and power trip. He gripped your hair tighter, his hips bucking wildly as he continued to thrust, his cock jamming deeper into your throat. The pain was unbearable, but you knew that stopping would only make it worse.

And so you lay there, trapped beneath him, your throat ravaged by his cock, your body broken and bruised, as Rafe continued to throat fuck you like an animal, his pleasure the only thing that mattered. Finally with one final thrust he came down your throat. The warm liquid somewhat soothing the sting of pain that’s there.

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He moves back to in between your thighs and his hands gripping your hips. Your arms now rushing with blood again are limp next to your body, no feeling to them and Rafe sat on them for what felt like an eternity. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you try to push him away, but he holds you firmly in place. "Please, Rafe, stop," you beg, tears streaming down your face. He ignores your pleas, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and lust.

He kneels there, not moving. You sit up to look at him better through tears as you cry. His hands still grip your hips tightly, holding you in place. You try to wriggle free, but he doesn't budge. His face is inches from yours, his breath hot on your skin as he glares at you. You just want him away from you.

"You're mine," he says, his voice low and threatening. "You'll learn to stay in line." He doesn't move, just sits there, his body a heavy burden on yours. You're trapped, unable to escape his grip or his gaze. He hands you his undershirt to wipe your face of the drool and tears. You just cry into it.

The silence is oppressive, the air thick with tension. You sob quietly, trying to break free, but he holds you firm. Time seems to stand still as you lie there, helpless in front him. His eyes never leave you.

He finally breaks the heavy silence, his voice low and hesitant. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I love you so much, and I don’t want to be without you, but sometimes you need to learn your lesson.”

Tears stream down your face as you clutch his shirt, your voice trembling as you respond, “Rafe, I can’t do this anymore. You’re possessive, overbearing… and it scares me. Why can’t you understand that?” Your voice cracks, the words carrying years of frustration and fear.

He brushes off your plea, offering a half-hearted, “I know, I know. Let me make it up to you, show you I care.” His eyes are distant, his apology empty. He doesn’t understand. He never really listens, and deep down, you know he’s counting on you not doing anything about it.

Without acknowledging the depth of your pain, he lifts your chin and kisses you—deep, consuming, as if that alone could erase everything. His hands move with practiced ease, guiding you back onto the bed. His lips trail down your neck, planting soft kisses, sucking in your nipples, down your stomach and to your thighs, but the tenderness feels misplaced, hollow.

His thumb starts tracing gentle circles on your clit, while the rest of you is screaming, begging for him to stop. But the weight of his presence, the years of manipulation, pin you down as surely as his body does. He peels your panties off, his breath hot against your skin as he licks up your cunt, but it all feels wrong. It feels wrong but you can’t help but moan.

He begins to devour you, his tongue working magic on your sensitive clit. You're telling yourself no, but all you can get out are moans when you buck your hips up into him. He keeps working, sucking and licking at your pussy as he slides two fingers into you. "Oh my god, Rafe, right there," you force out between pants, your body trembling with pleasure. He looks up at you, a wicked smile on his face as he takes in your contorted expression. He loves this power he holds over you, and you can't help but be consumed by it.

Finally, he releases his fingers and mouth from you, climbing over you like a predator stalking its prey. He stares down at you, his eyes burning with desire, and you look up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. For a second, he doesn't look like the evil man that terrifies you. "I want you to be happy, to be loved," he whispers, his voice low and husky. "Can we please be happy together, no more of these crazy ways?" You ask. He smiles, rubbing his thumb over your cheek, and without saying another word, he lines himself up and thrusts into you, hard and fast. His eyes lock onto yours, and you feel like you're being consumed by him, body and soul.

His pace is relentless, your body shuddering beneath him as he pounds into you. Your eyes roll back in your head, but he grabs your chin, pulling your gaze back to his. "Look at me, baby, look at who does this for you," he growls, his voice low and demanding.

You obey, staring into his eyes as he continues to fuck you. "No one can make you feel this good," he says, his fingers digging into your hips. "This pussy was made for me, I should fill you up and get you pregnant. What would your parents say if I knocked you up, huh? I know they hate me, hate who I am. But you love me, I know you do. Ugh, you wouldn't be clenching me like this if you didn't."

You don't reply, your eyes locked onto his as he continues to thrust into you. You know he's right; you'd love to have a family with Rafe, to feel him inside you, to know that he's the one who made you pregnant. "Tell me who you belong to," he demands, his fingers pinching your clit.

"You... I belong to you daddy," you whimper, your body trembling with pleasure. "I'm all yours."

"That's right, baby," he says, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. "When you listen, you get a reward." You lift your right leg over his shoulder knowing you’d get him at the perfect angle to hit your G-spot.

"I'm so close, Rafe," you cry out, your body arching off the bed. "Keep going."

He grins, his eyes burning with desire. "Me too, sweet girl," he says, thrusting harder. "Tell me where you want me. You want what I said? To fill you up, get you pregnant?"

"Yes, daddy," you moan out a lie, your body convulsing around him. "Fuck, fill me up."

He groans, you cum hard and he follows suit. His eyes rolling back as he cums deep inside you. He stays like that for a moment, before pulling out and watching his cum drip from you. Then he’s sticking a finger inside shoving the cum back in. "Gotta make sure it sticks, mama," he says, using the endearment that makes you shudder. He confuses it as a good one.

He leans down and kisses you, his tongue thrusting into your mouth as he holds you close. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his body still trembling with passion. You know that this is just the beginning, that Rafe will keep pushing you, keep taking you to new heights.

“Y’know I love you right?” All you can do is nod.

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You’re trapped between what you want to feel and what you know—caught in a cycle you’re terrified to break.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Rafe pulls away and silently rises from the bed. You lie there, motionless, feeling broken, battered, and emotionally drained as his absence fills the room. Curled up on your side, you stare at the wall, your mind numb, listening to the sound of him turning on the shower. The water runs, but it does nothing to drown out the hollow ache settling in your chest.

This has become your reality—a constant 360 with Rafe, a never-ending cycle of hurt, apologies, and hollow promises. Round and round, you go, lost in this whirlwind of love, control, and regret. You loved him once, loved him deeply, and you still find yourself missing the boy he used to be. The one who made you laugh, who held you like you were the only thing that mattered. But that boy feels like a distant memory now, replaced by someone who uses love as a weapon.

You convince yourself that he must love you—he has to. Why else would he want you to feel this way? He wouldn’t go to such lengths to make you feel good if he didn’t care, right? It’s a lie you tell yourself over and over, a story that comforts you even when the truth is painfully clear. You know it’s a manipulation tactic, one he’s used time and time again, but it works every time.

And you let it work because the idea of leaving, of being without him, despite your parents pleas, is scarier than staying trapped in this vicious circle.

#rafe cameron #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe cameron x reader #rafe smut #rafe imagine #rafe fic #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe x kook!reader #toxic rafe cameron #toxic!rafe #my works ✨

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thatsmiggles · 1 month ago

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The dracula case.

Richard chase , aka The Vampire of Sacramento. He was nicknamed this, as he drunk the blood of his victims and cannibalized their remains. Everyone in his life knew he was mentally ill, even his own mother! Please proceed at your own risk, as this case mentions children, the dismemberment of people, etc. It may be a little bad, this is my second time making this type of post!

Richard Trenton Chase was born on May 23rd in 1950, he was an American spree killer who murdered six people in Sacramento, California. He was allegedly abused by his mother whilst growing up, though his father also physically disciplined him but that was usual for the time. By the age of 10, he already checked out for the MacDonald triad, which is bed wetting, animal torture and fire setting. Chase realized very young about his dark urges, though not ever being able to be in with a girl due to his impotence, he in adolescence then became an alcoholic with a chronic drug problem. Chase, keep in mind, was a paranoid schizophrenic, moving out from his mother because he personally believed his mother was trying to poison him. He moved in with a couple friends, they often complained that he smelt of weed, though he never cared, paying no attention to guests, walking around naked, they eventually got tired of him, telling him to move out. But he refused, so they moved out instead.

Whilst alone, he began to torture animals, he would dismember these animals, making them into milkshakes blended into cola. He had a belief that his heart was shrinking, that it wasn't beating correctly since his childhood, he believed consuming blood and the animal remains would help him from not dying.

In 1975, he was institutionalized due to his blood poisoning from injecting animal blood into his veins. He scared the patients horribly, even the nurses, they gave him the nickname "Dracula", being described as awfully bizarre. He was then prescribed medication, being taken out from the ward in 1976 after being deemed safe (My god, were they wrong.) Anyways, he was placed in the care of his mother. His mother, the cruel woman she was, got tired of her son, kicking him practically out, forbidding him to take his anti psychotic medication, claiming that it made him boring, dulling his personality, like a zombie, even though advised not to by the doctors. So she instead got him his own apartment. When he got his own apartment, he began to eat dogs and birds, hanging them up. Chase's neighbor, said she saw cats and dogs enter the apartment then never go out, so she never knew what happened to them, though she could have reported it, as it was not allowed for them to have animals.

The killings

He used a .22 Automatic handgun to kill his victims, first was a drive by shooting, then the rest were home invasions. After shooting his victims, he would mutilate, drinking the blood, he would engage within necrophilia with female victims only. The victims include : An unidentified woman ( Shot, but missed ) Ambrose Griffin, 51 ( Shot in the chest. ) An unidentified boy, 12 ( Shot, missed. ) Teresa, 22 ( Shot twice in the head, then once in the hand! She was repeatedly stabbed, her organs removed, cut off her nipples, forcing her to eat dog feces, partially eaten at. Also necrophilia was done to her body, three months pregnant. ) Daniel Meredith, 51 ( Shot, then mutilated. ) Evelyn Miroth, 38 ( Slashed throat, shot, disemboweled, partially eaten, failed to take out one of her eyes, engaged in necrophilia. ) Jason 6, ( Shot, then brutally mutilated once dead. ) David 1, ( Shot, eaten partially and mutilated. )

Facts

In 1977, Chase was arrested in Lake Tahoe, he had a bucket of blood, also guns in his car. He managed to convince an officer it was just from an animal, so there was no report made. ( He claimed it was cows blood, specifically. ) Witnesses saw him with a dog once, though the dog was never recovered so they truly never saw it again, so they never knew what happened to it, this is the same time the lake incident had happened. He had delusions of an alien force, and insisted he only ate humans because the outside forces were going to steal his blood! He thought his heart was shrinking as I mentioned, so ingesting blood also helped him from not dying. He had schizophrenia noticeable in his childhood, but it worsened throughout when he got older. He had a stable life at 20, but it crumbled. He then got into the ward, though he had killed one before, his mother insisted and weared him off his medication, making him go onto a whole spree. He also had hypochondria. Neighbours heard him shooting at the walls, he claimed it was the voices he had heard. He lied about his mental illnesses, so he could get his weapon of choice, it happened after he had purchased it. He killed small puppies, trying to steal a large dog, but luckily, he failed. His sister was afraid of him. In prison, he spoke about ufos and nazis, being afraid of them, wanting to get a gun to protect himself, he also claimed to be jewish, drawing the star of david on his forehead. He believed the prison leagues were in contact with the Nazis, trying to kill him with the food. He was sentenced to death by , but instead, at 11:05 am, Decemeber 26th, 1980, he killed himself from an overdose when he was hoarding his medication. The reasons truly were unknown. more may be added later! hope you enjoyed. :)

#tccblr #truecrime #teeceecee #thatsmiggletag #thatsmigglestag #richard chase #the vampire of sacramento #vampire of sacramento #sandy hook #true cringe community #eric columbine #eric and dylan #dylannstormroof #dylan columbine #andrew blaze #mass killers

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topguncortez · 2 months ago

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Only For Emergencies - J. Seresin

whumptober masterlist || previous day

prompt: shivering

synopsis: You decide it's time to try and tame the beast, and you go to the one place where you know you'll be able to do it.

warnings: drug abuse, drug related death, cursing, mentions of death, detoxing, vomiting, mentions of relapse, mentions of parental death

word count: 2.9k

You weren’t sure how you got there, but someone must’ve called the police after Jake had left you on the cold concrete. You didn’t know that you had fallen asleep until you felt someone shaking you and you came face to face with a woman in a blue uniform. She had been nice and decided to not write you up if you promised to go to the drunk tank and sleep it off. You agreed, like normal. Sat in the back of the cop car, like normal. Smile at your favorite booker, like normal. Stretched out on your favorite bench, like normal. And in the morning, you gathered your belongings and left, like normal.

You took the path home that would take you past the church that held NA. You didn’t go cause you were clean, you went for the irony of it. You sat in the back like a spectator, out of the circle where the sober ones lived, telling their harrowing stories of survival. There was one person, who had tried for the better part of two years to help you get on the straight and narrow. You swore you had enough 30-day chips to create a full year's worth. Duchess was probably old enough to be your grandmother, but she was a nice lady. She was a playboy model turned junkie like most of them are, but she found God and wanted to save the ‘youth of America’ as she said.

But you didn’t need saving.

You were fucking better than goddamn Clark Kent.

You pulled the door to the old Methodist church open and walked the dim hallways that smelled of mildew and dust until you got to the sanctuary. You nearly moaned at the smell of fresh coffee and donuts. One of the only reasons you hadn’t been kicked away and told to come back when you really wanted to get clean was because of Duchess. She held out hope that something would change. She told you once that you still had that sparkle in your eye. You poured yourself some coffee, like normal. Grabbed a donut and a napkin, like normal. And took your spot in the back of the rows, like normal.

Except, nothing was normal.

You were expecting to hear Duchess’s thick southern accent. You were expecting to see that god-awful fur coat that she said was gifted to her by Heffner back in the 80s. You were expecting to hear the same story of how she moved to LA at 16 and was mesmerized by the disco lights and marijuana. You were expecting to be led into prayer by her, you mocking her accent as she recited the ‘Our Father’. This was your routine every Saturday morning. And who dares to fuck with your routine?

Who said addicts can’t be organized?

But you were met with the sight of Paul standing in the middle of the circle, a grim look on his face. You hated Paul. He was some rich kid who had gotten his high school girlfriend pregnant and killed all in the same month. He apologized, did maybe seven years, and got released with the promise that he’d get clean and never try to vote in the state of California.

“I got word this morning that Duchess has passed away. The beast got her.”

You paled instantly at his words. It felt like sirens were going off in your head.

Duchess.

The woman who had found God. The woman who had turned her life around and spent her free time knitting clothes for her grandkids in El Paso. The woman who still held out hope for you when no one else did.

Succumbed to the Beast.

You couldn’t sit and listen anymore as Paul talked about how brave Duchess was and how inspiring her story had been. It was like the walls were closing in around you. It felt like the Beast had his claws dug into your soft flesh and was tearing you to pieces. Tears started to cloud your eyes as you stood up from your chair, dropped your coffee and donut on the ground, and ran out of the church. You felt lightheaded as you pushed the front doors open and took a deep breath of fresh air.

But even out here in the open, you still felt like the Beast was on you.

So you ran.

Your legs were burning as you ran as fast as you could trying to escape from the Beast. You couldn’t even remember the last time you ran from anything or for any reason. Maybe high school track? Before you twisted your ankle. But even then it was no more than a light jog. Now you were in a full sprint.

— — —

Jake was sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the coffee mug you had made him for your third anniversary. It had pictures of the two of you on various dates and a handwritten ‘I Love You’ on it. You looked so much younger, lighter, and happier. It was crazy how fast the drugs and alcohol had aged you almost overnight. But to Jake, you still looked like the most beautiful thing in the world.

He summed it up to that was the crazy part about loving an addict. He could look past the cracked skin, dry hair, dark eyes, and haunting frame. You were still the girl he loved. Still, that beautiful girl that he had met that day on the pier.

For the first time in his life, Jake was not sure what to do anymore. He hated himself that everything had gotten this bad. He hated himself for leaving you when you clearly needed him more than you let on. But how was he supposed to know? You were good at hiding everything. He didn’t know about the drinking issues until he came home from work in the middle of the day and you were passed out on the couch. He didn’t know about the pill issue until he saw that you had refilled your dead father’s oxycodone prescription. He just didn’t know.

The anger was filling up in his body again, as he stood up from the table and grabbed the empty mug again, ready to throw it at the wall. This has happened several times over the past couple of weeks. He’d pick you up from Jerry’s, take you home, listen to you berate him, come home, listen to a voicemail you had left, and pick up the empty mug, ready to break it to pieces.

But he always stopped before he could do it.

Why? He was not sure.

Maybe because once he broke it, it would be broken forever.

Jake sighed and set the mug down, plopping back into his seat. He held his head in his hands, pulling slightly on his hair as he tried to rack his brain for what to do. He had started to keep his ringer on at all times, in case the city morgue called to come pick your body out.

A knock at the door had startled him out of his thoughts. Nobody knocked at his door. Not a single person. The dagger squad all knew Jake kept his door unlocked, a habit from living in small-town Texas, and they’d just walk right through. His heartbeat plummeted.

This couldn’t be it.

This could not be it.

Slowly, Jake walked to the front door, and leaned his forehead against it, saying a small prayer and bracing himself for whatever news the police officers on the other side of the door were going to tell him.

You were dead.

Overdosed right there on the sidewalk last night after he left you.

Jake could already hear the words now.

He took a deep breath and turned the doorknob slowly, bracing himself for the worst.

“Y/N,”

“I don’t wanna die,” You were shaking on his doorstep. Your eyes were red, but not red from getting high, but from tears. You were still in last night's clothing, your make-up was smeared a bit on your face. And you were panting like you had been running a million miles to get here.

Jake opened his arms and you collapsed in them, sobs leaving your mouth. He held you tightly against his body, scared that the wind might blow you away. You had lost weight and it was even more noticeable as Jake ran his hand down your back, feeling the notches of your spinal cord. Your hair smelled of cigarettes and stale beer, but he could also smell the coffee rolling off of you, which meant that you had gone to another meeting. He pulled back first and looked at you.

