#and i know i have other things. its like. yeah no wonder substance abuse is so common

[gourde]

The worst part about alcohol to me is that the effects only dull my outer perception of the world, not my mind. It's like all the sensory cables have been chopped in half but the main core is still at full blast, just with even less agency and tether to the real world. It's like how my autism already is for me but even worse. I know that I'm being bizarre and off putting in my movements and speech but I can't stop it.

I actually had a real bad drinking problem cause of this. I kept pushing my limits to see if it would shut off my brain like it did my dad but that never happened. I created a feedback loop because it DID dull the physical pain. Get badly hung over, drink it off, get hung over again, repeat. I'm surprised my job still kept me through all of that. I knew I smelt of alcohol and I even snuck it in once.

I don't know why I'm talking about this now. I had a pretty big drink but no where near what I used to and I guess I'm glad I'm not in that loop any more. Moral: Don't start a drinking problem

[sluttyforpascal]

(Anti-) Hero - Joel Miller x OC

Chapter 1 - Welcome to Texas

Summary: September 2002. In the aftermath of her father's death, Jess Young travels to Austin. With her life enough in shambles as it is, her goals are simple: sort through her father's possessions and then sell the Texan home. Things in life are never that simple, though. Especially not when her father's friend-and neighbor from across the street-tries to keep an eye on her. Joel is a total piece of ass, which is highly distracting Jess from said goals. Will Joel capture Jess' heart... And panties? 😈

Warnings: Joel being hot AF, but sadly that's it (for now...).

Wordcount: 6k.

Author’s note: Ahhh Joel Miller... I. Am. Obsessed. I couldn't help myself and somehow this idea for yet another multichapter monster emerged. There's much filth that needs to be written. 🥵🔥 A special thanks to my dear friend @fizzyxcustard, who listens to me rambling about my Joel obession. You mean the world to me!! 🥰🥰❤

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

-Seneca

Thursday 26th of September, 2002.

The taxi had brought her from the Austin International Airport to the suburbs of the city and though Jess usually enjoyed taking in the scenery along the route or talking to the cab driver, today she would not even have noticed if a purple elephant had been rampaging across the street. Even the cab driver—a handsome guy named Earl—had fallen silent, for his client was too distraught to even tell him who she was visiting or where she was from.

As she sat on the worn backseat and vaguely registered Nickelback’s ‘How you remind me’ coming from the stereo, the synthetic fabric burned against her bare legs—the Texan heat making it even more uncomfortable. Jess suppressed a groan and shifted in her seat. She knew she should have opted for her long sundress, but the denim shorts and flimsy Metal band-shirt she wore instead were rather comfortable; it made her feel safe within herself. And though Jess had spent the first years of her life in the south, apparently it was easy to forget how unforgiving the Texan sun could be—hence her current, uncomfortable state.

‘It’s hot today, don’t you think darlin’?’ Earl tried, his last attempt to engage in a polite conversation with the lady. ‘Yeah,’ Jess agreed, her deep blue eyes fixated on the back of the seat in front of her. She heaved a sigh, feeling a bit guilty she hadn’t obliged in some casual banter earlier. ��I hadn’t expected it to last. October is right around the corner.’ ‘Summer’s not your favorite season, then?’ Earl asked, looking at her through the rearview mirror. His handsome hazel eyes observed her with interest. ‘You strike me as a lazy summer type of gal.’ Jess chuckled at that. ‘No, I am not.’ ‘Christmas, then?’ She momentarily thought of her mother and her overfondness of Christmas decorations, and shook her head. ‘Definitely not.’ ‘Spring?’ Earl tried. ‘No? Are you more of a Halloween and pumpkin flavored drinks type of lady?’ ‘Yeah, I do love fall.’ Jess caved in as she brushed her long, raven curls over one shoulder before glancing outside. She recognised the block they were driving on, which meant they were almost there. ‘What about yourself?’ ‘I like all seasons,’ the cab driver replied with a grin, and it made her wonder briefly if Earl was one of those people who liked to stay impartial on most topics—either too scared to make a bad impression or too dumb to function. ‘Every season has its benefits,’ Earl went on, stopping at a red light. ‘But if you’re makin’ me choose, I would pick summer. I like the warm weather and the late night parties that come with it… Where we smoke somethin’, if you know what I mean.’

Jess eyed his golden curls, and a small smile tugged on the corner of her lips. ‘Are you abusing substances that you shouldn’t, good sir?’ She quipped. ‘Nah,’ Earl countered. ‘Just the occasional bit of pot, you know. To chill.’ ‘I hear you.’ ‘Really?’ Earl said, watching her through his rearview mirror again. His hazel eyes flashed with interest. ‘You smoke?’ ‘Just the occasional bit of weed,’ Jess said with a grin. ‘A bad habit I picked up in highschool, mostly to annoy my mother.’

Their conversation was cut short, for they had arrived at the end of the street and consequently her father’s home. Earl stopped the car in the curve of the cul-the-sac and took in the suburban bungalow. Jess’ father had painted it in a faded blue color awhile ago and the color went nicely with the low, gray roof, white painted window sills and the patch of grass stretching out before it. Even the red Ford F-250 that was still parked in the driveway matched the color scheme nicely. ‘Nice place,’ Earl remarked. ‘Is it yours?’

Technically, it was. Or would be soon. But since Jess didn’t want to share the details of her life with a practical stranger, she settled for the easy answer. ‘No, it’s my dad’s,’ she replied as she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the cab door. ‘I’m staying here for just a while.’

Earl got from his seat to retrieve her suitcase from the trunk of the car, while Jess gathered her bag from the backseat before following him. She slammed the door behind her and eyed the silent street while waiting for her baggage. It was around half past three, the sun just coming down from its daily peak. Since it was a Thursday most of the neighborhood was at work, except the elderly couple sitting in the shade of their front yard across the street—the Adlers, if she remembered it right. They had been at the funeral.

‘Hi sweetheart!’ Mister Adler called as he waved enthusiastically her way. Jess couldn’t help but smile at that and waved back.

‘Here,’ Earl said, directing her attention back again. ‘Here’s your suitcase.’ ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘What do I owe you?’ ‘Twenty bucks?’ he said with a laugh, though he had driven her all the way from the airport which must have cost her much more than just twenty dollars. Earl watched her retrieve the money from her purse. ‘And…’ he continued after he had accepted the money, scratching the stubble on his chin. ‘Maybe I can call you sometime, y’know?’

The move was cheesy, but sweet. Her first instinct was to decline—she had a fiancé, after all—but then the realization hit her. Like her dad, Adam wasn’t in her life anymore.

‘Sure,’ she said with a nod and rummaged through her bag again, now for her notebook and a pen. She scribbled her phone number on the paper and tore it from the book. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘That’s my cell.’ ‘You got a mobile phone?’ he remarked as he accepted the piece of paper. ‘Nice.’

There was a small awkward silence, in which both of them didn’t know what to say. Jess shuffled on her feet, unsure how to continue. ‘I have to go,’ Earl finally said. ‘Have to get back to the city. I’ll call ya, okay?’ She nodded and watched as he got in his car, started the engine and turned in the cul-the-sac. Forcing herself to smile, she waved her ride goodbye as he disappeared in the street.

Then, she paused at the front of the yard—keys in one hand and her suitcase in the other. She knew she was stalling, but she granted herself a few seconds regardless. For entering her dad’s home like she owned the place, meant also accepting the fact that he truly was gone.

Dad’s place looked exactly like how they had left it the day after the funeral. Jess dumped her suitcase under the staircase in the small hallway, and moved to the living room on her right. She eyed the sparse furniture—her dad had been a practical man, not needing more than a television, comfortable chair, a couch no one sat on and a small dining table.

She heaved a sigh and moved through the living room into the kitchen, where the breakfast bowl she had used on the morning after the funeral still stood in the kitchen’s sink and a forgotten glass of water sat on the counter. Mom had been eager to catch their plane, pushing her daughter and daughter’s fiancé to hurry up.

Jess leaned against one of the bar stools, half expecting her father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, excited to see her. ‘I miss you, dad,’ she mumbled, a lump forming in her throat. Her fingers traced aimless circles over the stone kitchen counter. ‘Wish you were here… You’d know what to do with me…’

The silence was deafening. ‘Please,’ Jess whispered, tears forming in her eyes. Her fingers faltered. ‘I�� I don’t know what to do, dad… You’re gone and he—’

She couldn’t bear to say the words out loud, for the memory was still too fresh. Her chest burned, like someone had ripped her heart out of her cage. Adam had betrayed her, and the worst thing about it was that she hadn’t seen it coming. At all.

Diiiing.

‘Shit,’ Jess mumbled, quickly rubbing away the tears from her cheeks before making her way through dad’s home to the hall. Why mister Adler already was calling on her after she had been here for just five minutes was beyond her, but because she wasn’t exactly familiar with the neighborhood it would be wise to be on her best behavior. So when she opened the door, she was surprised to not find mister Adler, but Sarah Miller standing on her porch.

Jess knew the thirteen year old a bit, for their dads had been best pals from the moment the Millers had moved into one of the homes across the road—now six years ago. Though Jess’ father was twenty years Joels’ senior, the Millers had been quick to adopt her father as a part of their family and as a consequence, Jess had heard much about the family before even meeting them in person. Apparently Joel was a single father who had just started as an independent contractor in the construction business and Sarah was this quiet kid that—upon closer inspection—turned out to be equally funny and smart. So when Jess finally visited her father a few months after the Miller families’ arrival, she had expected to meet a typical American dad and his bright daughter. But as it turned out, her father had left one important detail out.

Joel Miller was anything but the typical American dad: he was a total piece of ass and he didn’t even know it… With his dark, tousled hair, his deep brown eyes, scruffy facial hair and sweet smile Joel had captured Jess’ heart—and panties, let’s be fair—the second he had greeted her, effectively turning her into this weird, clumsy gal she didn’t recognize.

Sure, she had experienced her fair share of crushes and dalliances before, but this was different. Something switched whenever Joel came around the corner; she laughed too loud, choked on her drink or said something extremely stupid. Her dad—who knew her too well—had teased her endlessly about her crush and at one point Jess had suspected him of matchmaking. Which, as she had told her dad, was highly inappropriate, for at the time she had been in a relationship with Adam.

‘Jess?!’ Sarah inquired with a small chuckle. ‘Are you in there?’ ‘Oh,’ Jess said, a genuine smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘Hi Sarah! I didn’t expect to see you this soon! I just arrived five minutes ago.’ ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you,’ Sarah quickly greeted her neighbor. ‘But my dad isn’t home yet and I forgot my keys. He will murder me when he finds out. I saw you entering mister Young’s—Carl’s—house, and I know he kept a spare for us. So I thought maybe you could help me find them and save my life?’

Jess laughed at the girl’s direct approach and leaned against the doorway, the hard wood uncomfortable against her shoulder. ‘I would gladly help you, but I have no idea where my dad kept your key, so you have to help me look. Deal?’ Sarah quickly obliged, her beautiful hazel brown curly hair bouncing as she nodded. She straightened the blue backpack that hung over her shoulders. ‘Come in,’ Jess said while stepping aside. ‘Do you want something to drink?’

Unfortunately, their search for the spare key turned out to be futile and after an hour, both Jess and Sarah had to accept the fact that they would never find out where Carl Young had kept the Miller’s house key—or his own spares, for that matter.

Both girls had resorted to the couch, initially exhausted by their search. Though it was nearing half past five, the Texan heat was still quite unforgiving, and the only way to cool off was lying splayed out on the couch, allowing the fan to wash over them—a cold glass of Coca Cola in hand.

‘How long are you staying?’ Sarah inquired, watching Jess taking a sip from her drink. ‘Dad said he wasn’t sure anyone would come back here….’ ‘I don’t know,’ Jess mused, watching the ice cubes float in her drink. The fan brushed over her face, her own hair ticking her cheeks. ‘A month, maybe two. I need to sort out all my dad's—Carl’s—stuff and I have an appointment with the notary to settle some affairs next week.’ ‘What will happen to the house?’

Jess shrugged, unable to present the teen with a clear answer. ‘I need to figure that out too. Maybe I will sell it, maybe I’ll stay.’

It was weird saying the idea out loud, for it only had existed in her own mind since she had boarded the plane. With her relationship with Adam in shambles and her mother living in the big city, the only thing that tied her down to Staten Island was her job. The school board hadn’t been too happy with one of their teachers taking unpaid leave when the term had just started, so Jess wasn’t even sure her spot would be there when she came back. If she’d come back.

In the background, the first tunes of INXS’ ‘Need you tonight’ emerged from the radio. Jess grinned brightly and despite the warmth she jumped from the couch. She had been addicted to this record back in 1987, when she had been just sixteen. ‘Sorry, I have to,’ she told Sarah—who was watching her in both typical teenage annoyance and amusement—and placed her drink on the radio before turning on the volume.

‘All you’ve got is this moment,’ Jess sang along with Michael Hutchence as she bust out her best dance moves. ‘Twenty-first century is yesterday….’

Sarah watched Jess making a fool out of herself and rolled with her eyes, though a small smile adorned her lips. ‘You look like my dad right now,’ she told her neighbor over the music. ‘’And trust me, it’s not a compliment. How old are you anyway?’ ‘I’m turning thirty in December,’ Jess replied with a laugh. ‘Which is—as my kids at school inform me—the equivalent to the age of the dinosaurs.’ ‘Yeah,’ Sarah agreed before taking a sip of her own drink. ‘That’s pretty old. Though my dad is even older than you are.’ ‘Oh, really?!’ ‘He turned thirty-five today,’ the teen told her. ‘So if you are turning into a carnosaur, don’t worry—dad’s probably of the herrerasauridae family.’

Jess laughed at the girls’ smart-ass notion. ‘Well played, young Miller,’ she quipped. ‘Have you bought him a gift?’ ‘Not yet,’ Sarah said, a frown now decorating her forehead. ‘I wouldn’t know what to get him and besides, he probably will be home late again. All he does is work.’ Jess heaved a sigh and turned down the volume again. She picked up her drink, absentmindedly rubbing away the condense the glass had left on the radio. She felt sorry for Sarah. Spending time with her dad must be important to her, especially because he was all she had.

‘We could start with buying a cake,’ she offered. ‘And see what Walmart has to offer that could be to Joel’s—your dad’s—liking?’ ‘You would do that?’ Sarah chimed, her dark brown eyes pleading for her neighbor to say yes. ‘But I have no money.’ ‘It’s nothing,’ Jess replied with a vague gesture from her hand. ‘I need to get some groceries anyway, and I think we should do something nice for your dad, don’t you agree?’ The teen nodded. ‘One problem, though,’ Jess murmured, her eyes scanning through the living room. ‘We still have to find the keys of my dad’s truck….’

It was around seven when the girls returned from their shopping spree. They had picked up some pizza on their way home—caprese for Sarah, pineapple for Jess, and pepperoni in case Joel showed up—and now were lounging on the couch while enjoying their meal and watching Legally Blonde that was showing on tv. Jess watched Sarah as she enjoyed her pizza, and laughed with her when Elle reprimanded Warner with the iconic burn of 2001: ‘What, like it’s hard?’

Sarah had picked up an Aerosmith and Nirvana CD—‘then he can finally listen to them on repeat in the car instead of one song on the radio’—and had chosen the most elaborate cake design they could find. And though the thirteen year old swore she would pay Jess back, the latter one refused kindly. It must be hard for Sarah that her dad was doing overtime on his birthday, and Jess hoped that Joel would return home soon.

She had just taken a huge bite of her pizza, when the doorbell rang again. ‘That must be dad,’ Sarah concluded, scrambling herself together. ‘Got it,’ Jess muffled with a mouth full of pineapple and rose from her seat. With the last of the pizza part still in her hands she walked towards the door, quickly swallowing her food before opening.

Joel Miller was still as hot as she remembered. He was leaning against her porch, his dark brown hair tousled from his day at work and his dark eyes observing her in a curious, though friendly manner—but if one would look closely, one could easily see the exhaustion written in them. Joel possessed a so-called ‘roman nose’, with a prominent curved bridge that ended in a sharp, though rounded tip. His full lips were crowned by a thick, dark mustache and his cheeks sported a messy scruff. It seemed like he had just arrived home: there was some construction dust on his temple and he still wore his work clothes—a simple black t-shirt that clung nicely to his defined torso and gray, worn jeans—both in the same rugged state. In his hands he held the note that Sarah had hastily scribbled on Jess’ counter before they left for the store, the post-it paper looking small compared to his palm.

‘Hey neighbor,’ Joel greeted her, his lazy southern drawl wrapping around her like a silk shawl. ‘I’m lookin’ for my daughter. She left a note on the door, sayin’ she would be here.’ ‘Yeah, she’s with me,’ Jess said, eyeing him with a small smile while she told herself to just breathe. ‘She forgot her key and said she’s grounded forever now.’ ‘She tryin’ to find an ally now?’ Joel said with a smirk. ‘Smart girl, raised her well.’ ‘Well, it is working…’ Jess commented. ‘I mean, come on, Miller. Is forgetting a key such a big offense?’ Joel laughed at that and ran the hand that wasn’t holding on to the note through his hair, tousling it further. His tanned arm flexed. ‘It is when there’s no one to let her in,’ he argued. ‘Carl had one, and I don’t like t’give the Adlers access to my place, if y’know what I mean. Can’t leave my daughter stranded.’ ‘No, definitely not,’ Jess agreed, thinking of mister Adler. Her dad had told her that though the couple was kind, they were very meddlesome; the type that would rearrange your home while you were away—just to help, of course. ‘Though,’ she went on. ‘In the event I hadn’t been home… I can imagine spending a free afternoon with the Adler’s would have been enough punishment, don’t you think?’ ‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘She can count herself lucky that you were here.’

There was a short silence, in which they observed each other—gorgeous chocolate depths burning in their deep blue counterparts. A small twinge burned in the pit of her stomach, the same one she had felt at the funeral when Joel had shook her hand to pay his respects. It had struck out to her that even in her grief-stricken state a simple touch from him was enough to make something spark within herself.

‘How are you holdin’ up?’ Joel inquired gently, pulling her from her thoughts. ‘Hadn’t expect to see you back soon.’ ‘Me neither,’ she replied, stepping aside to let him in, and vaguely sensing the cold half-eaten pizza part in her hand. ‘But I have to handle some affairs here.’ ‘How long will you be stayin’?’ Joel asked as he brushed past her, his eyes not leaving her frame. ‘I don’t know,’ she confessed. ‘As long as I need to. To go through his stuff, I mean.’ Her throat went stuffy at the reminder of the enormous task of cleaning her dad’s home and sorting through his belongings; she wasn’t ready for that yet. Joel nodded, offering her a sympathetic smile. ‘Lemme know f’you need my help, okay?’ ‘You already work too much, birthday boy,’ she told him while she sent him a cheeky smile. ‘I wouldn’t want to impose on your free time.’ Joel groaned at that. ‘She told you, huh?’ ‘Happy birthday,’ Jess congratulated him as she waved with her pizza part. ‘I hope you’re hungry, we got you pepperoni.’ ‘Y’didn’t have to—’ ‘Yes, I did,’ she argued before taking a bite of her pizza. In her haste she accidentally gobbled down a larger chunk than she’d bargained for; of course her clumsy, nervous ass did. Joel watched her struggle to maintain her dignity—which meant not coughing herself to death in his presence—but her trachea protested against her ego’s wishes. Jess toppled forward and went into the very coughing fit she had been trying to avoid. Joel was eyeing her with growing concern and after a few moments of hesitation, he carefully rubbed her back. ‘Keep it up,’ he instructed, his tone calm. ‘It helps.’

Of course it did, she knew that. But it also meant that she turned into a watery eyed, tomato faced mess; and that was a look she didn’t particularly pursue. Jeez, the man was only in her vicinity for a minute and she already had to make a fool of herself?!

‘You’re not allowed to cook on your birthday—’ she began, her voice unsteady because at the same time her throat managed to get the loose chunk of pizza in the right place. ‘It’s one of my dad’s rules,’ she added while looking at him through tear stricken eyes, ‘and it’s bad luck if you do. The fact that you dared to mention it almost made me choke, Miller!’ A grin tugged on the corners of his mouth, whether it was from her pun or her current disheveled state, she didn’t know. ‘I remember him sayin’ that last year,’ Joel remarked, his hand still on her back. ‘Carl took us out for burgers.’

Jess slowly rose from her huddled position and smiled faintly. The sweet taste of pineapple burned in her throat and she still couldn’t see properly through the tears, but her heart stung at the memory. She should have visited her dad more often, but at the time she had been so busy with her own, Adam-infused life… ‘S’okay,’ Joel murmured as his fingers brushed over her t-shirt once more, which set off a confusing array of emotions in her system.

‘Dad?! Jess?! What are you two doing?!’ Sarah called as she jumped from the couch and made her way through the hall. Upon eyeing the pair she laughed. ‘What happened here?’ ‘Didn’t you hear me almost choke myself to death?!’ Jess croaked, internally groaning when she felt Joel’s fingers leave her. ‘I almost died.’ ‘That’s for eating pineapple on your pizza,’ Sarah quipped as she turned on her heels and sent a knowing glance to her dad. ‘I warned you, Jess. People like you belong in hell.’ ‘You’re one of those?!’ Joel asked Jess with a grin while the three of them made their way into the living room. ‘She is,’ Sarah agreed as she eased herself onto the couch once more, her eyes sparkling with joy. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing out on!’ Jess defended herself half-heartedly, though she knew her chances persuading pineapple pizza haters to come to the dark side was usually a fruitless task. ‘Nah, it’s disgusting,’ Joel tutted. ‘The state of New York is ruinin’ your taste buds.’ He lowered himself next to Sarah on the couch. ‘Hi, kiddo. What are you watchin’?’ ‘Legally Blonde,’ Sarah said before pulling her father into a hug. ‘It’s pretty cool. You wouldn’t like it.’ ‘Lemme decide f’myself!’ ‘Dad! I’m telling you, it’s a girl’s movie!’

Jess let the pair bicker and went to reheat Joel’s pizza in the oven—a skill she had perfected over the past few years—doing overtime and still having to cook makes a girl creative. She tossed the cold remnants of her meal into the garbage bin; another consequence of nearly suffocating on her beloved pizza was that she had lost her appetite. As she listened to Sarah’s excited chatter and Joel’s low hum, she fetched two beers from the fridge. She knew his favorite—thanks to her dad—and as her hands searched for the bottle opener in the kitchen drawer, her mind drifted to Joel’s pretty eyes and to—

Ugh, he had no reason to be this hot, it was borderline criminal. Especially not after a long day at work, where he undoubtedly had busted his butt ordering others around and hauling stuff across the construction site. Jess peered in the drawer, her mind fixated on the way Joel’s biceps had bulged under his t-shirt. She shouldn’t think of him like that, she really shouldn’t—

‘D’you need some help?’ ‘What?’ she gulped, her hands randomly grabbing a knife, and he hissed at the sting it caused. ‘I was just—’ ‘Carl kept the bottle opener on the side o’the fridge,’ Joel told her as he made his way towards the sink and gestured at the drawer. ‘No need for searchin’ in there.’

Ah. Of course. Her father had been practical about life. He surely would have hated to spend hours searching for a bottle opener. Tears burned behind her eyes and Jess quickly grabbed the object from its place against the fridge. After lifting the cap from both bottles, she offered one beer to Joel.

‘Thank you darlin’,’ Joel rumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter before taking a sip. As he studied her with his dark eyes, Jess busied herself with inspecting the shallow cut she had made in her fingers. It drew some blood and she hissed at the sight. She was many things and possessed many talents, but blood—especially her own—always made her knees weak. And not the good kind of weak.

‘S’just a little cut,’ Joel remarked with a small smirk. ‘Hold it under the tap and you’re fine.’ ‘I’m not one of your men,’ she countered with a huff, eyeing him defiantly. ‘I don’t haul dangerous stuff around all day.’ ‘Glad y’don’t,’ he murmured, while planting his beer on the counter and turning on the faucet. Without ceremony, he got hold of her hand and pushed it under the cold stream. ‘I don’t think you’d be of use at the side,’ he continued. ‘You’d keep hurtin’ y’self.’ Would have t’fire you on your first day….’

That remained to be seen. If Joel stayed out of her way, she would be fine. If not… Well, then she was fucked—and again not the good kind.

Jess observed the water as it poured over their hands and slowly turned into a pleasant temperature. After a short while Joel pulled her fingers close and inspected the damage. ‘S’fine,’ he concluded before shutting off the tap. ‘It doesn’t even bleed, see?’ ‘Are you judging me, Miller?!’ ‘F’course not,’ he replied as he retrieved his hand and dried it on his shirt. Jess—her own fingers still hovering over the sink, dripping with water—couldn’t help but notice that his hands were littered with scars, roughened from his days at work. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she quipped, narrowing her eyes. She reached for the kitchen towel. ‘Remember I’m a highschool teacher, Joel. I can smell lies and omitted truths from a mile away.’ ‘Yeah, I was told to be careful around you,’ he replied with a grin as he leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘Teachin’ these unruly kids like my daughter must be a callin’ or somethin’, I really couldn’t.’ ‘Ah, they’re not that bad,’ Jess said. ‘I can boss them around all day, just like you do with your crew.’ ‘Why’d you think I’d do that, huh?’ ‘I got it from a very reliable source,’ Jess said as she fetched her own beer from the counter and took a sip. As the rich, deep flavor swirled through her mouth, she eyed her father’s friend’s handsome features. ‘I imagine you had the same source,’ she mused with a smile. ‘Tell me… What do you know about me that you probably shouldn’t?’

Joel sipped from his beer and observed her with an amused twinkle in his eyes. There were a thousand things she’d rather not have him know. The first and obvious one was the fact that she had a crush on him, but after that there were a few cringeworthy childhood memories she’d rather forget. It would be embarrassing if Joel knew how she had caught herself in barbed wire during one summer—trespassing farmer Jack’s property had seemed a good idea, until the world turned upside down—or how accidentally had dyed her hair orange instead of blonde.

‘Why are you lookin’ at me? I’m not tellin’ you,’ Joel finally remarked with a vague smile. ‘Promised him not to.’ ‘Aha! So he did tell you stuff he shouldn’t!’ ‘Not much,’ Joel admitted, despite his previous statement not to reveal any of the information he knew. The twinkle in his eyes was gone and now was replaced with genuine concern. ‘Just that he hoped Adam takes good care of you.’

Though Joel couldn’t know about their separation, his revelation still stung. Jess shrugged and bit on her lip. ‘He never told me that.. Did dad—Carl—have his doubts?’ ‘S’not my place to say,’ Joel confessed, his brows furrowing together. He shuffled on his feet and watched Jess sink to her knees to check the oven. The smell of pepperoni pizza filled the kitchen.

‘Almost,’ she commented quietly, her mind still stuck at Joel’s remark. It didn’t surprise her that her father had worried about her relationship with Adam; usually when her mother pressed her to do something—like pursuing a relationship with Adam—her father had been against the idea. Jess had often wondered if this had become her parent’s typical dynamic or if they truly were two opposites in every choice life had to offer.

‘Your dad was somethin’,’ Joel changed the subject. ‘Must be weird f’you, to be back here. With him not bein’ around here.’ ‘Yeah, it is,’ Jess agreed with a heavy heart. She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘I miss him terribly and to be honest I don’t want to be here—no offense of course. It’s just…’ she heaved a weary sigh while her gaze swept through the kitchen. ‘Everything reminds me of him.’ She rose to her feet and retrieved a plate from one of the cabinets. Joel watched her as she placed it in the sink and opened the tap. ‘Heating the plate will keep your pizza warm,’ Jess explained as she waited for the water to get hot. ‘I learned that from a chef I once dated. He was an ass, but he did teach me a useful trick or two.’ ‘Never thought of that,’ Joel murmured. ‘Cold pizza ain’t that bad, why complicate it?’ Jess laughed at that. ‘I bet single dads don’t have time to complicate their dinners,’ she told him as she dried the hot plate and fetched dad’s mittens from a drawer to retrieve the pizza from the oven. ‘Give it a try, Miller,’ she teased as she handed him a mitten and his plate. ‘It won’t kill you.’

Joel, Sarah and Jess spent the evening like a normal family would—at Sarah’s request they watched the rest of Legally Blonde while Joel ate his late dinner. Though the latter wouldn’t tell Jess if the heated plate had made his pizza better, Jess liked to think that it had. After Legally Blonde had ended, Sarah told her father and their new friend about her day at school and Jess was obliged to share the details of her trip from Staten Island to Austin. Jess could not bring herself to explain her breakup with Adam—it would surely result in a tsunami of tears—so when the topic landed on her ex she simply stated that her fiancé had been too busy to help her out. Though Sarah seemed to accept the story right away and chatted about Carl’s tendency to hoard stuff he liked, Jess felt Joel’s eyes burning on her. He probably sensed there was more to it, but he didn’t press her to share. She would probably have to tell him the truth, in time. But for now, his birthday turned out to be the perfect diversion for unwanted questions.

