#Why do I always like the boys who need desperate amounts of therapy????

[rubberduckyrye]

YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND

I LOVE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH HE DESERVED BETTER

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Fic Titles That Are Questions (3) Masterlist

part one, part two

Am I Pretty? (ao3) - heymoons

Summary: Dan is an intern at the BBC who moonlights as a cam model. He’s worried about being judged for his secret, until he meets Phil and everything changes.

Can I Borrow A Kiss? (I Promise I’ll Give it Back) (ao3) - tjmcharg

Summary: Lots and lots of different kisses.

Can I Even Complicate Your Breathing? - botanistlester

Summary: Pastel!Dan lives in an apartment complex and sits on his windowsill every night and sings. Punk!Phil listens to him every night.

Can You feel The Love Tonight? - nebulous-frog

Summary: Phil sings with the door open while he’s folding laundry and Dan overhears. Phil’s completely tone deaf and doesn’t know any of the lyrics, but that won’t stop him, dammit, no matter how many times people ask him to seriously just stop. Dan thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

“Did you ever doubt that your dream will ever come true?” - secretlywritingstories

Summary:As Phil reads out the question, Dan’s involuntary reaction is to smile and glance towards him. He hides it pretty well during the live show but as soon as it’s over, he begins to fully appreciate that his dream did come true.

did you know penguins mate for life? (ao3) - sierraadeux

Summary: Phil takes care of fifty penguins at work and another twenty-five at home, though the latter wasn’t exactly his choice.

Do You Believe In Magaic? (ao3) - darkesthorizon

Summary: Dan discovers a meadow of flowers where fairies made of flowers can grant you one wish. But there’s a catch: your wish has to be pure. What does that even mean?

do you feel it too? (ao3) - heartsopenminds

Summary: A bad break-up has left Phil scared of getting his heart broken again. He’s not ready to date, but he’s missing the easy affection of a long-term relationship.

Cuddle therapy might be the perfect way to get what he needs, with no strings attached. But what happens when that’s no longer enough?

Do You Sleep Anymore? -  botanistlester

Summary: Phil has insomnia and Dan has bruises on his knuckles.

Ever Wonder What Stars Taste Like? (ao3) - ncirpng

Summary: au where Phil runs a successful café in Paris and Dan is a shy fashion designer. Their paths cross, which leads to an unhealthy amount of awkwardness and a lot of weird sentences (mostly from Phil).

Ghost, Or Spirit Satyr? (ao3) - cuddlepuss

Summary: Phil moves into a new flat, but is haunted by a young male poltergeist that he finds both amusing and attractive.

Have You Read the One Where I Have a Vibrator? (ao3) - Ironicallyiron

Summary: Dan reads Phil a fanfiction.

How Did We End Up Like This? - xinyanhowell

Summary: They knew falling in love isn’t a choice - but staying in love, working out your problems and inconstancies, that’s the most powerful choice you have.

How Do Flowers Grow? - writeroflies

Summary: Dan knows he is that single annoying cloud in an otherwise clear sky and Phil is the sun, happy, bright and warm. He wants to know why Phil is letting him stay in the sky beside him.

Is Our Love Valid? (wattpad) - phanetexplorer

Summary: dan is alone. he always has been. he would spend day in and day out on multiple chat websites hoping one day he indeed will find a friend.that is, until a certain boy named phil lester sends a chat request to him, and he flips his shit. some one had finally wanted to be his friend, but maybe he gets more than he had originally bargained for.

Isn’t He Pretty? Isn’t He Insane? - daeguk

Summary: in a world where a person’s soulmate has an identical birthmark, police intern phil lester is completely alone; that is, until he starts receiving cruel gifts from a psychotic serial killer. seeking out the comfort of a boy on the phone, dan howell, while desperately trying to figure out the killer’s messages, time is running out by each fractured second.

Is Our Secret Safe Tonight? (ao3) - resurrectdead

Summary: That time I fell in love with the semi-realistic idea of Dan as an anonymous camboy and then I made Phil walk in on him mid-show.

is that as good as it gets? (ao3) - dvp_95

Summary: Having Dan around makes it all so much easier that Phil can’t imagine a life without him now. He fits into the places where the rest of Phil should be, allows Phil to settle into shape around him.

Wait, Where Have I Seen Those Before? - poetictragediess

Summary: Phil would never admit he’d signed up for such a website as camboys, especially not to his best friend/flatmate.

What Happened Last Night? (ao3) - duskomybloom

Summary: Things get complicated when Dan wakes up in Phil’s bed after a party and he has no idea how he got there.

when i run (will you chase after me?) (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan escapes from the megacorporation that he's contracted to but plans go astray and he ends up leaving his partner Phil behind, who gets tasked to catch him in his run across the solar system.

when it feels like nothing else matter, will you put your arms around me? (ao3) - commonemergency

Summary: “Sorry.” Phil says.

His father wraps his arms around him, and the embrace feels warm. It’s an embrace that he hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s like when he was a kid and something scary happened and his father just held him like nothing could ever hurt him because his father was there protecting him.

“It’s okay.” His father quietly whispers into his hairline. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t know how to tell him all the things that he wanted to say, like: I don’t know how to stop my thoughts from spiralling out of control. What if the medicine makes it worse? What do we do if things don’t get better? How do I live in a world that doesn’t have my dad in it?

“Let’s just enjoy right now.” His father says, and he doesn’t let go of him.

Wishing You Could Kiss Me (Do You Really Want To Do That?) (ao3) - cafephan

Summary: In which Phil’s childhood crush on Dan ends dramatically, and he’s living proof to not judge a book by its cover.

[alltheselights]

How do you stop yourself from becoming bitter? You acknowledge that Louis has responsibility in this (this being his career, stunts etc.) and call him out on some of his behavior which I appreciate. But you never sound hateful or bitter about it and I want to know how lol. I feel like for me it is so easy to start falling down the bitter path and I don't like it but my feelings have a mind of their own.

I definitely get frustrated with Louis, but it's mostly because he often doesn't do really simple things that could help his career. Sometimes I get bitter too, but it usually wears off fast and the reason for that is that I think Louis has been fucked over more than any of us could ever comprehend and we can't truly know the impact that's had.

After watching Louis over the past couple of years especially, I think that he's internalized a bunch of really harmful ideas about himself and his career. Ideas like that he could never be considered a mainstream artist, that he's unlikely to expand his fanbase beyond where it's at now, that the world cares more about his personal life and other people (e.g. Freddie, Harry, Eleanor, another girlfriend) than him and his music, that he's just not talented or charismatic enough to ever reach a higher level of success, that having a fanbase that loves him is sufficient to sustain his career long-term, and that portraying himself as nothing more that a chav from Donny who's allergic to Hollywood and nice things is the best image to present of himself to make him fit into certain music scenes.

My realization that he seems to believe these things explains so much. It can explain why he doesn't try for more, why he still participates in stunts, why he portrays himself a way that we know is not entirely accurate in interviews, and why he hasn't fired his incompetent, lazy team. I also often think about the fact that Louis very desperately needs therapy to help him deal with what he's been through in a healthy way, but he has convinced himself that he doesn't, which contributes to many of his problems.

And while thinking this doesn't make it any easier to watch, I think it gives me a level of empathy for him that a lot of other fans seem to lack. There's a lot of moral superiority and anger directed toward him from fans who seem to forget that not a single one of us has any real idea what Louis has experienced, what he has internalized through so many years of mistreatment and abuse, and what the reasoning is behind the choices that he makes. It's very easy to judge from behind a keyboard or a phone screen when you have no actual personal involvement in a situation. It's easy to forget that because we feel like we know the boys so well and many of us have been fans for so long, but we are and always will be outsiders basing our opinions and judgements on a very, very limited amount of information.

I also remind myself of who Louis truly is when you rip away the bad career choices and ugly stunts. Yes, he is very privileged, and very flawed, and very much the product of the hand he was dealt. But he is a kind, generous, sweet, thoughtful, talented, intelligent person.

It's very hard to be bitter toward someone when you remember all that.

[vaspider]

Yeah, maybe don't jump to dismissing what people are saying and diagnosing what we need without knowing our medical issues. It actually isn't my muscles or my bones actually causing the problem - it's my connective tissue!

Y'see, @thebibliosphere and I both have Ehlers Danlos Syndrome.

https://www.ehlers-danlos.com/what-is-eds/

Joint hypermobility means that a person’s joints have a greater range of motion than is expected or usual. Some people have joint hypermobility that does not cause them pain or other issues. However, some people with joint hypermobility also have joint instability. Joint instability occurs when the bones of a joint aren’t held in place securely. This can lead to joint subluxations, dislocations, sprains, and other injuries. Joint instability can cause both acute and chronic pain and interfere with daily life.

While physiotherapy does help somewhat with EDS, no amount of strengthening my muscles is going to change the fact that the ligaments and tendons that hold those muscles in place are loose. My joints are always going to slip out of place, no matter what I do. I can make it less often, but i can't make it not happen ever. For a lot of us, we find relief not in "cracking and rubbing" but in LITERALLY HAVING SOMEONE PUT OUR BONES BACK WHERE THEY BELONG, because SOMETIMES OUR BONES ARE LITERALLY IN THE WRONG PLACE.

I have been putting off having joint reconstruction surgery on my ankles, which I desperately need because my ligaments and tendons are so loose that my ankles literally collapse inward. It doesn't matter how much I work my muscles, without reconstructive surgery to install synthetic tendons in my ankles and hold them in the right place, every so often I just step down normally and mini-sprain or actually sprain my ankle. Just by walking!

You literally turned to people who said that we have Bones Slip Out Of Place disease when we said "boy I wish there was a discipline which could help us with our bones slipping out of place" and said "your bones aren't out of place, it's the muscles!"

No, dude, it's literally my joints being out of place because I have joint instability on account of my bones being out of place due to having BONES SLIP OUT OF PLACE DISEASE.

I have stretches and exercises I do because I've been in one form of therapy after another since I was literally born, including shit like putting me to sleep as an infant with a bar between my feet to try to hold my legs in the right position and correct my stance. (It did not work, and my mother reports that I Really Hated That Thing and would slam the metal bar against the bars of my crib angrily until I fell asleep.) But sometimes, no matter what I do and no matter how strong my muscles are, my bones are going to slip out of place, because - like about 1 in 3000 people around the world - I have, wait for it, Bones Slip Out Of Place disease!

Sometimes the bones in my wrist slide out of place and I have to grab my arm with my opposite hand and shake it really hard so my wrist will pop and my bones will go back where they belong. Sometimes, my spine will slip out of place - more common in the ten years since i had my Take Out Tumor And Part Of Spine surgery - and stay that way for days, weeks, or months at a time. Sometimes, that causes pinching in the nerves of my neck and back, and that sucks balls. It would be nice if there was a doctor who could help me put those out-of-place bones back where they belong. They are going to keep coming out of place every so often for the rest of my life. Why? Bones Slip Out Of Place disease, for which there is no cure.

So what we were talking about above was our desire to have someone help us with our very specific and very real problem, which will not be fixed by

Yoga (in fact, yoga can be very dangerous)

Diet

Exercise

Physical therapy

Weight loss

Yoga

Whatever essential oil someone likes this week

Physical therapy

Yoga

on account of the whole "our tendons and ligaments are too loose" symptom of Bones Slip Out Of Place disease.

So maybe when we talk about the very specific effects of our Bones Slip Out Of Place disease and what we need, don't leap in and wrongly tell us that what we need is actually Possibly A Helpful Treatment But Not Actually A Solution To Our Problem, because we do actually know what we need.

We live in these bodies. We understand our chronic illnesses. We're good, thanks, without having someone leap in to tell us what we really need.

So anyway - it would be nice if there were a solution other than a chiropractor for putting my neck and back bones back in place when they literally slip out of place on account of Bones Slip Out Of Place disease. :)

Periodic reminder that you should never trust a chiropractor with your body under any circumstances

[sj-ficrecs]

fic rec 12!

just a collection of what I’ve read and enjoyed lately! as usual, no specific order. :)

This is purely a fic rec blog, always reblogging fics I enjoy. usually Bucky x reader, sometimes Steve x reader, Chris Beck x reader, etc. So check out more I’ve reblogged on this page. :) See my past fic recs below:

PREVIOUS FIC RECS HERE! // Q & A

(Divider by @bwbatta​)

Bucky x reader:

Operation Freefall by @constantwriter85​ Bucky x reader (set in 40s and present day)

“When Bucky fell from the train in 1945, he didn’t just leave behind his family and friends. He left behind the girl he was going to marry, a girl he never stopped loving. Decades later, Bucky continued to search for her, only to find out that she had disappeared without a trace in 1955. But when Steve hands over the shield to Sam Wilson, he also has something for his childhood friend—a redacted S.H.I.E.L.D. file code-named Operation: Freefall, a file with more questions than answers. With Sam’s help and a handful of Pym Particles, the file sends Bucky on a trip to the past, trying to solve the mystery and save the woman he still loves.”

Stark Hub bts drabbles/hcs: one // two // three by @world-of-aus​​ pornstar!Bucky x pornstar!reader

“A COLLECTION OF ONE-SHOTS SET IN AN AU WORLD WHERE THE BOYS ARE PORN STARS WORKING FOR STARK ENTERTAINMENT”

Blink Twice by @simmerandwrite​​ Bucky x reader

“It was just an undetermined amount of time in a safehouse with a stranger: Bucky “I didn’t come here to make friends” Barnes himself. Would it really be all that different from your lonely life with your cat in the city? Bucky was basically a cat, anyway. He was quiet on his feet, only really made noise when it was dinner time, and you both seemed to just coexist without acknowledging each other. His mandate was to keep you safe. What could go wrong?”

Run to You by @specialk-18​​ bodyguard/army vet!Bucky x actress!reader

“Being a protector…Bucky knew that feeling all too well – serving in the military would do that to a man. But Bucky swore to himself he was out of that life. All until a job fell into his lap that he just couldn’t resist.”

It’s A Deal follow up one shots from the series by @justreadingfics​ Bucky x reader

“You’re out of a relationship of 10 years and you’re just in desperate need to get laid, no strings attached, no romance, no complications. You dear friend Natasha feels like she’s going to regret this later, but she might have the perfect guy to fulfill your needs.”

The Boxer Next Door by @clints-lucky-arrow​ boxer!Bucky x neighbor!reader, 40s Bucky/pre TFA

“You haven’t yet had the chance to introduce yourself to the group of young men who have moved in next door. Especially the handsome one who owns the bedroom window that faces your own. However, on a busy night working in the hospital’s emergency room, that chance unexpectedly presents itself.”

The Things We Carry by @pellucid-constellations​ Bucky x reader, enemies to lovers

“You were injured on a mission and didn’t tell anyone, leaving your already rocky relationship with Bucky crumbling. Was it really hate he harbored for you, or was it something else?”

Untitled single dad fic by @angie-likes-to-art​ single dad!Bucky x teacher!reader

“You made a promise to yourself to not sleep with any parents before starting teaching, little did you know the guy you slept with two days before is the dad of your cutest student.”

Alpine Adjustment (sequel to You’re the Sunflower) by @aries-writingblog​ Bucky x reader

“it’s been five months since they adopted Alpine, so why does she only like Bucky?”

Rehab by @mymoonagedaydream​ Bucky x reader

“You weren’t expecting any meaningful results from court-mandated therapy, so meeting him really threw you for a loop.”

The Mating Program by @multi-stann​ alpha!Bucky x omega!reader

“In desperation, you go to the only place you know of where you’re sure you’ll be able to find an alpha- more like set up with one. Little do you know, the one you get isn’t all too fond of the idea, and he pushes you away.”

Melted Hearts by @bxckybxrnxs​ Bucky x Avenger!reader, friends w/ benefits to lovers

“On a mission to Siberia in Winter, you, Bucky, Steve and Sam are stuck overnight at a dingy hotel. Luckily for you, the hotel has a bar. Unluckily for you, each time you get drunk you find yourself kissing Bucky like there’s no tomorrow, but the ‘friends with benefits’ type arrangement the two of you appear to have, isn’t really working out anymore. And what a surprise: it turns out there’s only one bed!”

Heart-Eyed Surprise by @wienerbarnes​ teacher/biker!Bucky x bartender!reader

Reader meets Bucky at a bar... surprised to learn the tattooed biker’s occupation. 

Play the Game by @buckys-black-dress​ college/fratboy!Bucky x reader

“When you’re suddenly forced into the partying scene at your college campus by your roommate, you meet some of your school’s most notorious fraternity brothers. Unfortunately, one of them seems to have taken a liking towards you. His name? Bucky Barnes. Charming, bright blue eyes and dark brown hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it. And although you might not know it when you first meet him, he has a few secrets hidden up his sleeves. Will you be able to move past these secrets, or will you have to let whatever you had with him go?”

The Devil’s in the Details by @bucky-bucket-barnes​ Bucky x avenger/enhanced!reader, enemies to lovers

“You and Bucky didn’t always give into the other’s twisted little games. You didn’t always hate each other. You didn’t always quip back and forth, the other waiting to see who would break first. Now, there you were, accompanying Bucky on a mission to a ballroom of all places. Despite your tense history, Bucky can’t help but assume a protective role around you, guarding you like a crown jewel as you complete the task at hand. But who’s to say he plans on keeping his hands off of you?”

A Favour by @buckysbabygorl​ Bucky x reader

“The team is close, obviously. They thought they knew everything about each other… until Y/N drunkenly admits to the team that she’s never had sex. And she’s eagerly waiting for that to change. Everyone is happy to step up to the plate, regardless of Bucky’s feelings for Y/N. Can he confess before it’s too late?”

Tag! You’re It by @morsmordre-writes @buckysmischief modern!Bucky x reader, social media AU

“Bucky falls for Wanda’s college roommate, too bad she’s less than interested.”

Along Came You by @world-of-aus​​ Bucky x reader, past Steve x reader

“He remembers the night he got the call, it had been unexpected, he hadn’t seen it coming, though to be fair you hadn’t either. He had listened to you scream that night damning him and Steve to hell.

“Did you know,” you screamed, “did you know about the two of them, were you ever going to tell me, were you just going to continue to lie to my face!”

He hadn’t, he wouldn’t, Bucky truly had no idea of the infidelity of his best pal.Funny. Could he even call him that anymore, could he even call Steve his best pal after what he had done to you?”

Dancing with Death by @strwbrrybucky (can’t tag) death!Bucky x mortal!reader

“you died, but unfortunately you have no recollection on how you passed. death has a proposal for you, helping you find out how you passed, as long as you give him your loyalty for eternity. why not fall in love with death?”

[lovely-ateez]

Favorite Place~

ꕥPosted: 3/8/21

ꕥGenre: College!au, Angst, Fluff

ꕥPairing: FemReader! x Emo!Hongjoong

ꕥWord Count: ~4.8k

ꕥWarnings: General angst (happy ending), Unknown man being creepy to reader, Characters insulting reader behind her back, Alcohol intake, Driving with a few sips of alcohol (please don’t drink and drive), Implied violence, Language, Oral (f recieving), Unprotected sex, Corruption kink, Language

ꕥA/N: Reader is a girly-girl bc we need more rep that isn’t hella negative and to actually be portrayed as smart and hardworking for once 😤 You👏can👏be👏both👏 ANyWay—thank you for bearing with me while I wrote this

I ran my hands along the open science textbook laying upon my desk, eyes scanning rapidly over the information. The pages were thin and flimsy, clearly showing the book’s age. If I wasn’t careful, the pages would rip with ease. Not that I had time to actually think about that.

In less than five minutes I, along with the twenty five other poor souls who took this class of their own volition, would be handed our last final for the class. A hundred and ten questions in an hour and thirty minutes.

The class was basically academic suicide and had I been told that, I would have stayed far, far away from the class. But no. No one bothered to run that by me.

A whiff of familiar cologne filled my nose and against my better judgement I looked up to find the class genius, Hongjoong Kim. It was bad enough that he was smart as a whip and never needed to study, but on top of it all he was a dangerous, handsome, irresistible bad boy.

He gave me a wink, a sly smile resting on his lips. I gave him the same reaction I always did: a blank face. There had been multiple times he had tried to rile me up, whether that be say something flirty or wink, or “accidentally” touch my shoulder, and I refused to give him the satisfaction of any reaction. I would keep a blank face, hoping that he would leave me alone.

I wasn’t immune to his charms. I felt butterflies in my stomach every time he looked at me just like any other girl he tried it on, but I didn’t want him to know that. The biggest reaction I had given him was an eyebrow quirk at most.

I could tell it bothered him. I knew he was frustrated that he couldn’t get me to blush or stutter my words, and that may have been part of why he kept up his antics. Probably the entire reason, knowing him. Had he not been a fuckboy, I might have fallen for him. Might have.

I returned my eyes to my book and heard his footsteps walk past me, headed to the very back of class. His usual spot.

