#also I spent way too much time vomiting out this post when I meant to be doing...many other things

[mooncalfe-art]

This isn’t IDW related— I noticed you said Mirage is your favorite version of the turtles, and Mirage is my favorite version of the turtles as well. I’ve made a comprehensive document describing the (in my opinion) best way to read Mirage TMNT, and I’m currently writing a long ass analysis that goes over the turtles’ characterization in Mirage. So, you know, clearly I like it a lot and have spent a lot of time thinking about it. You saying that volume 4 is one of your favorites made me curious and I had to ask, do you view volume 4’s characterization of the turtles any different than volume 1? 30 years have passed, so obviously they Fe different, but I mean. I enjoyed volume 4 but seeing how he reacted to Seri’s assumed betrayal, even though the woman he saw wasn’t really Seri… it made me sad. It also seems to me that volume 4 also has a… unique way of characterizing the Mirage turtles. It’s more reminiscent of post 90s characterization of the turtles (post 87 show, post 90s trilogy, and post TMNT Adventures by Archie) when compared to early Mirage. Not quite as suited for kids, obviously, but slight detours in their characters. There are also some sources (like the 30th anniversary TMNT celebration, Peter Laird’s blog, and the bonus #24 and #25 issues of the original Image volume 3 run) that imply that volume 4 is separate from the first two volumes. I bring this up because I love Mirage a ton and it’s the small details that have me questioning things, and I don’t have a lot of people else to talk about Mirage to. BUT ANYWAY, yeah, I guess I’m just asking about your opinions so I can compare them to mine. I wrote a lot LOL I just am very passionate about Mirage, sorry for word vomiting all over your ask box.

Ooh, your analysis stuff sounds really cool. Volume 4's Turtles are definitely different than volume 1, like you said it had been a long time since volume 1, Peter and Jim were older, Kevin wasn't involved, the whole dynamic was different than it was back in the day. Peter's writing has always been a bit more pulpy and mellow and I think volume 4 is him spreading his wings so to speak, so that has something to do with it too. I haven't read volume 4 in years but I used to also chalk it up to the Turtles being 15 years older than they were in volume 1, they're 30 years old during volume 4, that's a huge time for them to change as people and mellow out.

I don't think I've seen the blog posts you mention where Peter implies volume 4 is separate from the other volumes, that's interesting. I'd always thought it was meant to be a direct follow-up (along with Tales volume 2) and there's so much in it that directly ties into stuff from the old issues... I'd have to take a look at those instances you mention! Interesting, in any case.

I appreciate the message, no worries about the word vomit! ;)

[broken-clover]

20- Wonder

In another bizarre coincidence, I promise that I didn't know Super Mario Wonder was supposed to release today, the fact that this ended up the way that it did baffles me too. I did consider making this one Mario-centric to fit with the theme but admittedly I'm not super confident writing things for the mainline Mario series so I ultimately didn't go with that route.

Instead, I continue to dig around in my bag of weird fandom. I wanted to do something with The Suicide Squad because it's one of the few superhero movies I genuinely enjoy rewatching. How's that post go about seeing a character and knowing they're basically designed for you? Because that's pretty much Polka Dot Man for me. I'm still mad about it.

Content warnings for suicidal ideation, pretty much the same as canon. There is also a bit of alcohol and vomiting. I promise this does get happy, it's just that this is an R-rated movie full of fucked up characters

-

Corto Maltese was a beautiful place. The more time he spent on it, the more obvious that became. And the more obvious it became, the more he desperately tried to loathe it. Because he wasn’t supposed to have even made it that far.

Sheltered and stupid were two different things. Mother might have done her best to keep them all under as tight a watch as possible, but it hadn’t left Abner naive. The mortal dangers of Task Force X weren’t hypothetical. Most of them were fully expected to die and any survivors were just going to be tossed back into another, equally dangerous deathmarch later. It was exactly why he’d signed up in the first place. Of course he wasn’t going to make it out alive, he couldn’t even if he wanted to. It would be much faster than placing his hopes on a prison riot or slowly waiting for his disease to do its job.

Unfortunately, several things were getting in the way of his death wish. If there was one thing in the world he feared more than anything, it was being a disappointment. Being a disappointment was simply asking for mother and her friends to strap you down on the worktable until she found a way to fix it, to make it all better. If he so much as thought about abandoning the mission, mother’s face swam before him with a scowl. It could have been so easy, just run away until Waller decided it was too much and had the bomb in his neck detonated. It wouldn’t have even hurt. The thought of being a disappointment would have hurt more than any physical injury ever could.

Beyond that, it seemed his team- team, what an odd word for a group that could barely stand each other- were almost as lopsided in the head as he was. Nobody liked him, obviously, but they were often too busy bickering or getting distracted with their own business to hate him enough to just kill him and save them all a lot of trouble. Bloodsport and Peacemaker especially, those two had seemed so promising, but their constant bickering meant neither of them had even attempted to shoot him yet. King Shark wasn’t out of the question, but things weren’t looking too good on that front, either.

And, thirdly…the longer he was someplace beyond the sterile walls of S.T.A.R. labs or the high concrete walls of Belle Reve, the more he had started feeling emotions other than deep, all-consuming dread.

It frightened him. There was safety in being certain, even if that certainty was that nothing would ever get better. That he would never be anything more than a lab rat or a pawn to push around. Hadn’t he been tormented enough? What had he done to deserve it? Why did the universe have to torture him with hope?

It had been such a small thing at first, tumbling over itself to become an avalanching snowball. All he had done was his usual nighttime routine, expelling the dots that had built up across the day before they started to burn under his skin. When he’d sat back on his haunches after nearly puking his guts out, the nearby greenery had caught his sight. It was so mundane, so normal-looking, so…lovely. Vibrant, waxy green leaves that shone even in the dim light. Nothing like polished metal or unbending stone. In a moment of weakness, he’d allowed himself to touch it, and a sparkle of awe settled itself in his chest as his fingers traced the swooping branches.

He kept trying to step on it, but that little twinkle just wouldn’t die. More distractions kept getting in the way. More little things that stuck out to him. The bugs that hovered around the lights at night. The distant sound of water lapping against the island shore. Music floating out from the radios at Soria’s camp. The rough yet strangely cozy texture of the seats in Milton’s van.

While the others conversed through the ride to the bar, Abner watched the city go by from the bus windows. So many people doing their mundane little tasks up and down the streets. He wondered what it felt like. If he would ever get the chance to do something so simple.

(Why would he even ask that? Why would he entertain the thought that he ever would? Why, for even just a second, did he hope…?)

The ruckus inside the building hurt unlike anything else ever had. It compelled him. Likewise for the tiny glass of alcohol that Peacemaker had ordered for everyone at the table. He knew what alcohol was, but had never tried it for himself. People seemed awful fond of it, though, so he expected it had to be interesting.

Oh.

Horrible. It was horrible!

How fantastic!

It stank, like the bodies around him did. It burned as it went down his throat. Ratcatcher 2 offered him her unfinished shot, and he took it. Someone else slid him a new, full one. He drank and drank until whoever it was finally stopped putting more alcohol in front of him. Which was well enough, because his vision had started to go fuzzy, and it would have been a struggle to hold the glass without dropping it.

They were supposed to be keeping an eye out for Grieves, but the longer the night went on, the more they started to get distracted by the goings-on. Flagg was flirting with somebody across the way, and Peacemaker and Ratcatcher 2 had gotten up to join the crowd on the dance floor. Abner had joined them briefly upon the latter’s insistence, but quickly grew too dizzy from all the lights and spinning and excused himself.

At some point, after a long, slow blink, he’d opened his eyes to find himself with his knees pressing against tile and his head dangling above a toilet. He contemplated the situation momentarily before his stomach decided to empty itself. Thankfully, there were only a few glowing dots mixed into the bile and secondhand alcohol, enough to fizzle but not to eat right through the bowl.

It was a small relief, as he immediately puked again. Alright. Alcohol wasn’t quite as fun as people made it look.

Something behind him squeaked, in the high-pitched way animals did. Sure enough, when he had enough energy to turn his head and not immediately get Dizzy again, a rat had scuttled under the stall door to stare at him.

“Huh?” He squinted through the blurry vision. He recognized this one, didn’t he?

Something knocked on the bathroom door thrice, then it squealed open. “Abner? Are you in here?”

“Rat-” he coughed on his own spit. “Ratcatcher 2? Wuh- why are you here? Isn’t this the men’s room?”

“Sebastian said you got stuck. The others were busy, so I thought I should check to make sure you were okay.”

It was bizarre to consider. Someone cared enough to do that?

He let the rat crawl up his back to unlatch the swinging door. The girl approached him, and the look of concern on her face was as genuine as her tone. “Are you alright?” She asked, brow furrowing. “You don’t look too good. Should I get Robert?”

Abner grinned, looking like death warmed over yet never feeling more alive. “I'm just wonderful.”

That little sparkle wasn’t going to die anytime soon, not like this. But more and more of him was starting to be okay with that.

[sshbpodcast]

Bottom Five Star Trek VOY Episodes

by Ames

Star Trek: Voyager gets a lot of flak for not always capitalizing on its unique circumstance, as a show about a cumulative journey meant to take a lot of time. Some of that is the episodic nature of the show: audiences needed to be able to tune in randomly and not feel as lost as the crew were. But some bad episodes just had no excuse. And you’ll see a lot of that in A Star to Steer Her By’s picks for worst episodes of the show. 

We’ll miss all our Delta Quadrant friends, enemies, and alien races, sure. We’ll miss the ship and the crew. But there’s also a lot that we won’t miss, as there were a good deal of missed opportunities, clunkers, and just plain offensive episodes along the way. Good riddance to those! Scroll on to see what we mean in our bottom five episodes of Voyager below, and/or listen to our coverage over on the podcast (series review starts at 1:29:20) with some audio-exclusive picks from guest star Liz! It’s finally time to self destruct this ship.

[images © CBS/Paramount]

“The Fight”: Ames I’m pretty clear on my stance on dream sequence episodes, but for those of you sitting in the back: I hate them. They’re contrived, they’re convenient, they’re too literal. Just ugh all around. Which is a shame because there’s something in this episode that could have been interesting for Chakotay to do for a change, but it got lost somewhere in boxing metaphors and some Native American spiritualism. Talk about a bad dream!

“Tattoo”: Chris Speaking of Native American spiritualism, this episode is just plain uncomfortable and it all comes down to the one line of dialogue that goes too far: “Forty five thousand years ago, on our first visit to your world, we met a small group of nomadic hunters. They had no spoken language, no culture, except the use of fire and stone weapons.” Oh writers, you done screwed up to imply that the only reason Native Americans have culture is because aliens. A-koo-chee-moh-no.

“Alice”: Caitlin Caitlin surprised us a couple times in her series picks by opting for episodes she hadn’t even included in her season-by-season lists! So welcome, “Alice,” to the bottoms list. The femme fatale ship was just too tropey and icky and really brought Tom’s character down a few pegs. It’s episodes like this that make us wonder how on earth Torres stayed with him throughout the show.

“Ex Post Facto”: Jake Tom did some more suffering in this early-seasons dud of an episode. We’ve seen Star Trek do film noir to a slightly better effect in something like DS9’s “Necessary Evil,” but this one just whiffs hard at the style. It doesn’t help that the Baneans’ hair feathers are distracting as hell and that the conclusion that the damn dog helps solve stretches credulity to its very limits. Have the writers never met a dog before?

“Concerning Flight”: Caitlin You’d think John Rhys-Davies playing Leonardo da Vinci would elevate an episode to something greater, but somehow this baffling episode proved to be a waste of time. We spent most of it confused by pretty much everyone’s motivations. Why did Tau keep da Vinci around? How did da Vinci not notice anything was out of the ordinary on this planet? Does the sun always set in the same place on this planet? Who knows!

“Body and Soul”: Ames I’ve clumped a bunch of really gross, sexist episodes together if only to rile myself up because I hate these kinds of episodes so much. But how can one not get riled up when Seven tells the Doctor that he violated her and his response is to blame her? What should be a fun romp watching Jeri Ryan get to pretend to be another character is horribly tainted by that “she was asking for it” attitude. And then for Seven to be the one to apologize while the Doctor never sees what he did was wrong: VOMIT!

“Retrospect”: Chris Oh look, more violating Seven of Nine! This show really couldn’t help itself sometimes. What else was there to do when you had an attractive woman on the cast but to exploit her? If this episode was trying to debunk false memories, it failed hard by making it about a violation of a woman character because then the only thing you can see is the allegory for fake rape allegations, and that is not the message you want to send. Plus the doctor suddenly peddling pseudoscience is just nonsense.

“Blood Fever”: Ames Here’s another gross sexual act that I’ve never been quite okay with. Pon farr as a plot device was fine enough in “Amok Time.” Weird and kind of illogical, but fine. But when Vorik goes and sexually assaults Torres and everyone tries to sweep it under the rug because it’s some weird Vulcan bullshit, that’s not fine. And when Tom makes it clear that it would not be consensual for him and Torres to bang it out but Tuvok insists they do, I am all the more disgusted. No means no, Vulcans!

“Sacred Ground”: Ames, Jake We’ve got some overlap in our remaining bottom picks, starting with this absolutely nonsensical debate between science and faith that just boils down to: believe everything you’re told without questioning it and maybe magic is real. There’s a reason this franchise usually shies away from addressing religion in this kind of way. It’s one thing for a character (or a person in real life!) to have faith; it’s quite another for miracles to just happen for plot convenience (unless you’re part wormhole alien or something).

“11:59”: Caitlin, Chris, Jake The hatred for Henry Janeway is strong in this room (though that might be because Chris skews the curve a bit). But he’s just a wet blanket of a character who’s just taking his son and his whole damn town down to his level through sheer obstinance. Add to that the fact that he seriously has no chemistry with Shannon – like really, he could be her father – and you’ve got a massive clunker of an episode on your hands.

“Fury”: Caitlin, Chris, Jake The series as a whole wasted Kes as a character, which was quite the shame to watch, but the one thing it did do was give her a poignant and powerful farewell in “The Gift.” But Voyager can giveth and Voyager can taketh away, and this return of Jennifer Lien as the hardened, hellbent, furious Kes basically attempts to ruin her character. This was not the Kes we knew and loved, and damned if we even understand how she got there. How dare they do this to our sweeting!

“Elogium”: Ames, Caitlin, Chris, Jake Finally, the one we all agree on is some other weird sex claptrap. The Vulcans may have their pon farr (which I hate enough on its own), but the Ocampa have elogium, which somehow makes even less sense! Biology aside (blegh), the rest of the episode is confused in its messaging: these are people who are not ready for a baby, but instead of really exploring what that means for them, we’re stuck with this weird Ocampan heat thing. This whole episode has lost its sex appeal!

—

See also: our Top Five Star Trek VOY Episodes list! And why not: here’re all the seasonal tops and bottoms from seasons 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7!

We’ll still miss the Voyager and her plucky crew of misfits… just not when they were being racist or misogynist for no reason. And while I’d love to say we’re glad all those bad episodes are over, there’s always more bad ideas to go around. Let’s see how our next show in the rotation compares as we prepare ourselves for our next watchthrough: Star Trek: Enterprise! We’d love for you to watch along with us on SoundCloud or whatever podcast platform is your favorite, to hang out with us on Facebook and Twitter, and to really brace yourself because we know more pon farr action is on the way. Ew.

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

man, I just kind of...I don’t know how to find a place to fit in the Loki fandom anymore. I mean I probably haven’t for a while, at least since things exploded over Ragnarok, but a lot of the same stuff is heating up again because of the show, and it’s like--

there’s this idea in some circles, right, that either you like pre-Ragnarok Loki and see Ragnarok (and probably the show, based on the trailers) as an awful retcon, or that you like Ragnarok Loki and don’t care all that much about the previous movies. it’s deeply polarizing--people seem to either love it or hate it, without much in between, and people who like it think the anti-Ragnarok people are whiny entitled fans who are determined to be negative, and people who hate it think pro-Ragnarok people are shallow fans who don’t actually care about continuity, characterization, emotional development, or really anything but spectacle and cheap laughs.

and the same general attitudes are extending to the show. people who like what we’ve seen so far, or are just excited to be getting more Loki, sometimes go out of their way to mock people who have doubts or act like it’s pathetic and unhealthy to be anything but 100% excited. and people who have doubts assume the excited fans are casual viewers, and sometimes add negative stuff to reblogs of neutral or positive posts, which can be pretty demoralizing especially for, say, somebody who wants to like it but does have some concerns.

it feels like you have to choose, and it’s just...weird and uncomfortable because I don’t want to choose, that’s the whole point, I’ve been a fan since the very first Thor movie and I’ve seen discourse about every single Loki-related movie since, and there have been things I’ve liked and disliked in all of them. I agree with many criticisms of Ragnarok! but I also get real uncomfortable real fast around people who primarily dislike Ragnarok because I do see throughlines in characterization, in part because I’m always happiest making the effort to reconcile new and old canon, and most of my favorite fics have done a good job of expanding on that and accepting these characters as the same ones we loved before. and I don’t want to argue because I never want to get yelled at, and I’m old and tired, and I don’t have the energy to argue, so I keep being uncomfortable and feel like I can’t say anything. and on the other side of things I don’t think I know anyone who only likes Ragnarok, actually, but feeling like you can’t say anything negative or you’ll be yelled at for whining is...also really weird?? especially if, say, your main criticisms are for IW/Endgame, and explaining why those featured some immensely bad writing gets you labeled a whiny entitled fan who’s throwing a fit because they didn’t get exactly what they wanted??

I liked all the actual Loki-related movies (which for me doesn’t include Endgame at all and only partly includes IW, both for lack of screentime), generally speaking! I also rely heavily on fic to fill in things the movies didn’t care about! I mostly loved Loki’s characterization in IW but hated it for pointlessly killing him off so fast in a way that really didn’t make sense, and I mostly hated Endgame for a whole bunch of reasons and only a couple of those reasons involved Loki! I have reservations about the show but I’m also excited to be getting more Loki, and I do see moments in the trailers that remind me a lot of moments from pre-Ragnarok movies, and I’m at least hopeful that what we end up getting will be more good than bad! and it’s really weird and uncomfortable that all these fucking middle-of-the-road opinions make me feel wrong everywhere and too nervous to join most discussions or say much of anything because there’s a very good chance I’ll get mocked, mischaracterized, or yelled at!

I don’t know where I’m trying to go with this, it’s just frustrating because it feels like everybody has to choose one side or the other and I don’t want to, so instead I end up feeling like I don’t really belong anywhere, especially when a lot of people who also seemed to have pretty balanced opinions have moved on to something else or are in the process of doing so. it’s...kinda lonely, you know?

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

Part 1 of ?????

Started writing this fic a while ago and then lost faith in it. Should I continue? Feel bad for not posting much lately so I thought I'd share this. Read on and weigh in.

COME OUT TONIGHT

NO

You don't have to fucking shout?

Said the pot to the kettle?

Oh you grandmother The caps were an accidental by-product of voice-to-text Blame Siri if you're going to blame anyone

You have a Samsung Galaxy S20.

HAD. It got smashed. Worst luck. Listen, come out with me tonight.

Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh I'm tired!

https://www.boots.com/wellness/vitaminsandsupplements/vitamins-supplements-shop-by-ingredient/echinacea

Hah (indifferent)

Just come out with me! Isaac has to go see some godawful student performance of the Antigone in wherever the fuck Chichester is and it's Sirius's flatmate's birthday party so I have to go and I don't know any of his weird mates

You don't HAVE to go.

Have to/want to Semantics

I'm not in a birthday party mood. I'm having a stressful week. My arse has been tense since Tuesday.

I will wade into the deep and massage your arse if I have to, just come It's a swank pad in Belgravia! I bet they'll have all sorts of expensive nibbles!

I read that as expensive nipples.

Those too!

Partying it up with the children of wealthy Tories. Sounds super fun.

Just come out with me, for fuck I'll pick you up at 7 and we can steal their silverware if it's boring as the grave

URGH I'll go but I'm NOT dressing up!

You don't have to dress up!

FINE!

*

take the drawings down please i'm begging you i'm actually begging you

Nah mate

siriusssssssss pleeeeeease

Nah

PLEASE

Nah

PLEASE ffs it's MY birthday!!!! there are going to be PEOPLE there! standing around! AT EYE LEVEL

I don't see what the problem is.

EVERYONE will see what the problem is! they literally will not be able to IGNORE what the problem is!

Sounds like a recipe for lively discussion to me tbh

that is NOT what i want people talking about at my birthday!

If I take them down, I'll have to take all the nails out and that'll leave nail marks all over the walls. It would be unsightly.

MORE UNSIGHTLY THAN YOUR DICK, SIRIUS?

My dick is bewitching.

DIE

*

She walks in expecting to find herself the infiltrator of a Made in Chelsea/Royal Ascot/Henley Regatta netherworld, filled with a gaggle of giggling, SW-postcode socialites wielding suspiciously powder-edged Harrods Amex cards in the place of horses and boats, but that's not what actually greets her on the other side of the lacquered front door.

What greets her is really quite ordinary.

Aside from the naked drawings of Kingsley's mate, which aren't.

Otherwise, the whole affair is pretty relaxed. People her age are clustered in their small groups, swigging beers. There's a table of oven-heated party foods, salty snacks and rapidly depleting ramekins of guac. She spies more band shirts than there are dress shirts. There's a round of Fortnite in full swing on the TV.

It's all just...startlingly normal. A normal birthday party.

And that's sort of embarrassing, really.

Where are all the visible Tory toffs, she wonders? Where is the braying laughter? The Eton alumni reunion? The glimpse of hunting-happy tweed and shotgun barrels as a coat cupboard door swings shut? Where's the indelible air of sneering superiority, of "we're richer and more privileged and better than you, so fuck the NHS and death to foxes!" that she'd been expecting? There's a fucking Henry Hoover in the corner of the hall, for Christ's sake. Lily came here to smile through her teeth at them all, to listen to the champagne problems privilege that bubbled from their lips and tell herself that she was the one who knew better, who thought better. Her plain white tee and skinny jeans and scuff-toed, high-top trainers were supposed to be a statement, a subtle setting-apart, but she's not even the most underdressed person in the room.

She pre-judged a house full of people. What's that about?

There's a lesson to be found in this. Perhaps.

*

James covered all of the dicks in Paw Patrol stickers that he bought from the newsagent on his way home from his mum's, but Sirius peeled them all off while he was taking a soothing lavender bath, so what's the bloody point in birthdays anyway?

It's early in the evening, and he's wedged—against his will—between the dining room bar and Shane Ruttle, who has just pointed at one of the many lamentable dicks and asked, "Is this one of yours?" which James kind of wants to thump him for. It's bad enough that he looks like a madman who stuffed his house with naked drawings of his brother, now people are actually assuming that he drew the damn things, even though most of the compositions are appallingly far beneath his skill level. He's a professional illustrator, for the love of god, and Shane is really standing before him like the posturing prick he is, asking him if he's the one who drew Sirius with one arm disproportionately longer than the other.

He knows that he should cheer up.

It is his birthday. There is cake.

Good cake, too, not the kind that gets buried in too-thick fondant that he has to pick off before he can eat what's underneath.

The problem is, there's also a party, and his friends are his friends, Peter and Sirius included, and Peter and Sirius can both get drunk much faster than James can. When Peter and Sirius get drunk, serious injuries tend to follow, Remus tends to fuck off in a flash and James tends to be the one who calls for an ambulance or mothers them back to health—physical, mental or otherwise. He has just turned twenty-six, and these repeated, drunkenly dramatic medical emergency scenes are starting to wear a little thin.

Can't a man get comfortably drunk and have a laugh at his own birthday party?

No, he can't, because Peter's already halfway to trashed, wobbling unsteadily towards the French doors that lead to the terrace, wearing that look on his face that says I'm definitely going to vomit or maybe even shit myself like I did on that one night we all spent in Munich with the Belgian handball team and the creepy tour guide who couldn't keep his sleazy hands to himself. For the sake of sparing the lawn such a punishment, James hastily removes himself from Shane, grabs Peter by the collar, shoves him in the direction of the downstairs loo and retreats to the safety of the living room, where there are, at least, no naked drawings of Sirius gracing the walls.

Most of the people in here are transfixed by Saffy Stephens, who is down to the last three in her Fortnite game and cursing like a sailor, but there are a small pile of birthday cards on the end table where James and Sirius normally keep their keys. He perches on the sofa arm, sets his half-drunk beer bottle on the carpet, pushes his dark, disheveled hair away from his forehead and begins leafing through them. It's a necessity when one lives with Sirius, who thinks nothing of swiping gift cards when the mood strikes him and he's had enough to drink.

They're mostly from his female friends, and all pretty standard, until he reaches the middle of the pile and finds a card bearing a picture of a moustached tabby and the caption: Have a Purr-fect Birthday!

The inscription inside is written in a lovely, swirling hand.

To Jasper/Jack/Jason/maybe Ja Rule?/J-something idk

(see above: everything I've learned about you from the friend* I came here with, verbatim)

(*who can't remember your name)

Happy Birthday! Thank you for (not) specifically inviting me, a stranger, to your party to celebrate this momentous event in your life. Please enjoy this festive card/social nicety/convention from me to you. My friend brought rum which you may prefer.

I'll be around. Not that you'll know.

LE

James lowers the card and twists on the sofa arm at once, eyes darting around the room in search of its author, as if they might be laying in wait to watch him read it and see how he reacts. Nobody appears to have ducked behind the couch, however, so the situation merits further scrutiny.

Obviously, he needs to meet this person.