You knew what he was thinking. You had said these words before when you were going through a psychosis episode. But you were starting to sober up and there was a certain pounding in your head that was the most unpleasant thing you had felt in a long time.

“I need help,” You admitted and it tasted worse than any drug you had put in your body, “I need help. I need help.”

You kept repeating it like a broken record, tears and snot rolling down your face as you spoke. Jake nodded his head wordlessly and guided you into his house, your lips still muttering those three words. He sat you down on the couch and went to get you a glass of water. He didn’t know the first thing about helping an addict through withdrawals, except that it got messy. Jake quickly grabbed the loaf of bread from the cupboard and put down two pieces before going to give you the glass of water.

You thanked him as you took it, and drank most of it down in one go. Your throat was dry partially from running here and partially from crying. Jake sat himself down on the coffee table in front of you, keeping enough distance between the two of you and the door. You glanced over at it, still hearing the beast outside of it, clawing at the red paint. You started to shake again and Jake’s head perked up.

“A-are you cold?” He asked and you looked at him.

“The beast is gonna get me,” You whispered. Jake just nodded, not wanting to make you even more paranoid.

“How about you lie down?” Jake gestured to the couch. You looked like you maybe got an hour of sleep, “I’ll make sure the beast stays out. You take a nap and we can talk more when you wake up.”

You nodded and Jake helped you lay down on his couch. He grabbed the blanket that rested on the back and tucked it around you. He gently caressed your head as you closed your eyes, feeling somewhat safe from the beast that awaited outside his door. Jake’s heart broke watching as you curled yourself in, trying to keep yourself safe from whatever tricks your mind was playing.

For the rest of the night, Jake stayed by your side. During your awake bouts, which didn’t last more than an hour or so, Jake was able to get you to eat and have you drink some electrolytes. He had done research, doordashing groceries and things he was going to need while you detoxed. He also looked up local rehab facilities. It was the last thing he wanted to do, send you to some lockdown facility that he would only be able to have supervised-one hour visits with you on the weekends. You had sent your father to a place like that, and you swore it was the final straw in your relationship with him.

Jake also managed to get you to talk about why the change of heart. You didn’t go into much detail, either because your brain couldn’t come up with it or you were too scared to open up. You told him about waking up in the drunk tank this morning and hearing about Duchess’ death.

“It scared you, didn’t it?” Jake asked. Your eyes were fixed on the TV screen in front of you. The sound was off, so it was just the flashing images on the scene that was playing out. Your hands were wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, “Y/N,” He called out softly, placing a hand on your thigh, “It’s okay to be scared.”

You blinked, looking over at Jake, “I’m not scared of anything,” You gave him a weak smile, “I’m fucking Clark Kent.”

Day two had been the worst. You were now 48 hours drug and alcohol-free, and it was really starting to hit you. You woke up in a pool of your own sweat, calling out Jake’s name. He had set you up in his room, volunteering to take the guest bed. You had tried to protest, but he said that the room was bigger and had an attached bathroom. During his research he read that constipation and diarrhea were common in the detoxing stage, and wanted to give you privacy. In your delirium, you somehow managed to pull yourself out of bed and start walking down to the guest room. Jake was just starting to get out of bed, having heard you call out his name, when he heard a crash in the hallway. He ripped open the door and found you withering in pain on the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” He mumbled and walked over to you. You were hot to the touch and your clothing was soaked in sweat, “C’mon, we gotta cool you down.”

“No!” You slurred.

You were nearly limp in his arms as he picked you up and took you to the bathroom. He laid you down on the ground, and started the shower, turning it on as cold as he could get it. You curled yourself into a ball, your stomach was hurting like it could explode any minute. Jake held his hand under the stream of water, watching you as you pulled yourself to your knees and crawled over to the trash can. He grimaced as you got sick, and looked up at the ceiling. He guessed this was the best thing that could happen so far. The drugs were finally starting to leave your system.

Once Jake determined the water was set to a good enough temp, he walked over to you, gently lifting your body up. You had vomit on the collar of your shirt, as Jake pulled it up and over your head. You felt weightless as Jake picked you up and walked over to the shower. Jake didn’t even think twice as he stepped into the shower, lowering himself down on the floor, still in his pajamas and placing you in between his legs. You instantly curled up against him, trying to get away from the cold stream of water, wanting to savor the warmth of his body.

Jake hadn’t really got a good look at you before, seeing as you mainly dressed in baggy clothing. But now, as you sat in his arms shivering, he could see the bruises and the bones that were sticking out of your colorless skin. Your hair was greasy, telling Jake that it had been a while since you had last washed it. It was nothing like the well put together woman he had met all those years ago. That woman would be so embarrassed of the girl sitting on the shower floor.

“I’m gonna die,” You sobbed against his chest.

Jake normally would grimace at the feeling of tears and snot dampening his shirt, but he didn’t even flinch as he held you tightly on the floor of his shower. You were starting to shake as the lukewarm water was breaking your fever. He held you tightly until your sobs turned to sniffles, and your shakes turned to small trembles.

“You are not going to die,” Jake said, resting his chin on top of your head, “This is the suck, and you just gotta embrace it. When the toxins are out, you will feel better. It’ll take some time till it’s all out, but it’ll all be out.”

You nodded, “How did you know what to do?” Your hands found the chain of his dog tags, twirling the metal around your fingers.

“I watched you do it to your dad,” Jake muttered, “I think it was one of the last times he promised to get on the straight and narrow,” Jake scoffed, “I wanted so badly to tell you to just give him up. Let him kill himself, but you. . . you just would not quit. You’re stubborn, too stubborn for your own good.”

You nodded your head again, your eyelids feeling heavy. Jake waited a couple more minutes, before reaching up and turning the water off. He gently slid out from behind you, grabbing a towel and quickly drying off, before pulling you from the shower. He sat you down on the closed toilet seat, grabbing a new dry towel and his fluffy white bathrobe.

“Are you okay if I-” He gestured towards the towel in his hand.

“You just saw me throw up on my shirt,” You answered, looking up at Jake, “You can dry me off. Please, I’m cold now.”

Jake nodded his head, kneeling down in front of you and carefully, drying you off. You appreciated the gentleness of his touch, as he dried your body. You let him undress you, sliding the sopping wet undergarments off of your body and slipping the white fluffy robe on in their place. Jake then carried you back down to his bedroom, against your pitiful protests. He took his time, fluffing the pillows and tucking you into the ultrasoft sheets. He sat by your side, running his hand over your hair, something he used to do on the nights you’d come home after taking care of your dad, until your eyelids fluttered shut.

“We’re gonna get through this,” Jake muttered to you, “We’re gonna tame the beast.”

note: part 3???? sike

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charmingsoa · 8 months ago

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✶ Where the Wild Things Are: Two ✶ ■ 1960s Sons of Anarchy story ■

⌃ Jax Teller/ OC x Thomas Teller/OC ⌃

Warning: Please read with caution. This story will include: drug use, physical, verbal, and sexual abuse. miscarriages, sexual content, alcohol use, homicide, cursing, etc. ★ If You would like to be tagged in future updates, simply leave your username in the comments.

Taglist: @oskea93, @keyweegirlie @ravennaortiz

As the California sun beat down on me, the wind whipping through my hair as I rode on the back of the motorcycle, I couldn't help but reflect on the narrow-minded beliefs my parents had instilled in me and my brothers. Growing up in a conservative household where conformity and judgment were the norm, I had always been taught to view anyone who rode motorcycles as nothing but trash – individuals destined for the depths of hell.

My parents, staunch believers in their own sect of holy rollers, held strong prejudices against those who lived differently or held alternative beliefs. They saw the world in black and white, with no room for shades of gray or understanding. But as I clung to the back of the driver, feeling the freedom of the open road beneath me, I realized how misguided their teachings had been.

The rider in front of me, a stranger whose name I learned was Tig, exuded a sense of liberation and rebellion that I had never experienced before. The rumble of the engine beneath us seemed to drown out the judgmental voices of my past, and for the first time, I felt truly alive.

When the group first pulled up in front of me, I didn’t know whether to take their offer or run for the distant hills. Growing up, the horror stories of gangs kidnapping young girls and doing the unthinkable were ingrained in my psyche as my mother preached of their dangers. She would spew words of hatred and fear whenever the topic arose, warning me to steer clear of any suspicious-looking individuals or groups that might pose a threat.

As I stood there, frozen in indecision, the leader of the group stepped forward with a smile that seemed almost too friendly for someone in his position. His eyes held a glint of mischief, but there was something else there too – a hint of vulnerability that I couldn’t quite place.

"Hey there, don’t be afraid," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "We’re just a group of travelers looking for some company on the road. We mean you no harm."

I hesitated, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts. Should I trust this stranger and accept his offer of companionship, or should I heed the warnings of my mother and make a run for it? The decision weighed heavily on my shoulders, the consequences of each choice playing out vividly in my mind.

In the end, curiosity got the best of me, and I found myself nodding hesitantly, agreeing to join the group on their journey. As I climbed onto the back of his bike and we set off down the road together, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was embarking on an adventure that would change my life forever.

As we finally started to slow down upon entering a small town called Charming, I couldn't help but notice the reactions of the locals as the bikes rumbled past. Pedestrians on the sidewalk stopped in their tracks, their eyes widening with surprise and disapproval as they watched the group pass by. Disapproving looks were etched on their faces, and I could almost feel the judgment radiating towards them.

The quaint shops and cafes that lined the main street seemed to quiet down as we rode through, the sound of the engines cutting through the peaceful ambiance of the town. I could see the whispers and sideways glances exchanged among the townspeople, their curiosity mixed with a hint of fear or disdain.

The men didn’t seem to mind the disapproving looks from the townspeople – smirks on some of their faces as they revved their engines a little more as they passed by. The sound of the engines roared through the quiet streets, echoing off the old brick buildings that lined the road.

As they pulled into a side entrance of a garage, I knew this was officially the end of the line for them. I watched as they parked side-by-side, each backing their bikes into their assigned spaces. The engines sputtered to a halt, the sound gradually fading into the background as the men dismounted and stretched their legs.

I quickly gathered my things, removing myself from the bike, my legs feeling equivalent to jelly as they gathered the strength to hold up my weight. The adrenaline that had fueled me through the ride was now dissipating, leaving behind a feeling of exhaustion and exhilaration.

I leaned against a nearby lamppost, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The men exchanged nods and grins as they gathered in a loose circle, their leather jackets creaking slightly as they moved.

One of them, a tall man with a patchwork of tattoos covering his arms, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them around. The faint smell of smoke mingled with the lingering scent of gasoline, creating a heady mix that hung in the air.

As they lit up and took long drags, their faces relaxed into expressions of contentment. The tension that had hung over them during the ride seemed to melt away, replaced by a sense of camaraderie and shared purpose.

The door to the business slowly opened, an older woman stepped onto the concrete below. Her presence commanded attention, exuding a sense of authority and confidence that made it clear she was not to be underestimated. The leather pants she wore hugged her figure, accentuating her strong and graceful movements as she made her way towards the men.

Her blonde highlights caught the sunlight, creating a halo of shimmering gold around her head. Despite the warmth of the day, there was a coolness in her gaze that hinted at a steely resolve beneath the polished exterior. I observed from a respectful distance as Gemma interacted with the men, her gestures filled with warmth and affection that spoke of deep bonds and shared history. She moved among them with ease, exchanging hugs and kisses that spoke of a familial closeness that went beyond mere camaraderie.

A tall man approached her from behind, his presence exuding a sense of quiet strength and authority. He wrapped his strong arms around her small waist, drawing her close in a gesture that was both protective and intimate. The woman’s laughter rang out, a clear and joyful sound that seemed to light up the space around them.

Their lips met in a brief but tender kiss, a display of affection that was unapologetically open and genuine. There was a sense of ease and comfort between them, a connection that ran deep and unspoken, forged through years of shared experiences and challenges.

My eyes moved away from the couple as the door reopened, this time revealing a blonde man. He looked to be in his early 20s – shoulder length hair resting against his work shirt. I don’t know how I looked to those around, but it was almost like how a cartoon character’s draw drops to the floor – he was gorgeous. I watched as he stepped off the stoop, sauntering over to the circle of men, clapping them on the back as he welcomed their return.

I was so caught up in the enigmatic presence of the blonde man that I failed to notice another individual had quietly slipped into the corner with us – the older woman with a knowing smile playing on her lips. Her voice, smooth and seasoned, cut through the hazy atmosphere around us.

"You lost, kitten?" she inquired, her tone a curious blend of amusement and concern. Her eyes, framed by fine lines that whispered of wisdom and experience, held a glint of something indefinable, as though she saw more than just the surface of things.

Startled by her sudden appearance and the unexpected nickname, I turned to face her, momentarily at a loss for words. The air between us crackled with a kind of unspoken understanding, as if she could see right through the facade I presented to the world.

“Sorry-“ I stammered. “I – uh-“

A smile spread across her face as she placed her hand on my arm, her touch warm and comforting. "You must be the little one the guys picked up on their way home. Tig told me all about you when he called a little while ago."

Memories of when we stopped at the gas station hours before came flooding back – the smell of gasoline, the flickering lights, and the sound of chatter from the other customers. I remembered my eyes connecting with Tig’s as he spoke animatedly in the glass box, his voice carrying a sense of urgency and excitement.

"What’s your name, sweetheart?" the woman asked, her eyes kind and curious.

Tucking a loose red strand of hair behind my ear, I replied, "Catherine. Catherine Landry." My voice was low, almost a whisper, as if unsure of my own presence in this moment.

The woman's smile widened, a glint of recognition flashing in her eyes. "Catherine Landry," she repeated softly, as if savoring the sound of the name. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Catherine. I'm Gemma."

As I started to speak, the sound of gravel crunching beneath heavy steps caught my attention, drawing my gaze away from Gemma. I turned, my eyes following the path of the approaching figure with blonde hair that glinted in the bright sunshine.

He walked with purpose, his strides confident and measured, his presence commanding attention. The gravel shifted under his weight, creating a rhythmic pattern that seemed to echo the beating of my heart.

As he drew closer, I noticed the intensity in his gaze, the way his eyes seemed to search and assess, taking in every detail of the scene before him. There was a certain magnetism about him, a silent strength that seemed to radiate from his very being.

Gemma's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of recognition crossing her features as she greeted him with a nod. "Hey baby," she said, her voice warm and welcoming.

As the two embraced one another, I stood there, a silent observer to the intimate moment unfolding before me. The man's eyes remained fixed on me, a hint of curiosity and something else I couldn't quite decipher lingering in their depths.

Gemma's arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her embrace filled with a sense of familiarity and comfort. There was a closeness between them, a bond that seemed to transcend words and time.

I watched as they held each other, their connection palpable in the air around them. It was as if they shared a history, a story that only they knew, leaving me on the outside looking in, a stranger to their world.

As they finally pulled away, a silent understanding passing between them, the man turned his gaze back to me. There was a question in his eyes, a silent inquiry that hung in the air, waiting to be answered.

As Gemma turned her attention back to me, her warm smile lighting up her face, I couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions swirling within me. "Catherine," she began, her voice filled with a sense of familiarity and fondness, "This is my son, Jackson."

Jackson. The name echoed in my mind, stirring something deep within me. I looked up to meet his gaze, finding a pair of eyes that held a hint of curiosity and a touch of amusement.

Gemma's introduction caught me off guard, her words painting a picture of me as a lost soul in need of rescue. "She's the little thing that Tig and the guys picked up along the way," she explained, her tone lighthearted but tinged with a hint of motherly concern.

I couldn't help but inwardly roll my eyes at her explanation, feeling a twinge of annoyance at being likened to a stray puppy. It was true that I had found myself in an unexpected situation, but I was no damsel in distress in need of saving.

As I exchanged greetings with Jackson, a sense of curiosity sparked within me. There was something about him, a quiet strength and a depth in his eyes that hinted at hidden layers beneath the surface.

Jackson smirked and his eyes roamed up my body, a wave of self-consciousness washed over me, causing a slight flush to rise to my cheeks. His gaze held a hint of mischief and confidence, leaving me momentarily flustered in his presence.

"It's nice to meet you too," I replied, trying to maintain a composed demeanor despite the flutter of nerves within me. There was something magnetic about Jackson, an undeniable charm that drew me in even as I felt the weight of his scrutiny.

Gemma's proud voice interrupted the moment, drawing my attention back to her as she spoke of her son. "Jax is the leader of the group," she said with a hint of pride. "Along with my other son, Thomas." The revelation that there were two brothers leading the group took me by surprise. “Club comes from a strong line of Teller men," Gemma continued, her tone filled with reverence and hope for the future. "Hoping to continue that tradition in the future." She affectionately patted Jackson's chest, her gesture a symbol of both maternal pride and a legacy to uphold.

Jackson rolled his eyes at his mother's suggestion, a hint of amusement danced in his gaze.

"Trust me," he stated, his deep voice carrying a sense of authority that cut through the air, "She's really the one in charge."

The bond between Jackson and Gemma was palpable from the very beginning. It was clear to anyone who observed them that they shared a special connection, a closeness that went beyond words. Jackson was the one closest to his mother, their relationship built on a foundation of trust, understanding, and unwavering loyalty.

In contrast, Thomas seemed to be as far removed from Gemma as possible. There was a distance between them, an unspoken divide that hinted at unresolved issues and unspoken tensions. While Jackson and Gemma thrived in each other's company, Thomas seemed to seek solace elsewhere, distancing himself from the intricate web of relationships that defined their family dynamic.

Jax and Gemma's bond ran deep, a complex tapestry of emotions that intertwined their fates in ways that were both captivating and destructive. They fed off each other's energy, their connection fueled by a sense of mutual need and dependency that bordered on obsession.

Thick as thieves one moment, brutal enemies the next, their relationship was a rollercoaster of emotions that played out like a high-stakes drama. Time slipped away, leaving behind a trail of unresolved conflicts and simmering tensions that threatened to erupt at any moment.