“Alright ladies and gentlemen,” A loud clap could be heard from the front of the room, our professor signalling the start of class, “It is time for your final. I hope you all are well prepared. I ask that you remove anything from your desk aside from a pencil and I will begin to hand out the tests. You may leave as you finish, just make sure to hand me your tests before you leave. Good luck.”

Book already off my desk, I gripped my pencil, hoping six hours of studying was enough.

“Thank you.” I muttered to my professor as he placed the stack of papers on my desk.

Here goes nothing, I suppose.

-

I handed in my test with a smile, hoping that I’d pass. Taking a deep breath I stepped out of the classroom, seeing a familiar face. At the noise of my footsteps Hongjoong looked up from his phone with a devilish smile, eyes staring me down. I must’ve not noticed he turned in his test before mine, not that I was surprised. He always finished his test the quickest out of all of us.

“How’s it going, pretty-in-pink?”

Pink was my favorite color and and I wore pink clothes often, unfortunately it had earned me several unwanted nicknames, all coming from Hongjoong.

I barely bothered him a glace, “I have a name.” 

“But your nicknames are so unique to you. Don’t you love them?”

“Can’t say I do.” I walked away, not interested in entertaining him any longer than I already had.

“Farewell, princess.” He fleeted me with a honey-like voice.

Suppressing an eye roll, I gripped the straps of my backpack, ecstatic to get away from him. The more time I spent away from him the better. The less time I was with him meant there was less of a chance for me to get attached to him. I refused to let that happen.

After I left the building I grabbed a coffee and walked to the library, bracing the cold weather. I only had one final left and I needed to make sure I studied enough. Just one last push before I was done for the semester. Taking the elevator up to the third floor, I saw a familiar face who smiled at me and I sat down at his table.

“Hey! How do you think you did on the final?” Lia asked me as I took my laptop out.

“Honestly I don’t know. I don’t want to say I passed because knowing my luck, if I do I’ll fail it. I knew the majority of the answers though, so there’s that.”

“That’s a positive.” She cocked her head, observing the way my eyes were glued to my laptop, “So what are you studying for now?”

“Criminal Psychology. I don’t take it until late tomorrow but I wanna get some studying in.”

“You’ve been studying for hours, you’ll be fine. Let’s just go shopping instead.”

My ears perked and I slowly raised my head, “Damn you. You know I’m not gonna turn you down.”

A wide smile formed on her face as she placed her hands behind her head, “What are friends for?”

“Oh don’t look so cocky.”

“Why not? I’m pretty sure I’ve won here. Now let’s get going.”

Lia stood up and slid on her backpack, a smile still plastered on her face. Just as I was placing my laptop in my own backpack I heard a string of male voices and a mention of my name.

I gave Lia a look and, curiosity taking over, I snuck closer to the direction of the voices to see a group of men at a table hid behind a large stack of bookshelves. There were four of them, not a one of them sitting properly in a chair. Two were sitting on top of the table, another with his legs propped on the table, the other sitting upon a backpack which itself was on a chair. I could only see two of their faces and didn’t recognize either.

“We’ve gotta invite the token good girl, right?” A tall man with dark hair smiled, leaning back on the table.

A man with distinct dimples, clad in all black scoffed, “Y/n? Like she’d go to a party anyway.”

“She might.” Hongjoong tiled his head, allowing me to see him, black earrings swaying as he looked at the man with dimples.

Oh. He’s there, too.

“She dresses like she still believes in the tooth fairy.” A man with a blonde ponytail scoffed, “You think she’s gonna come to a party with people like us?”

I grabbed Lia’s arm to prevent her from storming over. She was upset, I was too, but I wanted to keep listening. Still, I couldn’t deny the pang of hurt I felt as I looked down at my pink skirt and cropped top. Was it a crime to like the color pink?

And I thought I looked cute today...

“You should be the last person to judge someone over the way the dress, Yeosang. You never wear anything but black. If she likes it, then she likes it. Fuck you.” Hongjoong bit back.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I didn’t know why he defended me, maybe he was just defending fashion for fashion’s sake and it had nothing to do with me, but it was still nice of him.

Yeosang smiled, “Damn someone’s aggressive, huh? Someone might almost think you’ve got feelings for the girl.”

Hongjoong remained silent.

“Ooh is she still not reacting to your desperate attempts to woo her?”

Hongjoong quickly became defensive, “Listen, I’m not-”

“Okay we’re not getting into this. Just invite her, you never know what she’ll say.” The dark-haired man said to Hongjoong, “And invite her friend, too. She wouldn’t go alone.”

“Yeah that’s a fair point. I’ll talk to them next time I see them.”

I turned to face Lia, whispering in her ear, “Let’s go. Please.”

Her face told me that she would much rather confront them, but changed as my eyes began to water once more. She nodded and put an arm around me, leading me out of the library.

A tear fell down my cheek as we walked. I raised my hand to wipe my face when Lia did it for me. She pulled me into a tight hug, running her hands through my hair.

“Don’t you think for a second that you’re any less of amazing. Fuck them for not seeing it.”

As she spoke more tears began to fall and my breath hitched, “But-t they-”

“No. There’s no excuse for being shitty to you, especially when you haven’t done anything to wrong them.”

I nodded, trying my best to believe her and steady my breathing.

“What can I do for you? What can I do to help?”

Releasing Lia from my tight grip I stepped back and looked in her eyes, “Nothing. Let’s just go shopping.”

My friend nodded and slipped her hand into my own, something she would always do when I needed comfort. I squeezed her warm hand, following her footsteps as she led me to her car.

“So...you’re not gonna go to the party are you?”

“Yeah I don’t think so.”

She let out a hum in approval and nodded, opening the car door for me.

As much as I wanted to take my mind off of the boys’ words, I couldn’t. No amount of retail therapy seemed to help that. I knew Lia was doing her best to make me feel better and I felt a bit guilty for bringing down the mood. She scoffed when I told her, making eye contact and emphasizing that she simply wanted to make me feel better.

Sooner than I liked, we had to part. Lia had a class in thirty minutes and I had to help out in an on-campus activity. She gave me a tight hug and a small smile, bidding me adue.

I was the Vice President of our Activities Planning Board and as such was in charge of setting up an Academic Bowl for the competing students. Unfortunately, I was having trouble setting up the large tables and my small frame just made it harder. I was confident anyone around could see that I was struggling and I huffed, hoping no one would look my way. It didn’t help that I was outside in the middle of campus, where anyone just walking by could see me.

“Do you need any help?”

I turned to find Hongjoong with his dark backpack slung over his shoulder, a concerned look on his face. Had I not desperately needed help, I would have refused.

“Yeah I do. Hold this, will you?” I nodded at the opposite side of the table I was struggling to hold.

He appeared shocked that I accepted his offer, but I didn’t dwell on it and instead lifted the table. We worked in silence aside from a few words of instruction I gave him, and I was thankful for the lack of distraction. When we set up the last table I placed my hands on my hips, looking at the tables.

Hongjoong crossed his arms, “Why were you doing this alone?”

“No one else signed up to help for the Academic Bowl, so I did it myself.” He gave a confused look so I clarified my position.

“Of course you’re the Vice President.” Hongjoong muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I faced him, feeling slightly offended.

He shrugged, “I know you’re just involved in a lot. I’m not surprised.”

Ignoring his comment, I took the conversation another direction. “Why did you help me?”

“You needed help, princess.” He answered simply.

I nodded, ignoring the nickname. “Well...thanks.”

A moment of silence followed until Hongjoong broke it, “Hey listen, there’s a party this weekend I want you to go.”

“Why?” I cocked my head.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know anyone that will be there.”

“You know me.”

“That’s not exactly an incentive.”

He scoffed in mock offense, “Okay first of all, ouch. Second, what if I sweeten the deal?”

My eyebrows raised, lips forming a smile, “Oh yeah? What could that possibly be?”

He faltered for a moment, his voice lowering seemingly without intent, “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile. You’re beautiful.”

I turned from him, trying to will any semblance of a flustered expression off my face. “You were saying before?”

Hongjoong chuckled, “I’ll drive. You can even invite your friend if you want.”

“Lia?”

“Yeah. If it makes you more comfortable.”

At first, I wanted to say no. At first, I wanted to continue my streak of refusing any advance he made on me. But looking at his kind eyes, completely devoid of any malintent, I felt my heart flutter. When my mind thought back to how he had defended me in the library I felt a warmth bubbling in my chest. I pretended to ponder for a moment, even though I already knew my answer.

“Okay but I don’t...I don’t think I should tell Lia.”

“Why’s that?”

“She kinda hates you.”

He looked taken aback, “Might I ask why?”

I sighed, crossing my arms, “Don’t worry about it. So where is this party?”

He filled me in on the details and I did my best to keep up my neutral façade. I wouldn’t admit it, but I was ecstatic to see him outside of campus, my will of staying away from him faltering by the minute.

-

I stood in front of my closet for what seemed like hours, desperately trying to find something that would match the occasion. I laughed a bit to myself as I looked at the section of black clothes I had. I went through a bit of an emo phase in middle school and I just couldn’t bring myself to get rid of any of them. I debated avoiding black clothes all together, but the words of Yeosang rang in my head and I bit the inside of my cheek.

Fine. I’ll change it up. But I’ll be damned if I give up on pink.

Taking a deep breath I slipped into a light pink leather skirt reaching mid-thigh with black fishnets. I put on a black leather jacket over my black see through shirt exposing my lacy bra underneath, my pink shoes on last.

I took several deep breaths and observed myself in the mirror. It was a change, definitely. I didn’t mind black, but I wouldn’t wear just black alone. I wanted it to be more feminine.

I heard a car horn outside my apartment much sooner than I expected. Bracing for Hongjoong’s reaction, I stepped outside. I was greeted with a smug smile, the man adorning it seeming as confident as a god until he observed my clothes, his eyebrows raising.

Hongjoong’s eyes scanned over me, taking in my abrupt fashion change, “I still wasn’t entirely certain you’d go. Much less looking like this.”

My lips quirked into half-smile, “Well I can’t show up looking like I normally do.”

“Why not?”

My heart swelled at the genuine confusion evident on his face. “Some people don’t care for the way I dress.” I took a breath and continued, “I heard you and your friends in the library.”

I forced myself to look him in the eyes. I could see the gears turning in his head as he put the pieces together, a scowl forming on his face. “You don’t have to change a goddamn thing. You look great, don’t get me wrong, but you look great in pink, too. And I’m sorry if he made you feel otherwise.”

I shook my head. “It’s alright, I actually kinda like it.”

“You definitely make it work.” He swallowed, voice lowering.

“Then maybe I should wear a bit of black more often.”

The man gave a thousand dollar smile, quirking a brow that left my panties feeling slightly damp. He motioned to the car door, “Hop in, cutie.”

A friendly string of conversation followed us as Hongjoong drove. I felt my nerves starting to dissipate, his smile I once despised now bringing me comfort. And really, he was much funnier than I had believed. I found myself laughing with him more than I had in a long time. I knew my walls were falling, but I wasn’t trying to fight it anymore.

Why the hell not? He’s kind enough, and he isn’t even close to being hard on the eyes.

The car drive was much quicker than I expected, although how quickly I was unfamiliar with my surroundings through me for a loop. The trees around us became more sporadic and the sun set quicker than what seemed normal. I fidgeted slightly, prompting Hongjoong to look over at me. He intertwined my fingers with his own and I smiled, secretly welcoming his touch.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’m right here with you, okay?”

I nodded, grasping onto his hand tightly. Before I knew it, my eyes locked with the building in front of us. I took in the abandoned building in front of me, eyes widening slightly as I observed its poor condition. Large windows were shattered, vines were growing around pillars, grass peaking through what once was concrete.

“This is the most sketchy place I’ve ever seen in my life.” I spoke, feeling slightly alarmed by the building but comforted by Hongjoong’s presence.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

“I literally just saw a rat run out a broken window.”

Hongjoong suppressed a smile and let go of my hand, opening his car door and telling me to stay in place as he walked around and opened the door on my side. I hesitated as I exited the car, a bit afraid of what could possibly be inside the building.

“We can leave at anytime. If you don’t want to go in we can leave right now. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

As sweet as he was being, I felt the need to prove to him that I was brave enough to enter, even if it did look like he was leading me to my death.

“Thank you, but I’m okay. We can go in.”

He smiled, leading me to an out-of-the-way entrance which seemed to lead to a different building entirely. I gave an involuntary “woah” as we entered the building. As horrific as it looked on the outside, it was gorgeous on the inside. Perfectly up kept brick walls hugged the sides of the building, lights were strung from the ceiling, arcade machines and dart boards were huddled in a corner, and of course, there was a bar with a seemingly unlimited amount of liquor. People were scattered all throughout, socializing and being generally loud. Everyone wore about the same color clothes as Hongjoong, dark as they could possibly get.

“How did you even find this place?”

“My friend Yeosang and I were just driving around and we found it one day. Decided to make it our hangout spot.”

I looked at him confused, still amazed at my surroundings. Hongjoong led me over to his familiar group of friends, assuring me that they wouldn’t bite, and introduced me to the seven men, four of which I hadn’t seen prior. I saw the color drain from a few of their faces as they saw me, likely from their words in the library, but I didn’t comment on it. Overall, they were much friendlier than I expected them to be.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Hongjoong nudged me, “You want anything?”

“No that’s okay. I think I’m gonna check out the pinball machines. They look kinda cool.”

“You sure you don’t wanna stay by my side? I won’t take long.”

I shook my head, “I’ll be okay.”

He chucked, “Alright. I’ll grab a drink and I’ll head right over, princess.”

I bit my lip at the nickname and wandered over to the machines, surprisingly feeling comfortable in the environment, despite everything being so unfamiliar. All of the games were being used, some people clearly playing better than others.

I got lost in the artwork on the side of a particular pinball machine when a gruff voice caught my attention. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here?”

I turned to meet a tall man with grey hair. He was young, likely in his mid-twenties, and reeked of cigarettes and a foul smell I couldn’t place.

A flash of fear ran through me and I tried to make my voice as confident as possible, “I was invited.”

“Well...that’s certainly a shame now, isn’t it? I wasn’t invited, but I decided to show up for a bit of fun anyway.”

He came closer to me, our height difference incredibly prominent as he leaned over me, “How about you give me a kiss, little thing?” I ran away as soon as the words left his mouth, hoping that he wouldn’t follow me but assuming he would. I dashed around quickly and sporadically around people, hoping I would lose him.

I looked around desperately for Hongjoong, sighing when I found him surrounded by his friends, laughing at something one of them said. I ran up to him and grabbed his arm, gaining his attention.

I hope this fucking works.

“I need you to kiss me.”

A look of confusion flashed in his eyes, “What?”

“Please kiss me.” I begged, eyes wide, disregarding the stares of his friends around us, hoping that if the man saw I was taken he’d leave me alone.

Without hesitation he wrapped his free hand around my waist—a cup of alcohol still in the other—and pulled me close, pressing his lips to my own. He kissed me hard, biting my bottom lip slightly and letting out a growl only I could hear. He wasn’t my first kiss, far from it, but no one had ever kissed me like he did. Just a kiss had never left me feeling weak at the knees. Just a kiss had ever made me feel so submissive, making me want to beg him to take me right on the spot, regardless of the fear in my veins. Even with the taste of alcohol still on his lips, his scent overtook me.

He pulled back, eyes darker than before, and raised a brow, “Care to tell me what that was about?”

Just then I realized my hands had been gripping his leather coat, pulling him just as close as he was pulling me. I looked over in the direction of where the man was before, not seeing him.

“A man was following me and he was trying to get me to kiss him a-and I didn’t know him...I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

His eyes narrowed at my words, a rage I hadn’t seen before taking over them, “What did he look like?”

“I-I don’t know he was tall and had grey hair and-”

He cursed under his breath. Keeping me just as close he turned to the men around him, their eyes narrowed as well.

“You heard that?” He asked his friends.

“Loud and clear.” San said, cracking his knuckles, a scowl on his face that scared me, even though I knew I wasn’t the one it was directed at.

“I thought we told him to never come back here.” Jongho snarled.

“We did.” Hongjoong said.

Seonghwa looked at me, nodding to Hongjoong, “Keep her safe and take her out of here. If he’s here I’m sure he’s brought friends. Yeosang, lead everyone out. We’ll take care of him.”

Hongjoong looked conflicted, obviously wanting to stay and fight, but gave into the older man’s command. “Be fucking safe,” he barked, but I could see the fear in his eyes as he looked at me, “Come on, we’re going.”

Seonghwa mumbled something to Hongjoong and he nodded in response, tossing his alcohol to the ground. I didn’t have time to ask questions as he led me out a back door, the darkness of the night equally horrifying and comforting, and quickly pushed me into his car, apologizing the entire time. He entered the key into the ignition and the car sprung to life.

“Uhh...maybe it’s not a good idea for you to drive. You’ve been drinking, right?”

“I had maybe two sips. I’ll drive safe, promise.”He gave me a small comforting smile, “Put your seatbelt on. Hold on tight, sweetheart.” His voice was calm but firm as he spoke. I nodded and did as he said, bracing as his car sped off, my heart beating in overtime.

The ride was a blur, the only things I could remember being Hongjoong’s calming voice, periodically reassuring me that things would be okay. We arrived at a foreign building which Hongjoong called his house, and only then did I let myself fall apart. I felt tears streaming down my face as my hands quivered, my head beginning to pound.

“Hey, hey look at me. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.” My teary eyes met his and I felt my heart break at the way he was looking at me, as if he had made me cry himself.

“Here, come on. Let’s get you inside, okay?”

My tears slowed as he carefully led me inside his house, sitting me down on his bed. He crouched down in front of me, wiping the tears from my face.

“I’m so sorry, princess. I didn’t realize he was going to be there. I never should’ve made you come along I’m so-”

“Who was that?”

Hongjoong sighed, “He used to be a friend of mine. We had a falling out and he became violent. One time he showed up at one of our parties with some friends of his to start a fight. We won and told him to never come back. Looks like he did.” He looked off into nowhere, regret clear on his face.

“You didn’t know,” I sniffled, “You couldn’t have known.”

I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten, his agitation still visible. I brought a hand out to reach his own, trying to comfort him. The loud ding of Hongjoong’s phone made me jump and he apologized profusely. As he took out his phone from his pants pocket I looked around his room for the first time. It looked exactly as I had expected, solid black furniture and so many band posters decorating the wall I could hardly tell what color his bedroom walls were.

Hongjoong spoke up, “I just got a text from Seonghwa. There were two other people there with him. My friends took care of them don’t worry, you’re safe.”

I nodded, pulling him into a hug and burying my face into his chest. “If you’re comfortable with it,” He started, “I’d like you to stay here. I want to know you’re safe.”

My eyes met his as he moved a hair out of my face, “I’m not pressuring you. If you don’t want to I understand.”

A hand of his ran up and down my back, tracing little patterns here and there, and I realized just how much I wanted to be with him.

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to stay.”

He laughed, “What do you mean ‘if it’s alright with you’ I asked.”

I bit my bottom lip and looked down, a bit embarrassed.

Hongjoong laughed, “Hey, look at me.” He said in a commanding yet sweet tone that made my thighs press together. I glanced back up at him, his handsome features making me feel dizzy.

He chuckled, “What’s that look for? You got something to say to me?”

I hesitated, “Actually, I do have a question.”

“Which is?”

“Why did you chase after me?”

Hongjoong smiled, “You never gave a reaction to anything I tried. It confused me and piqued my curiosity. So I began to watch you and how you interacted with people. You’re gentle and sweet. You’re innocent and haven’t let the world tear you down. I admire that.”

He leaned closer to me, his lips brushing my ear, “And it turned me on beyond belief. I wondered how I could ruin you, thought about how I could turn you into a quivering mess as you beg for me.”

I shivered and pulled back slightly to look him in the eyes. His beautiful, dark eyes. Hongjoong let out a dark chuckle as he sat on his bed, lifting me on his lap. He gave an eyebrow raise and a crooked smile as my breath hitched while looking at him, taking him in.

How did I never notice how his dark hair falls to one side when he cocks his head and how he looks so endearing when it happens? How did I never pay attention to his soft pink lips that give way to his gorgeous smile and how much I’ve been dying to kiss them all this time? How did I not see the way his eyes form crescents when he smiles, making my heart grow ten times over?

Why did I never think to take note of how his deep voice makes my stomach do somersaults? Why was I so unaware of his tongue piercing that was leaving me wonder how it would feel on my skin? Why didn’t I observe the black painted nails of his that were currently dancing along my thighs, giving me goosebumps?

How and why did I never notice him?

“You’re such a good girl.”

And for the first time around him, I flushed.

He chuckled, “Oh? You like that?”

I nodded quickly and he said it again, smiling as my face heated up once more.

“It’s so good to see you react to what I say. I wonder...” Hongjoong leaned closer to me, “How will you react when you’re underneath me? Squirming and begging for me to touch you?”

I gave him a look of desperation and balled his shirt into my fist, trying to move him closer, “Please.”