A mystery! At his birthday party!

He perks right up after that.

*

She's coming out of the downstairs loo when a short, blonde man in a garish Hawaiian shirt barrels past her and pukes all over the chequerboard tiled floor, narrowly missing her jeans.

"Oh no," he moans into his wet hands. "Oh no—"

"There there, mate," says Lily consolingly, never one to judge somebody for getting drunk early at a party. She pats him on the back before squeezing past him and rejoining Kingsley, who is standing in one of this meandering Georgian house's many hallways, chatting to a bloke in a houndstooth sweater vest and holding two glasses of something very, very sparkly that she must try at once.

"It's like...it's like everything and nothing at the same time," Houndstooth Bloke is saying when Lily draws close, gesturing to a huge canvas painting of a rain-soaked fairground at night.

"Is it?" Kingsley asks.

"Mmm. Very." Houndstooth shakes his shoulders like he's slipping out of a robe. "Meant to be esoteric, I suppose."

That sounds suspiciously like pretentious bullshit to Lily, who doesn't find the concept of a merry looking fairground all that difficult to absorb. Kingsley knows more about the art world than she does, but he must agree with her assessment because he grunts and shoves her glass into her hand when she stops beside him, and more roughly than she deserves, as if she's the one who landed him in this mess of a conversation to begin with.

Trust him to find himself stuck with the only dick (not etched by a 4B Steadtler graphite pencil) in the building, and trust her to be stuck with the person who got himself stuck with King.

"What are we talking about?" she asks brightly, just to fuck with him.

"Drink your champagne, there's a good little hen," King mutters, his teeth clenched together, hallway lights bouncing off the smoothly waxed dome of his bald head.

"We've been discussing this piece." Houndstooth nods to the painting, but his limpid eyes narrow on Lily's face. "Christ, you're very redheaded, aren't you?"

It's decided. She'll wait 'til Houndstooth is drunk and trip him up with Henry Hoover's hose.

"Ergo soulless, yes," she agrees.

"And you...enjoy that?" he asks, as if being redheaded is her profession.

"Very much, thanks."

"Hmmp. Well. I came here with Saffron," he announces, pronouncing it Sef-ron. As if Lily is supposed to know who that is. "Platonically, of course. Actually, we're some sort of cousins, I think. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"

He's very pointedly asking her, so Lily blinks at the painting, her eyes on the outstretched arm of a child on the carousel.

"I like the pretty colours," she decides aloud.

"Right," says Houndstooth, "but that's not—"

"And the lights, too. The lights are really pretty."

"But—"

"I love funfairs, actually," she brightly continues, finding a strange satisfaction in playing dumb in front of Houndstooth and his overbleached fade. Although she does really like the colours. "Haven't been to one in years!"

"Yes, good, whatever, but what is the artist trying to convey?"

"What artist?" comes a voice from behind them.

Lily glances over her shoulder and finds herself looking up at the man whose penis she's spent the past thirty minutes avoiding eye contact with, though he is taller, better proportioned and infinitely more beautiful than any of those crudely drawn depictions could possibly convey. He is also beplumed and bejewelled like a pirate, wearing a sumptuous velvet jacket over a loose white shirt, numerous rings on his fingers and an assortment of silver chains around his slender neck, while his grey eyes and elegantly high-set cheekbones are framed by a tumble of black hair that genuinely looks like silk.

The man is so beautiful, in fact, that Lily immediately wonders why he's been taking sketches home from the life drawing class that he and Kingsley pose for—hence their acquaintance and Lily's presence at this party—when nothing she's seen tonight has done him any justice.

Most happily, his penis is tucked safely out of sight.

"Alright, Sirius?" says King.

"Alright, Marvel?" Sirius claps a hand to the taller man's massive shoulder. Kingley's muscles bulge in a way that cannot be hidden by modern habiliments. "What are we talking about?"

"Not much." Houndstooth looks put out by the arrival of yet another person. "We were just mesmerised by this piece."

Lily refrains from gesturing to the painting with both hands and a "ta-dah!" choosing instead to sip her champagne.

It's very good champagne. Mmm. Yes.

"Oh, yeah, it's really something," Sirius agrees. He brushes past Kingsley and runs a finger over the illegible squiggle of a signature on the canvas. His nails are beautifully manicured. "Local guy, young up-and-comer. I assume you've heard of Algernon?" he asks Houndstooth, fixing him with a steely-eyed stare.

"Er, yes." Houndstooth's gaze slides from Sirius to the painting. "I know him."

Sirius's eyebrows lift. "Know him personally?"

"Well—"

"That's so weird, I heard he never speaks to people."

Houndstooth chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the challenge. "How…funny."

"Funny?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I know I've spoken to him before, and since you've bought his painting I assumed that you'd have—"

"That is funny, actually," Sirius interrupts, "because the artist is my brother, and Algernon is the name of his cat."

Kingsley has been tugging on his earring and almost rips it out of his ear as his body convulses, champagne spraying from his nostrils, while an alarming red flush sweeps across Houndstooth's face and he begins to sputter on his own self-importance. Sirius has clearly decided that he's done with all of that noise, however, because he turns back to Lily instead, looking her up and down with great and sudden interest.

"Who's this then?" he asks Kingsley, cocking his head to one side. "James's present?"

The champagne glass swings down and Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. "Excuse me?"

Sirius slants a grin at Kingsley, a quick flash of teeth. "This one's queenly, isn't she?"

Kingsley wipes his nose with the back of his hand and laughs again. "Hardly."

"This is Primark, mate," Lily retorts, tugging on her t-shirt.

"Queenliness is a state of mind," says Sirius, "not a state of wardrobe."

"You had me marked down as a prostitute not ten seconds ago."

"Oh, that. I was only joking," he sighs, and grips her arm at the elbow, his long fingers cool against her skin. "But still, you're far too attractive to stand here talking to this clown. Come with me and I'll find you someone better."

*

James's friends are useless.

And drunk. Useless and drunk—or sort of drunk, in Saffy's case. Remus is certainly already pissed, but Remus is on meds so often that he drinks but once in a blue moon. One cocktail is usually enough to set him off, and he's been hard at the gin since he turned up with Peter at six.

"I don't know anyone with those initials," Saffy declares, once she has read, examined and even sniffed the birthday card for clues. "Except for Lisa Edelstein."

"Who's Lisa Edelstein?"

"Cuddy from House," says Remus, lowering the negroni from which he has been drinking deeply.

James pulls a face. "What the fuck is a Cuddy?"

"Oh, actually, it could mean le?" Remus suggests.

"Yes!" Saffy points at him like he might be onto something. "Like the French word for the?"

"Exactly, like—"

"It doesn't mean that!" James interrupts, unwilling to allow such profanity in his home. "That doesn't make sense, why would somebody sign their name as the?"

"Now you're asking me to explain how French people think?" says Saffy derisively, adjusting her bra strap beneath that burnt orange waistcoat she loves, the one that makes her look like she's directing a pornographic movie in the 70s when she pairs it with her tortoiseshell-framed aviators. It clashes wildly with her electric blue buzz-cut. "Am nooooo drunk enough for that."

"They could be one of those one word moniker pop stars, I suppose," Remus pipes up, smiling slyly. "You know, like Madonna?"

They think James doesn't realise that they're taking the piss out of him, but neither of them are sober enough to attempt their gambit with any kind of subtlety or grace.

"You know that's actually her real Christian name?" says Saffy.

Remus turns towards her with interest. "What, Madonna?"

"Yeah!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Saffy repeats. "I thought it couldn't possibly be her real name because, I mean, Madonna, yeah? But then I looked it up and apparently that's the name her mummy gave her, just goes to show—"

"I'm sorry," James interrupts, "but is Madonna relevant to this conversation?"

"Yes, always," says Saffy.

"She's an international pop megastar," Remus seconds.

James stares at his friend incredulously. "Drinking really chips away at your wit, y'know?"

"Does it?" Remus grins lazily and jiggles his cocktail in the air. "Oh, well, I'm negronly joking."

Saffy does a spit-take without the spit and clings helplessly to Remus's shoulder as she laughs, knees buckling, bangles tinkling, but James fights his own urge to start snickering.

"It's not that funny," he lies, and Remus eyes him with an alarmingly teacher-like shrewdness, despite the tellingly intoxicated flush that has crept into his thin, freckled face.

James's love of puns is tragically well known.

"You didn't get it." Remus points at his drink. His speech is starting to slur. "This is a negroni, what I said was—"

"Yeah, I got that part, I just—"

"Jesus fuck, look at her!" Saffy suddenly hisses, staggering sideways into Remus and sending him into the wall in a flurry of giggles—Remus giggling?—her voice hushed and urgent. "Who the hell is that?!"

James does look, following the direction of Saffy's gaze. Sirius has just entered the living room, casually clutching the elbow of a……

……goddess.

An actual. Like. Goddess.

A goddess. In James's house. In his living room. In the place where he eats his chocolate boulder cereal and rewatches Scrubs (even season 9, which is hilarious, and very unfairly disparaged by Joe Public) on Saturday mornings.

She's a goddess. A real one, and cleverly disguised as a mortal, sure, with her slouchy white t-shirt and her big hoop earrings and her light blue jeans that are torn at the knees, wearing her shoulder-length red hair half up, half down and slightly messy, but that doesn't hide what she is.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. His heart is pounding all of a sudden, which is so...utterly bloody stupid, but Saffy's right, bloody look at her, Jesus fuck.

"Surely she can't be with Sirius?" Saffy murmurs back.

"No, she—" He watches Sirius lean down to mutter something in the redhead's ear. A ghost of a laugh flits across her beautiful face. "She's not his—he isn't—"

"D'you think—"

"No, I—"

"Good," says Saffy firmly. She lets go of Remus and rises, lengthening her spine. It is a battle stance of some sort, presumably. "Because I saw her first."

"No!" James cries, wounded, and the redhead shoots him a curious look with a pair of eyes that are startlingly emerald green, even from all the bloody way over here. He spins to face Saffy and lowers his voice, face burning. "It's my house!"

"What are you arguing here, ownership rights?"

"No but it—it's my birthday!" James retorts, jabbing at his own chest. "And, actually, and—"

"It's in the bloody post!"

"—you didn't get me a present!" he finishes in triumph, not that he knows what he's arguing for, because the likelihood is that his tongue will glue itself to the roof of his mouth if he even dares to look in her direction one more time. "Plus I set you up with Vanya Petrich, with whom, as I recall, you enjoyed four years—"

"Stop throwing that in my face!"

"—four blissful years—"

"Is it my fault that you've never fancied any girl I've set you up with?!"

"—promised me an Easter ham for setting you up with her and I never got it—"

"So now you'll trade a woman for a ham?" Saffy accuses, though her face is too lit up, her brown eyes too crinkled at the corners—she's having fun with this and she isn't going to fool him and she knows it. "That's so low, even—"

"Don't start with that," James scathingly cuts in. "You offered me Sean Connery's autograph for Bonnie Grogan's number—"

"Which you never gave me!"

"Because you forged the bloody signature!"

"And now she's bloody married!"

"Yeah, well, Isabella wouldn't give me a counterfeit present, would she?" he retorts, and Saffy lets her shoulders drop, smirking. "This is pointless, Saf, we can't—"

"She's just left with Sirius," Remus informs them, and burps.

[angstyaches]

IRL holiday sickfic / aka Flick Teaches You A Lesson About Not Forgetting To Buy Sunscreen

CW: REAL LIFE mentions of sunburn, possible heatstroke and dehydration, feeling faint, panic attack, nausea, vomiting. Also, airports, airplanes, food, the sea, over-the-counter meds.

TLDR: my partner and I get horribly sunburned and are still very much dealing with it a week later. I throw up at the airport.

Note: I don’t usually post IRL stuff, and I’d appreciate it if there were no reblogs, please.

___

Monday

I spent all of Sunday night shivering as a reaction to some sunburn on my upper thighs, which had started out during a short morning sunbathe, and worsened in the afternoon as we’d been walking around the shopping district. I was possibly feeling unwell due to slight dehydration too. I suck at remembering to drink water, even in the heat. 

Despite my legs being on fire, I couldn't get warm, and around 6am when I heard my partner stirring, I begged him to spoon me so I could steal some of his heat. When we got up and started to get ready for the day, I had horrible cramps in my mid and lower stomach. My partner - from here, let’s just call him L - reckoned I might have had mild food poisoning from something we ate on Sunday. I sucked it up because it was our last full day before going home, and we had a trip planned. 

We had to get to our ferry.

On the way, we stopped at a convenience store and picked up some water and snacks to take with us, and even though we’d discussed it the night before, we forgot to buy sunscreen. 

It was a two-hour ride on a large ferry, which I’d originally worried would make me motion sick. Ironically, the trip didn't add to the sickness I was already feeling. I was actually in decent spirits by the time we got off the boat and took a rickety little bus to the beach we’d chosen to visit. 

There was a shack by the beach that sold a few drinks and food items, and much to my despair, they didn’t sell sunscreen. I was more than a little concerned how little was left in our current sunscreen bottle, and at this point, I was afraid that I was doing nothing but coming across as negative and whiny. My stomach was still hurting a bit too, and honestly, I was relieved that there were toilets relatively close to the beach.

L saw that I was really worried about the sunscreen situation, so we decided to rent out a big beach umbrella, so we’d at least have some shade to retreat into while we were on the beach. The guy who was renting them out was super friendly, and up-sold us into also renting snorkelling gear. He set up our umbrella for us and we used the little sunscreen we had to cover our faces, and I put some on the parts of my legs that were already burnt.

It turned out that the snorkelling gear was the right choice, because the water was so clear and there were so many fish. The island had a bunch of little coral reefs that you could swim over, and it was both of our first times snorkelling, so it’s safe to say we did that for the majority of the three hours we spent at that beach.

Which meant that our backs were in direct sunlight for a long time.

L isn’t a strong swimmer, and he gets nervous in open water, so he went back to the rental guys and grabbed a life vest, so a lot of his back was shielded, apart from his shoulders and around his waist.

We had the most amazing time, but there was only one ferry back to the main island, so we had to rush to get the bus back to the port. We weren’t in too much pain just yet; we were just hot, and our skin could tell we’d been out in the sun for too long. At the time, I’d thought it’d been just a little too long.

It was about 7:30pm (and, mercifully, dark out) by the time we were back at our hotel and had showered. All we'd eaten all day was a light breakfast, and a snack around 2pm. Neither of us were particularly hungry, but we knew we needed to eat, so we set out walking towards the main food/shopping street. Looking back, I think we - or I, at least - were running on adrenaline from all of the swimming.

We found a pharmacy along the way, so we could pick up some aloe vera gel. L suggested getting some ibuprofen for the pain/inflammation that was starting to set in for both of us. At the time, it was still mostly my thighs - where I’d been burned the day before - that were bothering me. 

We got in the queue to pay.

And whew.

I don't know if my medical anxiety was triggered from being around so many meds, or if it was the harsh lighting inside the pharmacy, or the pain was setting in, or if hunger and low blood sugar were hitting me, but I started feeling really, really horrible. And dizzy. Spacy. Almost like my soul was about to drift up out of my body.

I told L I didn't feel well, and he said it'd be okay, and that the ibuprofen would help. But my head was swimming and my vision was starting to blur, and my thoughts kept shifting between "I'm going to throw up" and "I'm going to pass out". All I wanted to do was sit down. I wanted to get the hell out of there. I didn't want to vomit on the floor of the pharmacy.

I could hear him telling me, “Flick*, if you’re going to pass out, don’t go outside”, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I didn’t want to collapse on the floor of the pharmacy, where people would then come and fuss over me and ask me questions in Japanese and possibly end up bringing me to a hospital. I was so frustrated and panicked because all I wanted to do was lie down, I knew lying down would help with this feeling so much, but I couldn’t just lie down on the sidewalk.

I sat down on the curb, ducking my head as low to my knees as I could. I glanced towards the pharmacy and I could see two junior high school boys staring at me from the aisles (Japan has these weird open-front pharmacies, especially near busy shopping areas, I’ve found), but I felt so horrible that I didn’t care. My vision was swimming, my hands were tingling, my breath didn’t feel like it was making it to my lungs.

L finished paying and came outside. The first thing he did was help me up. He told me I was having a panic attack, which I (now) think was spot-on, because the shortness of breath and the tingling in my limbs lined up with my usual attacks. He's good at spotting the signs at this point. He wasn’t even trying to tell me nothing else was wrong, just that the thing making me feel like I was dying was the panic attack.

The tingling got worse than it ever has, though, to the point where my hands went into claw-shapes that I couldn't break them out of. All of the gasping was drying my mouth and throat out, so I managed to tell him I needed water - of which I'd had shockingly little all day. Probably less than 200ml, despite spending most of the day in direct sunlight and swimming/walking around a lot.

We walked for a little while, and L popped two ibuprofen on the way (he’s crazy good at taking pills without water; I could never). He left me sitting against a bike rail and went into a convenience store to buy some water. He only left me for about a minute, but I was so scared that I was going to faint while he wasn’t there. When he came back out, I was dry-sobbing. 

L let me drink some water, held both my hands, and told me it was going to be okay, even though it didn't feel okay right then. One of the best things he tells me is that while it feels like something is really wrong, nothing bad is going to happen to me. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. In that moment, I hurt so much and felt so floaty and sick that I could only nod along complacently. I pitifully told him I didn’t think I could eat; the idea of heading to any of the restaurants we’d been talking about made me want to throw up. We decided to head back towards the hotel. He held my hand the whole way, and we went slowly so the movement wouldn't aggregate my burns.

I calmed down a bit, and we eventually came across a kebab shop that was only about five minutes away from our hotel. I knew he was hungry despite me being not, and the thought of sitting down in air conditioning was appealing, so we went in. I almost fell over my own feet taking off my shoes, and stepping up from the genkan was the first time I felt the creases in my lower back scream from being scorched. 

Agreeing that he’d eat my food if it came out and I couldn’t eat it, L ordered chicken kebab wraps for both of us, plus a plate of plain rice, and two cokes.

I just laid my head on the table the entire time we were waiting for our order, self-conscious of the fact that I looked and seemed drunk, but I was still at the point where I didn't really care. It hurt so much to curl forward, but having somewhere to rest my head felt so right. I managed to drink my coke when it came, but two bites of the veggies from the kebab made me want to die, so I gave that to L and just picked away at some of the rice. L ate everything else, and declared that he was feeling so much better, pain-wise, after taking the ibuprofen about twenty minutes before, so he gave me two to take with my coke. 

We both slept in a decent amount of pain that night, but the ibuprofen seemed to keep away the shivers that had hit me the night before, so that was something.

Tuesday

We had to get up and pack and get to the airport to come home.

We were both in so much pain as we got up and checked out. Luckily, getting a taxi to the airport was easy, and we took some more ibuprofen too. We decided we should eat before flying, since we would head straight for my car once we landed and would then have a two hour drive home. We ended up at A&W, where L ordered a burger, fries, and a muffin, and I got chilli cheese fries and a muffin. Besides the pain, I was feeling alright this morning, plus I was concerned about how little I'd eaten the day before. We finished our food and went to check in and drop off our suitcase.

And oh, boy, was the worst about to come. 

There was a long queue for the check-in desk, and about halfway in, I started getting a stinging/tingling pain in my cheeks and jaws. I told L that I was getting “stingy cheeks”. This happens to me a lot when I'm dehydrated, so L didn’t worry too much beyond sounding sympathetic. He said we'd go buy some water once we'd checked in. 

But then my head was swimming again, and my mouth was watering. I started leaning on the queue partitions whenever I could. Again, I started worrying that I seemed drunk, and although it occurred to me that they might not let me on the plane at all if they suspected I was inebriated, I couldn't compose myself fully. I think one of the main factors was how fucking raw my shoulders and back were, aggravated by the fact that I was carrying a very full backpack. 

We finally got to the front, and we had to hand over our boarding passes and let the agent know our basic info. She weighed our suitcase, asked if we'd packed it ourselves etc., and asked both of us to confirm our names.

During the whole interaction, I was sweating and swallowing. I felt like a wooden doll come to life, with the sole purpose of convincing this woman that I was a real person. My eyes wandered aimlessly as I fought to keep myself upright. We still had one more queue to enter after this, to drop off our suitcase. It seemed impossible. My knees didn’t have it in them. My body was failing me. 

I suddenly realised that I'd answered everything the agent specifically needed from me, so I tapped L's arm and told him, "I need to go". He nodded in understanding and I headed out of the check-in area.

My head was swimming so badly that I barely made out the location of the closest bathrooms. For some reason, I actually kept it together long enough to get there, find a suitable cubicle (the first one I entered had a very dirty toilet bowl, so I immediately went "nope"), hang my backpack on the door, and pull my phone out of my pocket so it wouldn’t end up in the bottom of the bowl.

I retched up a small mouthful at first, taking myself by surprise. I experience nausea on a semi-regular basis, but more often than not, it ends in light dry-heaving and maybe a little bile. I immediately saw a glimpse of my breakfast/lunch this time.

I was wearing my sunglasses on my head, and I could feel them shifting forward through my hair as my body heaved. I pulled them off and left them resting on top of the toilet paper holder, which I'd usually never dream of doing to something I put on my face. But again, better there than in the toilet. I retched again and again, bringing up pitiful scraps. I was leaning over with my hands on my thighs, my germ phobia at a level just high enough to keep me from kneeling down by the bowl (stupid idea, looking back. I should have just done it).

I realised that while I was gagging, I was holding a weird amount of tension in the pit of my stomach. And as soon as my brain acknowledged it, my abdominal muscles relaxed, like some kind of switch had been hit.

And then, everything I'd eaten that morning just came pouring out of me over the course of two or three gags, barely digested at all. I don't think I've thrown up that much, or that violently, in my whole adult life. It was Exorcist-level. It unfortunately splashed up and hit my favourite shirt (I would choose to wear a white shirt that day, wouldn't I? But it washed out, so all’s good now).

There was no definite “okay, I’m done now” moment, but L and the check-in counter popped into my head. I miserably felt for my phone to see if he needed me to hurry back for anything. All he'd messaged me was that he was outside the bathrooms he assumed I was in, and that we had a little bit of time before we needed to head for security.

My brain has a hard time reading tone, and I couldn’t tell if the “little bit of time” portion was a hint that I needed to hurry, so I started to tidy myself up. There was one person washing their hands when I came out, backpack slung over my tensed shoulder (as though keeping my shoulder tensed was somehow going to stop the backpack weighing so hard on my enflamed skin). They probably had no idea I’d just been sick, but I felt so disgusting and conspicuous as I went to wash my hands and my face.

So we headed through security, and the rest of the journey was okay. We both slept on the flight, with our heads pressed against the seats in front so our backs and shoulders weren't aggravated. The drive home was nasty, since I couldn't exactly crouch over the steering wheel the entire way.

But yeah, I guess I’ll never know exactly what made me throw up, but the factors are: pain, possible sunstroke/sun poisoning, eating too much in one go after not eating much the day before, heat, dehydration, or taking too many ibuprofen with not enough food. Those stomach cramps from the day before hadn’t bothered me since the previous afternoon, so I’m fairly sure those two weren’t related. My stomach didn’t even really hurt during the both vomiting situation, or after, now that I think about it.

Back Home

Anyway, jumping forward. I had no appetite for the first two days at L’s house, barely slept the first and second night in L's bed. Night three, I slept. Nights four and five, I was up again, itchy and burning and uncomfortable. We couldn't cuddle. I couldn't even sit properly on the couch until Saturday. Showering hurt so bad that I straight-up didn’t do it for two days, and couldn’t reach up to wash my hair until day four.

For the first few nights, L and I rubbed a mixture of aloe vera and calamine lotion onto each other’s backs. For him, he would hiss and groan, but for me, the cold and touch hurt so much that I had to curl up around a pillow and bury my face. It made me scream. It felt like my body was ripping apart. I cried. I usually composed myself and got up so I could do L’s back for him, but one of the nights was so bad that he said he’d manage by himself (his burn wasn’t as deep, or as wide), and just sat with me, playing with my hair since he couldn’t really touch me anywhere else.

Today is Sunday, and I still look like an actual demon from the pits of hell. Something from an actual horror film. Seriously, friends. Always stock check on sunscreen. 

Always. 

___

*I don’t go by Flick in real life.

[warped-stem]

so. my post about writing this at 3 am fighting off melatonin got exactly 2 notes. enjoy my sleepy angst :)

warnings for mentions of mutilation, vomit, and torture. wordcount 1.6k

--

When Sapnap goes to visit Dream again, he notices something off about Sam. He's flightier, less talkative. He barely meets Sapnap's eye the entire walk through the prison. When they finally get to the main cell, Sam warns him that Dream might not talk again. Sapnap nods in understanding, remembering the last time he saw him. 

He isn't expecting Dream, once someone who stood tall and proud, whose presence demanded all of the attention in the room, to be curled into a shaking ball in the corner next to his chest. The shaking gets worse the closer the platform comes to the cell, and Sapnap can see the way Dream's jumpsuit is torn, the way there's blood staining parts that should by no means be bloodstained. Dream doesn't look up when Sapnap steps foot onto the obsidian, doesn't look up when the Netherite barrier drops, continues to not look up until Sapnap's hesitant voice bounces off the walls. 

"Dream?" 

This finally gets his attention, his head snapping up and dull green eyes meeting sparking red. Now Sapnap can take in the details that were hidden in Dream's arms. How his cheeks are hollow, how new scars trail across his face, some wounds barely healed from the poor environment. 