It was around half past ten when Jess found herself leaning against the doorframe of her porch, waving at Sarah who had just ran across the street with her father’s keys. Joel had stepped down from her porch—about to follow his daughter—but had paused at her lawn. ‘She’s a great kid,’ Jess told Joel as they watched Sarah disappear behind the front door. ‘I know a lot of teens, but Sarah’s one of a kind.’ ‘Yeah,’ he agreed quietly as he pushed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without her, y’know?’ ‘Well, for one you would not get roasted all the time….’ Joel chuckled. ‘I could do without being called old, yeah…’ He shuffled on his feet. ‘Listen, I wanted to thank you. For takin’ care of her and everythin’. You didn’t have to.’ ‘It’s okay,’ Jess said with a grin. ‘I didn’t mind.’ ‘At least let me pay you back,’ Joel offered, his right hand shifting to his back pocket and retrieving his wallet, which was in a rugged, worn state. ‘No!’ Jess cried out as she raised her hands defensively. ‘Not a chance in hell. We’re good. I have to thank you for the company, especially on your birthday!’ Joel shrugged and his hands fumbled over the worn leather. ‘I wouldn’t have done anythin’ special,’ he confessed. ‘Not after a twelve-hour shift. Probably would have ended up on the couch, watchin’ somethin’ stupid.’ ‘Legally Blonde doesn’t count as stupid?!’ she teased with a smile and was awarded with a cute grin. ‘It was okay,’ Joel concluded. ‘I was enjoyin’ the company, Young.’

There was a short silence in which their eyes met and Jess almost drowned in the beautiful molten chocolate hues. ‘Before I forget; here’s my number,’ Joel murmured as he retrieved a business card from his wallet. ‘Just in case. Y’dad would want me to keep an eye on you.’ ‘Very fancy,’ Jess commented as she took the card—careful not to brush her fingers across his. ‘Was an idea of your dad,’ Joel explained. ‘He told me I needed to be more professional or somethin’.’ ‘Though I also heard you have no trouble finding work,’ Jess replied as she admired the design. It was simple, neat—very Joel. ‘So you could always use the pile my dad probably made you buy to pick up ladies. Chicks like stuff like that.’ Joel laughed at that and Jess reveled in the sound. ‘And about keeping an eye on me…’ she went on as her gaze met his. ‘I can take care of myself, Miller. I’m not a damsel in distress.’ ‘I know that,’ he agreed. ‘Y’dad told me as much. But just… Don’t be stubborn and call me when y’need me. Or swing by.’

‘Even when I have night terrors?’ Jess heard herself question, but by the time she realized how flimsy—and filthy—that must come across, it was too late. She bit on her lip, unsure how she could save herself from her clumsy mouth. Joel didn’t seem taken aback by her comment. He grinned broadly, an amused twinkle in his eye. ‘Yeah, Young,’ he replied in a soft tone. ‘Especially then.’

Thank you for reading this first chapter 🥰🥰 Feedback is highly appreciated, so if you have a minute to spare I'd like to know what you think of my work!

Until next time. ❤❤❤❤

Taglist: @fizzyxcustard @lathalea Let me know if you like to be added or removed!

[urnumber1star]

omg yeah im working on a novel too!!! im young as well lol mine's called Daughter of Blood and Blessing (DOBAB) which i know is lengthy but all the other names are taken ;^;

i LOVE UR TRIO'S DYNAMIC. they're so funny! literally iconic pookums <3

my 2 main characters are Eiroh (air-oh) and Xiduma (zye-doo-muh). Eiroh's a trans boy with *substance abuse trauma* and Xiduma was beaten, watched her mothers die, and survived in a rough city for four years and started to love killing people... its like a medieval-fantasy-makebelieve thing. (SORRY FOR THE YAPPING)

if u ever wanna rant abt ur story im always up for it :) and if you ever need editors/beta readers i'd be honored!!!! have an awesome day!!!

DONT WORRY I LOVE THE YAPPING!!!! And I'll gladly hear about your story as well. It sounds like a trip :] Oh joy, VIOLENCE lmao

[/j I love stories like that] Thank you about the trio! I love them too haha. Have a wonderful day! I'm always available if you want to rant some more! :]

[weyrwolfen]

Eidola: Chapter 19 - CT-91-2496 Riff

Rating: T

Characters: Gen, Clone Trooper OCs, Captain Rex, Ahsoka Tano, and other canon members of the 501st/332nd and the Bad Batch

Warnings: canon-typical violence; references to self-harm, injuries, and substance abuse; PTSD; it’s post-Order 66 and nobody is having a good time (but they’re all working on it)

Summary: The mission was never to bring down the Empire. Not really. The mission was to save every single one of their chipped brothers. But if doing do helped break the Empire’s stranglehold on the galaxy? Well, that was just a bonus.

The galley’s waste disposal unit made a horrendous, grinding sound when Riff tossed in his fruit rind and hit the cycle button. He quickly shut it back off, grimacing.

Normally he wouldn’t give a kriff – the ship was destined for a chop shop, after all – but their buyer had already used every excuse in the manual to slice their finders’ fee down to the bone. Riff wasn’t about to give the buyer additional ammunition to short them even more.

Riff sent Faze a ping from his wrist comm unit.

He didn’t have long to wait.

“Yeah?” his brother said, the audio crackling a little even over that short distance.

Cheap civilian garbage.

“The galley’s waste system is doing its best impression of a dying clanker,” Riff said, trying to ignore how awkward the words felt, just a little too slow and a little too slurred, even after all these months working with Aughts and Sling. He eyed the device in question. “Do I have time to attempt a repair before we need to move?”

“No idea. I’m still waiting for clearance,” Faze replied, sounding unutterably bored.

Right. Riff wondered what the hang-up was. They’d been sitting up here for a while, waiting for permission to take off.

“I’m taking a look,” Riff said. “Let me know if anything changes.”

“Roger, roger,” Faze said dryly and cut the connection.

The cover-panel had hidden fasteners holding the pearlescent material in place. Force karking forbid that anything so much as a visible fastener break up the aesthetic flow of this kriffing pleasure yacht. As if the previous, unlamented owner had ever stooped to preparing his own food. Karking slaver chakaar.

It took some careful probing with his boot knife, awkward and clumsy enough to make Riff curse his hands at least as much as the galley’s designer, but he did eventually manage to pry the cover off the disposal system. He was rewarded for his efforts with a face full of putrid, rotten food stench.

Riff and his brothers had only been onboard for maybe a quarter of a standard rotation, so no way had anything they’d generated had time to go this bad. It had to be something left over from back before the Raiders had taken the craft.

Kark it all.

At least the insides of the device seemed a little more galactic standard, but he was going to need more tools than his knife if he wanted to make any further progress.

It wasn’t a long walk to reach the opulent staterooms Riff, Faze, and Bevel had claimed for this mission. None of them were about to pass up the opportunity to sleep in that level of objective decadence, even if Vash and his team had stripped the rooms of most of their furnishings. Sure, his rucksack looked decidedly out of place on the plush carpeting, but Riff was going to spread his bedroll on that enormous mattress and sleep like a kriffing duke once they got into hyperspace.

Riff’s repair kit was near the very bottom of his rucksack, so it took some digging to get to it. But soon enough he was on his way back to the galley, tools in hand.

The smell had miraculously gotten even worse by the time he got back to the room.

There was a flexible light stick inside the kit, the kind that could be twisted around into all sorts of inconvenient shipboard nooks and crannies. Once Riff had bent the thing where he could easily insert it partway into the chute, he leaned against the wall to try to get at an angle where he could see inside. If he was lucky, something was just jammed in the thing’s shredding rollers. Anything else was going to involve pulling the karking thing apart one piece at a time. He tried breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell, but it only helped a little. He swore he could taste the fumes coming out of the processor. But he did manage to spot a glimmer of something shiny in the chunky, putrid globs of weeks-old food scraps. So, that was one single, solitary piece of potentially good news.

Riff took off his wrist comm, rolled up both of his sleeves past his elbows, and then started releasing the straps that kept his arm brace in place. It didn’t react well to water, so he’d need it out of the way for the clean up afterwards. The loss of the extra support and neural amplification made his hand cramp, and he flexed it awkwardly, fingers responding a little slowly and unevenly. Kix was going to have his head for not keeping up on his exercises, but they all felt so futile. It wasn’t like his hand was ever going to get better. Just like his leg. Just like the whole karking right side of his body.

And obsessing about it wasn’t going to fix his hand either, much less the kriffing waste disposal system.

Riff reached down into the chute with his left hand. It didn’t take much feeling around to find the problem – thank the Force – but whatever it was seemed to be good and stuck. It also wasn’t a piece of flatware or a plate, which was weird. It felt blocky and oddly-shaped for anything he would have expected in a ship’s galley. It took some awkward tugging and a fair amount of cursing to free whatever-it-was from the toothed rollers; and when it popped free, the slick, slime-covered thing rotated out of his awkward grip and attached itself to the interior wall of the chute.

Because it was apparently… Wait, what was the word?

Magnetic.

Right, the mystery blockage was magnetic.

What the kriff?

At least that was easy enough to handle. Riff just slid the thing up the interior wall of the chute until it cleared the lip of the opening and then levered it free without too much effort.

It looked like a box of some kind, hexagonal around the narrowest dimension and about as long as his hand.

So, that was kriffing weird.

Riff put the memento from the yacht’s previous owners in the galley’s small sink, taking care not to drip anything too disgusting on the floor, and set to washing both it and his hands with a vengeance.

His right hand made the entire endeavor more than a little awkward, but luckily, the thing seemed to be sturdily constructed the one time he fumbled it. It was definitely a box of some kind, there was a hinge running down one side. The seam in between the halves looked like it was sealed with some kind of gasket, which hopefully meant the half-rotten food waste hadn’t managed to seep inside.

Once Riff had gotten the outside of the box, and his hands, scrubbed clean, he reached over and pressed the button to activate the waste disposal. It creaked and gurgled ominously for a second, but it eventually settled into the expected low, steady hum as the food waste was rendered down and drained away to the ship’s incinerator. Given how much gunk had been inside, he decided to let it run for a minute longer while he took a closer look at the mystery container.

It was made of some kind of sturdy, silver-colored metal. The outside surface was only a little scratched from the disposer’s rollers. There weren’t any words or decorations on the outside either, nor did it have an obvious port or keyhole, which might end up being a problem. It also looked very utilitarian, unlike most of the ornate stuff which had been left on board. Given the magnetic stripping, not to mention where he’d found the thing, Riff assumed it was meant to hide something.

So, what kind of thing did karking slaver perverts hide inside a waste disposal unit?

Riff’s wrist comm beeped from its spot on the polished stone countertop, derailing that line of thought.

He set aside the box, switched off the waste disposal system, and poked the ‘accept’ button. “Riff here.”

“We just got clearance,” Faze said. “You almost done down there?”

“Yeah,” Riff replied, wiping his wet hands on his bodysuit to dry them. “Give me just a minute, and I’ll be right up.”

The cover panel popped back into place with far more ease than it had taken to remove it. Getting his brace back onto his right hand was another story. Riff gritted his teeth and forced his uncooperative fingers to obey him, but once the neural stimulators were back in contact with his skin, he could move his hand almost like normal.

Almost… but not quite.

Riff found his brothers already in the ship’s cockpit, buckled into their flight seats and waiting for him.

“You figure out what the problem was?” Faze asked, as Riff slid into the rear observer seat.

“Yeah,” Riff answered, reaching forward to tap Faze on the shoulder with the box itself. Faze took it, helmet canting in obvious question. “Found that caught in the rollers.”

“What is it?” Bevel asked, and Faze handed it over to be inspected.

“Kriff if I know,” Riff replied, stowing his toolkit and buckling himself into place. “Some kind of hide box. It’s magnetic. Must have gotten jostled out of place.”

A modified Nebula-class freighter appeared in their line of sight, pulling into view around the natural, rocky curve of the Draboon VIII base.

“We have received your coordinates, Silver Angel,” Faze said, obviously responding to something on his internal comms.

Bevel reached the box back over his shoulder and Riff took it, freeing up their copilot to lean forward and start his own pre-flight sequence.

Riff rolled the elongate box over and over in his hands as his brothers lifted off and guided their prize through the treacherous debris field which made up Draboon VIII’s rings.

What are you?

When it was his turn to cycle off watch, Riff did, in fact, spread out his bedroll on the stupidly oversized, if bare, mattress in his cabin. He’d never felt anything so soft. It probably cost more than his entire training. He wanted to luxuriate in the sensation, burrow into it and soak it in.

Except it also kind of felt like the mattress was slowly eating him, like one of those carnivorous plants on Felucia. Like if he fell asleep, the avian-down padding would close in over his head and smother him.

After tossing and turning for far too long, he finally stood up, nudged aside his tool kit and his mysterious box to clear a little extra space, and moved his bedroll to the floor. The thick carpet was still softer than his bunk on the Tribunal had been. After that, he slept like a tubie.

The Martezes’ contact seemed happy enough with the pleasure craft. It was a little hard to tell. The big Besalisk kept doing something with his wattle, inflating it and then immediately deflating it. Riff thought he’d read somewhere that Besalisks puffed up their throat pouches as some kind of threat display, when they were excited or scared or angry, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.

This guy didn’t look angry. Or scared, for that matter.

He also managed to look nothing like Krell, despite their shared species. He was the wrong color, the wrong build. He didn’t carry himself the same way. After the shock of the initial meeting, Riff had been able to mostly set aside that suite of unpleasant memories.

It also helped that he hadn’t really had to interact with their buyer much. Riff had been tasked with guarding the ship and keeping an eye on the droids who were topping off the Silver Angel’s fuel tanks. The Martezes might trust their contact, but all three clones had felt better with at least one set of eyes on the droids, if only to make sure they weren’t karking around with anything they shouldn’t be.

Bevel and Faze had been trailing around behind the Besalisk and Rafa Martez while she showed their buyer around the ship. Now, they were hanging back while Rafa exchanged a few seemingly cordial words as well as a pouch of something with the Besalisk. Probably datachips or credit chits. Whatever it was, they both seemed pleased with the development, so that had to be a good sign. Their buyer tucked away the bag with a short, wary glance over his shoulder at Riff’s brothers.

The clones had exactly two jobs on this leg of the mission – look intimidating and get the Martezes out safely if things went sideways – and the Besalisk’s flashes of reserved caution suggested they were accomplishing their first objective perfectly.

Buckler’s team had intentionally designed them all new gear that looked less like clone armor and more like some of the styles favored by high-end private security and bounty hunters. Riff liked his set well enough. It didn’t quite provide the same coverage as his old plate, but it fit over his braces and the HUD programming was at least familiar. Even if he still preferred his old kit, he had to admit that he, Faze, and Bevel looked pretty slick, all decked out in textured, black plastoid and synthleather.

They all looked like more trouble than a small-time criminal should tangle with, which meant the situation probably was less likely to turn violent. And that would be the ideal outcome for everybody.

Riff was… okay with his left hand. But only okay. They were all trained with both hands, even though most clones were right-hand dominant. He had gotten used to wearing his blaster on his off-side, but there was a reason why he was on droid detail while his brothers shadowed the real threat. In a firefight, Riff knew he’d be a liability. The knowledge chaffed him. He kept trying to remind himself that ‘okay’ for a clone trooper was still a kark-load better than your average natborn civilian, but facts were facts.

He hadn’t been brought in on this mission for his ability to shoot his blaster. He’d been recruited because he could keep the rust buckets the Raiders kept shooting to pieces flying.

He could still be useful.

The droids were closing up the fuel ports, presumably done with their task. Riff punched a quick status report into his wrist comm and sent it off to his brothers as well as Trace Martez, who was keeping an ear on the comms from the freighter’s cockpit.

Maybe a minute later, Faze holstered his blaster and started entering something into his own wrist comm. No message appeared in Riff’s HUD, so all he could do was wait.

And wait.

And wait some more as his brother continued typing and pausing, typing and pausing, clearly having a conversation with someone.

Finally, Rafa reached out her hand, apparently looking to seal their deal with a final handshake. The Besalisk returned the gesture gingerly, his huge hand engulfing the woman’s smaller one up past her wrist, but he was also wearing a wide, toothy grin. That was good. Great, actually.

A comm request from Faze popped up in Riff’s HUD, which Riff immediately accepted.

“Status?” he asked.

“We’re done here,” Faze replied, sounding utterly unbothered. That was also great. Some of the knots of tension between Riff’s shoulders loosened. “Pack it up, Rex wants us to head to the Abainya system.”

Abainya? The joint raid with the Mandalorians must have gone well.

Trace didn’t want anyone else working on her ship.

It wasn’t personal. Or, at least Riff didn’t think it was personal. He certainly wasn’t about to take it that way, especially not when it freed up his time to dedicate to his mystery box while they were cooling their heels in hyperspace.

External scans revealed a variety of different metals, consistent with a small amount of circuitry and blended alloy casing. No obvious explosives, no organics. Given all that, Riff could feel reasonably sure he wasn’t about to set off some kind of booby trap opening the thing. Faze and Bevel agreed, as curious as Riff was to see what was inside.

Riff suspected that the box had an internal, electronic locking system. Without knowing the correct signal to release it, much less the frequency used, he was concentrating his efforts on the exposed hinge instead. His laser cutter could slice away small slivers at a time without overheating the metal and potentially damaging the contents of the container, but the process was slow, made even slower by his unsteady hands.

But Riff could be patient. He’d had to learn to be patient after his injury.

Synching the music holorecordings he’d stored on his personal datapad with his helmet’s internal speakers helped. Maybe he didn’t have the dexterity to play much of anything anymore, but he could kriffing well listen to someone else do it.

He’d made it through Oran Lyella’s latest release and started in on some new musicians Bevel had recommended when he finally shaved through enough of the box’s hinge to pry it apart.

Inside was a datastick.

Riff wasn’t much of a slicer, but he also wasn’t stupid. He gingerly plugged the thing into a spare, un-networked datapad and ran every diagnostic he could think of on it before he tried to open it.

It didn’t immediately attempt to upload any viruses or tracking software onto his system, which was good.

And it didn’t explode. Also good.

It was, however, encrypted to within an inch of its life, which was less good.

“Kriff me,” Riff muttered under his breath as they walked past the wreckage of several downed ships in the base’s courtyard. Two were Kom’rks, one so gutted out by fire that it took him a moment to place the design. The other was Jesse’s Scythe, and sticking out of its side was… “Is that a kriffing spear?” Seriously, what even was the right name for that thing? He didn’t think he was just forgetting words again.

The brother who’d been leading Riff into the base, Course, glanced at the ship and snorted. “It’s some kind of massively oversized ballista bolt,” he replied easily, as if that statement wasn’t patently insane. “The Reapers want to keep it for some Force-cursed reason, or else we would have cut the shaft away first thing.”

That was crazy. Anyone who volunteered for the Reapers was crazy. All of them.

“You’re not cutting the panel off, are you?” Riff asked, severely unimpressed. Times weren’t like they were back in the G.A.R., even with the recent improvements to their situation. They couldn’t just send a parts request up through the quartermaster and expect to receive a replacement at their next restock. And he had no idea if they had the right gear in this osik-hole of a firebombed-out pirates’ base to perform major welds that could stand up to vacuum.

Not that any of that was his problem. Unless it was. Kriff, was he supposed to help get these ships back up in the air? That might explain why he’d been shuttled back down to the surface while Bevel, Faze, and both Martezes had stayed on the Silver Angel, up in orbit with Commander Tano, Jesse, and the Mandalorian command ship…

No. Kark, no. Not unless he received direct orders to wade into that mess. Kriff.

“Have a little faith in me,” Course was saying, sounding more amused than annoyed. “I’m making Jesse’s idiots shimmy the panel up the bolt shaft and pull it off the end with one of the gimbal droids we managed to salvage from the hanger.”

Oh. Well, that sounded at least a little more reasonable.

“Did it hit the power couplings?” Riff asked as they passed the Scythe, curious in spite of himself.

“So eager to pitch in…” Course drawled, and then chuckled at the sour face Riff pulled. “No, thank kriff, but it’s jammed in the shield generator’s magnetic coil, so that’s all going to have to come out before we can really assess the extent of the damage.”

It wasn’t Riff’s worst-case scenario. Worst-case scenario, the spear had actually ruptured the shield generator’s core, in which case the whole thing could go up at the slightest jostling.

But again, not his problem.

So, what was his problem? Why was he down here?

“Any idea why they called us in?” Riff asked.

Course shrugged. “The Captain’s got a kriff-ton of freed natborns who want to ship out to Alderaan. Pretty sure that’s why he wanted the Martezes. No way is he sending any brothers that deep into the Core.”

Alderaan. Kriff. None of them had dared go that far back into the Core since… Well, since the end of the war. At least he and his brothers wouldn’t be tagging along on that mission, but they’d be risking some of their few natborn allies, ones who had the right trade permits and flight transponders to move around the Empire at will. It seemed like one haran of a gamble to send them in at all, much less without some clones to watch their backs.

It was also a little weird. Usually they’d end up bouncing all over, dropping off one natborn here, another two there, whenever the Raiders ended up rescuing a big batch of sentients.

Course nodded at the two Mandalorians who were standing a rather lackadaisical guard on either side of the base’s main doors. They just nodded back and waved them through, unconcerned.

Captain Rex would have Riff’s head if he’d ever been that unprofessional about a guard assignment, but that wasn’t his problem either.

“Why Alderaan?” Riff asked, once they were inside the base and out of earshot of the two natborns. What he really meant was, ‘Why are they all going to one place?’

He wasn’t expecting the annoyed expression that question earned. “One of the pirates’ hostages turned out to be a higher up from one of the refugee resettlement organizations. She’s been making things… complicated,” Course said quietly, not that there was anyone in the hallways to overhear. “And she’s talked basically all of the natborns to returning with her, so they can go through ‘proper channels.’”

That sounded spectacularly bad, and also way, way above Riff’s pay grade.

Not his problem, not his problem. He wasn’t responsible for fixing everything, just his ships.

At least that explained why they’d all received some very cryptic orders from Captain Rex to mind their words once they got dirtside. It sounded like they needed to sell their ‘Empire special forces’ story even more convincingly than usual.

But that also didn’t actually answer the question he’d been angling for originally. He’d been about to ask why he, specifically, was down here and not up with the rest of his team, when Course pushed open a final set of double doors and revealed an enormous space, kriffing filled with brothers and natborns.

Riff clammed up in a hurry, because while most of the natborns were wearing Mandalorian armor, a whole bunch of them weren’t.

It looked like some kind of a mess hall, but the round tables scattered all over the room had clearly been co-opted for a whole lot more than eating. Riff spotted Captain Rex, who was head down in a pile of datapads along with Quad and a couple Mandalorians on the far side of the room. Lady Kryze was over near the… bar? This base had a bar? Lucky shabuire. Anyway, Lady Kryze was over near the bar, arms crossed over her cuirass, having what looked to be an argument with two of her people, a man and a woman whose armor was painted in blues and grays.

Course herded Riff along, further into the space. He spotted Rasp and Mimic, Kix and Agar, and a whole bunch of other familiar faces, but it rapidly became obvious that they were headed towards Ridge, who was camped out at a table on the far side of the room with Psy and Mirror.

Ridge waved them over and gestured towards two of the empty chairs across from him. “Heard you found a mystery datastick on that yacht,” he said without any other preamble.

Was that what this was all about? Faze must have reported something back when he’d checked in with command. “Uh, yes sir,” he said, fumbling the thing out of one of the pouches on his belt. He eyed Psy and Mirror, two brothers he knew for a fact had slicing training, and felt compelled to add, “It’s encrypted something fierce though.”

Psy smiled, small and crooked. Mirror just eyed the datastick like a starving strill.

Ridge reached over, took the thing, and immediately passed it to the two slicers. Mirror plugged it into his datapad and started tapping furiously at the screen. Psy leaned over, offering quiet commentary.

Riff had to squash down a little flare of disappointment. The datastick was his find, his little mystery to solve, but in all fairness, he didn’t have the skills to slice it. Maybe Mirror and Psy did.

He also wasn’t sure what the big deal was, but if that was all Ridge wanted, “Will that be all, sir?”

The Reaper team leader cracked a thin smile of his own. “Ah, not exactly,” he said dryly. “Apparently we could use some extra help, getting our ships space-worthy again. That’s why Jesse routed you down to us.”

Riff glanced at Course out of the corner of his eye. His brother was wearing the most perfect expression of innocence Riff had ever seen. Kriffing traitor. “Right,” he said, trying to keep his tone strictly professional and failing miserably. “I mean, yes, sir.”

“What do you know about ballista bolts?” Ridge asked.

“How’s she looking?” a brother’s voice called out behind Riff.

He didn’t knock his head against the inside of the Scythe’s port-side shield generator housing, but it was a close thing.

Course, who was wedged in right next to Riff, asked, “You got this for a second?”

Riff just grunted and kept twisting the replacement coil into place.

Course slithered out feet-first, leaving Riff to his work.

“Getting there,” Course said, once he’d made it all the way out and onto the scaffolding they’d built up next to the downed ship.

“Buckler’s working on a replacement panel, if we can just limp her back to Wadj,” a brother said, and the intonation of his voice pegged him as Jesse.

Riff tried to tune the conversation out. He was getting tired, both physically and mentally. If he could just get the replacement coil they’d dug out of one of the pirates’ trashed ships installed, he wouldn’t feel quite so guilty ducking out for a meal break. At least Course wasn’t in here with him anymore, side-eyeing the way his right hand was starting to tremble.

Two more grinding twists, some choice words of ‘encouragement’ in both Huttese and Mando’a, and the coil finally shifted into place with a heavy thunk.

Course must have heard it too, because he knocked his knuckles against Riff’s ankle, an obvious request to come join the conversation if there ever was one.

Riff backed out slowly. He was only wearing a set of blacks over his braces, and they tended to get caught on anything and everything unless he was careful. He was a little unsteady, getting back up on his feet, but he managed well enough, thank you very much.

Course clearly didn’t think so, if the worried expression on his face was any indication.

Neither did Jesse, who cocked his head to one side, eyeing Riff critically.

“When was your last break?” he asked, tone about as neutral as an ARC trained in spycraft could manage.

Riff scowled, seeing right through his ranking brother’s attempt at diplomacy. He didn’t need a karking mother nuna up his shebs. He was perfectly capable taking care of himself. “A while ago,” he said, being intentionally vague. He’d stopped for a ration bar that morning, right after the Silver Angel had shipped back out with six Mandalorian guards and basically all of the freed natborns.

Which, okay, was several hours ago. He’d left his chrono with the rest of his armor in the temporary bunk he’d been assigned. So kriffing what?

“Go on,” Course said. “I took a break for midmeal an hour ago, you’re beyond past due.”

Riff grumbled several uncomplimentary things at his fellow mechanic, but he did climb back down the short ladder to ground.

Jesse didn’t say anything when Riff’s right foot almost slid off the second to last rung, stiff and awkward after so long folded up in the guts of a busted ship.

They walked in awkward silence for a few minutes before Jesse casually said, “Psy and Mirror finally managed to decrypt your datastick.” He was clearly trying to draw Riff into conversation, get him to let down his guard a little.

“Oh?” Riff asked, curious enough to rise to the bait.

“Apparently someone on that ship was collecting blackmail material on their clients and business partners,” Jesse replied with a sharp, vindictive smile. “It’s got banking codes, video records, just all sorts of dirty little secrets.”

Well, that was interesting. “Anything we can use?”

“Oh, I would think so,” Jesse said. “Psy’s working on figuring out how to drain all of those accounts. The real trick will be making it look like someone else did it.”

Once, Riff would have whistled, low and heartfelt. Now, he couldn’t quite manage, the muscles of his face wouldn’t cooperate fully, so he just let out a long breath. “Kriff,” he whispered.

“Rex is talking about looping Echo and Tech in on the project,” Jesse said, taking a left at a fork in the hall where Riff really thought they should have gone right. “We’re not sure how high we can safely target when picking our patsy.”

Kriffing haran, the possibilities ran through Riff’s mind, each more outlandish than the last. A Hutt? A senator? Tarkin?

Karking Vader?

Yeah, that was probably way too ambitious. Better to let the Captain sort that out. But still. Kriffing Force, that had been a lucky find.

Also, this hallway definitely wasn’t leading towards the mess hall, which is where he had assumed they’d been heading. In fact…

Riff’s steps slowed to a stop. Jesse kept going a couple more steps, but he paused, clearly realizing he’d lost his audience. He turned to look at Riff, expression guarded again.

“Kix wants to check in on you,” he admitted, tone aggressively bland.

Riff’s hands clenched involuntarily at his sides.

Jesse’s helmet was tucked under one arm, leaving his face bare to show the path his eyebrow took, crinkling up one side of his Republic cog tattoo. The look said, ‘I’ll make it an order, if you force me to.’

Riff was tempted to.

He seriously considered testing the limits of the whole, ‘We’re not really soldiers anymore. You can walk away whenever you want,’ line all of the officers kept repeating. Just turn around and walk away, refuse to comply.

He didn’t though.

He started walking again, even if his steps had become a slow, unwilling trudge.

Force of habit, probably. Good soldiers follow orders. Story of his kriffing life.

The base’s infirmary was both more and less than he’d been expecting. The space was larger than he thought it would be, excruciatingly neat, and exactingly well-organized. It was also clearly understocked, with bare shelves and mostly-empty cabinets everywhere. Some part of Riff wondered if it had always been this stripped down, or if they’d packed up a bunch of their supplies to send back with the natborns on the Silver Angel.

