#and my annoyance and anger over people being purposely ignorant is starting to boil over

[always-rolling-my-eyes]

Okay, maybe I missed it because I'm fairly oblivious to Swiftie news outside of you, but...

Ya'll know the jet guy has been paid off before to stop posting about people right? Mark Cuban paid him off at one point, and he stopped posting about him. He literally does it for money, so people saying he does it for some sort of public service can just fuck right off, because if Cuban paid him off surely others have.

Anyway, yes, absolutely she deserves some criticism for the amount of flights. Carbon offsets are also controversial on whether they do anything.

But jetboy isn't a hero.

Ohh trust me, we are aware. It’s everyone else who conveniently ignores that fact and likes to pretend he’s the patron saint of climate change and evil Taylor Swift is suing a poor, defenseless college kid because she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s single handedly destroying the environment 😤🙄

But today he proved by his own actions that he is actively stalking her so hopefully we won’t have to deal with him for much longer

And just for the record, I have no problem with people criticizing her, I have a problem with people continuing to criticize her based on information that has proven to be false and not actively criticizing any of the other 30+ celebrities who have proven to have worse carbon emissions than Taylor or any corporations for that matter

[nincompoopydoo]

“ what good is heaven, when all i want is hell “ with Loki Laufeyson x reader, enemies to lovers

IN ANOTHER TIMELINE

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x reader WORDS: 1.4k (my hand slipped) SUMMARY: Stranded on Lamentis, the event of the impending apocalypse seem to mend the fire and fury between you and Loki as deeper feelings begin to come to light. A/N: Starting a fic with the f-word is such a classy move 😎Also, why the hell do I keep writing stuff that's angsty? And I replaced the words heaven and hell to fit the situation and their backgrounds a little more, I hope you don't mind. Thank you for requesting, nonny! WARNINGS: Swearing. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERLIST

“Fuck you.”

The profanity spits from your mouth, reflecting the spitfire of your personality. You’re like a raging fire that licks through everything in its way with ravenous swipes. Your eyes are sharp, needle-point orbs that prick his own. He would have to turn away from the overwhelming sense of a sting you leave without a care of the world. No touch or a strike to him, yet you have managed to bruise him all over again. It boils down to the only reason he hates you with as much passion as you portray. Forever caught in a time loop with you with the neverending raking of fire—taking turns playing Victory and Bucentaure.

You turn your back against him, hair swinging as it nearly flicks the tip of his nose. Loki staggers in his step as he watches you trudge through the rocky grounds, hiking up the slope of the crater. Moondust seems to shimmer under the violet hues of the imminent apocalypse as it billows into the air like puffs of smoke with every step of your feet, grazing upon the sand. He trails behind you, scoffing in response.

“I beg your pardon?”

Your hair swings again, angered eyes meeting his own. “You heard what I said. Fuck you. Fuck you for pulling me with you into this space rock. Fuck you for destroying our only way out of this mess.” The ground rumbles as falling meteorites leaving fiery streaks in the sky above cast an illusionary halo around your head, hair frizz untameable as you look down on him like you are some saint, some martyr.

He remembers you from his childhood in Asgard. You were an immaculate being. You still are.

The back of his earlobe itches, like an emotion, buried so deep in his brain, wanting to be set free. He knows you are beautiful. He knows that there’s a chance you would be a martyr with your undying faith and loyalty to the Sacred Timeline. You would die in battle for it.

He knows there’s a place for you in Valhalla.

He hates how intelligent you are. How valiant and habitually good-natured in an unpretentious way—you cast a shadow onto him, presenting his ways as fraudulent and outright evil. He tries so hard to do right but you don’t even have to try.

He hates the way you speak to him as if you know him better than he does. He hates that beautiful soul of yours. He hates how the both of you fall into a natural state of bickering, spitting words of hurt. He doesn’t mean any of them but, he doesn’t know whether you do.

All Loki knows is deny and refute.

He pulls himself out of the crater, watching you walk away with fast strides, almost stomping out of frustration. “Correction. I did not pull you with me onto Lamentis. I didn’t even know where it was going to take us. You had a knife to my throat so, it’s your fault we’re stranded here.”

You ignore him. You seem to be walking aimlessly and away from him rather than with purpose and an intention of a destination. Loki quickly catches up with your pace, stepping in front of you and in your way.

“Are you going to ignore me?”

His question comes off as desperate rather than derogatory to his surprise. Perhaps, experiencing an apocalyptic event tends to affect the mind’s filter. Perhaps, it’s the moon dust. Perhaps, it’s the imminent deafening feeling that Loki might want to be honest for once and wanting to be honest with you.

You abruptly halt in your step as your foot collides with his, wincing as you heave a deep exhale out of frustration. “Would you piss off just for one second!” you spit through gritted teeth. With a flash of daggered eyes to his, you continue trudging through moon rocks, shouldering him as you pass by.

Presently, questions were the only thoughts that filled his mind and were the ones that left his scowled lips. Questions don’t provide answers. They avoid the truth that waits to be freed from the chaos of his brain.

Living up to his true nature of existing as the very embodiment of annoyance in your presence, the one word he questions seemed to have triggered the ticking time bomb in you, resetting it to a shorter countdown until the bomb goes off

“What?”

A simple word. But, the tone makes all the difference. Still, he continues to trail closely behind you. The closeness makes you tick.

You whip your head to him. “What don’t you understand from what I just said? Or would you like me to translate it to language that’s best suited to your magnificence and eliteness?” Your voice is loud as you near him in a threatening manner, waving your hands in the air like he’s some flying pest. “Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes, thy majesty!”

If it weren’t for the situation, he would have laughed at how dramatic you were being. Even in anger and hatred, sarcasm still plays an important role in your language and how you express yourself.

He lets you walk away this time but, you don’t stray too far. There’s a rock emerging from the sand, shaped like a slab. You find rest there, sitting by its edge as you watch the city begin to submerge in flames and destruction, accompanied by the screams of its citizens. Death is inevitable but cursed as it could be beautiful.

Moments pass, he watches the back of your still figure. He knows to give you time, to give you space. When ragged breaths have turned to slow ones, you become your true self.

Despite the long-lasting feud between the two of you, there’s a sense of hidden comfort when in each other’s presence. When two people are so often melancholy and lonely, it’s only natural for the two to want to fill the gap that’s been left open from before.

Odin knows you don’t hate each other but only acted as a disguise to the feeling of unrequited love and yearning that remains unknown to the both of you.

Loki finds himself drifting closer to you, lingering by the foot of the stone you sit on. Then, in silence, he watches you shift to the side discreetly, making space for him beside you.

This time, he doesn’t question. He only accepts.

Loki settles beside you, closer than he’d imagined. It’s strange when you’re not wanting to kill him.

Suddenly, your voice cuts through the silence, barely audible with the thunderous crashing of rocks that shower around you. “You know, if we do die here, you’re never going to make it to Valhalla.”

He’s quiet, pursing his lips in thought.

He knows there’s a place for you in Valhalla. Even if it isn’t in battle. You don’t deserve the underworld. The underworld doesn’t deserve you.

“Neither will you.”

You simply hum. “What good is Valhalla...when all I want is Hel?”

There’s a hint of humor in your tone and Loki finds himself staring at your cheek. You’re turned away from him but the despondency in your expression is clear under the bursts of meteorites across the sky as the fractured planet drifts closer to Lamentis.

“Do you really mean that?” You turn to him, brows furrowed. He continues, “Do you really want to go to Hel?”

You shake your head, gaze falling to the ground. “I know I belong there.”

The two fall into silence once more. It isn’t deafening but consoling to two beings attempting to hide the growing fear of the end.

Loki has died before but never this way.

Then, you gently nudge him with your elbow. “Maybe in another timeline, we would have gotten along.”

There’s a smile playing upon your lips. It’s small but it’s there.

Loki smiles at you, too.

“Or if we had more time.”

He takes your hand in his, fingers intertwined with your own. You shut your eyes, trying to memorize the warmth of his touch.

The ground beneath you rumbles once more.

You hold him just a little tighter, breath hitched as the two of you watch the planet descending onto the grounds of Lamentis-1 with the sun casting shadows against the purple hues of the sky.

At that moment in time, you’re just two beings in this universe, finally accepting their fate. Finally, accepting their love.

[blueburds]

A Cold Farewell

I originally wrote Fendithas and Altrethir in the World of Warcraft universe! They have a lot of history, but it seems as though their story is finally coming to an end. Altrethir’s path is clear and he has just a few loose ends to tie up before committing.

Word count: 2,350

Solitude.

One of the few places in which Fendithas could always find solace.

A place where he could hear his thoughts clearly. And he’d much to think about on this night; the cult the Militia had been battling since their arrival on Northrend was finally beginning to show weakness. He’d eliminated a particular Val’kyr who upheld a leader position, and the Militia claimed a satisfying victory.

But rest was needed; it wouldn’t be long before the cult struck again.

Their foes had yet to be spotted in Crystalsong Forest. And Fendithas knew that some individuals and creatures were turned away by the strong aura of magic the Forest possessed. Perhaps the raw arcane did little to benefit the undead magi.

He took to the Forest for his meditation sessions, a favored spot being among ancient Highborne ruins. Sometimes the best way to exercise the mind was to exercise the body; so he walked, allowing his thoughts to wander.

The arcanist thought of possible outcomes for the battles to come. He thought of every advantage they’d learned about their foes and reflected on the Militia’s own disadvantages. And his thoughts drifted toward his girlfriend and his son, feeling a small stir in his heart as he longed to see them again.

Time had flown, but it’d been well over a month since he last saw either of them.

It’d all be over soon, he’d tell himself.

A puff of air passed through his lips as he sighed softly. Fendithas approached the ledge of the stone foundation of a ruined building, placing a gloved hand upon a nearby pillar. His eyes flicked across the markings, taking in the detail. The cracks, the marks left from magical blasts and swords.

The blue dragonflight wasn’t kind to the Shen’dralar of Crystalsong.

He carefully stepped down and off the platform, continuing toward a different set of ruins further down the path. And he shuddered hard as a particularly harsh breeze swept past him. He clutched at his cloak, tugging it around his shoulders for extra warmth.  

Yes- it was getting rather late. And he probably shouldn’t have been out for as long as he had. But the ruins further down looked oh-so tempting to explore – he couldn’t just ignore them.

Just a little further.

And just a little further brought him into the neighboring set of ruins. Something in the back of his mind made its presence quite known; it reminded him that this could be the fate of Suramar someday, were the shal’dorei not cautious.

And it nearly was. For as much pride boiled within him, he’d admit that his people would have suffered even more if outsiders hadn’t helped. He could be grateful for that much, at the very least.

He continued on his way, feeling another sharp breeze course past him. He promptly brushed his white locks from his face and- heard something shift behind him.

Not rocks. Metal.

Fendithas turned and his eyes widened. He lurched away from the strike of a large runeblade.

A Knight of the Ebon Blade. Here? Alone? Had he been followed?

The imposing knight stood upright, the glow of his lichfire eyes visible through the gap in his helm. And they narrowed at the arcanist.

The knight gave no further hesitation. He rushed Fendithas, swinging his blade once more.

Close-quarters combat, especially in a one-on-one situation, wasn’t Fendithas’ strength. Whatsoever. He was at a severe disadvantage and he knew that.

With a quick cantrip, he conjured a sheet of frost and threw it to the knight’s feet, rooting him in place. As Fendithas teleported several meters back, the ice around his foe’s feet was just- gone. And that was only a bit concerning.

A different approach needed to be made. The arcanist began to pull from the school of fire – but he was running out of time to act. The knight flung his hand outward and several tendrils of shadow magic flew toward Fendithas.

He parried the tendrils with a flame barrier, shielding just his front, and the dark magic dispersed. And by the time the barrier fell, the knight was right up on him again. Fendithas raised his hand in an attempt to cast a fire blast- but the knight caught his wrist, squeezing with a painful amount of pressure.

The sheer strength his foe had. The arcanist let out a pained cry as he could feel the bones of his wrist threatening to be crushed. He panted through gritted teeth as the knight started to force him onto the ground.

Fendithas dropped his staff with his free hand and channeled a blast of fire through it, knocking back both men. He crashed into a stone pillar and the knight fell just atop the snow, quickly grabbing his blade. But Fendithas saw stars – he'd hit his skull pretty hard.

He stared to his foe, and he stared back for all but a moment.

The knight shifted his weight to the side, giving a taunting twirl of his blade and canted his head just slightly to the side. Cocky. Arrogant. Fendithas’ lips curled into a sneer of annoyance.

The knight grasped the hilt of his blade with both hands then charged forward. And Fendithas waited for just the right moment to teleport out of the way, right by his staff to quickly snatch it up. The knight whipped around and slashed toward the arcanist- but Fendithas blocked the blade with his staff.

His weapon had once been a sword itself, but the recycled materials could still withhold physical attacks.

Their skirmish carried on; Fendithas managed to cast a few harmful spells onto his foe, and the knight had almost struck a fatal blow upon the mage.

The knight dodged an oncoming firebolt and performed a feint, gaining the advantage for just the right amount of time. Shadowy tendrils flew from his palm again, wrapping and constricting the hands of the arcanist. And like heavy chains, they dragged him to the ground, forcing Fendithas onto his knees.

The second he began to cast a dispelling cantrip, the knight clapped a hand over his mouth.

“No,” the man finally spoke, his voice carrying an eerie undead echo. “No, that’s quite enough of that.”

Fendithas breathed hard through his nose, glaring up at the man. There wasn’t anything special about this knight; he shouldn’t have been beaten. The man looked just alike the others in the Ebon Blade; his tabard didn’t possess any special emblems, nor did his helmet have any special details that could have determined his rank.

But throughout their fight, it was as if the knight knew Fendithas’ techniques; he’d predicted more than just a few of his movements.

The knight removed his helmet and- of course. A familiar sense of dread created an empty pit in the arcanist’s stomach, his eyes wide beneath an angrily furrowed brow.

“I will explain everything in a moment, but,” Altrethir paused, a faint smirk finding his lips. “Right now, I’m taking the in the sight.”

Fendithas’ glare could slice metal.

“I wish you wouldn’t look so disgruntled,” Altrethir continued; “if I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead.” His lichfire eyes flicked up and he nodded to the sky. The broken, shattered sky that opened into the realm of death. “The world has bigger problems to deal with. You’re a reasonable man, surely you understand.”