Sapnap takes a step toward Dream, and his heart stops in his chest at the way Dream violently tries to sink into the wall behind him. So, Sapnap sits on the floor where he stands, keeping his eyes on the crumpled, shivering form of the once most powerful man on the server -- of his friend. 

He doesn't move, even as Dream stops trembling again and looks back up, waiting for force that will never come. Slowly, once it seems Dream realizes Sapnap doesn't want to hurt him, he starts to unfurl from himself. His arms and legs are lacking the muscle mass Sapnap knew he once possessed, and the skin that's exposed is covered in dirt and blood and poorly healed injuries. It makes Sapnap sick to think about the damage he can't see, what's covered by layers of fabric, or worse, what's covered by skin and muscle. 

It takes the better part of an hour for Dream to speak up, and Sapnap's heart splinters. 

"What d'you want?" He sounds like he hasn't had anything to drink in months, his voice creaky and dry. His words, however few, are slurred and misshapen. It takes a second for the reason to click in Sapnap's head, having heard one of his own fiances have to adjust to his new speech impediment and lack of teeth on his own time. It makes his stomach churn. 

"I wanted to see you. Check in on you, y'know? See how you're holding up." His voice is softer than he intended for it to be, more somber. 

Dream looks like he doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't. He just lets his body slump against the wall, bringing his legs back up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. It’s as he's staring off into middle space that Sapnap realizes one last thing about the way Dream looks, and it genuinely makes him want to throw up, or scream, or cry. Probably all three at once, if possible. 

Several of Dream's fingers were reduced to stumps. 

The entirety of his right pinky was gone, and he was missing about half of his right ring finger. The other three remained intact, but it was obvious he'll never be able to hold an axe again. His left hand was worse off. His ring finger was gone, and the pinky was cut down to the second knuckle, almost in a sick reverse of his right hand. He was also missing the tip of his middle and pointer fingers, his thumb spared yet again. 

Sapnap chokes back a sob and has to turn away to keep his composure, forcing his tears and vomit back down. It takes him a few to steady his breathing and look back to Dream, only to find Dream looking at him first. 

"What happened to you?" Sapnap sounded even more broken, a quiet plea slipping into his words. He wanted nothing more than to hold Dream like he did when they were younger, before all of the war and strife and bloodshed. Back when they were allowed to call each other brothers.  

"Someone wanted information. I didn't give it up right away and he got violent." Dream tries to shrug, but the tremble in his shoulders makes it look more like a sick, shuddering laugh. Sapnap reluctantly notes that his earlier suspicions were correct, that Dream is now missing several of his teeth.

The temperature in the lava-covered room spikes as Sapnap's temper flares for a moment, before calming right back down into another unsettled roll of his gut. 

"Who?" His response is choked, and he doesn't think he wants to know the answer. 

Dream shakes his head frantically, tensing back up. The answer would destroy Sapnap, and Dream doesn't want that, so he keeps his mouth shut and his head down. 

Sapnap wants names, though, and he's not leaving without one. He makes up his mind right then and there that there's something fucked up going on in Pandora's Vault, and he wants to get to the bottom of it. Even if Dream grew into a monster, he knew that no one deserved whatever physical abuse Dream's been going through. 

"Is it Sam? Has he been doing this to you?" His voice shakes with fury, with sadness. Dream shakes his head again in response, before briefly shrugging.

"If it's not Sam, then he's at least letting this happen to you. Who the fuck would he let in here with- with whatever can do that much damage?" 

"You don't wanna know, Sap." The 's' is whistled through the holes in his grimace, and he still refuses to meet Sapnap's eyes. 

"I do. I need to know. I can't let them keep doing this to you." There's a few suspects running through his mind, but none of them beg for the anonymity Dream's allowing them. 

Techno wouldn't torture someone, he's not that cold-hearted, and he'd have nothing to gain from repeatedly hurting Dream. Bad could easily do this damage, but even as he's controlled by the Egg, Sapnap knows he'd never lay a finger on Dream. Wilbur and Schlatt are dead, and Ghostbur wouldn't hurt a fly. Tommy'd pussy out before doing any serious damage, and even then, the kid was so heavily traumatized by Dream that all it would take for him to back down would be a threatening smile. He also can't see Ranboo hurting anyone intentionally, or Fundy coming back from wherever he'd run off to just to hurt Dream. Nearly everyone else was left untouched by Dream's influence. Foolish barely knew him, Connor was almost completely clueless, and Puffy thought that Dream didn't deserve to see her. Everyone else was too caught up in their own business to care, so that only really left a few possible people.

Sam, Ant, Punz, and Sapnap's least favorite answer, Quackity. 

Dream already said it wasn't Sam, Ant was too busy with the Egg, and Punz was too apathetic to really care about what Dream had done to be motivated enough to mutilate one of his friends like this. That meant-

"Quackity. Is- is Quackity hurting you?" Sapnap's voice is far away, even to his own ears. He barely caught Dream's slow, shallow nod before he hides his face back in his knees. 

It made sense, unfortunately. He hasn't seen Quackity in a while, spending most of his time building Kinoko Kingdom with Karl and George. It only really just hit him that they abandoned El Rapids to hastily move to the flower forest on the outer edge of the Dream SMP, leaving Quackity alone. No one had really heard from him in a long while, and Sapnap hadn't thought to keep tabs on him, trusting his fiance to keep out of trouble.

Apparently, that was too much to ask. Sapnap knew how ruthless Quackity could be when he wanted something bad enough, knew that he was an unstoppable force. 

Dream's ragged breathing snaps Sapnap out of his thoughts, bringing his attention back to the present. Dream hadn't stopped shaking, but at least he was now looking at Sapnap again, gauging his reaction. Based on his breathing, he found something he didn't like. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Pandas." His voice shook, tears threatening to spill out of dead eyes.

Sapnap doesn't respond, only standing. His shoulders slumped and his fists shaking at his sides. He takes a few strides across the cell before dropping down to his knees next to Dream, wrapping his arms around him. 

They sit there like that for a while, crying and shaking. Dream was far too light for Sapnap's comfort, but that just made him hold on harder. Dream even snaked his arms around Sapnap's back in return, the dull nubs of his fingers trying to grip as much of his shirt as they could. Sapnap sobs.

He pulls back first, after both of them had spent all of their tears. 

"I'm getting you out of here. Fuck what I said about taking your last life, you don't fucking deserve this." Sapnap knows his voice is rough, but the intense set of his eyes gives Dream enough reassurance to let go. 

Sapnap stands, leaving Dream on the ground, and calls for Sam to let him out. He doesn't step away from Dream until he has to, and he makes a silent promise to make sure someone pays for this.  

He ignores Sam the entire trip back through the prison, and his first thought after stepping back into sunlight is find Quackity.

[coeurdastronaute]

Nerd 15

Previously on Nerd

It hadn’t been a particularly good sleep. Lexa felt like she woke up every hour or so, each time checking to make sure the softly snoring girl beside her was still there, still asleep. Despite her own tossing and turning, Clarke didn’t seem to move much, just curled up tightly into herself, against Lexa’s side. Lexa kind of liked the feeling of the other body in her bed. She kind of liked that she was the person Clarke wanted. 

Sometime after the tenth to twelfth time she woke up, Lexa realized the sun was up, and she couldn’t fight with her body waking any longer. Clarke didn’t move, and the night weighed on her girlfriend. 

With a certain effort, Lexa decided to extract herself from the bed, even though Clarke didn’t seem to notice. It actually appeared as if Clarke was a very sound sleeper, as Lexa moved around the room and bumped the edge of her elbow on her desk and hissed at the contact. But as she stood still, she realized Clarke didn’t budge a bit. 

Lexa scrolled through her phone as she tugged on some fresh clothes, checking over her shoulder quickly to make sure Clarke wasn’t peaking for some weird reason. She didn’t want Clarke to know how curious she was about the party before she arrived, but a part of her was incredibly interested in what might have panned out. 

Like a thief, Lexa tugged on socks and buttoned her pants as she danced through the door in her attempt to remain as quiet as humanly possible. It took her a minute to close to door, watching it slowly inch toward the clasp, and finally it clicked nearly silent. She pushed her hair out of her face and slid into the bathroom, shoving a toothbrush into her mouth as she leaned against the counter and scrolled through the feed of Bellamy Blake’s infamous party. 

As she scrubbed she watched the night happen in glimpses. She watched her girlfriend taking shots. She watched her girlfriend in that bikini. She watched her girlfriend look like she was desperately chasing an escape and numbness and it made Lexa mad for her. Lexa spit and rinsed and brushed and decided it was a good idea to scroll through Bellamy’s posts and she couldn’t understand how Clarke could like such different people. Bellamy Blake held week long parties and won state championships and got scouted. Lexa made movies and played board games and couldn’t figure out how to take a bra off. 

With a final rinse she called her sister, hoping the time difference would mean she was awake, but as she bounded down the steps, she was met with a voicemail and furrowed. She needed research and information. Anya knew about all of this. 

“You’re up early for someone having a sleepover with their girlfriend,” her mother greeted her as she looked up from the newspaper spread out across the kitchen island. Her father looked up over the edge of the sports section before looking back down. 

“I told you we didn’t have to worry,” he muttered, flapping the paper out. Lexa rolled her eyes and took a seat. 

“It wasn’t a sleepover.” 

“Your girlfriend spent the night in your bed. I’d call it a sleepover, and I’d say we’re pretty cold parents for allowing it.” 

“I appreciate it, but nothing was going to happen.” 

“Good, because we discussed how alcohol can alter perception and consent--”

“Yes, yes,” Lexa sighed and reached for an apple as her father droned on yet again, hoping to avoid another sex talk. “I know, Dad.” 

They all remained in a respective silence while working past the moment. It was weird, to want to talk to someone, let alone to have anything to talk about, but Lexa felt this need to figure something out, though she wasn’t sure what it would be. She wished her sister had just picked up the phone. 

“So is Clarke…”

“Still asleep.” 

“Did you have fun at the party?” 

“I wasn’t there long,” Lexa shrugged. “I was at Luna’s working on our submission until late. Gus was there, so I knew people.”

She didn’t mention Michelle from math and her bikini. That felt inappropriate. 

“How’s Clarke doing?” her mother pressed, sipping from her coffee again, warily watching her daughter. 

“She’s… I don’t know. Sad. Mad. Stuck. Overwhelmed.” 

“It was nice that you went to get her. I appreciate you telling us what’s going on instead of trying to sneak around. Anya did that. I can’t tell you how many times I had to pretend not to notice boys sneaking around the yard.” 

“Really?” 

“We trust you both,” her father explained. “We just appreciate you doing making us have to stretch it so far.” 

“And we like Clarke, so we’re happy to help.” 

“I don’t really know what else to do, you know?” she muttered, wiping her mouth and leaning against the counter, her knee coming up on the stool. “I think I’d be a little upset too if I were in her shoes, so I would want to probably do a bunch of stuff, but also I don’t want her to be upset.” 

Lexa’s father looked at her and then to his wife. She cocked her head and gave him a look, to which he returned a shrug and ushered her to do something. They were stuck as well because no parenting book prepared them for teenagers. And Anya was very different. 

“You can’t do anything,” he finally offered. 

“Tim!” his wife warned. 

“It’s true. You can’t make this better. It’s between Clarke and her mother and her father. But you can be there for her, and try to encourage her to be healthy about grief and pain. You have some experience, I’d say.” 

Lexa looked back at him and clenched her lips, worrying the bottom one as she mulled over his words. 

“And as much as we love what you want to do and be for Clarke, please don’t forget who you are in all of this. You have needs nad you have goals. Someone else’s wellness is not entirely on your shoulders.” 

“I know.” 

“But just be around. That’s all anyone can do. Be of service to others.” 

“Your father’s right though,” her mother continued. “You can’t fix it, just be there. It’s a boring answer.” 

“If Dad were dying would you have an affair?” 

“Jesus, Lexa.” 

“What?” 

“I’d haunt you,” Tim decided before turning back to his paper. “I’d haunt you really hard.”

“I’m done with both of you today,” she decided, tossing her part of the paper in his lap as she walked through the living room. “It’s not even eight and I’m retreating to my office. I hope you’re both proud.” 

The pair shared a smile and shrugged as she disappeared down the hall. 

“You know, just because we gave you one sleepover, I hope you don’t get too comfortable asking. This was an emergency. It’s always okay in an emergency, and you know the difference.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

“I have golf in a bit, but this afternoon we could do some driving practice if you wanted?” 

“Sounds good,” Lexa smiled. 

For no reason at all, except maybe utter relief that she didn’t have to deal with the same problems Clarke did, she hugged her dad’s neck lazily over the back of the couch before making her way back upstairs. 

XXXXXXXXXX

The vague memories of the night lingered like the stale taste of terrible vodka and beer, and Clarke smacked her lips, hoping to find any kind of liquid to get rid of the dry mouth. But her eyes felt heavy and glued shut, and her stomach felt like it was currently on the spin cycle, so moving wasn’t entirely feasible. 

It had been dumb. It’d been stupid, even. Possibly as far as moronic, to go to Bellamy’s party, but it was the best alternative and boy did it feel nice to escape. Even the current state she found herself in was a welcomed punishment from feeling fine and being unable to exist in the world. Her current physical ailments felt like finally, the universe was manifesting itself, and she could fix the swirling stomach and cottonmouth. She could fix the spinning and soreness and bruises from God-knew what happened last night. 

There wasn’t much else to be done, she suspected. Fix this moment, this hour, this day, and hope to survive to another one. It all had to end at some point. 

Clarke finally managed to open her eyes, a feat she was certain no other human could have accomplished. She looked around Lexa’s room and gratefully accepted the water bottle and aspirin waiting beside the bed. 

It took until halfway chugged, that she realized she was empty and the room was quiet. So she took a breath and held her stomach, certain she could hold it down. Carefully, she dressed, stealing Lexa’s old track sweats and an older soccer shirt, before making her way down the hall in search of something to fill her stomach. 

“Someone else’s wellness is not entirely on your shoulders.” 

“I know.” 

Clarke paused at the top of the stairs when she heard the family talking. It felt like it was about her. She knew it had to be. It made her want to vomit. 

“But just be around. That’s all anyone can do. Be of service to others.” 

“Your father’s right though. You can’t fix it, just be there. It’s a boring answer.” 

It was hard to be the subject of needing things. Clarke wasn’t someone who needed anyone. She wasn’t someone who wanted or needed to depend on anyone, and yet there was a girl, a girl who was too afraid to make a move, who imagined the world in terms of movie scenes and interpreted her own existence in the great world as a cosmic joke, always waiting for the punchline-- and this girl wanted to fix things. 

“If Dad were dying would you have an affair?” 

“Jesus, Lexa.” 

“What?” 

It hadn’t been a joke, but it made Clarke smile. No one expected that Lexa was serious, and she wanted to know the answer. There was shuffling and moving, and Clarke crept her way back to Lexa’s room. 

She felt even dumber than she thought possible for going to see Bellamy. She wouldn’t do it again. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. The words echoed in her head. She meant it, she was certain. She wouldn’t. 

“You’re awake,” Lexa grinned as she quietly closed the door behind her only to find her girlfriend sitting in her bed. 

“I’m never drinking again.” 

“Mhm, we’ll see.” 

“Don’t be mean to me, I’m sick.” 

“You’re hungover.” 

“You don’t know what it feels like, do you?” Clarke accused, accepting the orange and another bottle of water that was handed to her as her girlfriend joined her in bed. 

“Don’t see much appeal.”

“It always seems like a good idea at the time…” 

Lexa just shrugged and crossed her legs. She ran her thumb along the faded script on the side of Clarke’s knee. 

“I should head home,” she decided softly. “Sleep this off and such.” 

“You could sleep here. I’m just going to work on the car a bit. Maybe go for a run. I have homework to finish.” 

“I have to go home at some point.”

“Maybe.” 

“It was very sweet of you to come get me.” 

“I’m just glad you texted.” 

“I’m not going to be like this, you know?” 

“You can be however you want.” 

It was a sweet sentiment that Clarke didn’t have the mental capacity to sit with, she decided, because she wasn’t ready to decide to be anything. But tomorrow, maybe, she’d think about it. She knew what she didn’t want to be, and that seemed like something, at least. 

“I texted Raven to come get me.”

“If you’re sure.” 

“I needed last night to cleanse myself, I think. I need today to regroup.” 

“You have a very weird process,” Lexa decided. 

Clarke just chuckled and leaned forward, burying her face in Lexa’s thigh and sighing. 

XXXXXXXXXX

For the moment, the very tiny, very quick moment, everything felt like it was caught up, and Lexa allowed herself a few moments of quiet in the garage, because come hell or high water, she was going to finish the car by the last day of school. SATs were done, finally, and something that didn’t need to be explicitly worried about until scores were released in a few weeks. Her prom outfit was already purchased and prepared. Homework and studying were done. Sports were over for the season and conditioning wasn’t set to start for another two months, though she’d start her own soon enough. Her girlfriend was at work and then going off to a cheer competition for the weekend. Luna was putting the finishing touches on their film school application project. And anyone else that might ask Lexa to do anything was promptly ignored.

Two weeks before spring break, and Lexa was feeling high on her on efficiency.  

All in all, Lexa decided that she had at least three days to power through as much as she could with her dad in a final push before sending it off to the paint appointment. 

She hadn’t counted on her sister though, and as her phone blared, interrupting the music playing over the speakers, she smacked her head on the body of the car and slid herself from under it, grumbling the entire time. 

“Don’t you have fancy plans. It’s a Friday night,” she chided the eldest. 

“I’m getting ready, I was just thinking about you.” 

“Gross.”

“Because I ran into a girl that asked about you and I had no idea you had a friend at CMU, let alone a drop dead gorgeous film student.” 

Lexa furrowed and twirled her wrench around before trying to dive back in under the seat and finish installing the seatbelts in the back. It dawned on her then and she snorted. 

“That’s just Costia.” 

“Ohhh, just Costia-- who the fuck is Costia?” 

“I met her when I came to visit last fall remember? You were the one telling me to make a move but I was very drunk, something you did to me as well?” 

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” 

“At the party. I posted a picture…” she grunted and twisted. “She found me on Instagram. We talk about movies and I’ve shown her some of my stuff and junk.”

“Interesting.” 

“Why?” 

“Just not many freshman looking to hang out with high school juniors.” 

“I’m clearly advanced.” 

“Clearly,” Anya rolled her eyes over the phone. 

“I’ve been talking to her about film programs and applying--”

“Here? You’re thinking about coming here?” 

“Fuck!” she hissed and sat up, doing her best to suck on the cut that came to her thumb from her maneuvering. “I don’t know.” 

It wasn’t a serious inquiry, Lexa thought to herself. She was set. She had a plan with Luna. They’d had it since they were ten, and there was really on reason to deviate from it. But then a stranger liked her stuff, and this stranger made stuff Lexa liked. And the stranger became a friend who gave her some screenwriting tips and pushed her to get better at it. And the stranger told her the east coast was just as important to film. 

But it didn’t matter. 

There was a plan. 

“You should seriously consider it. It’s a great program I hear. Come out for spring break!” 

“I should stay here.” 

“And do what? Work on that car? Dad already told me he’s sending it out for interior and paint. You’re pretty much done anyway.” 

“Mom and Dad have conferences that week. I was going to watch movies all week with Clarke.”

“Bring her too. Sounds like she needs an escape.” Anya was getting excited, and Lexa was tugged along for the ride. “You can crash in my dorm. Even just for a few days, not the whole week.”

“Mom won’t like me missing so much time to study.” 

“Call it a college visit for a potential school.”

“Luna will lose her mind,” Lexa shook her head and pinched her thumb to try to stop it without a bandaid. 

“Fuck Luna. I’m going to ask Mom if she’d rather you were here, supervised by me, or home alone for a whole week.” 

From the change in volume, Lexa knew she was texting immediately. She sighed. It would be fun to see the school as a potential option. It might even be nice to catch up with Costia. It would even be better to see her sister, who just at the moment, she realized she’d missed since her last visit. 

“Should I ask Clarke if she wants to go?” Lexa finally ventured, returning to her work. 

“Definitely.” 

“Should I really consider your school as an option?” 

“You should.”

She had a plan, Lexa remembered, and there was no point deviating, but she did want to see her sister.

“If they say it’s okay.”

NEXT

[light-yaers]

No Saints: Chapter Nine

This content is explicit and is 18+

Warnings: Graphic sexual content, violence, implied effects of PTSD, death and explicit language.

Read on Ao3 here | Fic Masterpost

A/N: Hi guys! So, I got too excited about this chapter and have decided to post it early, hope that’s okay! Thank you all so much for the support on this fic, we’ve reached 400 kudos and almost 8,000 hits on Ao3! And that’s so incredible aaaa! I can’t thank you all enough for the support. 

Once again, no beta we die like men. Please excuse any small grammar mistakes, I am just one woman. 

Enjoy, and feel free to tell me what you think in my ask box or messages!

Word Count - 6k

Chapter Nine

The shop seemed quieter than usual. It was like the dust was settled too densely, too silently, in the aftermath of the fight between you and Mando.

You tried not to think about him. You delved into your repairs, you shot at the firing range, and on many nights, you were tempted to go to the bar; but you never did—

Until it all got to be too much.

You’d run out of your whiskey on day five, indulging too heavily in the way it blurred your thoughts and worries so you simply didn’t have to think—about Mando, about Kalahan, about Karga. You were old enough to know that it was becoming a coping mechanism, but you were also too far gone to care.

You went in earlier than usual, shutting your shop on a weekday to avoid a possible bump in with Mando. It had been just over a week since the fight, so you expected he was already off world again, hunting and shooting down more quarries. Maker, this was the first time you didn’t want to see him.

It would only bring back the image of him leaving, cape whipping behind him, until he was far away from the shop. The silence that had settled over the shop then had been inescapable. His boot prints were still on the floor, his helmet still behind your eyes, overcome by the sickening thoughts that your brain was firing at you mercilessly, until you were nothing but a mess.

This was why getting attached to people on Nevarro was a bad idea. This was why letting anyone into your life was something you’d tried to avoid since fleeing Ah’era. That had all gone tits up as soon as your heart had let in the Beskar clad man.

You wanted to believe that he felt it, too. The ache; the want; the hurt and pain and everything in between from the intimacy that you’d both shared. But stars, you never really knew the man, not the way he knew you.

You almost wanted him to spill your true identity, just so you could get over with the inevitable—they would find you eventually. And they’d either kill you, or force you back into their ranks. They’d never let you pull the same stunt you’d done before, not again. You’d be a prisoner until you died.

The bar was almost empty when you slid into a booth. Karga wasn’t even present, which was almost unheard of. Maybe he was staking out your shop from atop a building or plotting something to make your like even more difficult. Maker, why the fuck had you agreed to the deal with Mando, way back when? Was it really for the money? Was it really from fear that he’d harm you if you didn’t?

No. You know what it was about.

“Loneliness is a disease,” You muttered to yourself, tapping your glass of bright blue liquor. You downed it in one, then, clicking over to the droid behind a bar for another round. Was this how you were supposed to be for the rest of your life? Trapped on Nevarro, pretending to be someone that you weren’t, always waiting for a fight to happen or for Mando to come back?

“You’re a difficult woman to track down,” His voice cut through your thoughts. You whipped your stare onto him, then, trying to lessen the expression of shock on your face.

Kalahan slid into the booth opposite you, sliding over your new drink and placing one down for himself. He’d grabbed it from the bar for you, and now you were face to face with a monster once again. There was a moment, when you stared into his eyes and got flashes of the things he’d done. You were sure he was about to tell you that he knew, he knew who the fuck you were, and he’d spent seven years trying to find you.

But he didn’t, he simply sat back, draping his arms over the back of the booth and giving you a sickening smile.

“I went by the shop,” He explained further, and your heart jolted. “Rough day?”

Rough day? Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“On Nevarro, there is no such thing as a good day,” You replied bluntly. You didn’t drink what he’d brought over, in case he’d slipped something into it on his way over. You needed to get the fuck out of here. “I was just about to leave, actually,” You said.

“You just ordered another drink,” He hit back with.

“I’ve had too much already, need to cut down,” You said almost immediately. He only smirked at you. It was no doubt that he sensed your bluntness, your want to leave, but he made no indication of letting up.

“One drink,” He said. “One drink with me,” He stuck his pointer finger up, hovering it before your face. You knew this tactic— one finger wasn’t meant to be threatening, but it also made the opposition think; it made them believe that one wouldn’t be so bad.

You didn’t want to give him any more reasons to kill you, but right now, you were Melissa—repair shop loner from Nevarro. This was the safest you’d ever been around the man, even if his mere presence made your skin crawl, your gut warp, your fingers shake.

“Melissa sounds like a foreign name,” He began, eyeing your drink. “Where were you born?”

You grabbed your glass defensively, staring him down suddenly. He was asking an awful lot of questions, questions that you wouldn’t answer to anyone on this planet. “I don’t know if you’ve frequented a lot of hunter planets, but there’s never this many questions,” You replied. You didn’t try to hide the scowl from your face or the clench of your jaw.

Kalahan laughed lowly, picking up his own glass. He took a sip of his drink, never once taking his eyes off of you. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to put you on edge,”

Stars, you wanted to strangle him. You wanted to choke the life out of him with your bare hands. This man who instilled so much fear in you, who was one of the reasons you became a monster yourself, who held no remorse for his killing sprees and cried no tears for the lives he’d taken; he was the worst person in the galaxy.

He was worse than Vader. He was worse than all of the Empire put together.

And you’d spent five years with him. You’d spent missions with him, you’d killed with him. You wanted to vomit.

“I see trust isn’t something that’s often shared here, then,” He continued, after absorbing your silence.