The rest of his attention was focused on Kix and the pale-skinned, four-armed sentient standing at the medic’s side.

A hand, Jesse’s hand, landed on Riff’s shoulder. “Just an updated scan,” he said, sounding like he was talking to a spooked animal. Maybe he was. “And a conversation.”

Riff didn’t want to be here.

He’d done a lot of things he didn’t want to, for as long as he could remember.

At least letting himself be led over to one of the cots presented no physical or ethical challenges.

The pale-skinned natborn, with too many limbs and eyes like a Kaminoan, was apparently named Mel. They introduced themselves politely, asked for permission to proceed.

He nodded, resigned, and allowed them to sweep a handheld medical scanner over his scalp and the side of his face.

The machine beeped.

“Still all karked up, I assume?” he muttered bitterly, and Kix flinched.

Riff wanted to claw the words back. He didn’t blame Kix for what had happened. He didn’t. But kriff, if his whole situation wasn’t a bitter pill to swallow.

“How did this damage occur?” the natborn, Mel, asked softly.

Riff didn’t answer for a minute, not sure if the question was directed at him or at Kix. Not sure if he should even answer them. He glanced at Jesse, not even sure how to frame the question in front of a natborn witness.

“Mel is planning to return with us to Wadj,” Jesse said calmly, but he’d taken up a defensive position at Riff’s side. “They’ve been read in on the situation.”

Oh.

That was standing procedure, for any stray natborns they’d vetted and allowed to come back to base with them. They had to know the general outline of the situation, at least, and living amongst the freed clones would fill them in the rest quickly enough.

So, they knew that Riff and his brothers weren’t with the Empire anymore. They knew about the chips, about why.

And Kix apparently trusted this natborn with his brothers, which was one haran of a vote of confidence, but he still wasn’t speaking.

Neither was Riff, so Jesse cut in. “Right after, well…” he paused awkwardly, gesturing towards the faint scar on the side of his own shaved, tattooed head. “After the chip went off, our ship went down hard. Riff was knocked out under a collapsed bulkhead for several hours.”

Mel just nodded. Their expression was encouraging, in a placid sort of way that didn’t seem to reach their solid black eyes.

Jesse’s highly abbreviated retelling of the story was true, at least as far as Riff knew. He’d been unconscious after the Tribunal had gone down. He’d heard this story many times before, repeated every time another medic was read in on his file. He’d grown sick of hearing it months and months ago.

Instead of listening to it again, he distracted himself by fiddling with his brace, where it ran down the back of his hand, jointed sections mimicking the pattern of the bones in his wrist, his palm, his fingers. He hadn’t worn his gloves to work on the Scythe, they would have only caught on the parts and gotten in the way. He found himself regretting that now. He felt uncomfortably exposed.

“Our Commander found me, stunned me, and she and Captain Rex got my chip out,” Kix said, finally finding his voice. He sounded flat, almost like a droid. Not like himself at all. It set Riff’s teeth on edge. “After that, I performed the rest of the surgeries. What happened was my call.”

“Kix–” Jesse tried to interrupt, but Kix cut him off with a sharp look.

“It was my call,” he said harshly, and then, to Mel, “Only one surgical pod had survived the crash, but it was running on a damaged backup energy system. I decided to prioritize removing the chips, above treating other injuries first.”

Kix didn’t try to defend himself. It had been the right call, Riff knew that.

What Riff didn’t know was if his long-term problem was because of the blow to his head and the slow, prolonged bleed into his brain which had followed, or if it had more to do with the emergency removal of his chip using a damaged, glitching surgical pod.

And Kix didn’t know either.

It had been his call as acting CMO, and it had been the right one. There’d been no time for more caution. If Riff had woken up with his chip still active, he probably would have attacked Kix or his recovering brothers. Really, anyone and anything who got between him and executing Commander Tano. Given his condition, he’d probably have just ended up injuring himself further.

At least he’d survived the procedure, unlike Twig or Swirls.

Kix hadn’t forgiven himself for any of it. Not that he ever said anything, but Riff could tell. Everyone from the 332nd could tell. He’d been killing himself by centimeters ever since, trying to make up for everyone he hadn’t been able to save on that Force-cursed moon.

Riff wasn’t a particularly forgiving personality. Well, not after. He’d been a whole lot more forgiving before. But even though he cursed the Emperor, and the Kaminoans, and the indifferent Force for what had happened to him, he’d never blamed Kix. Osik happened, in war. That was just the way of the galaxy, especially for a clone.

Didn’t make this interaction any less awkward though. Riff and Kix had been avoiding each other whenever possible for months. Technically years, at this point.

“Why did you rule out implants?” Mel asked, and there was something gentle and cautious in their expression.

“No access,” Kix answered, still avoiding looking directly at Riff. And kark, but those two words covered a galaxy’s worth of sins.

That knowledge had been the hardest part to try to accept. Not the injury itself, but the bitter unfairness of what had come after. Maybe if Riff had had access to one of the fancy, Core hospitals, then something more could have been done for his condition, but, well… He was just a fugitive clone, hardly worth the credits it would have taken to fix up this kind of damage, even before he’d gone AWOL. It had been no different under the Republic, and it was doubly true now, on the run from the Empire.

Mel’s huge, black eyes blinked slowly once, then again, and then she dropped her gaze in an apologetic nod that encompassed both Kix and Riff. “I see,” she said, and maybe she did. There were burn marks around her neck, the kind a sentient got from being on the receiving end of an electrified slave collar. The kind which would have healed overnight, if they’d been treated with even a little bacta. Bacta, like in the tubes Riff saw stacked on one the half-empty shelves.

Riff just shrugged, staring down at his hands. In his peripheral vision, he saw Jesse try to edge closer to Kix, probably trying to offer support. Kix didn’t respond.

“It is my understanding that there is a small hospital on the planet where you make your base,” Mel finally said, sounding like she was picking her words very carefully. “It is my intention to seek employment there, assuming I can obtain some facsimile of my previous licensure. I can make no promises, but if you wish it, I will look into obtaining the implants and equipment needed to attempt the procedure.”

Riff looked up. He… couldn’t have heard that correctly.

“What?” he said stupidly. His voice was barely a whisper.

Mel folded their primary and secondary sets of hands together low across their torso. “If you consent, I should be able to access the materials needed to attempt a surgical repair to the damaged portion of your brain. I cannot promise success, only the attempt.”

Riff’s memory issues weren’t usually much worse than his other de-chipped brothers, but he sometimes forgot words, or jumbled them up. It had been worse, back at the beginning. It had taken months, practicing and working with the medics, to get to the point where most sentients, even most brothers, wouldn’t immediately notice that something was wrong, whenever he spoke. He still had lapses though, maybe that was what was happening now.

He didn’t think that was happening now.

He wanted to ask them why, but the words just weren’t coming.

Something must have shown on his face though, because the natborn, Mel, just nodded and said, “I studied medicine to help ease suffering, but I was forced to serve sentients who profited from it instead.” Their folded hands wound together more tightly, and they pulled them up to press against the part of their chest above, if human anatomy was any analogy, their heart. It was an odd gesture, maybe it emphasized a plea or sealed a vow. “Your brothers released me from that and helped me release others. I will help you.”

Riff still didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. Kix was in much the same boat. After a while, Riff just nodded and allowed Jesse to gently nudge him through a slightly more thorough scan and then return Riff to his bunk.

No one was there, and Riff wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

He should probably go back to the courtyard, to help Course with the Scythe.

He absolutely couldn’t bring himself to do that, just then.

Finally, without stopping to let himself really consider what he was doing, he sat down on the floor, opened his footlocker, and started to dig through his carefully packed armor and other gear. Bevel and Faze had hauled it out of the Silver Angel, when they’d been clearing their stuff out to make way for the base’s freed natborns. Riff finally found what he was looking for, wrapped up in an old, torn towel at the very bottom of the crate.

A Kowian san-pipe.

He’d been drunk off his shebs when he’d won it at 79’s. He didn’t even remember the game, but he’d kept the small, metal pipe afterwards and taught himself to play it between missions, much to the consternation of his bunkmates. He’d gotten pretty good too, after a while.

He hadn’t been in any state to go looking for his own belongings, in the wreckage of the Tribunal. He wasn’t sure which of his brothers had fished the pipe out of the Venator’s destroyed barracks.

He didn’t know how this stupid, cheap instrument, some mass-produced garbage probably made for natborn children, had survived the crash, when so many of his brothers had not.

He didn’t know why he’d kept it, especially after it became obvious that his hand, his brain, wasn’t going to just go back to normal.

Now, he stared at it, resting in his semi-functional hand, and he started to laugh.

Maybe it didn’t sound much like laughter. Maybe it sounded ragged, and gasping, and a little bit desperate, but nobody else was there to hear or to judge.

And the next morning, when Kix dropped a familiar squeeze-spring and hard, rubber ball next to his cup of caf and bowl of sweetened grains with a caustic order to, “Do your karking exercises,” he readily agreed, without complaint.

AN: Previous chapters are available here.

Dividers by @freesia-writes using helmets by @lornaka. More designs available here.

[mithliya]

i feel so bad for you with the callouts about you faking being a lesbian bc of posts you made when you were a young teen

i just found writing from when iw was 12 of me pretending to like men and it hurts so much and its so fucking stupid it was kind of like your old posts at least it was completely private

the way it was written was like me trying to force myself to feel those ways and i even remember researching like most attractive man ever to try and find a guy to act like i was attracted to all while looking at them and feeling nothing at all... and id search for like hours trying to find a boy that i felt anyting for to pretend to wajt as a boyfriend.... i never even found one! my friend told me maybe i was 'aesthetically gay'when i was like "soo im totally straight but i do not find any men attractive at all"

i just have no idea how i didnt realize earlier i wasnt attracted to men with all that bfjdmfjd

i feel u 😭 the wildest part is that post was made to paint a certain image. there’s no emphasis on the posts being primarily from 2013-2014. nothing highlighting the fact that i was literally like 14-16 in ALL of the posts (and that the person who was calling me out is calling 15 year old me a whore / slut for what r obviously jokes. if i as a 15 year old managed to have sex 500 times with 420 men while in an long distance “relationship”… wouldn’t that be indicative of something rly insidious? like they’re obviously not legitimate numbers & were me exaggerating ridiculously bc i didn’t want to answer such questions. i didn’t know if my rapist / rape counted. i was dissociated through a lot of it). the wildest part is she intentionally ignored all the posts highlighting what ive been saying: i was literally on substances a lot of the time when in that guy’s vicinity. i considered him a friend and didn’t want a relationship but then gave in after he kept insisting we were together & facing other pressure and he was giving me substances to get my guard down & be able to do things to me. i even made posts back then saying “idk if i like guys at all or if im into girls or if i like anyone” and talking about how i don’t understand attraction and don’t feel love. i talked about the guy making me cry all the time (& would then downplay it and act like i cry over everything) and there’s hints that i was attempting suicide and on sedatives the day our “relationship” started (which was the day he decided we were in a relationship. i repeatedly said i don’t want it) and drunk + had repeatedly tried to kill myself the day i lost my virginity (if that even counts. maybe the time i was raped is when i lost it? who knows.). and when asked why i won’t leave or when id defend him it’s almost always “he’s the only person who’s there for me” “im scared”… never “i love him” or “im attracted to him” or anything of the sort. i was baffled going thru the blog bc i didn’t realise there were so many hints that it was unwanted. etc etc etc. no wonder when i finally ended it and refused to back down (had to do it repeatedly for like 6 months) he immediately said “is it bc you’re a lesbian?” 😐.

also yeah sadly the only diff between me and the Real Lesbians trying to argue im lying about my sexuality is that their closeted shenanigans isnt available for everyone to look at and analyse and pick apart. their trauma isn’t there on display for people to call them liars and partake in abuse apologism with. but this whole thing has only confirmed to me that my truth remains my truth & my story. it was pretty upsetting seeing how i was somehow so aware of my lack of attraction to men but so in denial of it at the same time. and it made me realise that that whole portion of my life might’ve been even worse than i remembered. i remember the suicide attempts but i didn’t realise how often i was out of it.

ALSO anon that’s such a mood. i did a lot of the same stuff 💀

[the-firebird69]

Deadly Earthquake Rattles Taiwan

These are man-made earthquakes not on purpose that is due to a certain group doing things down there and it's not us and just wondering which group it thinks it might be the clothes but he wouldn't think it would be making these but they are and they're using explosives below city is correct. There are a few other things going on but this is pretty big it's about the ships that are below summer Stone ships some are Black ships that the blaster way out a tunnel or cavern in some cases it will damage the cities and yeah he's nuts it's not necessarily clone ships it's just that they usually go for these.

You have a couple things to report no we do

-one of them is our sun is doing okay and although he's okay here it's only source of income is social security which is not okay we need to have it so it's more secure and people here are idiots and won't let him have anything so he mentioned that he's right at the $10,000 Mark roughly a little under it and we noticed it and every so often they try to get him to spend something and we're sending in people to grab them we know what it is and where it came from and it will soon be gone dead and buried and it's just more on next door is a huge idiot and sacrilegious jackass now we hate that piece of s*** and we're finding people that serve them and killing them too ever finding all his family anyone didn't have sales genetic markers is dead and we're sending out teams to kill them now all over the world and making sure if they clear out of an area that they're gone we're seeking out his son everyday on special warrant and we're taking him down with the guy he never recognizes that happens to him when he does certain things and the others like that and the grandchildren are worse and a very stupid that's what the sign of stupidity is and over the years we have learned that they don't serve a great purpose for us no. Answer reports and if you are supporting these people are having them doing anything you need to read them there are certain threat level and a certain instance of threat that is massively unacceptable all day all night everyday certain crimes and commit if you add them to it they're horrible now they're horrible already they are professional adulterers and inspire and encourage it substance abuse people child molesters kidnappers p*** sales and they want to make p*** with you and they encourage people in that area murderers and they teach people to trade only to the murder is the person they taught and thieves. They haven't even schemes usually involved murdering too many people and in their two overt way and on and on there's a list of things that are their crimes as their clan family and race and real sleeze stuff too. I spit on it are you going to eat that is there whole thing they contaminate things and and put things in accidents braces in order to take them breaking into houses all the time I'm going to put this out there so I want people to be ready for these morons to be doing things and stop them and so we're beefing up right now. Police all over the world are looking for them and we're going to supplement isn't a lot of them arrested in minutes they really need information about what they're rigging up and yeah it is explosives a lot they're not experts but they do

Thor Freya

Olympus

[aaaaafro]

Girl In The Rain - TWICE - Sana x M! Reader.

Tags: idk lol, fluff i guess? Potential part 2 if requested.

Life Sucks.

Work sucks.

The music sucks

This club sucks.

This drink sucks.

The rain outside sucks.

Everything sucks, as you take in the scent of mixed body odor, alcohol and tobacco. Not caring about a damn for nobody as you try to drink your problems away.

Getting fired from work, simultaneously finding out your girl was cheating on you. Yeah, it doesn't feel right to live. To top it all off, you got soaked on your way to this bar.

You called your last shot in, handing the tip to a decent bartender. The most thoughtful thing he did was to ignore your existence and give you attention when you asked for another shot.

Swimming through the crowd of sweaty and pleasure driven humans, you finally reached the exit. It's still pouring, that just pisses you off more. This night couldn't be better even if you have the tiniest luck.

The exit is relatively peaceful, people going by to rush to the rain trying to get somewhere they should be. At the corner of your eyes glistened a relatively new gradient and a smell that's foreign from where you were moments ago.

It might be from the alcohol or other things but you can swear the world slowed down for a bit. The raindrops felt motionless. You stood there wondering...

"What's a nice place like you doing in a girl like this?"

Fucking smooth as ever.

At least that earned you a small giggle from her. "W-what?" She replied trying to hold back her laughter.

"I'm just wondering what happened to you? Too much good stuff?" Did you just profile this girl as a substance abuser?

"I wish it was that but no..." She answerd

"Oh..." Quick! Think of a way to avoid her getting offended.

"Actually... I was with someone."

"Was, being the key word." She continued.

"Why? What happened?" You said as you sat beside her and noticing how soaked her clothes are as well.

"Apparently, he prefers bitches who sniff face powder like there's no tomorrow." You accidentally chuckled hearing her explanation.

"I know it's not face powder." She scowled.

"I'm Sana." She extends a hand to you.

You gladly took it and introduce yourself as well and before you even know it. You've completely lost yourself with your conversations about how her night went, it was inevitable so you mustered all of your will to tell your own night.

"That must've suck." Was her comment after hearing your story.

"Trust me. It was." You replied with a light tone that contradicts the current topic.

"Was." Sana whispered getting caught up with that particular part of the sentence.

"Yeah, was." You replied before the two of you smiled at each other.

There it was, the 'spark' between two people who had fucked up day. Throwing all your worries away you shoot your shot.

"D-do you wanna like? I don't know... Go somewhere else?"

"I thought you'd never ask." She smiled but it faded within seconds.

You realized what the problem was, seeing how the rain isn't pretty much over, you literally said to yourself fuck it. I need something good this night.

"Our clothes are pretty much ruined anyway." You reason but not enough to make Sana stand up.

"If its because of your make up trust me. I can easily say that you'd be more gorgeous without it." That earned you a love tap on your shoulder followed with her adorable chuckle.

"So, what say you gorgeous?"

"Alright, playboy but you better treat me good tonight. This isn't really a good time to piss me off." She playfully replies before intertwining her hands with yours.

Without any other word said. The two of you just looked at each other as she talked to you with her mind. Both of you stood up and rushed to the pouring rain. Laughing, giggling, even playing with each other. As if nobody else exists.

You finally made it to your motorcycle, Sana stood there huffing, trying to catch her breath from laughing so hard when you almost slipped.

"Nice ride." She complimented.

"Not that practical though. Have you seen me when I entered the bar?" The two of you once more laughed before driving through the heavy rain.

It's slippery, it's not safe, it's distracting how she's hanging onto you so aggressively. Yet the two of you couldn't erase the smile on your faces.

This is it! Your tiniest bit of luck pulling all the stops to make you feel better and what an idiot you'd be to waste it. Turning to full throttle since the highway is quite open you speed off not knowing where this will take you.

But you promise yourself that this night will be better from here on, not just for you but for the girl clutching her hands tightly on your jacket.

"WOOOHHH!!! That was fun! I can't believe we didn't slip! Your tires are so reliable." Sana said as she steps into your apartment.

"I know right, the traction was good." You replied as you hand her the towel.

You worked on drying yourself up but that came as a mistake when you get to your face as you try your best to rub as much water off as possible, you suddenly felt something hit you.

A giggle from Sana gave you a hint of what it is as you quickly discard the towels and followed her to your bedroom.

"Why are you on the bed?" You asked as Sana just hid under your blanket.

"Coz' it's cold." You heard her reply.

"It's because you're wet."

"What if I am?" You can hear Sana's suggestive tone before finally having enough of her silliness you grabbed the blanket and yanked it off.

Oh boy you thought you're ready for this but this is beyond your limitations. Sana bit her pointy finger to act all sexy even though that just looks too cute but you're angry because of the ruined bed due to her soaked body...

And oh she wasn't naked, instead has all of her clothes on with her hair drenched and oh you're mad... Or you are supposed to be but that would ruin your night.

Instead throwing all caution to the wind as you joined her laying down right next to her. Not caring about your sheets.

"This is nice." You whisper to yourself, closing your eyes to enjoy the feeling of tranquility.

"It really is. Thank you by the way." Sana then threw her arms and legs on you bringing you in her embrace.

Before you even know it, you've fallen completely asleep without a care about anything else, not even the weight of the Girl in the Rain.

.

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[BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZT]

Groaning in headache as you tried your best to hit your alarm, you stood up realizing how relatively light you are. Your eyes adjusted with the light noticing that you're all alone.

Your mind processed everything and you quickly remembered what happened last night. You suddenly felt unease as you looked for your phone and wallet.

Rushing out of your room to see it on the living room table along with a note that reads.

'Last night was such a turn around, I know, I know you're worried that I stole money from you. I probably did. After all you bought me to your place with basically nothing, so I borrowed a couple of bucks because I need to be somewhere and of I know you'll miss me when I'm gone. I saved my phone number on your phone, I guess you already know what that means. (⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠³⁠˘⁠)♡

Ps. Sorry about your bed.

Ppss. I stole your jacket I won't give it back.'

-girl in the rain.

You couldn't help but smile before reaching for your phone. You got greeted by a familiar face and that made your day better as the sun peeks through the window with the morning breeze coupled with last night's rain you stretched your arms out and get ready for the day.

An:

This might have a part 2 if y'all want it. (⁠~⁠￣⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠~ Enjoy

[space-lynn]

For this old request sent in ao3.

It’s a little weird to write Sashanne right now after the whole thing that happened in Olivia & Yunan (and because I don’t want to leave Marcy out). But a request is still a request, so here’s a snippet for this prompt.

(CW: Implied self-harm, Implied child abuse, Implied substance abuse, Mentions of getting stabbed)

All of the content warnings are very brief but it’s best to be safe than sorry. Enjoy reading. :]

~~~~~

Scars. Raised and knotted lines or blotches of flesh inflicted by various dangerous things. Etched onto one’s body like paint on a canvas, each with a story to be told.

And Anne… Anne hated how much there were on Sasha’s pale skin. Hated how there was only a small amount of unblemished skin. Hated how they cross over one another, layers upon layers of marred skin, because there wasn’t much space left. Hated how much pain it had likely caused Sasha. Hated every single scar her eyes set upon as she stood watch over the unconscious soldier dressed in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of shorts.

She tried to count them all. Each and every one of them. A short and futile endeavor, if there ever was any to begin with. Like grains of sand or stars in the heavens, they were far too numerous to account for.

Anne shuddered at the implication.

A scar told a story. It was a part of the living tapestry of one’s own body, the tale etched into one’s flesh for as long as one drew breath.

What stories did Sasha’s myriad of scars hold? What agony must one endure to have so much pain carved on their skin? How could Sasha carry the weight of such tragedies inscribed into her very being?

Anne knew some of the stories. She’d been there for a few. She’d guessed and worried for the others after the weekends Sasha didn’t use to hang out with them. The year old scar on Sasha’s calf was a cheerleading practice gone wrong. The faded one on her knee was a failed attempt at a skateboard trick. The little ones across her knuckles were fights against assholes who’d mess with her friends. The neat thin scars on her wrists and thighs were late night attempts to cope with terrible parents. And the small burn marks and slice wounds were drunk angry screams, broken glass and sizzling cigarettes.

But the new ones, the ones she’s garnered in her time in Amphibia, held just as much weight or even more than the ones she’d had on Earth. The long and jagged lines across her stomach and back. The huge and fibrous splotches of pink on her hips and shoulders. The thick and lumpy ones on her upper arms and chest. The thin and near-invisible marks on her arms, legs and face. There were so, so many of them.

Anne wondered how Sasha got them. She wondered about the stories behind these injuries.

Were they from the dangerous creatures that roamed in Amphibia? From herons or snakes or giant carnivorous bugs that scored her flesh? Were they from Amphibians she’d fought and struggled against? From training with the Toads or running away from bounty hunters after Toad Tower’s fall? Or were they from different frog robots? From lasers or bombs or missiles that seared her skin?

Anne doesn’t know and she isn’t sure if she wants to know or not. All she knows is the slice across Sasha’s right cheek, caused by Anne, and the wound between Sasha’s ribs. The newest one, not even a day old. A thin line surrounded by an angry red color, held close by five black stitches. Its sister sat on Sasha’s back, out of Anne’s line of sight. A consequence from the fight between the wielder of Strength and the possessed wielder of Wit.

“Anne?”

The brunette’s gaze snapped up to meet with hazy blue. She straightened up immediately, cupping Sasha’s face in one hand and gently stroking her cheek. “Hey, Sash.”

“You’re here,” the blonde slurred, squinting.

“Yeah. I’m here. I’m right here.”

“How--” 

Sasha froze, eyes widening in panic.

“Marcy,” she gasped, sitting up abruptly before hunching over in pain, right hand pressing against her latest injury.

“Hey,” Anne started, “easy, Sash. You’re hurt.”

The Thai girl gently pushed her back on the bed but the blonde weakly struggled against her. “But what about Marcy? She’s--”

“I don’t know where she went,” Anne whispered, wincing at the image of Sasha getting stabbed by Marcy flashing through her mind. “She escaped.”

“She’s not safe. Not with Andrias and th-that thing.”

“I know, but I need you to lay back down. You were stabbed.”

“I-It doesn’t matter. We gotta--”

“Sasha, please.” The blonde froze for a moment and stared up at Anne. “You-- You almost died. And I-I don’t want that to happen again and we’ll rescue Marcy -- I promise we will -- but I need you to rest. Please.”

“Okay,” Sasha relented, laying back down. “Okay.”

Anne moved to sit back down on her chair but a hand on her wrist stopped her. She looked down at Sasha, at the hidden plea in her eyes and immediately understood, opting to lay down beside the blonde and wrap an arm around her. She smoothed a hand across Sasha’s shoulders and up and down her back, careful to avoid the stitches there.

Sasha relaxes and curls up against her immediately. It didn’t take for her to go back to sleep, slightly uneven breaths tickling the skin of Anne’s neck. And it didn’t take long for Anne to go back to her musings, her hand tracing the scars that littered Sasha’s back. Her fingernails lightly grazed the sensitive skin around Sasha’s stitches, eliciting a whimper from her. Anne cooed and whispered an apology, a frown on her face.

She’d nearly lost Sasha. She came so close to losing the blonde like she did Marcy. She could’ve been the last of the triad left standing.

So she vowed, then and there, to protect the one who’d steadfastly defended Amphibia for an entire year.

“Rest easy, Sash,” she muttered, combing a hand through blonde locks. “I got you.”

~~~~~

There’s more background lore to this, and I’ll be making a fic for it, so stay tuned! I hope y’all enjoyed reading this. Have a wonderful morning, afternoon or evening. Until the next snippet!

[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play A Fairest

(Portrait of Erin Peters by cantankerousAquarius. The character originally appeared in Night Horrors: Grim Fears, published by White Wolf; catch my take on her in New Avalon)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental, So You Want To Play An Ogre, & So You Want To Play A Darkling

You ever wonder, flipping through a Monster Manual for D&D, or a Bestiary for Pathfinder, why nymphs and hags are both always, always, women? It’s older than you know. Dig into the sordid history of tabletops and you’ll find sylphs that Gary Gygax wrote, Chaotic charmers who use mind control to reproduce with non-sylph men; you’ll find the legacy of the matriarchal drow, who follow a mad goddess, and you’ll find the medusae, whose sexual dimorphism is so complete that their men are beautiful and can turn stone into people.

Dredge deeper and you’ll find the tales that Gygax and his wretched ilk based such creatures off of.

You ever wonder why we assign such powerful Gender to creatures of beauty and horror?

Fairest don’t. They know, every time they wake up from a nightmare that is also a wet dream. They know, every time they get hit on at the bar and have to decide how they’re playing this. They know, every time they look in a mirror and see not their own face, but the ten thousand horrors that made it beautiful.

If you are very patient, and lucky, and kind, they might tell you why.

If you aren’t, they may show you.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost and Winter Masques, as well as Swords at Dawn and Night Horrors: Grim Fears. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for sexual violence, sexual slavery, abuse, gaslighting, addiction, substance abuse, self-harm, self-image problems, mentions of fascists & fascist ideology, and just, so very much incel bullshit.

Bonus Material Part Two: The Seeming Part

The end of this article, just past the customary Sample Fairest, will include some additional material intended to help you select a Seeming for your character and otherwise build them up as one of the Lost, much as So You Want To Run A Spring Court included material for Courts as a topic.

Take Me To Wonderland - Fairest Overview

Fairest is the fourth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost and possibly the most confused about its own identity. Its sections in Winter Masques present depths and nuance that are completely absent in core, essentially making Winter Masques required reading for Fairest players in a way that no other book is - especially since Fairest keep getting written in a particular way alluded to in the Ogre article, which I will expand on later in this article. Fairest is numerically well-represented in canon and popular in the fanbase, home to many memorable character concepts, but its bones with folklore and tradition are weaker than it fronts as.

Ogres and Darklings claim an innate relationship to physical violence; so too do the Fairest claim a relationship to violence. The violence of Perception and its dark twin, Judgement; of Rumor and its mad dog, Prejudice, the violence of Lies and their merciless master, Truth. Fairest, alone among the Lost, have casual access to the resources of a society that refuses to service or acknowledge Changelings, and with access to that society comes both opportunity and temptation. To be Fairest is to wield power that many other Lost cannot, but the opportunity that power offers is a lie; a Fairest can smile until her face breaks like a mirror, but she’ll never be “sane” enough for the masses to see her as anything but a useful pet.

Life’s Lush Lips - Homecoming As A Fairest

Fairest can make the dubious claim of having the least clear memories of Arcadia amongst all the Lost, with Darklings and Beasts jockeying for second place. This isn’t to say that the experiences Fairest have are necessarily more intense or more inherently traumatic than that of other Lost, but rather that the abuse Fairest suffer is so emotional, so targeted at their perception of their selves and their situations and their self-image, that the memories which do form are inevitably colored by those emotions, coloring the dreams they have of Arcadia with both the emotional resonances they had at the time and with their later attempts to grapple with their own trauma and transformation. For many Fairest, who cannot trust even their strongest memory dreams, attempts to understand their own Durance must rely either on the word of their Keepers (and Faeries lie, oh, how they lie), or on reverse-engineering their own behavior to try and conceive of a trauma that could cause it.