The heat that Gemma placed between her two sons was a double-edged sword, igniting a fire that fueled their passions and their conflicts in equal measure. Theirs was a relationship fraught with complexity, where love and loyalty mingled with jealousy and resentment, creating a volatile mix that kept them locked in a perpetual dance of push and pull.

Thomas felt the weight of his mother Gemma's favoritism like a heavy chain, binding him to a perpetual cycle of disappointment and resentment. From a young age, he watched as Gemma showered his older brother Jackson with praise and attention, leaving him in the shadows of Jax's achievements. Despite his best efforts to earn her approval, Gemma's preference for Jackson was unwavering, creating a toxic atmosphere of rivalry and animosity between the Teller brothers.

"So, from what I heard, you’re hitching to San Francisco?” Gemma spoke as she looked at me with curiosity. “What’s so important down there that you had to leave home for?” She pushed past her son, taking hold of my arm as she started walking up towards the building.

“From the looks of you-“She did a once over. “Looks to me like you’re running away from something – midwestern lifestyle, perhaps?” Gemma's keen observation caught me off guard, her words cutting through my carefully crafted facade. I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way I hadn't anticipated.

I cleared my throat nervously, feeling the weight of my confession hanging in the air. "My parents are very conservative – conservative and very religious," Her eyes closing in understanding, Gemma listened intently as I opened about my inner conflict. "They're lovely people – " I began to backpedal, feeling a need to qualify my earlier statement. "But the life I want to live doesn't match with how they want me to live. I want to be able to be free and do what I please, but they're all about the image and how the Lord wants us to live our lives."

"You ran away?" Gemma's voice was filled with concern and empathy, her eyes searching mine for answers.

I nodded slowly, the memories of that night flooding. "Left in the middle of the night after my father beat me with a switch," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. My eyes cast down to the ground, unable to meet Gemma's gaze as the shame and hurt of that moment washed over me once again. "He called me awful names, and my mother just sat there and watched."

Gemma's back straightened, a steely resolve entering her expression as she processed my words. "Doesn't sound to me like they're lovely people," she stated firmly, her voice tinged with indignation.

I shrugged my shoulders, “That’s just how they are – been like that my whole life.” I knew I shouldn’t be making excuses for them, but they were my parents. “I’m the only daughter – I was supposed to be the epitome of a perfect daughter.”

“What could be so bad that your daddy beats you?”

I watched as she pulled out a cigarette, gesturing for me to take one as well. She quickly lit the end of the stick, the smoke invading my lungs with ease. “I started messing around with boys at an early age – sex, drugs, dancing. Sex was my go-to though. They didn’t want their only daughter being known as the town whore, which I guess I became. I was supposed to save myself until I was married – only letting my wedded husband lay between my legs.”

Gemma chuckled, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Sounds a lot like my folks," she remarked, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and humor.

"I just needed to get away, and after seeing all those people on the nightly news coming out here and living life their own way and being free and peaceful –" I paused, the weight of my words hanging heavy in the air. "I just need that in my life right now. A life where I can be free and do whatever I want to do. And if that means I have to do negative things to get to that place, then so be it."

As I spoke, I felt a mix of determination and uncertainty churning within me. The longing for freedom and self-expression had grown into a burning desire, fueled by the stories of those who had dared to defy conventions and carve out their own paths. The allure of a life unbound by limitations and expectations beckoned to me like a distant star, promising a sense of liberation and authenticity that had eluded me for so long.

“You know –“Gemma started. “The Frisco area isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Her tone matter of fact. “I know it looks all peace and love on the tv screen but it’s really just a bunch of homeless hippies that are looking for attention and free handouts.”

I let out an annoyed sigh.

"Listen, little girl," her voice took on a more serious tone, the lines on her face softening with a mix of concern and affection. "You've accomplished the biggest goal you set for yourself – you made it all the way to California." She paused, letting the significance of the moment sink in before continuing.

A wide smile slowly spread across her face, reflecting pride and admiration. "By what you just told me, that was the ultimate goal. Now, I know going a little further south for the whole peace and love movement was the next quest, but I think for your sake it would be better for you to stay here."

“I don’t know anyone here, though.” I was grasping for excuses.

Her face twisted in a mix of concern and determination. "You weren't gonna know anyone down there either." She tossed her cigarette down, the ember extinguishing under the pressure of her heeled shoe. "You've managed to meet a whole crew of men that will now look after you if you choose to stay. You've met me and Jax – you'll get to meet Thomas when he decides to come home. You're no longer around strangers, baby doll. We can be your family – a family that'll treat you right."

Her voice softened, the edges of her tough exterior melting away to reveal a deep sense of care and protection. "We've seen the world through different lenses, faced our own battles, and carved out our own paths in this chaotic dance of life. But amidst all the chaos, we found each other – kindred spirits bound by shared experiences and unspoken connections."

The older woman's eyes held a glimmer of hope, a silent plea for understanding and acceptance. "You have a home here, among friends who will stand by you through thick and thin, who will lift you up when you stumble and celebrate your victories as their own. Take a chance on us, darling. Let us be the family you never knew you needed, but always longed for deep in your heart."

I would end up staying in that small fucking town for the next 25 years – my whole world coming to revolve around the Teller family and the Sons of Anarchy.

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hawkyon-days · 6 months ago

Text

Things I've seen Billy stans say that made me wonder if we're watching the same show:

Nothing billy did in s2 was actually all that bad

He's just an abused kid who needs help❤️��, a broken kid who needs a hug

He doesn't hate Max, he's actually really protective of her

Billy takes Neil's beatings as a way to protect Max from getting hit

He isn't racist

There's no indication that he physically hurt Max, therefore he wasn't abusive

When he saw Max arguing with some boy, he told her to stay away from him, bc that boy was causing her distress, not bc he was black

He just got ripped away from his old life in california, so the way he acts in s2 is completely understandable and justified

For the most part billy was a good brother to Max

Suzie singing is responsible for Billy's death

Sometimes arguing with your siblings like that is just normal sibling behaviour

Billy wouldn't have killed Steve that night at the Byers house

What's worse: grabbing someone's arm and yelling at them or drugging someone and threatening them with a nail bat?

Max is a terrible person for wishing Billy to die

Max is a terrible person for getting billy in trouble when she wasn't home when she's supposed to

If Max had noticed something was wrong earlier, billy would still be alive

How can billy be racist if there's characters like troy who actively call Lucas midnight

#feel free to add btw #anti billy hargrove #max mayfield #lucas sinclair #billy stans dni #you can like bad characters and villains etc #it's just the way people defend him to be some poor little boy who didn't do anything bad #my post

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aftgficrec · 6 months ago

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Can't believe I caught this open. I love your page. Was just wondering about fics centered around medicated Andrew. Like the foxes realizing that the drugs were more harmful than helpful. Thanks!

Medicated Andrew is an AFTG hot button theme with a good amount of fandom meta, discussion, and umbrage to be found. Some fic writers go the fix-it route with time travel aus or canon divergent stories with different or zero meds (here's the ao3 unmedicated Andrew tag). When Andrew is on the problematic medication it’s usually Neil who wants it gone, but sometimes other foxes see it too. We also found aus with unexpected people wanting Andrew off the meds…can you say Tetsuji Moriyama or Fox!Harry Potter? We have a good amount of Andrew’s pov, and fanart that’s like whoa. What I’m saying is, buckle up for a wild ride, rabbits. -A

previous recs:

Andrew’s meds here

‘They All Burn the Same’ here (updated)

‘take two’ here

‘Deals With Devils’ and ‘The Sun Still Rises’ here (both updated)

‘The Sphynx and the Hare’ here (completed)

‘Hope Was A Dangerous, Disquieting Thing’ here (updated)

‘i'd die for you (that's easy to say)’ here

‘California Drifting’ here (updated)

‘Of Ocean Tides’ series here

‘This Is What Hollows’ here (completed)

andrew pov:

‘The Court-Hole Fox’ (completed), ‘Fuck the Game’ series, and ‘oh be cautious, do not stand too near’ series, plus ‘Monster’ and ‘Monster 2.0’ (both updated) here

‘Fold me in your palms’ here

‘Therapy session’ here

‘Odd Eye’ here

‘Stranger To Stay’ here (updated)

‘The Real Thing’ here

‘And we’ll be running’ here

‘One More Time (With Feeling)’ here (updated)

‘we destroy everything we need’ here

you may also like:

post easthaven andreil reunion here

foxes revise opinion of Andrew here

‘Live Once More (This Time Will Be Better)’ here

‘Inked Truths’ series (parts 1 and 2) here

‘The Unkindness of Ravens’ here (updated)

I hate your smile by PateticabutBunny [Not Rated, 2066 Words, Complete, 2022, Locked]

One day on the relationship between Andrew and Neil And the drugs

tw: vomit, tw: addiction, tw: mania, tw: medication side effects

Another Raven in the Nest by 0bsessednerd [Rated M, 4051 Words, Complete, 2024]

“Minyard will cooperate, I’ll find a way.” Kevin ensured them. and Riko gave him a dangerous look. “If you don’t I will.” Riko said coldly, and everyone knew he would. Kevin better keep his promise, thought Neil, or Minyard was going to not have a good time. No one spoke for the rest of the flight. ~~~ Neil has a nightmare of Andrew being in the nest and part of the perfect court. As imagined it doesn’t go well

tw: nightmares, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: abuse, tw: torture, tw: ptsd

I would choose to live all this a thousand times, if in the end, I had you by FayeS2 [Not Rated, 42517 Words, Incomplete, Updated June 2024]

After almost a decade together, Neil and Andrew travel back in time to Neil's first year at Palmetto. Now, they must relive demons from the past. But at least they still have each other.

tw: drug use, tw: homophobia, tw: violence, tw: blood

Good Men Lie Too by heybabyricecake [Rated M, 100678 Words, Complete, 2024]

Me: Andrew and Neil are perfect for each other <3 their love story is iconic and they are otp and it's a crime to ship them with anyone else!!!!! Also me: Anyways here's a KevNeil fic :) Canon reimagined as if it were Kevin and Neil falling in love!! I take some of the story line from the original series but there's also very different plot points for Kevin and Neil for obvious reasons! Not Kandriel sorry. This fic answers the question: What happens when two Exy obsessed idiots fall in love???

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: nightmares, tw: nonconsensual drug use, tw: vomit, tw: canonical character death, tw: recreational drug use, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: homophobia, tw: involuntary outing, tw: assault, tw: blood, tw: attempted rape/noncon, tw: kidnapping, tw: alcohol abuse/alcoholism

Glow In The Dark by Anonymous [Rated M, 20984 Words, Complete, 2024]

If Riko Moriyama is Exy's number 1, Kevin Day is number 2. But, if Riko Moriyama is King of Exy, Andrew Minyard is the opposing pawn who’s crossed the board to become Queen. Andrew has spent far too long denying Riko what he wants and Riko has spent far too long fantasising about the day Andrew finally breaks to leave things as they are. And if you want a job done right, you really do have to do it yourself it seems. So RIko invites Andrew to Evermore for the holidays.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced medical abuse, tw: threatened rape, tw: abuse, tw: torture, tw: blood, tw: emotional abuse, tw: nonconsensual drug use, tw: nonconsensual restraint, tw: nonconsensual nudity and photography, tw: internalized homophobia

Vivid by Anonymous [Rated M, 6884 Words, Incomplete, Updated Feb 2024]

Andrew returns to Palmetto State after his spending his winter break at Edgar Allan. And he's fine. Totally fine. Obviously. Hello. Welcome or welcome back. Vivid is finally here and got longer than I expected. So technically, this is a sequel to Glow In The Dark but you don't need to have read it to understand. Everything important is either there in the summary or will be explained in the fic.

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced medical abuse

A collection of Andreil one-shots by Auviic [Rated E, Collection, Incomplete, Updated Jan 2024]

Chapter 1: Andrew Minyard's mistakes [6567 Words] Andrew and Neil find themselves amidst a zombie-apocalypse.

tw: graphic descriptions of violence, tw: blood/gore, tw: implied/referenced suicide, tw: gun violence, tw: drug addiction

Chapter 3: Tongue tied [5125 Words] Nathaniel Wesninski is paired with a new partner.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: torture, tw: blood/gore, tw: implied/referenced abuse

Sunrise by DeeLeBee [Rated E, 26499 Words, Complete, 2023]

Part 1 of Sunrise, Abram, Death

Listen. All fans of All For The Game hate this fucking series just as much as they love it and I am no exception. Nora's writing doesn't make sense in so many parts, there are plot holes, WHAT ARE ANDREW'S MEDS ABOUT, and Nora was a coward because she planned to make Kandriel a thing but chickened out. (Love you , Nora.) Anyway, I am here to remedy all these ailments.

tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: recreational drug use, tw: nonconsensual drug use, tw: nonconsensual kissing, tw: canonical character death, tw: self harm

We work well with crazy. by MBlack93 [Rated E, 45145 Words, Incomplete, Updated May 2024]

Neil is on the run for his serial killer father and apparently a Yakuza family with delusions of grandeur. Harry is on the run for the Dark Lord, the Light Lord, and practically the whole Wizarding World, except for the Goblins. Because Goblins are awesome.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced food withholding, tw: homophobia, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced human trafficking, tw: nonconsensual drug use

Andrew pov:

A Monster, A Defender, A Psychopath (You Maniac) by Lytta323 [Not Rated, 1953 Words, Complete, 2022, Locked]

Andrew has a bad psychotic episode due to his medication and gets the help he deserved sooner.

tw: self harm, tw: blood/gore, tw: mania

What if I’m the Monster? by 0bsessednerd [Not Rated, 1130 Words, Complete, 2024]

The pills sat on the counter taunting him. He really didn’t want to take these. But when had Andrew ever gotten anything he wanted in his life? It was his fault he had to take them. That’s what everyone told him. If he hadn’t gone too far, if he hadn’t been a problem he wouldn’t have to be on these. He wouldn’t have to be high out of his mind every fucking day. He wouldn’t have to give in to the addiction. He wouldn’t have to go to therapy. He wouldn’t have to be reminded he could never be free. He wouldn’t be a monster. ~~~ Andrew taking his medication for the first time and how he felt doing it. And how he felt after the effects kicked in.

tw: implied/referenced hate crime, tw: implied/referenced violence, tw: negative self image

a foxhole collection: on possibilities and digressions by vicariously kingly (pelted) [Rated T, Collection, Last Updated 2016]

Chapter 21: andrew minyard in wonderland [734 Words]

for the prompt: pre-andreil snippet. in summary: andrew on drugs.

Feet Don't Fail Me Now by freefromenvy [Rated E, 56824 Words, Incomplete, Updated May 2024]

Neil was an exceptional runner until his past caught up with him. After years on the run, he was taken back to the Nest where he had to learn how to survive all over again. After Neil helps Kevin and Jean escape the Nest, Riko sends Neil to Palmetto to inform the rest of the Foxes that he will keep attacking their team, just like what happened to Jamie Smalls, unless Kevin and Jean return to the Nest. If Neil fails in his task, the Moriyamas will giftwrap, and hand deliver Neil to his father after he is released from prison. Neil has always known he has lived on borrowed time. He lived Alex's life, Stephen's life, James's life, and many more. Now all he wants to do is to be able to die as Neil and not as Nathaniel Wesninski.

tw: violence, tw: abuse, tw: blood, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced human trafficking, tw: blood/gore, tw: mutilated dead animal

Apathy by Marquee [Rated G, 144 Words, Complete, 2023]

Andrew thinking about people in his past. Including but not limited to awful foster homes, people who him on the drugs, people calling him crazy, just yucking people in general

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon

Love Bites, Hate Bleeds by kongruenz [Rated M, 6286 Words, Incomplete, Updated May 2024]

Andrew's at juvie with nothing to look forward to, no life, no passion, just the constant need to be numb and bury what happened, to forget. Until Coach Wymack, Kevin Day and Neil Josten appear in his locker room to recruit him to the Palmetto Foxes. _ An AU in which Neil joined the Foxes before Andrew, and Andrew looks at Neil for protection instead.

tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: violence

I don't want to by The_7th_Void [Not Rated, 3017 Words, Complete. 2024]

Andrew runs late night errands with Neil and tries to fight his drugs. Neil is confused but helps him anyway. Or Neil lies. Andrew is honest.

tw: vomit, tw: addiction

I took the pills for these empty nights by All_for_the_andreil [Rated T, 6013 Words, Complete, 2022]

He gazes at Neil and thinks about all the questions he’s too afraid to ask. Would you still want me when I’ll be a mess? Would you stay even after you see how fucked I am? Would you hate me if I stopped playing exy for good? And perhaps the most important one: Will they kill you if we fail this season because of me? -or- Andrew gets diagnosed with bipolar disorder and is prescribed medication. Given his history with that, he has some issues.