“Trust isn’t in anyone’s vocabulary on this side of the galaxy,” You said harshly. He scoffed boyishly. You had to ball one of your fists beneath the table, just to stop yourself from punching the smile off of his face.

“How did a woman like you end up so... cold?”

“A woman like me?” You raised your brows in offense. “What was your name—Reynard? You don’t know me, Reynard. People on this planet don’t take well to newcomers and strangers. We don’t take well to being interrogated, and we certainly don’t do this,” You gestured to the booth, referring to him sitting with you from a drink. “We get on with our jobs, we live our lives as comfortably as we can in our shithole houses, doing anything we can to get by and avoid getting shot dead as much as we can,” It was too late to take back your words as they poured from your lips.

Kalahan listened intently, his expression dropping with every sentence you ended and began. You could see the fight in his eyes, the way he was eyeing you up as you pelted him with your harsh words. For once, you weren’t scared. He was a stranger here, to everyone, and people in this bar knew you.

Hunters, Guild members, locals who’d fled here like you. You were untouchable in here. If he placed a hand on you, he’d be shot by someone faster than he could grab his own blaster.

Maker, this was your planet. Fuck him and Ah’era if they thought they could take it.

He could see you were seething now, as he treaded over his words carefully. “You sound like a fighter,” He spoke confidently, despite the frown on his face. “You sound like you deserve more,”

Oh, stars. No—

Fucking hell, no.

“My family move here in four days. There’s always a place for people like you with us,” You were about to explode at him repeating what he’d said before, but he leant forward quickly. “By people like you, I mean fighters. I mean travellers who haven’t known companionship in years, who’re skilled. You’ll be cared for with us,”

Us. Ah’era. This bastard was trying to recruit you.

Seven fucking years later, you were actually being recruited to join the creed. After all they’d done; ruined you, forced you to kill for them, tortured you when you fought back until the only option was to obey.

You stood abruptly, glaring down at him.

“Go fuck yourself, Reynard. I’ve come to enjoy my solitude on this planet, and the last thing I fucking need is others butting into my life,” He clenched his jaw, staring up at you and breathing shallowly. You knew he hated being spoken to like this; it was amazing that he hadn’t slit your throat yet. “Do yourself a favour and never ask anyone else on this fucking planet to join you and your family. They won’t be as kind as I’ve been, not by a longshot,”

You strode through the booths then, headed straight for the door. As you approached the exit, someone swivelled from round the corner—Karga stood before you, smiling like he knew a secret that you didn’t. You went to move around him, but that’s when he shuffled to block your way. It was intentional—it was planned.

“Hello, Miss,” Karga said slyly. You made no quick movements, despite your entire body telling you that you were in danger. He stepped towards you once, forcing you to move backwards.

“Karga,” You spat in reply. “Finally got bored of sending men into my shop?”

Karga chuckled, not once moving his gaze from yours. For an old man, you could sense his authority here. He’d done this his entire life, following the Guild for years. He knew how to swindle, how to hunt, how to cover a room with his power. Maybe, you’d underestimated him. Maybe, this was what Mando meant about him being bad news.

“You’re an interesting woman, Melissa,” Karga said. You ceased to breathe. In a split second, Kalahan was behind you. The men circled you together, trapping you between them.

Oh Maker, they were working together. They were conspiring together, staking you out together. Maker... was this ever about Mando? Or was it always about you? Your fingers twitched by your side, ready to grab your blaster as soon as you needed to.

“You made some new friends, I see,” You said to Karga, all too aware of Kalahan on your six.

“You and I both know that friends don’t exist here. They’re more like... business associates,” Karga replied. They. He was talking about Ah’era. Seven years ago, even the Guild hated Ah’era. They killed their hunters, their men—but this? Karga had buddied up with Kalahan after the resurgence. The Guild probably knew nothing about it, but if they did—

This was bad. Very fucking bad. Having the Guild and Ah’era joining ranks would be enough to bring down the New Republic, the same way the Empire had done decades ago.

“Mando was right. You’re a snake in the grass,” You let out. Having his name leave your lips was enough to make your gut catapult into your stomach. Karga let out a colossal chuckle, stepping towards you again. You stepped back once more, but you were only getting closer and closer to Kalahan.

“Not as much of a snake as you,” Kalahan spoke up. You looked round to him slowly, keeping yourself in a defensive stance. “You really think I wouldn’t recognise you?” He said slyly. “It was just a matter of time until we found you again, Wraith,”

At the sound of your old name, you thought that maybe you’d vomit. You thought that maybe you’d faint, or your heart would simply stop. But all that happened was the opposite—

You felt the blood in your veins burn, as your head plummeted back into the space that it had seven years before. You analysed the stances of both men, located their weapons. You knew how Kalahan fought, and you wanted to bet that Karga was good with a blaster; but you. Maybe Kalahan had forgotten how good you were at being an assassin. Maybe he’d forgotten the merciless ways in which you took down your enemies—

The only difference now, was that he was your enemy. When once he was your teammate, you were now on opposing sides.

“Where’s the Mandalorian now, Miss?” Karga said roughly. “He was here yesterday, you know. It came as such a shock when he didn’t visit you. A lover’s spat, perhaps?”

“Keep his name out of your fucking mouth,” You shot at him, your eyes red.

“I thought you’d be smart enough to check for bugs,” Karga continued. “But evidently, not,”

Fuck. They bugged your shop. They’d heard every word that you and Mando had shared over the past few weeks.

“You really should have listened to him. You should have thought about yourself,”

You let the tension in the bar grow, allowed it to float over the three of you as you played a game of who will shoot first. You were radiating with adrenaline, fingers armed and ready to kill both men if you had to. You didn’t have time to think about what you’d do, where you’d go, how you’d settle into a new life for a third time—

But you did have time to turn on the communicator on your wrist, despite knowing it was probably useless. Mando was off-world. He wouldn’t be able to hear you.

“So, what happens now?” You asked in a lethal whisper, all of your senses were dialled to a hundred. Kalahan took a step forward then.

“Don’t act dumb now, Wraith. You know what happens,” His hand travelled to the blaster on his belt. “Come with us, and there’s a small chance we won’t kill you. Ah’era has missed you,”

Maker, there was a moment after he spoke where you just laughed. You let out the most hearty of chuckles, allowing it to course through your entire body, to fill you up, to penetrate your bones—

And when you stopped, you felt powerful. You felt strong.

“Over my dead fucking body, Kalahan,” You whispered at him. His eyes flashed when you said his name, his body shivered as the syllables left your lips.

“That can be arranged,”

As soon as Karga’s hand grasped your elbow, your entire body lurched into a fight that you hadn’t felt in seven years. You kicked behind you, striking the old man between his legs, before propelling yourself towards Kalahan. He grabbed his blaster skilfully, firing at will as blasts ricocheted off the dark, metal walls of the bar.

You slammed your body into his, pushing him backwards as you used all of your strength to curl your fingers around his wrist. The two of you staggered backwards, as his arms came round to box you into his chest. You let out a wheezing breath as he punched you in the gut, but reciprocated with your elbow to his stomach.

The two of you halted, still in each other’s grasp and seething with anger and pain. “You’re out of practice, Wraith,” Kalahan whispered into your ear. You smiled to yourself slowly, taking in a shaky breath and chuckling painfully as you exhaled.

You pushed both of you backwards then, until the sound of Kalahan’s spine slamming into a booth table sounded throughout the bar. You scrambled away from him, twisting his firing arm until his blaster clattered to the floor. You kicked it away in the second of time you’d gained for yourself, before you jumped—you stretched your legs out in mid-air, striking Kalahan directly in his gut with the full force of your momentum.

He yelled in pain, as his spine curled over the booth table even more. It was a miracle it hadn’t snapped in two.

You fell to the floor with a thud, but it wasn’t long until you were up again. You swiped up his blaster from the floor, clipping it onto your belt as an extra weapon. That’s when you turned back to Karga—

He smiled at you with his blaster raised, pointed right between your eyes. You didn’t indulge him by raising your arms to the sky. You simply glared at him unwaveringly, collecting all of your anger and pain and strength and firing it at him.

“Somehow I knew you’d take the wrong route,” He said, his body still reeling from the hit you’d given him first.

“You took the wrong route when you agreed to help Ah’era,” You spat at him. “If the Guild finds out you’ve done this, they’ll stick your head on a pike,”

“If anyone else finds out that you’re the Wraith, they’ll do the same,” He said sickeningly. “If you join them, us, you already know the power you’ll receive,”

“I don’t want power if it means killing innocents, if it means leaving every ounce of humanity behind to rot. I did it once, and I’d fucking die before I did it again,” You spat at him. Kalahan stirred behind you, limping up to your six again. The look on his face wasn’t the playfully disgusting grin he usually donned; it was red. Red, rogue anger. Directed solely at you.

Within a second, both of your blasters were raised to each man. Kalahan stopped where he was, as the smallest flash of fear shone on his eyes. Karga, however, laughed. You looked at him bluntly. “So, you’d become a killer not to become a killer, again?”

“Shooting men like you would be a service to the galaxy,” You said through clenched teeth.

“Except, you don’t really mean that, do you?” Karga replied, softening his voice. “I’ve known you for seven years, Miss, and even I can see that you’re kind-hearted,”

Maker, this bastard was trying to appeal to your lighter side. He was trying to get in your head, to make you second guess the violent nature that was drilled into you—he was trying to save his own fucking skin.

“Tell me, what will it feel like having two more dead men on your conscience?”

And the worst thing of all, was that it was working. You kept your blasters raised, but even you couldn’t deny the way your soul was cracking beneath the surface. You didn’t like killing, you resented it. You resented the way blood stained your fingers, got under your nails, was stuck to your skin for the rest of your life after another death.

You resented the way he was wiggling his way into your mind—and was right.

Maker, you didn’t want to kill him. You didn’t want to kill anyone, but that was a privilege that you’d never had. It was a privilege that you’d never have for the rest of your life, whether you were forced to join the creed again or not.

“See?” He said finally. “You won’t do it,”

“Maybe she won’t, but I will,” It was like time slowed, when his modulated drawl trickled throughout the empty bar—and then he was there, rounding the door until he was behind Karga.

Kalahan sprung towards you before you could realise, but with one blast from his gun, Mando struck him in the shoulder, leaving nothing but a burning hole through his skin. Kalahan dropped to the floor, and you came back to reality.

You bombarded into Karga, twisting the blaster from his grip and striking his extended arm with your knee—it snapped in two, just like you’d done to that young hunter a few months prior. Karga dropped onto one knee, clutching his arm, but Mando had already grabbed your arm, tugging you out of the bar.

Now you were running—you were running so fucking fast, his cape whipping behind him as the sun began to descend on Nevarro.

He ran you back to the shop, kicking the locked door open and allowing you to scramble inside. Your head was fucking racing, your thoughts nothing but gibberish as you tried not to break down into anger filled screams.

“What the fuck are you doing—,” Was all you managed to get out, before he was holding you by the shoulders sternly.

“Pack. Now,” Mando said lowly. You stared into his visor, trying desperately to locate his eyes, like you always did. “We’re getting off this kriffing planet,”

He didn’t give you any time to take in his words, before he was shoving you into your room. You sprang into action, grabbing a sack and stuffing as many clothes and other belongings inside as you could. You opened your safe and poured all of your savings inside, before rushing back to the workshop and picking up your most valuable possessions.

“How did you even know I was there?” You said in a rush, hitting the Beskar clad hunter with blunt look. Mando raised his arm, gesturing to the communicator on his wrist.

“I passed out on the Crest last night after seeing Karga. Woke up to your voice cutting through the comms,” Maker, he’d heard you. You’d turned on the comm on a whim, not expecting him to be in signal distance. But he was there, he was there all along.

Stars, everything came flooding back. All the shit from last week hit you like a truck, bombarding into you as you continued shoving things into your sack. As much as you wanted to lift his helmet, to feel him, to remember the way his fingers affectionately grazed your skin—you were still hurting.

He was willing to whisk you away, to take you with him—to abandon his routine here and run away with you. Harbouring a fugitive for the second time in his life, he was willing to do that for you.

“No,” You boomed suddenly. You stopped packing. “I won’t let you—your life will be ruined—,”

“My life has never been as full as this,” He interrupted. “I can get hunting jobs anywhere,” You clamped your eyes shut, trying not to allow yourself to so easily accept his words.

“You said it yourself, Mando,” You said sternly. “You never asked for all the shit that follows me around like a plague,”

He froze as you repeated his words from last week. “I know,” He said, softening his voice slightly. “But I’d much rather have you, than not,”

Stars, was this man real? Had you both been alone for so long to so quickly accept a reality that was this traumatic, this complicated, this dangerous? If he left you, you’d be doomed for a life on the run, with the threat of death around every corner and the immense anxiety of people finding out your true identity—

Together? You were roping him into the same life. And he didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care.

“Okay,” You whispered, looking at him in a way that communicated everything, but the words simply couldn’t be said; not here, not now.

You finished packing frantically, as Mando guarded the broken door. You draped the sack over your body, slinging a scarf round your neck. You stopped then, as you weighed putting it over your face—adopting the Wraith, going back to what you knew.

But you chose not to. You wore your face proudly, unashamedly. You wanted them to know that you got away, that you fled for a second time, that for the rest of your life you would fight to see Ah’era burned to ashes.

Mando nodded at you then, as the two of you bombarded out of the door to your shop. “Stop,” He said, just as you were about to run towards the Crest, on the other side of town. You stared at him anxiously, knowing that it would be mere seconds until they reached you both. Mando rushed towards you, slinking his arm around your waist tightly. “Hold on,” He said, and you did as you were told, as much as you were confused.

With a few clicks upon his arm’s control panel, rocket thrusters on his back exploded to life. You yelped, wrapping yourself tightly onto him, before you took off into the skies. You held on for dear life as the two of you gained altitude. Mando held you close to his body the whole ride, not ever letting his embrace falter.

You didn’t think when you shoved your face in the nook between his shoulder and neck. You didn’t think how it felt to have his arms wrapped around you again, even after the fight, the hurtful things you both said to each other. You’d always been so afraid of admitting this unspoken thing between yourself and the Mandalorian, but in one rash act, he’d admitted more than you’d ever got from him in the nine months you’d known each other.

You’d gone against everything you’d vowed, everything you were wary of—just for this Beskar clad man that lit a flame within you that you’d never thought was possible before.

A masked man and his hair, green baby—

You couldn’t believe how much you cared for them both.

Mando and you dropped to the ground outside the Crest, rushing inside before the ramp had fully reached the ground. Mando immediately rushed to the cockpit, slamming the ramp controls back up before he was hurling himself up the ladder.

You kept a wary eye on outside, noticing the flash of lights and sound of mutterings in the wind as the breeze hit the ship. As the ramp fully ascended, you thought you caught a glimpse of a speeder in the distance. Maker, you didn’t stick around to see if you were hallucinating or not.

“Come up,” Mando sounded over the ship’s comms. You smacked your sack down in the hull, before making the climb up to the cockpit. It was a small room, with no space apart from the pilot’s chair in front of the controls and a passenger seat to Mando’s back right. The kid’s cubby was to his back left, with the little guy’s ears poking out as he looked around the room upon your entry.

His face lit up when you sat in the passenger seat and buckled yourself in. The doors of the cockpit sealed shut then, as Mando went about starting the engine. The kid cried anxiously as he felt the tension in the cockpit, and stars did it break your heart in two.

You shushed at him a few times, curling your fingers around the rim of his cubby and rocking him back and forth a few times. As the ship took off in a rush, it lurched forward as the landing gear retracted—the kid all but screamed out an anxious cry.

You cooed at him with furrowed brows, trying to calm him down in any way you could. You hovered the cubby over towards you, picking up the kid gently and placing him in your lap.

“He might throw up,” Mando said quietly, tilting his helmet to take a sneak peek of you cradling the kid against your chest.

“I don’t care,” You said in reply, not looking at him. You only had eyes for the little, green gremlin that was anxiously gripping your fingers for dear life. He looked out of the windshield as the Crest entered Space; stars flew within his huge, black eyes.

“Entering hyperspace,” Mando alerted you. You didn’t reply, too focused on the absolute vastness of Space that surrounded you. You hadn’t been on a ship in seven years, hadn’t left Nevarro, hadn’t been in Space since that time. You’d forgot just how many fucking stars there were, littering the skies of lightyears and lightyears, no telling how many planets and galaxies and worlds there were out there.

Maker, you thought you’d be freaking out. You thought the anxiety would be eating you alive, travelling again, on the run, facing death once again. But as the Crest entered hyperspace and the blue and white lines of transit whizzed past you at a thousand miles per hour—all you felt was safe.

The cockpit was silent for a while. There was no telling how long, but by the time you finally tilted your gaze to Mando’s helmet, the kid was fast asleep in your lap.

His shoulders were tense, you could tell. He was rigid as he faced forward, using all of his concentration not to turn around or move an inch. You smiled to yourself sadly, not being able to stop yourself from feeling guilty about this situation. He’d saved your skin getting you off Nevarro so quickly, not stopping to think of just how hard life would be for him and the kid, now.

Stars, you felt terrible.

“Stop that,” He muttered suddenly. His modulated drawl made you shiver, as his low voice floated throughout the cockpit intimidatingly.

“Stop what?” You replied, moving back to stare at the brightness of hyperspace.

“Beating yourself up,”

You scoffed as soon as he said it, feeling your cheeks blush for the first time in a week. Maker, you hated how much he knew you. You fucking despised it. Or maybe, you just told yourself you hated it to ignore the fact that you adored it. That you adored him.

“I’ll stop beating myself up when you and the kid are free and safe,” You whispered.

“We’ll never be free and safe. I’m a Mandalorian, he’s a—,” He stopped himself abruptly, almost as if he was biting on his tongue to stop himself from talking. You looked down at the kid in your lap, wondering about what the hell he was. What did Mando mean?

“He’s a what, Mando?” You urged. He seemed reluctant, but nevertheless, he swivelled to you in the pilot’s chair, looking at you face to face, or helmet to face.

“He’s got... powers,” Mando said slowly. You furrowed your brows at him.

“Powers?” You repeated in confusion.

“Jedi powers, or something,” He continued. Your face immediately softened into an amused grin.

“You mean the Force? He can manipulate the Force?” You couldn’t help it as you imagined the look of utter confusion on his face. Mando didn’t know shit about the Jedi, or the Force, and that much was certain. You understood why—Mandalore and the Jedi never exactly got on. But it was funny to witness him straining like this. When he was so often the most mysterious, smartest being in a room, you finally saw a side of him that was human.

“Do you know what it is?” He asked, interested all of a sudden. You nodded at him slowly.

“My mother. When she was young, she knew a Jedi, before the Empire rose to power,” You began, but you treaded over your words carefully. You hadn’t told a soul of your true family, simply because you didn’t want anyone to know about them before. “She told me stories about him and the powers he possessed,”

Mando was quiet as you spoke, clutching onto your every word. “Your mother,” Was all he said in response. You nodded at him once, smiling sadly, before dipping your stare back to the kid.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” You said to your chest. “She was a great woman. I only got to be hers for twelve years,” You chuckled then, trying to distract yourself from the way your throat had begun to close. “You would have liked her. She was quiet, quieter than you,”

You had no clue where your words were coming from, but it was too late to take them back after speaking them to Mando. He had the ability to make you talk, even if you didn’t want to, or you weren’t planning on it. Maybe the quietness he exuded made you believe he was listening.

“What was her name?” Mando asked after a moment. You looked into his visor, ignoring the way your eyes had started to well uncomfortably.

“Melissa,”  

Little did Mando know that your fake name with Kalahan had actually belonged to your mother. Still, he was gentle, nodding his head once as your voice almost cracked while saying her name.

Mando was silent then, as the two of you relished in the blue lights of hyperspace whizzing over the cockpit. You were trying not to frown as you thought of the fucking mess that you were in. Mando had inserted himself into it, and it was too late to go back. If Karga was working with Ah’era, it wouldn’t be long until you were plastered on every bounty tracker in the outer rim.

Maker, there was no escaping it.

“Where are we going?” You asked him timidly.

“A safe place,” He replied. You nodded once, looking back down at the kid in your arms. His ears were back and his eyes closed tight, snoozing serenely in your grasp. His hand was curled around one of your fingers, holding on for dear life. “He likes you,” Mando continued. You let out a small chuckle.

“You’ve got to admit it, he is kind of cute,”

Gently, Mando stuck out a gloved hand to the kid. He swiped a finger over the child’s cheek, making him shuffle on your lap to lean into his father’s touch. He was smiling in his sleep, absolutely content with this life with Mando. You thought that maybe they needed each other—they needed the company, the love, the care that comes with looking after a child and his bond with his father.

Mando moved his hand then, coming up to slowly caress your jaw. You flicked your gaze up to him, gluing your eyes to his visor. You relaxed as his fingers traced your jaw, your cheek, until you fully leant into his palm. You fluttered your eyes shut, swallowing away your fear and anxiety and everything that had built up over the past two weeks.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered. “About the fight,” You opened your eyes once more, seeing the way Mando’s shoulders had relaxed considerably. He nodded once, and you knew that was all you’d get out of him as recognition of your apology. You had a feeling that he didn’t hold on to trivial things, that he had no space to harbour them in his soul.

Or maybe, it was just because it was you.

“Close your eyes,” He said roughly, his voice almost cracking. You did as you were told, shutting your eyes and ignoring the way your heart was crawling up your throat when the familiar sound of his helmet being tugged off hit your ears.

When his lips hit yours, you melted. They were soft, trickled with longer stubble from his moustache and so delicate as they pressed against your own. His hand came to rest on your chin, guiding your face towards his own gently and effortlessly. Stars, you would never get over this—

You would never forget the feel of the Mandalorian’s lips, fingers, body, pressed against your own. You would never forget the way your gut flipped within you at any opportunity you got to be alone with him.

But Maker, you would also never forget your own vow— you would take down Ah’era, one way or another, before you left the land of the living.

And you’d do it on your own, if it meant keeping Mando and the kid safe.

Tag List: @coaaster @14mcmd1122​ 

Please tell me if you wish to be added to the tag list for every update!

[mrskurono]

As I continue down the stupid road of rewatching/chronologically watching My Hero Academia. All I can dwell on in the zesty sour 'n sweetness of canon complimentary potential "Big Three" au of childhood friends, Bakugou/Reader/Izuku, dwindling down to utter strangers to one another, struggling their sperate ways and angst filled hurt of learning their individual place within hero society.

But as it's something I will probably never write (or if do not post here), I'll just word vomit some headcanons! Bc that's all I can do. Vomit words.

warnings: angst, reader w/a strength related quirk, childhood friends to enemies type of deal, headcanon format, canon complimentary, unedited

Bakugou would still be the catalyst of the crack in the elementary school friendship from the go.

Getting his quirk first but the reader is close to follow like most kids. Leaving Izuku the odd man out and the 'weak' link in the triad.

Reader's quirk would have something to do with strength/outward appearance of strength, essentially solidifying to Bakugou that the two of them are deemed to be successful while Izuku isn't slated for the same fate.

A real "us vs them" in Bakugou's mind while Izuku obsesses over quirks and Reader attempts to keep what they had going while being pulled in two different directions.

Izuku without a quirk meant Bakugou would theoretically be the only one applying to U.A.

Reader doesn't hold similar sentiments in hero work as either of them while still maintaining a fairly useful quirk.

Backlash from Bakugou for being "wasteful" and admiration/fixation from Izuku who over talks the Reader's quirk.

The offer All Might gives Izuku to inherit One for All + the sludge villain attack is the straw that breaks the camels back in the delicate balance between the three of them.

Izuku's time is taken up with All Might's plan, which leads the Reader to lean into helping Izuku a little more (e.g. taking notes for him if he dozes in class, studying more with Izuku, bringing up the fact they might try applying to U.A. too then)

Bakugou's time is spent dwelling on the sludge attack and the fact the Reader is spending more than anyone's fair share of time with Izuku of all people.

With failed attempts to show he 'needs a friend' leaves Bakugou with a bitter taste for the Reader. Not answering his texts for long periods, blowing him off to hang out when Reader say they're busy (which isn't a lie), mentioning U.A. to him, all of which he quickly connects to Deku wasting time and only riles him up more.

Izuku with his tunnel vision to reach his goal to be a hero. And Bakugou with his cold shoulder to ignore everything that's happening around him. And the Reader spilt between finding the right place for them and their beliefs while also hanging onto friends.

Which means applying to U.A. separates the three of you even more.

The entrance automatically exams separated school mates. Izuku in group A, Bakugou in group B and Reader in group C.

Three of them past. And the three of them end up in class 1A. For better or worse.

Izuku doesn't want to be in a class with Bakugou. Bakugou doesn't want Izuku to be at the school. The reader is trying to level the playing field since everyone has a quirk, things should return back to normal right?

It doesn't.

Before they're enrolled in U.A. post exam, and Bakugou corners Izuku demanding what he did to get in, what's going on and how he was going to be the first and only from their school to get into U.A.

That's when Izuku snaps. The spiel about someone telling him how he can be a hero + that the reader deserves to be in U.A. just as much for being strong if not stronger.

Bakugou snaps/lets it slip that he's the strongest and that their friend (the reader) is only stupidly endangering their lives entering U.A. because Izuku caused it.

Only deepening the rivalry between these two without the Reader really knowing what's going on.

Things like the strength tests and mock battles come up and it just keeps getting worse.

Going from neutral to Reader trying to defend Izuku.

Bakugou getting pissed in front of the class and snapping at the Reader as well.