Inevitably, however, some things are seared into their minds. For almost all Fairest, their Keeper is high on the list of things they remember with absolute clarity. Other facts, shattered and scattered, vary more widely. Erin Peters remembers stretched years kept in a cold, dark room lit only by her own hatred; every detail of her cell is scorched onto the back of her eyes, but the otherworldly balls her Keeper took her to blur together like food coloring in syrup. The slaves of the Candle Countess have terrible nightmares of the choices they were confronted with, the decision, offered over and over again, to become complicit in the Countess’s cruelty or to be victimized by it. Metallic Flowering from the Shining City struggle not to use drugs to mimic the rush of pleasure they’ve grown used to receiving for performing their jobs well; they also scream in terror if people touch them. A Draconic and a Shadowsoul both remember being used for the sexual pleasure of alien horrors; the one dreams of coiled scales and terrible teeth, the other a lifetime of lurking in an alien maze, tasked to perform the duties of a living trap for the “wicked” and “unwary” who had not yet shed the last vestiges of kindness.

There are no “wild” Fairest. For worse and worse still, to be Fairest is to have been defined by the inescapable and all-consuming attentions of your abuser, and it is this more than anything that other Lost so often fail to understand about the Fairest. Their Keepers heap them with reward and punishment, manipulating the Fairest with honeyed praise, godly wrath, gaslighting, neglect, withholding food, wondrous rewards, drugs from beyond the realms of earthly pleasure, and other hooks and crooks designed to make the Fairest dependent upon their abuser. It is hideously effective, and the first obstacle, maybe even the mightiest, that a Fairest faces to their escape is the simple horror and joy of being alone again. Their masters will try other tricks to keep them in place - tempting them with pleasures, horrific punishments, oh-so-sincere apologies - but before a Fairest can escape into the Hedge she must face, in her mind’s eye, the lonely flight back to the Iron Lands.

The memories that draw Fairest home often have parallels to their experiences in Arcadia. A slave in the Shining City bites into an otherworldly pastry and recalls her grandmother’s pie in its place; the bride of the Demon Lover, curled up under the sheets, thinks about the broken smile of the boyfriend she left behind at home. A Dancer remembers the roller rink where he fell in love with skating, while across the endless tides of the Fairest of Lands, a Shadowsoul holds on like grim death to years of work at haunted houses, scaring kids for fun and for Halloween. Fairest, so famous for their skill at words, struggle to articulate to other Lost why this should be so. Darklings assume it’s because these memories are less intense than Arcadia, and that the Fairest are fleeing to safety. Beasts get it a bit more right by thinking that these memories taste like home. The truth of the matter is that those memories have an intrinsic and nameless meaning; the highs and lows of Arcadia are divine, flawless, absolute, and therefore worthless. They are the proclamations of merciless gods. What draws the Fairest home, more than pain and pleasure they can have on their own terms, is the understanding that those gestures - for weal or for woe or for anything else besides - were made because someone cared about them, personally. Once they fully internalize that their abuser views them as disposable, the Fairest comes home to someone who won’t.

Three Kiths And Flowering Is One And A Half Of Them - Fairest Kiths

Yeah we’re about to be like that about it.

All Fairest can excel in the social arena; their Blessing can be used to flare almost every social roll in the game, and Fairest can never be caught off-guard in a social context (they suffer no untrained penalties to social rolls). With the sole exception of Empathy (usually rolled with Wits) and sometimes Streetwise, there’s no time a Fairest can’t fall back on their words and expect to win through or at least buy time. This is, as you might imagine, a godsend when it comes to attempts to pass in mortal society; Fairest can usually front, charm, bluff, or Manners(tm) their way through things like renting an apartment, nailing a job interview, asking their roommate to do the FUCKING DISHES, or getting stopped by a cop, but both the books and the fanbase miss something here. While Fairest are superb at active social events, they’re no better at keeping a lid on themselves (Composure-based rolls) than mortals are - and given both the nature of their trauma and the fact that they are, you know, Lost, Fairest have a lot more to keep a lid on day-to-day than the human society they’re trying to blend into. Thankfully, Fairest are pretty good at being able to politely leave a situation and go somewhere else to scream, shout, cry, or have a psychotic break, as appropriate.

Of course, Fairest can’t make something from nothing. As discussed in So You Want To Play An Ogre, you can’t win a social game someone else refuses to sit down to, and social rolls shouldn’t be mind control. All the Glamour in the world can’t make your roommate do the FUCKING DISHES if they’re deep in the throes of executive dysfunction, nor can it make the cashier at Walgreens fail to card you for wine when their computer literally won’t advance without an ID. People who are keyed up about honeyed words or whose own trauma came at the hands of manipulators and abusers might refuse to play that game on the terms the Fairest is setting, which makes it hard to, as it were, turn this problem into a nail. Lurking down this path as well is the specter of becoming like the masters who made you this way; if you get used to saying what will get people to listen to you, eventually you start seeing people as enrichment puzzles that dispense the things you want. Madness waits down that road, and it waits for Fairest with a giant spiked bat, thanks to their Seeming Curse.

There’s no pretty way to say this so I won’t: Fairest are always on the verge of losing their minds. Their curse hits them with a flat penalty to all rolls against losing Clarity, which means that Fairest lose Clarity faster than other Lost and they do so more consistently. This necessitates a balancing act with avoiding becoming heartless manipulators; Fairest must engage in control-seeking behavior in order to stay mentally well, must be able to trust and rely on people close to them, structure their lives, and anticipate important changes or they end up on the fast way down. Other Lost often don’t understand this need or the Fairest curse to begin with, and so Fairest end up in unofficial support groups for one another, similar to those run by Darklings except no one will admit it’s a support group even at gunpoint. Woe fucking betide the friend or life partner who gets between a Fairest and her “book club”, “girls’ night”, “D&D campaign”, or other excuse for this vital community support.

Fairest Kiths are...bad. They’re bad. This is the part of the article where I’m supposed to talk about thematics and symbolism and metaphor, and I cannot do that here, because they are bad. Fairest has three viable Kiths that are actual Fairest Kiths, one that’s a Beast Kith who got lost and wound up here by fucking mistake, and a pile of garbage bigger than my self-esteem problems. I’m almost tempted to only talk about those four Kiths and save myself the time but I suppose I should show the work like I’ve done for all the other Seemings, so here we fuckin’ go I guess.

Flowering - This is it. This is the Fairest Kith. If you want to roll any other kind of Fairest you must first pass the trial of justifying why you’re not playing Flowering. In theory, Flowering draws its mythic heritage from nymphs and dryads, charming flower sprites, Knights of Flowers, and the like, but in practice Flowering’s only mechanical effect is 9-again on Persuasion, Socialize, and Subterfuge with no qualification or requirement, which doesn’t just make you better at everything Fairest is good at, it makes you better when you spend Glamour to flare it too. Want to represent a biobahn sith’s hypnotic dance? Flowering works. Want to create a vampiric Fairest with a sultry voice? Here comes Flowering. The siren at the bar who smells like sea air and gunpowder? Flowering. Everything is Flowering. Even the things that aren’t Flowering are Flowering because all Fairest Kiths have a social focus, which is Flowering’s undisputed arena of mastery.

Bright One - In theory, Bright Ones represent beings of light in the vein of Victorian fey (which...ugh...Victorians), but their Goblin Illumination is, how you say, useless, only becoming vaguely useful for a total of 2 Glamour as a passive defense that took you 2 turns to set up. Anything you want to represent here can be found in Flowering and with Elements or Communion (Light).

Dancer - You know how Flowering gives you bonuses on all social rolls? Would you like those same bonuses but on 1 less skill and only on rolls that “involve physical grace”? No? Run Flowering here and give your character a Dance specialty in one or more skills.

Draconic - One of the game’s premier melee options and a Beast Kith who took a wrong turn and ended up getting a free makeover intended for someone else. Draconic in theory represents Fairest as dragons, monster girls, demons, and in general at their most physical, but that idea sorta...falls down a bit? Draconic’s bonuses are all about Brawl and all the sample Draconics are swordsmen, which might suggest to the discerning reader that someone in the office wasn’t reading their own fucking game. Draconic Fairest don’t make bad melee boys if you invest in Lethal Mien, but honestly this is Dual Kith bait; slap it on your Hunterheart or your Razorhand and go apeshit.

Muse - Close but no cigar. In theory Muses are, well, muses; figures of inspiration, mentorship, teaching, creative fire. Their Kith Blessing is strong but requires access to mortals, which is complicated and roundabout on the best of days. If you have an idea that you think is Muse-shaped, use Playmate instead.

Flamesiren - Behold, we enter the realm of Okay(tm). Flamesirens are what Bright Ones wanted to be, and their hypnotic aura is actually a pretty neat tool; with cunning you can make it a one-sided penalty, and even if you don’t it’s an interesting method of de-escalating a social or combat situation by subjecting everyone to the tar pit that is your presence. If your concept involves light and color and you’re resistant to Flowering, Flamesiren will do more than nothing.

Polychromatic - Polychromatics don’t have a lot of roots in mythology; their modern inspirations are, well, Manic Pixie Dream Girls. But they get a shout-out here for being the only Fairest Kith who can muster up decent emotional defenses; not only can they magically boost their Composure rolls (and non-Composure rolls to resist magical and mundane emotional attacks for that matter), but others get a flat penalty to Empathy rolls against them, which makes them talented dissemblers. You’re still probably better off with Flowering - in a world of passive Kith Blessings, Polychromatic’s is extra passive - but I can see this Kith passing muster, and even being worth the two dots to Dual Kith in-house.

Shadowsoul - This one’s insane. Ostensibly Fairest Does Darkling, Shadowsouls get their Wyrd to Intimidate rolls which could be the whole Kith on its own and still be worth the slot, but in addition to that they get 9-again on Subterfuge (matching Flowering and Darklings there) and access to Contracts of Darkness, one of the most powerful in the game line, as an Affinity Contract. Is your Fairest spooky? Would you like them to be spooky? Here’s your one-stop shop.

Telluric - This is a Kith made of ribbon bonuses. In theory related to stars and celestial light, Telluric’s bonuses to rolls “with precise timing” isn’t...really worth considering. Run ‘em as Flamesiren and move on.

Treasured - In theory also able to muster emotional defenses, Treasured are Fairest who are literally made into works of art. They’re Okay(tm) but in their niche are beaten out by Polychromatic with a better effect for less resources.

Playmate - The last Real Fairest Kith(tm), Playmate appears in Night Horrors: Grim Fears where White Wolf tries to sell it as Peter Pan, but its powerful team-oriented bonuses mean that Playmates are useful anywhere Muse is wanted and more places besides. The front woman of an indie rock band could be a Playmate; so too could be an idealized baseball captain, the director at your local theater, the middle manager of a sinister conspiracy, or the night shift lead at a research lab. Do people do a thing in teams? Playmate does that thing.

And She Had Huge Titties, I Mean Massive Badondadonks, Absolutely Enormous Bazoggahoggas - Lost’s Canon Fairest

Remember when I said we had to get back to this after So You Want To Play An Ogre? Now we’re getting back to this. I’m not gonna re-state my caveats from that article and I’m not really gonna go back over the bit about So White Wolf Was Run By Fucking Nazis because, in all honesty, I do not have the fucking time to restate all of that in new words. Give thanks that OPP got out alive and let’s get right down to it.

Fairest have a very consistent characterization in canon that is only really challenged in Winter Masques; the narrative put forth in Lost is that Fairest, being attractive, have an uncomplicated power which privileges their lives. Which is a rather bloodless way to describe how White Wolf kept writing and publishing Fairest as heartless abusers and manipulators getting their jollies and emotional needs met by casually destroying their fellow survivors, manipulating them through sex appeal, outright lies, cattiness, cruelty, and betrayal. Much as simply queering Ogre does not help Ogre in and of itself, queering Fairest only takes you from incel and Nazi propaganda about women into...incel and Nazi propaganda about twinks, femmes, & in general anyone with the temerity to be found attractive by straight white people.

I’m not bitter, you’re bitter.

So what do you do at your table, with your Fairest concept? Lemme open up by saying that like, Fairest qua Fairest is perfectly solid, and if it wasn’t there wouldn’t be an article here; Fairest has a lot to say for itself about feminized violence, about your personhood being reduced to a product for the consumption of others, about emotional abuse & neglect, gaslighting, and sexual assault, but the conclusion White Wolf arrives at (”Fairest have unalloyed power over mortal and Lost society and they abuse that power”) is super fucking obtuse and betrays a serious lack of concern for what the Fairest undergo. It ignores the way a Fairest’s ordeals will force her to confront her relationship to her own gender and alter her willingness and ability to be consumed, disconnect her from her former society while also isolating her from her new one, and these questions are important for you if you’re looking to play a ‘classic’ Fairest.

But that leaves some hanging questions. Male Fairest face the almost inescapable fate of “failing” maleness on patriarchal terms; even the most strapping, broad-chested, athletic Adonis of a Fairest has become a man of layered words and reflexive empathy, whose Manly Stoicism(tm) is a cracking facade at best and entirely abandoned in a more typical circumstance. Men who become Fairest thus face a second journey after their escape from Arcadia; confronting what being men means to them and building their gender identity back up from the rubble it’s become. The temptation to accept success on society’s terms is always going to be present, and it’s always going to be offered like it’s possible, but it’s a losing game for these Fairest; they simply cannot be the men that other men demand they become.

Now, the discerning and loyal reader is surely about to ask, hey Vox, where’s the butch Fairest I was promised back in the Ogre article, to which I respond WE’RE GETTING THERE but I gotta use this as a bridge to talk about something that cuts across Fairest of all genders, be they cis or trans. Lost 1e makes a lot of hay out of the idea that Fairest “are rarely conventionally attractive”, and core even provides some interesting written concepts for that...which make it into exactly none of the art. Every published Fairest is conventionally attractive for various definitions of conventional, be it as a supermodel or a waif, but that leaves the question of Fairest who genuinely are not - and, tragically, Fairest who were not, and were then made into someone more easily consumed by their Durance. You know what I’m about to say, and I know you know I’m about to say it, but I’m gonna say it anyway: all bodies are beautiful, but Fairest know well that beauty and attraction aren’t the same, and neither are beauty and happiness. All Fairest, from the roundest bear to the most wide-eyed waif, are the products of Keepers who valued their bodies in that state, and that idea is going to haunt them day in and day out for the rest of their extended lives. There is no such thing as a Fairest with an uncomplicated relationship to their body, and that White Wolf seems to think that an uncomplicated relationship is their default state is...disgusting, frankly.

Which brings us, at long last, to butch Fairest (also bear Fairest but I’m gonna stick with the one set of terms or I’m going to go mad and this will never be published), who have a complicated journey ahead of them. On the one hand, the assertion of control and ownership over their own bodies, their own identities, cannot be overstated. On the other hand, elements of those bodies are going to be completely out of their control; a nascent butch Fairest may well hit the gym to get swole only to discover that she literally, physically cannot, that she has been Assigned Dex Build At Durance. Hauling your corpse out of Arcadia with an extremely feminine appearance shaped by your Keeper might complicate attempts to present in a more masculine manner or even just to appear androgynous, and those complications can be discouraging. For those that stick to it, this journey will take them two places; one is the bared-teeth, bloody-knuckled assertion that this life is theirs and you can have it if you can fucking take it, and the other is into the ranks of the Freehold’s retained warriors, usually in Summer or Autumn, though a vibrant representation of Spring knights will make it seem as if Spring has more butch Fairest than it actually does. These Fairest are aware, or will become aware, of how much of their job involves de-escalating or pre-empting violence; a focus on Physical stats or skills is not necessarily common, but hyper-specialization therein likely is. A butch Fairest is a lot more likely to have, say, Brawl 4 (Multiple Opponents) and no other Physical skills than she is to have Brawl, Weaponry, Athletics, and Stealth, in part or in whole because her first weapon of choice is going to be an Intimidate roll.

At every turn you’re able to, challenge White Wolf’s narrative about Fairest by asking yourself what your Fairest wants, why they’re this way, what they’re frightened of, and how the way they behave relates back to these. They’re not products; they’re people, just as hurt and Lost as the rest of their peers.

Princesses And Pastries - Fairest In The Courts

Fairest have a complex relationship to the society of their fellow Lost. On the one hand, they have the same need for community, support, companionship, understanding, honesty, and material aid as all Lost; a Fairest is not magically proof against being homeless, against starving, against the dangers of existing in the modern world without things like a photo ID or car insurance, and Freeholds provide all of these things. On the other hand, the thing most Fairest fear most, even if they can’t articulate that fear, is their own power - social influence, emotional trust and betrayal, status, political power, and authority. Fairest are all too aware that being good at this game does not make them immune to it - after all, that’s the lesson they learned at the hands of their Keepers.

What follows from this is a complex dance of interactions that each Fairest in some ways has to feel like she’s managing on her own, even if she’s not (and she rarely is; those support groups exist for a reason). If you give a Fairest a doughnut in a social setting, she will lick that doughnut even if she doesn’t intend to eat it right away, solely to hear someone else say something along the lines of “well it’s yours now”. As Fairest filter into Freehold society and take up social roles at all levels of power - officers, messengers, ‘ambassadors’ to mortal society, secretaries, pledge-smiths, teachers, monarchs - their responsibilities and rewards become their doughnut. That Fairest make a big deal out of both their job and the benefits that come with it is rarely, as other Lost sometimes think, about aggrandizement or reveling in power for its own sake; it’s about the sheer relief and assurance of hearing someone say, to the Fairest’s face, that this is her doughnut and no one is going to take it from her.

Younger Fairest tend to flit between two or three Courts; their initial selection may be based entirely on friendships, Vibes, or a gut-check decision based on an initial pitch by that Court, and Fairest can go quite far even in a Court that doesn’t quite actually fit their needs. Eventually, though, those Fairest who survive their youth will gravitate towards a Court whose ideals speak to them, even if its current social order isn’t living up to those ideals. If they’re going to be condemned to live as exiles in the world of their birth, the Fairest can at least be the person she wants to be, god damn it. Fairest aren’t any more or less vulnerable to a toxic Court environment than other Lost, but they’re good at detecting it beforehand. Unfortunately they’re also good at telling themselves they can change it.

Spring - Though early Spring joiners are of course rare in general, Fairest are among those Lost who more commonly choose Spring as a first Court. Spring’s highly social focus and chaotic internal organization is almost tailor-made for the skill set of your average Fairest, but therein too lies a sense of threat; for many Fairest, Spring can remind them of their Durance, and their joining of the Court is as much motivated by fear of a powerful cultural body as it is by any genuine Desire, maybe even more so. Many such Fairest end up caught in Spring’s middle-road trap, spinning their wheels without recovering or worsening more or less until they finally die, but when Autumn can sniff out the fearful ones it puts a lot of work into cooperating with Spring to get them out and where they can be helped.

Summer - More Fairest dabble with Summer for dreams of glory, or because they want to believe in Summer’s apolitical sales pitch, than ultimately stick with Summer. Those that do stay often serve as officers, as the Sun’s Tongue or the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, and as Court sorcerers. Fairest skilled in Contracts of Separation can make for surprising Jaegers, hounding their prey down more like a private investigator or a serial killer than a traditional hunter, but while striking this is fairly rare. Fairest who stick with Summer are those who are looking for its high ideals and are often among those rare Summer Courtiers who can competently articulate both those ideals and their pitfalls without falling prey to cynicism and bitterness.

Autumn - For those Fairest who hurt others to feel safe, Autumn is waiting. The Leaden Mirror can be attractive to young Fairest because it’s easy to perceive Autumn as atomized, defined by personal relationships rather than webs of political influence, but when the Fairest discovers those webs the existence of Option Two: Resort To Violence as an acceptable tool to the Ashen Court is perversely reassuring rather than threatening. The image of the Fairest as a witch, tempting and threatening, clings to them in Autumn but it’s honestly not their most common role; Autumn employs its Fairest as rumor-mongers, the Other Woman who seems a little too familiar with your husband, therapists & counselors, oneiromancers, and ambassadors to Hedge communities. The work Autumn does is harsh on Clarity, and Fairest are especially vulnerable to that harshness, but if the Court invests the time in helping its Fairest members, the self-awareness and self-confidence it offers can be a godsend that no other Court can give them.

Winter - As the Court which is actually selling what Fairest think Autumn has - to wit, the ability to simply say “no” to all social interactions with no justification required - Winter has a strong undercurrent of Fairest membership at all tiers of its power. Fairest often end up directly involved in Winter’s money-making enterprises, and flourish as Squires and Armigers with their fingers on the pulse of the Court’s morale. Winter’s hands-off approach displays a tremendous amount of trust in its Fairest from their perspective, and the demeanor of the Coldest Court - Winter’s indifferent equality - has a potent, merciless appeal. The trap of drowning in Sorrow sucks more than a few Fairest under, but if their peers can be there for them there’s always a way back out.

This Is Not A Pipe - Fairest And Lost’s Themes

My many thanks to Izzie M for her extensive help on this section. I’m not sure I’d have been able to grapple it down, emotionally or intellectually, otherwise.

Fairest go through some intense shit, and the shit they go through can never fully be addressed, never fully be recovered from. It’s no mistake that Fairest, like Wizened, are among those Lost likely to never fully gain resolution with or from their Keeper, and this is because they embody the dark truth that no matter how much progress you make, how much you heal, your trauma has changed who you are as a person and you will be dealing with it until you die. But, as alluded to extensively above in the discussion of Fairest and gender, Fairest also embody the way in which society will attempt to stamp you, mold you, turn you into a product to be consumed or an archetype to be placed into its churning machine, and its attempts to reshape who and what you are and can be are, in themselves, a form of trauma and abuse.

Fairest deal a lot in expectations. They’re expected to be perfect victims, they’re expected to be happy (because they’re beautiful and attractive, because they can front as Doing Okay, because they have a form of access to ‘normal’ society), they’re expected to want romance and sex (since everyone else wants those things out of them), to perform emotional labor, to be available, intimate, understanding, to keep up appearances. Fairest escape the chains of their Keeper only to be clapped in the chains that extend into the eyes and minds of their peers, and they cannot move without hearing the clink of them.

Fairest are primed to represent victims of ongoing emotional abuse and neglect; sex slaves and victims of child abuse might find themselves in Fairest, as might husbands or wives of abusive partners (and boy, re-living my bullshit there was a bonus prize I didn’t want to receive for writing this article), children pushed to over-achieve (here overlapping with Elemental) until they break, pastor’s daughters and cult kids (here overlapping with Beast), and others. However, Fairest also hit their thematic stride when talking about trauma from a society that will not give you an exit. A trans person is first punished by society for “failing” to perform their assigned gender, then made to perform their new one to expectations that they cannot set, do not control, and do not consent to; such a person might easily be Fairest, as might a man breaking under the expectations of Maleness, a college student losing their mind in finals week with no one to help, or even more ‘ordinary’ sex workers expected to perform emotional and physical labor for a society that rewards their work with violence and dehumanization.

Fairest are people with complex internal worlds and they damn well know it, but the temptations to let others define them are numerous; society promises all manner of rewards for being who and what it wants you to be, for wanting the things it tells you to want, for being the kind of person who wants and does those things. To be Fairest is to know at any time you can start faking it and receive those rewards insofar as they’re actually on the table, but it is also to know, every second of every day that you’re performing that role, that it is fake. If you can’t find a community with which you can be genuine...well. You can always get more hurt, and in this way Fairest also bring another theme of Lost into focus: that the Lost owe compassion and understanding to their fellow victims, because failure to care can only hurt both them and everyone in their blast zone.

Feet Pics For Legos - Coping As A Fairest

Fairest are among those Lost who are most concerned with their day-to-day social interactions and safety rather than their immediate, very physical environmental safety. They are perhaps the Seeming most likely to live in a group setting (in an apartment with roommates or romantic partners, in a house shared between multiple households, splitting the bills in a condo, with their parents), and are definitely the Seeming most comfortable with the idea of living with mortals who aren’t ensorcelled. Indeed, Fairest don’t tend to do well living alone; even a Fairest who wants or needs a private place to be, choosing to keep a home in which others cannot lay a claim, will likely crash at friends’ places, sleep over at the Freehold commons on some pretext or another, stay the night with a lover, or otherwise have a place to flop down while surrounded by other people. Having other people - their greatest reality check - around the place helps keep the Fairest centered in the real reality, better able to pick apart the mortal from the Wyrd from their own unrelated hallucinations, and a Fairest who is isolated - or who is permitted to isolate herself - quickly begins to dissociate and may soon be incapable of caring for herself until someone can get her back into the present.

Those invited over as guests to a Fairest’s home may note a lot of concern for those she lives with. She likely schedules the event well in advance, is clear about the boundaries of those she lives with (”That’s Brenda’s room, the door stays shut.”) and in general treats her communal home with a lot of respect and love. Respecting these boundaries and in turn having her own respected is very validating for the Fairest and is vital to be able to feel safe and at ease in her own home, and impressing their importance on guests further reinforces that this is, as it were, her doughnut. While not dismissive of their own literal physical safety per se, a Fairest’s anxieties rarely center around her body being violently attacked by strangers. For those that do have such anxieties, they may choose to solve that problem by simple expedient of rooming or living with someone large and scary.

Another detail of note which is touched on in Winter Masques is that Fairest tend to seek out life’s little pleasures. Though they are not necessarily wealthier than other Lost, how a Fairest chooses to spend her money tends to follow particular patterns. Rare is the Fairest who doesn’t have clothing they like, a phone that works, a wallet or purse that can actually hold all of their stuff, and in this regard most Fairest without a special interest in fashion as a hobby in and of itself will have an aesthetic that is self-expressive but serviceable and hard-wearing, but any place the Fairest haunts, frequents, or lives in will get little touches everywhere. Fairest spend the little bits of extra money for good toilet paper, soft soaps that won’t hurt the skin, good shower supplies, high-quality razors, boots that won’t wear through - and they spend their serious money on their hobbies and preferences. A Fairest with a passion for cooking scrimps and saves to get a fully-stocked kitchen; a Fairest who likes building and connecting invests in Legos or Hot Wheels and creates elaborate environments for them. A gamer Fairest has headphones that can vibrate your constipation away and a fiber optic connection to ensure that lag will not stand between her and your doom. The reasons for this are manifold, and Lost’s canon writing suggests that Fairest seek pleasure to alleviate a desire to return to Arcadia. This is, to put it mildly, a stupid assertion; rather, the Fairest provides her own pleasures in part because it is one of the most emotionally clear ways to lick the doughnut, and in part because it reminds her that she can be happy under her own power, can seek pleasure, stimulation, engagement, without placing herself at another’s mercy - ironically making it easier to go out every day and do exactly that as a member of her various societies.

As a Fairest settles in she tends to look for “her” people, and quite often they’re good at compartmentalizing this, wearing different hats and having different feelings about those hats without feeling fake or distressed about the bare fact of that. She’ll have her personal friends and family, like her housemates, her girlfriend, maybe her mortal family, her neighbors, and then folks like her Motley (which are like her personal friends and family, but In The Know), her fellow Fairest and the Freehold broadly, her work friends and fellow hobbyists. A Fairest who does, say, sex work, thinks of herself as a Sex Worker and understands herself in the context of that broader social group. It can be a lot! Many Lost barely have a handle on being a member of both the Freehold and a Court, and the way Fairest flit to and fro between many communities, slipping seamlessly from one role to another, can be exhausting to watch - but by doing so the Fairest also builds bonds between those communities, highlights their common needs and interests, draws them together over their similarities and strengths. Darklings and Wizened get a lot of the work on the ground done, but it’s often a Fairest in the role of whistleblower, figurehead, and champion all at once.

After all, this, too, is her doughnut.

Example Fairest - Clara Belltower, Spring Playmate

Clara Belltower is a mime.

Well, no, not exactly. Clara Belltower is a self-employed porn actress, erotic script writer, and director, whose primary thing is mimes, clowns, and more broadly circuses and performance venues. She came back from Arcadia eight years back fleeing life as her Keeper’s Stepford Wife, and ran face-first into the money issues that haunt the Lost in general. What started out as a practical choice in new career - and an attempt to find and express an identity not created for her by her abuser - became a creative passion that has stayed strong with Clara and propelled her to status in the Spring Court, which retains her keen eye for decoration, direction, and theatricality in service to its high rituals and revels. Clara’s livestreams and online presence are also a convenient avenue for the Freehold to launder its less legal revenue streams, which has endeared Spring’s “silent siren” to the Winter Court and cemented her as a mover and shaker.

Clara’s ambitions reach beyond erotic miming, as talented as she is at both creating and purveying such. She has her eyes on four different strip clubs in Freehold territory alone whose owners and operators need to fucking go, and she wants Winter’s help making it happen; further, she wants the Freehold to take over operation of those establishments for the benefit of the workers. Clara’s vision is popular in Spring and has its supporters in Summer too, but the Declining Seasons have been cool on the concept, citing a need to maintain subtlety and avoid entanglements with the mortal world that might invite the eye of, say, the IRS - or mire the Freehold in a protracted war with local police departments. Clara’s passion burns with a righteous simplicity, envisioning a Freehold that is active in improving the city around it - if the cops want to throw down, bring it on! Her influence over Winter means the Coldest Court cannot simply dismiss her desires, but neither is it willing to go to war. Something is going to have to give, soon.