Träumerei by Sashe [Rated E, 12038 Words, Incomplete, Updated May 2024]

Andrew never planned on joining the Ravens, not when Riko and Kevin demanded it, but Coach Moriyama is willing to bargain. And he sees right through Andrew in a way no one ever has before. He’s offering Andrew a home, people who believe him, a family who will never abandon him, and a chance at something to build his life around – something to live for. All he has to do is play Exy for him for five years. or Just another Raven!Andreil AU

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: emotional/psychological abuse, tw: implied/referenced child abuse

We will survive to live by Whyreme [Rated M, 20663 Words, Incomplete, Updated April 2024]

Andrew had been a Spear since the age of thirteen. He endured a lot, but he had a mother, a father and a home. Until it all fell into ashes and his world was turned upside down. He fought back and lost everything, earning himself mandatory medication in return. So when Riko Moriyama and Kevin Day offered him a tempting deal, he couldn't refuse. He'd be a Raven, but that was a bigger cage than his alternative, right? or AU where Andrew never met Aaron and Nicky, was adopted by the Spear and has a very good reason to be a Perfect Court member. (Raven!Andrew and Raven!Neil AU)

tw: dark, tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: hallucinations, tw: horror, tw: blood/gore, tw: implied/referenced child abuse and neglect, tw: implied/referenced csa, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: medication addiction, tw: torture, tw: murder, tw: vomit

The Avarice Never Ends by stuntinf8 [Not Rated, 1341 Words, Complete, 2022]

Andrew liked Neil Josten in the way that a cat might like a mouse: easy to tousle by the tail, quick to fuss, simple enough to rattle. The meds made it even easier. (OR A medicated Andrew reflects on the anomaly that is Neil Josten.)

fandom thoughts and meta:

Dependence and Addiction in All for the Game meta by @the-greater-grief [Tumblr, 2022]

I need to talk about Andrew's medication meta by @deadliestpieceontheboard [Tumblr, 2021]

if Andrew wasn't on anti-psychotics, what was he on? meta by @amiandthechaos, @sinistercacophony [Tumblr, 2021]

why abby was so vehemently against committing andrew to rehab early? discussion by @bookmarkmyword, @deadliestpieceontheboard [Tumblr, 2022]

Andrew -Medication or Incarceration ? meta by @lemonboyjosten [Tumblr, 2021]

thoughts about Andrew…his mental issues and medication? by @palmettomonsters [Tumblr, 2017]

Andrew’s meds make me so fucking angry by @kazzyboy [Tumblr, 2021]

Happy Pills by Weathers song analysis by @meanie-boy-minyard [Tumblr, 2019]

Art

Alien Blues art by @fortheloveofexy, on ao3 here

“It’s a cruel world” art by @swarenar

Put on a happy face :) art by @allfortheslay25

bloody smiles art by @rhyva

meds art by @/rhyvva on twitter

I'm not okay art by @creekgods

apathy is a tragedy art by @doesephs

medicated Andrew art by @yolkylemon

sober vs medicated Andrew cosplay by @/csplyxeva on tiktok

aftg-tober day 4 art by @i-did

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listofwhyyouloveher · 3 months ago

Note

Hellooo!!! I loved ur story California Dreamin and I’m actually so excited to see what happens next😍 I don’t want to be pushy or anything but please update😋but take ur time though don’t force urself😙

California Dreamin’ p2

p1, p2

Synopsis: You're the owner of a coffee shop and Rusty James cuts through your town to see the beach

Summary: Who is Rusty-James, what was he doing in your hometown, and why did he leave more of an impression on you that he should've?

Warnings: spoilers for Rumble Fish, mentions of accidents, mentions of death, mentions of drug abuse

"Rusty-James," you mused, turning the name over and over in your mind.

"Strange name, huh?" The man, Rusty-James, chimed.

"Well-" You started, trying not to offend him, but a smile and a far-away look of playfulness washed over him. He looked calm and yet nervous as if he was uncomfortable with the feeling.

"Nah, I get it, my brother's name was Motorcyle Boy." He joked, letting the name slip out under the guise of forgotten past, thinking that his brother was just on another trip again.

"Oh, how interesting. What's your brother like?" You asked, trying to stay polite and continue the chat.

"Oh..brother?" He stopped, a look of dread and genuine fear grabbed him, he felt the walls of his mind close in on him as he remembered the horrible truth. He bit his lip, "My brother's pretty cool." He mumbled.

You took the hint, nodding with a smile before picking up the ends of your skirt and continuing your walk.

"WAIT" Rusty-James called, you turned back to him, a considerable distance between you and him made it hard to pinpoint his facial expressions. Rusty walked up to you, but he did it unnaturally, like he was more used to the motorcycle than his legs.

"Is something the matter?" You asked when he came into earshot. He shook his head lightly, looking up with a nostalgic smile.

"You know a good place to get chocolate milk?" You let your pursed lips crack into a wide grin.

"Pretty long walk to my cafe, you up for it?" You asked. He huffed.

"Screw walking," He said, swinging his leg over his motorcycle seat. He motioned for you to hop on behind him but you just laughed nervously.

"I don't know about that, Rusty-James" you winced, "I've been pretty much crazy afraid of motorcycles ever since I watched some dude crash. Poor guy lost some of his hearing." You racked your brain for a name to go with the story to add further proof but Rusty wouldn't take it.

"I'm the safest driver out there!" He pleaded, doing a circle around you on it to prove it. You raised your eyebrow as if to doubt him but he just laughed. "Ok, I won't force you. You'll walk while I'll drive," He patted your back, "But you have to promise me that you'll get on a motorcycle someday!" You rolled your eyes, laughed, and motioned him to follow you.

-------

The cafe was quiet, the worker who your dad hired to deal with the 'adult stuff' had opened shop and was helping customers already.

You hummed a tune as you put on your apron and got to work pouring out a glass of cold chocolate milk. You placed it in front of Rusty-James.

"On the house, Mr." You joked and he picked it up and drank a big gulp.

"Thanks," He smiled, wiping his upper lip.

"So, where you from?" You ask, cocking your head in genuine curiosity. An order slid your way and you worked on it as Rusty talked.

"Uhm, ya'know, Oklahoma." He gave you such choppy and unfinished pieces of information that you found yourself yearning for answers about this mysterious man. Rusty-James was what your poetry inclinded mother called, "The American Dream".

You reminisced on your mother, how she would mentions snippets of her past as a free woman, a dreamy girl of the silver spoon partying in Manhattan, to the woman she was today. She always said that, "Truly, the American Dream is the man who holds sadness in his eyes,". You questioned whether it was because of her sad country lifestyle where she grew up, or her romanticisation of your dad.

"What're you doing down here?" You asked, serving up a coffee to the man sitting in the barstool next to him.

"Always dreamt of California," He smiled.

You nodded along, "Good place to dream about,".

He laughed again, a healthier laugh than before, as if he was finally catching onto humor again.

"Look," He said, waving you in closer to him, "between me and you, I'm on a mission to travel to every big city in California with this motocycle and back,"

"And this is one of your big cities?" You asked, slightly confused, your town was small and unknown.

"No no, I'm just stopping here," He sipped from his drink.

"Oh, how exciting" You smiled, slipping into a daydream about partying in Manhattan like your mother. Rusty looked thoughtful for a minute before asking you if you would like to come with him.

You shook your head, a little deterred and saddened. "I would love to, Rusty James, but I've got my mom's shop to take care of. How about, I give you my address and you write to me about your experiences,"

Rusty nodded eagerly and just as soon as he came, he left, the beach held a strange loneliness to it when you walked to work the next morning.

#shroomsroom #clara'sroom #the outsiders x reader #dallas winston x reader #dally winston x reader #rumble fish x reader #rumble fish #rusty james x reader #rusty james x you

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perfectprofessorloverapricot · 1 year ago

Text

•| A not so stolen youth |•

Stranger things / Chapter 1

Summary: Everything in life seemed limited to walls of whites and rainbows. Caged within the confines of the lab. But an accident that involved a group of teenagers and the upside down world finally let him free. In a funny turn of events he found himself hiding in a step sibling's shed. A redhead that loves video games and a blond that spends his time making sure to keep his good looks.

Character: Male child OC

Warnings: Possible to descriptive scenes, child abuse, use of drugs and bad language.

A/N: I ask you to take into account that I lack experience writing in English and there'll be some grammatical mistakes because my native language is Spanish.

Prev part - Masterlist - Next part

“What does it say here?” Sounded the voice of the teenage redhead in the shed. She pointed to one of the dialog bubbles in the comic.

Thirteen tilted his head in a vain attempt to read better. The comic was in his own hands and moving it wasn’t as helpful as he thought. “Mmm… final… v… victory?” He stutter. He felt he chest warm when he saw the look of pride in Max face while she nodded.

“Yeah. You’re getting better.” She said excitedly. A big smile was formed in the kids face.

It’s been two weeks since they met. And everything’s going good so far.

The day after Max let him stay, with the condition of being careful no to be seen, she went to check on him only to have heart attack when she didn’t find him.

The blankets she gave him were folded and there was no trace of him.

She spent the whole morning of school wondering where he could have gone. It’s not like she paid attention to the classes before.

And after an uncomfortable ride home with her stepbrother she went straight to the shed getting an insult of how weird she was behaving from the blond and disappointment from finding nothing.

She stayed on her room thinking the few things she knew about him while her brother worked out in the living room. She thought about the limited vocabulary of the kid and that she had to read the comics she showed him because he couldn’t.

There were no visible signs of physical abuse but she got a glimpse of a tattoo in his left wrist when he rubbed his eyes after yawning.

The kid is only ten, what kind of tattoo would a kid his age want?

He is dirty and his clothe doesn’t fit him, obviously not his. But still, none of it gives her a hint from where he comes from or how to find him.

She didn’t even know why she wanted to finde him so bad. Or more like, she pretended not to know.

She’s always thought of herself as independent, which was accurate for the most part, but didn’t mean she liked being alone.

Before moving to Hawkins, in California, she made her life outside of the awkward environment of her house. She spent most of her time with her two best friends and going to her biological fathers house. Even when her mother met Neil and his son, she did it.

But now, she is stuck in a place she doesn’t know with her awkwardly nervous mother, an asshole who controls the house and everyone in it and calls himself her father just to have an excuse to “educate” her and a stepbrother that gives cero shit about her.

The kid was like her hope for something better. His innocent soul hasn’t been taught how to be an though (asshole) to confront the live out there. He was a little piece of the remaining good things of the world.

Fortunately, before she could exit and give her stepbrother an excuse to leave the house she was startled out of her thoughts by a knock on her window.

There he was peeking over the edge of the window and lifting a hand with three bags of chips to share with her.

Since then it became a routine that they manage to hold for a week. While Max goes to school and avoids as much interaction with her current family as she could, thirteen sneaks out to explore more. He already knows most of the place like the back of his hands but he still finds interesting the things that people do, even tho he is to scared to get close.

Those are the moments too bitersweet to him. He loves watching others have fun and imagine himself enjoying with them, having a life where he didn’t have to keep hiding, but before he can get a step closer to the kids in the park the fear of returning to the lab and being punished for leaving in the first place stops him.

That’s why he always goes back to the shed. To a place where he knows he is not alone anymore. At least the fear of being found didn’t bother him for the first week, but at the beginning of the second something that neither he or Max could have thought happened.

It was a normal day for them until the girl came back from school and went to her room like usual. But her heart fell once she saw Billy walking out of the house with a grey tank top and a pair of shorts he only uses when he knows his going to get dirty. Which means he is going thinker with his car, which means, he needs his tolls that are in the shed.

She took a shortcut jumping through her window. She run to catch her stepbrother and walked as normal as posible beside him.

“What are you doing?” She asked, trying to act normal.

He threw her a a momentary look, easily realizing her act. “To mind my business.” He answers bluntly.

She put herself in front of him walking backwards, only making the situation even weirder to Billy. “Don’t you have a date? With the… that blonde girl. What was her name?” She tried to remember almost stumbling with a rock.

Billy rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I don’t know and I don’t care. That was yesterday. Now move.” He pushed her effortlessly to the side once they reached the shed.

Max almost face planted in the floor but that wasn’t her priority. She turned to Billy only to witness him stop in his place with the door open.

“What the fuck?” He mumbled.

Max rammed her body against the door and closed it staying between it and her stepbrother. “It’s not what it looks like.” She defended.

Billy rose a brown in incredulity. “Really? Because it looks like you’re keeping a stray in Neil’s shed.”

“He’s not a dog, he’s a kid.” She defended, actually offended. “A really scared kid.”

“And I don’t give a shit. You’ve been keeping him there in a shed that doesn’t belong to you.” Max knew that what he said was true, but she couldn’t let him to his own with the possibility of returning to an abusive home. “What could a kid of his age be scared of? A monster under his bed?” He shook his head. It was ridiculous. “He needs to go.” He said with finality.

Max pressed her back even harder against the door and shook her head.

Billy got closer to her, using his height to tower over her in an intimidating way. “Get him out before Neil finds out or I’ll do it.” He threatened in a gruff voice.

Max genuinely felt scared. She knew what he was capable of, but she bets that the kid is even more scared than she is right now. And she was right, the boy was shaking inside the shed, hugging to his chest one of the comics Max left for him. His favorite comics. One of x-men’s.

“No.” She said with all the confidence she could in front of her intimidating brother.

The blond grabbed her arm in a painfully strong grip and dragged her a few steps away from the shed before throwing her, ignoring her yelp when she fell on her side. “Then I’m gonna get rid of the scaredy cat myself.” He conclude walking with heavy steps towards the shed.

Max panicked. She let out something that she knew could affect him. “He’s scared of his father, okay?” She screamed.

She felt a small relief when Billy stopped in his actions with his hand in the door’s handle.

His hesitation brought some confidence to the girl. “He hurts him.” She explained in hopes of changing his mindset. “I’m not asking you to take care of him. Just don’t tell anyone. You won’t even notice he is here.” She pleaded a little calmer now but still seating in the floor. “You won’t even notice he is here.” She repeated in a soft voice.

Billy bit the inside of his cheek in thought. He doesn't know how long the kid’s been there but if it weren't for the fact that he personally went to the shed he wouldn't know of his existence.

Almost reluctantly, Billy opened the shed again. He stayed in his place but he took his time to actually take a look at the kid. Scared and dirty, the boy stayed in the very back of the wooden place, shaking. Those blue innocent eyes were looking at him, waiting for the worst.

For a second, a small flash, he saw himself in the boy. When he was recently abandoned by his mother and left with his abusive father. He moved slowly to one of the shelves close to the door to grab the box of tools, keeping an eye on the kid.

Once he was out he looked at the surprised redhead in the floor as he closed the door behind him.

He stepped in front of his sister with his always present frown in his face. “If Neil finds out I let you hide a kid in the shed I’m gonna drag you under the bus with me. Do you understand?” He concluded.

Max was stunned for a few seconds but nodded slowly.

Billy scoffed, proceeding with his plans on tinkering in his car but made a las comment. “And wash that filthy kid. His gonna become a charcoal by the weekend.”

Max blinked a few times. She sat there for a moment, processing what just happened until she heard the door creaked open and a pair of eyes accompanied by a dirty fur (at least that’s what it looks like) peeked out of the place. She gave him a toothed smile that soon became a laugh that turned into a cackle that had her almost rolling on the floor.

The boy came out of the shed smiling, visibly confused but smiling. If Max was happy that means good news.

And it did.

Now that she didn’t have to actually hide the boy it became easier to change places between her room and the shed, they go through her bedroom’s window though.

She did what Billy said. She gave him a bath. She took his clothes and left him in his underwear covering it with a towel and sat him in the bathtub. She was horrified when the water changed color almost instantly and she had to change it for more clean water.

She knew he got dirty through the week but not that much.

She was surprised once again when she gave him the bottle of her brother’s shampoo and he only looked at it in wonder.

The kid didn’t know how to use a shampoo, much less the conditioner. He now has hair long enough to go a little below his ears when wet but that’s new to him, he’s always had a buzz cut since he was a kid. He never needed anything more than soap for his whole body, like the rest of the kids in the lab.

Knowing the kid was never taught how to use a shampoo put another knot in Max’s heart. Through how much has the kid gone?

She end up teaching him how to use the shampoo and conditioner. He needed a little help to get some knots out of his hair but it was easy.

Surprise surprise. Under those old rags and all the dirt was a beautiful kid with light brown hair. It was formerly a way darker color.

Even Billy who was just on his way to his room did a doble take to the boy standing patiently in the hall. He scoffed and continued on his way. Who could have thought?

Meanwhile Max was practically buried in the main closet of the house, it was more like a storage room with all the unpacked boxes, looking for clothe that would fit him. More specifically, clothes her stepbrother used, but there was nothing. She already looked for in the unpacked boxes around the house and the closet was her last option.

She debated if she should ask Billy personally. It wasn’t the best of her ideas but it was the only one. The probability of Billy slamming the door in her face where high.

She sigh. It was her only option for now.

Reluctantly, she made her way to her stepbrothers bedroom where he was gathering clean clothes to take to the bathroom. His towel was already in his shoulder.

She knocked on the doorframe a little shy.

“What?” He grumbled without looking at her.

“Can you lend me some of your old clothes. The kid doesn’t have any.” She said in a small voice.

He huffed as he grabbed a blue tank top from his closet. “Why is that my problem? He should have thought about it before running away.” He said in a low voice with a hint of annoyance.

“Come on Billy. You can’t let him freeze to death in the autumn weather. Winter is already close.” She answered with a little bit of annoyance in her own voice.

Billy slammed the door of his closet shut and turned to Max. He already had what he needed. He pointed at her with his free hand. “You said he isn’t my problem and I wouldn’t even notice him. This doesn’t seem like it.” He had a point. “Give him some of your old clothes.” He recommended walking to the door. “You dress like a boy anyway.” He insult on his way out, bumping with Max’s shoulder on purpose.

Thirteen, still in the hallway, looked at Billy in curiosity when he walked by him, even when the teenage was obviously ignoring his presence.

Max huffed at him. Well she didn’t have that much expectations in him anyway.

She guided Thirteen back to her room and sat him down on her bed.

She looked for her own old clothes through the many unpacked boxes in her room, grumbling every time something fell out of the boxes for the lack of space needed.

It took a long time but finally, she found her clothes. she organized it into tree divisions. The too small for the 10 year old kid, the clothes that fits and the clothes that will fit. All of that, after selecting the ones that looked boyish.

By the end of it thirteen already had his hair sticking out in every direction, full of static. He put on and took off everything to measure.

While they were both doing their own things, Billy was back in his room. He discarded the dirty clothes in the laundry basket and dried his hair with harsh movements of the towel. Once satisfied he threw the towel to wherever the hell it flew, he just wanted to fall on his bed and blast some music, but he was stopped when he heard a commotion at the feet of his bed.

He huffed. The towel fell on top a stack of books placed on an unpacked box and caused everything to fall.

He grabbed the towel with annoyance only to freeze when he saw the box slightly opened. The item wasn’t hidden but wasn’t visible either from the door, that’s why Max didn’t see it when she came to ask. The light left a cloth visible inside the box. The box was filled with the clothes Max was looking for and some other things of his childhood.