And he did. Still, the blow to his pride was immense, and he wasn’t ready to just let his brother’s actions go.

Altrethir’s attitude shifted, his expression softening and becoming more somber. His gaze met his brother’s again. “I know I cannot bring back the lives I’ve taken. I’ll never be forgiven by the souls I’ve caused to suffer. I’ll never have a home in Suramar, nor in house Valran, again. But what I can do – and what I will do – is all that I can to protect our city. To protect our world.”

Fendithas squinted at him. What was he getting at?

“I’ve found my purpose, despite the... less-than-ideal circumstances. And perhaps, when my time comes and I’m judged for my actions in life and in undeath, my sins will pale in comparison to the good that I’ve accomplished.”

And finally, Altrethir removed his hand from the other man’s mouth. Fendithas clenched his jaw still, trying to push aside the temptation of casting a spell in retaliation. But as his brother looked to him expectedly, the arcanist huffed a sigh; “You will have to live a thousand years more to even remotely make up for what you’ve done.”

“If it comes to that, but I don’t think it will.” Altrethir waved his hand, removing the tendrils that bound Fendithas’ wrists. “I’ve also come to say goodbye. Properly.”

The arcanist lofted a brow as he stood, collecting his staff.

“The Knights of the Ebon Blade march into the realm of the dead. By Bolvar’s lead, we will fix what the former Warchief of the Horde has broken.”

“And you will follow,” Fendithas muttered understandingly.

“I will. I am. I leave tonight.” Altrethir sheathed his blade upon his back, keeping his helm tucked under his arm. “Believe that I want to right my wrongs. Do not follow me – if for no other reason than to stay with those you love. And be fortunate that you still have your life to hold onto.”

Fendithas felt another stir in his heart. Guilt? Perhaps. Guilt for taking what his brother had; guilt for being the reason he’d become Felborne to begin with; guilt for killing him, only for him to be raised into undeath.

And that guilt stung.

Fendithas absent-mindedly gripped his staff tighter, struggling to meet his brother’s gaze.

“I don’t know what I’ll find in there. I haven’t the slightest idea what to expect,” Altrethir admitted. “But if I find mother and father, I’ll tell them of the honorable, noble man you’ve become.”

Another pang of guilt hit his heart. Fendithas exhaled a shaky breath, watching the cold puff of air leave his lips. There were a million things he wanted to say, a million thoughts that raced through his mind. Anger clouded some, but others were still clear. “Do not lie to them. Do not tell them anything that wouldn’t be on my own list of sins.”

“They’ll receive only the truth from me,” Altrethir said. He took a couple of steps closer, reaching into a pouch on his belt to retrieve something. The knight held out his hand, presenting a small, purple shard of a crystal. “You missed a piece when reforging Runebreaker.”

Fendithas looked to the shard, then to his brother. He was hesitant, but he didn’t detect any magical aura from it. Though, it would have been difficult to tell, given how strong Altrethir’s own undead aura was. But he took it, turning it gingerly with his fingers. “I suppose I did.”

“I’m... I’m sorry for breaking it, by the way.”

“You were not yourself.”

“But it was still my hand that shattered it. And I won’t use excuses to pardon my actions.” Altrethir stepped back again, giving the arcanist his space.

“You don’t plan to return to Azeroth.” Fendithas said.

Altrethir bit the inside of his cheek. Had it been so obvious? He thought he was being quite subtle of his intentions. “No. No, I do not.”

Fendithas nodded and swallowed dryly.

“If what Bolvar says is true, then I will have my work cut out for me in the Shadowlands. And perhaps after all is said and done...” Altrethir trailed off, giving a half-hearted shrug.

“I understand,” Fendithas said.

And he did. By all accounts, Altrethir should be dead. He should still be resting peacefully in his grave in Suramar, but he’d been snatched and dragged into undeath. Unfairly, against his will. Even if things eventually worked in Altrethir’s favor, he knew this wasn’t right.

A large part of him was relieved that he wouldn’t have to slay his brother for a third time.

“Then I take my leave; I should not spend any more time here.” Altrethir slowly turned on his boot and started down the path that led away from the other man.

“Altrethir.”

The knight’s ears perked as Fendithas called for him. His head turned but the rest of his body didn’t follow suit yet. The arcanist hesitantly approached; Altrethir could tell he felt awkward. Uncomfortable, even. He couldn’t blame him. On top of the events that occurred within the past three years, undead magical auras were foul to someone like Fendithas-.

But the arcanist presented the purple shard.

“I’ve got just enough to remember you by. Take it.”

“You’re certain?”

Fendithas nodded.

Altrethir took the shard back, promptly tucking it back into the pouch. A beat of silence passed; they found each other difficult to read. Fendithas’ ever-present frown was... well, present. And Altrethir’s marred features weren’t so easy to interpret.

Fendithas took another step forward and wrapped his arms around his brother in an embrace, and Altrethir tentatively returned the gesture. 

The arcanist’s heart pounded loudly in his ears; the friend he thought he’d lost finally returned, only to leave again. For good, this time.

He could feel a knot in his throat and tears threatening to spill, but he squeezed his eyes shut to prevent himself from crying.

It would never have come to this had the circumstances been different years ago.

Had Altrethir not been seduced by the fel; had Fendithas spoke his feelings sooner rather than abandon his brother for the Rebellion; had their communication been better, neither of them would have their hearts broken now.

They pulled away simultaneously- and Fendithas bit the inside of his cheek, still fighting tears. All his emotional baggage suddenly came crashing down onto him, overwhelming him.

“Bring honor to our family name again. Rebuild House Valran,” Altrethir said.

“I will,” Fendithas replied.

Altrethir dipped his head in a small bow, “Then may the stars ever guide your path, Fendithas.” He turned and put on his helmet, starting back down the path.

“May the stars guide your path, Altrethir. I love you.”

[just-me-writting]

A Needle is a Prophet even if they don’t wish to be.

I guess we are diving into Needle psyche a bit today. Our starring role will explain their hate towards another vessel (which did nothing wrong). 

Marquis and Nix will have his starring role in the next chapter! I promise! However, for this chapter, we meet one of Needles dead siblings. 

I hope you guys liked it!

Nix, Nox, and Nok belong to @dajermce

Marquis belongs to @ivoirecrasfali

Silk belongs to @silkvessel

This AU, in general, belongs to @sothequeensays

The trip with the Tram was far shorter than Needle expected it to be. Maybe it was the fact that they spent most of the ride in their own head...ignoring everything around them. They should really stop that.

"So, from here it's only down and right...and down again. Like really down. The  Abyss really far down."

"Yes, we understand that, Nox. Just show us the way." Marquis sighed annoyed and Needle swore they could hear some endearment in that sigh as well.

"Alright, this way!" Nox started to lead the way and everybody followed. It felt weird to Needle. Suddenly it hit them. How would they distract their siblings? They hadn't thought that far! For Mother's sake, they didn't think they would get that far! Well Okay, that's a blatant lie. They, however, did not expect more than just one sibling to lead them to the Abyss.

They probably should think about a plan but the Shadows weren't screaming so fucking loud. Why were they always so loud!

"Are you okay, Needle?" A whispering voice rang through all the screaming Shadows. It made Needle almost jump out of their own shell as their head turned rapidly towards the source of the voice as they are met with Noks void filled eyes staring back at Needle with concern. "You were holding your head like it was hurting. So I just thought...well that you were hurting, you know...."

As Nok was rambling Needle tried their best to comprehend what was going on. It took them a few seconds to realize what the concern was. It also took them a few more seconds to realize that they have stopped walking and that the group was staring at them.

"Ah...yeah, I...I just don't like loud noises..."  their voice was weak but loud enough for everyone to hear. There was a moment of silence from the group before Marquis decided to speak up. "There are no loud noises."

Needle just let out an awkward chuckle before looking down once again. "Yeah...can we just move forward? Just ignore this please..."

Another moment of silence before they started to move again. It brought Needle a feeling of delight when they didn't ask.

The whole way to the Abyss they did not speak other than a few questions from Marquis. To Needles annoyance, they did have to climb a bit but they soon arrived at the entrance of the Abyss, which from above has not changed much. Well...as much Needle could see it was still a dark, loud hell that they actually didn't wish to return to.

At least the way down was still the same as their...dream? Still, Needle decided to follow the lead of the trio. Maybe they could fall behind and wander off. That's at least what they planned to do with Marquis. Who once they arrived to the bottom actually did wander off, with only Nox following behind...well now was just to get rid of the other two...man they did sound like an absolute bastard talking like that about their siblings They ignored the majority of their stay in the garden and didn't even bother to remember but what has to be done will be done.

Looking around for a way to lose the two Needle found this place to be rather...skullless. Not that they didn't appreciate that they weren't exactly fond of the idea of walking in their dead sibling's corpses. However, the graves were still very unnerving. Where did they come from?

"We made them." A whisper said as it made Needle realize that they had asked that question out loud. "We come here occasionally to explore and help out the Shades" Shadows  "if they need it."

This took Needle by surprise. They knew of other vessels that could hear these Shadows but they actually haven't actually talked to them at all...well they tried once. With one vessel in particular but it didn't end well. Not that the other would know. Needle actually did talk to them, they tried, but...the moment they saw them surrounded by these Shadows...Shadows that didn't scream, that didn't curse, that didn't...reject them...it made Needle feel these feelings. Feelings that boiled inside of them for as long as they could remember. Rage and envy. Envy at the fact that this vessel had been accepted by the things that rejected them for no reason. As for rage, it was simply the fact this could have been them. The vessel may not have looked happy with its role but in farsight, their fate would have been much tamer than that of Needles (They did not wish to remember their fate), which made them angry to no end. The vessel who carried the name of Silk, a name they both shared at that point in their very young lives and which Needle decided to change afterward, made Needle realize something. Something they did not wish to think about. Not then, not now and not in the near future.

"So, did the Shadows-"

"Shades" Nix interrupted Needle to correct them. "Whatever. Did the Shades ask you to bury their bodies?" The mocking tone in their voice made Nix clearly unhappy but before she could say anything Nok interrupted her. "Some did, others we just buried because they are, you know our siblings." He turned to a grave and so did Nix, seemingly having suddenly forgotten about Needles little sass just a minute ago. As Nok continued to ramble about the graves and for once Needle was actually listening, there was a sudden whisper. "Listen, Prophet. Be quiet and don't say a word." The whisper made Needle realize how quiet it was. When did the Shadows stop screaming? Ans this voice was clearly not Nix. No, Nix would not address them in such a way. Dear beloved Mother, nobody had addressed them as Prophet for almost as long as they have been outside of the Abyss. This was clearly a Shadow.

Anger. They could feel it, all the hate that they harbored for so long. It almost wanted to turn and find the voice only to scream at them. They did not care if their voice did not allow, they would break it if it was necessary.

But yet...they did not do such a thing. They stayed quiet. Like the Shadow has requested. "Prophet, I am the Guide. This is my title as I have no name, so you will address me as such. I am here to guide you to your prophecy. Today the Void called, our Lord called and you came. So please move slowly and follow my voice."

As soon as the words were spoken the Prophet did as such. Needle hated themselves for following orders from the Guide. They were a Shadow, they were below them and yet from the deepest hole in their own mind, the place of memories denied for so long, they knew they could not resist the words of their very own Sibling. Their clutch mate. They did not wish to acknowledge it. They wish to deny it. But they could not in the end. The memories always flooded back.

As soon as Needle was sure that they were far enough away from their siblings they turned around and found themselves face to face with a Shadow. One that looked so similar to the vessel in their dream (or was it a calling?) that they were certain that it was the same being. Still, the urge to scream arose again and still, Needle did not.

"Very well Prophet. You have heard your calling. The Lord and the Void have called you and as I see you met the Maskmaker." The Shadow said as it turned back around to look into the deep darkness of the Abyss and started floating in a certain direction. Needle followed. Not like they had much of a choice now. They already came here and the Guide would bring them to their destination.

"You know I have a name."

"Names are mere titles with no fate attached. I will not address you with a fateless title if have a fate laid out in front of you. You have a title." Needle sometimes wished they didn't. It felt like a wave of memories were suddenly flowing over them. Drowning them in their own despair. The knowledge of their very own life, from beginning to the end was laid in front of them. The path that only brought pain into their life. They had once tried to wander off this path but it only leads to them being hurt. It made them realize how much, outside of their purpose, they were replaceable. They were so often overlooked and ignored. Maybe it was because of their hight or maybe it was because of their knowledge people tended to either not see them or just ignore them. So the decision to find somebody alike. Somebody like Silk. They had hoped they would find closure, that they weren't alone in all this. Yes, They had Mio and Fior but they just took them in out of pity. Needle was sure of that. But Silk was somebody like them and then they saw the Shadows, the Shades, their dead siblings. They were so gentle with them. Whispering. It hurt. It hurt to see that even in their own prophecy...they were replaceable. And suddenly everything broke. They did not wish to speak, they did not wish to even acknowledge such emotions. They rejected them like their very own clutch mates did once Needle hatched. They denied them and buried those feelings face inside whole inside their very own mind. And now. Now they shall behold their very own fate. They could not escape their prophecy. They knew from the beginning, that happiness on this path would not be reachable and yet they had hope that maybe...maybe for once they would not be replaced. Maybe that's why they came. To reassure that nobody else did. To make sure that they were the one that the Lord has called.

Torn out of their thoughts by the sudden halt of the Guide. In front of them was the lake of void. It's shores radiated with power. "Do you know how to call upon the Lord of Shades?" Needle shook their head. They did not know that...even with their knowledge of the life that they would live, they did not know how to call upon their Lord that they would serve. It was fucking pathetic...

"I thought so. Then I shall teach you. Close your mind to anything else other than the Void. Not the voice of the siblings nor on your emotions." That was easier said than done but Needle still tried. It felt like they were returning in their own head but instead of their own voice, they could hear whispers. The prophet could not understand them. "This is the shore. Push past it and you will call upon the Lord, trapped inside its very own." The voice of the Guide was clear as day like their title suggested they were guiding them through the steps of summoning.

Needle, After countless tries finally pushed past the shores and suddenly they mind felt like they were falling. "Put on the mask. You shall not face our Lord with your eyes. Only through the mask, you shall speak to them. At least for now." Needle nodded and even to their mind was falling, they turned their mask to cover their face.