This concludes the Fairest portion of the article. Some additional thoughts on Seeming follow.

Bombing Your Own Position - Choosing Your Seeming

So it’s been six articles and I’ve talked about the ways various Seemings can represent responses to the things which traumatize us; neurodivergences for which society abuses us, the machinery of capitalism, violence, prison, and more. But how do you go about choosing your character’s Seeming? The obvious choice is to make a character that puts a lot of yourself at the table; to seek out a Seeming that reflects your own traumas, your own issues, your own anxieties and struggles, and then grapple with them in this fictional context. But RPGs can be an emotionally challenging medium, and you may well not want to deal with your own bullshit during your magic trauma fairy game. That’s valid!

Now, the second obvious piece of advice is to think about your proposed character’s themes and traumas and then select a Seeming from there, but this can get complicated. Many Lost players feel as if they need two Seemings, and to those players I say: no the fuck you do not. But it is true that people are messy and do not fully resolve, that the broad spectrum of the world of sorrow and loss is not easy to fit into 6 discrete categories whose creation was often managed by, not to keep repeating this point, fucking Nazis. I have found in my experience that it can be helpful, when you’re torn between two Seemings or you have a character you’re sure is this Seeming even though they look like or could be that one, to ask yourself why the character is not the other option. Why is this alluring and sensual Darkling not a Fairest, what makes this brutal and violent Wizened not an Ogre? This question naturally leads to others about their abuse and their reaction to it, and can start your momentum for writing your concept out.

As an addition, while I’ve spoken of various Seemings as being well-equipped to represent specific traumas, they don’t own those traumas. Elementals are metaphorically autistic, but there’s nothing stopping you from running an autistic Fairest or an autistic Beast instead. Rather, those Seemings outlined as being “for” or “about” certain traumas are those whose selection will make those traumas thematically central, cause you to return to them as a topic over and over by virtue of being who and what they are. Real people have complicated problems which intersect with one another, spawning new problems that are more strange than the sum of their parts, and it’s both valid and interesting to write your Lost that way - just keep in mind that it’ll still be complicated at the table too.

Van Helsing Hate Crimes - Seeming Politics

White Wolf spent a lot of time waffling back and forth on whether or not Seemings represent distinct cultural and political identities in a given Freehold, drifting towards ‘yes’ when the writers thought about the way Blessings and Curses create consistent, measurable differences between Lost of various Seemings, and towards ‘no’ generally whenever they were asked to actually outline a Lost society such as a sample Freehold or Entitlement. Some Entitlements are locked to specific Seemings, often times with little thought as to why, while other times Seeming-based power blocs are alluded to as worldbuilding elements (such as in Lords of Summer) without much in the way of supporting detail. Why should these things happen, when, how, what does the buildup of this violent fracture in a Freehold society look like?

On the whole, I have taken the stance in these articles and in my own worldbuilding that some amount of fantastical prejudice exists amongst the Lost, but that the systems of oppression have not taken root. Maybe it’s idealistic of me to view the Lost as unwilling or unable to produce internally racist power structures that create an underclass for the benefit of an appointed elite, but in general I feel as if Freeholds are too small, each individual member too precious by simple dint of being a living being in a physical body, for this kind of evil to flourish. That said, you may have also noticed that I identified two Seemings - Darklings and Fairest - as explicitly self-uniting and in some senses self-governing on the basis of common traumas that they often cannot fully explain to outsiders, and indeed community with people that understand your bullshit without you having to say it aloud - that is, those who share a Seeming with you - can be invaluable to all Lost. Ultimately, however, I want to advise against looking at Seemings the way that, say, Vampire: the Requiem looks at Clans, and instead to treat them as reactions to trauma rather than a kind of alternate racial identity.

Next up: So You Need To Write A Fetch

[twink-appreciation-posts]

3 Hours & 37 Minutes - Spencer Reid x Reader

Request by @slutforthegubes

spencer won't pay attention ti you, so you put on his favorite lingerie set and walk into his office. you sit in the chair and start playing with yourself with your vibrator(bonus points if its one of the ones youre not supposed to have). he warns you to stop but when you dont he bends you over his knee and makes you count while he spanks you. then he fucks you bent over his desk. (this is v dirty oops 😳)

daddy spencer daddy spencer daddy spencer daddy spencer dadd- you get the idea.

3 hours & 37 minutes. That’s how long Spencer had been locked in his office ignoring you. Of course the “ignoring you” part wasn’t his intention, but it was a byproduct of him working so diligently. You had made a few attempts to pull him away from his work to no avail, and you were getting pretty sick of it. Fine. He wanted to ignore you? You’d just create a situation where it would be impossible for him to not pay attention.

You raked through your closet, finding a lacy set of lingerie that you had been saving to surprise him with eventually. Well, you figured, using it today would certainly be a surprise. It was black, sheer, and exposing. The perfect combination of things to catch someone’s eye. You changed and wondered if walking into his office wearing only this would be enough to get his attention. It would, you were sure, but it would be too nice.

“Spence!” You yelled out from the bedroom, giving him a final chance to save himself before you hatched your plan. No response. He was still too lost in thought to hear you. Oh well.

You walked back into the closet, reaching for a box that held another surprise. Spencer had a whole.. thing… against you having certain objects. Specifically, he had told you that you weren’t allowed to have a vibrator. You remembered he had instilled the rule after you had been especially bratty and he had made you edge for an hour without letting you finish. You, being the instigator that you were, proceeded to finish yourself off with a vibrator you kept in your bedside table, and he all but lost it. You vaguely remembered saying something along the lines of ‘why do we need men if these exist?’. Overall, he had a bad experience with you and your vibrator, so he did away with it… or so he thought. You, of course, hadn’t used your secret toy since you had bought it, but you were sure that if there was any time to use it, it was now. You grabbed it, clutching it in one hand and made your way to his office. You didn’t knock and he didn’t look  up as you walked in. He always got so hyper focused on what he was doing and now it would lead to his downfall.  

You pulled up an extra chair, lounging back, and called his name. His head snapped up and he turned around to face you, the document he was holding slipping out of his hand as he observed the sight before him. “What do you think you’re doing?” He questioned.

“What you’re apparently too busy to do.” You replied, switching on the vibrator. His eyes darted towards the toy and you could already see the anger forming on his face.

You spread your legs, putting on a show, and began to run the toy up and down the fabric of the panties, letting out a dramatic moan.

“You stupid fucking whore,” Spencer breathed out, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Is this really how you wanna get my attention?”

You started off slowly, your empty hand dragging down your right side to grip your breast, pinching your nipple over the practically see-through fabric of your bra, your hips involuntarily bucking at the sensation. You watched as Spencer’s face grew stern, eyes hiding a fire behind them, and the way his cock grew hard beneath his pants. He was leaning forward now, and you locked eyes with him as you pulled your panties to the side, the vibrator pressing against your clit. Your hips bucked up straight away and you let out a shaky breath at how sensitive you were. You locked eyes with him as you dragged the vibrator down from your clit to your hole and pushed it inside yourself with a loud groan of pleasure.

“If you’re going to put on a show,” he said lowly. “Then make it a good one. Spread yourself open for me, slut. Let daddy see everything.”

You scoffed. Did he think you were doing this for him? No. You had met your goal, gotten his attention, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of listening.

“So now you want to look at me, huh?” You questioned breathily, still pumping the toy in and out of yourself. “Well I’m sorry, Spencer, but I’m a bit busy.” You were pushing all of his buttons. Speaking in such a bratty tone, speaking his name with such venom. You had to admit you were scared you may be digging your grave. His eyes flicked up to meet yours and you bit your lip, pleading with your eyes and trying to catch your breath.

You wondered, for a moment, why he wasn’t stopping you. Why he hadn’t immediately taken away the toy, but as your legs shook and you got closer to your climax you realized. He was watching, waiting for the moment that would be most inconvenient to stop you. And you were right. As you struggled to contain your moans you watched him stand up, walking over to you and snatching your hand. He was quick. Aggressive. In one swift motion he had grabbed your hand and pulled it away from your body, ripping the vibrator away as well. You could feel it in his bruising tight grip that he wasn’t playing around.

“What did you think was going to happen when you came in here dressed like this? What did you think I would do when you started touching yourself? Did you think you would convince me to be nicer to you? To give you attention?” He seethed, using his other hand to grab the vibrator from you, switching it off and tossing it onto the floor.

“Because all it did was remind me of how you never seem to learn your lesson. I don’t know why I even waste my time with such an insolent little slut. You just can’t help yourself. Always doing things you’re not supposed to, never listening to a word daddy says, but who’s attention are you always vying for?”

You looked up at him, opting to stay silent.

“Not so bold now, are we?” He questioned. He backed away from you, sitting back down on his chair, and tapping his hand on his knees. “That’s fine. You don’t have to apologize yet, you just need to come show daddy how sorry you are.” Your eyes widened as you realized what he wanted. Oh. You hopped out of your chair, cautiously walking over to him, and as soon as you were within grabbing distance his hand snaked around your waist, pulling you towards him and bending you over his knee. “How many do we think you deserve for this little show, hm?” He questioned, a hand rubbing over your ass gently, soothing before the inevitable pain. “Maybe 20?”

You shook your head violently. “N-No. Please no. Too many.” You breathed out.

“Well if I let you decide your own punishment it wouldn’t be much of a punishment, now would it?” He chuckled. “Fifteen, then. And you’re going to count and thank me after each and every one, isn’t that right?”

You gulped, body tensing. “Y-Yes, daddy.”

You felt the warmth of his hand leave your body and you closed your eyes, bracing yourself, until you felt the hard blow of his hand landing back onto your ass.

He paused. Waiting. “One. T-Thank you, daddy.” You said softly.

“Good girl.” He retracted his hand again, landing another blow, and the process continued. At around number six you had tears welling in your eyes. You were so focused on the pain you forgot to speak up, whimpering instead. “If you don’t count then we’ll have to start over.” Spencer warned, and you became panicked, quickly spitting out the number and your thanks. By the time your punishment was over you were openly weeping, your nerves burning from the repeated abuse. “Are you sorry?” Spencer asked you as he sat you up.

You sniffled, nodding. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever do anything like it again.”

“Good, baby.” He was sweeter now, a shift in mood from a few seconds earlier. “You look so pretty with your ass all bruised up for me.” He wiped a tear from your eyes and you smiled weakly. “But daddy isn’t done with you quite yet.” He stood up, hoisting you with him, and pushed the chair out of the way. “Tell me what you you want, slut.” He was kissing your neck, hands groping at any of the bare skin they could find.

“I-I want you to fuck me,” you moaned out, leaning into his touch. “Please. I-I’m sorry for being bad but I promise I’ll be good for you now.”

“Yeah? You think you deserve to be fucked? After everything you’ve done?” He asked, tugging your panties down your thighs.

“I wanna show you that I can be a good girl…” you explained. “Want you to use me to make yourself feel good.”

That seemed convincing enough because a few seconds later and your face was being pressed into his desk, files scattering around as he bent you over. You cried out gently as he pushed into you. He let out a groan of satisfaction, giving you minimal time to adjust before he began to thrust at a fast and steady pace. It stung, the feeling of his hips snapping onto the sensitive and bruised skin of your ass overtaking your senses, and you mewled in pain. He didn’t care, though, a hand moving to push your face further down into the wood of the desk. The hand was tangled in your hair, tugging gently at the roots, and you felt the desk shake with the pressure of each thrust.

You were whimpering, more tears threatening to spill, but beneath the pain you could feel your orgasm building. You barely had time to announce it before it flooded over you, your body clenching around Spencer. A few moments later you were being pulled up by your scalp as Spencer sunk his teeth into your neck as he came, the warm substance filling you up and dripping down your thighs.

You were exhausted, almost flopping back down onto the desk as he loosened his grip on your hair and pulled out of you. “You know I was on the last document of the night when you came in,” Spencer told you, his voice hoarse. “If you had just waited two more minutes I wouldn’t have had to do any of this.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. Of course. Luck was never on your side. “Oh well, not being able to sit comfortably for a few weeks isn’t too bad, plus you’re sexy when you’re angry.”

He raised his brows at you. “Watch yourself, we can make those few weeks a few months.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” You shook your head. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

[kieraelieson]

A Baby Human

For @katelynn-a-fan as a part of @sanderssidesgiftxchange, and beta-read by @enby-phoenix. I really hope you enjoy!

 Janus is a baby and the rest of the sides are *insert creature not human here* and they are protective and may or may not teach him some... unorthodox thing

Warnings: past/offscreen child abuse, Virgil is a spider-creature, 

••^*^••

Roman let out a quiet sigh. Virgil hadn’t even said anything, but he could see his pinched, anxious look. “We’ll be fine.”

“I know we’ll be fine!” Virgil snapped, crossing his arms. “It’s just getting dark. And we don’t know what’s out here.”

“You’re the poisonous one! You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“Virgil is venomous,” Logan said calmly from his perch on one of the protruding spider legs on Virgil’s back. 

“Yeah,” Virgil muttered, a hand lifting to pet Logan, which Logan reluctantly permitted. 

Logan was, or rather had been, a witch’s familiar. After leaving the witch quite a few years ago, he had discovered Virgil, and stayed with him and Patton, and later, Roman as well. The witch still changed his shape every now and again in petty revenge for his choice to leave. As of a few days ago, he was in the form of a crow, though struggling somewhat to get used to it. 

Roman turned to look forward. He wasn’t terribly worried, but the growing dusk would be a problem soon, if only for visibility’s sake. And if the moon came out, that would probably be less, rather than more helpful, with as close to full as it was. He’d really rather not have to deal with shifting. 

But he’d been smelling odd things out here. And he couldn’t wait any longer to find out what was causing it, problems or no problems. 

“If we get home late Patton will be worried,” Virgil muttered grumpily. 

Roman heard a small sound, like something between a sigh and a quiet whine, and shushed Virgil. “It’s close now.”

The curiosity overrode the embarrassment he would usually feel at sniffing around, trying to find where and what the smell was. 

“This way!” He yelled, bounding off through the brush. 

Virgil was only just able to keep up with him, following down into a little gully. They both stopped short, seeing it at the same time. 

It was a human. A baby human. Or at most, a toddler. Laying in a pile of leaves, and not moving other than shallow breathing. It was hurt too, though there wasn’t blood, bruises trailing over its entire left side. 

“Is… is he ok?” Virgil asked tentatively. 

Roman shrugged, staring helplessly. 

Logan was the first to actually approach the baby, flapping noisily over to him and nudging him with his beak. The baby made a soft, weak keening sound, but didn’t open his eyes. 

“He is likely in need of nourishment, as soon as possible. We should bring him back home and find something he can eat.”

Roman nodded, scooping up the baby. He wasn’t trying to hold himself at all, just laying limply in Roman’s hold. Roman carefully shifted how he was holding the baby, making sure to hold his head up. 

They ran back home quickly, none of them very sure what to feed a baby, and hoping Patton would have some kind of answer. 

Patton, being a dryad, instantly suggested tree sap. 

Roman objected. “Patton, I don’t think a human—“

“You used to be a human. And you drink it.”

“Yes, but a baby, and a malnourished one at that—“ Logan said. 

Roman silently agreed. It was nothing against Patton, it was just that sap was weak and watery, and wouldn’t the baby need something to help him get strong?

“No buts. I’ll get something better, just start him out with maple sap. He’ll need the water, and the sugar will be good too.” Patton insisted. 

Logan let out an odd almost-sigh, but agreed. “Virgil, would you tap the tree?”

Logan went with Virgil, though not very far away. Roman was just left holding the baby, and not sure what to do, as Patton faded away, his shadow faintly seen flitting from tree to tree off into the distance. He felt awkward, and confused, and looked down at the baby, suddenly very aware of the way he was holding him, and wondering if it really was the correct way to hold a baby. 

“There’s not a lot yet,” Virgil said, handing Roman a small waterbag made of webbing. “It’s not really the right time of year for it.”

Roman sat down. Apparently he was feeding the baby too. His curiosity sure did put him in strange places sometimes. 

Logan landed on his shoulder. “Put the mouth of the bag into his mouth, and slowly tip it up. Keep going as he swallows, and try not to waste any.”

Roman tried following the instructions, but as soon as the liquid sloshed into the baby’s mouth, his eyes fluttered open, and he grabbed at the waterbag with weak floundering movements, batting and squishing the bag, fighting against Roman’s hold, trying to swallow as much as he could and hold the bag all by himself, which ended up spilling more than he drank. 

“Logaaan, what do I do???” 

“Take the waterbag away from him! You’re the adult here, don’t let him go and spill it.”

Roman pulled it away, and there was a brief moment of the most pitiful face he’d ever seen in his whole life, all wide, teary eyes and wobbly lip. And then the baby opened his mouth, scrunched his face up, and screamed. 

“Here! Here’s another one, give it to him!” Virgil said desperately, holding out another bag. 

But the baby was flailing, and Roman couldn’t get the bag into his mouth. 

“What are you doing to the poor baby?” Patton scolded, setting down a large bowl and taking the baby out of Roman’s arms. “Shhh, it’s alright. Virgil, fill a bag with that. Quickly.”

“What is it?” Roman asked, his nose wrinkling. It looked like milk, but smelled distinctly plant-like. 

But Patton was too occupied cooing to the baby and bouncing him gently. It seemed the correct way to calm a baby, rather than the fumbling Roman had been doing, and yet the baby only seemed to half agree, still sniffling with his face all scrunched up. Virgil handed Patton a bag of the milky substance, and Patton was able to pop the mouth of the bag into the baby’s mouth with little trouble. From there, it was only moments before the baby was happily and calmly drinking. 

They all let out a relieved sigh together, hoping the peace would last. 

••^*^••

It hadn’t been morning for more than a few minutes before it was clear that the peace would not, in fact, last. The baby was crying again, distinctly upset cries interspersed with babbled nonsense, and had pulled himself up to stand at the side of Roman’s bed, hitting at Roman’s arm. 

Roman scooped the baby up, and the baby wailed, curling up in his grip. Oh! His poor side. Roman tucked the baby against his chest, rolling onto his side, careful not to hurt the baby’s side any more. He reached backwards, rummaging blindly for the dried meat he kept by on his bedside table this time of month, and popped the end of a sizable piece into the baby’s mouth. If he could crawl over to him, he could probably eat whatever meat he managed to gnaw off the piece. 

The baby quieted quickly, biting and sucking the piece of meat, and showing off his few little teeth, holding it very firmly in his tiny hands. 

“Look at you, all fierce, aren’t you?” Roman whispered. 

The baby looked up at him, not relinquishing his grip on the piece of meat. 

Roman smiled, letting out a soft, rumbling growl. “Are you killing that meat?”

“Uuu. Ugh. Ughh.” The baby said, little noises sounding probably about as fierce as a human baby could make. 

“That’s right,” Roman said, again demonstrating a small growl. 

The baby’s sound, while far from a growl, was clearly an attempt to copy him. And that made Roman feel far prouder and happier than he would have expected. 

After a few more tries, it was clear that the baby was as close as he would get to growling with his little ughhh sounds. But he was copying Roman! And Roman couldn’t help smiling wide, growling at the little baby. 

“What are you threatening the baby for?” Virgil asked, his tone slow and drawling, probably from being up far earlier than he usually would be. 

But Roman’s joy couldn’t be dampened by Virgil’s grumpy teasing. “He’s copying me!”

“Oh? Are you secretly a werewolf baby?” Virgil asked, slipping into almost baby talk to address the baby instead of Roman.

“I don’t think he is,” Roman said. 

“Should he really be eating that, then? I’m going to get some more of Patton’s milk stuff.”

“He loves the meat! Look at him all happy.”

The baby tried again to make a growling sound, and Roman melted. “You are, aren’t you? You’re very happy here with the meat.”

Virgil rolled his many eyes, but didn’t quite hide the fond smile before he turned away to get the milk. 

And then Roman had to take the meat away, just for a bit, and the baby burst into loud wails immediately, flailing and hitting the bag of milk instead of accepting it. Somehow, Roman got the mouth of the bag into the baby’s mouth, but he seemed too upset to even realize it was food, and Roman didn’t want to choke him by tipping it up before he was ready. 

“Shhh, it’s ok,” Roman said, feeling more lost with every cry. “Just drink your milk and I’ll give it right back, I promise.”

It was not the clean, easy feeding Patton had had the night before, but the baby hopefully got enough of the milk inside of him to be worth it, and quieted down again when Roman gave him the meat to gnaw on again. 

Virgil sighed. “What are we going to do with him?”

Roman bristled. “We’re keeping him! Whatever humans he belonged to clearly didn’t care for him!”

“What if they did? He could just be lost, rolled down into the gulley and they couldn’t find him.”

Roman hugged the baby closer to himself. “Patton will agree with me. It’ll be two against one.”

Virgil sighed heavily. “I don’t want to fight about it. Just look for his parents? At least once?”

Roman very reluctantly nodded. 

Patton suddenly sat up and shivered, his eyes wide, and a sound like wind in leaves coming from him. “Virgil! Virgil, help! There’s a spider on my tree! I know there is. Help!”

Virgil rushed to Patton, scooping him up and quickly running out of the house. Any spiders on Patton’s tree had to be dealt with immediately, or he would become hysterical. 

They wouldn’t be back till afternoon, at least. 

Which left Roman the sole caretaker of the baby. 

Well, Logan had to be around somewhere, but there wasn’t much he could do to help other than give instructions. 

The baby was happy though, gnawing away with his few little teeth and getting slivers of meat to gradually come off. He was also more than damp, and a bit sticky. 

“Do I need to figure out how to bathe you now?” Roman asked. 

The baby babbled some nonsense around his piece of meat, as emphatic as it was unintelligible. 

“Oh, you have very clear ideas on how you’re taking a bath then, huh?”

The baby babbled again, so strangely close to normal words that Roman could’ve sworn he was saying ‘want some more’, except for the fact that he was currently very happy with a large piece of dried meat, and they were talking about baths, not food. 

While he was still trying to figure it out, Logan flew in from the open window, flapping loudly as if he didn’t quite know how to use his wings properly and quietly. Which, to be fair, he probably didn’t. He’d only been a crow for a few days, and it’d been a good year since he’d last been in a bird shape. Or, Roman supposed, it could just be that crows were loud birds. 

“How do you bathe a baby?” Roman asked Logan. “Just dunk it in the water? Do you need special soap?”

“I should hope you know better than ‘just dunking’ the baby into the water. That could be very dangerous. Though I believe the soap we have will be sufficient.”

“Well, then how do you do it? I only have two hands, and I can’t just wrap one arm around him without hurting his side.” 

Logan made an odd sighing noise. “He can sit up on his own, just put him in something shallow, and steady him with one hand.”

The baby only just then noticed Logan, squirming around to look at him curiously. He made a little sound, reaching one hand out to make grabby hands at him. 

“Aww, he wants to see you, Logan!”

“He does not. He wishes to touch me, which will mostly likely end unpleasantly.” Logan said primly, doing a little bird-shake that fluffed up his feathers and then smoothed them down again. 

But the baby was still reaching, making noises and grasping in Logan’s direction. 

“Oh, come on, you’d pass up the chance to be petted by a baby?”

“I do not enjoy petting in general, much less by one who is uncoordinated and almost certainly not capable of being sufficiently gentle.”

“Are you saying you’re scared of the baby?” Roman teased. 

Logan fluffed up angrily. “That is not what I’m saying!”

The baby’s little grunts stopped, and Roman bent down to see that he was giving Logan the most pitifully large watering eyes. And then he cried. Great, heart-wrenching wails as he curled up and rubbed at his eyes. 

“Oh, for the love of—“ Logan hopped into Roman’s lap, nudging at the baby with his beak. 

The baby sniffed pitifully, but stopped crying, grabbing Logan as if he were an oversized toy. Logan ruffled up in annoyance, but submitted to the baby’s pats and intense babbling, just keeping his head out of reach of the tiny hands. 

“Awwww, he likes you, Lo!”

And Logan couldn’t seem to muster up any disparaging words to join his grumble, which meant Logan liked him too. And Roman couldn’t help but smile. 

••^*^••

“We’re back!” Patton said cheerfully. “Everything’s alright now.”

“Welcome back!” Roman said, holding one of the baby’s little hands as he toddled around. He couldn’t quite walk on his own yet, but he seemed close. 

The baby looked up at Virgil, eyes wide and curious. “Ughh. Ughh!”

Virgil got a tiny grin he would probably forever deny as he scooped the baby up. “Are you growling at me? You can’t growl at me, you growl at Roman. With me you hiss, like this.”

The baby seemed to pick up the hiss even faster than the growl, though it devolved into spluttering raspberries half the time. 

“Ssssssssa!” The baby said, almost triumphantly, and then grinned up at Virgil. Virgil melted. He tried to pretend he wasn’t, but he absolutely was. 

“Awwwww!” Patton cooed. “Are you going to be so fierce? And so cute?”

The baby hissed at Patton, which just made him coo over him more. 

••^*^••

It had been a few days since they found the baby. He was now firmly a part of their family, though they hadn’t agreed on a name yet. 

The bruises seemed to be healing, or at least, changing. They were all confused to see the bruises morphing into a dark, mottling color. It was like nothing even Patton, the oldest of them, had ever seen on a human. It was strange, but it didn’t seem to hurt him. 

They kept him safely in their little cabin, and he’d been sleeping mostly in Roman’s bed, until Roman could finish the crib he’d started making. 

But it couldn’t last much longer. 

“I’m worried, Pat. I’ll shift any day now, and what if I can’t recognize him anymore? What if I… what if I hurt him?”

“You wouldn’t do that, you’ve never hurt one of us.” 

“But you’re all big! He’s so little, I could hurt him without meaning to.”

Patton’s mouth twisted as he thought. “Well, I don’t mind keeping him in my bed, but I don’t like the idea of you sleeping outside all by yourself.” 

“I could be dangerous to him! I could bite him, or try to run off and hide him, or I could just step on him the wrong way and—“

“No, you wouldn’t, you’re very good as a giant dog.”

Roman frowned. “You guys know how to handle me.”

Patton frowned at him disapprovingly.

“And if it’s the middle of the night you might not be awake before I find him,” Roman continued. “Even if he just wakes up while I’m shifting, he could be scared.”

Patton’s frown deepened. “Alright. For this first time, you can sleep outside, and we’ll be really careful introducing you two, but I’m positive you’re still going to love him and be just as careful of him as you are now. And next time you’ll definitely recognize him, and you’ll be inside, with all of us.”

“Only if this time goes well.”

“It will. I’m positive it will.”

••^*^••

Virgil woke up to a loud whine and scratching at the door. The baby was sitting right in front of it, patting it and trying to push it open, and that must be Roman on the other side, whining to get in. 

He picked up the baby, holding him carefully up on his shoulder, where Roman couldn’t reach right away, and then opened the door. 

Roman bounded inside immediately, jumping up to see the baby, tail wagging excitedly. 

“No! No, sit. Sit, Roman.”

Roman sat, but he was practically quivering with excitement, puppy eyes almost as effective as the baby’s were. And then the baby tipped forward, reaching and ‘growling’ at Roman. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll let you see each other, but be careful.” 

Virgil brought the baby down to Roman’s level, and Roman was immediately sniffing all over him, and then trying to lick the baby. Virgil nearly snatched him away, but the baby was cackling with laughter and patting Roman’s snout, clearly just as excited as he was. Virgil let out a relieved sigh. He’d just bathe the baby afterwards. 

“Well, this seems to have gone well.” Logan commented, landing on Virgil’s shoulder. 

“Patton will probably be mad to have missed it,” Virgil whispered with a chuckle. Once Patton was asleep, all awareness shifted to his tree, and he was dead to the world. 

He tried setting the baby down on the ground, and Roman bounded all around, nosing and licking the baby while he giggled and tried to grab Roman’s ears. 

Virgil sat down in the chair, still keeping a close eye on them. He would’ve thought that the baby might be scared of Roman’s over excitement. He certainly had been the first few shifts. But the baby seemed to be just as excited, laughing and trying to growl. And Roman didn’t even seem to mind when the baby really did grab hold of his ear and hold on tight. 

Virgil should have kept a closer eye. Or guessed that something would happen. Or have sat closer. But he didn’t. He was just too relieved that everything was going well. 

And so he didn’t react fast enough when Roman picked up the baby by his shirt and whisked him out the door, trotting away quickly and ignoring all cries of ‘wait, stop!’

Roman just kept going, and while Virgil caught up before he could really get away, the instant Virgil reached for the baby he let out a low growl. 

“Roman!”

Roman flinched, and stopped, but still growled. 

“Put him down,” Virgil said sternly. 

Roman whined, but put the baby down. He did not, however, let Virgil get near him, standing over the baby and growling more whenever Virgil got too close. 

Virgil sighed, and sat down, folding himself to be smaller. “Look, Roman, I’d never hurt him. You know I wouldn’t. I’m part of your pack as much as he is. Hand him back. I won’t take him away.” 

Roman stood his ground, bristling up bigger, and even more menacing when Virgil was seated. 

But the baby proved to be more helpful, crawling towards Virgil. Roman didn’t want to growl at the baby, and just watched, getting more panicked the closer he got. 