Memories of the few good times. When his mother was still with him and he was happy.

He hasn’t been able to get rid of the things. To sentimental. But he doesn’t want to be reminded of the past and keeps everything hidden. Just like his feelings.

Agitated, Billy grabbed the box of things, slammed his closet’s door open, threw the box inside and slammed it back shut. He walked to his nightstand and grabbed the box of cigarettes. He lighted one up with hands trembling in bottled fury and disgust towards himself and the world.

The relief of breathing nicotine and filling his lungs with the smoke was almost instant. He held his breath for a few seconds, calming himself first then letting it out just like the bad feelings.

The past is in the past, he cannot be weak anymore. He doesn’t have that chance.

To drown every remaining of that bad taste in his mouth he blasted his noisy music so loud that he couldn’t hear his own thoughts anymore.

Thirteen, still in Max’s room frowned when the music reached his ears. Billy’s door was close and so was Max’s, yet, he could still hear the music very clear. He didn’t like how it sounds.

A little thing he hasn’t told Max yet is one of his rare capabilities. Everyone in the lab new it was a possibility to gain enhanced senses once some of the kids started showing signs of it. More specifically, hearing and smell.

Whatever they did to expand the limits of their minds also better enabled the senses limited by mental capacity.

9 of the 15 kids they had developed the enhanced senses along with telepathy and psychokinetic powers. Thirteen was one of them. He only got the hearing though.

But he never got to interact enough with them because he was separated from the rest of the kids when his father found out he was a late bloomer. He was left in isolation for many hours with the excuse that it was to help him concentrate. He was raised in the east side of the lab while the rest were held in the west.

But still, he ended up better than his father ever anticipated and now he has some resemblance of freedom.

Uncomfortable with the music rumbling in his head he rubbed his ears for a moment. The security alarms in the lab were still worse so it wasn’t that much of a problem.

“Here” cheered Max grabbing jeans, a pair of socks, a navy-blue t-shirt with long sleeves and a red hoodie that has less color than when it was new for the many times it’s been washed.

Happy to cover his chilling skinny body he quickly put on the clothes. Max helped him when he managed to get his head stuck in one of the long sleeves.

At last, when he was done, he had a big innocent smile in his face that was reflected in Max’s own. The clothes fitted perfectly.

“Looking good, uh?” she said rising and lowering her eyebrows consecutively. The smile in the boy’s face widened with joy. “Now you can blend in with the others if you need.” Thirteen nodded in agreement. “Wanna read a comic now?” She asked, getting another nod as an answer.

“Magneto?” asked the boy in hope.

Max laughed a little, already grabbing an x-men comic. She knows that the boy’s favorite character is Magneto. She doesn’t know why but she likes how he thinks outside of the box. Most of the kids like a hero, but Thirteen likes a villain, just like she likes monsters. In some way, they are similar.

That’s how the first two weeks of knowing the stepsiblings went. Enjoying a little bit of liberty and not lonely anymore.

But Halloween is close, and so are other things in the dark he thought he would never see again.

Fortunately, this time he won’t be alone.

What do you think?

Any comment or constructive criticism are appreciated.

#stranger things #stranger things x male reader #male reader #x child reader #male oc #x male oc #billy hargrove #max mayfield #eleven hopper #jim hopper #steve harrington #stranger things x reader

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starstruckunknown-princess · 8 months ago

Text

Hellebore - Dieter Bravo x Reader

Hellebore (Helleborus) - Meaning: We shall overcome scandal and slander

Summary: Dieter has a slip up. You, his personal assistant, have to deal with it now.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x PA!Reader

Word Count: 1295

Warnings: Drug use/abuse discussions, Dieter is a Sad Raccoon, shower scene (but not the spicy kind), inappropriate thoughts, soft moments, a little hurt/comfort, but mostly fluff

In Bloom Masterlist

Day 9 is for our Sad Boi Dieter! I just want to hug this man and tell him it's gonna be okay, so this is a little self-serving.

The house was dark when you arrived - not incredibly unusual for Dieter to sleep in, but this darkness felt different somehow. You let yourself in and heard the upstairs shower on so you knew at least someone was awake.

“Dee?” you called, announcing your presence in case he had company. Something in your gut twisted at the thought, but you shoved the feeling aside and made your way upstairs. It was unprofessional to have feelings for your boss. You were his longest-lasting PA, but only recently had these feelings started popping up as he exposed more of his softness to you.

You’d learned early on in your employment with Dieter to always, always knock or announce yourself, so you knocked on the half-closed bedroom door before peeking your head in. “Dieter? You in here?”

The bedroom was empty, the bedding mussed and the TV on but the faces of the TMZ “reporters” paused over a graphic that read ‘Dieter Bravo’s Night on the Town!’ You groaned and rolled your eyes.

Now that you were closer, you could hear Dieter’s discontent groans mingling with the shower sounds, so you knocked on the ensuite bathroom door.

He didn’t respond, so you entered the luxe bathroom that was bigger than your bedroom at your apartment. You didn’t see any coke residue on the marble countertops, no other drug paraphanelia laying around, which was momentarily reassuring.

You gasped when you saw his feet sticking out past the privacy wall of his walk-in shower. Shit, had he overdosed? Drowned?

When you were hired, you’d been adamant about him remaining California sober — spending your formative years taking care of an opioid-addicted mother only to have her OD while you were away at college had left you unable to tolerate being around those who were using the harder stuff. Dieter happily accepted that provision, being in recovery and not eager to start the hiring process with yet another PA again.

From inside the shower, Dieter moaned and you rushed over, bracing yourself in the opening, ready to perform whatever first aid you could offer. He was splayed out on his back so the spray hit his bare chest, his ubiquitous green robe and a pair of boxer briefs the only things he wore. He was completely soaked, his normally fluffy hair slicked back against his scalp, one eye peeking open as he heard your long sigh — relief upon discovering he was okay.

“Fuck, Dee, you scared me,” you said, “What are you doing in here?”

“Hiding.”

“From what?”

“You’re gonna leave me. So I’m hiding.” He explained, leaving you more confused. You stood over him, avoiding the spray as you reached down to him with both hands to help him up.

“Come on, let’s get out of the shower.”

“Promise you won’t leave?” He asked, face like a kicked puppy as he looked up at you.

“I promise, but you’re gonna have to explain why you think I’ll leave. Okay?” You cajoled, something twisting in your chest at the pain in his face.

Only responding with a nod, he sat up and reached for your hands, letting you pull him to his feet. You looked into his eyes and saw no evidence of hard drugs, so you reached behind him and turned off the shower. You could feel the heat radiating off his wet body, and you raised your hands to push his sodden robe off his shoulders but paused, looking at him to ask permission. He granted it with a little nod, dark eyes fixed on you. The robe flopped against the tile below and you walked over to the closet to grab a fresh towel. You could feel his gaze follow you, like he was truly afraid you would bolt out the door and couldn’t bear to look away.

You wrapped a fresh towel around his shoulders and handed him one to wrap around his waist. He did, and you took his wrist in your hand and led him into the bedroom.

You sat him on the edge of the mattress and ducked into his walk-in closet and grabbed him dry clothes. The sad, desperate look in his eyes followed you all the way back to him. He’d at least rubbed the towel on his hair because it now stuck up in several different directions.

You put the clothes on the bed and sat next to him. “What’s going on, Dee?” you asked quietly, keeping your tone low.

“I fucked up. Last night, at the wrap party, someone had coke and I was already drunk so I took a bump and then there were some paps outside that caught me stumbling out of the place and I knew you would be mad cuz you won’t put up with me doing the hard stuff and I swear I haven’t but I slipped and I-”

You put your hand on his cheek to stop him, “Hey, hey, no. I’m not going anywhere. Look at me,” you asked, pulling his face toward yours, and he did. You saw a thick line of unshed tears along his lower lashes. He blinked and they fell. You brushed them away with your thumb.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked, voice almost a whisper and so pathetic-sounding your heart cracked. Without hesitation, you shook your head.

“No, of course I’m not. You’re an addict, you had a slip. Shit happens. But that’s all it was, right? Just a slip?”

He nodded vehemently. You nodded along with him. “Okay, good. I’m really glad you told me. Thank you for telling me.”

He smirked and you saw the normal Dieter coming back. “I promised I wouldn’t lie to you when you started, remember?”

“Yeah, you did.” You said, smiling as well. “And I promised that if you were honest with me I wouldn’t quit.”

He looked up at you, face full of hope for a moment before turning into a scowl. “Now everyone’s gonna think I’m off the wagon, no one’s gonna wanna work with me again…ugh!”

He fisted his hands in his hair and fell backward onto the bed, letting out a loud groan.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t take a moment to appreciate the lines of his body all stretched out in the messy sheets. His golden brown chest looked so warm and inviting, just begging to be marked up by your lips, teeth, tongue as you made your way to the little patch of dark hair leading under the towel. Not for the first time you wondered what would happen if you made a move, placed a gentle kiss to his clavicle or neck, made your desire known…

Flinging his arms out to the side, he looked at you again and you snapped out of your daze. Awkwardly, you cleared your throat and forced yourself back into Personal Assistant Mode.

“I’ll call Paula,” you said, referring to his publicist as you pulled out your phone. “She’ll handle it.”

You stood up to walk out of the room and give him some privacy, but a large hand on your shoulder stopped you and pulled you back down

“Hey,” he said, quiet again, “We’re okay, right?”

The insecurity in his question was palpable, and you couldn’t help it anymore. You wrapped your arms around his chest and rested your head against his shoulder.

Part of being a good PA was knowing what your client needed before they needed it, and giving it to them without them having to ask. At that moment, Dieter needed more than words to confirm the two of you actually were and would continue to be okay, so you held him tightly for a few moments longer than necessary to make sure he got the message.

“Yeah, Dee, we’re okay.”

#writing challenge #fanfiction #fluff #in bloom #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo fanfiction #the bubble fanfiction

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ohforficsake · 9 months ago

Text

The Margay: Chapter 9

Memorize it. Destroy it.

prev / series masterlist / main masterlist

Summary: Santiago recruits Frankie to contract for a covert agency that pairs them with danger in more ways than one. A series of one-shot snippets taking place during and around missions.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Sniper!OFC

Word Count: ~4.7K

WARNINGS: I'm going to go ahead and flag this chapter as Dark!Frankie / Potential triggers herein for verbal and physical abuse (extreme jealously, manhandling, pinning against a wall, facial bruising, borderline choking), brief mention of self harm/suicidal ideation / Please read with care.

Rating: Explicit 18+ / language / crass mention of sexual acts / mentions of drug use / Minors DNI

A/N: Frankie breaks something.

Finally getting one of these up in time for Frankie Friday. This chapter. Whew this chapter. It came to me months ago. Something that makes you put everything down so you can transcribe this thing from wherever it’s coming from.

chapter moodboard if you're interested

Divider by @cafekitsune!

“Why are you draggin’ me to this, couldn’t you have found someone else?

“I already told you,” Santiago fiddles with his bowtie in a car window reflection. “It’s a favor to the guy who got us this gig in the first place. Needs bodies in the room for this fundraiser. Davis is covering the donation, it’s the fucking least we could do.”

“You coulda brought some girl.”

“Yeah, but I like you on my arm,” Santi quips with a pout and Fish flips him a choice finger.

The room is filled from marble wall to marble wall with standard Washington DC fixtures. The low din of conversation punctuated with the occasional chime of laugher and clink of glass. Diamonds glitter in the low golden light under massive, equally scintillating chandeliers.

Francisco can't help but scan the room as he trails Pope to the nearest proffered tray of champagne glasses, fingers absent-mindedly wrapping around one when it's placed in his hand.

And it's Frankie who sees her first at a distance. Sheathed in a flowing column of white. Black hair is blown out into loose curls that fall down to the middle of her back, face lit up in a laugh.

When she rocks on her feet he notices that her arm is wrapped around a man’s bicep.

Frankie drains the rest of his champagne, slamming the glass down on a hightop table before Pope catches the crook of his elbow and cuts off his path to her.

“Don’t.”

“Who the fuck is that.”

“The senator who sponsored this thing? That’s his son.”

“That doesn’t make it better, Pope.”

Audrey hanging off the arm of some spoiled fuckin’ rich kid.

Not that he’s a kid, he’s got a few years on Frankie at least.

But a senator’s son?

Audrey.

His Audrey.

Audrey who he’s seen covered in engine grease, cuddling stray cats, trekking through the jungle covered in sweat and blood.

Audrey who warms his bed and angles big green eyes up at him with his spend still coating her thighs.

His Audrey.

She’s clearly playing a game.

She’s on a job.

Undercover.

She’s not herself.

And she catches him staring heat at her from across the room.

A million watts of light spark across her features and she waves them over.

“Francisco. Behave.” Pope spikes him a warning.

When they weave through bodies to make it to her she greets each with kisses on both cheeks, grip falling subtly to Frankie’s arm as her last kiss lingers.

“Let me introduce you," she says to the man, "this is Santiago Garcia and Francisco Morales. The boys who’ve been helping me out down there. The Major is, one of my oldest friends.”

“I should thank you both for keeping her safe,” the Major grins. He’s got a California accent and the tan to match.

She gives them his name but Frankie doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy sizing the man up. Guy’s got three? Four inches in height on him at least. Dark black curls, a face that’s weathered enough to betray that he’s never really worked a desk job. Even Frankie can admit he’s handsome. Roman nose, strong brow. But his eyes startle Frankie the most.

They’re the same color as Audrey’s.

The exact same shade of green. The effect of it is stunning when they both meet Frankie’s gaze.

And Catfish can’t get the flash his brain conjures of the two of them tangled in white sheets out from behind his eyelids.

“You look beautiful tonight, Aud,” Pope charms in an attempt to distract from Fish’s tangible simmering.

“I can clean up okay if I have to,” she winks, untangling her arm from this man’s.

“So what is it that you do?” Frankie cuts in, just this side of prickly.

“Marine engineer,” he says, swallowing a mouthful of champagne. “Which is a pretentious way of saying that I spend my days on boats looking for sunken treasure.”

It is an oversimplification at its finest. Because like the three of them, he’s done his fair share of greasing the cogs that keep the world running smoothly.

And like the three of them, he’s greased them with blood.

“I think we could all use refills," Audrey clears her throat, "Frankie, would you be my extra set of hands?”

“‘Course,” he doesn’t realize he grits it out.

Like spitting slivers of glass.

He flattens one broad palm across the small of her back and guides her in front of him in the direction of the bar. He follows close behind, eyes searing into the back of her skull.

The tattoo on her shoulder taunts him where it peeks out from under the seams of her sleeveless dress.

On display for anyone to see.

When they reach the bar, Frankie slots in behind her, the panes of his chest finding her back.

Audrey presses against him with a hum.

She’s nearly his height in heels and he doesn’t have to bend now to whisper in her ear. “A man more dangerous than me?”

“A friend with a Messerschmitt,” she turns to face him, running her hand over his stomach under his jacket.

And he revels in her touch before betraying the way it soothes.

“You fuck all of your friends?”

Frankie can tell there’s history between them that involves more than clunky warplanes and tinkering with old cars and it bubbles up like bile spat out in needless cruelty.

“Only the ones who know what Messerschmitts are,” she tosses back in kind, her tone level in direct defiance of what’s clawing at the back of her throat.

She turns around again as the bartender approaches and Frankie steps back a hair, breaking contact with her form.

It makes her seethe.

She hands Frankie three glasses of tequila with lime, balanced easily in generous hands, before she sweeps a gin martini off of the bar and leads him back to where Santiago and the man are laughing about something.

Fish hands Santi and glass holds the other out for Audrey, but she sips from the martini without breaking his stare and Frankie instead has to hand it over to the other man.

Messerschmitt. Since Frankie can’t remember his name.

They toast, what a pleasure to meet, happy you boys are keeping Audrey company out there.

Company.

“Fish, the Major is a pilot, he was Air Force.”

“In my youth,” the man quips.

“I’ve heard,” he drains his glass and doesn’t attempt to continue down the path what Santi has forged for him.

And so the two of them carry the conversation alone, Frankie staring daggers at Audrey who shoots him the occasional searing glance every time she plucks an olive from the golden skewer in her drink.

A hush falls over the crowd as vainglorious speeches start up.

But Frankie's ears are ringing.

Audrey makes it through one speech before excusing herself to the restroom with a soft hand on Santi’s elbow, and a brush on Messerschmitt’s cuff.

She doesn’t need to alert Frankie because Frankie’s been watching her every move.

He waits five minutes before slipping away in the same direction.

They’re about to pass each other in the hallway when Frankie’s hand shoots out for her bicep, a glance over his shoulder to be sure no one is looking before dragging and shoving roughly to pin her against the wall.

“So is this what you do, when you’re not with me? Fuck senators’ sons?”

“The fact that he’s a senator's son is honestly the most unfortunate thing about him. And what we do is not my being with you. It’s my job.” She presses something soft into his hand. “That’s for you. If you want it.”

Frankie stuffs whatever it is into his jacket pocket and continues.

“And is this part of your job? Hanging off the arms of handsome men in fancy rooms?” He runs his palms down her bare arms before they settle on her hips.

“Sometimes. But I don’t frequent these in my downtime. This is a favor.”

“A favor. To him.”

“Yes.”

“So you don’t make a habit of this? Being this charming.”

“Aw you really think so?” She snarks and Frankie’s hands on her hips slam her back against the wall.

“You like it, don’t you. All of these eyes on you. Driving me insane.” His fingers brush a curl from her cheek. “Don’t play coy, I see how they look at you. Do you beg them for it, Audrey?”

“They look at me because I’m a novelty in this room, Frankie.”

And she’s not wrong. She’s a lithe beautiful thing with rich bronze skin in a room of wives and mistresses the same shade of blonde caked in the same shade of orange. She moves through a sea of hungry eyes with comfort precisely because she doesn’t give a fuck about the other men in this room.