Hongjoong lifted me off of him, quickly discarding my clothes followed by his own shirt. My eyes were guided down by his abs and I ran a hand across them without thinking, whimpering quietly.

“Is my baby girl getting needy?” He cooed.

I closed my eyes, once again nodding in embarrassment.

“How about we take care of that?”

He laid me down on the soft sheets of his bed, leaving me in anticipation as he pinned my hands above my head with a hand of his own. My eyes widened and he chuckled, running a single finger along my folds.

“You’re so unbelievably fucking wet...do I turn you on that much?”

I let out a small “yes” and he hummed in response. Placing a few kisses upon my lips, Hongjoong slowly entered two fingers into me and my back arched. His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside of me that’d I’d never been able to reach. I spread my legs as far as they could go, pleading for more, feeling tears prick my eyes.

Hongjoong spoke, his voice already dropping several octaves, “Keep your hands here, understand? I don’t want you moving them.”

I nodded, willing my hands to stay in place as his own moved to my hips, leaving kisses along my inner thighs.

“Hongjoong please.”

“Please what, princess?”

“Please touch me.”

“Oh, I think I can do better than that, don’t you?”

His lips attached to my core, tongue running through my folds and nose hitting my clit as I moaned pathetically. His hands held my hips down as I tried to buck them up, barely able to keep my hands above my head. After what felt like years, his mouth finally reached my clit and I cried out as his lips attached to it, sucking hard and leaving kitten licks. My high built up quickly and I came hard, my hands leaving their spot and pulling slightly on his hair.

“Thought I told you to keep your hands above your head, no?”

I mumbled an apology and he leaned over to kiss me, “You’re forgiven, darling.”

He seemed just as impatient as I was and without much begging the rest of his clothes were off, his dick teasing my entrance.

“God Hongjoong please I need you so bad.”

“I need you too, y/n.”

He fully entered me, cursing as he did so. I was so caught up in the feeling of him inside of me that I didn’t even register him asking me a question until he laughed at me.

“Feeling good, baby? Can’t even speak?”

I whimpered, nodding seeming to be the only thing I could manage to do. I felt his member twitch inside of me and I pleaded for him to fuck me, to give me anything. Hongjoong growled and jerked his hips up into me over and over, leaving me a moaning mess.

“Taking me so well, aren’t you? Such a good girl for me.”

The amount of praise he gave me caused a few tears to fall from my eyes, not realizing how bad I needed it until that moment. My walls clenched around him every time, causing him to groan and snap his hips into me even harder. Hongjoong’s eyes grew hazy, his dark hair sticking to his forehead.

“I’m close, darling. Be my good girl and cum for me”

His hand trailed down to my clit, rubbing tiny circles. My back arched as I came in time with him, our breaths synchronizing as we gasped for air.

He slowly pulled out of me and ran to the bathroom to grab a towel, cleaning me up. Hongjoong giggled and I raised a brow at him.

“I never thought you’d give me a chance. It’s almost like I’ve corrupted you.”

“You have. Aren’t you aware of the party I went to because of you? I almost died.”

Hongjoong laughed as he crawled into bed and pulled blankets over the both of us. He ran a hand through my hair, looking at me fondly, “You did not almost die.”

“Okay yeah but I could have. That’s what we should be focusing on here.”

“I think there’s something else I’d like to focus on.”

Hongjoong pulled me into a deep kiss, hand slithering down to my waist. His kisses trailed to my ear, a slight chuckle leaving his lips, “My pretty princess.”

I looked at him with doe eyes, slightly in awe of him, and wondered how I could’ve pushed him away for so long. I knew for certain that I had no intention of doing so ever again.

When I told him he smiled, “Good. You’ve had a grip on my heart since day one. I’d be a fool to let you get away from me.”

I blushed slightly, much to his entertainment. We snuggled up to each other in silence, listening to the sound of our synchronized breathing as I lulled to sleep, our warm fingers intertwined. My dreams filled of him.

“Sleep well, my princess. I’ll be right here when you wake.”

[thekitschdiet]

my take on the literary masterpiece, the chic diet

Firstly, I am no one. It’s part of my charm. My fifteen minutes of fame was years ago, when I had an instagram niche meme page. I didn’t even take any brand deals! And my posts averaged six thousand likes! Anyhow. I am hardly literate and well hydrated and carry a small sephora-CVS-hybrid worth in my mini tote bag. Here is my guide on how to live like me, the intermediate kitsch-rat, aspiring influencer. But like, in an apathetic, somewhat dissonant, ironic way. I like saying I live by dogmatic principles. But a lot of it, um, is just eating disorder rituals. But that’s not really important. You’re as hot as you say you are, and as much an authority on what you write so long as you say it with, you know, conviction. It’s kind of venerable how fucking delusional I am, actually. Giving any sort of advice like I’m anywhere close to the ritzy ideal of the amphetamine-areyouami label-american. New York, ideally. West Village, preferably. But I guess the kind of guide I can write is better suited to someone living in a suburb, in a house with the twelve-paned windows. I always thought those were so chic. SO quaint, in a somewhat luxe way. Like, Connecticut vibes. My parents used to drive me up there as a child to buy books and ice cream. Nowadays I’d opt for a matcha latte with novelty ice cubes, but I guess at the time it was pretty sweet. 

Because I popped a Vyvanse at like, 10pm, this next little bit could go one of two ways. I will write the most articulate, brilliant piece of literature of my life. Magnum opus, if there was a skinnier word for it. Or, I will get wrapped up doing something like folding all my last-season knits (which is part of my look, okay! I don’t have a job!) and fixating on a paragraph on how a girl’s collarbones are almost as identifying as a fingerprint, or a signature. I’m not a graphologist, but if you write your A’s with the little tail on top (like on a computer), you’re probably a snake. Nothing personal, just an observation. Also, I do have a biology final to study for. Not that I’m super anal, or even particularly committed to academia, but even in my precariously manicured (read that as separate terms; I did a good job on my nail polish, okay? But I happen to also be teetering on the brink of an epiphany or a collapse. Hence the use of the word precarious.) state, I know it’s important enough I can let one of my countless side-quests sit idle for a couple more days. 

The first section seems only natural to be about hydration. And the whole idea of drinking things, really. There was a section in The Chic Diet about Adderall dry-mouth, which deeply resonated with me. Once I bit off a chunk of a Nivea Strawberry Shine (my favorite lip balm, more on that later) and swished it around my mouth. Didn’t help. Really, really didn’t. Anyway, I suppose that even if it served no purpose for combatting my prevacatingly ingenious cottonmouth solution, I was able to milk a sentence or two out of the experience. “Do it for the Vine”, all grown up! And wearing bananapapaya resin hoops too. Side note, that Etsy shop is a parasocial enemy of mine. It stems from jealousy, which sucks, but hating from inside a club I’m adjacent to is much healthier than being a hateful individual towards people I would, you know, interact with. Daily. Or something. I stopped going to therapy because I felt stupid about going and I don’t live in the right kind of town to warrant vacuous $300 hours. Bitching about my well-adjusted parents and how desperately I wished my anxiety would just “go away” was plainly gross, and a waste. Like, pretty sure almost every problem I have could be solved by a couple painful conversations taking place during a hurricane. Such a shame it doesn’t rain much here. Anyhow, I digress. 

Staying hydrated. It is essential to my character, my persona, if you will; to never be without either an elegant metal bottle (I’m loyal to the smooth enamelled S’well ones, printed to look like marble or a semi holographic solid) or a little 16oz tumbler with a metal straw. Hydroflasks were some of the worst things to happen to society. I want to preface this claim with the fact that I wanted one in the same way a teenage girl wants a new iPhone so she can keep up appearances with her dermatologist-dad friends who still have the XR, by the way. But I ended up spending the money on like, a minidress at Brandy Melville before it fled my city. Or maybe a Fresh Sugar tinted lipbalm. For the better, even though the dress has a busted zipper now and the lipbalm tube has inevitably gotten dinged and dented by the other contents of my mini-totebag. Unlike a car, though, a couple scuffs on your laptop or your luxury lipbalm tube looks kind of cool. Like, you’re not someone who values the pristine, unused quality of an item that was ambiguously intended to be used versus displayed on Instagram.  Now, I’m wondering why this paragraph about hydration is so fucking impossible to stay on track for. I literally drink several litres of water a day, and more tea on top of that. And sometimes an almond milk latte if I can budget it in. Not that I’m so anorexic I can’t afford a 45cal latte. They’re just not that important to me. Anyhow. Drinking lukewarm (on the cool side) water is better than ice-cold. Partially because I just get it out of the tap of my ensuite and I can’t be bothered to wait for it to run cold enough every time, and it just seems wasteful. Plus, there is something so.. skinny about drinking water at an “obscure” temperature. Trust me, I want to know why my thought process is like this too. My favorite tea is blueberry tea foraged in a side aisle at my local supermarket. I love a good commercial, high-end steep or fruit infusion as much as the next girl. Maybe more. My pantry is filled with tins labelled with things like “emerald jade organic” and “magic potion”, which is really just currants and butterfly pea flowers. But there is a necessary glamor about drinking dirt-cheap tea on the daily. Seriously, a box of 25 sachets is like, $3. At a higher point with my, um, Adderall problem, I spent like several times that on pills. I didn’t really need to include that, and could have linked the price point to the cost of a drugstore lipbalm, but I wrote it in. And I’m married to it, stubbornly, as all amateur writers should be when they wittle in a somewhat indecorous little joke. This tea is sooo good because it has a strong fruit-reminiscent taste (not as sweet as a fresh blueberry, but who wants that anyway?), it’s zero-calorie, it’s the most GORGEOUS color ever. The latte, the third drink in my little trifecta, is nothing special. But necessary. The trick is to use a milk frother to whip up sugar free syrup with instant coffee and a little bit of hot water in a glass. It’ll make the most luscious foam.. Top it off with almond milk. My dad is a coffee purist, owning both an upstairs keurig AND a downstairs one (among other more analogue methods, but I can’t name-drop, so what’s the point?), so he hates this drink. Now, calling oneself a plebian is so unglamorous and teetering on self-deprecating territory, dangerously close to insecurity. But I can use it here because I am at least posh enough to have a different pair of earrings for every outfit I could possibly come up with, and I only wear Patagonia if I am in a situation where I just have to wear fleece. Like I was saying. It’s such a simple drink, certainly not a delicacy, and… I had a joke about the word plebian but I keep getting up to refill my water and I fear I have forgotten about it. 

Next section; the importance of a good tinted balm

In the intro I alluded to how a girl’s collarbones function essentially as an identifier, the way a signature or fingerprint does. This is a lie, or at least an exaggeration. But one’s ultimate tinted lipbalm is  actually extremely indicative about who you are, as a person, as a member of society, even… 

If you are loyal to Dior Lipglow, I have a couple questions. One; did you shoplift one tube, once, and refill it with cheaper stuff afterwards? I did that. I consider it one of my better-kept secrets, but now you know. Might as well explain the catalyst for my parent’s first separation now, and the horrifying experience that was meeting my dad’s Manhattan sugar baby (?) at the age of thirteen, wearing an overalls dress from, like, Topshop or something else equally embarrassing. .. Kidding. I digress. It’s such a fancy lipbalm, and good too! It smells like thin mints! But I could just never justify cell phone monthly installation payment money on something I will inevitably talk off. I do own three, but two I stole (before I lost the nerve, somewhat unfortunately) and one, a boy(not)friend bought for me. This is not something I feel any remorse about, because his house was easily four thousand square feet and his sisters had a dedicated all-glass room for their shared peloton. Oil money. Ugh!

My personal favorite lip balm, and I have tried a frightening amount, has got to be the Nivea Fruit Shine collection. The frosted one is shit-ugly. Hideous. But the strawberry one is the love of my life. It’s such a pleasant red, looking healthy and rejuvenated and really completes any look. Only downside is it will always, hopefully not always, remind me of Charles. Kissing Charles, specifically. And him asking me what lipbalm it was, because he knew I was somewhat frivolous and definitive and would have a very long answer. But for whatever reason, I simply stated it was from “out of town”. Not really sure why I said that, but it plagues me (minorly) to this day. Of all the things to make up.. .. The peach one is a perfectly demure spring classic shade. Cherry exists too, but the only tube I have ever had the fortune of owning was purchased in Costa Rica and lost somewhere on the way home. Honestly tragic, it was the juiciest shade. Blackberry is perfect too, but I have to layer it with either peach or untinted lipbalm to avoid what I imagine TooPoor would choose if she believed in tinted lipbalm. I don’t mean this hatefully, I think she’s a queen, but super dark, smudgy makeup suits the eyes better in my opinion. Or something. Or something.

Afraid to bore the reader, I have to move on now. Maybe at a later date I will release an addendum on my ultimate lipbalm buying guide. But also, that is so deeply personal (and everyone needs the excuse of “hunting for the perfect staple shade!!”), so it is really not my place to have any authority on something so intimate and subjective. Etcetera. 

Moving on; Decorating your room

Here is a section I lifted out of my memoir document. It fits, because as enigmatic as I hope I am, I am also quite unchanging.

 I just pushed three hangers and two tiny strappy tops with the tags still on, off my bed. Most nights, all, these days, actually; I spend in my large but cluttered bedroom. I have a little ensuite with a jetted tub I’ve never used because I just never get around to it. There’s a plush grey rug, spanning the expanse of the room (covering an ugly cherry wood that doesn’t match the rest of the house; no clue why. I never asked, and the previous owners were eager to sell so they could finally ditch this town and retire in Montreal for the bagels, or Hawaii for the monk seals. Point is, I’ll never know) with loose beads and loose pills and little shards of glass from plier-crushed beads. I vacuum every day. The whole room tells you exactly the kind of person I am; the clutter I possess, the encapsulation of the projects I start, start, start and the hours I don’t sleep for and the clothes I tried on (these to sell, these to cut up with kitchen scissors; thrifted lululemon and aritzia and heaps of knits and plaid fabric..) I would not say the room is a mess. Lived in, maybe. Chopsticks and mugs and gum wrappers. Single dangle earrings. I just finished the last of my Creme Brulee eos lipbalm; disguised as a relic of 2015, I was gifted it Christmas of ‘20. I think my next waxy conquest will be a tinted Burt’s one I palmed a while back, before I lost the nerve. Peering around the room you will see shopping bags strewn about the mouth of my walk-in closet. Every surface has something shiny or colorful stacked up on it. Cluttered, busy, but intentional. Except for the walls, which are bare. Bare and gray and miles-tall when I lie flat on my back, high out of my mind, willing things to change but knowing I’m responsible for a first step I will always be too scared for. Bare, pristine, no gumtack. Empty, Like they’re waiting. I wait around a lot. It makes sense. That was an awful lot of words about my stupid blank walls when truly it does not bother me that much; I really just don’t get around to it. I have other things on the ground to tend to, like post-email nausea, addressing envelopes, marrying wire and bead.  Writing a document I care about because I am determined and I am alive, alive, alive, goddammit. 

Excerpt over. The memoir is coming out when I get famous, or something earth shattering happens. Like I become the world’s least remarkable entrepreneur, and I get retweeted by Colorpop. I don’t want to be the next Elizabeth Wurtzel. I read two of her memoirs one restless night, absorbing it to make up for the nutrients I didn’t that day (you can laugh. I think that is pretty clever), heart breaking a little bit. She writes about her struggles so intrinsically, you either get it, or you don’t. Anyway. She had the books and the fame from it, and she wrote more memoirs than I think a single person should. That is admirable. Aspirational, even. But I do not want to be like her. Where was I? Oh. Yes. Decorating/adorning/filling your room. Your room should serve as the kind of place to watch a movie (if you believe in film. I don’t) and put on ridiculous glittery eye makeup, or smoke an ~artistic cigarette~ or stay up all night on the phone, which is different from staying up all night simply on your phone. Chatting with someone you are tepidly in love with is much more exciting. Not chic as the whole affair is so juvenile, but fun regardless. It’s somewhere to keep your worldly possessions, too. I know I have a lot! Also, it is kind of thrilling to hide things in your room in little crevices only you know about. Now, unfortunately, everyone reading this will know too. But, like, I trust you not to really.. do anything about it. I keep my extra juul pods in the sliding box my apple pencil came in. That box is almost more useful than the pencil itself. I’m somewhat morally opposed to the iPad. Whole culture is so embarrassing! I have a tea tin with an ounce of golden teacher shrums in it. This is tossed in my closet among tins filled with other things, like lace trim and buttons. Which makes it actually a pretty terrible hiding spot, I see now… Anyhow. Keeping benign little secrets like that is so fun. You can tell I don’t have siblings. I sort of wish I did, but it is easier to believe there is something aristocratic about being an only child. Not sure if older-sister me would be egalitarian enough to share things. But that’s prophesying, which is kind of a waste of time. I live in the now, in a room positively cluttered with meaningless things that mean the world to me, chewing on my lip because my mouth is just so dry and 5gum is just not an after-8 indulgence. To live truly kitschly, you have to have somewhat hideous decor. Now, do not confuse dissonant, or incoherent, with what I mean by “hideous decor”. The kitsch room has as many surfaces to look at as possible, while also shying away from too many shelving units. Then you risk your room looking like a storage unit or something. When my mom renovated (re: paid someone to do it) our New York house so we could sell it, all our stuff was stacked up in a Cubesmart self storage. It was sort of horrifying, seeing my childhood home reduced to plastic storage tubs piled what felt like thirty feet high. Anyway. It’s just not an  inviting way to store things; I imagine it makes your room look like your stuff is all trapped in gelatin. The more fussy, tiny things you have out in the open, the better. Nail polish. Earring trees. Bowls full of rings and lighters and water color pans perched on your windowsill. A rack with the tackiest assortment of knits and bucket hats and baguette bags. And so forth.. Quickly surveying someone’s room is so telling. Bonus points if all your books are spine-in, except for your favorite ones, because you don’t want people to get the wrong idea. (that you read). 

[cake-writes]

making the beast beautiful (one)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (cheating); Steve x Reader (married)

Story Warnings: Mental Illness, Borderline Personality Disorder, Splitting, Clinical Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Low Self-Esteem, Cheating, Angst, Drug Addiction / Abuse (Cigarettes, later Alcohol & Pills), Recovery, idk it’s gonna get depressing but we’ll have a happy ending!!!, Eventual Smut, 18+

Summary: Bucky knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. And some days, he still struggles – even told you once how low he’s been. But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? No, Steve doesn’t understand. He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. So one day, you finally give up and give in to your most self-destructive temptation of all: your preoccupation with his best friend.

A/N: i know this is another wip SORRY but it’s literal word vomit because ya girl just really needed to yeet these sad bitch feels into outer space lmao 🤷 

Your addiction to him starts slow, like the creep of nicotine through your veins from the cigarettes that he offers you on the rooftop.

Not often enough to do any damage, you try to tell yourself about your smoking habit – or maybe what you actually mean is the amount of time you spend with him. Bucky Barnes. Your husband’s best friend. Your former teammate. Not that it matters, because from one night to the next it’s all you can do to cling to the one good thing you have left, the one ray of light– or maybe he’s the one last shred of hope you’re willing to bind yourself to like a lifeline.

And if it snaps, you’ll fall. 

Too bad the threads are already starting to fray.

And lucky, lucky you that you fall even sooner, because your reality has shifted to one shade off from normal, and you can hardly tell what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. You want to prioritize yourself because you know you should – maybe be a little selfish for once, to combat the awful feelings of self-hate that plague your mind, but you don’t know if that particular affirmation is driven by self-esteem or self-destruction.

You can’t tell anymore. You don’t know who you are.

You’re a mystery, a chameleon, borderline, and the only thing you do know is that Bucky makes you feel again – too much. He makes you feel things you shouldn’t, makes you obsess and overthink and daydream and wonder about what life could be like with him instead of Steve.

Because that’s what you do when you fall in love. You turn into that. A monster. A beast. A siren hell-bent on the destruction of yourself.

So, you fall. You fall deep. You fall hard. You fall fast, but it’s the savouring of the moment that always brings out the worst in you. It brings back the worst part of you that you’ve buried under layers and layers of trauma and depression – the clinginess and neediness and desperation at the center of it all, and every layer covering up the euphoria makes you cry because you have to hide it for fear of losing yourself all over again. Losing that feeling. Losing what makes you you.

You’re happy, now. Right? So why do things you shouldn’t do?

But you just can’t help yourself.

You shouldn’t have accepted that first cigarette.

You shouldn’t have texted him asking for another.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about personal things meant for your husband.

You shouldn’t have talked to him about the most personal of things: your husband. Your relationship. Your insecurities because of your illness.

You shouldn’t have – because Bucky knows. He understands. He’s been there.

He knows the struggle, the pain, the emptiness. He understands. He can relate, because he knows. He’s been there. He’s done that. And some days, he still struggles – even told you, once, how low he’s been. 

He might have a different slew of acronyms to define his own mental state, but they all spell out the same thing: FUBAR. And so do yours.