Virgil sat as still and relaxed as he could manage, given the situation. “I’m not gonna hurt either of you, or try to separate you. Don’t worry, Roman.” 

Roman whined when the baby climbed into Virgil’s lap, but the baby just babbled happily, sitting and patting Virgil’s legs. 

Roman laid down, his snout resting in the baby’s lap. 

The baby did his little ‘growl’, patting Roman’s nose. 

Roman licked the baby’s face, and the baby giggled, tugging at his ears again. 

“See? We’re all good.” Virgil said, gently reaching out to pet Roman’s shoulder. 

Roman seemed to smile, and scooted a little closer. 

They’d be alright. 

••^*^••

“He needs a name,” Patton said. 

Virgil looked to where Roman was asleep on the floor, the baby tucked into his side, happily sleeping against the warm fur. “Shouldn’t we wait till Roman can help us pick?”

“If we do that we’ll end up with a positively absurd name,” Logan said. 

“I like Janus,” Patton said. 

“Janus?” Virgil said. “Why?”

Patton shrugged. 

Logan made a strange sound that wasn’t quite a sigh. “It appears we were going to end up with a strange name either way. Having said that, however, I am not opposed.”

Virgil shrugged. “Yeah, alright. I don’t mind it. It’s a bit weird, but so’s the kid.”

Patton grinned. “Then his name is Janus!”

••^*^••

“Janice???” Roman asked, practically wailing. “You not only named him without me, but you gave him an old lady name???”

“Not like that,” Logan said. “Janus. Like the old god.”

Roman pouted. “Well… that’s not so bad. But you still named him without me!”

Roman scooped up the baby, cuddling him close. “You are going to get an awesome wolf-name. And it’ll be a secret from these jerks.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. 

Patton held out his arms, and Roman passed Janus to him. 

“It would be good,” Logan said. “Before we get irrevocably attached, to attempt to find his parents.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Roman murmured under his breath. 

“I can come with you,” Virgil offered. 

“What, right now?”

Virgil shrugged. “We might as well. We have time now.”

“... yeah, I guess so.”

••^*^••

When they came back the next night, they were extremely somber.

Virgil held out his arms, and Patton wordlessly passed him the sleeping baby. Virgil cuddled him so carefully and gently, folding around him protectively and lovingly, not even caring, like he usually did, that they were seeing him being ‘weak’. 

Roman sat down heavily, watching the two of them with wide, shiny eyes. “He’s ours, Pat. We’re never, ever letting anyone touch him.”

Virgil let out a violent hiss, and Janus startled, his face scrunching, but didn’t quite wake up. “Never. No one gets to him past us.”

“What happened?” Patton asked.

Virgil just shook his head, tucking Janus closer to his chest.

Patton looked to Roman. 

“It’s… better left unsaid. I think it’d be enough to say our guesses were right. He was cast out.”

“But he’s a baby!” Patton protested. “He can’t even talk yet.”

“And he’s ours now.” Virgil said firmly. 

“He’ll never be hurt again,” Roman said. “Not as long as we can help it.”

Patton nodded. 

“Can I hold him now?” Roman asked, reaching out. 

Virgil looked very reluctant, but passed Janus to Roman. Roman also practically curled around him, cuddling him close. 

There was a rustle as Logan, who must have woken up sometime, shook out his feathers and flew to Virgil’s shoulder. “I’m positive he’ll be safe and happy here with us, there’s no need to worry more about what happened before.” 

Virgil nodded. Patton held out his arms for a hug and Virgil tucked close, seeming all small now. Whatever it was, it must have really been bad. Patton was glad it was over. 

And he’d make sure it stayed over. 

They all would. 

[sjjdkdkwo]

Based off this prompt (#735) from @ironstrangeprompts

——

“Slick his hair back!”

 “No! No! It looks better down!”

“Ugh! Absolutely not! And what’s with that tie!? I thought we agreed all black was the best choice!”

 “He’s going to an auction not a funeral, you fool!”

 “I say we forgo the suit all together and have him go casual!”

 In all his years practicing the mystic arts, Stephen never once thought his vocation in sorcery would one day lead to him standing half naked in a room surrounded by various old men giving him fashion advice.

 “All of you, quiet!” Wong called out amongst the commotion, silencing all the residents in the room at once. “Besides, what he wears is the least of our problems. What we need to worry about is his seduction skills, or should I say, lack thereof.”

 Wong eyed him disdainfully, crossing his arms and shaking his head at him. Stephen scoffed, spreading his arms out in indignation as the masters around him flittered about.

 “Well he’s going to have to learn soon, or we’ll never get the relic.” Master Dee said as he circled around Stephen, leering over him and reaching out squeeze one of Stephen’s biceps. To the other side of him Master Lhamo leaned in to squint at Stephen’s bottom from behind his glasses—and gave it a firm pinch.

 “Excuse you!” Stephen cried out, jumping away from them as he turned a bright shade of red. “That’s enough! I will not be subjected to manhandling for a relic that — in case you needed reminding—for all we know could have been rendered nugatory after years of obsolescence!”

 “Need we remind you, that regardless of whether or not the relic is still functioning—“ Master Zam growled, his tone leaving no room for argument. “—If whoever gets their hands on it finds a way to get it to work again, they could potentially wipe out all existing life as we know it!”

 Stephen sniffed, turning to look away. Logically he knew the masters were right, now that they’d been made aware of the relic and what it could do, it was of utmost importance that they retrieved it before landed in the wrong hands. The only problem was it’s current location and keeper—the Maria Stark foundation. Worse then, they’d come to find out that not only did the MSF hold proprietorship over the relic, they were looking to auction it off to any bidder with enough money to get it too.

 The even bigger problem with that was that the order was, for lack of a better word—well, broke. So painfully and terribly broke.

 Realizing this is what had brought forth their current plan into fruition—the seduction of Maria Stark’s only son in order to retrieve said relic; Anthony Edward Stark. Unfortunately for all of them however, their plan was proving harder to carry out than they’d at first perceived. First and foremost was the fact that the idea of trying to trick Tony into developing any sort of attraction toward him under false pretenses, didn’t sit well with Stephen. At all. Secondly, there was also Stephen’s shortage of dating from now to all the way back to the days of the accident. It wasn’t really that Stephen lacked the proper skills to charm the pants (literally) off Tony Stark, per say, rather that he lacked the ability to carry them out through his new withdrawn and modest disposition. Which is how he had ended up here, enduring dating tips from people older than the Hindenburg disaster.

 Stephen sighed and pinched the bride of his nose, nodding and plastering on a sardonic smile as he looked around the room. “Very well. Please. As Wong said, I need all the help I can get.”

 “Bah!” Master Tenzin cried out, smacking his hand across Stephen’s back with a bright laugh and causing him choke on his own spit. “Don’t you worry, Stephen, I’ll have you know I was quite the lady charmer before my days in the order. Why the women practically swarmed toward me like bees to honey!”

 “More like flies to dung.” Master Dee sniggered beside him, elbowing Stephen in the side as he laughed—it seemed neither of them new the meaning of personal space.

 Stephen could only offer him a wry smile in return as Master Tenzin waved the other man off, stepping in front of Stephen instead.

 “Hush, you. Now, pretend I’m Stark, young, handsome and ready for the taking.” He said, reaching up a hand to floof his imaginary hair while sticking his hips out seductively.

 “I think you mean ancient, ugly and ready for the grave!” Master Dee called out beside him, trying in no way to hide the obnoxious laughter that followed.

 “You shut your mouth! Stephen needs to focus if he wants to score tonight.” Master Tenzin rebuked, shaking his fist in resentment at his fellow master before looking back to wink playfully at Stephen. “Pay him no mind, Stephen. Just focus on me. Now—” Tenzin’s voice lowered down an octave before he spoke again. “What’s a big strong handsome man like you doing here, hmm?”

 Stephen shuddered in disgust and turned to glare at Wong who merely shrugged. Maybe the destruction of all life in the universe wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  —

 After three long tedious hours of role-playing with Master Tenzin, (along with rude commentary from Master Dee) Stephen was even less sure of himself than he had been before as he stood between the crowd of gala attendees. After almost bumping into the fifth person that night in trying to look for Stark, Stephen opted instead to make his way to the bar. Only to actually bump into someone just as he was about to reach the counter. spilling the person’s drink all over them in the processes. Fantastic.

 “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Stephen mumbled, clumsily trying to wipe down the other person’s shirt with shaky hands. He hoped the tremors weren’t too noticeable, but he also knew his sudden nervousness was only making them worse. “I didn’t mean to—let me—if there’s anything I can do?”

 Stephen winced at his lack of eloquence.

 “Maybe stop trying to do whatever this is? Pretty sure you’re making it worse.” The person chuckled, and Stephen finally decided to look up from his poor attempts at cleaning up his mess, only to find none other than Tony Stark himself. “Another drink wouldn’t hurt either.”

 Stephen could only stare dumbfounded as he tried to say something in response. Retracting his hands he finally settled on: “You don’t drink.”

 Tony raised a brow, pursing his lips and nodding. It wasn’t a secret these days that Tony Stark held an aversion towards alcohol after years of battling substance abuse. Still, Stephen didn’t think stating obvious facts about the man to his own face could be counted as flirting. It seemed Tony agreed, if the amused expression on his face was anything to go by. “Alcohol, yeah. But…I wouldn’t say no to some water?”

 “Right. That was um…” Stephen swallowed and tried to remember what the masters had told him prior to coming to the event. All at once their words swarmed his head in a bewildering mess and Stephen tried to pick out something suitable from the muddle of instructions. “Your eyes are as hard as your body.”

 Stephen wished each of the masters a terrible case of bowel obstruction that night.

 “Excuse me?” Tony asked, furrowing his brow as he tentatively stepped back an inch. “I think your the one who ought to worry about his own drinking habits, pal.”

 “No, please—“ Stephen’s hand lifted slightly before he thought better of it and kept it firmly in its place at his side. “Sorry its just, been a while since I’ve been to one of these things. I guess you could say I’m nervous?”

 Tony’s face softened a bit before he placed a gentle hand on one Stephen’s shoulders and guided him to the far off left side of the bar counter, and away from everyone else. “Well, lucky for you I spend nearly half my time at these things. Allow me to help you settle back in.”

 “Thanks.” Stephen mumbled, turning to call over the bartender only for Tony to brush him off and order for them himself.

 “Water and…?”

 “Water.”

 Tony squinted dubiously at Stephen, repeating his words to the bartender before looking back at him. A moment of silence passed before Tony started to drum his fingers against the counter. Stephen strategically kept his own hands tucked between his thighs.

 “So, not much of a drinker yourself, then?” Tony asked, flashing Stephen a blithe smile.

 Not if I want to be in control of my magic, no. Stephen thought.

 “Not for a while, no.” He said aloud instead. “Sorry, how rude of me, I just realized I haven’t even told you my name.”

 He didn’t reach out a hand for Tony to shake; he didn’t need yet another person’s pity after seeing the state of his damaged hands. “I’m Doctor Stephen Strange.”

 “Tony Stark.” The other man responded easily.

 “I know that.” Stephen smiled.

 “Maybe, but I’m trying not to assume things like that these days.” Tony said, muttering thanks when the bartender came over with their drinks. “Correct me if I’m wrong however, but last I heard Doctor Stephen Strange disappeared off the map completely after a rather nasty car accident. Or am I thinking of another Doctor Stephen Strange?”

 To the onlooker Tony appeared to be nothing but carefree and relaxed in his current company. But Stephen could see the way his body tensed just so, and the suspicious gleam in his eye as he smiled tersely at him. Ever the futurist indeed, Stephen wondered if he’d bumped into him on purpose to better survey him. Stephen couldn’t blame him though; he could only assume what kind of paranoia’s followed a man who’d been kidnapped, betrayed and attacked all in half a lifetime. Even so, Stephen found himself unwilling to reply, his own insecurities and fears teetering around the edges of his mind, besides; perhaps it was best to let Tony take the lead in things. Maybe the spurious sense of control would be enough to aid him in accomplishing his task of retrieving the relic from the other man.

 “So tell me, what are you doing here, Doctor Strange.” Tony continued after a beat of Stephen’s silence. Reaching over he picked up his glass to take a sip, eyes never leaving Stephen as he did.

 “I’m here for the auction like everyone else.” Stephen answered mindfully.

 “Really now…” Tony dragged out the words as a heedful smirk made its way over his features before his gaze roamed over Stephen’s face, looking for any signs of ambiguity. “I can’t help but wonder how you’re even going to partake in tonight’s main event, given that you’re broke now and all.”

 Stephen sucked in a harsh breath and tried not to let the flippant words get to him. He still had a job to do regardless, and if that meant putting up with Tony’s glib attitude then he had no choice but to accept every word thrown at him. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten before opening them again to look at Tony with his best enticing smile. Leaning forward he settled his mouth against Tony’s ear, just scarcely brushing his lips over his lobule.

 “If you take me somewhere more private, I could show you.” He whispered provocatively, enjoying the sound of Tony’s breathe hitching as he made out the sight of the man’s body shivering from the corner of his eye. “What do you say, Mr. Stark?”

—

 Stephen cried out as Tony all but flung him onto the bed, and leaned over him to press desperate kisses against his neck. Stephen moaned softly, trying to press back against Tony when he felt the other man grind down against him until a sudden feeling of revulsion and erring washed over him.

 “Stop.” He cried out weakly, shaky hands pressing up against Tony’s chest. “Stop...”

 “What?” Tony murmured against the side of his face.

 “I said stop. Please.” Stephen said, louder this time.

 In an instant Tony was crawling off of him, moving to his side and giving him ample room away from him on the bed. His face was scrunched up in overt worry but Stephen found he couldn’t look at him in that moment, instead turning to look at the ceiling and reaching up to cover his face in his hands.

 “Hey, you ok?” He heard Tony ask quietly from the other side of the bed. Stephen also heard him slide off it after a long pause of silence. “Right, ok. I’m sorry, really, I just want to know if you’re ok. Or…do you want me to leave? Cause I can leave if you need that, just say the word and—“

 Stephen let out a pitiful laugh from behind his hands before whining in self-pity. “No, it’s not you. I just—I’m sorry but I can’t do this to you.”

 “Um, I’m pretty sure I wanted this.” Tony chuckled nervously. “Like, really wanted this.”

 “That’s exactly the problem.” Stephen mumbled.

 “How is that a problem?”

 “Because I’m using you.” Stephen said, pulling his hands away and pushing himself onto his elbows to look at Tony dejectedly. Tony made a non committal hum, cradling his chin with his fingers as though to appear deep in thought.

 “Maybe, but you know, I’m pretty fine with being used by you.” Tony grinned, still flushed from his earlier tumble with Stephen.

 “You don’t understand.” Stephen shook his head. “I’m supposed to be getting your mothers vase.”

 Tony blinked stupidly at him before slumping back against the wall with a bemused expression.

 “Huh, that’s a first.” He muttered under his breath. He nodding like he knew exactly what Stephen was talking about. “So what, you figured the best way to do that would be to sleep with me?”

 Stephen could see the mental hurtles he was going through in that moment and decided to take pity on him.

 “Not me, it was actually my colleague’s idea.” Stephen said as he got off the bed and bumped his hands twice together before twin mandala’s sparked to life in front of him and submerged the room in a soft yellow glow. Before he knew it, the blue flare of one of Tony’s repulsors’ was merging with the phosphorescence of his magic to illuminate the space around them as well. 

 “You have about ten seconds to explain before I turn you into dust particles.” Tony bit out harshly, any traces of nonchalance and playfulness long gone as he aimed the repulsor straight at Stephen’s face.

 “I’m not here to cause trouble.” Stephen said, his own features taking on a more serious note.

 “One.” Tony countered.

 “But you have to listen to me, the fate of the universe depends on it.”

 “Two.” Tony continued. “Three.”

 “Please! The vase you’re auctioning off tonight, it’s not just any antique decoration!” Stephen tried to cut to the chase, but there was so only so much he could explain under Tony’s impossible time limit. “It’s an ancient artifact that could destroy all life as we know it!

 “Four, five, Six…”

 “Stop that!”

 “Seveneightnineten.” Tony finished pointedly before his frown deepened. “Time’s up. Sorry, but that’s a bullshit excuse if I ever heard one. And I’ve heard a lot.”

 “Please! Just give me a chance to prove it to you! That’s all I ask!” Stephen pleaded; firm and steady even with Tony threatening his life.

 Something in his expression must have exuded some semblance of sincerity—or perhaps it was more like desperation— as Tony lowered his arm some, analyzing Stephen through his suspicion like before.

 “Let’s say I do believe you—“

 “I should hope so.” Stephen murmured. Tony lifted his hand back again, flashing the light of the repulsor directly into Stephen’s eyes once more. “Right, not the best time to joke around.”

 Tony let out a sarcastic chuckle, smiling at him snidely.

 “Great observation, Merlin.” He taunted. “Anyway, even if I do decide to go along with this, how the hell are you going to prove to me that, that vase is some sort of evil portal or whatever?”

 Stephen fought back the urge to correct Tony’s statement and forced himself to swallow his pride. He offered him a jaded smile in return and lowered his hands in hope of manifesting the appearance of solidarity between them.

 “If you take me somewhere more private, I could show you.” He repeated his words from earlier, softer and lighter this time around.

 Tony lowered his arm, brown eyes easing with back somewhat into their familiar teasing vigilance. He smirked apprehensively at Stephen, letting his gaze rake over him in intrigue. Almost as though he was being presented with a new and exciting and project. Stephen supposed he was. He didn’t move as Tony walked over and leaned in close to his ear like he had done to him before.

 “Do me wrong, and you won’t live to regret it.” He warned harshly before his tone took on a huskier tone. “Do my right, and maybe I’ll let you do me in other ways afterwards.”

 Stephen let out a shaky breath. He was definitely going to rub this in the masters, and Wong’s faces once this was all said and done. For now, he’d gladly work with Tony to retrieve the dangerous artifact and move on to more pressing, or rather, pleasing matters.

[joysbaereal]

Never Again

Chapter 15- The Mall

PAIRING: Choi Beomgyu x fem reader; fem reader x ???

SYNOPSIS: You and Beomgyu break up every other day but what happens when you decide moving on would be better for you.

GENRE: angst, crack (maybe?) SMAU.

WARNINGS: Toxic Relationship, Cheating, Gaslighting, Substance abuse, death jokes, Beomgyu and you are assholes, suggestive, yall both are really bad for each other, crude or disrespectful language

Written, word count: 300+

Your POV

So here I am alone in the mall wondering why the hell Yeojun couldn’t have just asked Taehyun or Soobin to take care of him. Why’d it have to be MY boyfriend, Beomgyu isn’t even that good at taking care of people I would know because when I get sick he makes it even worse. But I HAVE to get the shoes for my birthday. So I cant reschedule and its not like Beomgyu isn’t gonna be the one taking them off of me. I walk into my favorite shoe store and look at all the pink ones. The shoes have to go good with the dress the last thing I need is to look like a clown on my birthday. As I walk around the store I see a couple walk in… OMG you have to be fucking kidding me

??? (1) Pov

I cant believe im doing this right now. Id rather be with y/n and having fun with her. But here I am stuck with this girl I could care less about. Infact I’d rather be home right now than walking around the mall looking for who knows what. Gosh this girl is indecisive shes gone to two different stores. She leads me around the mall and We walk into a lingerie store. Idk if this is her way of flirting with me but I don’t like it one bit but while we’re walking I see two people who I think are kissing in the store and I make eye contact with… Oh shit whats he doing here. Better question what’s he doing here with her?

??? (2) Pov

Shit shit shit he saw me. I try to hide behind the hangers as the girl I’m with goes back to shopping. This is so emarrasing what the fuck.. but wait what is he doing with... My thoughts are cut off by the annoying girl next to me “Do you think this would look good on me?” It was a cute sundress and it didn’t look bad on her but it would look better on y/n. I should stop doing this before I get caught in my thoughts by- “Helllo im speaking to you are you listening do I look good or not” she says in an irritated tone “Yeah yeah you look great” I say taking myself out of my daze. She buys what she wants and she leaves the store but before we leave the mall I get a glance at the one and only.. shit it’s y/n.

===============================================

<<Previous ||Chapter 15|| Next>>|| Masterlist

im back yall im gonna try and be more consistent with my updates ik i up and left last time but ill try also which question mark do u think is Beomgyu and which one is Jaehyun🙈

[sixofpomegranates]

Rain in California - Act 1 - Fame

🥀Mini Series “Rain in California” Act 1 - Part 3 - Fame🥀

✨My Main Masterlist✨ | 18+ | AO3 | Wattpad

🥀Soundtrack🥀 | ✨Aestethic Trailer✨ |  🥀Masterlist🥀 | Words: 6.4k

🥀click here for the previous chapter🥀

TW: ANGST (LIKE REALLY),  mention of loss/death/addiction/sobriety/murder/abortion/miscarriage, suicidal thoughts/tendencies, depression, addiction, substance abuse, drugs, alcohol, ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP, mentions of OD, PTSD, Self-Harm/Cutting, religious trauma, past physical/psychological abuse on child/teen, abusive parents, teen pregnancy, murder, injustice, withdrawal symptoms,

Songs in this Chapter:

Heartbeat - Don Johnson

Seven hours and a Gastric Suction later, [y/n] felt like hell.

Her throat hurt and the medication they´d given her didn’t work. Now she laid in her hospital room, in her uncomfortable bed and was mostly angry at herself. [y/n] didn’t know why she had acted so stupid…well, probably because she had been high as hell. Not feeling able to control herself, when taken more than usual.

 She didn’t want to be so erratic, but when she was high, it just all seemed so easy. Saying the things she thought, doing things she normally would never even dare thinking of, not being hurt by others...On drugs she felt free. Herself.

Although she didn’t even know who she was anymore.

 When Spencer was holding her in the bathroom?

That was the first time somebody had said something to her about her addictions, except for ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’, ’It´s not that bad.’, ‘We´re here once you´re ready.’ and ’She´s just having a rough time.’.

It was the first time somebody really seemed to see through her and literally forced her to look at herself in the mirror. To care for her enough to show her tough love. Leroy, Hank and Tom had tried it, but given up on her, sure they supported and cared for her still, but for them she was already too far gone. And they were probably right about it.

 But the dog? He still had wanted to help her, even after she tried being her ugliest.

 She had gone too far, still remembering his face, the terror in it, when she cut her wrist, when she had taken all her pills at once. [y/n] had wanted to hurt him like that, her mind, her stupid junkie mind, had her convinced, that doing it would be a great way to get back at him.

Because she felt hurt, being rejected by him.

 Most likely she had scarred him for life. And now he hadn’t come in, since she was allowed to have visitors, and probably would never come back.

 She has successfully driven away the only one that had still cared enough.

 Now, mostly sober, she felt like a monster, aware that she was a wreck beyond repair.

 Of course she had, in the beginning, thought about stopping. But the drugs were the smaller evil to her, since they calmed her mind and made her forget the pain. She would stay alone forever, unworthy other people´s love, her mind should at least be allowed to be numb.

 *****

 “I came as fast as I could. What happened?”, Philip handed Spencer a duffle bag, filled with [y/n]´s clothing. He had asked him to bring it, since Spencer didn’t know how long she would stay.

“They pumped her stomach and had to stitch the wound on her wrist.”, he stated, making the short manager´s eyes go wide.

“Are you insane? What if they hurt her vocal cords?”, the tall one tried to remain calm, but had to really force himself to not hit Philip.

 Why was that a priority?

 “I didn’t wanna let her die. She could´ve OD´d. What would you have done?”, Spencer asked slightly aggravated.

“Carry her to the bathroom and force her to throw up, until nothing´s in her stomach anymore. Then I usually take her to bed and give her water every hour and feed her soup until she´s better.”, the manager explained and Spencer felt like that had to be a joke.

 “That has happened before?”, he asked baffled and Philip nodded. “Yeah, a couple of times, but she always either took something or cut herself. Never both at the same time. Where you two fighting again?”, he asked reproachful and Spencer felt the guilt sink into his heart. “See, agent Prentiss? This is why I said, [y/n] didn’t need a bodyguard.”

“I´m sorry, but I don’t think that this is the result of having a bodyguard. It´s much more one to them not getting along and [y/n] being highly addicted to a couple of substances.”, Emily stepped in for Spencer.

 The manager just ignored the her obvious insinuation of the rockstars declining mental help, before going into [y/n]´s room. The agents then just looked at each other before going in too.

 *****

 This was the first time Spencer saw [y/n], since they got here. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to be alone with her before. She was laying in her bed, bandage on her left wrist, looking directly at him when he came in. They had taken of her make-up, making Spencer realize, that she was prettier without it. Her jet black, dark hair in a ponytail. To him she looked calmer and softer like this. The real girl behind the façade. Philip was already all over her.

 “[y/n], you look awful.”, he said, shaking up the pillow as she got up a little, to sit.

“Feel like it too.”, her voice sounded a little raspy.

“Poor girl. How is your voice? Do you need anything?” “Fine. My throat´s just a little sore. Can you check me out of here? The faster, the better. That way I can go home without the media knowing.”, Spencer and Emily shared a look.

“The paparazzies showed up an hour ago.”, Emily stated, making [y/n] nod.

 She leaned further back in her pillow and looked at Spencer, like she wanted to say something.

 “C-Can you still check me out, Philly?”, Philip nodded.

“Of course. I´ll be back asap and then we´ll take you home so you can pack.”, he walked outside and [y/n] looked at Emily.

“Can – I don’t know – you maybe go with him?”, she asked her friendly.

 The dark haired woman shared a look with Spencer, who nodded at her. Signaling, that he was okay being alone with the singer again. Emily then nodded and walked after Philip, closing the door on her way out. For a second Spencer thought about leaving the room too. To, no longer, have this black-haired demon take hits against his sanity, but then her voice cut into the silence of the room.

 “I´m sorry.”, she said and Spencer wondered, if she was being honest.

“For almost killing yourself?”, he asked her sarcastically and she shook her head.

“For how I treated you.”

“I´ve been through worse. You´d need to be trying way harder, if you want me to break.”, he answered her cold and she began looking at her hands.

“I´m sorry, I tried pressuring you, to take drugs.”, Spencer shrugged at that. “You were high. If I didn’t relapse after the love of my life was killed or when I was put wrongfully into prison, I won´t relapse because a pretty girl is offering me drugs.” “Doesn’t make it better or okay. I saw the token in your room, when I was looking for my pills. I knew and still did it. You must really hate me.”, [y/n]´s voice sounded like she was about to cry.

“I don’t hate you.”, he said gently, sitting down on her bed. [y/n] let out a self-degrading laugh and looked at him, tears filling her eyes. “No, it´s okay. I deserve it.”, she looked over to her IV drip bag, filled with clear liquid, and hit it slightly. “That stuff makes me sentimental.”, she tried saying jokingly, but sounded just sad.

 Spencer looked at her for a while, thinking about what he could say. He hadn’t thought she would apologize for how she acted and he had meant what he had told her. He didn’t hate her. Yes, she was emotionally draining to be around, it wasn’t all bad though.

 Spencer remembered Philip and how he had talked about the two sides of people.

 “That´s no medication, [y/n].”, she looked at him confused. “You lost a lot of water so…Yeah. What you´re feeling is the drugs wearing off.”, he cooed, holding himself back with the rambling. “Nice. That´s what every junkie loves to hear.”, both chuckled a little. “Hey, I give you ten thousand dollar, if you get me some pills, my head hurts like hell.”, she said it in a joking manner, making Spencer chuckle and shake his head.

“No chance. I´m not bribable.”

“Makes you one of few in Hollywood.”, the sound of rain made [y/n] look to the window. “Can you open it?”, he nodded and got up. “Thanks. I love the sound of rain. People always portrait it to be so sad when it rains, but I think it´s nice…cleansing.”

 He opened the window and sat next to her bed on the chair. They listened to the sound of raindrops hitting the streets for a while, when he decided to take the shot and ask [y/n], what had been on his mind for the last hours.

 “Why are you doing it?”, she looked at Spencer, making a questioning noise. “Cutting yourself, taking drugs.”

“The pain makes you feel alive and the drugs help you hide the side effects of being it.”, Spencer chuckled a little.

“So melodramatic.”

 High, she would have probably devoured him, but now she only smirked and rolled her eyes. By now a certain realness tried finding its way in both their voices.

 “What was your reason for taking them then?”, she asked, leaning in his direction.

 Spencer thought a second, honesty was earned and he wanted her to be honest with him. So he gave her a trust bonus, reviling a bit of his darkness.

 “I wasn’t giving the chance of choosing to take them. I was kidnapped and my tormentor, at least one of his personalities, thought he would help me handling the pain.”

 He could´ve sworn to see empathy in her eyes, but instead of showing it or whispering words of condolences, like so many others would do in this situation, she just smiled.

 “And there I was, thinking you´re just a hypocrite.”, he shrugged. “Well…I am one.” “How?”, [y/n] asked, a little frown appearing on her forehead. “Because you were right. I think you are attractive and maybe my motive wasn’t all just about protecting you at the concert.”, he could feel himself blush.

“I´m sorry for acting out, after…you know.”

“It´s okay. Would you feel better, knowing that I really hated making the decision, to not sleep with you?”, she nodded.