Not even really about Messerschmitt. Not now that he’s here.

“You mean you don’t work your way into their beds? Let them fuck you until you’re screaming?”

She scoffs a “no” and Frankie listens but doesn’t hear.

“Is it their money? Their expensive whiskey and the thread count of their sheets that makes you come?”

His hand skates up over her chest, fingers feather-light over the skin of her collarbone that peeks out from under the high neck of her dress.

“Because there’s no way their cocks are satisfying you. That room is rife with overcompensation.”

Everything to this point has been some twisted form of foreplay.

But Frankie tips.

His hand moves to her neck now, the broad span of it making easy work of fitting around her throat.

Because some part of him believes this. Believes that Messerschmitt has had her and would have had her tonight if Santi hadn’t dragged him here and it makes him wonder how many others.

He needs to know how many others.

Frankie's eyes are blown dark, logic is abandoned in a brain fogged with jealousy. Skin thrumming with possession.

And it’s out before he can catch it.

“How many of them have had you, Audrey?” Rumbled through low registers of his voice.

He uses his index finger to roughly angle her face back to him from where she’s glanced back into the room.

“How many of them have seen you fall apart? Hmm? How many of them have left you shaking?”

His body holds her against the wall, thighs pressed to hers, his elbow jammed painfully in the sparse space between them where he holds her.

And Audrey just watches, gaze angled down her nose.

Amused.

Frankie’s a man in a trance as he runs the pad of his thumb over the lush of her bottom lip, hot breath following its path.

“Have they seen the way your mouth falls open when you clench around them? Do they know that you can see these little fucking teeth when you do,” he snarls it, sliding his thumb over her top incisors before slipping it farther to slide over her tongue.

He tastes of lime and ozone.

“How many of them have come in this pretty little mouth, Audrey?” Frankie presses down with his thumb to open it wider.

She could bite down. She could box his ears and take out an eardrum or both. She could throw a knee into his crotch.

She could scream.

She’s not going to.

Not yet.

But she could.

He adjusts his grip and his middle finger and thumb dig painfully into the space at the hinge of her jaw and he gives her head a small shake, voice dripping with condescension. “Do you swallow for them, or is that just for me?”

And it should frighten her. The way her sweet soft Frankie has gone dark.

The way he’s a hair’s breadth away from squeezing down on her pulse.

The way he could crush her jaw with the strength of his hand alone.

But this?

This is always there.

Churning under the surface until it heats enough to boil.

It's what she loves about him.

“Do you let them come inside you too? Let them empty their balls into your hot little cunt and leave you dripping?” He shifts one leg to the outside of hers to press her further into the wall with his body.

And it should terrify her, this being caged in, his fingers jammed hard into her mandible as he spits and seethes with equal parts disdain and infatuation.

“Do they fill you up like I do? With as much as I do?”

The hard line of Frankie’s cock pressed against her hip telegraphs unyielding, sick pleasure.

“Do they fuck you better than I do, Audrey?”

“There is no ‘they’ Frankie.”

“Oh? Well then. Does that man. Out there. Fuck you. Better than I do.” His arm twitches with each sentence, moving her head with it.

She should be ashamed of how wet she is.

“Would you let him come down your throat the way that you let me?”

And she doesn’t dare give him the satisfaction of the truth.

“I know he doesn’t eat you out the way that I do. Doesn’t make you come on his face.” He presses his nose to her cheek, breathing in the scent of her. “I can tell.”

“But I bet he’d still give it to you. If you wanted him to.”

He doesn’t realize that he’s growling with every breath.

“I don’t want...”

“But would he. Fuck you.”

“Yes.”

And Frankie’s nostrils flare and a breath hisses through his teeth.

His hold on her tightens.

“Yeah, I bet he would. Because you’re a fuckin’ toy. A pretty little plaything to be used when the need strikes and then…” he trails off. “He’d fuck you but he wouldn’t keep you.”

“Yeah—" he growls.

"I wouldn’t either.”

And Frankie says it because he’s frothing with impotence at what he doesn’t have to offer.

Any one of these men could give her the world.

They paid $14K just to stand in this room.

But Frankie wouldn’t keep her because Frankie doesn’t deserve her.

And Frankie makes it her fault.

Lashing out at her for the way she consumes him.

And all of this. This is trying to prove himself with his body where the rest of him falls short.

Because it’s all he knows.

The Delta who gave his body to the Stars and Stripes in search of validity and purpose and a place in this world.

And those colors chewed him up and spat him out tasting like a bad back and a coke problem.

But he’s taken it too far now.

Still gripping hard at her jaw.

And her scorpion’s tongue delivers a barb that sticks right in the spot in his brain where he’s regretted it every moment of his existence since that night.

“You going to strangle me again, Francisco?”

The antidote to his fever.

“No,” the grip on her loosens.

The fight drains through the soles of his feet and back to the earth to be transmuted into something that doesn’t destroy.

He breathes without snarling.

And rests his forehead against hers before taking half a step back.

And she tips her face to hover her lips over his but neither of them move any farther.

They just breathe.

Looking like lovers to anyone who is watching.

She brushes a hand over the napkin slipped into his jacket pocket. “Memorize it. Or don’t. But destroy it either way.”

And Audrey slips from between him and the wall.

Frankie doesn’t move to turn around, instead bracing his forearm against wallpaper, listening to her heels on marble as she returns to the bathroom.

“And Frankie,” she calls over her shoulder, staving off the shattering of her voice. “Please be nice.”

He snorts as he spins and leans heavy against drywall, head thudding backwards. He scrubs a palm down his face and breathes deep, trying to bring himself back to even.

Trying to stave off the panic winding around his organs.

Threatening to constrict.

He has no idea what just happened.

Frantic fingers scramble for the thing in his pocket.

A napkin that he unfolds.

An address in Alexandria.

Her address.

He storms off to the gents and into a stall, mentally repeating the numbers and letters until it’s ingrained before he drops it in the toilet bowl. Blue ink bleeds into something illegible before he flushes it away.

His stomach turns and for a moment he thinks tequila is going to follow it.

Frankie breathes in hard through his nose and out with a hiss, storming out of the stall to splash cold water into his face.

He prays he hasn’t left a bruise.

_____

“You good?” Santi whispers when Audrey slips in beside him.

“Yeah, do I look fine?”

He gives her a quick once-over. “Physically, yes. Spiritually?” Pope tips his glass of tequila towards her hand and she drains it as applause breaks out at the end of another speech.

“He okay?”

“Dunno.”

Santiago casts a look over his shoulder towards the bathrooms.

“Come, let me get you another,” he gently presses an open palm to Audrey's elbow, leading her to the bar.

“Gin and soda.” Santi knows her and joins. “Two."

Santi knows the two of them well enough to hit on what just happened. "That really spun him up, huh?”

“Never meant to. I’ve known the Major for over twenty years, I came as a favor. He’s one of the few people on earth who knows what I actually do.”

“It’s not a fucking crime to be comfortable around someone," she adds in a soft voice. "I had no idea you were going to be here.”

“Sort of a favor on our end as well.” Santiago slips a tip into the glass jar as the bartender slides over two drinks.

Audrey swallows a sip, letting the ice cold liquid chill her burning stomach.

“I was fucking happy when I saw you both.”

And she sounds like she's about to fracture.

“Hey.”

Santi’s eyes are soft, heavy-lidded as is his way when he’s sincere.

“He’s an idiot when it comes to this.”

She scoffs and takes another sip.

“I’m gonna beat the shit out of him.”

“That’s very kind Santi, but I can do it myself.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“No.”

“Yeah, your jaw is starting to bruise.”

“Fuck,” and she adjusts her hair to fall where Frankie’s fingers were with Pope calmly directing her movements.

To anyone else they’re making conversation.

But to anyone who knows, Pope is fuming and Audrey’s a frayed nerve.

And Messerschmitt knows and Messerschmitt would kill for her, but only if she says the word.

And she doesn’t.

“Let’s get you some food, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She has no appetite but she takes the arm Santi offers because he’s the only person Frankie won’t murder tonight and he guides her towards the nearest waiter with a tray of canapés.

For the first time in the two years that he’s known her, Santi realizes that Audrey can’t take care of herself right now.

She’s unfocused, eyes darting around the room with none of their usual calculated discernment.

Big, liquid things. Fighting the threat of overflow.

Whatever the fuck Frankie just said.

He broke her.

And so Santiago spends the rest of the night putting his body between her and Fish, and Fish knows that Santi knows something, the shame of it heating the tips of Frankie’s ears.

Audrey doesn’t stick around long after speeches are through.

She takes her leave after wrapping Santiago in a grateful embrace, kissing Messerschmitt on the cheek, and squeezing Frankie’s arm.

He can tell that was for appearances’ sake and he knows better than to follow right after her.

In the end he plays well in the sandbox. So well, in fact that he strikes up a conversation with the Major. They talk of helicopters and Immelmann maneuvers and they bore Santiago enough that he abandons them for a pretty blonde at the bar.

And Catfish shakes Messerschmitt’s hand when he leaves.

But he still doesn’t know his name.

_____

Frankie crawls back to her at midnight like a shamed thing with his tail between his legs.

She opens the door to find his hands stuffed in his pockets, doe eyes back on full display.

And Audrey wishes she hadn’t handed him that napkin.

But she also wishes for the confirmation that he offers now.

That they’re going to be okay.

In their own, fucked up kind of way.

She invites him inside without saying a word and he doesn’t reach out for her as he steps into darkness.

City lights filter in through large windows, but a candle on the coffee table is the only thing lighting his way.

She’s just been sitting in the dark.

And he stands in her home that he can’t see, somewhere between her living room and her kitchen, watching her move from the bar to the fridge and back again, still clad in her white evening gown.

Like a ghost in the night.

She hands him tequila and scoops the dregs of her martini off of the coffee table, downing it before heading for the sink.

He catches her arm on the way, holding her on the tips of his fingers, waiting for her to move.

She stops but doesn’t lean in.

“I’m sorry.” Frankie whispers.

And the candlelight catches in her eyes when she looks to him.

For my jealously. For what I said. The questions I asked.

For insinuating that you’re a whore.

But instead “I’m sorry” is all he repeats on a sigh as he lets her go and to his surprise she reaches to wrap an arm around his neck, pressing her body to his, burying her face in his collar.

It takes him a moment before he holds her back, biceps squeezing around her ribs.

And feeling bursts from his chest with a sob.

“I’m sorry, cariño, I’m sorry,” he kisses against her hairline, seeking forgiveness in her mouth.

“I’m going to take a shower,” is all he gets in return. “Alone.”

And she leaves Frankie standing backlit by city light, looking for all the world like a man-shaped void in her home.

Frankie thinks he should leave.

He wants desperately to run from this pain of his own creation, slip into drink in his own hotel room and pass out on the floor.

It can’t be that hard to find coke in DC.

And the thought scares him enough to make him stay.

He forces himself to move on legs of lead to collapse on her couch, screwing the heels of his palms into his eyes, listening to water against tile where she’s left the bathroom door open.

Audrey returns to him in a black linen robe, wet hair smelling of white flowers.

Darkness unfurls into night-blooming florals.

The same darkness that dry-rots him from the inside out, leaving nothing but a cloud of cheap blow behind every time something collapses.

And her manicured feet enter Frankie’s frame of view, but he doesn’t look up until she kneels down, reaching her hand to cup his scruffy jaw and tip his face to hers.

He’s crying.

She thumbs one tear from his cheek before it’s replaced with another.

Frankie engulfs her hand with his, turning to press a kiss to her palm.

“We don’t work here, Francisco.”

And she skates around her issue to get to the heart of their issue.

She’ll deal with herself later.

What they have doesn’t belong here.

In city lights, where people wear diamonds and Rolexes. Where mistresses and wives are the ones making deals to keep everything running smoothly.

Here where she moves with practiced ease.

Here where he’s lost in words that don’t mean what they say and smiles that lash instead of soothe.

Where the air draws cruel things from his throat.

“I know.”

They never intended to bring it here.

“Forgive me.” He whispers.

Forgive me the delusion.

“Forgive me, Audrey.”

Forgive me my words.

“Forgive me,” panted against her mouth, foreheads pressed flush.

Forgive me and show me you still care.

Because I don’t.

Not about my body, not about my soul, and I might damn them both tonight if you don’t forgive me.

But he’s still asking on his behalf.

“Audrey, please. Please,” he sobs.

I don’t know why I’m like this.

I don’t know where else to go.

Take me back. To before I bruised.

Bruises that blossom on her jaw now in low light.

But bruises were how they started.

And she takes his hands in her own and leads him to her bedroom where she strips layers from him. Rids him of wool and cotton and lays him in linen sheets.

She fits against his back, arm around a chest that can’t find steady breath. Audrey presses kisses to the back of his neck. Strokes his hair until sleep briefly takes him.

Like the warm body that she is.

And in the night he finds her, heated palms on her stomach, pulling her weight to rest on his hips but she peels his fingers from her skin and rolls back to her side of the bed.

He knows why he came here.

To fix what he’s done but he doesn’t know where to start sewing up the damage.

He ripped too deep.

And Frankie doesn’t know what else to do but offer his body and allow her to take what she needs.

To allow himself to be a body for her to use after his words and his fingers implied she was the same.

And she knows none of it’s true but she can’t help but feel it.

The love she doesn’t know how to give.

The family she’ll never have because she knows nothing more than how to bring death into the world.

But from where Frankie lies, tonight what she needs isn’t him.

And it brings a fresh, heaving wave of regret to crash through his chest.

_____

“I was engaged once,” she offers hours later as the blue beginnings of dawn start to light the room because she knows Frankie is still awake behind her.

“To him?”

“To a man more dangerous than you.”

“What h— what happened?”

“We were playing house in a home that was never ours.”

“We’re brutal things. Where he tries now to atone for his sins, I lean into them. We were never set up to work.”

“What does he do.”

And she doesn’t answer that particular question when she starts again.

“He was a Delta too, once upon a time.”

“What was his name?”

“Spencer.”

And it’s like a gift. Frankie knew of a Spencer who had made rank before him. Knew of the whispers that spread like wildfire through barracks of a ghost of a man who could do the impossible and he wonders if they’re one and the same.

Not unlike the woman in his arms.

“And now?”

“Sometimes we find each other on nights that get too dark. Sometimes we save one another.”

Lives and souls.

“But most times we’re nothing more than memories and whispered wishes in each other’s general directions. Each one of us hoping the other is still alive.”

“He would take you back?”

And Frankie doesn’t understand his fixation on this question, because she’s not his and never claimed to be.

But pieces of her live in the hearts and beds of other men and he desperately wants all of her for himself.

A wildcat in a cage.

A taxidermied husk with glass eyes.

A pelt to drape himself in.

He doesn’t ever ask if she would have them.

“Everyone would take me back, Frankie,” she pulls the duvet up to her ear.

“Because I’m always the one who leaves.”

“Will you leave me?”

It hangs in the air. Unanswered.

And he knows now.

She will leave.

And he will be another man who holds another piece of her.

And she will continue giving away whatever pieces of her that men will take.

Until there’s nothing left.

Nothing but murmured whispers of a ghost.

And pieces of her memory.

_____

When daylight comes, Frankie blinks hard at where sunrise streams through sheers.

Reaching out for warmth before dread blooms in his chest.

Audrey’s gone.

It’s her house and she’s gone.

And he bolts from the bed, searching for signs that she’ll return.

But he finds no note, no text, no sign.

Audrey’s left him.

_____

Author's Post Script: Messerschmitt and Spencer are actual characters that I've borrowed to play with for a moment, all credit to their original owners. Feel free to slide your guesses into my DMs if you're so inclined. Or just want to chat after all of that.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @missladym1981 @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @toomanytookas @spookyxsam

Also again taking the risk to tag some lovely folks who have shown interest in this here little story. As always, please do let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged:

@tinytinymenace @legendary-pink-dot @for-a-longlongtime @theshensei @iamskyereads @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @soft-persephone @julesonrecord @criticalarchitecture @oliveksmoked @jessthebaker @tanzthompson @youandmeand5bucks @ems-chaos-corner @thethirstwivesclub @76bookworm76 @tuquoquebrute

Please note that old chapters are hosted on the OFFS Library page. New chapters will be posted here at Ohforficsake.

Shoot me a message @ohforficsake or comment under this post if you would like to be added to the taglist for updates! Thanks so much for reading.

#tw: verbal abuse #tw: physical abuse #tw: mentions of self-harm #tw: suicidal thoughts #frankie morales #santiago garcia #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #the margay #ohforficsake

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supersymmetrys · 8 months ago

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IN THE ANGEL'S CITY, CHASING FORTUNE AND FAME . . .

An introduction post for my main WIP right now

Title: In the Angel's City

Genre: Drama/Adult Fiction

Status: second drafting

Setting: California, 2016 / California, the late 80s and 90s

POV: First Person

Warnings: swearing, alcohol + drug abuse, suicide and death mentions, mild sexual content, and overdosing mention

Synopsis:

When screenwriter Nadia Pérez is presented with the opportunity to create a mini-series with a plot of her choosing, the recent Academy Award winner has decided she will explore the life and death of 90s icon Scott Case. With mysterious circumstances surrounding the actor's death and poor media coverage about his life, Nadia relies on one person to help her with her script: Deven Shaw, former actor, and Scott Case's best friend. The only problem? Deven Shaw retired from acting years ago and is now living by himself in god knows where. It's up to Nadia not only to find Deven but also to uncover the reason behind Scott Case's death, as well as discover the secrets of the people who once were Hollywood's biggest stars.