But Steve? Your sweet, loving husband of a year and a half? The man of your dreams, the one you’d married in the gown of your dreams, in the venue of your dreams? He’s resilient. And let’s not forget your wedding, with Bucky standing right there as his best man – the same Bucky who accidentally caught the bouquet you threw in his direction, because your aim was purposefully off to make him feel like he belonged for once.

Even before you got to know him, you always had a soft spot for him. 

And now? You’re fucked. Completely and utterly smitten.

No, Steve doesn’t understand. He absolutely, fundamentally cannot, through and through. Not for a lack of trying, though, or that’s what you keep trying to convince yourself. He supports you physically: makes dinner when you’re ‘tired’, runs errands when you’re ‘busy’, gives you love and affection just like he always has. You’re his wife; it’s his obligation. He has to.

That’s how you feel, anyway.

He treats you that way out of duty, not love, because Steve always has to put the greater good before himself. He puts your happiness before his own, you think. And he tries so hard – he does. And whenever he tells you he’s happy, you just can’t believe him because you think so poorly of yourself.

Why would anyone willingly want to be around you?

And emotionally? He tries so hard with that, too, but he just doesn’t know. He doesn’t get it. He never says the right things, only well-meaning insensitive ones because he hasn’t been there, he hasn’t done that, and he thinks it’s all in your head – that you’re just not trying hard enough, that you just don’t want to get better badly enough, because if you did then you’d be up and at ‘em already. Then you’d be healed. Then you’d be out of this funk and back in the field with him.

You’re not.

You won’t be for a long time.

You’re not the same girl he fell in love with. Not that he’s ever said that directly to you, but sometimes you think it’s how he feels. He signed up for a wife, not a child. He signed up for the you from a few years ago, now, not the shell of a person you’ve become because of your illness.

Ironic, considering what he was like as a kid, Bucky likes to remind you when you start to hate on yourself because of how you’ve changed – because you’re not normal anymore. He used to be so sick all the time. Then the serum made him right as rain. Don’t take it to heart.

Steve got better because of a miracle. Hard work and determination can only get a person so far, but it was pure luck that got him to the serum. You know that. Bucky knows that. Steve probably knows that deep down, too, but he doesn’t see it that way. All he sees is his hard work.

He lies to himself. He always has.

He probably lies to himself about his love for you, too.

So it’s hard to believe he’s happy. How can he be? You don’t bring anything to your relationship but self-pity and unhappiness. And how can you not take it to heart that Steve doesn’t understand? Your husband, the one who should be supporting you and validating you and making you feel like you’re seen, thinks you’re always throwing a pity party for yourself, thinks you’re just too lazy to get up and actually do the things you want to do, thinks you’re just not trying hard enough.

Come on, doll, he says. Let’s go for a walk.

To you it just sounds like, Walk it off.

Because he’s said that before, too. A hundred times. In the field, and out.

You’re not an agent anymore. You can’t handle it anymore. You can’t handle anything anymore.

Deep down, you’re convinced that Steve thinks because it’s not physical – that because there are no scrapes or bruises or broken bones to prove that you’re in pain – that your depression isn’t real. Not really. It’s an illness, same as any other, and he just doesn’t understand it because he can’t see any physical evidence of it.

Never mind the weight you’ve lost.

Never mind the bags under your eyes.

Never mind the crying spells, the dissociation – but then, you hide those from him the best you can these days. You don’t want him to see how bad you are anymore, because he just doesn’t get it. Because it hurts so much every time for him to look at you with those soft, confused baby blues and act like it’s not a big deal, like a little bit of sunshine’s a cure-all for your woes.

Ironic is right. The boy’s been to war and he hasn’t even processed his own trauma. Hasn’t even been to a shrink despite having two best friends poking and prodding for him to go. He’s in denial.

He refuses to believe that you just couldn’t get to the laundry today because you’re too exhausted from lying in bed all day. He refuses to believe that you couldn’t eat a bite because you didn’t even think to, too busy caught up in your own pain to remember, let alone care. He refuses to believe that you don’t even feel like you deserve to do anything good for yourself, so why even get up? Why bother? Why try to do anything anymore?

Just let the darkness take you away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. And then, maybe one day you won’t have to feel anything anymore. Maybe you’ll just disappear.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

He refuses to get it, and some part of you feels like it’s because he doesn’t want to. Because he’s afraid to acknowledge that it’s true. That if he starts therapy like you did, then this could just as easily happen to him, too.

But hey, that’s his problem, not yours. You’re still learning to prioritize yourself – to break away from co-dependency and focus on your own needs for once. You’re barely keeping your head above water; why should you have to work on him, too, when he doesn’t offer you the same consideration? You’ve done what you can, and he just turns a blind eye because he doesn’t want to understand your issues. Or his.

So, you’ve given up.

You plaster on a happy face when he’s home – a painful, never-ending reminder that you’re not okay, and you keep your troubles to yourself. You’ve stopped sharing your struggles with the man you married because he doesn’t understand, and it hurts. You try so hard to act like nothing’s wrong that sometimes you dissociate, and you don’t come back to yourself until you have a cigarette hanging between your lips, lit by a Zippo engraved with a clever, If you want to make love, smile when you hand this lighter back.

Seeing the joke on Bucky’s lighter always brings you back, because it’s ridiculous. It’s a throwback to his army days; Steve found it awhile back with Bucky’s old personal effects. Makes you wonder what he must have been like back then.

Cigarette smoke and leather and sandalwood in the dead of night – and you always make a point to smile when you hand it back to him.

Temptation incarnate, now. What a dream he would have been back then.

Sometimes you text him when you and Steve have had another fight.

Sometimes he texts you when he needs you to ground him.

Sometimes the two of you just text each other for the hell of it. It’s usually related to someone’s mental health, usually yours, but occasionally not; after all, over the last few months he’s become your partner in misery and crime. The two of you have shared things to each other that you’ve never told another person, not even Steve; and in some ways, you feel like you’ve bared your soul to him.

It’s intimate.

In other ways, you’ve kept your guard up because you know you’re playing with fire.

It’s wrong.

You know you should really tell Steve about your midnight conversations – that you probably know his best friend almost as well as he does, now, but Bucky’s become a guilty sort of pleasure that you keep near and dear to your heart. He makes you feel things that you haven’t felt in a long time, but you’re not ready to acknowledge what that means. Not yet.

And neither is Bucky, evidently, because Steve’s still none the wiser.

Eight months of this and you still want more.

Your husband trusts you. He never asks who you’re texting or what you’re up to. You’ve given him no reason to believe otherwise. He feels safe and secure in your relationship, but maybe he’s turning a blind eye to that, too.

He shouldn’t. 

You wish he didn’t.

Some small part of you wants him to catch you, and that’s what you resent the most. You’re self-destructive – ready to destroy the one good, stable thing in your life in favour of an impossibility, but you can’t deny that Bucky gives your brain the dopamine it needs, it craves, it lacks.

He’s been gone on a mission the last week and a half, but you saw the Quinjet fly in the hangar earlier in the evening, around six, and you’ve been keen to text him since. You’ve held back for a little while, not wanting to appear to eager to message him – so you’re certainly not too proud of how quickly your resolve cracks.

You, 10:33pm Please don’t tell me you came home with Lucky Strikes again.

Bucky, 10:41pm Sorry, princess. Didn’t realize I was seeing royalty tonight.

And then he sends through a photo of a slightly crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes in his hand – an invitation to come to the rooftop. Judging by the setting, he’s already there.

Despite his choice in a particularly harsh smoke, you’re more focused on the pet name that has your face burning hot. It’s something he’s started to tack on recently – ‘princess’ being most common, particularly when he’s teasing you about being spoiled in some way, but when he slips it in during a real conversation is what really makes your heart pound.

You know you should tell him to stop. You know you should, but, you don’t.

You like how it feels to feel for once.

You’re married. It’s wrong. You need to stop, but you just can’t help yourself. You’re lonely.

Steve’s still away on a mission, which doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it used to – you hope he returns safely, of course you do, but you don’t really miss him. Not like you should. That’s happened more often than not as of late, and you can feel your attention shifting the longer you keep up this dangerous game with his best friend.

If it even is a game, that is. It’s probably not. How could he possibly be attracted to you? You’re depressed. You’re boring. And, to top it all off, you’re his best friend’s wife.

Of course you’re the only participant. Bucky’s just humouring you. That’s all.

And now, as you swipe on some deodorant and attempt to make something out of the rat’s nest that is your hair, you feel a particularly awful level of disdain for yourself. The self-loathing pairs nicely with your poor appearance; you haven’t slept well in days, and you’ve barely eaten in just as long.

It’s only when Steve is here keeping you on a regular schedule that you do. Otherwise it’s a free for all anymore.

Bucky never seems to mind – just encourages you to go do what needs to be done when the conversation’s over. And somehow, you listen. 

Sometimes he texts to ask if you’re doing okay while he’s away on a mission, too – and you always lie, because he can’t prove otherwise. He sends you a couple reminders anyway, because he just knows. He understands that you’d rather not burden him with the truth.

And then, when he comes back, he calls you out on your lie. He calls you out and reminds you how valuable you are – to Steve, mostly, and to the team. You’re irreplaceable. You’re needed.

He never says how important you are to him, but you always wish he would.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

Tonight will be no different. Despite your negative beliefs about yourself, he’ll tell you otherwise, but you won’t believe him. You never do, even though you desperately want to.

You’re a mess, so a beanie it is. You pull it over your tangled hair and somehow get your bangs looking presentable, at least; then you give your clothes the sniff test, spritz a little body spray just in case, and head out the door. You had a shower yesterday because even you couldn’t stand it anymore. 

That’ll do.

Fingers tap anxiously at your feed in the quiet elevator. There’s some mild jazz playing, just like usual, but your heart pounds inside your chest – only brings more attention to your nerves.

Bucky hasn’t been gone long, but you’ve missed him.

It’s stupid. It’s wrong.

You’re married.

After exiting the elevator, a short flight of stairs takes you to the roof. Once you start to push, the fire exit door blows open of its own accord; it’s windy up here due to the change of seasons, not that you’ve even noticed it considering you haven’t been outside in over a week. The fresh air shoots straight through your hoodie and sweatpants, and you briskly rub your arms to warm up, immediately wishing you’d checked the temperature before you came outside, maybe grabbed a jacket. You hadn’t even thought of it. Your mind’s a mess.

Hadn’t thought of dinner, either. Or lunch.

That’s when a heavy leather jacket is deposited ungracefully on your shoulders, and you glance up behind you to find Bucky standing there, giving you the look. It’s the one that pre-empts the lecture. “That help?”

You nod, basking in the smell of him – sandalwood and spice. Ah. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He knows.

He can tell with just one look that you’ve been lying to him – that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you said you were. But he doesn’t reprimand you this time, or offer you platitudes; the disapproving look is enough.

Slippers on your feet, you pad over to the two lawn chairs he set up awhile back near the edge of the eastern wing; it’s got a nice view of the landing pad, but beyond that is the lake, and the two of you have come up here long enough to catch the sunrise once or twice. It’s nice.

“Good mission?” you ask, shoving your hands into your pockets as you collapse into your chair. It’s made of a terrible green fabric, seated low enough to the ground to let you curl your knees to your chest and cry when you want to. And you do. A lot.

This time, however, you’ve got your legs extended far ahead of you. You don’t want to talk about yourself tonight. You want to focus on him.

A distraction. That’s all. That’s what you try to tell yourself.

The other chair, woven blue and white, is where Bucky comes to rest just like always. You suspect that it was the cheapest one in the store, because it creaks and groans and you always think it’s going to break when he sits in it, but it never does. It’s also taller than yours, so you call him old man every now and then for it because that’s just hilarious.

It’s not flirting. It’s not.

Not even when you’ve nearly fallen into his lap on more than one occasion thanks to drinking beforehand.

“Well,” he starts hesitantly, pausing to consider his answer, “I made it back.”

His tone is soft – distant. Not a good mission, then.

“I’m glad you made it back,” you offer, giving him what you hope is a hopeful smile. It feels fake, but the intention behind it is real.

He studies your face for a moment or two, before he averts his eyes. “You’re probably the only one. I had to do some things on the mission that I—” He cuts himself off, then, and pulls the pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket to fiddle with. A crutch. “I don’t like to use my strength when I don’t have to. Makes people nervous.”

He’s told you about it before. By ‘people’ he means ‘agents’. Other agents. The ones he was working with, no doubt. As if his arm isn’t reminder enough, sometimes if he doesn’t hold back – well, they start to treat him a little differently after that. It’s a reminder that he’s not fully human.

You can empathize. “It’s a little shocking at first,” you remind him gently, “but you do get used to it. I did. It just takes some time.”

Of course, you also married a super soldier, so there’s that. You can’t really gauge what’s ‘normal’ anymore.

That’s when he cracks open the pack  of cigarettes – half full, which means he must have been smoking on the mission, too, something he doesn’t usually do – and when he meets your eyes, the dark, anxious look there turns your stomach to knots.

“Are you?” he asks, voice low and laced with an emotion you just can’t place – or maybe you’re too afraid to acknowledge that you can, and very easily feel the same way. “I could break you in thirty ways before you could even tell me to stop.”

Your brain halts like a record scratch when the clear implication of his words sends a jolt straight to your core. Not just because it’s true, the threat, but because of the dangerous way he’s staring at you, coupled with the casual authority in his voice.

He could hurt you so easily, but you know he wouldn’t. Not you.

He could do other things, too – something a lot less violent and a lot more pleasurable – but you don’t let yourself consider that. You can’t. Even if it’s what he’s implying.

Is it what he’s implying?

You’re married. He knows that.

There’s a long pause while you try to gather your thoughts, until you finally manage as evenly as you can, “Are you trying to scare me?”

Your voice is still a little hoarse despite how much you willed it not to be. He did scare you a little – not that you’d ever admit it, because he excited you a hell of a lot more, and you hate that, too. But you love it even more.

Your question makes his shoulders slump, just slightly, just enough to let you know that that’s exactly what it was – that Bucky was lashing out, in his own way. That he’s the one who’s scared. That he’s trying to push you away.

Why?

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky,” you reassure him, because you aren’t. You could never be. Not like that. What you’re afraid of is so much worse than that – because it involves him and you, and you can’t make yourself stop wanting more of this. More of him. More of what he threatened to do to you – the underlying meaning you hope to god you’re not imagining, but you should never, ever want.

It’s wrong.

“You should be,” he responds, quiet, rolling the cigarette he’s half pulled out of the pack in between his fingers like he’s debating whether to light it, but he’s trying his hardest not to this time. “You shouldn’t be up here with me.”

The ball drops.

The truth that the two of you have been dancing around for months finally comes out, and you laugh – you laugh, because otherwise you’ll cry. “What are you talking about?”

“Darlin’, you’re—” he starts, and then lets out a frustrated sigh and shoves the cigarette right back in, shoves the pack shut too for good measure. Blue eyes burn into yours. “You know why.”

“We’re friends, Bucky,” you emphasize, lightly, but deep within your chest you can feel the anger, the anxiety start to burn and meld together into something entirely unrecognizable. It’s the tiniest ember now, but it won’t be if this keeps up. You know you’re married. You know that. You don’t need the reminder. “We’re just talking. What’s the problem?”

“Come on, sweetheart.” He’s calm, too calm, and it bothers you. “Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for that.”

It’s just pretend. It’s not real. You’re happily married with Steve. You’re happy.

Right?

“That’s all it is,” you argue. “I’m married. You said so yourself. Steve and I are happily married.”

Saying it out loud is just another cold, brutal reminder that you aren’t. Just like the façade you’re forced to wear. 

“Yeah? You’re happy?” Bucky asks, pulling himself to his feet – and you suddenly realize how tall he is when he’s towering over you like this. You’re not scared, no, you love it. And that makes it worse, the way he makes your heart race like this. “Then there’s gotta be a reason why you haven’t told him about our little talks.”

Because they’re more than that. That’s the reason.

“Well, why haven’t you?” you shoot back, finally getting to your feet, too, feeling your face flush with anger. “You haven’t told him either. Why’s that, huh?”

Tense silence falls over the two of you as you glare at each other, the only light illuminating your features coming from the full moon. It’s a beautiful night, clear and chilly and bright, and you originally had hopes of maybe stargazing with him like you’ve done so many times before.

Not tonight.

He’s pushing you away. He wants to push you away. You know he is, it’s obvious – he tried one approach, and when that didn’t work, he went for the thing he knew would invoke a reaction. The thing that would hurt the most.

Steve. Your marriage. Your happiness, or lack thereof.

No matter how many times you try to tell that to the rational side of your brain, you just can’t handle it. It’s another rejection from someone you cared about – someone you felt yourself growing a potentially unhealthy attachment to – and he just had to hurt you like all the rest. He wanted to hurt you. He wanted to see you suffer.

You can’t stand him.

So you shrug off his jacket and shove it at him. “Take your fucking jacket,” you bite out. “You want me gone? Well, I’m going. Hope you’re happy.”

The way he takes it from you catches you off guard, blue eyes wide with hurt and surprise – but you don’t give him another second of your time. Instead you spin around on your heel and stomp your way back to the access door.

You’re not well enough for this. You’re depressed. You’re broken. You’re lonely.

And now, the only person who understands has thrown you away – discarded you like you’re nothing. Maybe because you are. You’re worthless.

Your fingertips just brush against the handle when you’re tugged back by the wrist, and then his arms are around you, his chest pressing into your back.

He’s warm.

It’s wrong.

But it feels right, and you hate how easily you melt into his touch, into the feeling of his lips at your ear.

“I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, and you’re done for.

The heat from your anger warps into something else – something that burns you up in a different way, and you swallow thickly at the feeling of his arms so snug around your waist. “What do you want, then?”

It’s barely audible, your question -- but he hears it just fine. Soft lips drag from your ear to your pulse, and you shiver, lulling your head back onto his shoulder.

“You tell me,” Bucky breathes against your skin. “I need to know what you want.”

The two of you are playing a dangerous game, and the stakes are only getting higher. You both have a lot to lose, but you’re the one taking the higher risk. Not him.

“I want—” His teeth gently nip at your neck and you can’t help yourself. “I want you—”

And then your back is pressed into the closed door, cold metal biting through your sweats but you don’t even notice, too focused on the feeling of his lips on yours. They’re soft and ever-so-slightly chapped, and his stubble scratches just a little, pleasantly, just enough to hurt in the best way.

It’s hot, too hot, god, you can’t handle the heat of his body against yours—

“Bucky,” you gasp against his lips, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers carding through his hair to pull him closer. You can taste with the barest bite of mint from his gum, along with the slightest hint of cigarette smoke, and you realize—

He must have been up here for awhile.

Overthinking. Wondering what to do. Lost in thoughts of you, perhaps.

The idea of it sends a rush of delirium through you, and you open your mouth just enough to let his tongue explore – or dominate, which you soon find you like very much when Bucky does it to you. His flesh hand cups the side of your face as he kisses the breath out of you, and his vibranium one snugly presses into your lower back – purposely, you soon find, because suddenly your knees go weak and your arms tighten around his neck to catch yourself from falling.

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Oh, wow. That’s never happened before.”

“First time for everything,” he teases, kissing your forehead as he steadies you back on both feet – and it’s then that the realness of the situation seems to sink in.

You’ve just cheated on your husband.

He’s just kissed his best friend’s wife.

There’s a prolonged silence as the two of you look at each other, watching, wondering, waiting, and then—

“We have to tell him,” you say, a little uneasily. “Just… not yet. Figure this out first.”

You can feel the desperation to see where this leads, no matter what a bad idea it is.

Bucky swallows. It’s clear that the prospect of lying to Steve bothers Bucky just as much as it bothers you, but you know he feels that same desperation when he suggests, “And if it turns out to be nothing, then…”

“Yeah. No harm, no foul.”

You won’t tell him. Because if it’s nothing, then it’s not worth worrying about. 

Even if it’s wrong.

Right?

two

and a moodboard I made because why not

[jadethest0ne]

In need of Refueling, Chapter 12 - “He was supposed to be”

Summary:  “You?! Why would I trust you? You have brought me nothing but failure. Time and time again; nothing but disappointment!”

His father’s words might have been a result of his possession by the  White Bone Spirit, but whether or not they were his true thoughts, Red  Son vows to prove them wrong. To do so he seeks to attain a power strong enough to destroy his father’s immortal enemy. After all, he’d much rather throw fire at his problems.

Word Count: 3241

Ratings/Warnings:  Teen and up; injury, burns, angst and hurt/comfort, toxic thoughts caused by toxic parents, panic attacks, abuse

Notes: Red Son is brooding, Mei finds out that Red Son is Sandy’s house guest, and Sandy is trying his best to deal with two rowdy teens.

Credits: Big thanks to @painted-arachnid and @simplyfornardo  for helping me bounce ideas off of them. And also thanks to @lemonsqueazie for providing me with “Journey to the West” lore. I don’t know much about the original novel or other iterations, but I still tried to keep  some things compliant with the lore. You should check all of them out, since they’re really great content creators with neat ideas!  