At some point it boils over and the Reader and Bakugou end up in a fight.

One of pure just pent up malice. Neither of them even remembering to use their quirk in the heat of the moment and leading to the teachers having to pull them off each other.

Izuku is panicked but they get sent to recovery girl in the middle of class together.

When sitting and waiting for a check up, that's when Bakugou really eats his own words.

Insulting the Readers quirk, why they waste time on Izuku of all people and worst of all insinuating that the way they look/appearance makes them unlikable even if they try to kiss ass and help everyone.

That's when the rift snaps in half. Bakugou rightfully regretting his words toward his long time friend but not taking them back as sides are picked right then and there. Bakugou thinks that it'll make them stop helping Izuku/quit hero work but it does the opposite.

The cordial manners between Bakugou and Reader are gone right there.

At some point Izuku will fuck up. Focus on too many other things. Repeatedly hurt himself. Ignore the Reader in favor of his dreams. Without realizing it.

His actions not malicious like Bakugou's but just as hurtful in the long run.

Coming to a head when it's revealed the Reader felt the need to placate and take care of Izuku throughout the years. Protect him from bullies and keep a smile on their face to counter Izuku's nerves. But they don't believe a lick of it. Or heroes. Bc if heroes really meant a thing then Bakugou wouldn't have almost died the day of the sludge attack or heroes wouldn't do it all for fame.

Leading them butting heads on what their end goal is. Isolating their own friendship as well.

Not as drastically as Bakugou and the Reader. But leading to them drifting apart for longer than friends should.

idk man i have a lot of brain rot about this trio </3 that I'll never write </3 might add more as they come along

[elizabeethan]

Steal Away: 2 / 5

When a bank robbery with his brother goes horribly wrong, Killian Jones learns to heal with the help of a fiery blonde who happened to get caught in the crosshairs.

A Modern AU

Based loosely on the movie Hell Or High Water (and so I tag @captainswanmoviemarathon)

Read on Ao3

Read The Rest

Read my Other Stuff

A/N: So this was supposed to be a one shot, but it’s, like, 24k words so I thought it would be best to split it up. I’m probably going to post one part a night for the next week or so, though.

This part is rated T as well, mostly for language and car sickness :) (I’ll let you know when we get to M hehehe)

thank you as usual to @the-darkdragonfly​, @donteattheappleshook​ and @xhookswenchx for letting me ramble about this for weeks, and to Kay for beta-ing <3

~~~~ 

It happens quickly. 

 Her sense of humor, her taste in music, the adorable way she snorts when he hits a pothole while she’s sleeping… it’s impossible for him to avoid the feelings that stir in him. It’s almost embarrassing, the speed at which he begins to recognize his feelings, but it’s not as if he plans on sharing them at any point. 

 The fact is… he likes her. She’s cute, and funny, and undeniably sexy, and he knows that if she wasn’t here, he probably wouldn’t be either. He would’ve been arrested right off the bat, or shot in the bank himself, or drowning in a bottle of rum beside his brother’s grave. If it wasn’t for Emma Swan and her insistence to stay in his life, he wouldn’t be on his way to Maine to pick up the only remaining person in his life who means something.  

 Although, perhaps that isn’t true, because after a day on the road, he’s discovered that she’s starting to mean something, too. 

 He doesn’t know enough about her to dignify a crush, but he also isn’t stupid. He knows that he’s infatuated with her. He knows that he’s finding it hard to keep his gaze off of her. He knows that her stunning green eyes play off of the gold of her skin and her hair in such a way that makes his heart race. He knows that, based solely on what she’s told him so far, he’s desperate to know more. 

 She doesn't have a family. She spent much of her childhood homeless and running away from abusive foster placements. She was abandoned as an infant, left in the woods at only a few hours old. She’s been through hell and back, and she still manages a blinding smile.

 Her ex boyfriend is the reason she’s here with him, he thinks. She says that he screwed her over and that she wants nothing more than to get away from him and from the place that reminds her of him, and Killian thinks this all happened at a rather convenient time for her. She told him yesterday, when he was panicking over his brother’s demise, that she could tell that he was there in that bank for a good reason, and he’s taken to assuming that she has a good reason to assume that. 

 They hardly know each other, and yet he feels as though he’s known her his whole life. He knows so little about her, and yet, he can read her like she’s an open book. The term kindred spirits feels naive, and yet, that’s exactly what they are. 

 “Are we gonna stop in Chicago?” she asks excitedly as she watches the Welcome to Illinois sign pass them by. 

 “Definitely not,” he laughs. “It’s far too north for where we’re headed.” 

 “What, and Maine isn’t?” she snorts, shaking her head and pointing out a bird that flies by. “What’s up there, anyway?” 

Immediately, his heart starts racing and his palms start sweating at the thought of telling her the true reason for their trip. It dawns on him that, when they arrive, he would have to tell her anyway, lest he abandon her in town before he arrives at the lawyer’s office. 

 Of course, Emma has experienced her fair share of abandonment at this point in her life, and while he hardly knows her and shouldn’t care, he wouldn’t dare contribute to the trauma that comes with the feeling of being left behind and forgotten. 

 Bloody hell. 

 “You don’t have to tell me,” she says after a long moment of silence. 

 He clears his throat, drawing his focus back to the highway before him. “It’s alright, love. I just… it’s a sore subject, I suppose.” 

 “We share a lot of those,” she jokes, smirking at him and making his heart race. More gently, she reasons, “which means you should know by now that I won’t judge you.” 

 “Aye,” he agrees immediately, because he does know that. “Aye, you’re right. It’s, um… my child.” 

 He catches her balking, her jaw dropping and then snapping shut in quick succession before he needs to focus back on the road. “You have a kid?” 

 With a nod, his grip on the steering wheel tightens. This vehicle is better than the last, the clutch not sticking like the one in the truck had, but it’s so small and cramped that he doubts they’ll be able to sleep comfortably in these seats tonight. He’d best pull over soon so that they can find a place to sleep. “I do,” he confirms. “A daughter. She’s eight.” 

 “How old are you?” she asks in shock. 

 He narrows his eyes, shifting his gaze to her briefly and suspiciously asking, “how old are you?”

 “I asked you first,” she says seriously, as if she truly doesn't want to disclose her age, and he begins to panic. She looks old enough, but the potential that he’s just kidnapped a minor on top of everything else begins to assault his thoughts. 

 “Please just tell me I didn’t kidnap you,” he begs, his heart racing. 

 “No,” she rolls her eyes. “I’m 23, and much more mature than you.” 

 With a sound that’s somewhere between a snort and a sigh of relief, he nods. “Aye, love. I’m sure you are.”

 She sits in silence, staring at him expectantly, and he knows that it drives her mad when he smirks and begins to laugh. “Don’t be stupid! Just tell me how old you are!” 

 “I’m… I’m 31.”

 “Oh,” she says, chuckling beside him. “So you’re not that much of a cradle robber. Just a regular old bank robber.” 

 “Oy!” he shouts in offense, staring at her in shock. “Sensitive subject. And what makes you think I’m trying to rob your... cradle?”

 She snorts and shakes her head. “Please. I saw the way you were staring at my ass at that last rest stop.” 

 She could’ve chosen a more opportune time to say that, perhaps when he wasn’t taking a sip of coffee. It’s rather uncomfortable coming up his nose. “Love,” he says through a cough. “I’m not— that is, I meant not to—”

 “It’s fine, Killian,” she tells him, giggling softly and playfully. “A girl likes to feel flattered, especially a girl who feels like a—”

 Her jaw snaps shut and her eyes grow wide, the emerald catching the rays of the sun and throwing glints of gold. “Like a what, darling?”

 “Like… um, like I could eat everything on the menu at McDonalds. Is it time to stop yet?”

 “No,” he laughs, although he finds that he struggles to say no to her and mean it, even after such little time, and he indicates his intent to change lanes and moves towards an exit. “We only stopped for breakfast a few hours ago.”

 “Well, I’m starving,” she tells him, shooting him a soft smile. “And if I don’t stretch my legs in a minute, they’re gonna fall off.” 

 “You need to stretch your legs? Your feet are currently on top of my dashboard. Is that not enough of a stretch?”

 “Your dashboard? I’m pretty sure I witnessed you stealing this car.”

 “From a scrapyard,” he mumbles, giving her a shy smile as he exits the highway. “What do you want for lunch? Or should I say brunch? It’s barely eleven.”

 “We crossed time zones, you ass.”

 “What do you want?” he laughs. 

 She hums playfully, pretending to ponder his question seriously and says, “a prime rib, cooked medium rare, with a side of garlic mashed potatoes. Caramelized onion and mushroom sauce on the steak. And some green beans, for balance.” 

 Shaking his head and laughing along with her, he says, “chicken nuggets and fries it is, darling.”

 ~~~~

 “You need to pull over,” she says suddenly, breaking almost an hour of silence between them during which he was certain she was asleep. After their early lunch, he decided to keep driving, anticipating that she would take over in a few hours. 

 “Emma,” he sighs, “we only just stopped two hours ago.”

 “I’m not asking,” she demands. “I’m telling you that if you don’t pull over,” she puts her hand over her mouth, her retching and gagging preventing her from saying anything more. 

 “Jesus,” he mumbles as he pulls into the breakdown lane, barely stopped and still in gear when she thrusts the door open and loses her lunch all over the ground. He can’t ask her if she’s alright because she hasn’t stopped vomiting, so he checks his side mirror and opens his door, walking around the front of the car to meet her. He stands behind the door and places his hand in her hair, massaging her scalp as she shudders violently. “I didn’t realize you were prone to car sickness.” 

 She groans, shaking her head and resting it against the window at her side. “I think your driving has gotten worse.”

 He hums, continuing his ministrations on her scalp as she catches her breath. “Was it the chicken, love? I knew that stuff was crap.”

 “No, it’s your crap driving.”

 “Do you want to take over, then?”

 “No, I want to sleep.”

 “Come on out and get some fresh air, would you?” She whimpers as he pulls the door open a bit more, and he takes her hand to help her out and around her sick. “It’s alright, love, come here.”

 She breathes deeply as she stands, and only remains in front of him for a moment before she falls forward against his chest and into his arms. “Sorry,” she whispers into his sweatshirts wrapping her arms around his waist and holding herself close to him. “For delaying the trip.”

 “You needn’t worry about that, love,” he soothes, and he focuses on moving his hands along her back and hair in the same way she had his. “A few moments while you find your bearings won’t hurt. Are you alright?”

 She nods against him, a sound coming from her throat that makes him squeeze her tighter. He can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, the need to comfort her interrupting any reasonable thoughts in his head. She whispers, “yeah,” so softly that he kisses her again. 

 “During lunch I found a small campground that takes cash. It’s only another few hours; can you make it that far? We can use the tent and the camping mat instead of sleeping in the car.”

 “Luxurious,” she jokes softly, maintaining her firm embrace around his middle. “That sounds perfect.”

 ~~~~

 She’s relentless in her jokes at his expense as he struggles with the tent. It’s dusk, and there’s a decent canopy of trees above him, and, as she points out often, he’s getting old. He struggles to see the small pieces and determine what goes where, and she’s hardly any help as she sits in the car laughing at him as she claims to be recovering from another spell of car sickness. 

 “You could try helping me, you know,” he finally mumbles as the structure collapses again and he’s met with her symphonic laughter. 

 “Need a newer pair of eyes, Captain?” she asks in good humor, standing and bounding towards him confidently. It’s almost miraculous how quickly she’s recovered, and yet her nausea seems to keep coming back. 

 “Very funny, love. Come and tell me where E connects to G.”

 It’s impossible to ignore the way the full moon shines against her hair, almost white in the dim light of the night sky. The gentle waves flow freely as she releases the tie from around her locks, rubbing her palms over her face as she settles into the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. She gives him a soft, gentle smile as he zips the tent’s opening securely shut, taking his place upon the ground between her and the door. “Where’s yours?” she asks, gesturing down at her sleeping bag and camping mat.

 He shrugs and then nods towards her. “Someone stole it.” 

 Her eyes widen in surprised embarrassment and she asks, “this is yours? What about-- weren’t you and… I mean…” 

 Smiling as he lies down on his back, he turns his head to face her and says, “I was meant to travel alone, actually.”

 Just as he thinks she’s about to match his position and lie back herself, she stirs and begins tugging on the sleeping bag until she’s out of it. She shakes it out in front of herself to straighten it and then feels around in the dark for the zipper, pulling it around the puffy fabric until it’s fully open before her. Turning towards him, she gives him another soft smile and dramatically opens it like a parachute, draping it over the both of them. “There you go,” she says with finality. “We can share.” 

 “You don’t have to do that, love. It’s summer anyway.” 

 “We’re sleeping outside, and you're taking a second, unexpected person on your trip across the country, who also happens to frequently demand pit stops. The least I can do is share your sleeping bag with you.” 

 “Well… thank you, lass. That’s very kind of you.” 

 “I just can’t part with the mat, sorry. The ground is way too hard.”

 He laughs as he turns to his side, silently agreeing with her that the ground is mighty firm as he grimaces. “You can’t spare it for an old man with old bones?” 

 She shrugs, laughing softly as well as she rolls to her side to face him head on. “You're not that old.” 

 “So I'm only young when it suits you?” 

 “I didn’t say you were young.”

 He hasn’t laughed this much in years. Before he met her, he hadn’t been so close to a woman in almost a decade. He’s forgotten how soothing the gentle touch of another can be, and he’s been hard pressed to ignore how especially soothing she is, in particular. “You do have quite the sense of humor, love.” 

 “All in good fun,” she smiles. He catches her gaze shooting down at the hem of the old sleeping bag, her fingers fiddling with some thread that has pulled away from its place. “Will you tell me something?” she asks in a whisper. 

 “What is it?” 

 She clears her throat nervously, continuing to avert her eyes from his, and asks, “will you tell me about your daughter?” 

 With a hum and a sad smile, he bites his bottom lip and nods, the memories of his love flooding back into his mind, as if he’s ever been able to prevent them. “Alice,” he says. “She’s just turned eight a few months ago. I missed her birthday.” 

 “Why? What happened?” 

 He notes the way that her fingers continue to play at the loose threads, and he matches her actions just beside her. “I was with my mother; she was dying and had no one else while Liam was in jail. I wanted to bring Alice with me, but… her mother wouldn’t allow it.” 

 “I’m sorry,” she says immediately. He hears a rustle against the mat her head lies on and lifts his own gaze to meet hers. 

 “Thank you.” 

 “When did you see her last, then?” 

 He gulps over the lump in his throat. “It’s been well over a year.”

 She sighs, and he doesn’t think he imagines the minute amount of space that she closes between them. “You must miss her terribly.”

 “Aye, I do. Everyday.”

 “Is there… I mean, is there a reason it’s been so long? I’m not trying to judge you, I’m sorry, I just—“

 “It’s alright, love,” he interrupts, noting the sudden shift in her demeanor as she realizes the nature of her question. “Her mother was rather… controlling, I suppose. I believe she used drugs and alcohol for much of Alice’s early life. I don’t have any reason to believe she used during her pregnancy, but I cared for Alice from birth when Eloise fell off the wagon. I even named her, after my ailing mother. But a few years later, she got clean and started to take over. She took Alice to live with her; became upset when I came around. And eventually, the way she would scream at me when I tried to visit made Alice upset, so I stopped coming around as much.” 

 She’s quiet for a moment, and he wonders if he’s taken things a bit too far. If he’s opened up to her too much. He fears this for what feels like an eternity as she lies beside him, her warm breath washing over his nose as he thinks the worst. That he’s upset her, that he’s offended her, that he’s made her think of the trauma of being abandoned herself as he describes the way he abandoned his own daughter. And his fears are confirmed when she sniffles softly before him and moves her fingers from the frayed threads to her eyes, wiping tears away. 

 “Emma,” he whispers into the darkness, “I’m sor--”

 “That’s so terrible,” she interrupts sadly, and he bows his head in shame, knowing already that his actions are deplorable. Until she whispers, “I’m so sorry.” 

 “Sorry… for what?” he asks in shock, speaking almost at full volume, a contrast to their whispering tones. 

 “You just--” she sniffs once more, “--it’s obvious how badly you want to be in your daughter’s life, and you haven’t been able to. That’s got to be the worst feeling… I can’t even imagine not being allowed to…”

 Clearing his throat, he takes a risk by reaching before himself to wipe a tear from her soft cheek with his thumb, almost desperate to comfort her as she has him the entire time he’s known her. “It’s alright, love,” he whispers. “I’m going to get her back, with your help. I wouldn’t be here, on my way to her, if it weren’t for you.” 

 She sniffles and laughs at the same time, adorably embarrassed at the sound that escapes her, and asks, “what’s changed now? With you and her mom?” 

 “She died,” he answers simply. If she had begun to relax slightly into his hand, she stiffens at his words. “She relapsed, mixed drugs and alcohol… her body couldn’t handle it.” 

 “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “That must’ve been hard, too.” 

 “Not much,” he answers too quickly. She draws her brows together in question and he continues, “I’m sad for Alice; she’s lost her mother. But she never really had her much. Eloise was never a very devout mother. It always seemed like she was in it for the image, or only when it suited her. I don’t think she ever really wanted a child.” 

 Emma nods gently, the small gap between them getting smaller when a gust of wind shakes the tent and she slides closer to him. “Was she, I mean, was Alice a surprise?” 

 “Oh, aye, very much so,” he laughs softly. “El and I weren’t ever a couple, we just met at a bar and… well, we were only together once. It was sort of a low point for me.” 

 “I get that,” she nods again. “Sleeping with the wrong person, I mean. Not that… I mean, not that Alice was a mistake or anything, of course.” 

 “I know what you mean,” he consoles in a whisper as she again worries that she’s offended him. She should know that she couldn’t possibly say the wrong thing, because despite how short of a time he’s known her, he knows that she can do no wrong in his eyes. 

 “Will you tell me about her? Like… What was it like when she was a baby? Was it very hard?” 

 He hums and nods, agreeing, “it was hard, yes; I was mostly alone. But it was so worth it.” 

 “It was?” she asks softly, almost insecurely and making him narrow his eyes in thought. 

 She hasn’t told him anything, but he isn’t a fool. He means every word of what he says to her next, and says it in hopes that he can give her solace. “Aye. As hard as life has been, I wouldn't change anything because it’s how I got Alice.” 

 In a move that surprises him almost as much as it doesn’t, she moves as close to him as she can and tucks her head into his chest, just below his chin, and wraps her arm around his waist. “That’s a good point,” she murmurs into his sweatshirt.

 “Are you alright, love?” he asks, accepting her into his embrace and letting his hand run along the length of her spine over her own sweatshirt. He reminds himself that he doesn’t truly know her, so he can’t assume that this isn’t like her, but it feels profound. 

 She nods against his chest, pulling herself impossibly closer as she seems to seek more warmth and a firmer embrace. “It’s weird,” she starts, her voice muffled. “I barely know you, but it feels like you're my friend.” 

 “I am your friend,” he agrees with a smile. “And you’re mine. I told you I wouldn’t be here without you.” 

 “I wouldn’t either.” 

 “Of course not. I’ve been driving most of the way.” 

 She snorts, nuzzling her nose into the crook between his neck and his shoulder and squeezing around his waist. “Yeah, that’s why I’ve been puking nonstop.” 

 “Would you like to drive tomorrow, then?” he laughs. 

 “Sure.” 

 “Alright. We’ll need to leave quite early. Just another two days to go, I think.”

 “Okay,” she yawns, falling asleep in his arms feeling, he hopes, as safe as he does.

~~~~

Tagging:

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[frostedfaves]

Sharp Edges

Masterlist

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: “They say home is where your heart is, but what if my heart is six feet underground with you?”

Warnings: heavy angst, grieving, major death, depression, brief mention of implied vomiting, funeral at the end

A/N: sorry if you came here for a good time, but this is not it! based on these Sad Sunday and Fluff Monday blurbs! I’d recommend reading them first since they’re referenced in this, but not entirely necessary. anyway, excited to hear your thoughts! also I meant to post a request today and save this for next week but I started writing this during work and couldn’t stop. so I’ll work on getting requests out next week since I’ve got Sad Sunday tomorrow!

marvel requests?

-

Wanda Maximoff misses you.

When the news broke that you’d died from your injuries before she could get to you, her body collapsed on the spot. Her mind instantly recalled the memory of the last time she’d seen you truly happy.

For a week straight, your hands were covered in clay. Due to your lack of a childhood, you’d never gotten to experience normal things like attempting pottery in an art class. When you finally discovered it, the team never heard the end of it. You’d annoyed Tony into buying a kiln after coming home with enough clay to build a small village and got to work.

You worked a while on making tiles and carving winter trees and flowers into them, eventually moving onto dishes. You’d perfected plates and bowls but couldn’t figure out mugs, which only made you work harder to the point where Wanda had to drag you to the kitchen and bed each day.

On that seventh day you’d run into Wanda’s room, tackling her into a pile of laundry she was sorting because you were just that excited. You’d finally made a mug worth putting into the kiln, and a celebratory kiss was in order. She’d helped you pick out colors to paint it with, sporting a proud smile and eyes full of adoration.

She pressed repeat on your ecstatic screams echoing in her thoughts, hoping to drown out the cries of pain she’d heard over the phone. You’d been taken by an enemy from her very last mission, someone who had no knowledge that when Wanda disappeared months prior, she left you behind. They could only assume that you would be the easiest way to find her, not aware that you were just as in the dark on her whereabouts.

She’d listened with tears streaming down her cheeks as your captor made you beg, packing her belongings frantically while each whimper of her name turned her stomach a bit more. The regret of leaving her Lovely behind was immense, and she wanted nothing more in the moment than burning her enemy alive and bringing you into her arms forever.

There was a mixture of emotions in everyone when Wanda finally reached the compound, much slower upon receiving knowledge that your body rested there. Broken spirits lay behind defeated and tearful eyes, but looking into Steve’s nearly sent her crumbling to the floor again. 

They were cold and dark, as they earned the right to be. The eyes of a man who comforted his best friend for weeks, day and night, when the love of her life deserted her in her sleep. He was no stranger to your heavy sobs in the shower, overheard when he put sweaters in the dryer and left them in the bathroom because you shivered constantly. Your lifeless eyes at the dinner table when he forced you to leave your room. Sitting with you in the medical wing after breaking your wrists on the punching bag.

As far as Steve Rogers was concerned, Wanda deserved every bit of pain she felt.

This thought mixed in with the flashes of his memories of your suffering is what sent her to the floor, gasping for air with a wet face. Through Natasha and Tony’s legs as they approached her she caught him walking away, and it only made it harder to breathe. 

Your funeral came days later, and Wanda spent the entirety of the time in your room. The scent of your favorite lotion on her hands pulled her into a nightmare filled sleep, and she found comfort in it knowing that her reality upon waking up was far more painful. After taking a shower and checking with FRIDAY on Steve’s location in the building, she found herself staring at an empty space in one of the kitchen cupboards.

“Wanda, what’s going on?”

She turned at the sound of Pepper’s voice, heart clenching painfully at the sight of her formal dress. “Where’s her mug?”

“She smashed it.”

“What?” She wanted to ask why, but stopped herself in fear of the answer.

“She used it for the first time a month after you left. When she went to wash it, she saw where you’d painted on the bottom ‘Lovely’s Mug, Do Not Use’ and threw it against the  nearest wall.”

Wanda pushed past Pepper and sprinted to the closest bathroom, not even caring if anyone walked past and heard the violent act of everything she’d held back spilling out. Gentle hands came a few minutes later, one rubbing her back and the other wrapping any loose hairs around her poorly formed bun. When she’d finished, the toilet was flushed for her and a half empty bottle of water was shoved into her shaky grip.

“Rinse.”

She blinked in surprise at the stern tone, turning her teary gaze to meet eyes much softer than days prior. She stood on shaky legs after following his instruction and using the water, her confusion only growing as he helped her lean against the sink for support.

“I thought you hated me,” she voiced her concern into the quiet room, and Steve sighed.

“I want to, trust me.” He took the bottle from her and used his free hand to scratch at his beard nervously. “I loved--love her like family and when you left, it felt like she left too. Just when I thought I was getting her back, she was taken from me for good. As much as I want to hate you, I can’t. Especially knowing that until her last breath, she loved you.”

He stepped forward again, pulling Wanda into a warm embrace as tears rolled down both of their cheeks. The air grew still, heavy with emotion and silence punctuated with their sniffles.

“I hate that I ruined something she was so proud of making. Everything I touched of hers, I destroyed. Her mug, her heart. I wish I’d never left, and sometimes I wish I never met her. She would’ve done much better without me.”

Her next sniffle was cut short when Steve pulled away just enough to make eye contact.

“You may have made a small part of her life hard, but you spent much more time making her happy. Because of you, she stopped being so afraid of nighttime storms, instead associating it with time to spend close to you. She tried new things and worked harder on missions to help create a safe future for the two of you to exist in. And if anything, she’s inspired me to do the same, for you and all of us.”

Wanda remained silent as she mulled over his words, continuing to do so as she got dressed for the worst event of her life, only tied with Pietro’s funeral. She sat in the front row between Steve and Natasha, a numbness taking over as she listened to everyone speak so highly of you. Her arms held tightly to Tony in comfort as he cried in the middle of his speech, allowing Pepper to take over as she took his place in front of everyone.

“This is--for the second time--the worst thing I’ve ever had to do, but I’m not here to talk about me. I want to talk about my best girl, the one I only ever referred to as Lovely, from the moment I met her. In fact, I’d like to talk directly to her, if you don’t mind.”