Tag: # wip ; in the angel's city

Pinterest Board: Here

Spotify Playlist: Here

Characters: (will add the links for their introduction posts in the future)

Nadia Pérez: (29, she/her) Screenwriter and recent Oscar winner Nadia Pérez is a cunning, smart, and focused woman, who can be enthusiastic at times, even if she lives in a city that constantly tries to push her down. Despite being talented enough to win awards, she struggles to find pride in herself. Deven Shaw: (49, he/him) Deven used to be a popular teen heartthrob during the late 80s and 90s but he disappeared from the public eye after the death of his best friend, Scott Case. When Nadia finds him, Deven has become a reclusive and grumpy middle-aged man, who has to become a mentor of sorts to Nadia against his will. Scott Case: (he/him) Scott Case died of mysterious causes in 2000. Charming and handsome Scott was notoriously famous during the 90s and it's such a striking mystery why no one remembered him until Nadia started investigating. Even though he doesn't really appear in the book, we get to meet Scott through Deven's stories and memories. Jenna Azaria: Nadia's best friend and actress who's rising to fame. Always cheerful, Jenna is glad to assist Nadia in her search for the truth. Paul Campbell: Nadia's boyfriend anda comedy actor, perhaps the only person other than Jenna that Nadia trusts. Nicole Toledo: A 90s actress whom Nadia admires and who used to be married to Deven Shaw in the past.

Taglist (ask to be added!) : under the cut <3

@seasteading @heartshapedgreen @mthollowell-writes

#writeblr intro #wip introduction #wip intro #wip info #writeblr #writeblr community #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writers #writing wip #wtwcommunity #wip ; in the angel's city

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icallhimjoey · 2 years ago

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Not Enough

♥ ♥ rockstar!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Eddie's hauled you off to LA because, turns out, when you're not throwing your life away on booze and drugs, opportunities tend to lead to more opportunities. LA's amazing, and Eddie's amazing, and suddenly life is all about sun-freckles and exciting accomplishments but... something's missing.

CW / disclaimer: 18+, language, fem!reader, angst, mentions of substance abuse and addiction, trauma

Author’s note: This story continues my Eddie story that consists of “Only Now”, “Over Now”, “Then Again” and "Never Over". I've done my best to make it so that you don't really need to read all previous parts, but, it always helps.

Wordcount: 5.2K

(find all other parts of this story here)

The mattress dipped behind you before cold air wafted underneath the covers. Movement, noise of skin against fabric, fabric against fabric, and then the noise of a heavy head meeting the pillow next to you in an exhale.

Eddie was home.

Before you knew it, you felt a hand wander over, finding its way in between your thighs, pushing through soft flesh, and curling up until Eddie’s hand splayed out just below your bellybutton. With a strong yank, you were pulled backwards, right into him, butt first. You didn’t know why he had to pull you over to his side of the bed by your vagina, but, here you were.

Arms curled around you, a knee pushed your legs apart, just to sit in between, and within just a few seconds you found yourself fully tangled up together. Heavy limbs, deep inhales, bodies wiggling until they fit together just perfectly for sleep.

“Mhm,” was all you managed as Eddie used careful fingers to move your hair aside before he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You felt the brush of his lips all the way down in your toes and relished under his protective touch.

“You smell like the bath,” Eddie whispered, inhaling the sickly-sweet artificial scent bath pearls had left on your skin.

“Mhm, you smell like studio,” you croaked back, meaning you could smell cigarettes and stale sweat the long day had left on him. It wasn’t meant to be a dig at how you thought he smelled bad – it was fine. Kind of nice, actually. It was more a dig at Eddie having spent all hours of the day, and some of the night too, cooped up inside a dark little room with a bunch of other men. You’d have liked for some of those hours to have been spent with you.

“I think we’ve done it,” Eddie’s voice slipped into a whisper mid-sentence. “Finished it.”

You hummed in reaction, just to let him know that you heard him. Eddie'd said the same thing two weeks ago, but then, the next day, there were a million things to change and redo and add and take away - this album was becoming the bane of Eddie's existence.

But he said they'd finished it now, and you hoped it was true this time.

Maybe that’s why they’d worked until the early hours of the morning. Creative work didn’t really stick to set schedules – didn’t really stick to time in general. Which... it wasn’t a problem. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. But time and you weren’t really getting on all that well lately. There was just so much of it.

Ever since you’d moved to California with Eddie, there’d been so much time.

Too many hours in a day. Too many minutes in every hour. Too many seconds to make you think because there wasn’t really anything to do.

Turns out that when you’re sober and learn to actually show up to things; gigs, radio interviews, award shows, TV performances, movie premiers, photoshoots, writing sessions, and even things like fundraisers, album release parties of other artists... if you show up and do the work, act and behave like the professional musician that you are, you actually... make the money.

And there was a lot more money in this game than you thought Eddie would ever be able to make.

It also really helped that he wasn’t spending all of it on substances and hotel room damages. Not that Eddie didn’t have other ways to blow through his cash, though.

But, what the steady income of insane amounts of money mostly meant was the lack of work it left for you.

Eddie had hired designers to do the interior design of the LA house. Eddie had hired a personal chef to take care of every meal the two of you could ever want. Eddie had hired gardeners, a pool guy, cleaners, and a personal assistant who got fired almost instantly because they ended up just doing your laundry.

You knew it was all coming from a good place. The best place.

It had taken a lot from Eddie to work himself up to ask you if you’d want to move to LA with him. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel forced to move halfway across the country, just because he kind of needed to for work. Correction, he didn’t really need to. It would just be easier, way more convenient. Half the band was already making plans to leave Indiana and sure, Eddie could travel. He could fly in and out and you could too, and you absolutely could’ve figured out a way to live like that.

But when Eddie carefully asked, you’d not even hesitated for a second.

It actually took some real convincing from your side, because Eddie immediately backtracked and said to forget it. He didn’t want to burden you. It was a stupid idea to begin with, he could tell his manager to work out something else, because you had a job and an apartment and a life and how could Eddie ever even think to burden you like that?

“Burden me with what? Your life?” you’d asked, looking at him like he was insane. But Eddie had shrugged his shoulders up and you’d realised that that was exactly what it was.

Over the years your heart had shattered many times for Eddie. Looking at him then, all tall, hair longer than it’d ever been, tattoos on show, sort of... flashy looking with all his chains and rings and his shiny black pointed toe boots – he looked like the rockstar the public knew him as. But all you could see was a fragile fearful little boy who seemingly had shrunk down enough for you to fit him into your pocket, and your heart shattered once more.

“Baby, come here.” You’d reached for him, and he’d instantly fallen into you, both arms around your waist, face pressed against your chest, your hand in his hair.

“We live in a shitty little apartment above a bar where I serve beers to the same seven middle aged men all day,”

“But your life is here, you love your job,”

“No, I loved the sense of independence it gave me when I moved out of Hawkins, I loved learning new skills, getting better at working with new people,” you needed him to know within his bones that what he was asking of you wasn’t a burden.

“What I love more,” you elongated the word more and felt Eddie nuzzle his nose against your collar bone, ready for you to list some shit that would make him feel better.

“Is how you sold your massive penthouse of a place for me, how you came to live with me above a bar, how you trust me with your schedule, how you always check in with me, how you value my opinion, how you don't hesitate to cancel plans because of me, how you come and pick me up from work which, I don't know how you do it, but you do do it, you do it all the time– Eddie, you keep choosing me, and–” your voice went up an octave as your throat closed up.

“Don’t cry,”

But you couldn’t help it.

Eddie had sold the penthouse because it reminded you too much of bad times. Awful times when Eddie drank mouthwash and tried to convince you he wouldn't finish the bottle but then had called you all sorts of names when you tipped it over and washed the remnants down the drain.

Eddie came to live with you, because he practically already was anyway. But your place was a small apartment, a place that smelled of beer and liquor 80 per cent of the time. And Eddie said he was fine. He'd bake bread and cake and pastries, and you'd cried when you realised it was to cover up the smell of bar you carried on you after a shift.

Eddie was kind and nice and would call his therapist whenever he needed to, would go see her on a semi-regular basis. He'd tell you about his schedule and it was never just an announcement, but instead was always a question: does this work for us? Are we okay with this?

Eddie always chose you and made sure you really felt it because Eddie knew. Eddie understood that for fucking years you’d felt the exact opposite.

Eddie would sort of choose you, just for a few days, and then he'd leave and not contact you for months.

But that was before. Eddie chose you every day now.

He wasn’t a burden to you.

He truly wasn’t.

Eddie had burdened you. For years. Not anymore, though. Everything was fine now.

Wasn’t it?

Eddie had been good. So good. He’d found ways to wade through life without the drink. Got so deeply into cooking and baking for a bit as his new obsession. Needed all the best pots and pans, until he had a whole collection of expensive kitchenware that cluttered up all kitchen storage.

Then, he’d moved onto something else. Needed something different to spark all the things within him that needed sparking.

Now that you lived in LA, in a much larger house with so much more space, the garage, one of two, was filled with Eddie’s latest hobby: pinball machines. He’d get them shipped in from all over, all special kinds, real rare ones, machines crafted by specific craftsmen, graphics designed into specific themes.

It wasn’t even about playing, Eddie just… wanted to collect the best ones and wanted them all lined up, all shiny with lights flickering and music playing.

Sometimes you'd tell him, come on Eddie, invite over the old gang, get Mike and Dustin and Lucas in here for a weekend, do a big pinball tournament. But Eddie'd just smile and tell you when he'd be expecting the next one to be delivered.

Before pinball machines it had been neon lights. And you’d been supportive. Would drive out to weird thrift stores, vintage markets and often times random people’s houses until you’d said, “Ed, I’d like the bedroom to be calm and neutral… we don’t need a big blue neon sign in here that used to hang outside of that restaurant you really like...”.

Eddie had laughed at himself then and realized the absurdity of what the house was turning into, had apologized, and then had sold all of them.

Except for the blue one.

The one that used to hang outside that restaurant he really liked. Where the owner would serve him apple juice in a wine glass and would seat Eddie in an area where he wouldn’t be able to see the bar. And then he’d play a Corroded Coffin song – just one, to show his appreciation for the visit, and then, wouldn’t let you pay the full bill, some dishes would always miraculously go missing.

Eddie kept that neon light which found a proud spot in a hallway upstairs that lead to one of the guest rooms.

Yeah.

Overall, Eddie had been good.

But some days, he’d wake up and he’d feel an inside want. Knew it meant something else was wrong, and this was just how his brain was wired to cope with it. He’d done work to rewire, but sometimes, wires crossed and all he really wanted was quick relief.

In those moments, he knew he’d have find something else to satisfy that inside want. The need for quick relief.

In those moments, he’d find you.

Eddie had you there. Always with him. Stuck to his hip, and vice versa.

So, you had quit your job for him. You had moved across the country for him. You had given up your whole life for him Eddie thought, even though you assured him time and time again that this was the exact life you wanted. All you needed was Eddie. Eddie was your home, and Eddie was your all, and you loved LA.

It was the perfect place to be for Eddie’s work. It was warm all the time, gave you permanent freckles that graced your nose. Your house was big, lovely, huge backyard with a big pool. You had ample room for people to come visit and stay for a few days. Weeks if they wanted to. Guest rooms with en suites and the one downstairs even with its own entrance, so when Wayne stayed over, he could go for early morning walks without fear of waking anyone up.

The only thing about LA you didn’t like was that there was so much time.

And it was just you.

And Eddie.

And sure, the Corroded Coffin guys. And Eddie's manager was nice. Their producer too. But they all had work, and sometimes you tagged along and it was so exciting, always so fun. Red carpets and sound checks and green rooms and festivals – it was always new and your excitement for it fueled Eddie's excitement for it.

But then there were also days– weeks like these, where all Eddie did was write, and record, and rehearse.

You remembered being 18 and hanging out with Steve a lot, sometimes Robin too, when Eddie'd be busy writing, recording, and rehearsing with his band.

But Steve wasn't in LA.

Wait.

Scratch the time being the issue – the only thing about LA you didn't like was that Steve wasn't there.

Your tripod was your tripod no more.

Steve had come to stay for a week when you'd just moved, and your week had mostly been the two of you figuring out where to buy groceries before Eddie hired someone to get them for you. After that, you'd just lazed around the pool for the rest of the week until Steve had to fly back home.

A lot had changed in the 1,5 years that followed that week.

But you missed Steve.

Steve, who had met a girl he really liked, who Robin said was lovely, but also said that she probably wouldn’t really gel with you and Eddie. Something judgmental about her. Kind, though. And very pretty.

You were glad Steve had Robin nearby still, because you knew Robin, and you loved Steve. Steve deserved the best. Deserved someone who could love him like you loved Eddie.

Robin said she did, which was good. Reassuring.

And Steve loved her.

You’d only met her a couple of times before Steve had proposed to her. Engaged to be married, just a few months in. And barely a year later, you’d been invited to a home coming big barbecue pool party at Steve’s parents’ house in Hawkins. You'd barely been able to make it, but Steve had been very adamant about it.

"I never have parties anymore, you have to come,"

"There'll be a whole non-alcoholic section of drinks, don't you even worry about it,"

"I've already talked to Eddie's manager, he said he has the time,"

"Please,"

Like you really needed convincing. Of course you'd be there, wouldn't fucking miss it for the world. Neither would anyone else, because everyone was there. The whole gang and then some. Matt was there too, and seeing an ex was never fun, but it was actually sort of okay. You didn't love the fact that you were there with Eddie, because it felt like you were shoving it into his face a little bit, but Matt was still Matt, ever the Corroded Coffin fan, and walked up with a huge smile the second he'd spotted you.

You'd learned that late afternoon that Steve had been just as pushy with everyone else about coming to this party. He'd been calling around, double and triple checking to make sure everyone really was going to be able to make it.

That's when you found Eddie narrowing his eyes at you. Pondering. Something didn't add up. Or it did, but it felt like the math problem you'd been given wasn't the correct one. You knew exactly what Eddie was thinking, and about thirty minutes later, Eddie was proven right.

The party turned out to be Steve's surprise wedding.

Eddie and you had clutched your hands tightly together throughout the whole ceremony, because what the fuck was happening? You kept making eye-contact with Robin, and she kept shrugging as if to say that she knew just as little about all of this as you did.

"Steve's married," you'd said to Eddie afterwards, stood in the Harrington's kitchen, both sort of.... defeated. Unsure of what to make of it all.

Eddie leant against the counter, arms crossed and teeth biting into his lower lip, scraping off dry skin the plane's aircon had left him with.

"I don't know why I feel offended," you'd huffed a laugh at how ridiculous that sounded.

"Offended?" Eddie asked, eyebrows quirked, clearly confused.

"Yea, I don't know... I always thought that, if any of us were to get married one day, we'd all be... more involved? Like, you'd be Steve's best man, and I'd... you know, know the bride,"

Steve didn't owe you shit, you knew that. And you'd moved away. You supposed that's what happened in life – things changed. But this all seemed very drastic. Insanely sudden. Almost out of character.

"She seems like she's good for him," Eddie offered, and you immediately agreed. Not because you thought Eddie was right, you had no idea if he was, but because that's what you wanted to be true.

A silence fell where you both stared into space for a second to let the day sink in a little.

"Steve's married... this is so weird," you'd grimaced a little at it which made Eddie reach for your arms to pull you into a hug.

It was nice how you just got to hug and kiss in the very same kitchen where before, when Steve had you over for movie nights, you'd have to sneak around a little. Not be too obvious when Eddie pretended there wasn't enough room to move around whilst preparing popcorn and you basically ended up grinding up against each other until someone would call out what was taking you so long.

"Should we get married?" Eddie asked after a beat, obviously joking, and it got you into giggles immediately.

"I don't know of a better way to make my mother both the happiest and most disturbed woman alive," you said, cheek pressed up against his chest, knowing your mother had been waiting for most of your life for you to get married. She really wanted to have that huge wedding she could get all dressed up for, to be mother of the bride for a whole day. It was just that she wasn't the biggest fan of Eddie. If anything, within your little group, she'd always really pushed for you and Steve to get together.

"She'd be so conflicted," you imagined, which meant, maybe not right now, but you added, "Let's do it!" which got Eddie right in his funny bone and pushed a barking laugh from him.

"Maybe I should start playing golf,"

"Wear pastel polo shirts,"

"Take some etiquette classes, be more like Matt,"

"Stop, she'll marry you herself if she could– don't," you saw Eddie raise his eyebrows, pretending to consider it, so you'd shut him up before he could say anything and it reduced you both into giggles.

You'd decided to be the supportive friends you both imagined Steve needed. Decided you weren't going to mention how insane and sudden all of it was. Just be happy for him. Which you were.

You just... missed him, you guessed.

"I kind of need to get out of here," Eddie sighed, looking out into the backyard where a wedding was in full swing, people getting more tipsy with every sip of bubbly they had.

You knew what he meant. Feeling anxiety creep up in a place where there were drinks up for grabs was the exact wrong environment for him to be in.

"Yea, let's go," you pecked Eddie on the lips, went to find people to say goodbye to, and then it took two hours before you had finally walked through the gates with lots of promises to come visit LA in your pockets.

Yet, Steve hadn't come out to visit you since that first time when he'd stayed over for a week.

So, yeah. The only thing you didn’t like about LA that was it was far away from Steve.

Steve who had gotten married about four months ago.

Steve whose phone calls had dropped in frequency over time, because d’uh, Steve was married now and you lived far away from each other, and you had your own lives. Were busy. Didn’t have time for dry catch-up conversations if the only updates were that Eddie had spent a lot of nights in the studio, and you kept busy managing his agenda.

Except you did have a lot of time.

It's just that people thought you didn't. All they'd see was Eddie's life. Eddie's life was on TV, on the radio, in the magazines and newspapers and people automatically assumed you'd be so busy.

You'd spent the day reorganizing your vanity as you'd heard the cleaners downstairs, and the chefs preparing food that they'd box up and leave in the fridge for you to have later. It was something you could've done within fifteen minutes, but you'd managed to stretch it to three hours. You weren't fucking busy at all. You could've easily spent hours on the phone to Hawkins.

But Steve was married, and you had cheated on Matt with Eddie which probably never sat right with Steve's new wife - not that you blamed her - and so you didn't call. Not often. Very rarely, actually.