“A little.” “Good. Cause it was. But it was the right thing to do.”, she smiled a little and began focusing on her hands again.

“You see, I get it now and I´m glad, at least one of us, has made a right decision tonight but…I don’t know how I´ll be to you, when I´m high again.”, her concerned voice made him take her hand. Being afraid of your own mind, no longer being able to control it, was something he was very familiar with. “Then don’t be. We could get you into rehab.”

 [y/n] chuckled and took his hand with both of hers, caressing it with her thumbs. She seemed to be thinking. Making Spencer believe she may be taking his offer. But the longer she thought, the more obvious it became, that she was losing to something dark inside her head.

“Would be a waste of time.”, she whispered, her playfulness gone, as if reality just slapped her into the face.

“But if you continue like this, you´ll be dead soon.”, [y/n] gave him a gentle smile.

“You always say that, like I don’t plan on dying with twenty-seven.”

 For a second he tried reading her, hoping she was joking, having made those suicidal jokes a little to often in the last days. When he didn’t like the answer, he prepared himself to hear it from her.

“Do you?”, she nodded. “I´m going to join ‘Club 27’ and then drift into oblivion. My songs and everything I did, only becoming an relic from the past.”

 The way she said it, made it sound like she had already made peace with that decision. It frightened Spencer, making him think of how to make her re-think it.

“What about your friends?”

“There´s only the band…and I started pushing them away from me, a long time ago. I saw how it will end for me and decided not to have it hurt them, like it hurt me, when I found my mom.”, he shook his head. He refused to accept this as an answer.

“And what about yourself? You can’t just feel like dying is the only option.” “It´s not. But it´s the most relieving one.”

 The calmness in her voice and body language showed him so much. What had driven her into that state? A state were death was seen as a relieve, because everything else hurt too much. Depression. She showed signs of it. Many people with addicted use it to cope with their mental problems. What had happened to her? His mind traveled back to the day before, to the only moments when she had let her façade slip.

 To the silver bullet that would kill her.

 “What happened to your baby?”, he asked her stern and she looked at him defeated.

“Oh, I see…I´ve been profiled. What do you think happened?”

“You lost it.”, she nodded, but he continued, carefully watching her body language. He wanted answers, but would stop when she would get too uncomfortable. “Probably because of your abusive father.”, she nodded again, seeming a little numb to his words. “Was he religious?”, the black-haired girl chuckled and answered him a little sarcastic.

“Depends on how religious you´d call a reverend. Why?”

“Religious trauma or trying to shock people. Your music, I mean.”

 For a second [y/n] let go of his hand, making him rest in her lap. Spencer refused to pull it away, if she would start talking, he wanted her to know that he was still there. He had, by now, enough pieces of the puzzle, showing him a dark picture of her past. A reason, why she tried to be high so often.

 Reality was a sharp knife and its cuts couldn’t hurt so bad, when you numb yourself.

 “My father was always hitting my mom, but when she then took off, there was only me and him. He forced me into the mold of the perfect, religious daughter and when I wasn’t as obedient as he would´ve liked, he´d make me read the bible for hours and beat me senseless.”, she started gesturing to her stomach and chest area. “Of course only hitting me in places, nobody would see the bruises. When I was fifteen, I got caught trying to smoke for the first time, by a teacher. As they notified my father, he locked me into the dark broom closet for a week. Out of spite, I then started smoking regularly and met a boy through it, Daniel.”

 Spencer watched [y/n]´s face light up for a second. She looked like JJ or Rossi, when they were talking about Will and Krystall. Like he probably did, when he was thinking about Maeve.

 “He went to the same school as I and his abusive parents were addicts, like my mom had been. We kinda bonded over that and would sneak out at night, spending hours together, talking about the stupidest things. Thinking we were so deep and intellectual. He, at one point, started stealing his parents weed, so we could get high together. Made getting beaten easier. The time with Daniel was the first and last time I ever felt those butterflies. You know? This childish feeling of love?”

 She smiled at him as he nodded, remembering those butterflies too, but then the smile darkened and she took Spencer’s hand again. As if to try and hold onto him, shielding herself from the dark memories creeping up.

 “I got pregnant with sixteen. A shame. I managed to hide it for a few weeks and Daniel and I came up with the childish idea of running away together. We thought, we could just get jobs somewhere else, buy a home and become a family…Like foolish kids.”, her self-degrading laugh broke Spencer’s heart, as she tried swallowing her tears.

“And it didn’t work.”, he whispered and she only laughed, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Of course it didn’t. A woman from church had overheard us talking and the rumor of me being pregnant was already out there, since I threw up so often at school. So she thought she would help me, if she told my father.”, Spencer squeezed her hand a little. “You wanna know what he did?”, he shook his head.

 “What?”

“He waited for us to meet at night. As I crawled out of the window, he stormed outside with his shotgun and confronted us. After I admitted to being pregnant he hit me, making Daniel step between us and start fighting with my dad to protect me and the baby…and my dad- he-…he then just shot him. In-…In cold blood, just pulled the fucking trigger.”, [y/n] voice was filled with disbelieve. Like she still wasn’t able to believe what she had seen.

 “My father then grabbed me by the hair and tried getting me to go back into the house. I, obviously shocked about him just shooting my boyfriend, refused to and so he started beating and kicking me, till I stopped fighting back…Needless to say, I lost the baby after that.”

 As a few tear ran down her face, she let go of Spencer´s hand and wiped them away. Letting a cynical laugh follow.

 “That’s not even the best part of the story. Nothing happened.”, Spencer looked at her frowning.

“What do you mean with ‘Noting happened’. He shoot a teenager. Weren’t there any repercussions?”, she shook her head.

“No. Because he told the police, that he came outside to me screaming, because Daniel was beating me. Angry at me, for being pregnant. He stated that he just did what he had to do, to protect me.”, he shook his head in disbelieve.

“Weren’t you questioned? Didn’t you tell them what really happened?”

“I would try telling, but nobody believed it. Because the reverend, a pillar of our community, would never do such thing. They thought I was just lashing out and framing my father, because I was high and angry at him for shooting my boyfriend...Daniel´s parents didn’t even care, too high to get what had happened. After that, I wasn’t allowed to go to school anymore, in fact, I wasn’t allowed to do anything anymore. My father taught me at home and every Sunday I was allowed to go to church and pray to have my sins being forgiven.”

 Spencer nodded at the amount of information she had just given him.

He felt bad for her, started to understand her, started to hate her father and the cruel injustice she, Daniel and the baby had suffered.

Why had they only once, tried to get her into therapy?

The amount of suffered trauma had to end in a situation like this, left untreated.

It was eating her alive, suffocating her, and everybody who saw it, just slapped the ‘She´s gonna be okay’-Band-Aid on this gashing wound, moving on with their own life´s, while she was losing the battle inside her head. He got up and sat on the bed next to her, she scooted a little, giving him some room to lean back too. As he lifted an arm, [y/n] rested her head on his chest.

 “Then how did you get…viral…?”, he looked at him and the confused spoken word, smiling.

“You know about that?”

“Luke.”, he answered and she nodded. “I wasn’t allowed to have a phone, but I was allowed to use our computer once a week for an hour. I would record myself singing and playing guitar on our shitty webcam and started uploading it, not thinking anybody would ever see it. With eighteen I got in contact with this guy, he said he was in the midst of establishing his own record label and he would love to pay my flight to LA, taking me under contract. I accepted and just ran as fast as I could, before my father could get me.”

 [y/n] again laughed cynical. Seemingly a coping mechanism of hers, to play down the pain and severity of things and situations.

 “When I arrived, he then offered me to stay with him, if I´d be…you know…nice to him. He earned a shit ton of money with my music, while I got nothing…But everything was better than going back home again.”, she sat up a little, so she could look at Spencer, again with that sparkle in her eyes.

 “At one point, when I didn’t want to have sex with him anymore, I had to work at a pizza restaurant to afford rent. There I met Leroy, Tom and Hank at the Open-Mic-Night. I told them a little about what was going on and Hank sued that guys ass. He didn’t want anything in return…just happy to help me. If you think Hank is scary now, you would have shit yourself, seeing him in court!”

 Both chuckled. Spencer could, thankfully, only imagine how terrifying the fifty year old biker could get.

 “After winning the case I asked them if they were interested in becoming a band and we made some demo tracks with the money I had gotten. The label took us under contract and introduced us to Philip, who became our manager.”

 “But you weren’t into anything but marijuana. How did we end up here?”, she sighed.

 “The label has a lot of expectations surrounding me. One of them was for me, to go out and be publicly seen with their other artists, for the image. They were taking a lot of stuff and I always said no, sticking to weed. But somewhere along the line, I wanted to know how it felt. If my mom was right, for choosing it above me. And I think I get it now. Everything I told you before? My dad, my baby, Daniel? They´re gone. I´m able to standup for myself and not letting me being pushed into something I don’t want, like when that creep wanted me to whore myself out to him, just so I´d have a roof over my head. Life is just easier that way and thankfully shorter too.”, Spencer pulled her closer.

 “I like you like that.”, he almost whispered. “Depressed?”, [y/n] snickered and he chuckled, shaking his head. “Real.”

“Only fair. I´ve been a real bitch to you, the whole time.”, he shook his head again. “Not that bad.”, she hit his chest gently, while giggling. “Oh, please. I can handle it. Come on.”, he sighed playfully, admitting the truth. “Okay, yeah. You´ve been a bitch.”

 They laid there for a while, [y/n] seemingly thinking, before she talked again.

 “You´re gonna pass on babysitting duty for me now, I guess?”, she asked hesitant, making him chuckle.

“Nope. I´m gonna stay.”, [y/n] sat up and looked at him, like he had completely lost his mind.

“Why in the world, are you doing that to yourself?”, Spencer shrugged. “Savior complex.” “I´m not worth it.”, he shrugged again. “I know. But the sober girl inside you is. You know? The one that knows my name, speaks French with me while playing Mozart and puts a blanket over me when I fall asleep while reading.”

 Then she asked him something that hit too close to home. Revealing a reality he liked to ignore.

 “You can’t save everybody. You´re aware of that, right?”, he nodded as she laid back into bed, her head resting against his chest again. “But I can try.”, Spencer whispered against her ear.

“Would you mind just watching TV with me? Withdrawal headache´s a bitch.”

 Spencer grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. After many attempts of finding something interesting, [y/n] stopped him from switching the channels. They had come across an 80´s music special. Something with the name ‘Heartbeat’ by Don Johnson had just started playing. Although [y/n] didn’t move a lot, Spencer could tell she was excited. Moving her lips along the lyrics.

  “I don't care what you say

You can give it away

 Your money don't mean much to me.

I've been out on my own

Gonna got it alone now

 'Cause that's the way it's got to be.

Ev'rybody tells me how I can beat the odds for now.

Well I've been standing by the fire

But I just can't feel the heat.”

  “That’s a great song.”, Spencer shrugged, again not feeling too much connection to the music. But it did sound nice. At his shrugging she hit him a little and put on a badly played face of disbelieve and shock. “Show some respect for the classics!”, he laughed at her words. “Respect for the classics? You called Beethoven a deaf bitch.”, now [y/n] shrugged. “Touché.”, she giggled, laying her hand on her head as if to ease the pain.

  “Looking at me

It's easy to see

 You think you know just how I feel.

If you do to me wrong and it won't take me long

 Before my restless heart will heal.

I'm looking for a love

Love like mine”

  “That was good music back then.”, she whispered against his chest. “Heart break, real emotions…love that stuff.”

“Why don’t you play more of it then?”, Spencer asked, Luke in his mind telling him about their music just no longer trying to hit the feelings. [y/n] giggled a little. “I´m guessing…Luke told you?”, he nodded and she let out a sigh. “Remember when I told you about the label having expectations? Every song I make has to go through them first, before being released. At one point, I had nine songs, completely done and they only greenlit one of them. Told me the others ‘weren´t my style’, ‘not exactly my genre’ or ‘wouldn’t speak to my audience enough’. So I just stopped looking for the deeper emotions. Still love the music I make, but the feeling´s dead. My lyrics helped me coping at the beginning, but the restrictions the label set me, ended that.” “Why don’t you just write those songs again? It doesn’t matter if anybody hears them.”, he suggested to her chuckling in response.

  “They tell me it's so hard to find

But I can feel it in the rhythm of the heartbeat in the street.

 Heartbeat - I'm looking for a heartbeat”

  “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound, mon amour?”, Spencer looked at her for a second, flustered by the realness she let him see.

“Yes. For me it would.”, he told her, making her giggled. “I probably lost my ability for stronger emotions anyway. But thanks, Spencer.”

 His heart skipped a beat as she said his name.

  “Heartbeat - I'm looking for a heartbeat

Beating like mine.”

  As the door opened Spencer quickly jumped up, Emily looking at him with a lifted eyebrow.

 “Uhmm…Hello?”, she asked, more meant as a ‘What´s going on?’. Philip walked in right after her, not having seen the both of them more or less cuddling in the hospital bed.

“Oh no, it´s raining again.”, he sighed as he closed the window and stepped aside for the nurse, who took out the IV from [y/n]´s arm. “Okay. I got you released from hospital, [y/n]. I have the papers and ta-da.”, he handed her a white little paper bag. “Your pain medication and antibiotics for the arm.”

 “Thanks.”, she answered and passed it over to Spencer. “Ca-Can you…so I take them correctly?”, he looked at her confused.

 “You sure?”, she nodded and Spencer smiled at her. Baby steps. “Of course.”

“I thought Dr. Reid would stop his bodyguard duty, now that you´re going to stay with me?”, [y/n] shrugged.

“I- I don’t know.” “You know, I can protect you too.”, Philip insured her. “Yeah…but I would feel safer with my guard dog around.”, she looked at the tall man. “Only if you´d be okay with that, Spencer.”

“More than okay.”, Spencer smiled at her, making her smile back.

“O-Okay, that´s fine. That´s gonna be fine. Dr. Reid can sleep in my office. Now get dressed, so we can pack your stuff at home.”

 Philip handed [y/n] her black duffle bag, Spencer had put on the floor next to her bed. She opened it and pulling out some jeans and a black sweater. When she tried to get up she was a shaky on her legs, but managed to go to the bathroom. Spencer stayed close to her, being able to catch her in case she´d fall. When she closed the door behind her, he looked at Philip and Emily.

 “How many paparazzies are out there?”, he asked and Emily held her breath, shortly thinking.

“Too many. Just checked before coming in. You guys better think of a plan, if you don’t want [y/n] to be seen by them and become five o'clock news.”, both men nodded and then looked at each other.

“Okay…so, Philip? Where do you park?”, Spencer asked. “Outside, visitors.”, he nodded and looked to his friend.

“Me too. Emily, you?”

“Car park.”, she answered and Spencer handed her his key.

“Okay. We trade. I take [y/n] home in Emily´s SUV. Emily takes [y/n]´s car and you, Philip, you just drive to the mansion. Maybe we can make them think she´s still in medical care, that way.”, all of them nodded to each other, not really knowing what more there was to tell. Not knowing if the plan would even work.

 *****

 When [y/n] looked in the mirror, in the tiny bathroom of her hospital room, after washing her face, she felt okay. Horrible, but okay.

 Feeling kind of stupid, having given Spencer her medication. It had felt right. But she didn’t know why. Did she want to make him happy? Well, he certainly was. But honestly? Nobody just stops being addicted for one person. Having your addiction tendencies being bound and under control solely for another person than yourself probably never works in the long term.

She knew she would have to stop for herself and that just wasn’t worth it.

She just wasn’t worth it.

Spencer would leave again, he was just another person in her life that would vanish, never to be heard from again. Her life would move on, just like it did now and that was it. It was okay like that. There wasn’t much to be expected anymore and she had made her peace with it. Having lost the will to try years ago.

 Somehow she had decided however, to enjoy the few moments she would still have with this man. A man she barely knew, but yet, felt so interest in. A man that either lived his best boomer life or just simply lived in a cave without Wi-Fi, giving his lack of knowledge by simple words like iconic and viral.

 Maybe it was his lack of interest in her Rockstar persona, that intrigued her. She had heard him and Philip outside of her room. Spencer had not given a single fuck, that her voice could´ve been ruined by having her stomach pumped, as long as she didn’t die. That was nice. Being more than an expensive voice. Being counted as a human.

 She wanted to know more about him, had given him her silver bullet, as a sign of trust. Now she wanted his or however much he was willing to give. Being high would ruin it, being high would maybe have her forget something. [y/n] knew she would still need to take the bare minimum of her drugs, so the withdrawal wouldn’t kill her, but for now she would like to be semi-clean. The headache and the freezing being acceptable.

 She had put on her fresh clothes, liking that they didn’t smell like cigarettes, wondering why she even smoked, when everything just started to reek and ruin the nice smell of her lavender perfume. Was it still out of spite, because her father didn’t like it?

Maybe she would quit…on the other hand…maybe just reduce them a little. For now, she didn’t have any, anyways. She would probably need some chewing gum.

 When she walked out of the bathroom Spencer smiled at her, stepping closer and his hands cupping her face.

 “Hey. You okay? You´re a little pale.”, she quickly nodded, her heart beating as fast as it always did shortly before a concert.

“Yeah, just not wearing any makeup, so…”, he shook his head, thumb stroking her cheek.

“Uh-uh. You weren’t pale like that before. You feeling sick?”, actually yes, she did.

“A little.”

“We´re gonna get you something to eat later and then you should take a nap. Philip is going to drive in his car and we´ll meet him at your house. Emily already left.”, [y/n] nodded, quickly stepping away from Spencer. She hadn’t even noticed Philip still being there, while he smiled at them.

“I´m gonna leave now and you guys just go to the garage and wait a few minutes. When something happens you call me, okay [y/n]?”, she nodded, Spencer taking her duffle bag as Philip hugged her and then left.

 She and Spencer went to the car park, her having the hood from her sweater pulled into her face, hoping nobody would recognize her. The last thing she wanted was a media scandal, so shortly after the her teen-pregnancy was brought to light. People talking about the ‘out of control’-Rockstar almost dying due to an overdose. Not that they were completely wrong, but still. She hated when strangers acted like they knew her, only because they read one of those crappy articles.

 When they got into the car Spencer turned on the seat heating, without saying a word, only smiling at her. Why was he so nice? Was it his savior complex or did he just have a great personality?

 Driving to her mansion in silence, they were met with an array of paparazzies in front of it. Spencer parked across the street. [y/n] quickly fixed her hair, should they notice her and start making photos.

 “Tinted windows, they don’t see you.”, he told her, making her relax.

 For a second she thought about how much she hated this. The flashes of the cameras pointed into her face, only inches away from it. Asking her inappropriate question, because fame cancelled out the right of privacy. They were always waiting for her to do something, to be put on a blast for.

 Maybe she could just, a little longer, be a no one. Like she seemed to be, alone with Spencer.

With Philip, she never had even five minutes to herself. Yes he was nice, but he was so in-your-face sometimes. Smothering her with care.

 “Spencer?” “Hm?”, he turned to her. “Would it be okay, to just go undercover?”, Spencer raised his eyebrows. “Undercover?”, her cheeks flushed a little.

“Yeah…get a hotel room and some junk food maybe…” “What about Philip?”

“I´ll text him…I- I´d just like to be alone.”, he nodded at her words, already starting the car again. “Oh, sure. I get that.” “Alone with you.”, was that sentence too bold? “I know. Already thought so.”, he put a hand on her thigh, gently squeezing it. She smiled at this gentle gesture. “Any hotel okay?”, he asked her, as she laid her hands on his, wanting to make sure it stayed there. “Sure. But you´ll need to get the room. I tend to attract attention.” “Really?”, he asked in a playful voice, as he pulled into the main street. “Yeah, apparently I look like this one singer from a rock band.”, she answered, giggling, even though it killed her head. “Huh, weird. Wouldn’t have noticed.”, he almost whispered, seeming to have noticed it.

“Maybe we should get me some nicotine patches too.”, she smiled, making him look at her surprised.

“Stopped smoking?” “Yeah, thought I´d try it. Maybe you can smell my perfume better like that. Lavender.”, Spencer chuckled. “Sexy. Kissing a smoker only seems good in the movies.” “You know movies?”, she said, playfully mocking him. “Russian and black-and-white ones.”

“You´re a little nerd, huh?

“Hope that’s not a deal breaker?”, she looked at his little worried, almost insecure look.

 Yes, the junkie who just ruined his night, by having a mental breakdown, would think a nice, smart guy that liked watching ‘Dr. Who’ was a dealbreaker.

“It´s actually kinda cute.”, he let out an adorable giggle and for a second she could feel her heart skip a beat.

 *****

 Spencer had gotten them a hotel room in a small hotel with individual, private entrances. Definitely not as classy as [y/n] was used to, but private enough, not to be seen. Before, he had bought her nicotine patches and gum and they had gotten some pizzas.

 Now her arm was plasters with some of the patches and they sat on the bed, eating pizza and watching ‘10 things I hate about you’, making him see just how quirky [y/n] could be. Singing along to every song, telling him how much she loved watching it, secretly at a friend’s home, as a teen; giggling like crazy when something funny happened and gushing over things she thought to be romantic. Spencer had given her her medication and the withdrawal, at least in the moment, seemed to be manageable.

 After the movie she had insisted on him picking something, making him extremely nervous. He didn’t think that any of his picks would have her enjoy the next two hours, but she didn’t let him say no. So he put in an old black and white movie called ‘La Dolce Vita’, about a week in the life of a philandering tabloid journalist living in Rome. He laid down in bed and signaled [y/n] to come closer. She had quickly cuddled up beside him, seemingly touch starved by the way she held him close. A very familiar feeling for Spencer.

 After he had begun stroking her hair, she had fallen asleep faster, then he had fallen for her.

 Seeming to like every side of her, every part, no matter how damaged or ugly. Spencer had pulled the sleeping girl a little closer, gently kissing the top of her head and smiling to himself. What he had smelled two days ago, had been lavender. He drifted of as well, only waking up half an hour later, when the credits woke him.

Turning the TV off, before laying close to [y/n] again, now spooning up behind her, face buried in the crook of her neck, arms wrapped tightly around her.

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To be continued...

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Give me your feedback [also anonymous!]

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Taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed)

[samanthadalton]

Star crossed lovers part 7 (au)

pairings: poppy x mc (bea)

warnings: throughout this fic there will be mentions of substance abuse, homophobia, sexual abuse, violence, NSFW, mentions of abandonment, depression and death including suicide

reader discretion is advised

taglist: @somewillwin @cloud9in @save-me-the-last-dance @baexpoppy @stanzoeywade @ognenniyvolk @thepotatobleh @crazzyplays @rxssians @helpconfusedpersonhere @dopeyouth @boys-girls-i-cant-help-it-baby @clowneryme (if you wanna be added on let me know) 

word count: 5.2k (my longest chapter yet) 

if there’s any mistakes i’ll fix it later bc its like 5am here 

part 1: part 2: part 3: part 4: part 5: part 6: 

Birthday Bash 

“Bea.” 

Poppy stares at the brunette, wide-eyed, her knuckles turning white as she firmly grips on the doorknob, but she doesn’t let go. She definitely wasn’t planning on seeing her girlfriend tonight, and judging by the haunted expression on Bea’s face, neither was she. 

“Hey,” is all Bea can squeak out, lips slightly quivering, her eyes a bloodshot red as if she’s been crying for days. Poppy quickly peaks her head out of the doorway, analysing her surroundings, looking for any traces of anyone's presence before clutching onto Bea’s arm and dragging her into the foyer.

“What happened?” Poppy’s voice is soft, timid, her brows furrowed as she takes in Bea’s demeanour. As the lights shine on Bea, Poppy can see her girlfriend’s features more clearly, her cheeks glisten with dried tear stains, while her hair looks like a bush, most likely from Bea running her hand through hair constantly, a habit she does when she’s upset or angry. 

As if right on cue, Bea runs a hand through her hair, her expression distressed.“ Is it safe to talk here?” Bea’s tone’s insecure as she gazes into the strawberry blonde’s eyes for the first time tonight, and Poppy notices the sad glint in her eyes. It takes all of Poppy’s strength to not break down in tears just by looking at her girlfriend. 

Poppy clears her throat, blinking away the tears, “uh yeah, my dad’s not home. Come let’s go to my room.” Poppy contemplates holding Bea’s hand as she sees it fitted closely to the brunette’s side, but reminds herself how volatile things are between her and Bea so she walks ahead of Bea and not looking behind her until she reaches her room. She opens the door and lets Bea into the room, making a beeline for her bed, sitting at the edge while Bea hovers near the door frame, nervously fidgeting as if it’s her first time in the strawberry blonde’s room, her eyes wearily glancing around the room. 

“You can sit if you want” Poppy pats the space near her and Bea gives her a small smile as Bea gives a small nod of appreciation and meanders over to her bed and settles down, leaving a wide gap between herself and Poppy. As the girls look over at each other, familiarity slowly begins to wash over them as the memories that they spent together in the room come flooding into their minds; the late nights, the sneaking out, the kisses, the cuddles, the I love yous. It wasn’t that long ago where the girls were lying down in Poppy’s bed together discussing their future and senior year, but now as they’re in the same space everything has changed, and deep down inside they both know that. 

Poppy gives Bea a warm smile, her eyes full of affection as she waits patiently for her girlfriend to speak first. Poppy knows firsthand to be submissive when Bea is in a mood, otherwise Bea will just close off and the girls won’t make any progress. After some deliberation, she tentatively reaches out, her hand slowly clasping around Bea’s, giving it a squeeze, a small gesture to reassure her girlfriend that she’s willing to wait. Bea smiles internally at Poppy’s action, but after the dispute between herself and her mother, it has been on a constant replay in her head, almost like a never ending nightmare which she can’t wake herself up from. The girls continue to sit in the silence as Bea tries to gain her bearings, her mind going a million miles a minute, but Bea fights against the flight instinct she has become accustomed to over the last couple of months taking a deep slowing breath before opening her mouth to speak. 

“Thank you for letting me in.” 

Poppy frowns, “you’re my girlfriend Bea, I would never turn you away.” 

Bea glances down at the floor, “so why didn’t you want me at the hospital? Or why haven’t you answered my calls? Texts?” A guilty expression flashes across Poppy’s face, as she stutters, struggling to come up with a valid reason, instead she clamps her mouth shut, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Bea reaches out to take Poppy’s cast in both of her hands, her soft fingers delicately brushing against the rough plaster, a solemn look on her face. “When you fell I-” she abruptly cuts herself off as hot tears begin to stream down her face, she shifts her gaze away from Poppy, in an attempt to hide her face. 

Poppy reaches out, cupping Bea’s face in her hands, her thumbs swiping the tears as she places her forehead against the brunettes, speaking softly against her lips, “Bea I know. I’m okay though.” The strawberry blonde’s voice begins to waver but she clears her throat, pushing away the lump in her throat, “I know I’ve been distant lately. Pushing you away and it isn’t fair. We need to stop avoiding this conversation.” Bea nods into Poppy’s hands, sniffling as she blinks away the last couple of tears forming in her eyes. 

“You’re right.” 

And so Bea tells Poppy everything; her unexpected visit from her dad, the argument with Isabella, the night she was almost mugged. Poppy stares intensely as Bea, quietly taking in the information, part of her feels like an idiot, like she’s being selfish. Crying over a broken arm while Bea’s life is completely falling apart. But another part of her feels hurt, hurt that Bea had been concealing all of this. Suppressing all her emotions to the point where Poppy almost blamed her for her fall. 

She understands that her and Bea live in two completely different worlds. But would that be their downfall? Or would they be able to push through their differences and love each other unconditionally? Promise that they will never keep something from the other? Promise to love and commit to each other no matter the consequences? 

Maybe Bea would be able to, but could Poppy? She has more to lose than Bea does, more at stake. But all those doubts perish when Bea gazes at the strawberry blonde, relief flashing across her face. She seems more at ease than when she first came in, like the weight has been lifted off her shoulders and Bea’s problems shouldn’t be her own burden, Poppy knew what she was getting herself into when she decided to be with Bea. No matter how much life threw at them nothing could take away the fact that they were soulmates, who were brought together to balance each other out. 

“Pops?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Poppy moves in, she places a soft, long kiss on Bea’s forehead before fitting herself in Bea’s bigger frame, her arms wrapping around the brunette’s waist, while her head nuzzles into her neck. “You have nothing to apologise for Bea. If anything I should be sorry. I’ve been such a bitch, when I should’ve been there for you. I hate that we’ve come to this. Not being able to tell each other anything.” 

Poppy hears Bea sharply inhale and lifts her head to look at her girlfriend, “Was there something else?” 

One of Bea’s hands moves to stroke the strawberry blonde’s hair, she solemnly nods, “yes. Don’t be mad I didn’t say anything earlier because I would’ve but you were ignoring my calls.” Poppy pushes herself off her girlfriend studying Bea’s remorseful expression. “It’s about Carter. 

“What about him? Did he do something to you?” Poppy brow’s furrow while Bea shakes her head. 

“He approached me the night of the volleyball, the game where you fell.” her gaze drifts down to Poppy’s cast, “he knows about us.” 

Poppy feels the blood rushing to her ears, as her heart thumps powerfully in her chest. ‘This isn’t supposed to happen, no one is supposed to know’ is all she can think, while her face pales and her eyes continuously blink, wondering if she’s heard Bea wrong. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how Poppy but he swore he wouldn’t say anything,” Bea stammers. 