She turned her gaze directly above the crowd toward the sky, smiling a bit when a bird crossed her line of vision.

“Lovely, I’m so sorry I left you behind. I thought I was protecting you from the monster I believed myself to be, but instead I just made everything worse. I should have stayed. We never got to finish that show we were binge-watching, and I don’t think that I ever will. Not without you.”

She paused for a moment to breathe, also taking the time to clear space on her cheeks for the next round of tears.

“I should have stayed to be around for the next thing you got into after pottery. You deserve to be that excited about something again. I loved the way you’d say my whole name with that shiny look in your eye that just made me love you so much more, and I remember you telling me that if you weren’t so afraid of annoying me, you’d call me by my full name all the time.”

Her eyes blinked as tears clouded her vision once more, allowing them to fall as she turned to your picture beside your covered body.

“I want to say thank you for being an amazing friend and even better girlfriend, Lovely. I didn’t deserve to have you, but I’m glad I was gifted with being a part of your life anyway. I hope that wherever you are, you’re as happy as you made me, and I want you to know something that will forever be true.”

She cleared her throat as her emotions began to choke her there, hands coming to wrap around the pendant of a necklace you gave her as her final words came out in a whisper.

“Wanda Maximoff misses you.”

-

Tags: @littlegasps @imnotasuperhero @creepingwolfberry @marie-03

[olivinesea]

A Mixed Blessing

Chapter List

chapter five: swallow the sun

a/n: Sorry about this one, just know I feel fairly guilty and also there will be some happiness somewhere down the line. Just not here. Warnings: substance use, abuse & violence, vomit, suicidal thoughts…no, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Too deep in it to turn back now. ~5.5k

The first thing Aaron noticed was how very dry his mouth was. He tried to swallow but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. With significant determination, he lifted his hand, heavy and prickling as if the blood had pooled, to scratch the tip of his nose. He sighed at the immediate relief it brought. On their own accord, his fingers moved to address another itch, this one on the side of his neck. He hummed at the sensation brought on by the feeling of his fingernails dragging against his skin. Never before had scratching an itch felt so good, he was sure of it. He heard a voice mutter beside him. Turning his head, he saw Cole stretched out on the bed next to him.

“Hmm?” He hadn’t understood the muffled syllables.

“I said stop that,” he said, waving his hand in Aaron’s direction, like he wanted to grab him but couldn’t quite reach.

Only half listening, his attention caught up elsewhere, Aaron wasn’t sure what he meant and didn’t much care either. He moved his hand down to scratch at his shoulder, drawn by the bit of skin exposed by his shirt collar. Cole finally managed to make contact, shoving Aaron’s shoulder, knocking his hand away.

“You’re just going to make it worse,” he explained, words slow and thick.

Grudgingly Aaron dropped his hand to his side, but his fingers continued to twitch. His mind felt cloudy and he tried to remember what he had been doing. How long had he been laying here? He pushed himself up into a sitting position. His head swam and a wave of nausea washed over him. He closed his eyes, leaning with palms pressed against his knees, trying to gather his thoughts. Inhaling slowly through his nose, all he could think about was the damp mildew smell of the garage, of how much he disliked it and the way it felt like mold was trying to colonize his airways.

“What time is it?”

“Fuck if I know,” Cole replied with a laugh.

Aaron rubbed his face, he needed to get home. Home seemed so far away but he needed to make it back before his father got up for work. He gritted his teeth and tried to push himself up off the mattress. Cole’s hand shot out, wrapping tightly around his wrist, holding him in place. He looked down at it, the edges of his skin whitening beneath the pressure. His heart beat faster.

“I have to go,” he tried to say, but his voice wasn’t cooperating. The words came out wispy and thin.

Cole smiled, eyes still closed. “Happy birthday, Aaron.”

Aaron blushed, opening his mouth, but failing to make any sound. Cole let go, stretching both arms above his head, humming with contentment. Aaron’s arm tingled where Cole had gripped it, his skin resuming its normal color as the blood rushed back into place.

“Now get out of here.”

Aaron nodded, still unable to speak. There was far too much happening around him, between the lights and the smell and the touch lingering on his arm, still confused about what had happened but clinging to the peace he had felt. He didn’t have time to process what he was feeling, his only focus was the need to get home. He managed to stand up, his legs unsteady as he stumbled to the door, pulling it up only enough to fit under. Before ducking down, he looked back at Cole, still sprawled out on the bed. Thank you, he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure if the words actually came out.

The walk home was difficult, stumbling into lamp posts and tripping over uneven sidewalk in the freezing midnight air. Eventually he made it, up the stairs and into his room without incident. He undressed, shedding his clothes directly onto the floor. A problem for tomorrow. With his last reserve of energy he climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, teeth chattering as he shivered, sweat beading at his temples. He curled onto his side and wrapped his hand around his wrist, holding it where Cole had grabbed him, pulling it against his chest as he closed his eyes and tried to remember every detail of how it had felt. He rubbed his face against his pillow, squeezing his wrist tighter. He fell asleep like that, holding his own hand, pretending it was someone else.

~

The sun filtering in through his window forced Aaron awake. His head was throbbing and he felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Groaning, he rolled over to block out the light. He could hear Sean’s little footsteps running down the hallway, nearing his door. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, hoping it would be enough to get Sean to leave him alone. The door creaked as it opened slightly.

“Aaron?” his brother stage whispered.

Aaron didn’t move though anxiety spiked through his chest.

“Mom says it’s time for you to get up.”

Aaron felt bile rising in the back of his throat.

“Aaron?” A little louder this time, his shrill child’s voice piercing through Aaron’s skull. “Mom says—” He was startled when Aaron suddenly jumped up, pushing past him as he raced for the bathroom.

He barely fumbled the lock into place behind him before falling on his knees and throwing up into the toilet. He felt a strange surge of contentment as it happened, relief as the limited contents of his stomach left his body. He leaned back against the cool porcelain of the tub, forehead flushed with sweat. It felt like he had a fever but also like his skin was buzzing pleasantly. Outside, Sean was banging on the bathroom door.

“Aaron?” he sounded on the verge of tears.

“I’m fine, Sean.” His ragged voice contradicted the assurance, throat raw from dehydration and sickness. He heard a sniffle and sighed. “I’m just going to take a shower, I’ll be down soon.” He felt out of breath, so many words taking a toll. He leaned his head between his knees, another wave of nausea threatening to overtake him. There were some unintelligible sounds from the other side of the door and then, further away, Sean calling for their mother as he ran downstairs.

Aaron reached behind himself, fumbling for the taps, knowing that he needed to get moving. There was no way his mother would let him stay home, he’d learned that well enough. Plus he didn’t want to answer any questions, didn’t feel up to enduring her accusatory looks. She knew enough about what her son was getting into to be suspicious of any sudden illness. She would never say anything to him directly, but she knew how to make him uncomfortable, how to let him know his behavior was unwelcome. Besides, if he went to school he could see Cole, the only person he really wanted to see anyway. He had questions, very important questions.

When the water was hot, he climbed in, his whole body shivering its confusion at the conflicting temperatures. His skin felt chilled while his insides burned, the headache had worked its way from the back to the front of his skull. He braced his hand against the tiled wall and turned his face into the spray. Eyes closed, he could almost feel the bliss of the night before, when everything around him faded away and he was left with a rush of warmth and the softness of oblivion holding him. He’d give anything to have that feeling again.

Aaron didn’t even make it through second period, by nine a.m. his anxiety had built to an intolerable degree. He needed to talk to Cole. His heart, its rhythm fluctuating wildly from racing to non-existence, felt like it was going to burst any moment. He lurched out of his seat and towards the door, a half formed excuse about needing the restroom barely leaving his lips. The teacher snorted, watching him leave, then returned to her lesson, not giving a second thought to it. He wasn’t her problem, let the truancy officers deal with that one.

He found Cole smoking behind the portables, just as he had the first time months ago. Cole didn’t look any worse for wear, certainly not sick in the way Aaron was. When he gave him that same infuriating smile, as if he knew something, some secret that he wasn’t sharing, Aaron felt a surge of resentment. It overwhelmed his usual hesitation, his deference to the older boy. He was always waiting on a signal from him, waiting for an invitation. This time he grabbed Cole’s arm and dragged him away from the group. Cole laughed, shaking him off but reaching a hand out to steady him at the same time. Aaron’s balance hadn’t quite returned.

“What’s up kid?” he asked, letting go once it seemed like he wouldn’t fall over.

Aaron gave him a dark look. “What did you give me last night? Was that…what was that?”

“What do you think?” Cole raised an eyebrow, daring him to say it.

Aaron grimaced. “Heroin?”

“Bingo.”

“Isn’t that—should we be doing that?”

Cole shrugged. “Well, did you like it?”

Hesitantly, Aaron nodded.

“Want to do it again?”

Aaron’s breath caught at the intense rush of desire, the absolute certainty that he wanted to do it again. Would do anything to make that to happen.

“Yes, please,” his voice cracked, hating the way it felt like he was begging.

~

They fell into an uneasy routine. Cole insisted he could only get high like that once a week, though he complained about being treated like a child. After seeing how sick it made him, he agreed it made the most sense to keep it to the weekends, when Aaron could disappear for a couple days without anyone calling to say he was missing school and his father was generally too inebriated to note whether he came home or not. He spent the whole week anxiously thinking about it, blowing through packs of cigarettes and joint after joint, trying to manage the rising anticipation of the high that was coming. The gnawing expectation of returning to that place, where no one and nothing mattered, where he didn’t exist.

He refused to admit to himself that the high was always a little bit disappointing. The rush was there, the relief after days of waiting, of unconsciously picking at scabs until they bled, of being too anxious to eat. He was losing weight but no one noticed, he was never that solid to begin with. But beyond that, he was always left craving more. Maybe if he just did a little more he could find what he was looking for. He started to bug Cole about adding another day, dipping into the supply twice a week. He didn’t know where Cole was buying the drugs so he couldn’t get them on his own, otherwise he would have. He might have been nervous about it at first but he was invested now. Nothing he’d tried before had given him that same sense of relief.

Cole snapped at him after he’d asked one time too many. He threatened to take it away entirely, telling Aaron he was too attached, that he needed to calm down. Aaron felt like he’d been stung, retreating into himself, refusing speak to Cole for several days. Not until Friday rolled around again at least, then he was back, as eager as ever, ready to say whatever he needed to convince Cole to share that way out with him again.

Alongside his increasingly frequent clashes with Cole, things were getting tenser at home. School had been calling relentlessly, asking why he was missing so much class. Every time he came home he was met with yelled accusations, with blows that did nothing to change his behavior. He started coming home later and later, hoping to avoid his father entirely. It worked for awhile, sneaking into the house well after dark, sleeping in his closet so it wasn’t obvious he’d come home. It worked so well in fact that he thought he’d solved the problem and he got careless with his precautions.

It was a night when he came back earlier than usual, having argued with Cole again about something trivial that was really an argument about drugs. He wasn’t thinking straight, still caught up in his irritation that Cole wouldn’t take him seriously, wouldn’t trust that he knew his own limits. He was climbing the stairs, too stoned and angry to be cautious. A large hand wrapped around his neck just as he reached the top of the stairs. He looked up startled, red eyes blearily taking in the form of his father. His nerves were too dulled to panic. In fact, this moment made a lot of sense to him. It was the obvious outcome if he had cared to look ahead at all. He coughed as the hand tightened, cutting into his airway.

“What do you think you’re doing?” his father asked.

Aaron tried to shake his head, grabbing at the fingers holding him in place, trying to pry them off.

“Did you know the cops came looking for you today?” He sounded almost conversational, the faint scent of bourbon the only detail giving away his insobriety.

Aaron had a hard time understanding what he was talking about, too focused on getting air into his lungs.

“And do you know what they said to me, when I told them I didn’t know where my delinquent son was?” His grip tightened, rendering Aaron’s struggles useless as he tried and failed to twist away. “They said without a properly excused reason for absence, they would hold me, me, responsible if you didn’t start attending school regularly.”

He laughed and the sound was cold and terrifying. He leaned in close to Aaron’s face. “Let’s give you a reason to miss school, shall we?”

He released his grip, tossing Aaron backwards as he did so. His eyes were emotionless as he watched his son crash down the wooden staircase. Only a slight hint of disgust was visible as he brushed his hand off on his pant leg. The sound brought his mother flying out of her bedroom, looking over the railing, horrified at the unnatural shape Aaron’s body was now making.

He was dazed but not unconscious, staring at the ceiling once again. How many times had he been in this position? He couldn’t even feel his body, didn’t register any pain. When his mother came down the stairs, anxiously tapping his cheek to try to get him to focus on her, his eyes slid away from her face, looking at the ring on her finger, the thing that tied her to this monster pretending to be human. He felt his own fingers, no ring there, no reason to stay. Distantly he heard crying and wondered why anyone would cry over him.

Sean had also been woken up by the noise. The little boy tried to come to Aaron’s side, but his mother waved him back, still looking at Aaron with concern. He hadn’t moved but that was mostly because he didn’t want to, not because he couldn’t. She didn’t know that. He realized it was Sean crying. This stirred an emotion somewhere deep inside his chest. Perhaps that was why he kept coming home—he loved Sean. Or he had. He didn’t feel much anymore except a desire to get high and an annoyance when he wasn’t. It was better that way. Other emotions were painful, only reminded him what a failure he was, how much he lacked. Sean was far better off without him, it was best to let him realize these things now. Still, he could hear fear in Sean’s sobs and he didn’t need to be that cause of that. There were enough other reason for him to be afraid within these walls.

Feeling guilty he tried to move, tried to rearrange himself into a less horrifying position. His ribs screamed at him as he unfolded his legs, untwisted his body. He swore, the sudden pain almost whiting out his vision. Sean whimpered.

“‘m okay,” he tried to reassure the little boy but he looked far from it. His mother, still hovering nearby, tried to help him up but only made him cry out as her hand put pressure against his side. She nervously looked up at her husband, still watching this scene from the top of the stairs, dispassionate and unimpressed.

“We have to take him to the hospital,” she pleaded.

Aaron felt like he was going to be sick, the pain, once he became aware of it, was building. A pressure in his head made him certain he would throw up if the lights got any brighter so he squeezed his eyes closed.

“Do whatever you want, he’s not my problem.” His father turned away, slamming the door to the bedroom. The sound made everyone flinch.

“Can you get up?” his mother asked. Aaron inhaled deeply and instantly regretted it, the expansion of his lungs making his ribs creak. Instead of wasting air on an answer, he pushed off the bottom stair slowly, using the banister to pull himself upright. He was hunched over, unable to completely straighten out, panting in much shallower breaths.

“Okay, okay, let me just get my keys,” she brushed her fingers through his hair lightly. He only turned his face away from her, focusing all his energy on not falling down. He didn’t think he’d be able to get up a second time.

“Sean, go back to bed,” she directed. Sean whined, wanting to come along, to make sure his brother was going to be okay. But she wasn’t listening, she was already moving around the house, getting a coat and shoes, finding her purse. He came down the remaining steps to where Aaron was standing and leaned against his thigh.

Aaron gritted his teeth. “Don’t—just listen to mom, buddy. We’ll be back soon. Just go back to bed.”

Sean grabbed the fabric of his pants, shaking his head and rubbing his runny nose into Aaron’s leg in the process.

“Please, Sean,” Aaron whispered, trying to hold his temper but every movement was painful, was asking too much of ability to remain balanced on two feet. “I promise I’m ok, it was just an accident.”

Sean looked up at him, suspicious but also young enough to want to believe. He’d been told repeatedly since he could understand: always tell the truth. There was no reason to think adults played by different rules. Aaron tried to smile, unsure how successful he was.

“I’m okay,” he repeated, mostly for his own benefit.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” Sean asked.

Aaron rolled his eyes, wanting to say no but not wanting to extend the discussion further. “Sure, get it warm for me okay?”

Sean nodded reluctantly and turned, cautiously making his way up the stairs, never letting go of the railing, as if he too might find himself crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. As if it had really been an accident that they were all equally in danger of experiencing.

~

Once his mother had explained to the nurses how he had crashed his bike riding home in the dark, and he had numbly nodded along with the story, there was a flurry of activity around him. The doctor shined a sickeningly bright light into his pupils, palpated the sore places on his side, had him demonstrate that all his major joints were operational. They wrapped his broken ribs tightly and gave him an ice pack to hold against his throbbing temple. If anyone noticed the lack of abrasions consistent with road rash no one mentioned it. He was wearing long sleeves after all. The doctor talked to him sternly about the importance of wearing a helmet and told him how lucky he was to have only sustained such relatively minor injuries.

Aaron wasn’t listening, was just doing his best not to stare at the bottle in the doctor’s hand. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the label so he stared down at his hands instead, fingers twisting together nervously. He could only read half the words printed there, the other half obscured by the doctors age-spotted hand, but he was fairly certain he knew what it was. He tried to listen enough to nod when it was appropriate, mumbling an apology and promising to make better choices in the future.

“Now, you’re going to be in a bit of pain for the next couple weeks so I’m giving you a prescription for oxycodone. Have you ever taken that before?”

Aaron bit his lip and shook his head slightly, wincing as he felt his brain slosh from side to side. “No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s pretty strong stuff so make sure you follow the instructions. Don’t take more than it says or you’ll find yourself feeling pretty sick; okay, son?”

Aaron fought the urge to say something rude, annoyed by the way the doctor was addressing him. He needed that bottle of pills though, this was no time to start picking fights. “Yessir,” he mumbled.

“Good boy,” the doctor patted his knee and looked over at his mother who was anxiously watching from a chair by the door. “You’ve got a very polite kid here Mrs. Hotchner, you must be raising him right.”

Aaron’s eyes were fixed on the bottle still in the doctor’s hand. He thought it would probably be a mistake to reach out and grab it but he was growing impatient. He could only sustain the model son act for so long, especially after the last few hours. He dropped his eyes when the doctor turned back to him.

“Here why don’t you take one of these now, it’ll help with the trip home no doubt.” He popped the cap off and grabbed Aaron’s hand, shaking one out into his palm while calling to a nurse to bring a cup of water.

Aaron stared at the pill, feeling excitement racing through his veins, finally he’d have control over his high. His hand shook a little and the doctor misread what he was seeing.

“Don’t worry, it will probably just make you a little sleepy. Nothing to be concerned about.” He held out a cup of water. Aaron popped the pill into his mouth before accepting, washing it down and feeling smug satisfaction wash through him as well. The doctor traded the cup for the bottle of pills and patted his knee again before leaving, wishing his mother a pleasant evening. When he was gone, Aaron and his mother’s eyes met. He could see she was hesitant about the pills and he wrapped his hand around the bottle tighter. No one was going to take this from him, he’d earned it as far as he was concerned.

She sighed, unwilling to argue about it right then. “Let’s go home, Aaron.”

He slid off the table to follow her, his steps only slightly faltering, buoyed by the key he now held.  

~

It didn’t take long for Cole to find out about the pills. After Aaron didn’t show up at school for several days and, more alarmingly, didn’t turn up on Friday, he went to the Hotchner house looking for him. Though he knew where Aaron lived, he had never been there. No one was out front and he knew better than to ring the doorbell. Instead, he walked around the side and found him behind the house, stretched out on a bench, one arm dangling in the grass, the other covering his eyes.

“What the fuck?”

Aaron looked at him sleepily. “Huh?”

“Where have you been Hotchner?”

Aaron shrugged, sitting up warily. “I fell down.” He didn’t elaborate.

Cole snorted. “What are you even talking about?”

Aaron rubbed his nose, alleviating the ever-present itch on the tip of it.

“Do you know what day it is?”

All he got in response was a blank stare.

“Are you fucking high?” Cole sounded shocked, like he couldn’t believe Aaron would be capable of such a thing on his own. This needled Aaron’s pride, deeply annoyed by this persistent belief that he’d had no experience on his own, like he hadn’t figured things out for years without any help from Cole or anyone else. It was like Cole believed he was some innocent and, worse, he preferred Aaron in that role. Never questioning, always being led into things, as if he couldn’t make his own decisions. As if it wasn’t, in reality, Aaron seeking him out.

“What if I am?” he spat back. Cole had moved right in front of him so he stood up, disappointed that he was still several inches shorter.

“Are you stealing from me?” Cole’s voice was icy and sent an unwelcome flash of fear through Aaron. He tried to pretend it didn’t affect him, putting on a show of disinterest.

“Why would I? I don’t need your shit.”

“Liar,” Cole countered. “Where did you get it then?”

Aaron sank down on the bench again, he was too high to fight. He had been having a pleasant afternoon, everyone gone, just him and his pills and the sky. “The doctor,” he muttered, pulling the bottle from his pocket without thinking, “I cracked a couple ribs.”

Cole stared at him for a second, understanding passing between them, before snatching the bottle from Aaron.

“Hey!” He jumped up, furious. “Give that back.”

“What? I share with you all the time and you were just going to keep this to yourself? How’s that fair?”

Aaron faltered, caught by the logic of the argument, maybe he should have thought to share but the idea had never even crossed his mind. Still, they were his, he could do what he wanted, he was the one in pain after all. He tried a different tactic. “Please, I need them. It’s…it really does hurt.” He didn’t like to admit it, it made the high less enjoyable, tied it too closely to the nightmare in his home.

Cole’s eyes sparkled, he could tell he had the upper hand again, was back in the position he preferred. Irritated, Aaron tried to grab the bottle back but Cole was too fast, lifting his arm out of Aaron’s reach.

“Uh-uh, I think you need to learn a lesson about sharing.”

“Cole,” Aaron warned. This wasn’t a game to him. He could feel rage beginning to boil inside him.

Unaware, Cole laughed at him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Furious and unthinking, Aaron shoved him hard with both hands, knocking him backwards. He tripped and landed on his back, the bottle slipping out of his hand as he tried to catch himself. Aaron breathed hard, the muscles in his side had pulled painfully at his broken ribs and the pain was making him see stars. Before he could recover, Cole was back on his feet and approaching him.

“They’re mine,” he said, as if that explained everything, as if that would fix the anger that had clouded Cole’s face. He took a couple steps back but he didn’t move fast enough. Cole swung his fist and it connected with Aaron’s jaw with a loud crack. He stumbled to the side, barely catching himself before he took another hit. His cheekbone burned with the impact, his ears were full of the brittle sound of his struggling lungs. His knees folded under him and he found himself on all fours in the dirt. He wheezed, trying to breathe around the pain in his ribs. Just out of reach he saw the prescription bottle and moved just enough to grab it. As soon as it was in his hand he scrambled to his feet, half bent over, free hand wrapped around his ribs. Cole watched him, anger fading but still not pleased with what he was seeing. Aaron probed his face, exploring the way his lip was swelling, the trace of blood running down his chin. He looked at Cole, betrayed.

“Fuck you,” he whispered, before turning and walking away, praying he wouldn’t be followed.  

He didn’t know where he was going at first but found himself back at an old hiding place by the river. The tree with the tall roots that had cradled him so often when he would sneak away to make himself sick off his father’s alcohol. He sank down and, against his own wishes, cried. He hated himself more with every tear. He should never have trusted Cole in the first place. This situation was his own fault. How could he have believed someone cared about him? That someone wanted to spend time with him because they liked him as a person, not just a thing to get something from, a thing to be pushed around when he wouldn’t give them what they wanted. Now that thin illusion was broken and he had nothing left. He’d let this friendship, this experiment overtake everything else in his life. He’d pushed away what little he’d had to focus his energy on holding on to this, wrapping himself up in the high. The drug high, sure, but more than that, the high of attention and believing someone else understood him. But it had never been real and he should have known that.

He considered the bottle of painkillers, an idea floating up, whispering sweetly, promising a solution to the mistakes he’d let himself make. A way to erase the sting of realizing he was not and would never be anyone worth caring for. That would be the ultimate trick, one that no one would anticipate before it was too late. Carefully he poured out a handful. Took one. Took another. And another. He put a fourth one in his mouth but found he couldn’t make it go down. He held it there, tasting the bitterness as it began to dissolve. A wave of regret forced him to spit the pill out into his hand. Maybe today wasn’t the day, maybe he would just enjoy the high for now. He could always make that decision later, he had the means available. He leaned back and let the effect of the pills he’d swallowed pull him away from himself. Within moments he fell asleep, bottle clutched in one hand, the sticky pill, coated in dirt, in the other.

He was shaken awake roughly, someone calling his name. Trying to ignore it, he squeezed his eyes tightly, not wanting to wake up, to come up from the dark waters he’d been pleasantly floating in. Fingers snapped close to his ear and he flinched. Reluctantly he slit his eyes open. Cole was there.

“Leave me alone.” He tried to roll over, away from him. Cole pulled him back roughly.

“How many did you take Aaron?”

“What do you care?” His words were slurred, tongue lazy.

“Of course I fucking care,” Cole sounded exasperated and, though Aaron wasn’t sure he was interpreting the emotion correctly, worried. Finally he opened his eyes all the way to glare at the other boy, sullen. He licked his lips where he could still taste blood. Cole reached to touch his face and Aaron recoiled hard, hitting his head on the tree trunk. He yelped, the pain ricocheting through his skull. Cole’s hand still hung in the air between them. He looked disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low.

Surprised, Aaron looked at him again. This time he remained still, let Cole touch his face, touch the bruises, run his finger over the dried blood in the corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to.”

They were very close now, so close Aaron could feel Cole’s exhale as he spoke travel across his cheeks. He held his breath and clenched his fists, crushing the partially dissolved pill still in his palm. Vaguely he noticed his other hand was empty. Just as he was about to look for the bottle, eyes darting to the ground, he felt Cole’s lips, pressed against his mouth. Shocked, he tried to make sense of everything, of how close he was, of the warmth, of the way the pressure caused the edges of his teeth to cut into his skin.