Read on AO3

———-

All in all, Red Son had received a lot of injuries from his conflict with his father.  Broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a broken arm, burns, hypothermia (including a lingering cold sensation all over his body that refused to go away), a sprained ankle...

And no powers.

That last one gave him pause. Injuries could be healed with time, and as a demon, he was a fast healer. But he did not know what happened to his powers. Were they really all absorbed by his father’s armor? Were they then extinguished by whatever that Noodle Boy did? He didn’t even know that it could be extinguished. It had to have been though, because based on what little he could get out of Sandy, the Monkey King had survived the conflict. Red Son isn’t sure how he feels about that. Sure, he had attacked him and intended to have him defeated by his father. But that’s not how things turned out. That’s not what his father wanted. And despite him giving the Samadhi Fire to his father, which is what he thought he wanted, that turned out to be disastrous as well. Were his parents even alive? And if they were, what would they want with someone who had nearly gotten them killed? What would they want with a son who didn’t even have any powers? In this state he was useless. Relying on the enemy, no less. How shameful.

Red Son had tried a few times to activate his powers. Each time he was met with not even a puff of smoke. If his parents thought he was a disappointment before, what would they think of him now?

At the very least he was making progress physically, and could hobble around the houseboat a little bit on his own. The Blue One said he could leave when he was better. But where could he go? He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to just be able to do something about it. But he could no longer simply throw fire at his problems. And no matter what anger and vitriol he sent Sandy’s way, the blue giant simply refused to be upset at him. Why didn’t he just kick him out? He certainly deserved it! His own parents likely wouldn’t want him around, why would an enemy?

So when he wasn’t yelling at Sandy, or his numerous cats, he just withdrew into himself. Fuming with no fire. Brooding over his current situation. What was the point anyway? A small part of him wanted to know if his parents were okay. As much as he was sure they would hate him, they were his parents, after all. But the thought of trying to find them terrified him in a way. On one hand, if they were alive, he was useless to them like this. If they weren’t… well, he didn’t want to think about how that would mean that it was his fault if they were dea--

Red Son angrily throws the closest thing near him across the room, which happened to be a mug of tea that he was holding. It flies across the room just missing a few cats who leap out of the way with an indignant hiss. The cup breaks apart and spills its contents all over the floor. He takes some seething breaths, before a voice speaks up next to him.

“Well that’s a much stronger throw than before. At least you’re healing!” Red Son had forgotten that the Blue One was there. He had given him the tea in the first place after all. Red Son had just gotten lost in his musings and forgot about the ever-present, overly pleasant companion. The big man goes over and gets a broom. “However, maybe we could find other, more constructive, ways for you to release your anger?”

“Ugh! Don’t try to give me life lessons! What are you, some sort of life advice guru?”

The Blue One laughs heartily, while picking out some of the larger shards. “No, I’ve just learned how to control my anger via anger management therapy. And I’m always open to listening if you want a friendly ear,” he says brightly.

Red Son can’t imagine this guy ever being angry, and the idea of talking about his feelings makes his stomach bubble in disgust. “What? So I can give away all my family’s secrets? Why would you care anyway?”

The Blue One shrugs. “I just do!” He pauses and thinks. “And also, maybe I could ask you to maybe not throw my cups and scare my cats…?” He ends the last part in a hopeful lilt.

“No promises,” Red Son grumbles.

“What do you normally do to de-stress?”

“Destroy my enemies.” Red Son looks pointedly at Sandy.

“Ah… um… would throwing fire around (preferably in a contained area) help?” Sandy asks hesitantly.

Red Son scowls. “No.”

“Would you like to try contacting your parents…?”

An uncomfortable flutter pangs in his heart. “No.”

“What about, er, a hobby or…?

Red Son is getting fed up. “WOULD YOU JUST STOP!” he shouts. “We are not friends! We are enemies! You are the good guys! I’m the bad guy! The villain. Stop trying to be all buddy-buddy with me! If you’re trying to change me or get me to open up, it’s not going to work!”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what would make you feel better… Maybe healing up at your place would make you feel safer…?” Sandy looks truly apologetic, but Red Son is already too worked up to care. Furthermore, bringing up the possibility of going to see his parents causes that fluttering feeling to worsen.

“No! I can’t go back! I--”

Sandy raises his eyebrows. And Red Son shuts his mouth suddenly realizing what he almost revealed. The Blue One nearly had done it! How dare he. He hates him for that. For his stupid honest niceness. He hates that he is here. That he let down his father, again. That he has to rely on a big-hearted idiot of an enemy. He needs to leave. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. But he needs to leave.

He clumsily slips out of bed and does an awkward combination of stomping and limping past the Blue One and towards the door, ignoring the giant’s protests.

He swings open the door and he sucks in a surprised yelp as standing on the other side of it is a girl with green highlights in her hair, and pigtails sticking up from behind, with her fist to the door poised to knock on it. It’s the Dragon Girl. The two stare at each other. They exchange blinks of confusion.

The Dragon Girl is the first to react. Her surprised features shift into a look of pure rage. “YOU!” she shouts.

She flings herself at Red Son, elbowing him in the middle and throwing him across the room. Pain explodes from his various injuries, especially from his ribs and chest area. He crumples to the ground and barely has time to react as she is pulling a sword on him. He rolls out of the way, under a table and pulls himself up using an adjacent book case. He slips a little bit, and is forced to put weight on his injured ankle, which burns horribly, but he needs to get away from this crazy and enraged attacker.

He leans on the far end of the bookcase and holds up a hand. “W-wait!” he wheezes out before he devolves into coughs and choking gasps. He stumbles as he backpedals away from another swing and falls again to the floor. He grabs desperately at anything in his surroundings that can help pull him up, but the pain drags him back down again.

The tip of the sword is pointed at his center and he flinches back. He can’t do much but cough some more. When no attack comes, he chances a look up at his attacker. She’s looking at him with a paranoid gaze, which flickers up and down in confusion, but she does not lower her weapon.

“What are you doing here, Red Son?!” she yells.

Red Son does his best to regain his breath. When he does he shouts back, though not as loud or as strong as he wants it to be. “I was brought here, Dragon Girl! By your blue friend, no less! So- so back off or I’ll burn you to a crisp!”

The threat is empty. He knows it is. And even if she doesn’t, she knows she has the upper hand. He can’t hide his injuries or look powerful, half curled up on the floor and locked down by her sword. But he won’t appear weak. Not to her.

“Mei!” calls the Blue One, as he stands up from the floor, stepping carefully over the glass on the floor and rushing into the adjacent area to move between the girl and the demon.

“Sandy! Are you okay? What is Red Son doing here? Is he hurting you? Is he--”

“He’s injured!” Sandy says with some amount of exasperation quickly shuffling over and kneeling down by Red Son’s side. He puts a hand on the demon’s back and offers another for him to take to support him. Red Son stays silent and looks down, as Sandy helps him up.

“What?!” Pure incredulity drips from the Dragon Girl’s voice. “Are- are you helping him?!”

When he’s able to set Red Son upright, and leans him against a nearby cabinet, he looks to the girl and rubs the back of his head absently. “Er, yes, I am.”

She continues to give him a questioning look.

“He was hurt!” Sandy says simply. “I had to, Mei.”

The girl looks between the two of them, before sighing and lowering her sword. “I was wondering why we hadn’t heard from you much.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I was hoping to tell you first instead of you finding out this way. Are you… mad?” The big man looks small, like a child revealing that they had snuck a cookie out of a cookie jar.

“It’s not you I’m upset at, it’s him. I don’t trust him. You could get into trouble. What if the Demon Bull family comes and attacks you? What if he burns down the houseboat?!” Red Son gets dizzy at the range of emotions that cross the girl’s features and body language as she talks, from a distrusting glance to panicky waving arms to exaggerated sweeps of her entire body. He remembers why he finds this group so annoying. And even moreso, he is annoyed at being left out of the conversation.

“Excuse me, I am standing right here!” he says with as much afront as he can muster.

“That’s the problem, Red Boy!”

“It’s Red Son to you, Dragon Girl!”

“Oh and now who is getting the names wrong?”

“I don’t stoop to uttering the names of peasants!”

“Shut up! You shouldn’t even be here! Do you know how much pain you caused! Sandy is here helping you, and you don’t deserve any of it!”

“Now now--” Sandy tries interjecting, but is caught in the middle of a now shouting match.

“That’s because you’re all so styoooopidly sappy! I’m GLAD I attacked you! You weaklings are too noble for your own good!” A smile spreads on his face seeing he’s getting under the girl's skin. It made him feel stronger. Shouting let out his pent up frustration from earlier. And banter with the Noodle Boy’s friends made things feel normal for once.

Mei shouts back at Red Son, contempt and hatred dripping from her words. "You hurt my friend! You nearly destroyed the Monkey King!!! You and your dumb dad! I bet DBK is proud of you!"

Red Son’s smile drops immediately and something in him snaps at the mention of his father, and before he can stop himself, the words come out. "HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!"

There is a beat of silence and Red Son had a moment to realize what he said. He hadn't meant to bring up his father in such a way. How weak is he that he keeps revealing his inner thoughts to his enemies? His heart hammers against his ribs in shame and embarrassment, and he’s about to babble out some excuse, when the Dragon Girl speaks instead.

"He was supposed to be what? Destroyed?"

 What?

"Well, you know what? You failed to destroy the Monkey King. And it was the Monkey Kid who beat both of you!"

A spark of relief lights in Red Son's chest. The girl thinks he was talking about the Monkey King. Not his father. She had misunderstood his shout. He pushes down his shock and embarrassment, and forces a well-practiced sneer onto his lips. "Y-yes! The Monkey King was supposed to be destroyed! You just got lucky, that's all!"

The girl gives him a hate-filled look. Just the way it should be.

But when he looks over at Sandy, he sees confusion. And… sadness? Perhaps a bit of worry. Well, they should be worried and sad and angry at him!  They should both be afraid. And weakened or not, Red Son isn't going to let them forget that he is still a force to be reckoned with!

He fixes the Dragon Girl with what he hopes looks like a dangerous scowl. "Next time I'll be more thorough in my destruction!"

The girl doesn't look quite as frightened as Red Son would've hoped, but at the very least she clamps her loud mouth shut. She then sighs and turns to Sandy. "I don't know why you helped him. I don't think this is the kind of guy who can be saved."

Red Son's chest burns uncomfortably. It must be because of that shove she gave him earlier, exacerbating his wounds, and not the hopelessness of her statement.

Sandy shrugs and replies simply, “I've got to try, don't I?"

The girl's lips spread in a small smile of understanding and pats the large man's arm. "Yeah, and that's what's cool about you, my friend."

Sandy beams widely. But his expression switches to nervousness. "You won't tell the others, will you, Mei?"

She quirks an eyebrow up and gives him a look. "Sandy, MK is my best friend. I tell him practically everything," she deadpans.

Sandy wilts a bit, but the girl gives him another reassuring pat and says, "But I'll ask them to leave him alone…,” she shoots Red Son a dark look as she finishes her statement, “...for now.” Switching back to something more friendly, she returns her attention to Sandy. "So you better come clean yourself, soon, and give us a better explanation."

"Of course!" Sandy brightens.

With that the girl exits the houseboat, leaving Red Son and Sandy alone.

There is silence between them. Sandy looks at Red Son, and the demon does his best to not notice.

“Did she hurt you much?” Sandy sounds both worried and a bit embarrassed.

“I’m fine.” Red Son says too quickly.

Sandy comes closer and reaches a hand towards him. Red Son flinches back and the motion causes his whole body to wobble. Before he can fall back down, Sandy catches him. Red Son goes stiff and Sandy makes sure to give him some room once he regains his footing.

“Sorry.” Sandy shifts where he stands. “I noticed that one of your bandages is loose.” He gestures to a bandage on his wrist. “I may have to check you over again and re-do your bandages… If that’s okay…?”

Red Son’s chest burns again. He hates this. But he nods anyway. “Okay.”

Slowly, Sandy goes about washing and re-bandaging Red Son’s wounds. Luckily nothing was hurt too badly, but some bandages did come loose during the scuffle, and a few deeper burns had to be cared for.

They stayed mostly silent throughout much of it. Until Sandy finally spoke up. “Did you mean what you said earlier? About how ‘he was supposed to be.’” He was sitting behind Red Son working on some of the bandages on his back, and Red Son was glad for this so he didn’t see his eyes widen in alarm.

“Of- of course! I definitely meant to destroy the Monkey King and bring him to my father as a prize.” Red Son tries to keep his voice steady.

Sandy is silent for a moment as if trying to find his words. “Were you really talking about the Monkey King then? Not… someone else?”

“I-- don’t know what you mean…” The words come out stiff and stilted.

“I thought…” he began, before giving a sigh. “I guess I misinterpreted what you were saying.”

“Yes, I suppose you did.” Red Son answers curtly.

After a bit more silence Sandy continues. “Have you made any progress with your powers…?”

Red Son twists around suddenly giving Sandy a wide-eyed stare. “How did you know about my powers!?” The movement hurts, but the ache of sudden vulnerability is worse.

“I noticed you trying to throw some fireballs and stuff over the past few days… And also you didn’t attack Mei. Or me, for that matter. So I just… guessed”

Red Son feels small. Like the world is pressing in around him. The Blue One’s large form, not helping. And the pain radiating from his wounds makes the sensation worse. He pushes himself away from the blue giant as he starts shivering again, the cold suddenly feeling more apparent. Everything is suddenly fuzzy, like when he first noticed that his powers were gone. But now Sandy knew, and his friends might find out. And if they found out, then maybe his parents would know. They’d know just how weak he was. His chest is pulsing with pain and he isn’t sure why. It feels like the Dragon Girl hitting him over and over again.

Warmth is suddenly draped around him. The downy sensation of a comforter holds his form. He notices that his breaths are rapid and that’s what was hurting his chest. “Breathe,” a voice calls. So he obeys. Slowly, his breaths return to normal. The blankets surrounding him give the feeling of being cradled, but not trapped, and the warmth brings his trembling to a minimum.

“Red Son,” the voice he now recognizes as Sandy calls. “Do you hear what I am saying?”

The demon looks up, meeting the Blue One’s eyes, and gives a short nod.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. I don’t think you are weak. You are just injured and healing, and that’s okay. I won’t tell anyone,” Sandy’s calm voice is reassuring. But Red Son worries about how much he might’ve just babbled.

Sandy gives him a few more moments to calm down before talking to him again. “I finished working on your bandages. I can get you some tea if you want.” Then he gives a small knowing smile at him. “If you promise not to throw the mug…”

Red Son looks the gentle giant up and down. He slowly shifts into a more comfortable and relaxed position on the bed, and huddles down into the blankets more. He doesn’t smile, but he sounds and feels more like himself in his response. “No promises.”

Sandy’s smile reaches his eyes and he goes off to make more tea.

Red Son manages to not throw the mug this time.

start || <– previous // next –>

[blackberry-gingham]

I love your writing so much!💗 could you write something about how each of the boys would calm the reader down after a panic attack?

FJDJSNSN YOU BET I WILL !!!

I actually do have a bit of a history with panic attacks, so I'm going to write these imagines kinda based on the sort of care ik I'd want to receive at least, so I hope these are like, realistic but not too angsty for anyone sksksk

But uh yeah, enjoy!

Oh and PSA that isn't mentioned in any of my imagines, but on this blog John has been getting the therapy he needs and deserves for a while now, so that's what's going on with all the references to stuff picked up from his "therapy/therapist" in this post and my others. Just wanted to clear that up✌🏻😌

George

Honestly, George is a very calm and trustworthy guy, so if you could, I think you'd do your best to seek him out while you know you're having a panic attack

And if you can't bc it's really bad, then you definitely would after it's over!

You slowly walk into the living room, your blanket wrapped around your shoulders

George turns to greet you, but his smile vanishes when he sees the red rims of your puffy eyes

You don't need to say a word, George is already up from his seat and coming over to protect you

The two of you communicate easily so George knows about your tendencies with panic attacks and by now he can spot when you've had one, just like he's doing now

"There now love, let's have a seat yeah?"

He guides you over to the couch and helps you sit

George rubs a little warmth into your arms, but decides another blanket would do better

Quickly he drapes the large, fluffy throw over you and promises to be right back

He disappears for a few moments while you situate yourself in the blankets

When he returns, he's brought a modest armful of your favorite snacks and a box of tissues, just in case

George sets everything down on the coffee table, except for a little tin of biscuits, which he takes with him as he joins you under the throw

He leans in and gives your cheek a kiss, "Kettle's on, we can have cocoa if you like"

You smile, and nod to let him know you heard

"Would you like to talk?"

"In a moment", you respond quietly

"Of course love"

George pulls you against his chest for a cuddle, then balances the tin between your laps

"Would you like one?"

You eye the variety to see if your favorite is left and then nod

By now you don't even have to request which one you want, George already knows

He picks it up and holds it out to you

Unfortunately, you're not quite feeling it yet, so you open your mouth wide instead

George picks up on the cue and holds the biscuit closer so you can take a bite, gently feeding it to you

The two of you take turns nibbling on snacks for a bit until the kettle comes to a boil

George goes off to fix hot chocolate for the two of you and returns with a pair of steaming mugs

When you're both settled, George gives you some space and let's you open up on what's troubling you

He hears you out and promises to do whatever he can to help you

And he's a man of his word, as you know

Afterwards, the two of you spend as long as you need relaxing on the couch, snacking and cuddling until you feel back up to speed

Of course, George wouldn't mind if you stayed here all day :)

John

I kinda feel like John would have like a sixth sense when it comes to anxiety tbh

Like when you're experiencing your panic attack, even if he's not there to necissarily see it happen, he just knows

You're in the middle of one now, when John peaks the door to your room open

"Everything alright love? You've been quite for some time-"

John finds you shaking and unresponsive, curled up in a blanket on the bed

As someone who struggles with anxiety himself, he knows exactly what's happening, so thankfully he doesn't panic like the other lads might

However, that doesn't mean it breaks his heart any less

John approaches calmly and sits besides you

You drag yourself up and apologize, a few tears streaming down your cheeks

But John just shushes you and holds you close

"We can talk when you're ready love"

You lean into him and do what you have to as you ride out the attack, while John holds you in a comfortingly tight embrace

When everything is over, John holds up on his promise and gives you the floor to talk about what's troubling you

He can be a great listener when he wants to, a trait he's exemplifying now as he holds you in his lap

Once you've said your peace, John would totally know how to validate your feelings and all that

"I'm so sorry love, I can't imagine how hard that must be for you. What can I do to help?"

For now, you feel best just being close to him

You lay down and John cuddles onto you a bit, just how you like, the warm weight of his body grounding you

He gives you some feather light kisses and keeps his voice calm and low

"This alright?"

You take a deep breath and nod, stroking his hair

It's times like this that John just feels flat useless

He knows what to say and some tricks to use from his therapy sessions for his own issues, but he wishes he could do more for you

Be charismatic and uplifting, like Paul would

Or warm and comforting like Ringo

Instead he's just a stoic lump

John looks up at you as a stray tear falls from your eye

He wishes so badly that he could take all your pain away

If he could, he'd bear the weight of the world, just to see you safe and happy

But for now, he hopes this old body of his is enough to help you feel warm, loved, and grounded

He shifts his weight a little so he can nuzzle your cheek

It's a bit too cold and damp for his sensitive nose, but he puts his personal discomfort aside

Well, there is one more trick he has up his sleeve that he hopes will help

John chooses one of your favorite songs of his and hums it to you quietly

The sound and vibrations combined with the warmth and pressure wraps you in a whole cocoon of John

You know that he wishes he was better with words, but honestly what he's doing now is what he usually does to steady you after an attack

And honestly?

It does far, far more for you then any sympathetic speech ever could

You give John's back a little rub and hold on tightly, hoping it can begin to express your gratitude

John smiles into your neck and hums just a bit louder, snuggling closer to you

Paul

I think Paul would be one who usually comes to find you after a panic attack

It's not that you don't feel comfortable with him, it's just... It feels rather embarassing to have breakdowns like that sometimes

Paul's always so confident and cool, you hate how your anxiety and panic attacks make you feel weak, especially compared to the likes of him

He finds you laid out on the couch, burritoed up in a blanket

He playfully asks what you're doing, but the look on your face is distant, as though your mind is a thousand miles away

Your eyes are rimmed red and you appear to have some shivers going on

Slowly, you turn your gaze to look at your boyfriend

Paul is frozen

He wants to help but he's not quite sure what's wrong. All he knows is he's desperately worried

"Paul..."

Your voice is hoarse and shallow as you call to him

Instantly, Paul snaps to action with no time to lose

He vaults the couch, careful not to land on you in the process and send beside you

"What is it? Tell me, tell me...", His voice is fairly calm, despite the begging in his tone

You get to the point, neither of you interested in beating around the bush, and tell him you just had a panic attack

You've told him about these before, but never at a point in time where he was able to care for you after you'd had it

Paul almost breathes a sigh of relief. Seeing you like this... He'd feared something much worse was wrong

Of course, this is still a very serious matter, but the catch is he's come prepared

Ever since you mentioned your history with anxiety and panic attacks, he's done some digging and research on what can be done to help

He's even consulted John on the matter!