Shortly after that, a voice rang through them and their mind no longer was falling. "Finally..."

Slowly the shore rippled. Multiple gigantic arms rose from below, pushing up an even more gigantic body. Those eyes. Those eight eyes. This was the creature that has called upon them. This was their Lord.

The being lowered its head to stare at Needle. Its white eyes were glowing yet Needle could not read their Lords emotions. Did it even have any?

"You came, my prophet. I believe you know why came. It is finally time. Time to pressure our goal." Its booming voice shook Needles body to their void core. "Find beings willing to worship the Void. Find beings willing to sacrifice their life for the freedom of the void. It will be a long task but we shall be patient."

Slowly their Lord halted one of its hands in front of Needle. One of its fingers stretched forward. On its finger laid something. It was black as the Void itself and carved with the pictures of two Shado- Shades! Shades. They were Shades and the thing was a charm.

Slowly Needle took it from the Lords' finger and immediately found themselves filled with confidence. They felt like they could talk to anybody. It felt...new. They never felt like this before and it felt nice. Needle quickly equipped the charm upon them.

"This charm shall help you on your task. It will persuade the strong-willed and manipulate the weaker." The Lord of Shades drew back its hand. "I hope that I have not been mistaken in my faith in you." After these words, they once again returned to the void. Weakened by its presence outside of it.

Needle mind was slowly being filled by it's surrounding again. Still, the words of their Lord still rang in their head. It determined them. They will not be overlooked. They will most definitely not be replaced.

Suddenly, there was screaming. The Shado-Shades. They were screaming. Why were they screaming? They clearly weren't screaming at them. It was a mess of words screeched by those that were long dead, whoever there was one sentence that Needle seemed to understand perfectly.

"He is coming!" A warning. Needle looked alarmed at the Guide who did not look any less worried as they were. "Who is coming?" Needle decided to ask. Slowly her met theirs and she whispered but sounded more like a terrified gasp.

"The Wyrm."

[soulofevil]

“Are you telling me I have an obsession with pumpkins?”

Inspired by the prompt and @typosandteabags question about Daisy’s ability to carve pumpkins with her powers. Some more fall/halloween Quakerider fluff.

Read on AO3

“Are you telling me I have an obsession with pumpkins?”

Instead of answering the question, Robbie paused as he put the sixth pumpkin into the trunk of his car and eyed Daisy over. Maybe if he didn’t know she was wearing socks decorated with bats and pumpkins, or that under her orange sweater with the jack-o-lantern face was a t-shirt with a pumpkin pi joke on it, or that in the car was her pumpkin spice frappuccino, or that back home they already had two pumpkins for carving…

Maybe if Robbie was a passing stranger and not Daisy’s boyfriend he wouldn’t have picked up on her current pumpkin obsession.

But he was her boyfriend which also came with knowing it was better to just let Daisy have all the pumpkin crap she wanted while she could.

“What? Noooo, never. How could I ever think you might be obsessed with pumpkins?”

So long as he could tease Daisy for the pumpkins, Robbie was happy to let her have them. His trash would be full of mushy pumpkins the day after Halloween, and he was bound to get stuck wearing orange (but not on that upcoming Sunday when his beloved Raiders played the stupid Denver Donkeys) but those were easy to deal with in the face of Daisy’s excitement and love for all of it.

Shutting the lid of the trunk, Robbie ignored Daisy’s eye roll and draped an arm around her shoulders as he guided her towards the passenger side door of the Charger.

“Love what you love cariña. But I’m not buying any more pumpkins. And you had better be taking some of these to the base, there isn’t enough space for all of them at my place.”

He opened the door for Daisy, letting her get in the car before shutting it and walking to the driver’s side. Daisy waited until he was behind the wheel and starting up the car to make her reply.

“Don’t worry, you’re not actually going to have eight pumpkins sitting around your house. I wanted to try something out but I know I’m going to ruin a pumpkin or two before getting it right.”

Robbie was too busy watching out for people in the parking lot to see the way Daisy fidgeted in her seat. If he had, he would have known that his innocent thoughts of Daisy wanting to get the perfecting carving on her pumpkin were wrong.

Instead, it was three hours later when something exploded outside of his home that Robbie learned what Daisy had really meant.

Flashbacks to a drive by and Molotov cocktails filled Robbie’s vision as he grabbed the chain by the front door and rushed outside. His eyes burned amber and the heat in his bones threatened to boil over into the Rider’s rage as Robbie looked for whoever was attacking them. No one was on the street but Daisy stood out in the yard, looking frozen in place. Fear that something had happened to Daisy quenched his anger and Robbie ran over to her.

If someone had hurt Daisy the Rider and him would burn this forsaken city to the ground…

Spinning her around, Robbie’s fear was replaced by annoyance and exhaustion at the rapid change of his emotions. Daisy looked a bit stunned, strings of orange pumpkin guts and seeds covering the front half of her. She looked surprised to see Robbie there, then cringed as she noticed the chain in his hands.

“SHIT, I DIDN’T THINK IT WAS GOING TO BE THAT LOUD.”

Daisy didn’t seem to realize she was yelling and Robbie looked around the yard noticing the splattering of orange pumpkin mush on the gravel and the way it radiated out.

“I’M SO SORRY ROBBIE, I WOULD HAVE-”

He silenced Daisy with a kiss, pulling her close and ignoring the wet, sticky pulp that covered her and was going to stick to him. The need to feel Daisy and reassure himself was worth the extra laundry. Daisy rested her head on the left side of his chest, certainly able to feel the staccato beat of his heart and waiting until it had slowed before looking up at him.

“Sorry again. I expected the mess but really didn’t think it was actually going to explode like that.”

Daisy was still speaking loudly but at least she wasn’t yelling. Robbie let go of her and Daisy moved to stand at his side, keeping one of his arms around her.

“Aside from trying to scare me to death, what are you doing?”

Obviously something with her powers and the pumpkins, Robbie could put that much together.

“I uh, wanted to see if I could carve a pumpkin. With vibrations.”

Daisy dipped her head and Robbie picked a gob of stringy guts out of her hair. He had to shake his hand rapidly to finally get the stuff off, electing a giggle from Daisy.

“You need some work on the craving part of that plan. But if I ever need pumpkin purée I know where to go.”

“Well, I was trying to liquefy the insides of the pumpkin. If you didn’t have to reach in and pull out the guts maybe you wouldn’t be such a baby about making Jack-o-lanterns.”

Daisy gave Robbie a nudge, knowing how much he hated cleaning out pumpkins.

“But surprise! Pumpkin guts and the whole pumpkin vibrate at about the same frequency and everything got liquefied. Which I kind of expected and why I was doing this outside.”

Looking around the yard Robbie was thankful that Daisy had had that much foresight, he would have been angry about this kind of mess inside. Not that he appreciated the mess being outside either. Or the noise that came with it. Drivebys and gang violence had gone down in the neighborhood thanks to Robbie, but the street was still empty of all people. He could spot the flicker of window curtains as people started to see if it was safe yet.

“Come on, back inside. You need to clean up and we got to find a better place for you to do this…”

Once dinner had been eaten and the dishes cleaned, Robbie picked out the best two pumpkins for carving and put the other five back in his car. He started tossing some more things in his car; a bag with some extra clothes for each of them, a couple of blankets, and a thermos filled with cocoa. Robbie didn’t answer any of Daisy’s questions, just telling her to wait and see.

With everything he could think of in the car, Robbie hustled Daisy out and the pair took off. He drove west towards the ocean and once Daisy accepted that no amount of questions would get Robbie to talk before he was ready, she lapsed into comfortable silence and watched the sun as it sank towards the ocean.

Robbie finally parked the Charger at a stretch of beach that never made the scenic tourist shots. The sand was a little too rocky and the waves a little too rough for most people to stop here. Daisy could see the remains of bonfires and could easily picture this spot as a perfect place for rowdy kids to hang out and party for a night and glanced over at Robbie.

“What are we even doing here? Not that I don’t mind a night alone with you, but we could be having a Netflix and chill night back at your place.”

Daisy suggestively raised her eyebrows and Robbie let out a snort before getting out of the car.

“Bullshit. We’d watch Hocus Pocus again and you’ve already said there’s no hanky-panky during that.”

Robbie popped the trunk open and started pulling the pumpkins out as Daisy joined him. He handed the pumpkin in hand to her and stole a kiss while she playfully scowled at him.

“You wanted to mess around with pumpkins and your powers, now you can do it without scaring the neighborhood or covering my yard in questionable gunk.”

“And what are you going to do?”

Daisy hugged the pumpkin to her chest and Robbie could already see how she wanted to protest doing this, like the chance to sit and do nothing for once was some kind of torture for Robbie. He turned Daisy towards the open beach.

“Hopefully get a good video of you blowing a pumpkin up on yourself. Maybe start a fire on purpose. If nothing else I’ll have a great view to enjoy.”

He gave Daisy’s ass a smack, as much as he loved a nice sunset over the ocean, his girlfriend’s butt was pretty amazing. Daisy knew that too and added an exaggerated sway to her hips as she walked far enough away down the beach that he wouldn’t get hit by the inevitable rain of pumpkin guts.

While Daisy did her thing with the pumpkins, Robbie cleaned some of the sand away from the bonfire pit before coxing the Rider to not be a killjoy. He relit the bones of the last bonfire with hellfire before grabbing one of the blankets from the car and spreading it on the ground to sit on while he relaxed and watched Daisy.

The sun sank below the horizon, illuminating the remains of the three pumpkins that had met their end before Daisy gave up and plopped down on the blanket with him. Robbie wiped a smudge of orange off her face before handing the thermos of cocoa over to her. She accepted it and curled up against him as she took a drink.

“It’s too dark to do anything else with the pumpkins.”

Robbie ran a hand through Daisy’s hair, picking a seed out of it and glancing back at the two pumpkins they had left.

“You actually having any luck at trying to carve them?”

“No, the vibrations spread out the farther they are from me so it just keeps making them burst. Maybe if I was touching it, but then it would just explode even closer to me. And I don’t think I have enough delicate control to pull it off just yet…

Robbie nodded along to what Daisy was saying, knowing it was mostly just her thinking out loud. She didn’t talk a lot about the specifics of her powers with him, he wasn’t one of the science twins who got the technical aspects of her powers nor could he relate to the excitement of exploring her abilities.

At least not most of the time.

“So what you’re saying is you’re going to leave me with two more pumpkins to do something with.”

“Yes Robbie, you poor thing. You’re going to have to suck it up and carve a pumpkin or two yourself.”

Daisy lightly elbowed him in the ribs and Robbie retaliated by tickling her until she threatened to dump the cocoa on him. He pulled Daisy into his lap, nuzzling at her neck and leaving gentle kisses as she caught her breath from the laughter.

“Screw that, I already told you and Gabe that I’m not putting my hands in pumpkins this year.”

Robbie wrapped his arms around Daisy before standing up and taking her with him. She shrieked in his grasp, struggling to break free before giving up and going limp as if carrying her dead weight around would deter him.

“So overdramatic.”

Robbie grumbled as he set Daisy down on the hood of his car. She couldn’t even muster up a fake look of annoyance over the smile she was wearing. Robbie leaned down, resting his forehead against Daisy’s as he took a moment to enjoy her happiness before he felt her hands on his face. Her fingers were light as they traced around his mouth and Robbie realized he must have had a similar smile to Daisy’s on his own face.

“For hating pumpkins so much you sure seem to be enjoying yourself, Reyes.”

She leaned up and kissed him, the taste of chocolate making her even sweeter under his lips. It was hard not to turn this into a teenage makeout session and Robbie gave Daisy’s low lip a nip as he pulled back and picked up one of the remaining pumpkins. Daisy raised an eyebrow at him and the pumpkin.

“I know I said I’m willing to try a lot of things but I’m going to have to hard pass on whatever kinky shit you want to do with that.”

Robbie scowled and Daisy grinned, first at Robbie then at the pumpkin as hellfire flames came to life over its orange skin.

“That’s not- why would I- No. Just. No.”

Daisy covered her mouth to muffle her giggles over Robbie getting flustered.

“Alright, alright, you don’t want to fuck a pumpkin. What do you want to do with it.”

The flames on the pumpkin grew brighter and Robbie bounced it in his hand.

“Well I was going to see if you wanted to blow up a flaming pumpkin but now I don’t know.”

Daisy was suddenly pressed against his side, her head resting on Robbie’s shoulder as she batted her eyes at him. Maybe he could have resisted that but not the fingers that started to stroke the back of his neck, threading into the hair at the base of his skull. Robbie couldn’t help but lean into the familiar and soothing gesture.

“Robbie?”

“Hmm?”

“You wanna light some pumpkins on fire and blow them into little chunks over the ocean?”

He looked over at her, the flickering flames illuminating Daisy’s devilish grin.

“Ok.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before sliding off the Charger and Robbie grabbed the second pumpkin before walking closer to the water.

“How far away can you vibrate a pumpkin to death?”

“Don’t know, how far can you throw one?”

“Don’t know.”

The pair looked over at each other, barely contained childish joy bubbling just under the surface at the prospect of senseless destruction. It wasn’t often either of them could just play and have fun when they both carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Robbie eyed the pumpkin in his hand, eyes going amber as he poured more hellfire into it before pulling his arm back. He looked to Daisy, waiting until she gave him a nod before putting that super strength to use and flinging the pumpkin out over the ocean. Daisy let out a whistle as they watched how far out it went, waiting until the pumpkin has reached the peak of its arch and started to fall back to earth. While he could feel the rattle of her powers in his bones, it took longer for those vibrations to reach their target. The small ball of fire exploded into smaller chunks of fire and without even looking at each other, Robbie and Daisy high fived as the burning bits of pumpkin hit the waves and bobbed on the surface continuing to burn.

Daisy was already picking up the other pumpkin and shoving it into Robbie’s hands.

“Not so far this time. Oh! Throw it higher instead of farther.”

She was already rubbing her hands together in anticipation and Robbie couldn’t help but chuckle at Daisy and her bossiness. He charged the pumpkin up good before throwing it upward.

“Jez Robbie, I said don’t throw it out as far.”

Daisy nudged him as it became clear the pumpkin was barely going to arch out over the water.