Cole pulled back, seeming to be as surprised as Aaron felt. They were frozen, tension holding them in place. Before he could form a complete thought about it, Aaron grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him back, crashing against each other. The tension shattered into an angry, clumsy struggle, all teeth and crushed noses. Cole was pulled off balance and knelt, one hand braced on the tree above Aaron’s head, one hand around the back of his neck. Aaron’s hands, gritty with dirt, wrapped in his shirt, holding on desperately, afraid Cole would leave the moment he let go. The kissing was rough and it made the bruise on his jaw ache, his broken ribs burn, but he needed this. Far more than he wanted to admit, he needed someone else’s touch to prove he was wanted, that he belonged. And for that kind of reassurance, he’d accept any touch at all.

chapter six

[im-moreofa-dogperson]

A Fearful Encounter - Part 4

Featuring: Dr. Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow x Female Reader

Warning: gun violence

Summary: After John’s promise to free you from the wretched Gotham city, he teaches you how to defend yourself so you can make it on your own. However, when pushed far enough, you may just be more than he’d made you out to be.

Words: 1890

Previous parts: part 1 part 2 part 3

**Sorry it took so long to post this new part!

____________________________________________

As if on cue, as soon as John had professed his intents to help you escape from the vileness of this city, you were startled by a knock at the door.

You both looked at each other, as if questioning whether the other knew who was there. After it was clear neither of you were expecting company, John grabbed hold of your hand and pulled you quickly to your room where there was a fire escape.

Just as you unlatched the window, you heard the door swing open and crash against the wall. You hurried along raising the window, scattering the dust that had collected on the frame, and quickly climbed out with John right behind you.

He jumped down to the ground first and caught you by the waist after you landed right next to him. It wasn’t until you’d made it into his car and drove 3 blocks away when you finally felt it was safe to breathe again.

You rolled your head over against the head rest to stare at him. “Who was that?”

He glanced over at you and quickly back to the road before responding, “not sure.”

You sat with this uneasiness for a few blocks before he finally pulled up to what must have been his apartment building. It was far more casual than you had expected although you weren’t quite sure what it was you were expecting.

A young girl and her mother were exiting the building as you were walking in and they barely gave you or John a single glance. You wondered if any of the residents were aware of who they were more or less bunking with. Maybe John paid them off to keep quiet.

Upon entry to his apartment, you slowed down in the door frame to take it in. Although you hadn’t been picturing a dungeons-like cavern with spikes on the windows and knives fanned out on the coffee table, you also hadn’t expected such a pleasantly pleasing atmosphere.

The living room was well furnished with a not so well-lived-in couch pushed up against the wall of which an antique, baroque style painting hung from. The dark, morose hues of the depicted scene fit well with the borderline demented passions of the man who hung it.

Otherwise, the room was casual and almost homey. John had been studying you while you took in his apartment before finally speaking up; “you need to learn how to defend yourself.”

Taken aback, you glance at him and respond, “what”?

“Well, this is only a temporary residency,” he goes to say, plopping his keys into a turquoise bowl on the coffee table. “Eventually you’ll be on your own where I won’t be able to jump in and rescue you.”

You snort at that and reply, “Yeah, and you won’t be able to put me in a situation where I need rescuing either.”

“Either way, you need to learn.” He smiles slightly, and it’s a smile that used to suspend you in uncertainty, but now you’re able to get enough of a read on him that you know he’s simply trying to assure you of his sincerity.

You agree to his proposition nonetheless as he leads you to the building’s basement to practice self-defense.

******

For the next few days, you painstakingly practiced fending off attackers through physical altercations as well as how to shoot a gun. John didn’t make things easy for you, constantly pushing you to do better.

You were reminded of the disappointed expression he’d wore on his face when he’d found you’d overwhelmed a security guard through force during the Fear Aversion Therapy.

Ironically, the very thing he’d once punished you for doing, was now the very thing he was teaching you to be better at.

During your lessons, you noticed there was an abundance of physical contact between the two of you. You suddenly recalled the first night you ever spent together when you’d kissed him in a lapse of judgement.

You tried not to dwell on these thoughts too much as John held your trigger finger under his in an attempt to better your aim. You could feel his breath against your exposed neck and once again fought the urge to turn around just then and kiss him.

To take your mind off these intrusive thoughts, you considered how you were in need of fresh clothes. Afterall, you’d been living at John’s place for three days and still hadn’t revisited your old apartment for your stuff.

After badgering John to drive you after your lesson, he finally agrees, and you head out back to your old home.

******

Walking up the concrete stairs that you’d once found so familiar felt alien to you now. Though it hadn’t been long since you’d resided in this home, you still felt as though you’d changed so much.

It was almost as if it wasn’t you that had once climbed and descended these stairs for years, but rather a stranger you’d left behind in the past. For good reason.

When you reached the door, you extended an arm out to the handle, but as soon you did, John gripped your wrist and held you still. You give him an inquisitive look before realizing what he must have been thinking.

The intruder that you’d barely escaped from three days prior most likely wouldn’t have cared enough to shut and repair the door they’d just busted through. Meaning someone else has been here. And that someone could still be here.

John clearly was thinking the same thing as he took out his gun and cautiously opened the door handle.

When he pushed the door open, what you saw made you drop your gun. You barely even registered John mumbling ‘shit’ under his breath.

“Dad?”

******

“Thought I was dead, huh?”. Your father simply asks. He was lounging on the couch as if he’d never left. “That why you look like you’re seeing a ghost?”

The state of shock you’re in prevents you from even answering him. John, however, recovers much quicker than you.

“Thought I told you what would happen if you ever came back here,” he says. You immediately sober up at this threat of John’s. The implication of it being he knew your father was alive and never actually killed him like he’d told you. It was simply another tactic to instill more fear in you. Fear of him.

You know you should feel betrayed. You should hate him for tricking you yet again. All that was behind you now, however. Now all you felt was pure disdain for the man sitting in front of you, the throw blanket you’d once lent to John lying at his feet.

“What are you doing here?” You ask as apathetically as you could.

“Straight to the point, huh? Not gonna ask how I’ve been, what I’ve been up to, if I wanna catch up-“

“Like you ever gave enough of a shit to ask me any of that,” You scoff.

Abruptly jumping to his feet, your father points an accusatory finger at you and replies, “I did give a shit about you! Everything I did was for you! You don’t even know the half of what I’ve had to give up. For you.”

His statement was so foreign and ridiculous to your ears that you feel like laughing. How could someone be so delusional?

“Everything you did was for yourself. The best thing that ever happened to me was hearing about your death.”

At that, John whips his head to you. He’d been watching your argument back and forth like a tennis match, in an almost amused way. He knew some sort of violence would ensue upon seeing your father, but this he didn’t expect.

“Fine,” your father says sighing, and sitting back down. “I’m here because I need your help. Well, I need your connections. I’ve come into some trouble… something that I can’t run away from.”

You squint your eyes trying to decide what he meant by all this when John suddenly laughed mockingly and said, “Sir, I thought I made it clear that if I were ever to see your face again, mine would be the last you see. What makes you think I’d submit to any request of yours?”

Having put everything together given your advanced knowledge in the deceiving ways of your father, you answer for him, “because he thinks I’ll convince you on his behalf.”

“Look, I just need you to use your little home-brewed concoction on some guys who think I owe them money.” You shake your head at the all the unearned confidence your father must have in order to talk to Jonathan Crane like that.

“Or maybe I’ll use it on you,” John simply threatens.

“Enough!” You finally say. “No one’s doing anything to anyone. Dad, we’re leaving. You’re on your own. Your favorite game of scaring me into doing your bidding is over.”

John puts his hand on your waist to push you out in front of him towards the door. As you leave, however, your father begins to laugh. It’s a guttural laugh that stirs your darkest memories of him.

Without thinking about it, you slip your hand into John’s jacket pulling out his gun and train it at your father’s head.

John eyes you curiously, and in the strangest of moments you finally realize what draws him to you. You’re unpredictable. You act in ways in even you can’t anticipate.

Your father’s laughter stops when you pull the trigger.

******

The walk back to the car was a blur. You remember vomiting in the stairwell and then John eventually scooping you up after your legs had given out.

When he set you back in the passenger’s seat and began driving, you knew you needed to pin down how you really felt before you drove yourself insane. One of the many lessons you once learned as John’s patient.

You knew it wasn’t regret you felt. Although the information of your father’s murder had once been used to threaten you against escaping Arkham Asylum, you had still sighed a breath of relief at the mention of it.

Now, to see him again was like a waking nightmare; unsure whether his presence was real or imaginary, but positive that it was unwelcome.

You definitely felt shock. You’d been imagining this scene unfolding for quite some time, but even you were surprised to have found yourself reaching for the gun and pulling the trigger in such an unyielding manner.

Though, what it really boiled down to was exhilaration. You felt as though a weight had been lifted off your shoulders and for once, it was by your own hand. You were no longer the scared girl you once were standing with her back to the sea and a total dependency on the hand extended out before you.

You giggle as you almost compared yourself to the Great Loch Ness Monster in all her green finned glory that you once thought you’d be swallowed whole by. Your giggle soon turns rampant and you fail to stop the uproarious laughter that then pursues from you.

Even with Scarecrow in the driver’s seat, you felt as though you’d finally taken control. Of your mind, and your trigger finger. You laugh like that all the way back to the apartment.

______________________________________________

[shadowmayura]

I didn’t think I’d be doing this, but it’s gotten to the point where some things have to be said.

Someone from my past has been making vagueposts about me lately and I can’t allow it to go unaddressed any longer. They are disingenuous and at times downright false, and they imply a certain type of relationship that simply did not exist.

If at this point you don’t know exactly who and what I’m talking about, please scroll by. I’m not going to be mentioning her by name and I’m not here to drag additional people into this big mess. This is solely to address any misconceptions for those who have already seen this person’s posts and are left confused by the strange phrasing and missing information.

(TW: harassment, emotional abuse, stalking, vomit)

This person and I met online in the spring of last year. Soon after, she confessed to me that she had a crush on me. I wasn’t interested for a variety of reasons (distance, not knowing her very well, and a lack of attraction on my end) and I gently let her down but suggested that we could still be friends. At no point did I promise a romantic relationship with this person.

We got to know each other better as friends. For a while, it was genuinely fun. I did not harbor any romantic feelings but I did enjoy being her friend. But in the summer, we began to spend more time together, and that’s where it started to go wrong. In reality, it was gradual, but it felt very sudden because the realization that things had changed came all at once. Her flirting had become a lot more aggressive and she was implying to other people that there was something between us. Playful teasing had turned to something far more demanding, and we were talking to each other nonstop, up to 10 hours per day every single day. When I realized how drastically our interactions had changed, I tried to pull back. I became very uncomfortable with how much couple-like behavior had emerged on her side when I did not want to be in that kind of relationship.

My decision was met with a lot of resistance. She was upset at me that I wanted to cut back on the amount of one-on-one time spent together, and she also was upset when I took a week-long break from Discord as a whole. We had our first argument over this. I thought we reached an understanding, but at the end of the conversion, she expressed her need for significant quality time between us, leaving me feeling like I hadn’t been heard at all. It’s worth noting that I hadn’t cut her out entirely at this point. We were still talking almost every day, but we weren’t on voice chat for hours on end any longer. I just wanted interactions that were closer to a normal friendship rather than a romantic relationship that I had never consented to.

It got worse leading into fall. The flirting continued and escalated. She drew “friendship portraits” of the two of us with strong romantic undertones. As she continued to push, I drew back. She didn’t like this. I was met with passive aggression when I tried to set boundaries and put a comfortable distance between us.

September is where it reached a head. On September 17th, she coerced me into a video chat that essentially served as an intervention for my choice. I had a bad feeling going into it, but she insisted that we video chat rather than text chat. I reluctantly agreed under her false pretense that it would be a conversation solely about fandom matters, but within 5 minutes, she was crying on video. I became very uncomfortable and I continued to look at a document on my computer so she could compose herself. She calmed down, but as soon as I claimed to be done looking at it, she turned the crying on again.

For about an hour, I was berated. She was crying and yelling, not allowing me to get a word in edgewise. She was, once again, very upset with me that I had been pulling away from her. I desperately wanted to leave the call, but I knew that there’d be hell to pay later if I did. I forced myself to sit through the whole thing. When she was done, I was shaking. She expected me to speak but I was unable to form words for several minutes and I was additionally berated for not saying anything, even though I had already been cut off many times. When I was able to pull myself out of the state I was in, I told her that our interactions had become far too romantically-focused for my comfort and that I didn’t want her to flirt with me anymore. I then ended the conversation as quickly as I could.

I vomited several times after we hung up and was shaking for hours. I couldn’t sleep that night. A few days later, I lost clumps of hair. It is stress-induced alopecia areata that I’m still receiving treatment for. I don’t say any of this to garner sympathy, but I want to emphasize that this was not a conversation that I look back on fondly. It was traumatic. This unfortunately is relevant later.

At this point, it is safe to say that I did not want to associate with this person any longer, but this was not an option for me. There were fandom commitments that tethered us together, and I knew I’d have to weather out the storm. If I didn’t, I would tear friend groups apart, drop commitments that I cared a lot about, and potentially ruin both of our reputations in the community.

I tried to maintain some distance without angering her significantly, but it was all downhill from here. She continued to disrespect my boundaries and push me romantically. Flirting occurred less commonly in private chats since I would shut it down, but in public spaces, she continued to flirt with me, and I felt pressured to allow it in order to avoid awkwardness in group settings.

Her romantic interest turned into obsession. She became fixated on my Tumblr posts and Discord statuses, accusing me of referencing her when this was seldom the case. Jealousy arose about my friendships with other people. She didn’t trust me to make my own decisions with my friendships and disrespected my decisions when I made them. There was also a huge increase in emotional manipulation and guiltbaiting. Whenever calm and rational criticism of her behavior was given to her, she would exaggerate and call herself a terrible person so that the criticism would be dropped in favor of coddling and comforting her. It was impossible to bring up serious issues without her playing the victim.

She also became increasingly hard to deal with in a team environment. I often felt as if I was being disciplined for not loving her in return. My ideas were constantly nitpicked and shot down. I was condescended to. I began to feel unwelcome in group spaces because of these behaviors. I felt like she was pushing me out of public spaces in hopes that I would flee to private ones, though I tried to avoid that as much as possible.

In November, a flip switched. The romantic harassment almost entirely vanished and all her interactions with me became unkind. In some ways, it was refreshing because the worst of the stalking subsided, but the hostile environment was not easy to deal with. I retreated from fandom in order to avoid it as much as possible.

Finally in December, my fandom commitments finally ended, giving me the ability to end my friendship with her. Right before this, she spoke negatively of me in some public ways. One of these actions I cannot name here because it would reveal her identity, but it spoke ill of a community that I oversee.

The worst, however, was a fanfic that she published several days before I cut her off. She projected her and I onto the main couple of the fic. I was cast as Gabriel and she was cast as Nathalie. The further I read, the more sickened I became as the references became more overt.

Near the end of the fic, Gabriel and Nathalie have a huge argument. I was shocked to find exact quotes from our September 17th video chat in the dialogue of the fic. They were large sections of our conversation. At the end of their argument, Gabriel admitted all wrong and they make amends. As a couple.

I felt ill reading this. I still feel ill thinking about it. I hate that one of the most traumatic conversations in my life still exists on the internet for anyone to read, twisted into a scene that is meant to be read as good and romantic. I am reminded of all the harassment that I endured and I hate that that is a feeling I now associate with one of my favorite ships. There are other creators involved as well whose work has now been tainted by these real-world associations that had no business being in a fanfic.

After this, I cut her out of my life entirely. I was considering less drastic options, but this was the last straw that I knew we could not come back from. I removed her from several of my social circles and blocked her on all social media.

Before I blocked her, I sent a letter explaining in explicit detail why I would be cutting her out of my life. Despite this, she has recently claimed that she was never given a reason.

And that’s where we are now. My life has been more peaceful since December and I have begun to come out of my shell. For a couple of months she left the situation alone and that was fine with me. I was happy to peacefully coexist as long as I wasn’t having to interact directly.

However, my friends began calling my attention to recent posts on her blog that implied I had destroyed her mental health. Some of them have since been deleted. While I was willing to let the first one slide, these posts have increased in frequency while pushing an increasingly false narrative. I don’t enjoy the implications that I did something horrible to her by not consenting to a relationship.

I’m sure she will disagree with my take on things, and that’s fine. If she disagrees with my reasons with cutting her off, that is her prerogative, but I cannot allow her to claim that I didn’t give any reasoning when she did receive it through multiple channels of communication.

And I hope I haven’t gone a step too far in revealing that this person was in love with me. I debated not including it, but I’ve realized it’s an unavoidable issue that is central to the entire situation. At the root of it, I was romantically pursued and harassed. I cannot defend my reasons for cutting her off without disclosing the base motivation for the majority of her actions.

So that’s my story. I’d ask those who read this to please refrain from engaging in any harassment. This post has not been made with the intention to hurt her, as can be evidenced from months of me holding my tongue. I really did try to let her preserve her dignity, but I was left with no other options after being smeared multiple times. My purpose here is transparency.

I genuinely do wish her well, for both our sakes. I really hope that this will finally end her obsession and allow her to move on. But whatever happens, I refuse to be a doormat any longer in this situation.

[soulwillower]

if you’re too shy • richie tozier

(richie tozier x cam girl!reader smut)

[based off the song if you’re too shy (let me know) by the 1975.]

requested: i can't find it lol BUT 🤍anon (i think) requested a fic based off of the 1975′s new song, if you’re too shy let me know !!

warnings: swearing, alcohol use, switch!richie kinda, smut, unprotected sex, a tiny bit of cumplay i guess, mentions of phone sex, oral sex (female receiving), face sitting, a bit of dirty talking, UNEDITED as always

also i wrote this in a different style than usual and idk if i like it much but u can let me know what u guys think,, if its weird i can go in and change the povs since its 3rd person richie

[losers + reader are 21+ in this.]

7.4k words lol

♡

i see her online all the time i'm trying not to stare down there while she talks about her tough time

"h-hey, man, who's that?" the voice from right next to richie makes him damn near leap out of his seat. it makes beverly chuckle a bit as she takes a bite of her apple, shaking her head. "it’s nobody." richie says quickly as he tilts his phone towards his chest and shoots a toothy grin to bill. his friend raises his full eyebrows, "wh-what, so n-nobody was sending you n-nudes?"

"something like that." richie mutters, stomach fluttering as the image flashes in his mind’s eye - the curves, the dark red lace, the plush skin painting a perfect scene in richie’s vivid imagination.

richie looks back down at the photo. his his thumbs hover over the profile picture; he'd found her originally on his instagram explore page, the photos teasing and immediately he had to know more. y/n.

and then a few days later, he'd subscribed to her only fans, which he never quite thought he'd do with anyone, but he couldn't help it. she was so enticing, so perfect and so alluring. it was the playfulness that pulled him in; and he swears he's never lusted after somebody like he has with her. it was kind of starting to freak him out.

"is that o-onlyfans?" bill says and richie shoves bill's nosy face off his shoulder with a panicked grunt. "fuck off, mushmouth."

bill laughs and stan and bev perk up from across the table, staring at the two, interests suddenly piqued. "did you subscribe to a girl's onlyfans, rich?" stan says with a grin, setting his pen down on his notebook. 

richie just smirks and wiggles his brows a bit, enough to confirm his question. bill chuckles from next to richie.

"let me see." bev says, wiggling her manicured nails in a "gimme" motion. richie hands his phone over with red cheeks. normally he wouldn't care about his friends discovering he's paid money just to see a hot chick's bod, but this was different. for some reason, he felt connected to her. god, that thought made him want to slam his head against a brick wall. she doesn't even know him,  for all he knows she could live in the middle of.... montana, or like, ohio.

bev whistles and stan nods, "if i looked like that," bev mumbles as she tosses richie's phone back towards him, "i'd do that too. mad props."

noises of agreement fill the table but richie's just looking at the small smirk that peeks from the corner of one of the photos and he can't help but wonder what her eyes are like in real life. he wishes he could meet her.

girl of your dreams, you know what i mean there's something 'bout her stare that makes you nervous and you say things that you don't mean

it's a cold day when bill and richie find themselves stumbling in to the coffee shop for a drink. bill's muttering about some girl in his creative writing class that gave him head when richie's eyes catch a figure so familiar yet foreign that he stops dead in his tracks. bill turns to him, face confused. "r-richie, what's wrong w-with you?"

richie shakes his head, stammering in disbelief, "that-that's her, bill. the girl, from onlyfans. y/n." he whispers, gesturing with his eyes towards the girl working the register.

bill’s jaw goes slack, green eyes raking over her form and igniting richie’s stomach with boiling rage. as if bill’s doing something that only richie is allowed to do – as if they're not both being total creeps.

“h-holy sh-shit. she’s b-beautiful.” bill mumbles. richie elbows him in the ribs, shooting him a glare that prompts an eye-roll from his auburn haired friend.

richie swallows and watches, his throat feeling like sandpaper as she laughs at something the customer in front of them said. bill nudges richie, "i-i'm gonna get a s-seat. t-talk to her."

he winks and grins as he walks away, leaving richie with his reckless self. he thinks he's sweating through his sweater as he walks up, finding himself face-to-face with her. "hi, how can i help you?" she asks, giving him a smile

holyshitholyshitholyshit.

he might've just came right then and there. okay, he's gotta say something cool, something smooth. don't be a dumbass, tozier. 

"howdy, sugar. i'll have my coffee like i like my women." his mouth blurts as his brain sirens go off, PUT ON THE BRAKES, RICH – "a hot shock to the lap.”

she glares at him, cheeks light pink and eyebrows pulled together in annoyance and yep, richie's probably going to get hard because of that look but he's also probably going to toss his body off a bridge because what the fuck, tozier?

he can hear bill laughing quietly from a ways away and he quickly shakes his head, muttering quietly, "jail. jail, richard."

"funny." she deadpans, clearly not amused. because of course she isn't.

"sorry, i'll have a black coffee, y/n." he mutters, eyes widening to himself when he realizes she was not wearing a goddamn name tag and he just said her name.

this is a disaster. she gives him a bewildered, slightly creeped out look and if richie wasn't panicking, he'd gape at how she still managed to be effortlessly gorgeous even now.

he sighs, shaking his head, the door of the cafe opening and blowing a gust of frigid air through the warm room. fitting - douche chill. 

"look, toots, i don't want this to be weird. i- um, i recognize you." he says, cheeks aflame. she raises a brow, face straight for a few moments, unsure what he means.

it's not long after when recognition flashes over her own face - must have ruled out coffee shop, university and her local gym - and she nods with a tight, almost uncomfortable smile. 

he tries not to think of the livestream he watched last night where she showed all her new gifts and modeled lingerie, and how he’d spent his time to himself with his left hand immediately after watching. his cheeks are red with shame. 

"okay." is all she says, writing down a scribbled order on the coffee cup. her eyes shoot back up and give richie a once-over that really makes his fingers itch - god, why did he have to be this way? 

he almost runs his fingers through his curls but decides against it, eyes opting to focus on her own gorgeous eyes as they meet him. "i'm impressed i have a fan who looks like you, i must say. even if you are a complete jack ass." she purrs and his jaw nearly smacks the floor at its velocity as it flies open.

"what's that supposed to mean?" he asks then with a small grin, flattered at the tiniest of compliments that just barely, in his mind, eclipsed the insult that he so very much deserved.

"i'm saying you're kind of a dick. it's too bad, because you're real cute." she says casually, handing him his change. his stomach flips and butterflies release in his chest, a feeling that he's not felt in almost five years.

but damn, of course he messed up - he got the chance to talk to the hottest girl on earth and he started it by saying an awful joke that wasn't funny at all. of course she though he was a dick, he is one.

he's shocked, though, as he waits for his coffee with bill, who is still snickering into his hand every few moments, to find his coffee cup with extra sharpie scribbled on the white paper. a name.

y/n. and below it is a phone number with a small heart scribbled, and richie can't tell if it's a seven or a one but he figures he'd try every phone number in the damn state if it meant he could fucking text her. holy fuck.

"maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i'm not playing with you, baby i think that you should give it a go" she said, "maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i wanna see, and stop thinking if you're too shy, then let me too shy, then let me know"

he didn't text her for two days and three hours. yes, he counted it. no, he won't think about why he was obsessing over the numbers - but since the time he'd finally had found the courage to text her today, things have escalated proficiently. 

she'd just mentioned how hot it was in her apartment since her heater had gone haywire - even though the winter winds were cold, she'd claimed she was burning up in what she was wearing.

and the mere mention of her clothing had sent richie into somewhat of a spiral, spending at least seven minutes glued to his phone and scrolling through the saved album he had of those photos of her that she'd posted; his sweatpants getting increasingly tight and his palm suddenly aching to slip through the fabric and find some release.

but, in true trashmouth fashion, he apparently needed that sweet, sweet rejection from a hot cam girl he'd somehow weaseled into getting the number of in order to wank off properly, so he types out a text and hits send immediately.

what are you wearing?

and then he almost vomits in embarrassment – what was she going to think? did he just royally fuck up? oh god, he’s going to have to shave his head and move to canada.

his phone buzzes and he nearly passes out when he lays his eyes upon the image attached – there her body is again, curvy and full and beautiful, her skin glowing in the fading light of what he assumes is her bedroom. and with it:

this. what are you wearing, rich?

and then he pulls his gaze from his phone and stands, breathing heavily because holy shit.

he's gotten nudes before, but.... none from someone like her. holy shit.

he walks to his bathroom, splashing water on his beet-red cheeks. he swallows, staring at himself in the mirror. fuck.

he slaps his cheek once, then winking at himself in attempt to muster any sliver of confidence. and then he snaps a picture, only in his boxers.

and then he has to physically refrain from making a joke about wearing the same lingerie set as her, instead sending a flirty text that he knows any other woman would blush at. he just doesn’t know with y/n, and maybe that’s why he loves it so much. she's keeping him on his toes.

you like what you see?

he sends that one afterwards, shaking his head because oh my god, she's going to respond with "no" and then bill him $40 for the nude she sent him. not that he wouldn't pay, but...

his phone dings and he nearly breaks an ankle running to his desk. 

yeah, i do. but maybe i'd like you better without any clothes on.

he almost yells out loud at this, but he has a feeling that waking up stan in the middle of the night would not be optimal after their 'roommate agreement' they'd made that explicitly states richie cannot scream between 1am - 9am. so instead he smirks to himself, face turning red.

he's getting harder by the moment, and as he stares at that picture she'd sent earlier, he lets out a breathy groan. the lace....

we could face time yk

or we don't have to.

he reads her words in live time, watching the thought bubble appear again and watching it like a hawk. he can just imagine her sitting there with a small smirk as another text comes in and he almost groans as his dick twitches.

like, if you're too shy or something ;)

he stares at the screen for two seconds at that sinful photo she'd sent just before those texts and then sighs, shaking his head and pressing the green face-time call button.

i've been wearing nothing every time i call you and i'm starting to feel weird about it sometimes it's better if you think about it this time, i think i'm gonna drink through it

three days later, richie was undeniably and unequivocally drunk. but, as he's just explained about three times to mike, he knows that it is just easier to not think right, especially about her, right now - and the best way to do that is by getting so piss drunk that even if he tried to "hit her line," as he so eloquently put it, his dick would be too whiskey'd out to make a full appearance.

it's for the best. mike had fake gagged at richie’s cadence with a laugh, but richie was dead serious because he was starting to think he had a real issue.

it was obviously just a fun thing to do between two near-strangers, but he'd found that he was starting to almost pavlov-style condition himself into getting turned on every time the name y/n came across his recent texts or face times, and it was getting to be too much.

especially when her post notification popped up and he cracked a fatty in the middle of his econ lecture. christ, the point of elasticity of markers in the u.s. was not something he pictured when he usually had to quell a pitch in his tent. so yeah, it's too much.

because yes, he loves her fucking body and wants nothing more than her, but in truth he longs for the feeling of her skin against his; to touch her, to kiss her, to make her his. all the time.

but yet, it was just a good way to get off without all the strings and ribbons and yarn and whatever the fuck her soft-looking knit bra is made from attached.

so much for not thinking about her.

but i see her online (and don't think that i should be calling) all the time (i just wanted a happy ending) and i'm pretending i don't care about her stare while she's giving me a tough time

it’s noon the next day and he's laying in (for some reason) stan's bed instead of his own with a blinding, mind-splitting headache and an insatiable craving for a cheeseburger, eyes squinting in lust and something akin to shame as he watches the livestream y/n had just started. she’s in a slip – a very thin, silk and see through slip and it makes him more frustrated than he’s willing to admit.

as he stares at her smooth skin and wonders how it'd be to touch it all, her eyes catch something in the chat and she smiles coyly. "hi, rich." she purrs and richie almost chokes - holy shit, she saw him join.

"do you like my gift i just got?" she asks coyly, snapping the straps of her bra with a small smile and he stiffens almost instantly, thinking of how many times he'd seen her skin in videos and photos that were just for him.

how she'd moaned his name two nights ago on face time, her fingers buried inside herself slightly off-camera. and oh, how he wishes he could see all of her, but they'd not crossed that line yet - anything they'd done hadn't been yet proven visually, only from facial expressions, noises, and the brutal honestly of being together through face time.

he wants her so fucking bad, he needs her like he needs water to drink and air to breathe and it's murdering him as he watches her react to the chat of her livestream, playing with the hem of her black lace panties.

god, he needs a cold shower or something if he's going to get anything done today.

and then he's calling her an a few hours after her stream ends because he just can't wait - he feels his stomach twist with shame as he realizes he should not be doing such a certainly a terrible idea. but she answers after three rings. "richie." her siren voice purrs and he literally feels himself fall deeper into the pit.

"hi there, toots. got any coffee in the pot for me?" he asks, sounding surprisingly eloquent compared to how she normally makes him feel. 

she hums in fake thought, and it makes richie grin. she's fucking adorable. "come to the shop, i have my break in ten." and then she hangs up. he sighs, rubbing his face with his hand as he shakes his head. he's utterly fucked.

he's there in record time, a smirk plastered on his face as he walks in and sees her sitting at a table, lookin' all pretty. just for him.

"what made you think of calling?" she says in loo of a greeting. he sits across from her and wills his eyes to meet hers. "nothin' toots." he says with a half shrug, taking a sip of the coffee placed in front of him that has the the name 'dick' written on it in her handwriting. he rolls his eyes affectionately.

"oh, so it wasn't anything to do with my livestream this morning?" she asks with a look, eyeing him. her eyes are swimmable, they hold so many stories and secrets and maybe richie's just hungover, but he's feeling very flustered.

"we-w, uh, no. what... what are you talking about?" he rolls his eyes at himself inwardly, cursing stuttering bill and his contagious speech patterns. "-i don't know what you're talking about, sugar." he recovers fairly smoothly, if he may toot his own horn. and honestly, he can pretend not to care as long as he doesn't look into that goddamn stare of hers.

he chuckles awkwardly, cheeks aflame as she stares at him with a bored look and a small hum. she still looks perfect and he's even more nervous now, because oh god, oh fuck, he's gonna get slapped in the face by y/n.

it was pretty unspoken since they'd started doing... stuff... that richie probably still watched her content online, but she'd never fully addressed it until today during the livestream in front of a thousand others. 

he's choking on his spit in shame but then a smile splits her face and richie's sure he's suffocated on his own saliva and gone to a sinner's heaven. or maybe hell.

"oh, richie, i'm just teasing you. look at your face!" she says with an airy laugh, pinching his cheeks and making him want to shrivel up as he turns even redder. what the fuck? "-so cute. alright, i've got to get back to work. i'll see you around, rich." she says with a wink, taking her coffee and tossing it into the trash bin as she stalks towards the employee back room.

he gapes as he watches her leave and then gets up and makes his way to the exit, clutching the coffee like it was trying to jump out of his grasp and make a run for it. god, she's too much.

"maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i'm not playing with you, baby i think that you should give it a go" she said, "maybe i would like you better if you took off your clothes i wanna see, and stop thinking If you're too shy, then let me too shy, then let me know"

"-babe, you'll have to try harder than that." richie says with a chuckle, watching his phone screen as the beautiful girl on face time gives him a sly, challenging look. she's in a green lace bra, one richie's not seen yet and he can feel himself stiffen as she absently trails her fingers over her chest.

they'd been much closer over the last week since he last saw her in person, enough so that in the three-is weeks of knowing her, he's positive he's head over ass for her in a way that he shouldn't be. and yet, she still comes back every time, still texts him and answers those face time calls. he's baffled, honestly.

"i know you hate me because i'm right." he adds, not even totally remembering what point he's trying to prove as y/n shifts back a bit and more of her body is revealed, her hair glowing dimly in the soft lighting of her room. his eyes run over her curves, her full thighs and stomach and hips that fill over her panties and he almost groans.

"whatever, maybe i'd like you better if you took off your clothes." she says coyly. and richie's half flattered, as usual, but the more he thinks of it the more deflated he feels. he kind of thought they were growing something more than just getting each other off over face time like horny fifteen year olds. he grins nonetheless.

"you say that a lot, you know." richie says breathlessly as he stares at her. she tilts her head ever so slightly and grins, biting her lip as her eyes move around her screen with a conflicted look. "-why?" he adds.

she hums again.

"well. okay, so there's the visual world - like, the internet, onlyfans, instagram- it tells us that everything is amazing. and we should want everything. and it makes us yearn for everything that we don’t have and everything that’s unobtainable. you know, love, a relationship beyond physical. and even physical, it's different when it's online."

her words confuse him much more than they aid him. "you think... that because of the internet, love is unattainable?" he asks with furrowed brows, unsure how somebody so perfect and, quite frankly, lovable, would think that.

"it is for me." she says it with a small sense of forlorning but mostly it's whispered. enough that richie's heart skips a beat and he's, for the first time, not having a hard time keeping his eyes on her face instead of her body.

"what?" he asks dumbly. she just laughs, shaking her head and he stares at her on his tiny phone screen in the dark.

"that’s something that, you know. in real life, person to person, it has a lot of connotations of... trust and vulnerability and connection. doing what i do- and what we're doing… on the internet - it has the opposite of those connotations. like, before you, i didn't- i didn't really do this, i just was selling stuff. because guys don't want to fuck the girl who sells her body online. and you know now, i want to..." she trails off and richie doesn't dare interrupt her because he thinks she's about to say something he's wanted to tell her for a while now.

"i don't know, i guess. exploring someone's body in physical presence isn't seen at all as voyeuristic, or anything apart from...like, an intimate exchange." she says it casually, brushing hair from her face and shit, richie's swooning. he's in fucking love, he knows it, because y/n is so smart and intelligent and he's so fucking trashed for her. as she speaks, her hands move and distract him slightly from her body, doused in blue light from the screen and splayed out for him and only him on her phone camera.

the soft lace on her hips and chest make his body stiffen and it causes him to suppress a groan as she sighs, but richie knows he can’t screenshot this heavenly sight because she’ll definitely notice and she can probably already tell he’s having a hard time not staring at her alluring figure as she talks.

"-whereas, you know. as soon as it happens on the internet, it becomes kinky and cam-girly. and, you know, that's fine. i love doing it. it's just, i'm not sure where the authentic communication even is now. or if i get to have a happy ending." she says and he finally sees her blush for the first time.

he wishes he was there with her, he wishes that he could touch the redness on her cheeks and caress her curvy body and taste her skin on his tongue. he wants to feel himself inside her, he wants to be with her and kiss her lips and yet he can't, so he sighs and shifts in his position, moving to turn up the brightness of his phone so he can see better.

"shouldn't you get to be the one to decide that, doll?" is all he adds. because he feels kind of lost and just as confused as y/n is with this.

he's starting to feel weird about it, because... is this authentic? what makes things like hookups or whatever the hell they've been doing authentic? shouldn't this be easy? it's just phone sex, phone sex with a really hot girl.

a girl who is complex and alive and full of sincerity and richie is definitely falling harder than he should.

she just sighs but makes no other comment. and then they just stare at each other, richie's face illuminated in his dark room by the phone's reflection.

well, i found a motel it looked like the bins i think there'd been a murder so we couldn't get in i need to get back i've gotta see the girl on the screen

"come over and watch a movie with me." he says into the phone, biting his lip. the silence from the other end of the line is deafening as she makes her decision, because they both know she's not about to come over just to watch the shining or psycho. 

they've never done that before, and richie knows if she does come over, then whatever they have will crash down in a fiery mess. and he hates how excited that makes him as he waits in silence for her to drop the ball. so to speak.

"okay." she says, sounding shocked herself, and richie can't contain the excited grin from eclipsing his face. "yeah?" he asks breathlessly, and she's quiet for a little longer. "yeah. text me your address." 

she hangs up after that, and richie's thumbs shake as he types his address and sprints out to where stan, mike, ben, and bill are playing video games in he and stan's living room, wheezing at all of them to get out because someone fucking unbelievable is about to walk through that door.

she's there about an hour later, cheeks flushed when richie opens his door, looking just as nervous and flustered. "hi, chee." she says breathlessly, staring up at him with those goddamn eyes, the eyes that pulled him in the first time. his stomach flips in affection at her nickname and he offers her a drink as she takes in his shitty apartment. he wonders briefly if stan ended up buying that rosé that he'd given him shit for considering, and then prays that stan will stay the night elsewhere.

she's already pouring out glasses of wine when he snaps back to reality, and he grins at her, mumbling in thanks as she passes him a glass that's certainly poured almost to the brim.

"what are we watching, then?" she asks coyly, lifting a brow at him. his cheeks are red, but he tugs her arm down the hall towards his room with a grin, their wine sloshing from their glasses as they move erratically.

"we're watching psycho, y/n/n." he says as he pulls her into his room, glancing back to see she's already swallowed down almost half her glass, a lipstick stain on the side of it. faintly he knows stan will be frustrated if richie doesn't clean that off, but he's more distracted by her lips.

"i like psycho." she says with a nod and a cheeky grin, "the whole 'voyeuristic gaze' thing with hitchcock." she mumbles, and richie recalls faintly learning about that in one of his film classes freshman year and he grins as he takes a hefty gulp of his rosé, figuring he's already given himself away and if she's going to do that, he can too.

he hums, setting down his glass and grabbing hers to set it besides his on the bedside table. he turns around, intending on grabbing his laptop so they could watch the film, but she's so much closer that he'd expected and her hands fall onto his shoulders and he almost shits himself.

unpleasant, but honest. just richie's style.

"can i try something?" she asks with a grin, and richie nods, knowing that she could do anything to him and he'd gladly let it happen and most likely pay out of pocket for the damages afterwards.

and then she's pulling him from her grip on his shoulders, her lips sliding against his and making him grip her hips. his mind almost explodes at with y/n-sensory-overload because he feels her everywhere - on his lips, against his hands, on his shoulders, and pressing against his front.

her lips taste like chamomile and rosé.

she thinks his lips taste like vanilla and cigarette smoke, just as she'd always imagined. he feels so real, pressed against her lips and his body against hers, and she sighs as her tongue slips into his mouth because god, she's needed him for so long. and now she has him.

his hands move, touching every inch of her as their tongues fight for dominance. she pulls back, smirking as she gently pushes him onto his mattress, sliding onto his lap smoothly afterwards, grinding her hips against his slowly.

the moan he emits is heavenly and she could cry because she finally gets to hear it in person and not through the crackling static frequency of the phone.

so she grinds down on him again, eager to feel all of him. he's hardening against her core and she whimpers into his mouth in need as his fingers slip under her top, rubbing circles on her bare skin and making her shiver. she's noticed to this gentleness; it was rare when she did get to enjoy the comfort of another body with her own, and when she did they were hardly half as loving or caring as him.

she's desperate now, she needs to feel him inside her after all these weeks of teasing and waiting, so her hand snakes down to palm him through his sweats. he lets out a small groan into her mouth, biting her lip as he pulls back slightly. their eyes meet and his are hooded with lust, lips parted as she pumps him slowly from outside his sweats. his hips buck up lightly into her palm and she smiles gently, kissing him slowly.

"let me make you feel good, y/n." he mutters, eyes pleading as he stares up at her. her stomach flutters with butterflies and she nods, shocked that he wants to pleasure her.

he gently pulls her off his lap until she's laying on his mattress and he stares down at her, biting his lip as he takes her in. he can't fucking believe she's really here. she slowly pulls off her top, leaving her in her bra and jeans as she stares up at him with a wry, seductive smile. then she unzips her jeans and slides them off, leaving her in his favorite set of hers - black, lacy, and revealing. she looks utterly stunning and he groans, his hands falling to run over the skin, tracing the lace on her breasts. her cheeks are red as she gazes up at him.

"touch me, richie." she orders and he almost groans as he drags his lips over the valley of her breasts, sucking on the soft flesh and admiring the splashes of budding purple and pink that he's created. her heartbeat is quick under his fingertips and he moves to unclip her bra, kissing her skin as the fabric falls away.

she's slightly cold in his room, and goosebumps appear over her flesh as richie leans to catch a nipple in her mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. she lets out a quiet whine that has richie rutting into the mattress next to her, his fingers trailing down to dance at the waistline of her underwear.

and then he's pulling aside her panties, his fingers running up and down her slick folds and making her jump in lust. he can't wait, just like her, and he's rubbing her clit teasingly as she pleads, "chee, please."  her eyes are eyes closed in bliss as his finger slips inside her, crooking slightly as he moves it. he presses his lips to the skin of her breast, pumping his finger and then soon adding another, crooking them both in a way that makes her let out guttural moans of pleasure. he marks her breasts with littered pink and red marks, smiling to himself at her figure.

she can't help but swoon as she watches him, his hair in his face slightly until she brushes it back, his fingers curling inside her and making her gasp, pleasure coursing through her body. his thumb softly comes up to rub her neglected clit and she grabs his shoulders to steady herself, the pleasure almost too much.

she's honestly slightly shocked - knowing richie as little as she really does outside of the literal booty calls at two in the morning and the accumulative forty five minutes they'd spent in person, she'd expected him to be... well, good. just good. because there's no way someone so funny, caring, and smart could also be that good in the sheets.

but right now, he's making her see goddamn stars.

"i've been wanting to touch you for so long, sugar." he mutters, eyes raking over her figure as her breath comes in stuttering gasps. she watches him with blown-wide eyes as his demeanor changes right before her, making her fall apart at his fingertips.

"that feel good, honey?" he asks, smirking as she whimpers, clenching around his fingers. "yes, god you feel so good." she utters, making him groan in approval from where he's sat back, watching her face contort in pleasure. she lets out another moan and richie stares at her body, watching his fingers as they fuck into her. he can't take it, then.

"will you sit on my face, doll?" he blurts, and she nearly yelps out as his fingers leave her. it's abrupt, but she's started to notice that this is how he operates - impulsivity is his second nature. and she loves it.

her face burns as she nods, the thought of richie under her making her whimper with anticipation. "yes, richie, please." she moans out again and he's grinning, laying back on the mattress with a wink. "c'mere, need to taste that pretty little pussy." he mutters and she feels herself clench around nothing, desperate for him as she swings a leg around to straddle his head.

immediately, his hands wrap around her thighs, thumbs smoothing over her stretch marks as he stares up at her, eyes glinting with desire. slowly, his finger pulls the seat of her lace panties to the side and his breath hits her bare, throbbing pussy, making her breath hitch. she cards her fingers through his hair and lowers herself slightly, gasping in shock as his tongue darts out to lick a bold stripe up from her entrance to her clit.

"chee," she moans out, tightening her grip in his hair and sending a groan through his body that reverberates and makes her shiver. his lips attach to her clit and fiery pleasure snakes through her body making her legs shake, a moan escaping her lips immediately. he sucks lightly before releasing to swirl his tongue, her moans making richie impossibly harder through his sweats.

"so good, rich." she mutters and he groans, tongue spreading her wet folds and slowly prodding at her entrance, dipping in slowly before pulling out, teasing her.

she can't help but grind down slightly, making richie grip her tightly, tongue sliding into her again and making her yelp. "you taste so good, baby." he mutters lowly before slowly reattaching himself to her heat, her eyes rolling slightly at the sensation as he fucks his tongue into her. one of his hands snakes up to her ass, gripping it tightly and then slapping it, the stinging pleasure making her buck her hips against him, emitting a hiss from her.

"rich, i-" she cuts herself off with a sharp gasp, the pleasure from richie's mouth making it increasingly harder to speak. her toes curl and her head tilts back as his tongue flicks over her clit, teeth grazing it slightly and making her buck.

she's embarrassingly close already, and judging by the way richie's smirking under her, he can tell. "please, please." she mutters, hips rocking on him as his tongue swirls, nipping softly at her clit and making her cry out. "please, make me cum, 'chee." she mutters and his tongue moves quicker, hand slapping her ass again.

and then she's clenching her thighs on either side of him and grinding down as she hits her peak, moaning quietly as she shakes in pleasure on top of him. he rides through her high, lapping at her and pulling away with a grin as she moans his name dejectedly. she's worn out from the best orgasm she's ever had and he gently nudges her so he slides in between her thighs, her back now on the mattress. he kisses her cheek and she keens quietly.

"fuck me, richie." she mutters, eyes still closed. his eyes snap to hers, surprised at the dominance in her voice after how she was two seconds ago.

he moans quietly, kissing her deeply as he ruts against her and relishes in the feeling. he's pulling off his sweats and boxers in record time and then he's pumping himself as he grips her hips, turning her so she's on her stomach, ass propped up slightly. his hand runs over the smooth skin of her ass, snapping the elastic of her panties and making her moan quietly.

then he's lining up her hips with his, pulling aside the lacy seat of her underwear to press against her entrance. he waits a moment as he leans to press a soft kiss to her spine, slowly easing into her. she moans loudly as he eases in, her face pressing against the pillows. she smiles as she smells the scent she'd just recently come to know as his, his cock stretching her and filling her up fully as he buries himself to the hilt inside her.

"so tight, sugar." he mutters and she whimpers, getting antsy as she adjusts to his size. "richie, please, need it so bad." she mutters, bucking her hips back against him in need.

"say that again." he mutters, sounding strangled, and she grins into the sheets. "please fuck me, richie. need it so bad, need to feel you ruin me." she whimpers, chest fluttering in anticipation. his hands grip her hips as he pulls out of her slowly, almost as slowly as he entered, before stopping almost all the way out. she moans loudly in pleasure as he pushes back in, snapping his hips against hers and filling her completely.

she briefly thanks god that his roommate seemed to be out for the night as she moans his name loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

he sets a brutal pace, his cock thick as it fills her up and makes her toes curl. he pushes her hair away from her neck and presses kisses to it as he hits a spot inside her that makes her scream his name. his fingers move to pinch her nipples, rolling them as he fucks into her.

she's completely blissed out at the feeling of him inside her, so glad that he invited her over and that they finally get to touch each other. "rich, oh my god." she emits, eyes squinted shut in complete pleasure.

"fuck, toots, takin' me so well, aren't you?" he asks, hands kneading her ass before slapping her right ass cheek harshly, making her arch her back. at the new angle they both let out a groan and richie knows he'll fucking cum too soon if they stay like this, so without warning he pulls out completely.

y/n whines, breathing heavily as his hands come to flip her around. now on her back, they make eye contact and she bites her lip, pulling him in for a searing kiss that knocks the wind out of both of them. images of richie in his room alone, snaps and late-night face times play through her mind as he grips her and slides her hips down towards him on the mattress and lines himself to her again, pulling her legs up so they're against his chest before pushing in.

he gives no time to adjust to this angle and it makes her moan loudly as he hits a spot deep inside her that pulls her closer and closer to her second orgasm.

his name leaves her cherry lips like a mantra and he can't stop staring at her as he fucks her into the mattress - the way her tits bounce with his brutal pace, the way her face is twisted in pleasure, the way she clenches and spasms around his cock.

one hand grips her breast, rubbing her nipple with his thumb and forefinger as he kisses her again, addicted to her taste as he feels himself coming closer and closer to the edge.

"chee, fuck, right there." she moans out and he groans in pleasure, the feeling of her walls clenching around him making his hips stutter. he keeps his thrusts up, though, as her fingernails rake down his back leaving small trails of burning pleasure in their wake.

her skin is covered with a sheen line of sweat as she looks up at him, hair wild and lips kiss-bruised. "god, don't stop, 'm gonna cum." she mutters and he snaps his hips harder, eager to make her cum so hard all she can think of is his name.

he moves a hand down to rub at her clit and he moans into her neck as she clenches hard around him, her hips bucking spastically. he can tell she's about to cum, and after a hard thrust, she does for the second time, spasming around him and sending waves of pleasure up his body. she's moaning his name, pulling him closer in bliss as she becomes sensitive and god damn it, she's so fucking beautiful.

"please cum, richie." she whispers against his lips, "please."  and then at her will, he's spilling into her, hips stuttering as he pushes as deep into her as he can, loving how she clenches in sensitivity around him. he stays inside her for a moment as they breathe, coming down from their highs and eyes closed as they take in what just happened.

"holy shit." he says because yeah, that's like all he can say right now because he just got to fuck y/n and she's kissing his fucking collarbones right now and its making him blush and his heart flutter.

"that was...incredible." she whispers against his skin and he can feel her smile against his skin. it makes him feel all soft inside as he pulls out of her and flops next to her, kissing her forehead.

his fingers flutter over her sensitive core, smiling as he sees how wrecked she is, some cum dripping down her leg. he then soothes over the lace panties, patting her lightly and kissing her red cheek.

"rich?" she asks, making him look up at her. he hums in question, pushing some of her hair back. "can we still watch the movie?"

his heart swells and he grins, kissing her softly. "of course, doll. you're too cute." he says with a wink, making her roll her eyes. he hands her his shirt and then pulls sweats on himself, mumbling "stay here" and padding out to the kitchen to get her water and snacks,  then returning minutes later to see her holding his phone in her clutch with a smirk.

"what're you doing?" he asks with a smile, but she shakes her head, making grabby hands for him and the snacks. so he laughs, cuddling up with the girl of his dreams and watching a flick, falling sleep with tangled limbs and a lipstick-stained neck.

and after she leaves the next morning with a kiss and a wink, he checks his phone and smirks to himself as he notices the lock screen she'd apparently made last night while he was making snacks.

a photo of her in his bed, wearing his shirt, a soft smirk on her face, neck littered in budding hickeys and a hand between her thighs next to her black lace panties.

god, she's going to be the absolute death of him.

//tag list:  @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @simplesammyx @dickology64 @clownsloveyou @emnotm @moon-shine-baby @toziershmozier @daughter-of-the-stars11 @lets-vibe-bro @trashedfortozier @oceandog13 @beauregard-s@finnskindofwoman  @kait-tozier @upamongthestarss \\