When you woke up that next morning, Eddie still snoring into his pillow next to you, you'd gotten out and promised yourself that you'd call Steve that day.

When Eddie eventually made it down, sleep still in his eyes, hair everywhere, you apologised to the chef that was working on lunch for him being in just his boxers.

"Morning, babe," Eddie said before pressing a kiss into your hair as he ran a warm palm over your back.

"It's afternoon," you smiled over your mug of coffee.

"Well, was the morning good?"

"Morning was lovely, had a little swim," you watched Eddie as he moved to make his own coffee, and the chef behind him started making up two plates for you.

"I don't use that pool enough," Eddie said mostly to himself.

When he turned back to look at you, you inhaled sharply and gave him a polite smile. It made him frown a second. "What?"

"I'm going to call Steve today,"

You said it like it was something you could never do behind Eddie's back. Like it was a secret you'd feel bad about keeping to yourself.

"See if I can convince him to actually come over,"

Eddie nodded through his first sip of hot coffee, his face giving away that it was definitely too hot and burning his tongue.

"Tell him to bring Robin,"

You narrowed your eyes in thought.

"Do you think that'll help?"

Eddie shrugged. It might.

It shouldn't though. It was always you, Eddie and Steve. Just the three of you. And then, for a long time, it was you and Steve and only sometimes Robin.

But fine. You could always tell Steve to bring Robin if that would push him to actually take the time to come visit you.

When you called, you got Steve's wife.

"Hey, um, sorry, I was calling for Steve?"

"Yea, he's out. Can I take a message?"

"Oh, no, that's OK... I'll try again later, when do you think–"

"He's going to be out for a while."

"Oh..."

You didn't know how to react to that.

"Can I take a message?"

"No, I–"

And then she hung up. Just, hung up on you. No polite goodbye. No nothing. You looked at the receiver, then at Eddie.

"That was weird."

You didn't want to worry, so you chalked it up to bad timing. They'd probably just been in a fight. And, everyone fought, didn't they? Especially married couples who hadn't even known each other for a full year, you thought.

But of course you worried.

So you rang back a little later, but got told that if you didn't have a message for Steve, there was no use in calling because, like she'd said before, he'd be out for a while. There was something sad to her voice. Something that made you not push further, that made you not just ask, where is he, what happened?

When Eddie suggested for you to call Robin, you did, but got her answering machine. Three times.

You'd left a message that started out all up beat. Asked her how she was doing. Told her that you missed her, that she should come visit, the weather in LA was lovely and you had a guest room waiting for her to come and occupy for a little bit.

When you got all pleasantries out of the way, you mentioned Steve. The weird and very short phone calls you'd had with his wife.

And you wanted to tell her how it had never sat right with you, that Steve had met someone the second you'd moved away, and that he'd gotten engaged just a couple weeks after he'd been out to visit you in LA, and then a couple months later, he'd thrown a surprise wedding. You wanted to tell her that you thought this is how he'd gone about things, because maybe he'd been scared no one would've RSVP'd if you all had gotten wedding invitations in the mail. But you didn't say those things. Just said you missed them, her and Steve, and wanted to see them.

The more you thought about it, the more worried you got.

"What if something's wrong?" you'd asked Eddie when he was on his way out.

"Call again tomorrow, it'll be fine. People argue. Give it a little time,"

Logically you knew he was probably right, but something had taken residence within the pit of your stomach. Set up camp there, and you knew the only way to flush it out was by speaking to Steve directly. Or have Robin call you back to tell you Steve was doing just fine.

Fuck, if you could, you would've just made your way over to go and see for yourself.

But you were in LA.

And Steve was in Hawkins still.

Until he wasn’t.

"Um... babe?" Eddie called from the front step, door handle still in his hand, sunglasses somehow balanced on his forehead, just above his brows. His other hand shook his car keys into his fist when he looked back at you.

It was the next day, and Eddie had a meeting with his label. Nothing crazy, just a word on the tapes the band had dropped off the day before.

You looked, and from where you were sat, you weren't able to see much of what Eddie was looking at. Until he stepped aside a little, and someone stepped onto the threshold.

Suitcases came into vision first, one in either hand, and then, Steve was suddenly there, on your doorstep in LA, dark sunglasses hiding his emotions.

And he hadn’t known what to say, just looked at you as you'd gasped upon seeing him.

You’d rushed over immediately, arms open and you were so ready to fall into him, but you hadn't anticipated that he'd fall into you as well. Suitcases dropped and you crashed into each other. It audibly pushed the air from your lungs, and it hurt, but that didn't matter.

You heard a soft, "Careful," coming from Eddie, who held out both hands in case you were to lose balance, which you didn't.

Steve hugged, and you hugged and Eddie stood and watched, waited his turn to hug Steve. When he realised his turn wasn't going to come, because you were pushing fists into Steve and his grip didn't seem to be faltering soon either, he turned your hug into a group hug and you stood like that, on the threshold of your open front door for entirely too long.

"I called you yesterday, twice." you murmured. "Robin too,"

"I know," was all Steve said, and you wondered how he knew. Were the phone calls why he'd traveled to LA? Or had he already been on his way? Had he already booked the flight before you'd reached out?

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really,"

You felt Eddie's arms tense up, squeeze a little tighter, and you knew it was because he was about to pull back.

"I'm sorry, I've got... work, but please, come in, make yourself at home, have some food, take a shower," Eddie listed things off on his fingers as you finally broke the embrace.

"Are you telling me I stink?" Steve asked, the humorous undertone easily detectable in his voice.

"Yes," Eddie deadpanned before wanting to carry on the list, but your laugh interrupted him.

"We were never this blunt with him, were we?" Steve looked at you, and you recalled all the times Eddie had come to visit Hawkins, looking worse for wear and smelling like the men's room of a dirty dive bar. Steve immediately received a punch to the shoulder from Eddie.

"I'll be back in a couple hours,"

And so you'd said goodbye to Eddie, had invited Steve inside and had shown him to his room - the same one he stayed in last time. Not the one with its own entrance, but the one upstairs, close to your own bedroom.

Steve put his suitcases down on the ottoman by the end of the bed and sighed deeply.

"Sorry I didn't call before flying in,"

"Don't be, I literally called you yesterday to tell you to fucking come over already,"

Steve smiled as he started moving clothes from one of the suitcases onto the bed, stacking things in neat piles. You leant into the doorway, arms folded over your stomach, and you felt all sorts of feelings that all lead straight to guilt.

There was obviously something going on. Steve had taken off his sunglasses and revealed puffy skin and red-rimmed eyes. The hostile tone his wife had spoken with to you hadn't left your mind yet, either.

But, Steve was here now. Right where you wanted him to be, and you were reunited as the three-piece that you had always been. Morning, noon and evening. Sun, wind and rain. Birth, life and death. Past, present and future. It had always been the three of you, and even though you'd grown up, and lives had changed, having Steve over gave you the opportunity to drown in nostalgia for a few days.

Feel... complete for a little while.

Wait, that reminded you.

"How long are you staying?"

Steve kept busy and didn't look at you as he shrugged up both his shoulders.

"I don't know,"

You didn't respond. Just watched him unpack. Gave him the space to think his thoughts before he vocalized them which you knew he sometimes needed.

Then he turned his head to look at you, eyebrows scrunched up a little, almost as if he was apologizing.

"How does a month sound?"

---

The Taglisted:

@ghostinthebackofyourhead @dirtyeddietini @jasminearondottir @josephquinned @cancankiki @sidthedollface2 @dylanmunson @munsonsgirl71 @thefemininemystiquee @alana4610 @emmamooney @thatonefan-girl @paola-carter @figmentofquinn @haylaansmi @thewondernanazombie @munsonmunster @kellyxo1 @chaoticgood-munson @sherrylyn628 @bdpst-massacre @05secondsofsexgods @lovelyblueness @adoreyouusugar @nadixq @prozacandnicotine @munsonswhore86 @alwayslindie @breddiemunson @eddie-joe-munson @ali-in-w0nderland @pepperstories @phyllosilicate-s @thebellenouvelle @luvrsbian @joesquinns @choke-me-eddie @alizztor @jnnyrd @did-it-work @capricornrisingsstuff @quinnsmunson @frogers @kennedy-brooke @daleyeahson @eddielives1986 @harringtonfan4 @sadbitchfangirl

(two places left on my taglist: first come, first serve)

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munsons fluff #eddie x y/n #stranger things 4 #joe quinn #joseph quinn #over now #only now #then again #never over #not enough

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brucequeensteen · 16 days ago

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thought quastion you have likely already pondered but wish to ask: would your little band guys survive the terror? also, would your little terror guys survive the mid 20th century music industry?

this is such a good question i actually haven't considered it before which is crazy but. its a delightfully bizarre combination let's get into it. considering the monkees are mostly based in california i think they would be severely unequipped to go to the arctic, but once you get past that barrier... the order of deaths would be micky (frighteningly skinny, delicate constitution, far too good-natured and optimistic to live very long in a horror survival situation) , then mike (also even more frighteningly skinny but more scrappy and had a less plump and sheltered childhood than micky so would pull through a little longer, but he is for sure succumbing to either scurvy or the extreme conditions), then davy (he's a trooper he's working class he's fearless he's british so more fitting to canon. he probably wouldn't back down from cannibalism if it means he might survive. unfortunately he will die from lead poisoning 3 years into the expedition because he is small and his body won't recover). leaving peter to die last may seem like favouritism but he is probably the most final girl coded of them all and the least likely to get lead poisoning, eat poisoned human remains, antagonise tuunbaq and get ripped to shreds, or abandon his crewmates to go die alone from exposure. i just see him carrying on through til the end. but also eventually dying. SAD

as for the terror guys in the 20th century music industry HELP HELP LOL!!!!!!!!!1 most of them would NOT make it in the first place (edward little and george hodgson im looking at you), a lot of them will be succumbing to pressure and promptly dying from drug abuse or going into hiding or going bankrupt (first that comes to mind is billy gibson rip king) . some would rage quit early on george harrison style but without making a solo career comeback (tozer and crozier amen) . there are 3 characters that would absolutely thrive: hickey because he's an attention whore and a straight up regular whore, fitzjames because he's a diva and a magical girl and the jimin/paul mccartney of the terror, and lieutenant john irving who would have a semi-successful career as a 70s christian folk singer without too much exposure but with a very devoted fanbase . i can't consider the implications of putting them in The Box the monkees head 1968 style because that's just too crazy. but i do want to trap them in a time loop so thank you danny for making me think about that

#i love youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu i love you thank you for indulging me . i love this #danny 🐦‍⬛#📬

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super-lad · 3 months ago

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Why VP Kamala Harris is a good person, from her memoir, The Truths We Hold:

- While interning in her last year of law school, she begged a judge to make time for an innocent woman’s case before the work day ended. She knew that if this woman spent a weekend in jail, she could lose her kids and job and she didn't want that to happen. The woman was released that day.

- As a prosecutor, she defended a teenage girl and convicted the adult men who raped her. After the trial, she wanted to find her and get her more help, but could not contact her.

- While working for the San Francisco DA, she helped secure funding for housing sexually exploited youths and runaways to break them out of the cycle of depending on abusers.

- She argued against colleagues racially profiling a defendant as a gang member by explaining that her friends, family and herself carried similar traits, clothing, and living situations as him.

- She took a technologically challenged and toxically charged DA office and turned it into an effective department that reduced unsolved homicides by 25%.

- She pioneered the Back on Track program that reduced reoffending rates of participating ex-cons from 50% to 10% by providing GED education, therapy, and steady jobs which would later be heralded by the Obama administration.

- She shouted down the CEO of JPMorgan Chase ("Your shareholders? Your shareholders? My shareholders are the homeowners of California. You come and see them! Talk to them about who got robbed.") and later secured a $20 billion relief package for homeowners dealing with the 2008 housing crisis in California. JPMorgan’s initial offer was at $2 billion. She also got another $1.5 billion from SunTrust Mortgage, Citigroup, and Bank of America.

- She helped draft and pass the California Homeowners Bill of Rights. Two previous attempts at similar bills failed to pass in the state legislature due to the banks’ influence in Sacramento, but Harris allied with unions and overpowered lobbyists to get enough officials to vote yes on the floor.

- She banned the “trans and gay panic” defense in 2014 as California attorney general. She pushed courts to quickly allow same-sex marriages after the Supreme Court overturned Prop 8. "You must begin the marriages immediately."

- To deal with the opioid crisis, she created a program as AG that allowed pharmacists to track if patients were asking for the same drugs from different stores. This would later be replicated in other states.

- She was offered attorney general of the United States but chose to stay working as California AG because she needed to ensure the above deals and bills were followed through and they were.

- Last but not least, her stepchildren love her. They call her Momala. Do you know how crazy hard that is to accomplish?

#kamala harris

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haggishlyhagging · 11 months ago

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As the fetus's rights increased, mother's just kept diminishing. Poor pregnant women were hauled into court by male prosecutors, physicians, and husbands. Their blood was tested for drug traces without their consent or even notification, their confidentiality rights were routinely violated in the state's zeal to compile a case against them, and they were forced into obstetrical surgery for the "good" of the fetus, even at risk of their own lives.

Here are just a few of the many cases from the decade's pregnancy police blotter and court docket:

• In Michigan, a juvenile court took custody of a newborn because the mother took a few Valium pills while pregnant, to ease pain caused by an auto accident injury. The mother of three had no history of drug abuse or parental neglect. It took more than a year for her to get her child back.

• In California, a young woman was brought up on fetal neglect charges under a law that, ironically, was meant to force negligent fathers to pay child support. Her offenses included failing to heed a doctor's advice (a doctor who had failed to follow up on her treatment), not getting to the hospital with due haste, and having sex with her husband. The husband, a batterer whose brutal outbursts had summoned the police to their apartment more than a dozen times in one year alone, was not charged —or even investigated.

• In lowa, the state took a woman's baby away at birth even though no real harm to the infant was evident—because she had, among other alleged offenses, "paid no attention to the nutritional value of the food she ate during her pregnancy," as an AP story later characterized the Juvenile Court testimony. "[S]he simply picked the foods that tasted good to her."

• In Wyoming, a woman was charged with felony child abuse for allegedly drinking while pregnant. A battered wife, she had been arrested on this charge after she sought police protection from her abusive husband.

• In Illinois, a woman was summoned to court after her husband accused her of damaging their daughter's intestine in an auto accident during her pregnancy. She wasn't even the driver.

• In Michigan, another husband hauled his wife into court to accuse her of taking tetracycline during her pregnancy; the drug, prescribed by her physician, allegedly discolored their son's teeth, he charged. The state's appellate court ruled that the husband did indeed have the right to sue for this "prenatal negligence."

• In Maryland, a woman lost custody of her fetus when she refused to transfer to a hospital in another city, a move she resisted because it would have meant stranding her nineteen-month-old son.

• In South Carolina, an eighteen-year-old pregnant woman was arrested before she had even given birth, on the suspicion that she may have passed cocaine to her fetus. The charge, based on a single urine test, didn't hold up; she delivered a healthy drug-free baby. Even so, and even though the Department of Social Services found no evidence of abuse or neglect, State prosecutors announced that they intended to pursue the case anyway.

• In Wisconsin, a sixteen-year-old pregnant girl was confined in a secure detention facility because of her alleged tendencies "to be on the run" and "to lack motivation" to seek prenatal care.

Certainly society has a compelling interest in bringing healthy children into the world, both a moral and practical obligation to help women take care of themselves while they're pregnant. But the punitive and vindictive treatment mothers were beginning to receive from legislators, police, prosecutors, and judges in the 80s suggests that more than simple concern for children's welfare was at work here. Police loaded their suspects into paddy wagons still bleeding from labor; prosecutors barged into maternity wards to conduct their interrogations. Judges threw pregnant women with drug problems into jail for months at a time, even though, as the federal General Accounting Office and other investigative agencies have found, the prenatal care offered pregnant women in American prisons is scandalously deficient or nonexistent (many prisons don't even have gynecologists)—and has caused numerous incarcerated women to give birth to critically ill and damaged babies. Police were eager to throw the book at erring pregnant women. In the case of Pamela Rae Stewart of San Diego the battered woman charged with having sex against her doctor's orders—the officer who headed up the investigation wanted her tried for manslaughter. "In my mind, I didn't see any difference between born and unborn," Lieutenant Ray Narramore explains later. "The only question I had was why they didn't go for a murder charge. I would have been satisfied with murder. That wouldn't have been off-base. I mean, we have a lady here who was not following doctor's orders."

Lawmakers' claims that they just wanted to improve conditions for future children rang especially false. At the same time that legislators were assailing low-income mothers for failing to take care of their fetuses, they were making devastating cuts in the very services that poor pregnant women needed to meet the lawmakers' demands. How was an impoverished woman supposed to deliver a healthy fetus when she was denied prenatal care, nutrition supplements, welfare payments, and housing assistance? In the District of Columbia, Marion Barry declared infant health a top priority of his mayoral campaign—then cut health-care funding, forcing prenatal clinics to scale back drastically and eliminate outright their evening hours needed by the many working women. Doctors increasingly berated low-income mothers, but they also increasingly refused to treat them. By the end of the decade, more than one-fourth of all counties nationwide lacked any clinic where poor women could get prenatal care, and a third of doctors wouldn't treat pregnant women who were Medicaid patients. In New York State, a health department study found that seven of the state's counties had no comprehensive prenatal care for poor women whatsoever; several of these counties, not so coincidentally, had infant mortality rates that were more than double the national average. In California in 1986, twelve counties didn't have a single doctor willing to accept the state's low-income MediCal patients; in fact, the National Health Law Program concluded that the situation in California was so bad that poor pregnant women are "essentially cut off from access to care."

-Susan Faludi, Backlash: the Undeclared War Against American Women

#susan faludi #female oppression #prenatal care #low income women #pregnancy #amerika #failed state #court-ordered kidnapping #USA is a society that wants to die #misogyny

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