“What do you think I am, some kind of football player?”

“Mm yes, once in a dream.”

Daisy paused and Robbie wasn’t sure if it was because she was aiming or reminiscing.

“Soccer player though. Part time secret agent. You took off your shirt a lot. Definitely a top five dream.”

The pumpkin finally started to fall and Daisy took her shot. The pumpkin exploded in a burst of fire and glowing embers that could have been mistaken for a firework. The larger chunks of the shell burned brightly as fell into the ocean while the seeds and stringy bits were a glowing mist drifting down more slowly. For a little while, a patch of the ocean glowed with hellfire and Robbie and Daisy leaned into one another as they watched the hellfire slowly burn out.

Even when the iridescent glow of hellfire had been swallowed by the ocean, the couple continued to stand there, arms looped around one another with neither ready to break the moment just yet.

[marril96]

My Baby Ran Me Down

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Rowena has made it her mission to teach reader how to drive. Her efforts get her hit by a car.

Editor: @oswinthestrange

It doesn't happen every day that you hit your girlfriend with a car. 

In your defense, you told her – multiple times – that this was a terrible idea. Rowena ignored you, insisting that it was time for you to learn how to drive. 

And who better to teach you than a nearly four hundred-year old witch? 

It took exactly two hours for both of you to lose your temper and start a screaming match – you out of fear of crashing the car, and Rowena out of sheer frustration at your reluctance. 

One thing led to another and, with a huff, she was out of the car, slamming the door and pacing to calm her thoughts. Having had enough of her rushing you, and wanting to prove her that you could, in fact, do this, you slammed your foot down on the pedal. 

All you could remember next was a scream. 

Rushing out, your blood ran cold, chills of dread cascading down your spine. Rowena was on the ground, panting and groaning in pain. You quickly looked her over and let out a sigh of relief to see no blood or any evidence of a worse injury. 

And then your eyes settled on her leg and for a moment you could feel the lunch you'd eaten five hours earlier at the back of your throat, threatening to spill out. 

Bones weren't supposed to protrude in that angle. And the skin around them wasn't supposed to be that color. 

Waiting for the ambulance was hell. Rowena's pained screams sounded as if they came straight from nightmares. She was clutching her leg, face twisted in a grimace, her eyes looking from her injury, to the car, and, finally, to you. 

On the plus side, she wasn't yelling at you anymore. Her glare, though, told you that she wanted to. Once her pain was dealt with, you had no doubt she would have a go at you. 

At the very least, you would learn a few more Scottish insults and curse words. 

It's important always to look on the bright side. 

It wasn't easy to explain to the doctors that you hit your own girlfriend with a car, and that the reason she would make pterodactyl noises every time you'd come close to her wasn't that she was afraid of you (as a matter of fact, it was exactly the opposite), but rather that she wanted to rip your internal organs out and use them as jewelry. Luckily, you managed to convince them it was an accident (and not attempted murder, as the noises Rowena made initially led everyone to believe) and persuade them not to call the police. 

Rowena's injury was swiftly taken care of, and a few hours later you were home. 

Thanks to the painkillers the doctors stuffed her with, she stopped being noisy. 

But just because she wasn't in pain anymore didn't mean she couldn't make other kinds of noises. 

She settled for yelling. 

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?!" she exclaimed, wildly throwing her arms around. 

"I'm sorry!" you said, avoiding her glance. Face and arm bruised and scraped, leg wrapped in a cast, she looked the picture of vulnerability. It was almost unnatural to see her so wounded. You'd seen her in pain before, but never before had her movements been restricted in such a manner. 

"What, pray tell, are you sorry for? Being purposely obtuse? Not listening to my instructions? Hitting me with a bloody car?!" 

Rowena's accent grew thicker with each word. Any other time you would have found it a turn on, but now, all you wanted to do was curl up on the flood and die. Maybe then she wouldn't be so angry at you. 

"I-I w-wanted to…" you stuttered, leaving your sentence hanging. I wanted to show you I could do it. I wanted to impress you. I wanted you to stop yelling at me. I wanted you to tell me I did good. 

"You wanted what?" She huffed in annoyance. "What the bloody hell was the matter with you? You could have killed me!" 

"Y-you w-would've come back," you said in a small voice. 

"That's not the point! Do you have any idea what it's like to be hit by a car?! A hint, dear – it hurts!" 

"It's not like I did it on purpose!" you argued, tears burning at your eyes. 

"You weren't supposed to be driving in the first place! I'd made it clear that you were not to drive without me physically present in the car for this exact reason!" 

She went on a long rant on safety, listing all the ways you'd endangered not just her, but yourself as well. You stood in place, frozen, motionless, taking all her hits. You deserved every single one. It wasn't fair of her to scream her lungs out at you, but you had ignored her warnings and seriously injured her as a result. 

Though, to be fair, she had been the one who ignored your insistence that you weren't up to this.  

"I told you I didn't wanna do this and you wouldn't listen," you reminded her. 

Rowena looked offended. "Are you saying it's my fault?" 

"No! I–" 

She cut off your attempt at an explanation. "As if it's not enough that I'm in pain. Now I'm getting blamed for my misfortune." 

"Rowena–" 

"Have I not suffered enough?" She sighed dramatically. "What's next? Are you going to throw me in a dungeon and torture me? Will that also be my fault?" 

"You're being unfair," you said. You were usually the one getting her out of situations like that and nursing her back to health. Had she forgotten all those times when you'd taken care of her? Had she forgotten sleepless nights you'd spent at her side, holding her as she cried and begged for the pain to stop? Had she forgotten you making her potions, kissing her wounds, and squeezing her hand as she waited for the pain to subside?  

You would rather die than purposely cause her any harm. You thought she knew that. 

"When have I ever hurt you on purpose?" 

Rowena had the decency to look ashamed of her accusations, but she would never express it verbally. 

You, on the other hand, had plenty of things to say. 

"Think it was easy for me, watching you get hurt? You have no idea how guilty I feel!" you snapped. 

Your blood ran boiling hot, everything you'd been holding back rushing to the surface; every suppressed emotion, every word you'd swallowed so she wouldn't get hurt. A familiar rush of power surged through your veins and you started pacing. The last thing you needed was your magic getting out of control and making a mess of your home. Walking in circles gave you something to focus on instead of your magic making the decision for you. 

"I know I fucked up, okay?" you continued, gesturing manically with your hands. "I know I did a shitty thing! I don't need your accusations on top of that!" 

Tears fell from your eyes, rushing like a downpour down your face. 

"You've been yelling at me all day! First about my driving, and now about this! You know why I tried to drive on my own? I wanted you to stop yelling at me. I thought, if I proved to you I could do it, you'd be nice to me again." 

You swallowed, tears falling with more intensity. 

"Why couldn't you be nice to me?" you whimpered. "You're always so patient." 

You thought back to the time when she spent a whole week teaching you a spell that wasn't even that complicated. For some reason, you just couldn't get it right. Rowena had found herself growing irritable a few times, but each and every time she would swallow it and patiently explain the spell. She would repeat the same words like a mantra, over and over again, demonstrating the spell and explaining exactly what you needed to do to get the same effect. 

"What's gotten into you today?" 

A look of guilt flashed across Rowena's face. She stared at you, taking in your tear-drenched face, taking in all the hurt your features expressed, knowing that was just the tip of the iceberg. The true pain laid within you, nestled in your heart that beat like crazy, as if it would jump out it's bodily cage any moment now and burst into thousands of pieces. 

You were one of the few people Rowena allowed herself to be kind to, but she could be stubborn. If her pride ordered her to put on a brave face and act as if she was in the right, then she would do it. Taking small breaths in desperate attempts to get your breathing under control, you stared back at her, every cell in your body begging for her to let it go. She was obviously in a bad mood today; there was no point in forcing her to apologize. If she was going to stay mad at you, all you wanted was for her to keep her anger to herself. You couldn't handle another one-sided screaming match. 

Much to your surprise, Rowena's expression softened. Opening her arms, she said in a kind, gentle voice, "Come here." 

Cautiously, you walked over to the couch, sitting down next to her. You lowered your head on her shoulder, letting her wrap her arms around you. She held you tight, hands tapping your back in a calming manner, like a mother soothing a child. 

"I just wanted to teach you how to drive," she said. 

"I told you I wasn't ready," you said. 

One of her hands moved to the top of your head, caressing your hair. "Remember last week, when that hunter attacked you?" 

You nodded, shivering at the memory. The man was persistent, chasing after you for what seemed like miles. He wasn't going to stop until one of you was dead. And, considering he'd earlier managed to slip an iron cuff around your wrist, all signs pointed to that being you. It was the middle of the night; the town was empty, most of the people being either home or inside bars and nightclubs. 

You were running through the mostly empty parking lot, not a helpful soul in sight. Luck seemed to be on your side, however, as one of the few cars that had been parked there happened to be unlocked – and the owned had, as it turned out, left the keys inside. 

The only problem was, you couldn't drive. 

Had Rowena not arrived shortly after, you would have been dead. 

Oh.  

Oh!  

"If you'd known how to drive, you could have gotten away," Rowena said. 

How have you not connected the dots sooner? 

"You're scared," you stated, more to yourself than to her. 

"I don't want to lose you," Rowena said after a few quiet moments. It wasn't easy for her to admit to concern. 

Slipping an arm around her middle, you said, "You won't." You backed away from the hug, looking into her eyes. They were as tearful as yours, only she was strong enough to not let any tears fall. For now. You cupped her cheek, tenderly stroking it with your thumb. "Talk to me next time, okay? So shit like this doesn't happen." 

She smiled. "I suppose I was acting a bit…" 

"Bitchy?" you suggested. 

"Bitchy," she agreed, chuckling. "I'm sorry for being so hard on you, darling." 

It must have been hard for her to gather the courage and say it out loud. It was a well-known fact that Rowena MacLeod never apologized – and when she did, she usually had ulterior motives. 

This apology, however, was genuine. She meant every single word. Your heart filled with warmth. It was rare for her to acknowledge her remorse, yet for you she did. 

You pecked her on the lips in acceptance of her apology. "I'm sorry for what happened. I really didn't–" 

Rowena pressed a forefinger to your lips, shushing you. "I know." 

"I would never hurt you on purpose." 

"I know," she repeated. 

You smiled. "I love you very much." 

"As do I you." 

You let her pull you into another embrace, melting as her warmth collided with yours. Be it a small argument or one of you hitting the other with a car, the two of you could never stay angry at each other for too long. 

A/N: Please, don’t hit people with your car, even if they’re being bitchy.

Tags: @apritelleorai @darktweet @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @christinalibertymikaelson @violinmyhead @royalrowena @supwhorecorp @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife

Read on AO3.

[iamvegorott]

Emotions

I had this sudden idea for a story when I was writing Attention with how I wrote Dark's personification of his emotions. I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Annoyance. Frustration. Anger. Emotions that Dark understands and can easily work with, but when he starts to learn about the other ones he has, things being to change. 

Emotions

Dark adjusted his tie in the hallway’s full-length mirror. He felt nothing as he did so, he was just on auto-pilot. Dark was used to not feeling anything. That’s who he was. He was a demon. A creature from another dimension with the sole purpose of destroying the ones who have caused him harm, who have put him in this form in the first place. He had no time to deal with emotions. He had work to do.

After straightening his jacket he held his hands behind his back and left the hallway, heading to the kitchen since it was the connection between where he was and the library. He stopped when he saw the Jims on the kitchen floor. The reporter was messing with an Ouija board while the cameraman looked very scared and uncomfortable.

“Demons, Jim!” The reporter shouted as he flailed his body into the air. Dark felt something press into the back of his head as the two stared at him before taking off, leaving the Ouija board behind with salt all over the ground as well. The pressure was still there as he cleaned up the twins’ mess. It was a feeling he was used to with the people he lived with.

Annoyance.

“Hey, Dark! How’s my demon?” Wilford greeted loudly as he slapped at Dark’s back, seeing that the man had his sleeves rolled up as he washed the salt off of his hands.

“We need to inform the Jims, once again, that salt will not make the demon go away. It only annoys him to a severe degree.” Dark growled as he turned off the sink. He nodded thanks as Wilford handed him a towel.

“You know it’s not you that they’re trying to make leave, it’s the ‘ghost’ of the house.” Wilford chuckled, laughing a little more when Dark tossed the towel at him.

“You really need to stop with your pranks on them. It’s a nuisance to everyone in the house.” Dark stated, returning his sleeves back to their proper place.

“I just wanna have some fun with the chums.” Wilford leaned close to Dark and flashed a smile that made the demon feel a little warmth in his stomach. Dark never understood what that feeling was or what to assign the emotion with, he always assumed it was just nothing and he easily ignored the warmth before putting his hand on Wilford’s face and pushing him away.

“You can have fun without causing the Jims to constantly panic,” Dark said as he walked out of the room, the warmth returning a little when he head Wilford’s light-hearted laugh.

Dark sat in the library, casually reading a mystery novel he ended picking up by mistake when he was searching for another. He found himself pulled into the fictional world and was reading a very climactic part when there was a loud ‘thud’ above him as if something was dropped. Dark looked up, sighed and returned to his reading, starting the page over so he could get back into the scene properly. He was about to learn who the killer was when there was another loud ‘thud’. This time Dark lowered the book and glared at the ceiling for a good while before going back to the book again, once again having to start over because he couldn’t just read the killer’s name without the build-up, it ruined the fun. Dark had started learning the killer’s motive when a long string of ‘thuds’ cut him off for the third time. Dark slammed the book shut and stormed out of the library and towards the stairs. There was a tight pinching in his stomach and head as he took the steps two at a time. This was an emotion he also knew very well.

Frustration.

“What are you do-” Dark threw open the door to the room and stopped his yelling when he saw what was causing the sounds. Bim Trimmer was standing on his bed, wearing his white shirt, blazer, and tie, but missing the slacks that went the ensemble, showing off his white and red spotted boxers. The show host was holding a cardboard tube and the stuffed animals lying all around the room told Dark all that he needed to know.

“I-”

“Nope.” Dark didn’t give Bim even a second to explain himself before he shut the door, turning away from it. He could feel his face burning up a little, along with his chest and stomach. This was something he rarely felt.

Embarrassment.