There's plenty of things he can do, but Paul knows you respond best to his words

"Do you think you can sit up?"

You consider it a moment and then agree

Paul pulls you close to him, snuggling his face into the crook of your neck as he starts by speaking some words of encouragement and making sure you know how proud he is of you

The amount of affection he's laying on you takes you by surprise

You apologize for having him fuss over you, and your eyes start to water

Paul pulls back and looks at you as though he can't believe what he's heard, but his face softens when he sees you

"Oh no no no love, none of that now"

He wipes away your tears and asks if he's done something wrong

You shake your head, "No, I-I just wish I could be as put together as you, I guess"

At that one, Paul laughs

"I can't imagine why you'd want that. Matter of fact, I wish I was as strong and brave as you"

You look up at him questioningly, but Paul only nods

"it's true! I think you're incredible, living day to day like you do. You're a real fighter, you know that?"

He kisses your nose

"I don't want you to feel like you're not as 'brave' as I am because it's simply just not true!"

Paul smiles and brushes some hair from your face to reveal the little smile you've been hiding

Feeling a bit better at last, you open up your arms to invite Paul in for a cuddle

He readily accepts, and stays with you as long as you like

Ringo

I think the first time Ringo sees you after a panic attack, he'd be really worried about you!

You see, Ringo is just such an upbeat guy, no time ever really feels like a good time to tell him about your anxiety or panic attacks really

So when he witnesses it first hand, he's completely unprepared!

Ringo finds you laying face down on the bed, with your arms covering your head

He immediately freezes

His voice is dripping with fear as he cautiously calls your name

You barely stir, still riding out the end of a panic attack

Ringo is in a full panic now, and without another word he leaps onto the bed kneeling on all fours beside you

He wants so badly to touch you and make sure you're alright, but at the same time, he doesn't know what's wrong and he doesn't want to hurt you!

Instead, he places his palm on your back and gives you as gentle a shake as he can manage

"H-hey...?"

His voice is quivering and hardly more then a whisper

After a few moments it dawns on him that he can feel you shaking under his touch

Ringo sits up on his knees and whips around to find something to keep you warm

He stretches across the bed and yanks over a thin throw

By the time he's turned back to you, you've rolled over onto your back

You wipe your eyes and try to put on a brave face

"It's alright Ritchie, I'm fine..."

Ringo looks white as a sheet, his face stricken with worry

"No you're not!", he insists

He drapes the blanket over you, but decides that it isn't nearly warm enough and, like a giant cat, lays himself across your chest as well

"There now, are you warm enough? What can I do to make you better?"

You let your head fall back and close your eyes

Honestly you do feel a bit bad for him, but you simply don't have the energy to console him right now

Ringo gets off you for a moment and slides a pillow under your head before resuming his position

"How's that?"

You sigh, "Fine thank you. I'm just... getting over a panic attack love"

"Ooooh, I understand"

You lift your head up at that, and give him a confused look

"Yeah, John's had 'em back stage a couple times before a show now and then. He tells us about 'em sometimes and what to do and all"

Somehow you find that that does make sense, and so you lay back down, glad you don't have to explain yourself

"I-Is there anything you'd like me to do for you? John likes us to bring him some water usually... Would you like that?"

Ringo snuggles a little closer, looking down at you with big, puppy dog eyes

You smile a little. You're not use to receiving so much support after an attack like this

"Maybe later, right now I just need you. I-If that's alright..."

Ringo smiles and kisses your cheek before laying his head on the pillow beside you

"Yeah, I can do that..."

You hold onto him tight, grounding yourself and allowing the comfort to wash over you

Ringo stays with you until you've stopped shaking, runs off to put on the kettle, and then hurries back beside you to stay as long as you'll have him

[llendrinall]

Here's a prompt for you.

Draco and Harry are dating and taking it slow (no one is aware & they started dating after the both of them had begun to go to therapy and heal a bit) and while they've together for a year (now its not somethin that either of them hide but they also dont go out and pronounce anything) they find an orphanage in the muggle world and they hang out with the kids and end up falling inlove with between 1-4 of the kids over time and both the Weasley's and Malfoy's find out about their relationship when they show up with their newly adopted child/ren.

"I thought you knew we were together"

"We thought you were becoming friends Harry!"

Draco saw the kid first. Not that it matters, but Harry claims that it was all his idea when, in truth, Draco saw the kid first and immediately knew what was going to happen. This is Harry, after all. Draco could have distracted Harry, insist they took the other exit of the restaurant, anything. But he did none of that because (don’t tell anyone this) Draco Malfoy might have a heart of his own and he was curious about the kid sitting under a lamppost with a book.

His names is Liam and he was doing homework. There is a lounge in the orphanage where, theoretically, children can do their homework. But the place is very noisy and there are some older kids who pick on Liam. Unless it’s raining heavily, Liam prefers to be outside where he can have some peace. He could go to the library and he usually takes refuge there, but it closes early on Fridays.

They had just had dinner, but they go back to the restaurant so Liam can work at a table where is warm and well lighted. The waitress gets Liam extra bacon in his sandwich and doesn’t charge them for it.

Harry surprises Draco because he doesn’t immediately take Liam with him, even though it’s clear that’s what he wants to do. He does say he would like to visit Roberta Clark’s Children Home and looks softly pleased when Draco says he will go with him.

They have been together for almost a year now, soft and tentative and careful because they both want this and are afraid to ruin it with a false step. They have just started to talk about living arrangements, although in a very vague way. Tonight, however, Draco begins a ruthless campaign against Harry’s house which is well located in London, yes, but it doesn’t have a garden unlike Draco’s house in Virginia Water, and it has one less room than Draco’s (not accounting for the music room), and it’s very dark. Draco can’t imagine children growing up happy here. Poor Sirius. And poor Regulus.

Harry is pissed, which is further proof that he needs Draco in his life because, Morgana, is he easy to read and manipulate.

That Thursday the two of them visit Roberta Clark’s Children Home where they are welcomed by the rudest social worker to ever plague the Earth. The deputy Director isn’t much better. She doesn’t like it when Harry points they have mold on the walls, all twenty-three times.

(This is one of the many reasons Draco loves him. For a hero of the light, Harry is a terror).

Draco walked in there knowing fully well they were going to adopt Liam, hence his campaign for the Virginia Water’s house because no child of his will grow up in Grimmauld Place. Children who grow up in Grimmauld Place become unhappy adults who die before their time. Draco thought that maaaaybe Harry still believed he was only going to show an interest in the institution and hand them money to improve the living conditions; but Draco knew there was no way Harry would leave Liam in there. The kid is eleven! An orphan! Harry can lie to himself all he wants. He will be Liam’s legal father inside a month.

What Draco didn’t expect was to get a child of his own.

Her name is Jamie, JamieTheGirl. There is a boy named Jamie and simply Jamie, not JamieTheBoy, because Jamie is a boy’s name. This is explained to Draco in a rush, with a mixture of pain and bratty attitude that speaks to him directly. JamieTheGirl hates her name, her haircut, the horrible dress she is forced to wear and Mister Gladwell, who is the rude social worker. JamieTheGirl wanted to know if Liam is lying, because Liam said he knew them (them being Draco and Harry) but Liam is eleven and everybody knows that nobody wants kids older than ten. Seven is best. JamietheGirl is nine so she could still be adopted, but she has been informed by multiple sources that nobody will ever want her because a) she has a bad attitude, b) she has a boy’s name and c) she is not cute enough.

“My name is Draco,” is all Draco can say. He is already vowing to hunt down those multiple sources who told Jamie she was less than perfect. “It’s not a bad name but it’s not a good one either.”

JamieTheGirl agrees.

Now that they are going to adopt two children it’s all the more reason to live in the Virginia Water’s house, which has more room and a very nice garden. They can always apparate the kids to their school in London. If Harry refuses to apparate (sometimes Harry exhibits some very weird ideas about magic and luxury) Draco will get a car. Not even a magical car, and actual muggle car. He will buy one and take the kids to school. Actually, they should go tomorrow to check the house and start the arrangements.

Harry stares at Draco. He is sitting on the kitchen counter in his stupid house in Grimmauld Place, eating Chinese food from the box as if he weren’t a filthy rich man, hero of the wizarding world. Draco loves him so much.

“What do you mean adopt?” Harry says.

“Oh, like this was going to go any other way.” Draco says, rolling his eyes. If the place had merely been overcrowded and noisy Harry would have contented himself to play the benefactor role and pay for renovations. But there was mold in twenty-three spots, the social worker made Snape look charming and evidently none of the adults in charge had any idea of what the children were going through and, even worse, what they were getting up to.

Draco knows Harry. It is a mere question of how quickly they can get the paperwork ready.

“I’m still going to do something about the place.” Harry argues, of course he does. He won’t simply take a kid and forget about the rest. But he is already thinking of all the wonderful things he will teach Liam. Draco can see it in his eyes.

They get married two weeks later, for the paperwork, but in essence they got married that night when Draco laid the rest of their lives before them and Harry realized that Draco knew him better than himself and that he still wanted to be with him.

They move to the Virginia Water’s house in early January. Liam can’t believe that he has been adopted, so he takes the fact that they are both wizards in stride. The adoption is much harder to believe than the fact that people can do actual magic. Also, he has his own room. His. With a door that he can close. The fact that he doesn’t have to hide his books so they won’t be stolen takes enough of Liam’s attention that he can’t worry about such unimportant things as magic.

JamieTheGirl is both easier and harder. She is easier because she desperately wanted to be out of the Children’s Home, and harder because she is naturally distrustful and very intelligent. Not to say that Liam is not distrustful or smart, but he is old enough to be jaded. Liam expects something bad to happen and he is willing to take it. He, like Harry, is stupid enough to believe that he can take new abuse if he also gets some comfort in exchange.

(note: Draco is going to piss on Dumbledore’s grave).

The first month is difficult, but once both Liam and JamieTheGirl act out and see there are no bad consequences, that they are not beaten or returned to the Children’s Home, they settle happily. JamieTheGirl asks to have her name changed, please, she will take a constellation name if they want to, just let her have a different name. They are enrolled in a new school and Draco buys a car and hires a chauffeur who happens to be a squib and there is no need for Harry to look at him that way.

Things are good.

It’s cold outside, the garden is dry and ugly, it rains nonstop for two weeks… but everything is good and nice. If Sean were here he would have something interesting to say about it. Everything in Sean is ugly, but he knows how to take the painful things and make them sweet, and he would know how to put into words that the world outside the house is ugly right now, but it’s also nice.

Draco feels Harry go rigid at the same time as him. “Who?” Draco says calmly just as Harry asks “What?”.

Sean is an ugly case. He was adopted when he was eight but he was returned a few months later. Nobody knows why although there is a lot of speculation. He often got himself beaten in school and once by Mister Murphy (“Who?”, “It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t work there anymore”, “Give me a detailed description of Mister Murphy, please”.) He is fifteen now so nobody will adopt him and Mister Gladwell says he will amount to nothing. Despite what Mrs Oxley says (Mrs Oxley is the deputy Director) Sean is not a criminal. He goes with bad people, sure, but he never stole Liam’s books and he even showed him a couple of hiding places. He is not bad at all.

On Friday they welcome Sean home. Just at the same time Mr Gladwell, Mrs Oxley, Mr Murphy and a criminal gang from the South Bank all suffer completely coincidental and unrelated accidents.

Sean is a young criminal. He is tough and hard, actively cultivating a mean strike and horrifyingly traumatized.

He is also deeply protective of Liam and Jamie. It’s heartbreaking.

Fortunately, Harry was also deeply traumatized at his age. It’s a horrible thought to have, but for once Harry is grateful for all that pain because he knows how Sean feels, he understands, and he can help.

No, Sean can’t have a wand or try magic. Yes, he still has to go to school. No, he can’t take the car. No, no smoking and no drinking either. Come along, you are going to take fighting classes.

Which might seem counter-productive. Do not teach the young delinquent to fight, yadda, yadda. Harry spent all of his fifteen year wanting to punch someone and Sean has this freaked-out look in the eyes that says he doesn’t trust Harry or Draco and that he wants to protect Jamie and Liam. The fighting classes make him feel more in control and they mellow him. Also, by the third time Draco has a tiff and demands to talk to the headmaster about Liam’s class placement, his math grades, Jamie’s English grades, and just-what-did-that-woman-insinuate-I-swear; something visibly relaxes in Sean.

(Not even Liam knows what his Biology teacher said that upset Draco. The next week they have the lovely Miss Quintrell instead and the whole class is happy so Liam doesn’t question it).

And suddenly it’s March and Ron’s birthday and there is a celebration at the Burrow. Harry arrives with his family and a well-structured explanation of how he is now the legal father of Sean, Liam and Possibly-Berenice (they are still trying names). He is really good at it. He gives a simple step by step account of the process, with helpful asides and clarifying details, everything. There is just this one thing. A small detail, really. An assumption that is not supported by reality.

“Mate, I’m very happy for you,” Ron says. “We all are. But, you never mentioned you were dating Malfoy and I believe I speak for everyone when I say it’s a shock.”

And, to be fair, nobody can say they are actually surprised that Harry showed up with three orphans. But Malfoy, well… Malfoy is something else. They thought Harry was merely befriending him, or possibly adopting him like he tried to do with Neville. The dating thing is a big mental shift.

“We are married,” Draco says, and then, at their stares, more quietly, “it was more convenient? For the paperwork?”.

There is a lot of “Harry Potter you did not get married without telling us” and “Harry Potter how could you just get married without a ceremony” and “you know we have been developing these party fireworks how could you do this to us” and Molly red-faced, waving a finger, “did you tell your parents, young man?” and it takes everyone, everyone, thirty seconds to realize she is not addressing Harry, but Draco, and Merlin’s pants, he did not, he didn’t tell them. Draco married Harry, moved with him and adopted three kids and his father doesn’t know, which goes a long way to ingratiate Draco with everyone, because Lucius Malfoy has not heard of this.

It also has the unexpected but very welcome benefit of making Sean laugh. Liam says Sean hasn’t laughed in years.

(And of course less than a month later the three kids have a hand-knit sweater, of course they do. Possibly-Berenice’s has a pattern of stars, pending her choosing a permanent name).

[smilelikeaknife]

OK so

Let’s talk about Laurent for a second here, break down his whole mindset and what’s going on in his brain

we see his childhood in season 2 and we see that he was this bright and happy lil boy, adorable, trying to study to give his mom the life he thinks she deserves, happy and well cared for

he sees his mom swindled, and her health decline, and then she drops dead in front of him, gotta be something to mess up the head a bit

now there’s a blank space, cause he was still a little kid when she died, he wasn’t a teenager who could go off on his own or even all that close to it, he was like, 12ish? that’s about five years before he can be legally considered an adult in many European countries (I’m mostly only familiar with Britain, which is 17, idk how it is in Belgium). we aren’t sure what happens during this time, foster care? adoption? some sort of system? again, not familiar with the customs in Belgium/Europe regarding these things.

next time we see him, he’s charming and boozing his way through life, he is literally Fiyero from Wicked (great AU maybe? shit, it’s already got Wizard of Oz all over it, make him the fucking scarecrow, right?) he’s given up on all his childhood dreams of using his smarts and charm for anything good because who is it for? just himself?

this is the first instance now that I find that Laurent should have been in therapy (other than watching his mom die, obviously): he has a co-dependent personality type, he needs someone else in his life to focus on for him to try to be anything resembling happy and stable. without his mom, he doesn’t care, who does he need to impress?

now, he sees a chance to avenge his mother when he sees the swindler again, and then we see Dorothy sweep him into the team, apparently under Shi Won’s orders. she herself isn’t all that impressed with him at first despite treating him warmly and with enthusiasm, because he didn’t seem all that impressive at first: some young man with a sad story that’s literally wasting his life (and riddled with STDs, that line got me laughing I won’t lie).

HERE IS WHERE THE NARRATIVE TAKES TWO SIDES: from the START Dorothy tells him that they are not family, they are not lovers, they are lone agents. the original team made these rules and they are the only ones who truly abide by them. Laurent says okay, sure, I can do that, my only family is dead. but then he starts falling for this bright and warm woman who lives her life without fear and regret. the rules were not ones he ever truly agreed on. but Dorothy never really wavers. sure, she becomes more and more fond of him, they sleep and live together (but wait, she says in the narrative that it’s occasional. it’s not serious for her. not forever.) but she’s never once given a thought to it being anything more. she shows him time and again that her life and choices matter more to her (and shit, that’s fine, I’m not knocking her, she was right upfront with him from the get go, it’s on him for slipping up) when he shows genuine concern for her life after being strung up by goons for a job and she ignores his care in favor of finding out where the money is. she is annoyed with him in this moment. so what does he do? he proposes in the next scene. her response? to tell him that she thinks marriage is archaic, it’s not for her, it’s a curse. to her, marriage would be a cage, not freedom. it would not be this liberating warmth that it seems to be to Laurent. he is driven by caring for people, he needs someone to love. he’s desperate for it. but he keeps trying and they do still fall together each time. so he wears her down and she agrees to be cursed (girl actually accepts his proposal and calls it a curse at the same time, there’s red flag #18724893274 for you, Laurie). they have their almost retirement party, everyone agrees to go their own ways, Seiji is gonna go back to his family (I don’t want to talk about Seiji and honestly Dorothy’s comments about them, we won’t go there) Shi Won is going to keep ballin’ and Laurent and Dorothy are going to live happily ever after, after ONE MORE heist to go out with a bang. Dorothy is now the most animated she has been in a while. she’s always animated for the cons, the cons are what fuel her.

so this whole time you had Laurent believing he found his one true love and being finally ready to live the normal life he always wanted, to be a good person. he thinks they’re going to do this one last job and that’s it, they’re done and can be happy. Dorothy never wanted that. she wanted to live the con life, to live free and untethered or weighed down by anything or anyone.

now. I have seen the theory before and I actually think it’s true: Dorothy staged her own death. maybe not all of the pieces were exactly as planned or intended such as the part where the real princess was found, but honestly? maybe she did know. point would still stand, she was planning this as her escape from a life that she never wanted to keep the one she had. I was just about to ask myself why she couldn’t just say no but I remembered we were talking about Laurent here, and he doesn’t really understand the concept fully.

she planned the con with Seiji and Shi Won perhaps, maybe they were in on Dorothy’s fake death. it would make sense, considering they were going to need someone to retrieve her after she fell into the ocean.

I’m not going to go so far as to say she planned the whole rest of the story that would happen after she vanished from Laurent’s life, that would be insane. but a big part of me fully believes that her “amnesia” at the end is probably faked and that she had also faked her death to avoid being trapped. and the ring coming back to her in the end shows that Laurent is finally letting her go too, as was her intention.

also all this plays into how Laurent is in the present part of the show, how he treats Makoto, whom I do believe he actually cares for, is fond of, honestly maybe loves, because he literally doesn’t know how to process emotions from all of the trauma he endured, so traumatizing those he cares for is how he shows affection. I AM NOT EXCUSING HIS BEHAVIOR OR BLAMING DOROTHY IN THIS EITHER. honestly, everyone in the damn show needs massive amounts of therapy. Seiji should fucking pay for it too.

[dex-xe]

If you are still taking Ghosts fic prompts, could I please request Pat/Julian angst #37? Thank you!

Pat & Julian Angst #37: “Lie to me. I don’t care what you say, just lie to me. Make me feel okay again.”

(Ngl I would never have thought about putting Pat and Julian together for this but I actually really love how it turned out!! That’s why I love this game,, makes me think outside the box. Thank you so much for this one!!)

Prompt list

Inbox

She had cheated on him. Cheated on him and he hadn’t even noticed. Of all the emotions coursing through Pat’s ghostly form, frustration was the primary motivator for his tears. How had he never noticed? In life, he had been so caught up in creating wonderful experiences for his scouts, so caught up he hadn’t spotted what was happening right under his nose. Now that he looked back he could see the glances Carol and his best friend shared, how they took care of Daley while Pat was at scout camp, the way he always seemed to be the third wheel, despite being the connecting factor between the two.

Pat rested his forehead against the piercing cold window pane, he couldn’t feel the soothing cool he so desperately desired but the attempt was there. Any death day at Button House led to a quiet and subdued atmosphere as the ghosts were all reminded of the very real, very human lives they once lived. But today had been different, marred not only by the mourning of Pat’s passing but also the shock that Pat’s sweet family life hadn’t been the perfect picture of domestic bliss he had always portrayed.

The others had tried to comfort him - they’d tried to reach out and break the tense atmosphere of the house - but no one had managed to get through to him. As soon as the other ghosts had discovered the truth as to why Pat was in a melancholy trance at the library window, individual plans were made to reach him.