Poppy feels anger flaring up in her body as her eyes shoot daggers at Bea, “what the fuck Bea. You know how many times Carter has been to my house in the last week? And this entire time he fucking knew?” Poppy wildly throws her arms around, face reddening by the second. 

Bea feels anger exploding within her, her face scrunched up in a scowl and she starts yelling, “You were ignoring me. I called. I texted. You couldn’t be bothered to check up on your own girlfriend. So don’t you dare” she points an accusatory finger at Poppy, “blame me.” 

Both girls glare at each other, anger reaching a boiling point, the sounds of their tiny quick breaths fill up the deafening silence in the room. Bea takes a step towards Poppy, who in retort takes a step forward too, and without hesitation both girls move in for the kiss, their tongues already tangled together as they fight for dominance. Bea grabs the Poppy by her hips, pulling her closer to her frame, as she angles her head downwards, pushing her tongue into Poppy’s mouth who responds with small moans, her mouth invitingly opening up, as her hands creep up around Bea’s neck, wrapping around it and pulling her down onto the bed. All the pent up anger, passion, the absence of intimacy is met in the kiss, the girls feeding off each other’s kisses not breaking apart for air, as if they can live off the very feeling they’re giving each other. 

Soon the girls pull apart, their gaze fixated on one another, until they break into a fit of laughter, realising how ludicrous the entire situation is. 

“I’m sorry for snapping. I guess I’m scared about people finding out about us.” 

“Hey.” Bea cups Poppy’s face, her thumbs stroking her jawline as her eyes look intensely into Poppy’s brown doe eyes, “I would never let anything bad happen to you. Carter said himself, he’s not the enemy, he’s just an ass.” Poppy lets out an airy laugh, slightly shaking her head, while Bea returns a small smile, “I’m just glad we’re okay now, I missed you.” Bea leans down and places a chaste kiss on the strawberry blonde’s lips. 

“I missed you too. From now on no more secrets okay? We need to make sure we are healthily communicating with each other because I hate fighting with you.” 

“I know, I guess sometimes I just don’t want to burden you.” 

“Bea, you’re my girlfriend, you could never be a burden to me.” The girls share a long look, one filled with affection and appreciation. “You gonna be okay going home? You can stay here if you want.” 

Bea shakes her head, “your dad will be here soon and I don’t wanna risk it. It’ll be fine, I think.” Bea hesitantly adds. 

‘Well, I’m here if you ever need a getaway. And I’m glad we’ve made up because there is no way in hell we are not going to celebrate your birthday.” 

Bea lets out a loud groan, “Dammit it.” 

“We are going to celebrate your birthday Bea Hughes, you are not getting out of this one so easily.” 

…. 

In the following weeks, Bea and Poppy could not be in a better place, though their relationship was still a well kept secret from the students of Belvoire, or at least the majority of them, the girls back to being madly in love. Since cheer was not really an option for Poppy currently, she began investing into her role of head of the school newspaper more, while offering more hours to volunteer at her local animal shelter. Bea on the other hand was pouring herself into maintaining a healthy work/school balance. Her and Aria began a family night once a week, where her, Aria and Poppy and sometimes Veronica, Zoey and AJ would all get together and cook and play board games for a couple of hours. Although Bea and Poppy recently made up, they almost got into another fight after Bea put down a +4 in Uno and Poppy almost lost her shit. All the while, Poppy and Zoey were planning Bea’s birthday party. Bea was never too  crazy about her birthday but after a lot of petitioning from Poppy, Veronica and Zoey she eventually agreed to a birthday party which would be hosted by Zoey. 

…. 

Soon it’s time for Bea’s birthday and as soon as the brunette wakes up from her slumber she immediately goes onto her phone to see a bunch of birthday messages from all her friends. Poppy of course had wished Bea a happy birthday at exactly 12am and left her girlfriend a very long paragraph including all the reasons she loves her. Zoey leaves a drunken voice message, telling Bea that she’s starting the party early while Veronica gives a short and very mundane message just simply wishing Bea a happy birthday. Bea scrolls through the rest of the birthday wishes thanking everyone for the wishes until a pillow comes flying out of nowhere smashing into her face. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY BIG SIS!” Aria jumps onto Bea, giving her some very brutal birthday beats while also not forgetting to give one for luck. Once she’s done, she jumps off Bea’s bed laughing. Bea massages her arms tenderly, mentally planning her little sister’s demise until Aria brings out a small wrapped box from under her bed, holding it out to Bea. 

“Aria you didn’t have to.” 

“Shut up and just open it.” 

Bea amusingly huffs as she carefully unwraps the bow on the box, before lifting the lid. She lets out a small gasp as tears begin to form in her eyes. “Oh my god Aria.” She endearingly stares at her sister before pulling her in for a massive bear hug, “this is the best present ever thank you.’ 

Aria returns the hug for a few moments until breathlessly cries out, “Bea, you’re crushing my lungs.” Bea instantly lets go, sympathetically rubbing her younger sister’s back, 

“Sorry Aria, but this is perfect, how did you know?” She affectionately stares at the picture frame in her hand, beaming at the photo of a young Bea holding a baby Aria in her arms. 

“Because you love that kind of stuff. Mom helped me with it.” 

Bea visibly tenses, “she did huh?” Aria who is completely oblivious about the severity of the altercation between Bea and her mother, only thinking it was just a petty argument that resulted in them not being on speaking terms, merely nods and flounces to the bathroom to get ready. 

After a birthday breakfast where Bea had to take over from Aria who can barely make a decent pancake batter, the girls sit in the living room reminiscing about the past, laughing at the past memories of one another. They’re interrupted by the sudden creaking of Isabella’s door who gingerly looks out of room before stalking towards the kitchen to fetch herself a glass of water. Bea pointedly avoids Isabella’s presence by directing her complete focus to her younger sister until Isabella’s low voice interrupts the conversation. 

“Happy birthday Bea.” 

Bea ignores her mother, clenching her jaw, furious at her mother’s attempt to simply sweep her previous proclamation about not wanting anything to do with her aside. “Hey Aria, why don’t we go to Zoey’s and then I’ll drop you off at your friend’s. We’ll even take my bike.” 

Aria squeals hugging Bea tightly, “seriously? You’ll let me go on the bike?” 

“Yeah, of course. Now go get your stuff I’ll wait here.” Aria rushes into her room while Bea reluctantly makes her way to the kitchen, where Isabella’s expression is downcast as her long nails tap against her glass. “Aria’s staying over at a friend’s tonight and I’ll be home late so I guess you have the house to yourself. Don’t trash it because remember who’s paying the bills in this house.” Bea turns away but Isabella latches onto her arm, her tone pleading. 

“Please Bea. It’s been weeks.” 

Bea aggressively shrugs her mom’s arm off hers before looking directly into her eyes, a fire blazing in them. “And? I meant what I said. No more handouts. You’re on your own. Tell Aria I’m waiting out front.” With that she walks off without a second thought or glance. 

….

Bea’s birthday is soon in full blast, and as Bea walks into the back yard she can’t help but be in awe of Zoey and Poppy’s collaboration to make the party a hit. The fairy lights carefully placed around the trees, shine brightly, a stark contrast to the dark night sky. A arm slings around Bea’s shoulder pulling her close to the warm body, “Happy birthday bitch!” Zoey places a plastic crown on Bea’s head giving her best friend a kiss on the cheek. As looks up and down appraising Bea’s short red dress, “damn girl, 18 looking good on you already.” 

“How are you already drunk? The party just started.” 

“How are you not drunk yet? It’s your birthday, let loose a little.” Zoey grabs Bea’s hands doing a silly dance before Bea breaks apart her gaze serious. 

“What’s wrong Zoey? I’ve known you long enough to know something’s up.” 

Zoey sighs, slumping her shoulders, her expression dejected, “I asked Veronica if she wanted to come to this party together but she said no.” 

“Aww Zo,” Bea pulls in Zoey for a hug. “I thought you guys really liked each other?” Zoey in retort lets out a bitter laugh.

“I guess it was just about sex for her. But fuck her. I don’t need her to have a good time.” She takes a huge swig of her beer, “besides, tonight is a celebration.” She downs the rest of her drink, exhaling sharply, “I’m gonna go grab another drink.” She makes her way to the drinks stand until Bea is tackled by a hug which almost sends her tumbling to the ground. 

“Happy birthday baby.” Poppy gives Bea a huge kiss on her lips, and when the kiss breaks off, Bea licks her lips a little, tasting the cherry lip gloss from Poppy’s lips. 

“Mmm, thank you,” she pulls Poppy in for another kiss until they’re interrupted by a loud cough. 

“Umm I’m here.” Veronica lifts a hand up waving, while a huge wrapped box is fitted to her side, wrapped around her other hand. “Here, happy birthday.” She shoves the box into Bea’s hands who just looks at Veronica gratefully. 

“Wow, thanks Veronica.” Veronica responds with a small hum as Bea begins ripping off the wrapping and then looks back up at Veronica wide-eyed. “Holy shit V, thank you. This is awesome.” She takes out the fresh biker helmet, staring at it in astonishment, a glossy black exterior, with white stripes painted all over it, brings a huge smile to Bea’s face and she gives Veronica a strong one armed hug. 

“You’re welcome.” Veronica beams as she hugs Bea back, “See told you she’ll like it P.” 

Poppy facetiously rolls her eyes, “fine you were right. But” she pulls Bea back to her side giving her girlfriend a quick peck on her lips, “my present is a million times better.” 

“Well duh you’re her girlfriend.” 

“Oh shush Lombardi, you’re just bitter that Zoey isn’t interested in you.” Bea furrows her eyebrows slightly at Veronica who just embarrassingly turns away. “Well let’s go get some drinks.” 

Many of Bea’s friends from the south join the party including Razor who gets a stern (and slightly drunken) telling off from Poppy for giving Bea a knife. Poppy excuses herself to join Zoey and a bunch of others in a game of truth or dare which Bea respectfully declines. As the party carries on, Bea stands at the edge of the living room carefully sipping her beer as she looks around, the music infectiously blaring from the speakers as everyone begins to dance. AJ sidles up to Bea giving her a warm hug wishing her a happy birthday. 

“I was wondering when you would show up.” 

“My dad wanted me to stay for a family dinner since my aunt came over but said I could come to the party once it ended.” 

Bea gives AJ a sincere pat on the back, “Well I’m glad you’re here. Have you spoken to Poppy yet?” 

AJ sheepishly rubs his hand on his neck, a slight frown on his face, “not yet. I’ve been kinda avoiding her but I’ll speak to her and apologize for scaring her.” 

“Alright, go and enjoy the party, I’m just gonna head out for some air.” AJ joins the fray as Bea heads out to the front yard staring at the night sky. 

“I thought you’re supposed to celebrate on your birthday?” 

Bea turns her head slightly to see a smirking Veronica making her way up to her and amusingly huffs, “I just needed some air. Sometimes the music gives me a headache.” 

“Yeah, these parties can be a bit much. But they’re definitely better than the shitty parties from Belvoire’s most finest.” 

“I’ve never been to a Belvoire party before.” 

Veronica exapgreentlying gasps, holding a hand to her chest, “who would’ve thought, Belvoire’s most hated has never been to a Belvoire party,” her voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Bea smirks but her eyes look lost in thought until she looks over at the ombre-haired girl, curiosity in her eyes, “so what happened with you and Zoey, I thought you guys liked each other?” 

Veronica clicks her tongue, her expression contemplating, “she just wasn’t what I wanted.” 

“Oh so there’s someone else?” Bea raises an eyebrow at Veronica who just whole-heartedly rolls her eyes in retort. 

“Maybe. But I don’t know if they want me like that.” 

“Why not? You’re a great girl. I’m sure you would make them very happy.” 

Veronica shakes her head slightly, throwing her head back to stare at the sky, “well, I don’t want to ruin what they already have, it seems” her brows knit together as she ponders what word to use, “solid.” 

“Well you’ll find someone I’m sure. I mean I’m grateful for Poppy, I don’t know where I would be without her.” 

“Yeah, she’s pretty great isn’t she?” 

“Yeah. She is.” Bea smiles, her eyes twinkling as she thinks about her girlfriend. She shakes out of daze and smiles back at Veronica, “thanks again for the bike helmet.” 

“It’s fine Bea. I know how much you love the thing. I just thought you should look cooler while riding it.” Veronica turns to Bea, her expression pondering, “Why do you love motorcycles so much?” 

“Wait.. have you never ridden on a motorcycle before?” Veronica shakes her head. “Oh my god, it’s the best feeling ever, the wind blowing in your face, the speed. It feels like freedom I guess.” 

“Huh. That’s nice I guess.” 

“You guess? No I won’t have that. Come on.” She grabs one of Veronica’s hands steering her towards her bike that’s parked outside the house. “We’re going for a ride now.” 

“Uhhh are you sober enough for that?” Veronica raises an eyebrow at Bea, “I don’t wanna end up on the news for being the influencer who died while riding on a motorcycle with someone under the influence of alcohol.” 

Bea lets out a guffaw, holding her stomach, “I barely drank anything tonight. Trust me, you’re in good hands.” Veronica gives Bea a nod of okay, “uhh wait, let me tell Poppy we’re going for a ride, I’ll be right back.” She leaves Veronica on the sidewalk making her way into the house in pursuit of her girlfriend. She finds the strawberry blonde in the middle of the dancefloor, dancing her heart out to the music, drunkenly singing along to the words. Bea comes from behind, pulling Poppy’s hips to hers, and leans down to whisper into her ear, “looks like you’re having a good time.” Poppy in response, reaches back, her hands entwining around Bea’s neck as she grinds against her hips. 

“I have to admit, even though I had a hand in this party, Zoey really outdid herself.” 

Bea twists Poppy around placing a kiss against her girlfriend’s lips, “i’m glad you’re having fun, you deserve it babe. Veronica is waiting outside for me though. She told me she’s never ridden on a motorcycle before so imma take her for a ride on my bike okay? I’ll be back.” 

“Okay.” 

Poppy slightly freezes when she sees AJ enter the room, Bea follows her gaze, a solemn look on her face, “he wants to talk to you by the way. I think he wants to apologise.” 

“Yeah I guess we should talk,” Poppy sobers up slightly as she releases Bea and stands a little taller, “I’ll catch you later okay, I still need to give you your present.” 

“Okay,” Bea smiles down at her girlfriend before planting a chaste kiss on her lips, “let me know how it goes between you.” 

Poppy nods and makes her way to AJ while Bea moves towards the front yard. When Poppy reaches AJ she gingerly taps him on the shoulder, AJ jumps from the sudden touch, spinning towards Poppy almost dropping his drink in the process. 

“Gah! Sorry Poppy.” He drinks the contents of his cup before placing it on the counter and looks at the strawberry blonde. “So I’m guessing you spoke to Bea huh?” 

“Yeah, we should go somewhere quieter and talk.” AJ follows Poppy out to the corner of the back yard, away from the rest of the partygoers. “So.” 

“So.” 

“I know Bea already spoke to you about the party and stuff but I guess I wanted to thank you.” 

“Thank me?” AJ says surprised. 

“Yeah. What you did was kinda dumb but your heart was in the right place.” AJ lets out a small laugh shaking his head slightly. “I’m just grateful you would protect me like that AJ.” 

“Of course I would Poppy. You’re Bea’s girlfriend. And even if you weren’t you needed help. I hate when guys think they can do whatever they want to girls without facing the consequences.” There was a depth to AJ’s words, like he wasn’t just talking about that one ordeal, Poppy contemplated asking but AJ is just as fickle as Bea if not more, his behaviour and moods are often unpredictable so Poppy made a mental note to speak to Bea about it later. 

“Well it was very brave of you AJ. I’m glad Bea has amazing friends like you.” 

“Well you’re my friend too Poppy, and you deserve to have someone other than Bea to have your back.” 

Poppy turns silent, absorbing AJ’s revelation, were any of her friends as diehard as Bea’s? Would they ever assist Poppy like how AJ did? Poppy begins wondering if her friends were truly her friends at all, as she looks over at AJ, the young sophomore goofily grinning back at her, and she can’t help but smile. AJ is family to her, how Bea is like an older sister to him means that Poppy is also a sister to him too, and family, look out for each other which is something she’s beginning to learn. She tugs AJ close to her, pulling him into a back-breaking hug as she sobs softly into his shoulder, “thank you AJ, for everything.” 

AJ is too stunned to reply, so his hold around Poppy just tightens as the two just bask in the warmth of the embrace, content that they can rely on each other. 

All the while, Bea takes Veronica out for a ride on her bike while wearing her new helmet which was graciously gifted by the ombre-haired girl herself. 

“It looks good on you.” 

“Thanks.” Bea swings her leg around the bike before settling on the seat, she nods her head towards Veronica, “so? Hop on.”

Veronica timidly ambles towards Bea’s bike and climbs behind the brunette as her legs brushes slightly against her hips. 

“Hold on tight okay? We don’t want you falling off.” Bea says looking back, a widespread grin on her face. Veronica moves closer to Bea on the bike, her hands coming around to grip Bea’s stomach, “just a little tighter V.” Veronica squeezes her arms around Bea’s waist, “perfect. You ready?” 

“Let’s go.” 

Bea takes off on the bike, slowly at first but when she feels Veronica’s fingers beginning to relax around her waist, she begins to speed up, the wind breezing against her helmet while Veronica’s hair freely moves against the wind. The streetlights begin blurring as Bea increases the speed, the motorcycle going almost 50 miles an hour, and Veronica closes her eyes, relishing in the freedom Bea promised she would feel. They circle around the block a couple of times until it comes to a stop and Bea takes off her helmet shaking out her curly hair. 

“Oh my god.” 

“So? How was it?” 

“It was fucking exhilirating. Holy fuck Bea. Maybe I should invest in a motorcycle.” 

Bea lets out a laugh, “you definitely should, see I told you it’s amazing.” 

“Yeah yeah you were right.” Veronica pulls out her phone and gasps, “shit Poppy texted like a hundred times, come on it’s time to cut your cake.” 

The girls make their way to Zoey’s kitchen where everyone stands in a circle, eagerly and a few impatient, waiting to cut the cake. 

“There she is!” Zoey screams as the rest of the party goers cheer and Poppy sidles to Bea’s side giving her a kiss on her cheek. Zoey lights the candles as the group of people break into singing happy birthday. Bea pauses before blowing out her candles, a fond look in her eyes as the candles are blown out and eventually the cake is distributed between everyone and Poppy and Bea settle on the couch with Veronica sitting next to Poppy while Zoey and AJ sit next to Bea all silently eating the cake. 

“So how was the ride?” Poppy asks. 

“Awesome. Veronica is now a motorcycle convert.” Bea jests and Veronica rolls her eyes slightly. 

“Hey, I never had anything against motorcycles okay? I’ve just never been on one until tonight. But it was honestly life changing.’ 

The three girls break into a fit of giggles until Poppy reaches over, intertwining her fingers of her non broken hand, with Bea’s whispering in her ear. “Well I think it’s time for your present.” Bea gleams at Poppy as she allows herself to be pulled away from the couch but not before looking back and giving Zoey a sly smirk hinting at the fact Zoey and Veronica are now sitting next to each other. 

Poppy pulls Bea into Zoey’s empty bedroom before pulling Bea into a long passionate kiss. 

“Is this my present?” Bea grabs Poppy’s hips, a mischievous glint in her eyes. 

“That’s for later babe,” Poppy indulges in Bea’s desires for a few moments, allowing herself to get lost in Bea’s kiss as their tongues tangle together, eliciting a few soft moans from the strawberry blonde. Poppy pushes Bea slightly back, and rests her forehead against Bea’s, “stop distracting me, I gotta give you your present.” 

Poppy brings out her phone and pulls out a picture of an empty apartment, showing the picture to Bea. Bea looks at the photo confused, raising a pointed eyebrow at her girlfriend. “Uhhh I don’t get it.” 

“This is our apartment in New York. I put an early deposit on the place so it’s officially ours.”

read part 8 here 

[modern-vellichor]

Withdrawal

Chapter One

Summary: Shes broken and bruised, and so are they. But at least she can't remember when shes sad; but god can they.

Warning: Substance abuse, alcohol, cigarettes, smoking, implied smut, self deprecation, self hate, destructive behaviour

Pairing: Steve x reader

"Trust me, Rogers", Tony sighs into Steve's ear as they push and shove through the crowd of stone-drunks and druggies.

"If you're finding her in a place like this, I don't think we should trust her", Steve states back.

Purple and blue light dances around them, and so do the nearly naked bodies of the 20-somethings surrounding them. The air reeked of sweat and cheap vodka, crushed pills and fine white powder dusted almost every surface, and smoke wafted all around them.

They really needed help. Something was coming, and they couldn't figure out how to stop it. Every day was the same: wake up, new theory, failed theory, repeat. Tony got so fed up that he decided to finally call on an old friend for help, except she didn't answer. She never called him back, or answered his texts, or his emails. And so he hunted her down, and now they were pushing their way through a sweaty and drugged up crowd of young adults in a sketchy bar.

Then they reached it, a doorway covered with a thin mesh curtain. A group of people, younger, all in their early twenties. A girl who was very clearly in charge sat in the middle of all of them, one hand gripped a cigarette loosely, it looked at home between her fingers, the other was latched around the back of a petite boys neck, small and blonde and so desperate to please her - to please you.

Your skin has a grey tinge to it, gaunt and daunting. Your eyes were dull and hazy, dark circles prominent. You looked ill, but you grinned nonetheless.

You brought the cigarette to your lips, inhaling with a small grin, unaware of the three men towering in the doorway, Bucky had joined them on the mission. They watched as the blonde boy passed a violently green pill to you, and you opened your mouth for him, sticking your tongue out, and playfully biting his finger before you swallowed the drug whole.

Tony coughed. He looked at home, and Bucky showed no emotion, but Steve was wildly uncomfortable, and apparently it showed.

You downed the last of the amber liquid in a glass on the small table, before gently shoving your boytoy away and standing up. You swayed for a moment before steadying and making your way to the group.

"You shouldn't have brought blondie over here, Stark. This isn't his scene, look at him", you scolded softly, the corners of Steve's mouth lifted slightly. You turned to him before speaking again, hazy eyes meeting his. "Let's go somewhere a little more quiet, yeah?"

The group nodded and you lead them through the crowd until you descended a staircase and made your way into a sleek looking room, and silence settled comfortably over the group. You discarded your cigarette along the way and so you made yourself comfortable on the leather chair behind the desk and lit another.

The three men got comfortable on a little leather couch. Tony sighed.

"How bad is it gonna be tomorrow?", he asked softly.

"Real bad", you chuckled dryly.

Steve wasn't so sure what Tony meant, but he was almost sure that he was talking about the aftermath of whatever you had taken. Bucky still stayed emotionless.

"How much have you had?", Tony asked again.

"Enough that if I have any more I think I might just die", again you laughed, you had an air of clear nonchalance about the whole situation. You seemed completely aware of everything, yet your pupils were dilating rapidly, and you were slurring your words, and swaying when you stood.

"So, Tony and the Golden Boys", you chided. "What do you want?"

"We need your help", Steve pleaded. You looked as if you would have argued relentlessly if Tony had asked the same, but your hazy eyes met his baby blues and you smiled.

"Tomorrow", you said, and Tony nodded.

"C'mon, Y/N, let's get you home, yeah?", you stamped out the cigarette and nodded, gladly falling into Steve's arms. The men carried you out of the bar and into the car they had come in, and took you back to the compound. Steve had let you stay in his room, tucking you into bed and sitting awake on the uncomfortable plastic desk chair he never used, just in case something happened in the night and he slept through it.

It was three in the morning when she began to shake lightly and broke out into cold sweats. Steve got a little nervous, but simply sat himself against the headboard and left you alone. After a half hour, you were shaking uncontrollably and drenched in sweat. Steve was trying desperately to calm you down, he had a cold face cloth over your forehead, and was running a hand through your hair and cooing softly. And when that didnt work, he scooped you into his arms and ran until he found Tony. The panic only really set in when Tony couldnt stop it either. Tony feigned calmness and dialed an unfamiliar number into his phone. Steve narrowed his eyes when the blonde boy from earlier waltzed in.

He surveyed the scene with mild interest before pulling a familiar orange bottle out of his pocket, he slipped one into your mouth and you swallowed instinctively. Less than twenty minutes passed before you had fallen back into a peaceful sleep.

"What's your name, kid?", Steve grunted as the boy turned to leave.

"Luca. Oh, by the way", he turned and threw the bottle at Steve. "These are for when she gets antsy"

"How do I know when to give her one?"

"Oh, you'll know", and with that he was gone.

When Steve woke the next morning, you and Tony had already started working in the conference room. Papers and Manila folders scattered across the table.

You worked in silence, the three of you together, until you found a lead, and the three of you gathered the necessary people and set off.

You drove in silence, dusk settling over the city. It was well near dark by the time Tony stopped outside of a sketchy looking club.

"You sure this is the place?", he said to you, surveying the building with care. Bucky was in the backseat next to Steve, and he watched you intently, Steve noted this.

You pulled out your phone, double checked something typed into your notes and nodded, getting out of the car.

You took one last look of the building before pulling off your sweater throwing it into the car. You unbuttoned your shirt and tied it up, pulling your sweatpants to your hip bones and smudging your mascara. Then you turned to Bucky with puppy dog eyes; "Bucky, can I borrow your jacket?"

He shrugged the heavy leather off without a second thought, throwing it gently around your shoulders.

"Why is it so important for you to look the part?", Steve asked, he came off more hostile than intended, thrown off by Bucky's gentle actions.

"Because if I look the part", you shook out your hair until it was messy and wild. "You don't have to"

You lit a cigarette and waltzed in like you owned the place, Bucky close behind, Tony and Steve keeping their distance. You were at home in the atmosphere, taking everything and anything offered to you as you pushed through the crowd, until you were shaking your head 'no', and leaning on Bucky for support. But still, you had a clear head and a mission, and made your way to the tall man with dark hair who dominated the back section of the club.

"Duke?", you asked sternly, he towered over you, but you crossed your arms and kept a straight face, Bucky looming behind your shoulder.

"Who's asking?", he shot back.

Steve watched from a distance as the two of you talked and eventually argued, and then followed you out of the club when you turned on your heel and stormed out. He was also the first to join you in your room after you had left for the evening.

He knocked gently, peeking around the corner and shuffling in. He sat at the edge of your bed, and when you patted the mattress next to you, had gotten comfortable against the headboard. You curled into his side. He hesitantly threw an arm around your shoulders and you only nuzzled further into him. You fell asleep like that, wrapped around each other.

Over the coming weeks you became dependant on him, and he worried about you. He worried when you came home drunk out of your mind or stoned to the edge of oblivion, but you always sobered up. It was the late nights that scared him, when you had already fallen asleep and begun to shake, and the only thing that seemed to stop it was the little green pills that he kept on him at all times.

He had been taught from the very beginning that addicts needed help, so slowly but surely he reduces your dose, crushing the pill and only giving you fractions of it. Until it was half, and you still seemed to be fine.

The weeks went on and your work piled up. You hardly ever left your desk, you and Tony working side by side, day through night. Steve spent his nights cold and alone and longing for you back in his bed. With your nights spent huddled up under dim lamp light, you hardly had any time to go out. You stole a few minutes for a cigarette on the roof every few hours, but that was all. Steve couldn't help but smile knowing how much better you were.

You looked constantly tired, but your smile was brighter and wider. Pictures of you and Tony lined the walls of your cramped little office.

Every few days you disappeared, saying your were checking up on your cramped little apartment. You always came back with a fresher air about you, happy and doe eyed. Steve longed to be invited on your little day trips to whatever life you hid from him. He didnt want to only be your night life, to be the only thing you could depend on when stash grew low. He dropped subtle hints here and there, little suggestions. He wondered if your house was anything like you. If its walls were bright and it was clean, or if it was unorganised and dark, curtains drawn permanently shut.

One day he found out. You couldnt find your car keys and asked Steve for a ride. He was more than eager to help, talking nonstop the short drive there. Your apartment was small, cramped. It was neat. Plants littered every surface, all alive and thriving.

"How are your plants still alive?", he pondered aloud.

"Luca waters them for me"

Steve sighed internally. Although Luca hardly ever came up in conversation, his existence plagued Steve. He couldnt get the image of how eager he was to please you, of how you held so much power over him. He didnt dare to imagine what the two of you had done previous to your introduction. He was lost in his self destructive train of thought the entire visit. When you grabbed his bicep and gave a reassuring squeeze, he was pulled back to reality and you returned to the compound.

You slipped into his room that evening. He could smell the hint of old whiskey and smoke on your breath, but he didnt mind. He drank you up, swallowing you whole. He crowded you into the mattress until you sang a song that was only for him. He was sweet and soft, but so distant once it ended. You could never forget, thighs rubbed raw from the scratch of his beard, lungs aching from lack of breath. But he simply rolled over and fell asleep. Some evenings, he would hold you close and tight and never let go, keep you tight there. Most, though, you had to curl against the broad expanse of your back and hope for some attention in return. And it never came on nights like this, but you tried anyway.

You were gone in the morning, as per usual, but he couldnt find you elsewhere. Not could he find Tony or Bucky, and that's when he realised that they had left without him.