Dark wasn’t embarrassed himself, he felt embarrassment for Bim. He knew how awkward that had to be for the other man. Dark shook his head and headed back to the library. Why was he feeling embarrassed for Bim? Why was he wasting energy on feeling something for someone? He barely allowed himself to have emotions on his own, why have it for others? Wilford referred to it as ‘sympathy’ and Dark stated that it was a ‘waste of time’. Sympathy, empathy, who cares? No one cared for him, he shouldn’t care for others. It was as simple as that.

“Dark! Dark!” Dark turned his head and saw that the Jims were running towards him.

“Don’t you have some news to report or something?” Dark sighed, feeling annoyance come back and taking over what remained of the second-hand embarrassment.

“Wilford left!” Reporter Jim yelled.

“Wilford can leave when he wishes.”

“He took his shooty!”

“He takes his gun everywhere.”

“He was mad!” That statement made Dark stiffen. He knew what it meant when Wilford left angry. Either someone was going to die or someone was going to come very close to it and Wilford had no grasp on the concept of death, he needed someone else there to clean up the mess and make sure he didn’t go insane or at least more insane than what he already was. “You told us to report to you when that happens, right?” Jim’s question was ignored as Dark felt out of his body, slowly stretching further and further away until he found Wilford’s aurora. The strong scent of bubblegum and gunpowder filled his nose before Dark suddenly vanished.

“Hey, buddy. There’s no need to get violent...yet.” Dark heard Wilford chuckle. He found himself at the edge of an empty warehouse.

“How the fuck did you get in here!?” A man screamed.

“Just give me my-”

“Don’t take another step!” Dark turned around and saw that a group of men was standing in front of Wilford, the one in front holding a gun towards Wilford. Pointing his gun at him. Dark didn’t have time to question how that happened before he started heading over to the others.

“Who are you!?” The man was now aiming the gun at Dark. A large smirk played on Dark’s lips, he was excited to see that man’s face when he tore that gun out of his hands. The horror in his eyes as he held him in the air by his neck, cutting off his ability to breathe and forcing him to try to claw Dark’s hand away and kick his legs out in a helpless fight.

“Now, don’t you be pointing that at my friend. That’s-”

Everything stopped when the loud bang of the gun filled the air. Everything went quiet as Wilford fell towards the ground. Everything moved slowly when Wilford landed, blood splattering. A silent scream came out of Dark’s mouth as he sprinted over to Wilford. His heart raced. His chest ached. His head wailed as he felt a strong urge to vomit. What was this? What was this terrible feeling? Why did it hurt so much?

Fear.

Dark was scared. He was terrified. His very soul was crying out as he reached the only person he truly called ‘friend’. Dark fell to his knees, seeing the hole below Wilford’s collarbone. Dark could tell that tears were threatening to fall when Wilford mouthed his name, attempting to lift his hand, but failing. Dark hated this emotion. This emotion hurt. He hated it so much.

Dark quickly pressed his hands on to the wound. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real. Wilford did not get hurt. Wilford did not get shot. This isn’t real. It can’t be. This has to be a lie. Dark swallowed thickly before sliding his hands away, letting out the breath he didn’t know he was holding when he saw that the hole was closed. He had never been so thankful for his magical abilities.

“I shot him! Holy fuck I shot him!” The man’s cries broke Dark away from his fear. Something else began to take over. A strong burning filled his entire body. Boiling in the pit of his stomach and flowing up through his throat and into his head. Dark slowly stood and faced the group of men. This emotion he knew. This emotion he understood. This emotion he was all too glad to work with.

Anger.

“You have made the worst mistake of your lives,” Dark said, voice becoming distorted. His aura began to grow, the red engulfing the blue, stretching out to form its own tendrils. “ANd YoUr LaSt.” Dark didn’t usually like to get his hands dirty but he easily willing to go against that. He was excited to. The red aura started to shadow over the now screaming men. They took off towards the exit, screaming, even more, when Dark was suddenly in front of them, cutting them off. They turned around and ran to only be cut off again, the aura now completely covering them. One tried to push through the aura but cried out when it burned his hand. Dark slowly walked towards the man who fired the gun. He was now sobbing, filled with the fear Dark had just felt. Good.

“No, no!” The man wailed as Dark reached for him. “I don’t wanna die!” He pleaded as he was grabbed by the throat and lifted into the air. Dark felt a rush of adrenaline coursed through him. Dark was getting what he wanted. The man cried and begged for something he was not going to keep. He was going to lose something he could not get back.

“And my friend didn’t want to be shot,” Dark emphasized the last word by punching his hand through the man’s stomach. Dark usually hated the feeling of blood on his hands. He was more of a man of words. He wanted them to control the people, to make them do whatever he wanted and would send others to end them but at the moment. The blood felt lovely on his skin.

“D...Dark.” The weak call of his name snapped Dark out of his craze. He dropped the dying man to the ground. The aurora falling at the same pace as the body. “Dark.”

“Wilford.” Dark rushed over to Wilford, quickly scooping him up into his arms.

“Dark...I-”

“Hush.” Was all Dark said before vanishing, leaving the men trapped in the warehouse since he took the ability to open the door or break the windows away.

Dark landed in the center of their kitchen, scaring Bim enough to make him toss his mug into the air, the shattering glass scaring him even more.

“Dark?”

“Get Dr. Iplier, right now and send him to Wilford’s room,” Dark ordered, sounding calmer than he felt as he walked away from the stunned show host.

“Can we help?” The Jims asked as they followed Dark.

“Water,” Dark stated, hearing the twins repeat the word and run off. Dark used his foot to open Wilford’s door, the bright pink was a startling contrast to the dark hallway, but Dark was used to it at this point and he laid Wilford down on his bed, adjusting the pillows to make sure that the man was comfortable. He gently removed Wilford’s bowtie and sat it on his bedside table before unbuttoning the yellow top, removing it from the man’s body so he could get a better look at the wound. It was still closed. Dark ran a thumb over it to make sure before going down to Wilford’s feet and removing his shoes, setting them neatly together at the end of the bed.

“How is everything?” Dr. Iplier asked as he entered the room, holding a bucket filled with water and multiple rags.

“The wound is closed, but he lost a lot of blood,” Dark answered, stepping back to give the doctor space as he placed his fingers on Wilford’s neck.

“Water!” The Jims yelled, holding five glasses of water each.

“Thank you Jims, set them on the desk please.” Dr. Iplier said after he sat down and dipped one of the rags into the bucket.

“Do you need anything else?” Reporter Jim asked.

“We’re all good here, thank you again.” Dr. Iplier strung out any extra water and began cleaning off the blood while the Jims nodded happily and left. “Eccentric boys, aren’t they?” Dr. Iplier chuckled softly, glancing a look over at Dark, seeing the blood that was starting to dry. “Are you injured as well? Or does that belong to another?”

“I’m fine,” Dark said, voice soft and monotoned.

“Do you need to talk? You sound off.” Dr. Iplier lifted Wilford’s arm, wiping the rag down the man’s side.  

“I’m fine.” Dark repeated in the same tone.

“I might be a terrible doctor, but I’m a great listener.” Dr. Iplier joked, getting a new rag and wetting it as well.

“You’ve improved,” Dark commented.

“I can thank you for that. I think the bruise on my wrist is still there from you.” Dr. Iplier laughed at the memory. “I didn’t expect you to get so angry when is misdiagnosed Wilford with the common cold instead of pneumonia.” Dr. Iplier sat the wet rag down and took a dry one. “It’s almost as if you care for the man.” The doctor teased the demon, giving him a wink.

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, sure you don’t.” Dr. Iplier clicked his tongue and stood up. “His pulse is even, there’s wasn’t too much blood compared with what has been lost in the past. He’ll be fine. No need to worry.”

“I’m not-”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dr. Iplier waved his hand as he left, closing the door behind him.

Dark let out a huff before taking the desk’s chair and setting it next to the bed, taking a seat and watching Wilford. Was he worried? Did he really care about Wilford? Dark didn’t care about anyone, that’s how he worked, that’s how he got things done. But to feet fear when he believed Wilford to be gone? To have pure anger in him towards the one who caused Wilford pain? He’s has been known to be protective of Wilford, to go out of his way to make sure the other man was okay. But that was just because of, what others called, their friendship. Dark wasn’t entirely sure what they were. He remembered referring to Wilford as his friend when he got shot but that was most likely just the heat of the moment. Right?

Dark looked at Wilford’s face and saw that a stray hair was on it. Dark unconsciously leaned over and brushed it aside, hand pausing to feel the warmth of Wilford’s cheek. A similar warmth, one that has kept bothering him, formed in his stomach. What was this? What was this strange feeling of something fluttering inside of him? Dark couldn’t prevent a small smile from forming as Wilford hummed softly and shifted his head to it was now being cradled by Dark’s hand.

Joy.

Dark quickly snatched his hand back and fully sat back down in the chair. Why did he get so happy? How did that make any sense? He was not a happy person. He did not get happy. Why did Wilford doing something as simple as that fill him with joy? Dark noticed that his face was heating up. He wasn’t embarrassed. There was no need to. What else could cause a heat to the face?

Wilford’s hand twitching caught his attention. Dark had a sudden urge to hold it and he gave in without much resistance. It was just a hand. It meant nothing. He started off by just resting his fingertips on top of Wilford’s palm, slowly moving them and feeling every line and the smooth and soft texture of it. He then slowly and gently wrapped his finger around the hand, his thumb rubbing against Wilford’s wrist. More heat began building up. But it wasn’t the heat Dark was used to associating with the emotions he’s been able to name. Anger had a heat to it, but that heat was harsh, it burned, it fueled him to act out. This heat was...pleasurable? It felt good to have this heat. He’s had little doses of it before and he just assumed that is was nothing, that it was just his body adjusting to the room’s temperature or something. Why did it only happen when Wilford was around then? That question made several different emotions flow through Dark.

Care.

Affection.

Joy.

Desire.

L-

Dark felt his body become even warmer when he finally realized what emotion that heat was attached to. But it couldn’t be. There was no way that it was that. He could never feel that emotion. Even though he believed those other emotions were impossible for him as well but here he was, feeling all of them at once as he looked at the man next to him. Dark felt the words bubbling up in his throat and they escaped before he could stop them.

“I love you.” Dark froze when he saw Wilford smile.

“I know.”

“Wil!” Dark stood up when the man spoke.

“Hey, buddy.” Wilford greeted, voice a little hoarse. “Took you long enough to admit it.” Wilford swallowed at Dark just stared in shock. “You mind getting me one of those glasses of water?”

“You knew!?” Dark finally snapped now knowing what first-hand embarrassment felt like.

“I mean, sort of.” Wilford cleared his throat. “I had a feeling that you at least liked me a little. Wasn’t expecting you to spill your guts out to me on my deathbed though.” Wilford chuckled weakly. “But seriously, some water would be great.”

“I’m assuming Wilford is awake?” Dr. Iplier asked as he opened the door. “Is everything fine?”

“Yep. Dark’s my boyfriend now and I would really like some water.” Wilford’s statement was answered with sputters from Dark and a laugh from Dr. Iplier as he fetched one of the glasses and handed it to Wilford.

“Thanks.” Wilford downed the entire glass, letting out an ‘ah’ when he finished. Dr. Iplier took the glass, checked Wilford’s pulse again and smiled.

“Call me if you need anything.” Dr. Iplier said before stepping back out.

“So, wanna hear how I ended up there?” Wilford asked and Dark sat back down.

“But-” Dark stopped when Wilford took his hand.

“You’re my demon boyfriend and as my demon boyfriend, you have to listen to my stories.” Dark opened his mouth to protest but stopped when Wilford began telling his tale anyways. He just settled down and listened to his friend...boyfriend talk. The warmth staying in his chest and he no longer questioned it. Knowing what it was and never wanting it to go away.

[imaginekpoplikethis]

7 Years - BadBoy! Jeon Jungkook X Reader - Part 8

I genuinely feel like I rushed the character development in this story and I hate myself for that.

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8 - Here  Part 9  Part 10.1  Part 10.2  Part 10.3  Part 11  Part 12  Part 13  Part 14  Part 15  Part 16  Part 17  Part 18  Part 19  Part 20 - Final

Your detention soon came to an end and you were quick to question the boys on their motives.

"Ask Jungkook. I don't know why the fuck we're doing this." You should have expected such a reply from Yoongi.

Taehyung bounced into your vision, his rectangular smile present on his face.

"We wanted to hang out with you so we got ourselves in trouble on purpose!" He definitely seemed too enthusiastic for someone who is jeopardising his school records.

"You wanted to hang out... in detention? This is a joke, right?" Either they had completely lost the plot or were desperate to speak with someone they didn't see every moment of every single day.

"Ignore Tae, he's being stupid. The real reason is because Jungkook was worried that that girl from before would try to start something again." Jimin piped up from beside a whining Taehyung, a cute grin spreading on his lips.

"Hyung!" Jungkook shoved Jimin with such force that he disappeared from your sight. Blinking a couple of times, you watched as he jogged back and playfully pushed Jungkook.

"What's wrong? I'm just telling her what she wants to know." A glare was what he got in return before Jungkook turned on his heel and walked out of the school gates. The rest of you took that as your cue to leave, following behind.

-

The boys had walked you halfway home before you all parted ways. When you had arrived home, you explained what had happened to your mother, who had received a phone call over your behaviour. She seemed to understand the situation better than you had initially thought she would and warned you to keep out of trouble.

Making your way to your room, you flung yourself on your bed and checked your messages from Areum.

'Y/N! Are you okay?'

'What happened?'

'I'm sorry you got in trouble for me...'

Areum was so sweet, it made you question how someone such as herself existed.

'I'm okay, Areum. I've got detention for a week though lol.'

Within a matter of seconds you received a reply.

'How can you be so calm about that!? You're a perfect student.'

'I'm still a good student Areum. Now everyone knows that I'm not all talk haha.'

You could imagine the worried look that was present on her face at this very moment.

'If you say so... thank you for defending me. I don't know what I'd do if we weren't friends.'

'You probably wouldn't have been in that kind of situation but it's alright.'

She ended the conversation with a laughing face and you sighed to yourself.

Now to try and survive the rest of the week with Hye Mi.

-

The next 2 days of school were uneventful, although you were the topic of everyone's discussions. You seemed to be the centre of everyone's attention as well which made you mildly uncomfortable, mainly because it resulted in conversations being initiated with unfamiliar students. Speaking to new people just wasn't a strong point for you.