Kitty had come running. She’d been the first to find him crying, curled up with his knees pulled to his chest sobbing quietly into the stormy night. She’d barrelled into the room and engulfed Pat into the biggest hug.

“She didn’t deserve you, Pat,” Kitty had cried. Tears were rolling down her face before she even made it to Pat, she just loved love and couldn’t cope with the break down of her friends marriage - even after death. “You are so wonderful, Pat. You deserved better.”

“I appreciate it, Kitty, I do. But we’re dead, my life was spent on someone who didn’t love me.” Pat yanked his glasses off violently and scrubbed at his eyes, blurring his vision of Kitty sat beside him. She’d stayed for ages with her arms around him, whispering reassurances quietly into his ear but the Kitty’s suffocating grip and even more smothering emotion couldn’t snap Pat from his miserable daze, if anything floundering in his own misery was making the situation worse.

Kitty had disappeared once she’d finally cottoned on to Pat’s yearning to be alone and Pat had been able to return his head to his knees and resume his sorrowful tears. A quiet cough broke the silence. The Captain had towered over him trying to catch his attention.

“Stand to, Patrick,” the Captain had said. “Can’t have you moping for the evening when there are troops to wrangle!”

“I’ve had a rough day, mate. Let me have a few hours,” Pat had told him, sniffling softly.

“It’ll do you no good - wallowing.” The Captain coughed and straightened up. “Your life was the way it was, nothing can be changed now so bury it deep and let’s go to Food Club.”

“With all the love in the world, Cap, the repression tactic isn’t exactly working out for you, so forgive me for not participating.”

Humphrey had also thrown his hat into the ring: “This doesn’t negate the life you lived, Pat. You gave her the most amount of love you could and that’s what matters the most.” But Pat hadn’t wanted a therapy session.

Thomas hadn’t opted for discussion but had instead perched beside Pat composing harrowing poetry around his doomed relationship, which certainly wasn’t helping the mood of the house.

But once they’d run out of ideas, the ghosts had left him alone in the cold library surrounded by nothing but shelves upon shelves of classic love stories and romance novels, mocking him with their happy endings. He curled close into the window and watched the droplets of pelting rain race their way down the glass, tracing them slowly with his ghostly fingers wishing his heart were still beating so he could leave tracks in the steamed window.

“I cheated on my wife,” a voice said from the darkness. Pat startled and jerked up to see Julian had faded through the heavy wooden door and was stood awkwardly in the shadows.

“Cheers, mate,” Pat said. “That makes me feel so much better.”

Julian threw himself down on the sofa opposite Pat, rearranging his shirt tails before lounging back to face the still crying Pat.

“I cheated. A lot. You know, I got up to all kinds of shenanigans: Norwegian noodle parties, lot of them. And raucous nights with-,” Julian gazed off in to the distance as he reminisced.

“Can I stop you there, Julian? Because if I had any lunch, I’d be worried about keeping it down,” Pat said. “Your forgetting I was here, I saw what you got up to.”

“Oh I did worse than you ever saw, don’t doubt that.” Pat shrugged: he didn’t doubt that at all. “I got up to all this fun and Margot was just sat at home. She took care of Rachel; she was a great mother, I imagine. Sure, she wasn’t quite as clueless as you but she suffered what you did.”

“This really isn’t making me any better, Julian,” Pat said, adjusting his glasses carefully. “I don’t want to hear your life story.”

“Well, what do you want? You’re dead! What does it matter? What does it matter if your life wasn’t the perfect artery-clogging Christmas film you always thought it was, you’re stuck here now. What do you want us all to say?” Julian shrugged.

“Lie to me. I don’t care what you say, just lie to me. Make me feel okay again!” Pat’s voice got higher and higher, squeaking at Julian who simply rolled his eyes. The two men sat in the dark. Rain hammered hard against the windows but Button House remained quiet in a melancholy trance.

“What I’m trying to say is my wife did nothing wrong. I wasn’t unhappy with her, per say, she didn’t do anything to harm me, nothing to stop me loving her. Just life, it got in the way, you know? Some people are just like that and others get left hurt in their wake,” Julian admitted. “You’re the same as my wife, Pat. You did nothing wrong to Carol. You didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t make her happy either,” Pat said.

“Who cares?” Julian huffed. “Who cares about some woman who clearly didn’t value you the way you did her? You made your son happy, and those boys - the scouts. You make that lot downstairs happy, sometimes. They don’t know how to show it particularly well but you do.”

Pat sighed. “I thought seeing them, learning about my family’s lives, I thought it would make me feel better. I really believed I was moving on because I found out about what Carol did. Silly idea really!”

“Seems logical enough, but probably a good thing you weren’t sucked off.” Pat turned away from the window and shot a quizzical look at Julian. “If I don’t have someone to delegate my leadership to, I’d be forced to herd that bunch of berks - they’re worse than the electorate. I’d have better luck organising monkeys at the zoo to do the quickstep than getting any order out of them.”

“Your leadership?” Pat chuckled.

“I’m the only elected official in this house,” Julian straightened his tie and stood to leave. “But I don’t like to force my authority; delegation is an important tool for a powerful political player.”

“Of course,” Pat smirked to himself.

Julian marched across the room towards the closed door, only turning back at the last second.

“Anyway, buck up your ideas, Pat. You’re needed.” Pat furrowed his eyebrows and shot a confused look at Julian. “The Captain’s trying to keep Robin from throwing Humphrey onto the fire - you know how he gets around a flame. They’re making a bloody scene and could do with some of your childcare expertise.” Pat grinned and followed Julian out of the library - leaving his despondent stupor for the first time in hours.

He couldn’t go back and change what had happened during his life, he wasn’t even sure he knew what he would change if he could. He’d tried his absolute best t everything he did during his short life. He tried to be the best husband to Carol, the best father to Daley, the best mentor for his scouts - even if something had gone wrong, there was nothing more he could give. And if he couldn’t be the best in life anymore, Pat was certain he’d be the best in death - the best friend, the best father-figure, the best mentor for a gang of needy ghosts.

[niallsguiness]

commencer;

< raphael (raph) weaver > (aftermath, what the ‘others’ saw)

i always knew they were ‘made to burn’. their entire group was filled with a bunch of fake people with many issues, most of which i couldn’t even name. but they’d come to this school on daddys’ riches willing to fuck everything over because that's just who they were. they think they can do anything and just get away with it, well they needed a fucking reality check and boy they got one. they hadn’t worked a single day in their miserably content lives. a perfect exterior with a rotting interior. its fucking infuriating and shameful to watch. but nothing could corrupt them faster than a murder which is exactly what they got. at first, everyone believed it would be willow sutton, his best friend oh pardon me, his ex-best friend. he was probably the only one in the group who didn’t give his life away every night for all those parties with endless amounts of drugs and alcohol and cheap people who would come for a priceless fuck by rich assholes such as his ex-best friend. predator and prey i’d say. but will was never like that, probably why i didn’t despise him more so admired him. i’d describe their relationship as inseparable, but after the fairly public falling out between the two things got pretty ugly. everyone knew about it but no one knew exactly what it was about which left perfect room for speculation. after that very horrid phase started to simmer down, will turned towards his old friend florence campbell to help mend his bruised ego. flo was known for being a selfish backstabber but hey desperate times call for desperate measures. i never really understood her, but nevertheless, she always looked out for herself, and for that i commend her. apparently they had a fling but never gave her the time of day so she ran away after this all went public. now you see, when marion klein was seen being dragged through the main hallway in handcuffs we all were a bit stunned but not surprised. we all knew that the kleins riches were brought through impure works and bound to be their demise yet we all turned a blind eye towards it because marion or mitzi, as she called herself, was popular, and no one ever questioned the populars. will was childhood friends with mitzi, so it was least to say that he got dragged along with her too. flo running away after the incident didn’t help the situation either. wealth always comes with a price, and the whole group was sure to have paid for it that night.

< willow (will) sutton > (a view)

i never thought i’d lose my best friend because of another. i don’t entirely remember what happened that night because all of the alcohol coursing through my veins, guess thats what i get for breaking my sobriety streak. everything was a blur but all i know is that i had lost someone special again. my mom put me into therapy after it happened, she said it was to put me back into track and make sure i focus on my tennis. i never knew how to tell her that i fucking hated it and wanted to quit two weeks after i began but seeing the amount of effort and money she put into it now, i could never have the heart to. all the therapy just fucked with me. in school, i was only greeted two ways, with pity and disgust. i hated it. i hated it so much that i started cutting two weeks later and tried committing twice two weeks after that. my mom tried to keep that a secret so she could maintain her porcelain image. a rich single mom with a country club son. flossie running away that night threw me into an even deeper ditch. she was all i had and she left me too. i know what it may have looked like to her but i swore i never loved mitzi, she was always the one for me. i couldn’t keep such a big secret to myself but i promised mitzi i wouldn’t tell anyone about that night. but after an anonymous confession that went down the drain too. i think mitzi thinks i confessed. i tried explaining that i didn’t tell anyone anything and that i would never do anything like that because she was the only one i had left but she just shut me out. i didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. i finally told my mom that i wanted to quit tennis, she told me that losing a friend was traumatizing but i shouldn’t put a pause on my life cause of it and that i needed to stop playing the delusional act once in for all. when i tried explaining that i wanted to do it for myself she told me i was an inconsiderate brat and that she’d be cutting ties with me financially until i start thinking clearly again. i knew i was sure of my decision then. i don’t know why this happened to me, guess it was just my karma.

< florence (flo/ssie) campbell > (the other ones view, during and after)

i had confessed. i couldn’t keep it in any longer. her faint touches on him ate me up. every time she’d touch him, mark him, she’d glare at me, like she knew. i didn’t wanna admit that i fell for will because that creates room for vulnerability, and i am not vulnerable. i am the one with dirt on others and i am the one who doesn’t let another merely breathe or function. but he’d done a number on me. twisted me, mended me, and locked me in a cage leaving me defenseless. while he spent all that time building up his fences. i slept on all my problems as if i’d solve them in that cage of my dreams. wish i didn’t need so much of you, will, i hate to say that i do. i wanted to finally let it out, let it all off my shoulders, hoping you’d accept me and let me in. but all you did is run away with her. her knight in shining armor. i still remember it all too well, my head held high, a big bright smile, and a pretty look of innocence smeared all over my face. and you left me. you knew me, you knew i never cared like this and you promised me you’d be there every step of the way if i let you, and i did, i foolishly did but look where it brought me. so i followed you, i needed to know and god forbid i wish i never had. i wish i didn’t let my curiosity seep through. i expected to be furious, jealous, livid, i expected to find you kissing her up against a tree trunk with both our initials carved but i never expected what i saw. my first instinct was to yell. i didn’t know what i would achieve, and it is what i would have done if my voice didn't feel like it was ripped out of me. my second instinct was to record all of this, so that is what i did. i didn’t know what i’d do, i thought this would simplify things for me but did it do the exact opposite. the next few weeks were dizzy. i avoided you simply because i didn’t know what to do, i’d never felt more puzzled and in question with myself. there were days where i’d want to anonymously send the video out but there were days where i don’t know how i’d live with myself if i did do so. will i was so at war that it tore me into pieces every single day so i confessed. i didn't send the video because i never wanted you to be impacted, i knew you were a good person with high aspirations in life. i knew you didn't deserve such a fate. i ran shortly after because i was scared, and honestly, i didn't know how to face you. i knew i left you all alone but i thought it was for the best. i never changed my number you know, i still see everything you send me. all those pleading voice messages, and the aggressive ones that soon follow. it's good to hear your voice regardless of the tone. i miss you more and more every fleeting day, don’t be fooled. i think we got lost in translation, maybe i’d asked for too much, or maybe if we’d skipped town in time we’d been perfectly fine now. i put up a strong front all the time but i’m scared will, all i needed from you was to stick to your word, you were all i wanted in life. so i decided not to come back. i didn't want to think, or frankly come to terms with the fact that i could be thrown around by one person so goddamn much. i’ll always love you will and i will come back for you, i just need to stop being so afraid.

< marion (mitzi) klein > (before the arrest)

i didn’t mean to do it. i was drunk and he was threatening me to leak those pictures if i didn't give him what i wanted to, i just took a swing to shut the barricading whine, i didn't mean for this, please. he was so loud and those pictures, oh my god those pictures had such a messy and painful grip on me. to him i was just one of his champagne problems. i was so scared, i am so scared oh my god i’m so screwed. i need to write this down, i just hope no one finds it. i need to ease my conscience. please forgive me;

it was 10:42 pm at his house. he was drunk and high on something stumbling into the woods, still, on his property, this all happened on his property. and he was threatening me saying that he’d leak those photos i sent him if i didn't let him and harvey fuck me. as simple as that. so i followed him scared that if i took my eye off of him he’d send them to anyone he could. he kept going deeper and deeper into the woods, and i followed him, deeper and deeper into the woods. and then he stopped and waited for me to catch up just so he could dangle my pictures to my face. teasing me like i was his dog. he knew i was helpless and he used it. he wouldn’t stop tripping over his feet and slurring over on his words and that made me so mad. he always got what he wanted, the money, the booze, the fame, and me, he also had me and he used me and threw me around like i was an old cardigan. he kept me like a secret but i kept him like an oath, like our sacred prayer to always remember what we had. so i shoved him with all that built-up anger and he pulled me down with him. it was all so blurry and suffocating and i just wanted him off me. i didn't want to let him have a second chance to use me, i felt so weak. so i took what i could and i hit him with it and i didn't realize how harsh it was until i felt all his blood on my face. and god, i’ve never felt more guilt in my life than in that moment and all i could think about was calling will. i knew bringing him into this would ruin him forever but selflessness was not one of the things that i was considering in the moment. so i ran back to the party, stepped into the house of the man i’d just killed. and i just dragged will all the way out, i didn't see anyone notice us. or i’d hoped. and the look on wills face is honestly the most scarring thing i saw that night. i knew it was self-serving to drag him there but i never fully processed what i had just done until that moment. it killed me to see that look. and oh god i just wanted to disappear. i knew i was one to cause a scene, be a wreak but this, oh god this was something else. i killed someone, and i’ve come to terms with that no matter how revolting and nauseating it sounds but i just am unable to say it out loud. because saying it out loud makes it real, sets it in stone. i am a murderer. cold blood. to the first degree. all that needed to be put aside because we needed to get rid of the body. saying ‘we’ disgusts me, it truly does. it's my mess, my burden, my problem and it should’ve been an “i” instead but it wasn’t, and will was stuck with fixing it because i was too busy trying to catch my breath. and he was quick on his feet, he suggested we burn the body along with the log and if we were ever caught it can come off as a bonfire, there was already a huge party going on at his house it wouldn’t be suspicious, oh god hiss dead. he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead and it's my fault oh god what did i do. that’s all that flooded my mind. and we sat there for the rest of the night, waiting for everything to burn, with his blood all over our bodies, reeking of a certain stench and gasoline. i think there were more tears than bloodstains by the end. once we knew everyone was gone we burned our clothes in the fire and put on the uniforms we came to his house wearing. and then we eventually left. and from then onwards we pretended as if everything was perfect. but it wasn’t. everything had changed.

< nikolas (nik) horan > (the end)

i know why i deserved it, but i didn’t think she’d do it. i wanted her and i knew it was wrong but fuck i couldn’t get enough of her. she was a walking nightmare dressed like a daydream. fuck it should’ve been illegal. i started at her in art class from 12:25 - 13:25 on a monday, 14:25 - 15:30 on a tuesday and 9:10 - 10:10 on a friday. she’s so passionate, so in love. i wish she felt that way about me sometimes. i wish she looked at me that way. so much naivety and love in those eyes, just waiting to find someone to pour all that onto. those same eyes calling to me, drawing me towards her to crack that pretty shell. break down those barriers so i could twist and manipulate all the vulnerability she was hiding underneath. to claim her as mine so that no one could touch her like i do ever again, so that she wouldn't be able to let anyone touch her like i do ever again. am i a bad person for this? i don’t like to think so. i like to think that i’m doing this so that i wasn't one of the forgotten ones, just a distant memory when she reminisces back on her high school days. no i wanted to be the one, the only one she thinks of when she thinks of high school. all the love, pain and misery that I caused her. deep down i knew it was morally wrong on some level but it was a small enough price to pay to be remembered forever and ever. i’d be the man you’d tell your therapist and kids about. the man that i loved with ‘every fiber of my being’, you were quite the poet chérie, i loved reading those short sentenced poems you wrote about me. it would still kill me to think that anyone has brought your innocent soul discomfort or pain but somehow it brings me closure to know if it was just me. so those pictures were a long term way of me having constant control over you while also making sure no one else ever even made you cringe let alone shed a tear. that was only up to me, my sole job which brought me happiness. i knew it meant that i had an inevitable hold on you which would have some sort of impact but i didn't know the extent of it. i did offer you a proposition i did my part god so i don't know why i could still feel karma following me around like it could creep up and haunt me anytime. it truly was the biggest bitch. it was fair to say the least only you wanted to act greedy, only thinking of your selfish little self. so i just pushed you, i put a ticking timer on the offer. i would never actually leak them darling, they’re to pretty and precious to be tossed around like cigarettes on a sweaty day. you were worth so much more. but you sure thought i would. what kind of devil did you paint me as chérie? i'd never share you with those undeserving and wretched assholes, you’re mine lovie. only mine. so when i felt that shove to the ground in the backside of my house i was unsure of whether you were my chérie or some unworthy little bitch that had taken over. i didnt wanna picture you like that, don’t you know. you left me no choice and we both know that it is only you to blame. you put me in such a difficult dilemma darling, so fucking selfish. classic. but what really got me is how you grabbed that log once you realised you couldn’t fight me off and just hit me. and then everything shut off.

fin.

[gypsydanger01]

THE STORM - Part eight

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

A/N: So here’s part eight!! It’s the first of two parts I’m dedicating to the Origins of the OC character. It explains her ties to Vought and the reason why she’s plotting against them. There is no Black Noir in this chapter :( but it’s important for the story. The next chapter will explain her connection to Mallory, and then after that you’ll be seeing much more interaction with our boy Black Noir!!

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

    Posting new chapters on Wednesday and Friday!

The Beginning

That night she found herself running in her dreams, just as she did every time she let herself sleep. It always revolved around the beginning of it all, the birth of what plagued her and would haunt her for the rest of her life. She always found herself back at square one, Vought Laboratories.

When she’d been diagnosed with a rare form of immune disease, her parents had been devastated at the lack of resources or therapies available. They’d do anything for her, and they scoured the country’s best hospitals and universities for medicines and potential therapies. Greg and Tara wanted their little girl cured, they wanted her to get a chance at life.

Finally, they found an experimental drug going through clinical trials that might’ve proved successful in correcting the genetic error that was triggering her immune system into attacking her own cells. A team of recruiters from Vought had approached them one day at a hospital, while she’d been getting ready for a check-up. They said they’d investigated her case and had spots available in their trials should she want to try it out. Since the medicine was still under observation, they could only assure an 85% rate of success, and at a lower price. They visited their home multiple times with fliers, power points and data. They assured her parents of the drug’s safety. While it worked in 85% of the patients it never demonstrated any kind of risk or dangerous counter effects. Her parents stayed skeptical for many months, asking questions, and raising concerns, but what ultimately pushed them was their daughter’s heart failure and hospitalization.

She was nine at the time. And as her time quickly diminished, Greg and Tara hurried and signed her up for the program. The experts and physicians at Vought visited her and gathered all of her information before quickly drafting the appropriate dosage for her. She’d have to stay at Vought Laboratories’ clinic far from the city, isolated from the outside world. They had explained this by pointing out the fragile state of her immune system, and the need for her to recover in a safe environment. Lies, so many lies.

The first months went by smoothly, and while she missed her parents, the little girl played with her new friends enjoying the renewed energy coursing through her body. She could run again, and dance and hop without needing to lie down. She could see her parents through a glass window during visitation day every week and they, too, felt relief when they saw her so lively, so different from the pale, skeletal figure she’d been after her hospitalization. Tara felt horrible over the first weeks of not having her at home, not being able to care for her and simply hold her daughter. But when she saw her on the other side of the glass pane, she couldn’t imagine stripping this opportunity away from her.

“Mommy, mommy, look,” the little girl would call while twirling and running around the room, jumping in excitement.

Tara pressed her hand against the glass, eyes brimmed with tears.

“Yes, honey, I see—you’re so strong now.”

The little girl just nodded enthusiastically.

A year later is when the trouble started. She had almost reached the end of therapy when she was moved to another section of the clinic with another small group of kids ranging from about ten to fourteen years old. They were shown a power point explaining their purpose in the project. She hadn’t understood at that time, but she now knew what they meant to say was “guinea pigs.” Basically, the drugs they had been taking had modified certain sequences in their genome in a way that diverged from other subjects. They wanted to understand why, as well as see how far they could go. They concluded by saying that they might end up with powers.