As the end of the day arrived, you speedily made your way to your detention, arriving before Hye Mi and the boys. The teacher supervising the detention stood upon your entrance and beckoned you over.

"Y/N, I've discussed the situation with the principal and we've decided that you don't have to attend detention for the rest of the week."

Confusion spread on your face as you raised your eyebrows in surprise. "Um... can I ask why?"

She smiled at your confused face before nodding at you.

"Well... the thing is, we know you're not a bad student. It's just... you seem to be influenced by the wrong students."

Wrong students? Surely she didn't mean...

"Are you talking about Jungkook and his friends?"

"Of course. Who else could it be?"

Anger began to boil inside you and you willed yourself to keep as calm as possible. She was trying to pin the recent events on Jungkook and his influence. Did she honestly believe you couldn't think for yourself?

"Oh I don't know, maybe Hye Mi? She's an instigator in case you hadn't realised."

"Y/N! That's not the point. The point is we want you to keep your distance from the boys. They're just trouble for a good student like you."

You couldn't believe what you were hearing.

"I have to keep my distance from the boys who stood up for me when no one else would? When no teachers took notice of the kind of bullying I had to be subjected to? If anything they're the reason I'm more confident and I am able to defend myself more these past few weeks."

She seemed shocked to say the least. Anyone would. You were known to be a compliant student who never spoke back and defied teachers. Despite your calmness when delivering your words, the anger that was poorly hidden was clear in your voice.

"They're the only ones who cared enough to protect me... no offence Miss but where were you when I needed help?"

Rather than reprimanding you, she instead bowed her head in guilt because as much as she'd like to deny it, she was a bystander to the bullying taking place in the school.

"I'm sorry Miss but I can't stop being friends with them just because a couple of teachers order me to. Contrary to popular belief this isn't a prison. Oh, and they're not bad students, just misjudged a lot."

Seeing she had no more to say, you strode out of the room only to be greeted with Jungkooks figure leaning against the wall. When he noticed your presence, he turned his attention to you and smirked, satisfied with the 'speech' you had given.

"Kookie..." Jungkook pushed himself off the wall and sauntered towards you, eyes never leaving yours.

Slightly crouching down, he placed a longing kiss on the corner of your mouth, making you stiffen. Retracting himself, he stepped back, his signature bunny-like grin appearing and a faint pink dusting over his cheeks.

"I'm proud of you..." Not giving you a chance to think of a reply, he drifted into the classroom leaving you standing alone.

"What's up, Teach?"

His voice snapped you out of your trance and you reached your hand up to where he had placed a kiss.

"That... that jerk is going to be the death of me." Your soft smile betrayed the annoyance your words held. Shaking your head, you shuffled out of the school and walked home, mentally replaying the scene over and over.

-

You'd like to think that the kiss was Jungkook's subtle way of telling you that he felt something for you but you would rather not jump to conclusions. It was an eye opener, however, as it made you realise that certain interactions you both shared were ones that would imply that something was happening between the both of you. Thinking about these actions caused heat to rush to your face and you buried your face into your pillow in a pathetic attempt to calm yourself down.

Your phone chimed, alerting you to a new message and you all but threw yourself at your desk.

'Hey, what are you doing right now?'

The message was from Jungkook which caused an unconscious smile to spread on your face.

'Worrying about the consequences of my 'speech'. Why?'

'Just got out of detention. I want to see you.' No matter how many times he was blunt with you, Jungkook never failed to surprise you. Switching into a seated position, you contemplated how to reply. You didn't want to come across as desperate because you definitely were not but you didn't want to put it off for another day.

'Okay, where?'

You arranged to meet at the local park in an hour. No one would be there at this time so it would be just the two of you.

It wasn't a date, in fact it's far from one so why were you nervous?

You dwelled on this for longer than you had anticipated since you received a message from Jungkook, notifying you he was already there.

"Shit!"

Dashing down the stairs, you told your mother that you'd be back soon whilst pulling on your shoes.

"Just be safe and call me if there is any trouble!"

"Tell Jungkook his sister in law said hi."

You didn't even have the time to snap at your younger sister. Your arguments always lasted minimum fifteen minutes, which you didn't have to spare. Instead you rushed out of your house and speed walked to the arranged destination, spotting his figure sitting on one of the swings. His head was bowed but soon snapped up when he heard your footsteps approaching. Sitting beside him, you placed your hands between your legs and stared straight ahead at nothing in particular.

A comfortable silence settled between you and you patiently waited for him to break it.

"What are you doing to me?" Uncertainty washed over you at his question and you peeked at his face. He in turn lowered his head again and dug the heel of his timberlands into the ground, waiting for your reply.

"I'm going to have to ask you to elaborate Jungkook." A deep chuckle left him and he turned his attention to your face, seemingly analysing your next actions.

"You've noticed how I've changed. How I treat you. There's no way you haven't."

So this is what he's talking about.

"Yeah, I'm not stupid. What I want to know is if it's for the reasons I think it's for."

"I think you know the answer to that."

That shocked you a little bit.

"Let me ask you again. What are you doing to me? Why is it everytime you smile I want it to be only for me? Why is it everytime you're upset, I want to punch the shit out of the person who upset you? What is it about you that makes me want to always be by your side?"

You were sure your jaw was hanging wide open at the out of character things Jungkook was saying. Maybe, just maybe, you were interpreting what he was saying the wrong way.

"Because we're best friends. Isn't that what best friends want?" He scoffed at your sentence and for a second you worried that you had given the wrong answer.

"Cut the shit, Y/N. Are you trying to friend zone me or something? We could be more than friends. I want us to be more than friends."

"You want what now?"

He stood from his swing and proceeded to walk to the spot directly in front of you.

"Are you that slow? Fucking shit, I like you! Maybe even l-lo... you get the fucking point."

Today was just a day for revelations, wasn't it?

"Okay, slow down please. Since when?"

A deep sigh escaped his lips and he glanced to the side, avoiding eye contact with you.

"I don't know... it's kind of always been there. You're the only girl who understands me and would never hurt me. You've always cared for me even when I allowed other people to treat you like shit. Ah, I'm such a fucking loser."

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he turned his back on you pulling out a cigarette box. You didn't know what to say, the words being caught on your tongue. So you done the first thing you thought of.

Pushing the swing back with as much force as you could muster, you allowed yourself to fly forward and all but flew into Jungkook's back. Upon colliding, you wrapped your arms around his neck, his body breaking your fall. Bringing your head to the crook of his neck, you yelled into his ear.

"Smoking is bad for you, dumbass!"

Struggling to turn underneath your weight, he managed to rotate his boy and glare at you.

"You're actually a freak. Did you know that? I don't understand why I lik-"

Your warm lips connected with his in the heat of the moment, effectively shutting him up. His crescent eyes grew as wide as saucers whilst you shut yours in an attempt to avoid making your first kiss anymore awkward than it already was.

Soon enough you felt his hands on the back of your head, trying to pull you closer, if that was possible. Jungkook bit your lip harder than necessary and you yelped into his mouth. He took this opportunity to deepen the kiss and your teeth clashed several times. He soon parted from you, and instead just stared as if he was trying to commit all of your features to memory.

You grinned at Jungkook and hopped off him, lending him a hand and pulling him up. He returned your grin with half a smirk and dusted himself down.

"What the fuck was that?" You let a giggle escape your lips and shrugged your shoulders.

"I don't know, I guess I felt the same the way."

"You guess?"

Vigorously nodding your head, you snatched his hand and dragged him out of the park.

"You know... I'm kind of hungry. Let's get icecream."  He raised an eyebrow at your idea.

"At 9pm?"

"At 9pm."

You spent the next hour eating icecream from a nearby shop before Jungkook decided it was time to leave and walked you home.

"See you tomorrow, babe."

"Jungkook." Your warning tone made him pout at you.

"But I need a nickname for my girl now."

"Well think of a better one." He smirked at your challenge for the umpteenth time.

"Fine then, princess."

"Really?"

"I'm sticking with it whether you like it or not."

Before you could argue back, he placed a peck on your lips and backed away from you.

"Bye, princess."

"Oh my g-"

"Y/N! Stop standing there and come inside!"

You could only assume your mother had seen everything, judging by the excited tone she failed at hiding.

Waving at Jungkook, he winked at you before heading down the street and out of sight.

Now you just had to live through your mothers fangirling, possibly your sisters and then Areums.

[glitterdustcyclops]

five times bridget saw frankie (and one time she didn’t)

i have literally maybe only ever finished two stories in my entire life, and this is now one of them. i’m proud of how it turned out and so i’m posting it here. read on for gay smooches, angst, and pining. also see my sad gay feelings playlist for the soundtrack to this dumb little fic. enjoy~

1.

The first time Bridget sees Frankie is a hazy summer day. A party. They’ve just finished their junior year of high school and there’s this pervasive sense of freedom in the air, a yearning towards something; hundreds of sticky sweaty bodies in need of a distraction.

Summer parties happen at Brianna’s house, because Brianna’s got a swank mansion with a giant pool and incredibly permissive parents, and pool parties are a good excuse to be more naked than usual. Rampant hedonism and red plastic solo cups. Things get pretty crazy at Brianna’s summer parties.

There’s terrible music and screaming-giggling girls, a splash as someone is “accidentally” knocked into the pool, and Bridget is sitting on a patio chair by herself feeling like a sad loser. Her and Brianna are fighting again—not that Brianna would ever actually admit that—and her and Ryan are fighting because her and Brianna are fighting and her other so-called friends are ignoring her and Bridget’s actually pretty sure she wasn’t even invited to this stupid asshole party and like honestly, she didn’t even want to come anyway, she has no idea what she’s even doing here, this is the fucking worst and she’s going to leave and then—

She sees her.

Frankie.

Frankie is standing there in a halter-neck top straight out of an episode of I Love Lucy with a coordinating pair of high-waisted polka-dot patterned shorts, looking all innocent and batting her pretty little eyelashes. Talking to Ryan and pretending like she doesn’t notice the way he’s sizing her up like a goddamn meal. God, fuck her. Okay, so maybe it isn’t necessarily Frankie’s fault—Bridget was the one who suggested she and Ryan go on a “break” in the first place, and more importantly, she fucking hates him right now because he fucking sucks but, still.

It’s Frankie.

Bridge has hated Frankie since middle school. She can’t even really remember how it started, but Frankie doesn’t exactly make it hard to hate her. She’s just so fucking stuck up, all the time. She’s so weird, and she has to be doing it on purpose for attention, no one is just genuinely like that. And, okay, so they’re probably definitely way too old to keep doing this Mean Girl shit, but still. It’s one thing to have to put up with Frankie in class—always the teacher’s pet, the gold star favorite—it’s quite another to have to deal with her here, so perfect and pretty waltzing around like the Indie Romcom Sweetheart with her stupid pink hair and her stupid vintage clothes and her stupid instant camera and her stupid cat-eye glasses and—and—

Just who the fuck does Francine Takahashi think she is, anyway?

And before Bridget even knows what she’s doing, she finds herself headed towards them, towards Ryan with his fucking shirt off and water glistening on his carefully sculpted abs, standing too close and just leering—and Bridget’s already got some stupid plan half-formed in her head.

2.

The second time Bridget sees Frankie is about two weeks later. She’s done her best to put the whole stupid drunken night behind her, as much of it as she can remember anyway. Which is not a lot, but enough to know that Bridget hopes she never has to look at Francine Takahashi again. Ryan and Bridget are still not talking but she’s back to orbiting around Bri, because she doesn’t know what else to do with herself. And then, one day, Bridget finds herself in a mall food court, realizing not for the first time that teenage girls are fucking awful.

“Bridgie oh my God really?” Brianna whines behind her, voice Valley-Girl perfect. “So now you’re just gonna throw a fit and walk away? Okay fine, later loser!”

Bridget is walking away but she can practically hear Brianna’s eyeroll, her “oh I’m so totally not affected by this at all” put-upon sigh. Of course, she knows Bri way too well to buy that. She is pissed. Good. Fucking whore.

Bridget storms halfway across the food court—impulsive, anger sparking along her nerve endings—and that’s when she notices her.

Frankie.

She is perched at a table near the escalators by herself, drinking a smoothie and reading a book. Because of course she can’t scroll through her phone like a normal human being. Annoyance flares in Bridget’s eyes for a second, irritation tinged with regret, but somehow, she finds herself headed towards the other girl anyway.

“Uh, hi,” Bridget says once she’s close enough, all these mixed emotions settled in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight, and she’s already deeply regretting her choices thus far.

Decades, eons, a literal eternity passes before Frankie finally looks up from her book, setting it face down on the table and quirking up an eyebrow slightly.

“Oh, hello,” she says, politely enough. Maybe that’s a good sign.

“C-can I sit here?” Bridget blurts out. What the fuck—oh my god no—why—what are you doing?!

Frankie half shrugs up a shoulder, casual, and then just sits there, staring at her. Blinking. Waiting. Bridget takes the opposite chair.

Frankie blinks. Bridget swallows.

Silence. It’s awkward.

And then—

“Okay no, I gotta ask,” Frankie finally says, half to herself, “why?”

“Uh, why what?” Real smooth there Bridget, she thinks, bitterly.

Frankie makes a—a sound, strangled in her throat, her nostrils flaring; and then suddenly, she’s talking, or more like yelling, words spilling out of her in a barely-restrained angry huff.

“Ohh no. No no no, you know exactly what I’m talking about. How the fuck are you gonna sit there pretending like—like you didn’t—like, okay, sure I get the first time. Let’s play spin the bottle and embarrass the Lesbo! Ha ha, very funny—”

Bridget winces with embarrassment. She wants to run away again, wants to hide, to pretend like it never happened, but the lead in her belly keeps her anchored at the table. Like, like she deserves it somehow.

“I—I’m—”

“Oh what, are you sorry?” Frankie snaps back, eyes hard—glinting—this mean little half-smile on her blue-painted lips, and it’s just fucking weird seeing that expression on sweet-innocent-perfect Frankie’s face.

Bridget shrinks back a little, almost subconsciously, but that doesn’t stop Frankie. She’s on a roll now.

“For which part are you sorry Bridget? The part where you tried to play the lamest prank on me in the history of ever, or maybe, do you mean later when you came and you found me and you—”

“Stop!” Bridget feels her throat—tight, constricted—something sour and ugly bubbling up from the lead in her stomach. She doesn’t—she can’t—not here, there’s too many people here.

“Stop what?” Frankie sneers, arms crossed in front of her chest, nails digging into the skin. Everything about her is like a pit bull on a chain, snarling and ready to lunge, and it makes the dread in Bridget’s stomach boil higher. “You fucking kissed me, okay, and I’m not a fucking idiot. I know the difference between a prank and—and that. Don’t fucking do that.”

“I—” Bridget is frozen. She knows, oh God she knows.

“Well? Say something Bridget! Tell me how it was all just a big funny joke, tell me how when you moaned against me you were just totally kidding, no homo. Come on Bridget—”

“Shut up!”

To Bridget’s surprise, Frankie actually does. Her eyes big and wide and shocked while a couple at a table nearby stares at them. Bridget will probably definitely die of total mortification about this later, but for now all she can see is Frankie, all that hurt and anger her face and—fuck. Guilt tightens Bridget’s throat; the sicksour dread and anxiety of it all, and if she could zip herself out of her own skin right now, she totally would.

“I’m sorry okay!” Bridget shouts back, words bubbling up from her stomach to her too-tight throat, all of it crashing together and spilling out in a horrible jumble. “I’m sorry it was stupid and I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have—just, I please, just please, please I’m sorry! Are you happy now? Okay? I’m the worst and you should probably just hate me forever like everyone else does and—”

Bridget knows she’s about to spill over into a full-blown emotional breakdown. She can hear how hysterical she sounds, but she can’t stop it, like her whole body’s on autopilot and she’s just screaming trapped in her brain trying to hit the buttons but they’re not doing anything, and the small rational part of her left just wants to melt into the floor from the embarrassment of it all. Especially when she feels tears welling up in her eyes, a couple drops breaking free to spill over her cheeks with that horrible wad of wet, messy emotions still caught in her throat.

“Uh…” Frankie looks at her, caught somewhere between utter confusion and rage, which must be a weird emotional place to be in, and Bridget will definitely be dying about this later.

“Do—I mean—” Frankie attempts, while Bridget feels the hot red splotches on her cheeks, and then, still just completely and totally mortally embarrassed about it all, gives a hiccupping little gasp of a sob. “Here, let’s uh, let’s go somewhere more—private.”

And then Bridget finds herself being more-or-less dragged to the women’s bathroom. Frankie deposits her in front of the sink, handing her a handful of paper towels while Bridget stares intently at the tile floor and tries to get her breathing under control. She blots ineffectively at her eyes, feeling like a complete and utter lunatic standing there under the harsh fluorescent lighting and completely losing her shit.

“Are you alright Bridget? Wait, no, that was dumb, I mean—look. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“You’re apologizing to me?” Bridget looks up at Frankie, tries to laugh it off, but it mostly comes out as a teary little blub.

“Yeah? I mean, I’m still pretty fucking pissed off, but I didn’t mean to like make you cry or anything. I just—I wanted you to at least acknowledge what you did to me.”

Frankie’s expression darkens for a moment, a shade of that cruel angry glare from before, but then she sighs—resigned—and continues, almost defeated sounding, “I, I wanted to know why.”

God. Bridget really wants to melt into the floor now. Even if she’s never been particularly fond of the girl, Bridget has the self-awareness to acknowledge that what she did was messed up, and it makes her skin feel all itchy. Guilty, she thinks pointedly, that’s all I’m feeling, just guilt, nothing else. And then before Frankie can make her feel any worse the excuses come pouring out of Bridget, another jumbled mess she only half-understands as she’s saying it—just, anything, whatever she can think of to make Frankie stop looking at her like that.

“I’m sorry Frankie. Really, I am. I’ve been acting weird for weeks, Ryan and I are fighting right now, and not that it’s like your fault, you didn’t even know, but I’m still so fucking mad at him, and you—just, when I saw you talking to him—I guess, I went kind of crazy?”

“Kind of?” Frankie chuckles, but it somehow manages to make Bridget feel a little bit less like the scum of the earth, so she’ll take it.

“Okay, fine,” Bridget rolls her eyes, “I went full-on psycho bitch.”

They share a small laugh at Bridget’s expense, and a part of the knot in her throat maybe almost starts to loosen, just a bit.

“I know it’s fucked up to take it out on you. I don’t—I was drunk and stupid and weird and such an asshole, and I didn’t mean to lead you on or anything. I’m a fucking mess right now but that’s got nothing to do with you, Frankie. I’m—I’m sorry.”

There’s another silence while a pit opens up in Bridget’s stomach, a yawning cavernous void of anxiety as Frankie gives her this look, like—like she doesn’t really buy it, but then, finally Frankie sighs, nodding, and that deep black pit in Bridget closes up. At least a little.

“Alright. Thank you for explaining Bridget.” There’s a pause as Frankie gives her a wicked sort of smile and then continues, “I will be the bigger person and choose to forgive you.”

And then she laughs, a real honest laugh, deeply amused at her stupid not-quite-a-joke. Bridget rolls her eyes, but it is actually a relief that Frankie’s gone back to being her normal annoying self. Receiving sympathy from the girl is almost worse than being shouted at by the mean angry cruel Frankie from before.

“Oh thanks,” Bridget snarks at her, but in spite of herself, she laughs a little bit too. And then she realizes how they must look, the two of them still standing in front of the sink, face-to-face weirdly close together, Frankie with her arms folded loosely around herself, near enough Bridget almost feels the warmth from her body while Bridget’s a tear-streaked mess, holding onto the wet paper towel and sniffling softly. So, she takes one precise step back and away from Frankie’s bubble, straightening herself, blinking away the remaining tears in her eyes.

“And don’t worry Princess,” Frankie is saying, all smirk now, “I won’t tell anyone about your meltdown. Secret’s safe with me.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bridget replies. She’s decided the best course of action is to go back to pretending like none of this happened and she doesn’t have feelings, like Frankie totally didn’t just watch her sobbing in a mall food court, and that she isn’t still holding that snotty crumple of paper towel.

She quickly tosses the offending ball into the trashcan and then goes back over to the sink to wash her hands. As if that would somehow help. God, her face is all puffy now, ugly blotches of red on her cheeks, her nose.

Frankie moves to lean against the back wall, watching Bridget in the mirror and looking far too amused at the entire situation. But at least she doesn’t say anything else; perfectly silent as Bridget tries in vain to fix her mascara.

Maybe, Bridget thinks, she really will be good on her word and won’t tell anyone, and then Bridget can bury this brief horrible moment way deep down inside her with all the other ones. She hopes so, even though she has no right to. It would only be fair, after all, for Frankie to use this newfound upper hand to give Bridget a taste of her own medicine. After all those years of torment Brianna and Bridget put her through? She wouldn’t blame her.

Bridget winces again, guilty just thinking about it. All throughout middle school Bridget and Brianna and Brooklyn did whatever they could to make Frankie’s life miserable for no other reason than she was weird and they could. Hell, they practically tortured the girl, every day for years, and sure Frankie was annoying and stuck up, but still. Looking back on it now, the whole thing just seems so petty and pointless.

“Hey Frankie?” Bridget says with a resigned sigh, meeting Frankie’s eyes in the mirror before looking back down again. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a horrid bitch to you for like, ever.”

“Yeah, you were kind of the worst,” Frankie laughs, and Bridget is about to get defensive again but Frankie’s still talking, all casual and breezy like they’re just having a chat about the weather outside and not the multiple years of bullying (and Bridget can’t even pretend like that wasn’t what it was, not in her own head) that they put her through.

“But that was like forever ago, everyone was a terrible monster when we were twelve. I’ve gotten over it,” she shrugs.

Bridget wants to say “Really?” all incredulous, how could anyone just shrug and be over that, but then she meets Frankie’s eyes in the mirror again, and she looks—maybe not exactly pleased, but definitely not traumatized or anything. Maybe that’s something.

“Thank you for apologizing, dude,” Frankie continues when Bridget doesn’t respond, still staring uselessly down at the counter. “I appreciate it.”

And she sounds like she really means it.

“You’re welcome, I guess?” Bridget replies lamely.

There’s another silence then, the soft drip drip of the faucet the only sound between them, but it’s a tiny bit less awkward now. Maybe we’ve bonded, Bridget thinks sarcastically.

“So maybe let’s get out of the bathroom yeah?” Frankie says, gesturing over her shoulder towards the door.

“Uh yeah, probably.”

Frankie turns around and heads back out to the food court and Bridget, at a loss for what to do, follows her.

“What are your plans for the day?” Frankie is asking as they walk together, looking over at Bridget like she’s actually interested in the answer.

“Uh—” Bridget stops to think about it. Brianna has almost certainly ditched her ass by now, and she won’t be able to get a ride from anyone else for a while. She’s not sure if she really wants to anyway; the mall is cool inside and being here is better than being stuck at home. Even with Frankie it might not be so bad, maybe, the two of them wandering around together.

Bridget’s sure then, that’s she well and truly lost it, suffering from heat stroke or psychosis or something. But she plays it cool.

“Nothing really,” she says with a bit of a shrug, “Brianna was my ride.”

“Oh,” Frankie chuckles again, “whoops!”

“Yeah.”

“Well, come on then,” Frankie says expectantly, waving for Bridget to follow her.

“Uh, what?” Bridget says instead.

“Let’s have an Adventure!”

And then Frankie stops walking, turning back around and giving Bridget this look that gleams, bright, mischievous, and Bridget is definitely not sure she likes that look. But since today is already strange enough as it is, Bridget sighs to herself, shrugging again. Fuck it, why not, she thinks.

It’s not like things between them could get any weirder.

Together they walk around downtown, something that Bridget’s done maybe hundreds of times, but following Frankie is like seeing it all for the first time again. Of course, she knows all these obscure places off the beaten path where tourists don’t usually go. A thrift store, naturally, with one of those weird fortune telling machines out front; a racist caricature in a turban that vaguely predicts something that may or may not be happening to them in the future. An actual photobooth in another random little boutique, a shitty arcade where Frankie wins Bridget a weird stuffed alien toy, record stores and stationery shops, and then they top it all off with vegan ice cream from a quaint local parlor that does strange flavors like black charcoal, or something called Unicorn Vomit. But it’s surprisingly good (even though Bridget sticks with tried and true vanilla, thank-you-very-much) and, in spite of herself, Bridget finds that she’s actually like, having fun?

They talk and they laugh while Bridget is pulled this way and that, clutching her new little alien friend and posing for dumb photos, and she finds that it’s quite an enjoyable afternoon.

With Frankie.

Wonders never cease.

But of course eventually all things must end. It’s getting to be early evening now, and Bridget realizes she was supposed to be home—Jesus, an hour ago. So they make the trek back to the mall, back to where Frankie’s car is safely waiting for them in the parking garage. And of course, Frankie drives a lime green Volkswagen Beetle with white daisy decals on the sides, of fucking course. Frankie drives her home blasting a Beach Boys tape the whole way—because of course her car is old enough to still have a tape deck, and of course Frankie listens to the fucking Beach Boys on cassette—and somewhere along the way Frankie asks Bridget for her number, oh-so-casually, like it barely even matters, and Bridget doesn’t think twice before she gives it to her.

And then suddenly Bridget is home, walking up to her room, ignoring the lecture her mom is currently shouting at her from the kitchen while she holds her phone in her hand, one new message from an as-yet unsaved number blinking up at her: hay gurl hay. And Bridget feels this lightness bubbling up from her, from where the lead weight and the anxiety-pit had been before. Not even her asshole mother can ruin her mood. For the first time in what seems like a long time, Bridget feels—good. More than good. Happy, she realizes.

And isn’t that pathetic? She’s happy from just one afternoon spent hanging out with her former mortal enemy. But Bridget can’t deny that she is. She’s happy, and she had fun, and she decides that she’s just not going to think too hard about why.

3.

The third time Bridget sees Frankie, she can’t actually see her very well at all. They’re at the Garden Arts Cinema, a small local movie theater, and it’s all dark and cool inside. Too dark to see much of anything. Which of course hasn’t stopped Bridget from trying to sneak sideways glances whenever she thinks she can get away with it.

They go to a lot of movies for a reason.

It’s been a few weeks now and Bridge is finding herself enjoying this weird sort of secret friendship they’ve got going on. Frankie has found a way, somehow, to make all the normally annoying things about her magically endearing. She loves telling dumb jokes and she loves to laugh, and her laugh is so infectious that Bridget usually can’t help but start laughing too.

She’s basically stopped talking to Bri and Brooklyn right now. Besides a random “where r u???” text and a couple Instagram messages they haven’t really interacted at all since that fateful day at the mall. It doesn’t seem like Bri misses her company, and Bridget doesn’t really miss her either. She prefers her Adventures with Frankie. With Frankie it’s just so easy, she doesn’t feel like she has to put up a front. She can just let herself exist, for once.

Frankie seems to enjoy her company too. Desperate, she had told Bridget. All her friends out of town, on their own vacations. And Bridget carefully felt nothing at all about it, when Frankie told her that she was essentially her last resort. It doesn’t matter. They’re just having fun together.

Frankie comes and picks her up in her ridiculous little hippie Bug and they hang out wherever she’s decided. Thrift stores—of course Frankie knows all of them—where she’ll try on atrociously tacky clothing just to make Bridget laugh, or they’ll hit up the arcade and compete for the most tickets. And then, of course, movies. Frankie likes Garden Arts because they do a lot of classic cinema and weird indies and every Tuesday tickets are five bucks.

Bridget likes that no one their age ever goes there, and on a sunny Tuesday afternoon even with $5 tickets, the theater’s almost always basically empty. Safe and dark and private. It’s not like Bridget’s ashamed of being seen with Frankie or anything like that. She just—she doesn’t want to deal with the questions she knows people would ask her. And she shouldn’t have to! This is—theirs, their thing. Their secret sort-of-friendship, born of desperation, and that doesn’t have to mean anything.

Frankie doesn’t complain about it, thankfully. Hardly seems to notice at all, really, that Bridget studiously avoids going anywhere somewhere might recognize them, doesn’t let Frankie come inside her house or see her friends. Honestly, she probably wouldn’t want to hang out with Bridge’s horrid Mean Girl clique anyway. Bridget barely wants to hang out with them.