Now, superheroes already existed even though they weren’t yet such an important trademark. But people believed they were born that way. And here you had scientists telling young, impressionable children that they could develop powers even though they weren’t born with them. One can only imagine how they awaited with glee for the program to start.

The children saw their parents less and less, and this was explained by their busy schedule of medical visits, tests, activities, school, and sports which were all provided in this secluded, isolated section of the clinic. What they were actually doing was being subjected to insane amounts of physical and psychological stress. Now the drug had proceeded to cure and further improve their cell genes, but there was a need for an environmental stressor to induce the mutation’s manifestation. They had to wake these new, dormant genes, and for this reason they did atrocious things.

One kid, Norman, presented a gene that is found in organisms that can breathe underwater. They proceeded to force him underwater and keep him there until he was on the brink of drowning.

Another one, Chloe, was thought to be able to heal as her genome held a gene commonly found in animals capable of regrowing a limb, such as lizards. They cut, burned, and maimed her for results.

Some of the children ended up developing a reaction to the duress, awakening their evolved genes. Others died from the intensity of the physical torture. And of those who successfully became enhanced, only few ultimately survived due to the instability of their mutation.

A comment frequently noted by the physicians when taking the patients’ parameters was that the reaction, the gene’s manifestation tended to grow stronger and stronger ‘till it became unsuitable for life. In other words, it ended up killing the host.

Greg and Tara’s little girl too endured the process to achieve greatness, as they had called it. And at first, she’d been enthusiastic, dreaming of becoming a superhero. She stayed up late after-hours skimming through comic books brought in by the therapists. Only later would she understand they had preyed on their naivety and dreams. The children grew obsessed with becoming like the characters in the comic books. The little boys dreamed of becoming like Homelander, and the little girls dreamed of flying.

Greg and Tara couldn’t know that their little one, instead of learning in class, spent her morning being constantly electrocuted. The physicians had high hopes for her and projected that she’d be able to conduct great amounts of energy through her body without burning or dying from electrocution. Her feet in freezing cold water, she sat in a hard, metal chair with a wired contraption wrapped over her forehead.

Every day, she was subjected to shocks of increasing intensity. They talked of “jerking her awake,” hoping that the right shock would trigger her genes into working against the effects of the shock. Finally, one morning, the pain subsided, and she began to absorb the energy rather than try to escape it. It felt odd to her, a warmth pervading her completely. The physicians were beyond content, they were amazed by her abilities. She was a success. They quickly learned she was able to absorb different forms of energy and transfer it. She practiced sticking a finger in an electrical socket before touching the objects laid in front of her. Immediately, the object would fly away, scalding hot.

But the initial glee of having powers slowly faded away, and the girl who was turning twelve wanted it to be over. She just wanted to go home. She yearned to call her mommy and daddy to come and take her away, and every time she saw a cell phone laying around, she subconsciously moved towards it. Unfortunately, she didn’t know their numbers.

She talked about it with the clinic’s therapist.

“Why is this coming up now? Is something wrong?”

The girl fidgeted in her seat, “I just want to go home.”

The therapist gave her a stretched smile, cold and far too wide.

“I understand you miss your mommy and daddy, but you have to stay so we can make sure you’re okay.”

She whined, “But I’m doing better.”

“I know, honey, but—”

The little girl grew fussy and cut her off, “I want my mommy.” When the therapist began to comfort her with empty promises, that distinct feeling of total warmth spread throughout her body. Her eyes shined a light blue, like lasers ready to sizzle anything in front of her, and the therapist immediately stopped speaking.

“There’s no need for that, we’ll set up a visitation day,” she quickly granted, gathering her folder and leaving the room.

The girl grew increasingly aggressive and wouldn’t allow the physicians to touch her. She didn’t want anyone but her parents.

When the day finally came, her parents were ecstatic to see and spend some time with her after two weeks of not being able to contact her. The therapy had worked, and they were thankful to Vought, but what they saw that day haunted the last few minutes of their lives. Their daughter looked ghastly, caramel skin chalky and dry. Her eyes were tired and dark bags hung under her eyes. To her mother’s horror, she looked as sick as her days in and out of hospitals before Vought’s medications. Tara pressed her hand to the glass, tears running down her face. The little girl immediately ran up to the glass, speaking fast.

“Please, I wanna go home,” she pleaded over and over, like a mantra of desperate hope.

Her father grew agitated and turned on her therapist who was also in the room to smooth things over. Certain things couldn’t be said and leave the building. It would bring the world’s ethics community down on all of their heads. This was worse than pumping Compound V into newborns. This was altering children’s DNA and torturing the survivors into an enhanced state of being.

“What happened to her? She was doing so well,” he exclaimed.

“Mr. Stacker, please there is no need to yell,” his face twisted in anger as she continued, “She has been rejecting the medications, we believe she hasn’t been taking them regularly as she’s supposed to.”

“She’s almost twelve, you’re supposed to check that she does that.”

The little girl was crying at this point, banging her little fists soundlessly against the glass.

“Mommy, help me.”

The therapist tried to grab the distressed parents’ attention, “If you could follow me, we can talk about this in more detail.”

“We can do that here,” Greg countered, “we’ve been here for not even five minutes and our daughter is crying out to us—you think we’ll just leave her?”

“No, sir—I just assumed—”

The girls pleading voice cut through her parents’ hearts, “They’re hurting me.”

Her father stared at her. What had they done? The choice had been difficult and ultimately, they decided between the therapy and her disease, between life and death. But if they were hurting her for all this time, it wasn’t life. It was solitary pain.

Tara was crying as she too turned on the therapist who wasn’t sure how to save the situation. Her father firmly stated what they’d both already decided, “We’re taking her home.”

“But sir, you signed a contract—”

“I don’t give a damn, she’s coming home—we can bash this out in court if you care about this contract that much.” He leaned closer, “But I’m sure you don’t want this whole project leaked, do you? What are you actually doing here?”

The therapist plucked her com from her pocket and quickly spoke into it, “We need security in visitation room number nine, I repeat, visitation room number nine.”

Tara erupted, “What do you mean security? You can’t take us away from her.”

“Like I was trying to say, the contract—"

The distressed mother screamed, “We don’t give a fuck about the contract—fucking sue us.”

And then all mayhem erupted. Four security guards burst into the room and quickly grabbed a hold on the two parents, trying to cuff them. Tara looked back at the little girl as they resisted.

“We’ll get you baby, okay? Marianna, look at me, you’re coming home.”

Her father punched a guard before being hit in the ribs with a baton. He fell to the floor and they were all onto him, beating and beating, not giving him the chance to stand back up. Tara screamed and tried to pry them from her husband before one swung at her and pushed her into a corner. The therapist quickly fled the scene, her heels clicking away.

The little girl watched and watched, and when she saw her father stop moving, when she saw her mother being tossed away, something snapped. It was like her center shifted, and an all-consuming anger pervaded her senses, taking over.

It happened so fast, her eyes lighting up, the building shaking, then the shattering blast.

When the dust finally settled, there was nothing left but a crater and a little girl lying amid the smoke and ashes. Curled up in a ball, shivering, she was the bomb still intact. She was the eye of the storm.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724 ​  @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx

[bxthharmon]

Never Go Home Again, Pt. XI || JJ Maybank x Reader

Words: 2910

Series Warnings: violence / talking about abuse / toxic relationships / talking about nudes sex and sex tapes / drugs / underage drinking

Pt. Warnings: Abuse / toxic relationships / talking about nudes, sex and sex tapes

Series Summary: A new girl, a shoebox of old memories, a past she’s trying to forget coincide with a hotheaded, but selfless, boy.  teenagers getting in way over their heads

Pt. Summary: JJ and Y/N reconcile upon her return

A/N: and yall are finally gonna learn the readers story lmao. im going to bed like, asap

Chapters linked in my masterlist.

“masterlist”

You’d known JJ for over a month, and you’d never been nervous to see him. You always felt comfortable, and sure, you felt fluttery when he kissed your cheek, flirted with you, put his arm over your shoulders, but you’d never felt like this. You fiddled with the friendship bracelet Kie had made you a week ago, and chewed on your lip as you sat on the porch of the Chateau. You could hear someone in the garden, but made no move to see who it was, stuck in stasis as you stressed. Your vision was cloudy. Everything he had said, it hurt. It hurt because it was true. You hadn’t been honest with him, with any of them, and they had welcomed you and helped you for weeks now. You needed to come clean. They deserved to know - JJ deserved to know - and it was unfair of you to keep it from them any longer.

It was all still fresh. It had been three months since the divorce was finalised. Two months since everything went down with Tyler. One month since you met JJ. You closed your eyes, psyching yourself up. Was John B home? Kie or Pope over? Was JJ even there, or was he home? You wondered, Please don’t let him have been home.

You heard an engine, and looked up. Pope’s car rolled up, and you stood, Kie popping the door open and pulling you into a close hug. She pulled away, eyes shining, “We didn’t know where you were - you weren’t answering calls and your dad only said you’d gone away.” she blinked slowly, opening her eyes again with a determined light.

“We thought you were dead.” you looked away from Kie, seeing Pope. You pulled him into a hug. “JJ’s been a mess. He stole 30 Gs off  a drug dealer.”

You smiled slightly, “I’m sorry for leaving like that. And I’m sorry for hiding everything. JJ was right, I haven’t been honest, and that’s not fair, you guys mean the world to me.”

Pope nodded, “You needed time, that’s okay. You’ll tell us when you’re ready.”

You thanked him. “Did JJ go home?”

“I think so.” Kie murmured, and you swore.

“I haven’t even been home yet.” 

There was a whirring behind you, and you all turned, the trees igniting in gold as a stupid amount of fairy lights lit up you small scene. You raised your eyebrows.

“What the hell?” asked Pope, the three of you in matching surprised expressions.

“Who the hell is that?” Kie questioned, leading you and Pope through the trees.

Lights illuminated the clearing outside the Chateau, gold and red shining brightly on the scene before you. A jacuzzi, lit with floating flamingo drink-holders, surrounded JJ, shirtless with a pair of stolen glasses. He held a champagne flute in one hand, and you heard the pop of a bottle opening. The three of you stood across from him.

You could see, plain as anything, he was at breaking point. The combination of the hunt, his dad, and you had unravelled him. I did this, a voice commanded, this was me.

“What did you do, JJ?” Pope asked, taking in the brilliantly lit display.

“I got a jet going straight in my butt right now.” he crooked the glasses, down, looking over the three of you with unfocussed eyes. “Y’all should get in immediately, you hear me?” he sloppily poured a drink “Salud!”

Your heart broke for him. His eyes fell on you, “Y/N?” he slurred, “Y/N! I thought you were-” hiccup, “-dead! You just, uh, you just disappeared.”

“I’m sorry.” you sighed.

“No - no!” he shook his head, voice too gleeful for his words, “I’m sorry!” he tipped his head back as he downed the champagne straight from the bottle.

“How much did this cost?” Pope interrupted.

“Uh… well, with the generator, the petrol, and oh, hey, express delivery…” he chuckled, “pretty much all of it, yeah.”

You kept your eyes on him, knowing that one too many questions would release a dam full of emotions he’d been hiding for years.

“All of it?” Pope stepped forwards.

“Yeah, all of it.” JJ repeated.

“You spent all the money in one day?”

“Pope,” you muttered, knowing JJ wouldn’t last.

“Yeah, burned a hole right through my pocket.” JJ confirmed, gesturing sloppily. “But, I mean, like, come on - guys - like, look at this! Finest in jet-based massage therapy, that’s what they told me!” Kie looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Kie, what? Can’t a man have a little luxury in life?” his voice was hoarse, and you felt worry building in your stomach and pounding at your head. He whipped his glasses off, “Come on, all this scrimpin’ and scrapin’...” his voice went soft, “I mean like - guys, we - you only live once, right? Enough of this emotional shit, get in the Cat’s Ass. Come on!”

“In the what?” you frowned.

“In the Cat’s Ass.” he shrugged, a small, drunk smirk playing at his lips, “That’s what I named her. Oh! Hey, yo, I almost forgot!” he switched a button, and the water lit up, a light flashing as the already bright display got weirder. He was about to break. “Yeah, that’s right, I now. Disco mode! That’s right, baby!”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope cut in, and you squeezed your eyes shut for a second, knowing that he and Kie were pulling at a tether that was seconds from coming loose. “You could have paid for restitution!”

“Or literally given it to any charity!” Kie added.

“Or better yet, you could have helped us buy supplies to get the rest of the gold out of the well!”

“Okay well you know what? I didn’t do that!” JJ burst forwards, showing a selection of purple bruises littering his torso. “I got a hot tub!” you kicked off your shoes, tears building at the thought that the person supposed to love him the most would hurt him like that, “For my friends. I got a hot tub for my friends. You know what? No, you know what? Screw friends. I got a hot tub for my family! I got this for you! Look, guys, look what I did for you! Alright? Look at this! Look at this! No, you stop being emotional. It’s fine, okay?” You stepped forwards as he continued, stepping over the walls of the tub and pulling him in, letting him cling to you. You let him sob on you. “I just couldn’t do it.” He was convulsing with sobs while you tried your best not to, knowing you had to be strong for him. You had to. “I couldn’t take him anymore! I was gonna kill him.” You felt Pope and Kie’s arms wrap around the pair of you, the lot of you wet with tears and hot tub water. “I just wanna do the right thing.”

“I know.” you murmured, stroking his hair and closing your eyes as you tried to keep your breathing steady.

Kie and Pope got out first, leaving after you told them you’d deal with him. You sat him down in the tub again, turning the jets off. You wiped away the last of his tears, gently prying the champagne away from him. You stroked his hair, letting him lean on your shoulder until his breathing returned to normal. You stood up then, helping him out of the tub and guiding him to the bathroom, where you sat him down on the closed toilet seat as you ran a hot bath. You distracted him by reminding him of your best memories since you met him, until the bath was full. You helped him in, washing the chlorine out of his hair, and letting him relax.

You sat on the edge of the tub as he blinked up at you, sobering up quickly. He lifted a hand from the water, touching your waist tentatively.

“Where did you go?” he whispered, the silence pressing down thickly.

“To see an old friend.” you hadn’t thought about your leaving for hours, and now you did, you wondered how broken he’d be when he found out you’d slept with two people while you were gone.

“You went to LA.” he muttered.

“Yeah.” you nodded slowly, touching his cheek, lightly. “I’m sorry.”

He blinked at you, confusion painted in his features. “Why?”

“I left.” you helped him stand up, guiding him out of the bath. You handed him the towel you’d found, leaving him to get him a change of clothes. You picked out a top and joggers, brushing away a stray tear before rejoining him. You turned around while he changed, then lay him down in the spare bed. You draped the blanket over him, changing quickly into the only other joggers you could find, and one of his tops. You lay down in front of him, taking in his bright, cobalt eyes and soft pink lips. 

“Why did you go?” he sounded broken. So broken.

“I felt trapped, like you would all hate me. So I went to see the people who I knew would be there for me, no matter what. Then I realised that, more than anyone, more than my friends in Cali, that was you guys.” he gazed at you, a strange look in his eyes as he processed your words.

“I shouldn’t have yelled.” he closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, there was a teary sheen to them.

“No.” you rejected his claim. “I needed it. I’ve been avoiding it, thinking that would make it all go away. It was stupid. If you hadn’t have yelled, I wouldn’t have gone. And if I hadn’t have gone, I’d have avoided it for the rest of my life.”

He let a tear slip. “I fucked up.” he murmured. “I fucked us up.”

“No. No, I did it. I wasn’t honest. I was so desperate not to repeat what had happened that I pushed you away.”

“What did happen?”

“Where do I start?”

“At the beginning.”

--

Your parents loved each other. They lit up when the other entered the room, and looked at each other like the world revolved around them. They met young, in highschool. Your mom was pregnant with your brother by senior year, and they got married when school was over. Three years later, once they had a house and two steady jobs, they had you. Highschool sweethearts, it always seemed perfect.

You were convinced they were perfect, until you were ten. They had a huge argument, so big, so loud, that the neighbours called the cops, and you and Lewis had to spend the night at friends’ houses. They never argued like that again.

You knew they loved each other, even after that. Over three years later, on the brink of your fourteenth birthday, you noticed they hardly spoke anymore. Family meals stopped, and they avoided each other at all costs. After a few weeks, you came home to a floor covered in glass and crockery, and your parents sitting across from each other crying. Things were perfect for two more years.

Then, she started getting angry. She threw things, hit things, broke things. She took out all of her frustrations on the family, never caring to explain herself.

Your mom lost her job, but was still out all day, everyday. You saw her with another man three months after. When you saw her, you understood something. 

Your mom hated her life. She hated not being able to afford things, not being able to go on holiday, not being able to treat herself. She wanted to live a life more glamorous than what your father could give her. You hated her for it.

You asked her about it the next day.

Your brother and dad got home to see her things packed, and you sitting at the kitchen table, bruises around your neck and a cut over your right eyebrow. The divorce papers arrived within a week. 

She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t call. She didn’t try to see you.

--

JJ nodded slowly, wiping your tears away with the pad of his thumb. “She’s been calling you.” he murmured.

“She feels bad.” you shrugged, “I had a go at her, she hasn’t called since.”

“Did you see her while you were in LA?” 

“No, she lives in Brentwood, I didn’t want to waste my time there.”

“Fuck her.”

“Yeah.” you smiled, “Fuck her.”

“Y/N?” he whispered, “Thanks for telling me that.”

“Your welcome.” You shrugged.

“Who’s Tyler?”

“My ex.” 

“What did he do to you?”

You searched his eyes, knowing you had to tell him. You took a deep breath.

--

You met Tyler in middle school. He was the tallest in the class by an inch and a half, and the best looking. You were best friends with Cassie, and Cassie’s parents knew his parents, so you were friends by association. You cruised through middle school, skating with him and his friends when you weren’t at school or hanging out with Cassie.

At some point in Freshman year of high school, his friends stopped joining your skating days, and you and Tyler got close. He asked you out near the end of the year, and you said yes. You spent your summer drinking and smoking with Cassie or skating with Tyler, losing your virginity to him just before the start of your sophomore year. You went steadily for a year, letting your relationship become more and more toxic, until he would throw fits if you so much as spoke to another guy. You lost your friends as he tightened his grip around you, keeping you close with threats and bribes. 

He was the only one who was there for you when your mom started cheating, because he was the only one you talked to. You let yourself be vulnerable, and he took advantage of it. You went out with Cassie just before that night with your mom, telling her about your failing relationship and breaking family. She was the one who told you to break up with him. 

You waited three days. 

He took it well. Nodded, didn’t cry, left quickly.

The next day, your life was hell. You got pulled from English by the police, and taken to the principal's office, and sat down. He told you that a load of photos and two videos had been leaked from an anonymous account. Nudes, two sex tapes. You didn’t even know the videos existed. It was all over Instagram, and even a couple of porn sites. 

You didn’t even know. Not until that moment. No one mentioned it, they just gave you funny looks. It all made sense. Your dad came in, they explained it all to him. They traced it to Tyler’s phone, and your dad chose to press charges.

You saw Tyler a couple of times, in huge, explosive fights outside his house. The case was days away from success, days from him being sued, an agreement saying he’d never be able to share them. Then, your mom came back. It had been almost a month, but she came back, taking almost every penny your dad owned.

Unable to afford the lawyer as well as the moving fees, the case fell through. You only found out about the move the next day, talks of it having been circulating for a few weeks. You had three days, and in those days, all of your friends fell out with you, deciding you had chosen to hide it, not believing that you hadn’t known. Your only ally was Cassie. 

You moved, and then, you met JJ.

--

JJ’s eyes were glittering, shining, with fury. He was hurt at the idea that someone would hurt you like that. He wanted to hit something, but given your vulnerable state, tried to remain calm. You nestled into him, breathing sporadic as you processed the fact that you had said it out loud. He ran his hand over the bare skin under your borrowed top, an act of comfort that spoke the thousands of words he didn’t know how to say. The air felt thick with tragedy, hanging over the pair of you like a suffocating blanket. 

The night was raw, painful. Wounds that were hardly healed were torn open, twice as big, exposed, hurtful. Both of you, teenagers who’d been through more than any teenager should have, hurting. You didn’t move for a long time, the comfortable silence consuming you. His breathing was slow, resting. He slipped into a well-deserved slumber, as you listened to his heartbeat. You realised that you felt something for him. You’d never felt it before, not even with Tyler. You felt your heart swell when you thought about him, and contract painfully when you thought about his hurt. You decided you would protect the boy until the day you died, because God knows he needed it. 

Always the protector, helper, giver. He deserved to be protected. He deserved more than what he had, more than you could offer, but it didn’t matter, because as long as you were able to, you’d try and be what he needed, deserved, wanted. It came out as a whisper, breaking the long, peaceful silence. Rough and straightforward, plain and forward, but full of meaning. Full of the emotions you’d hidden from him, the thoughts that plagued you at night, the words you’d tried to push down for weeks now.

“I love you.”

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