So instead they go to Frankie’s places. Quaint cafes, weird restaurants. Empty movie theaters.

Frankie picked their movie today—they trade off—which means they’re watching a really bad horror movie from probably the 70s. Bridget has never voluntarily seen so many horror movies; it took her literal years before she could make it all the way through a Saw. Just, all that blood? No thank you. But she’s a Good Friend, and so she lets Frankie pick. Frankie has suffered through several bad romcoms for her, so it’s the least she could do. And Frankie’s kind enough not to make fun of her for being startled by the jump scares or hiding behind her during the goriest parts.

Like now, for instance.

“God please tell me when it stops!” Bridget practically squeals, squeezing her eyes shut and clinging to Frankie for dear life.

Frankie chuckles softly under her breath, but she doesn’t say anything.

And maybe Bridget lets herself cling longer that she strictly needs to, head turned into the crook of Frankie’s neck, breathing in the smell of her. Her shampoo—which always smells amazing—and her perfume and just her, her skin, and then Bridget realizes how fucking weird that is and she stiffens, pulling away and rearranging herself back into her seat.

Okay. So, Bridget officially has A Problem.

She’s not quite sure when it started, she didn’t notice when the change happened. When she suddenly stopped thinking of Frankie as the annoying stuck up hipster, or the slightly-less annoying girl she’s kinda casually hanging with, to—well. This. It’s just, sometimes Frankie just looks at her, when Bridget has cracked a particularly amusing joke, or even when they’re just sitting next to each other at a café saying nothing much at all, and it’s enough to make Bridget’s stomach go all…flippy and weird. Or sometimes Bridget will catch herself staring at Frankie and realize she hasn’t really heard anything she’s said for the past couple of minutes. She keeps getting distracted. By Frankie’s lips especially.

It doesn’t help that Frankie’s always wearing something on her lips. Whether it’s sparkly lip gloss or something stranger like black, or one time, memorably, fucking sunflower-yellow lipstick; and it draws attention. Like a bright yellow traffic sign. And it doesn’t help either that Frankie’s got a fucking obsession with candy. Lollipops that she keeps stashed in her purse and pulls out randomly, sucking on them for hours. Or, if not lollipops, then bubblegum; blowing giant ridiculous bubbles and popping them, over and over. And Bridget fucking hates it. It’s like Frankie knows, somehow. Like she’s doing it on purpose just to torment her.

And it definitely, definitely doesn’t help that Bridget still remembers what those lips felt like against hers. She can’t stop remembering it, in perfect painful clarity. It keeps her up at night, that wretched first kiss—and then, even worse, the second. It makes her stomach feel like she’s swallowed hot coals, like she can’t breathe. And it most definitely doesn’t help that Bridget can’t stop fucking wondering what it would feel like to have Frankie’s lips pressed against other places.

Seriously, it’s a fucking problem.

Suddenly there’s a blood-curdling scream from the pretty blond meat on screen and Bridget practically jumps out of her own skin, reaching out for Frankie’s arm again, her heart pounding in a sympathetic rush of adrenaline. And then, Bridget’s heart threatens to pound right on out of her fucking chest when Frankie just reaches over oh-so-casually and tangles their fingers together. Bridget thinks she might actually be having a heart attack right now, her stomach doing somersaults while she tries to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

Frankie doesn’t even look at her, her attention focused on the screen of course, taking a sip of her giant cherry Icee with her other hand, but Bridget can almost swear she sees the faintest hit of a smirk on the other girl’s face, limned in light from the screen.

Those lips. Cherry red today.

Oh no. Wrong thing to be thinking about while they’re fucking holding hands. Oh God oh God oh God—

But then, just as sudden, Frankie pulls her fingers free so she can grab a handful of popcorn from the bucket balanced on Bridget’s lap, and Bridget absolutely hates the way she misses that brief contact.

The rest of the movie passes in a blur. Frankie doesn’t try to hold her hand again and Bridget holds herself stiff as a board in her seat. She’s actually pretty sure that she’s died in fact, and this is her eternal torment in Hell, for being such a shitty person or something. It seems fitting.

“Alright? Movie didn’t scare you too bad, right?” Frankie is asking her as they stand in the lobby, just a hint of playful mockery in her voice.

“What? Oh yeah. Yeah, I’m—fine,” Bridget replies absently. She’s just a bit distracted at the moment. Why is my hand tingling right now?

“Ha ha okay. Come on, let’s get you home before midnight, Princess,” Frankie laughs, and Bridget especially hates the stupid flip her stomach does every time Frankie calls her that stupid nickname.

They head out together into the late afternoon summer heat, and before Bridget even realizes what she’s doing, she’s reaching down and grabbing Frankie’s hand again. Fuck. Frankie doesn’t say anything about it, hardly seems to notice, really. She just walks hand-in-hand with Bridget, laughing about something dumb that supposedly happened during the movie.

Meanwhile, Bridget is basically on the verge of a goddamn meltdown, the warmth of Frankie’s hand in hers making her heart go all stupid again. She thinks it’s probably a little weird (and definitely incredibly stupid) to be walking hand-in-hand with another girl when they’re seventeen years old—a gay girl no less—and it’s probably even weirder that she’s so fucking freaked out about it. Bridget wants to let go but she also kind of doesn’t, and she’s totally way overthinking holding hands with someone, this is officially insane—and, and Frankie’s laughing again at some joke Bridget missed.

Inside Frankie’s car they sit and wait—it’s old enough the AC takes a while to kick in—and it’s quiet except for Frankie’s favorite Beach Boys tape. The poppy fun music is completely at odds with how Bridget is currently feeling, too distracted by the rapid beatbeatbeat of her own heart to make casual conversation.

“Bridget,” Frankie says suddenly, entirely too serious.

“Yeah?” Bridget turns to meet Frankie’s eyes for the first time in, God, hours.

She’s caught in Frankie’s deep brown gaze, those eyes practically magnified by the ridiculous glasses she wears, surrounded by thick dark lashes, and Bridget’s throat goes dry. She swallows. There’s a beat as she hangs suspended for a moment in that tension, and then, because Bridget has evidently gone completely and totally one hundred percent absolutely nuts, she leans in towards Frankie and then—

Then, before Bridget quite realizes it’s happening, Frankie leans in too, over the center console; close, too close, and then—and then—

Then Frankie is suddenly fucking kissing her.

It’s just a quick little peck, barely anything at all really, but it still somehow feels like lightning sparking down Bridget’s spine; and then just as fast Frankie is pulling back with a wicked little smirk.

“There. Now we’re even,” she giggles.

Oh for fuck’s sake—Bridget feels like she’s gonna vomit up her own fucking heart. That’s it. A girl can only be reasonably expected to take so much torment. So she grabs Frankie by the shoulders and pulls her in close and then kisses her for real, goddamnit.

Apparently her memory is a liar, because this kiss feels nothing like the other ones did. Those hazy nightmare-dream kisses that still fucking haunt her. No, this one is way better. Maybe it’s because she isn’t drunk off her ass and miserable this time, but God, this is. Right. She feels the crushing weight of her heart hammering away in her chest, and she thinks she might actually explode with it as Frankie leans in and kiss her back, and it’s all just so different-new-thrilling-exciting-terrifying—and Bridget knows she’s definitely dead now, because she’s actually pretty sure she’s stopped breathing. Her grip on Frankie’s shoulders is white-knuckled, and she doesn’t stop until her lungs burn.

When they finally part for air Bridget can’t help but notice the way Frankie’s gone all breathless, and that does something absolutely stupid to Bridget’s heart.

“Finally,” Frankie says, relieved, giddy, some other emotion Bridget doesn’t have a name for.

“What?” Bridget blinks at her, lips tingling as she sits there stunned stupid, feeling like a moron.

“Honestly, I’ve been waiting for like a week now for you to get over whatever your deal is and kiss me already, but you’re a pretty stubborn lady, you know?”

“You—you knew?”

Oh, wow Bridge, not even gonna try and deny it, huh?

“Uh yeah?” Frankie says like it’s obvious. “I mean, I hate to tell you this sweetie,” and there goes Bridget’s heart again, “but you haven’t exactly been. Uh. Subtle.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh come on Bridge, I’m not blind. I can see you staring at me when you think I don’t notice. You blush. Either I’ve got a second head growing out of my neck I haven’t noticed that you’re too embarrassed to tell me about, or you’re into me.”

“What—I—” Bridget sighs. She really can’t pretend not to know what Frankie’s talking about, not when her stomach feels like it’s flipped all the way inside out and her heart won’t stop fucking beating, and all she can think is I wanna kiss her again. It’s hopeless.

Bridget wants to grab Frankie again and kiss her silly, and it terrifies her.

“Sorry,” Bridget mumbles, a supremely weird mix of embarrassed and horny.

“You don’t have to apologize, Bridge. I was trying to take things slow, give you space. Didn’t wanna freak you out. I thought—”

“What?”

“It’s silly.”

Bridget gives her a look.

“Well, okay, but I thought if I flirted enough, you’d get the hint? But goddamn you are oblivious, or maybe I’m worse at flirting than I thought—”

“You were—were flirting with me?!” Bridget blurts out before she can stop herself.

“Oh. Okay, so I guess I am worse at that than I thought.”

And is it just Bridget’s imagination, or does Frankie sound embarrassed?

“No! Shut up that’s not what—I, I’m sorry. I just—why?”

And now Frankie’s staring at Bridge like she’s the one with the second head.

“Uh, because I like you too?” Frankie says, as though Bridget had asked her what color the sky was. “Okay, just so we’re clear here, I uh, I really kinda like you Bridget? And I’m pretty sure you like me too, I mean—”

Frankie waves vaguely to the space between them while Bridget feels her face heat all over.

“And uh,” Frankie stops, swallowing. Holy shit, she’s nervous. Finally, it isn’t just Bridget freaking out by herself. “I dunno, maybe you wanna go out sometime?”

And then Frankie’s round freckle-dotted cheeks go absolutely bright pink, and Bridget is definitely in trouble, because it’s the cutest fucking thing she’s ever seen. She’s sure now. She’s died, and maybe she’s not in hell, but this is clearly some weird afterlife-fantasy scenario. There is no way this is really actually happening.

Bridget stares at Frankie for a minute, lost for words.

Frankie, with her neon-pink-orange bob and her blunt bangs that make her look a bit like a comic book character, with her thick black cat-eye glasses and her delicate features, her softly almond-shaped eyes so dark, dark enough to get lost in; with her elegant pale throat and the black choker wrapped around it, and the voice that comes out of it, the one Bridget can’t stop dreaming about.

Frankie, who is a complete and total weirdo and so deeply, genuinely sincere about it. Bridget can’t believe she used to think it was some kind of act. She knows better now of course, knows that it’s impossible for Frankie to be anything other than herself. This goofy sweet silly smiling pixie, who is just so fucking beautiful that it makes Bridget’s heart ache.

Frankie, who for some unfathomable reason, actually likes Bridget too.

Why? What could Frankie possibly see in her?

In Bridget, the never-quite-as-pretty one, the boring one, the side-kick-in-her-own-damn-life one. She honestly has no idea why Frankie would like her, why anyone would, for that matter. But maybe—maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe, she could—maybe, just maybe—

Why not, Bridget thinks. She might not understand it, but she wants to believe Frankie, believe that another person, this person, could know her and still want to be around her, be with her. So, she pulls Frankie close and tries to tell her with a kiss, since she can’t say the words.

Yes yes yes I wanna go out I like you so much I wanna be your girlfriend please like me too please oh God please don’t stop kissing me, never stop—

“So, is that a yes?” Frankie says, all sweet and innocent, once they’ve parted again.

Bridget rolls her eyes. She’s the worst, Bridget thinks, but then, God I’m totally into it aren’t I?

“Ugh. Fine. Yes.”

Her stomach, miraculously, does not manage to come up her throat with the words, as much as it threatens to.

“Good,” Frankie laughs, the sound making Bridget’s stomach flip back over, and then she kisses her again.

That night Bridget goes to bed with a heart full of glitter, all her nerve endings spark-fizzing with joy while warmth blooms down deep in the pit of her stomach. She swears she can almost still feel the pressure of Frankie’s lips against hers, the slick wet heat of their mouths pressed together, the taste of Frankie’s cherry-flavored lip gloss.

God, Bridget thinks, lying in bed and staring at her phone, the text message from a still-unsaved number (several sparkly heart emojis and a ridiculous kissy face) that makes her feel like she’s flying as she runs a finger over her screen. God, I am in so much fucking trouble.

4.

The fourth time she sees Frankie, Bridget’s sprawled out on a picnic blanket watching her, watching as Frankie dances to the music they’re playing off her phone, watches her twirling and singing along enthusiastically and generally being a complete and total dork. Just to make Bridget laugh.

This is their Fifth Official Date (not that Bridget’s been counting or anything); an almost disgustingly adorable picnic in the park. Frankie has brought an honest-to-God picnic basket and everything. There is iced tea and sandwiches carefully cut out with a heart-shaped cookie cutter, because of course there is.

Frankie just does shit like that. It’s absolutely ridiculous and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if someone might make fun of her or call it stupid, she takes Bridget on cheesy-romantic dates and sends her “good morning babe,” and “sweet dreams hon,” texts every single day and makes her actual mixtapes and heart-shaped goddamn sandwiches, and it all drives Bridget absolutely crazy. It makes her heart feel like it’s about to explode into confetti.

Today is a beautiful almost-breezy late afternoon and they’ve managed to find a nice shady spot under some trees and down a steep hill that’s relatively private. No one’s around to bother them for playing their music too loud, and even better, there’s no prying eyes to judge her when Bridget decides she can’t take it anymore and pulls Frankie down on top of her.

Frankie giggles like crazy—which always makes Bridget’s stomach feel like she’s swallowed a bunch of butterflies—as she tumbles into an awkward heap on top of Bridget’s lap and into her waiting warms, laughing and squirming as Bridge assaults her with kisses wherever she can reach.

It’s pretty fucking incredible that she can just do that, now.

So far they’re trying to keep it casual. Well, as casual as Frankie can be. Bridget is quickly discovering that Frankie has a hard time being casual about anything she feels—if the mixtapes and picnics are any indication—but, it’s casual enough. Taking it slow. It’s—it’s not like Bridget’s ashamed or anything. She just hasn’t told anyone yet.

And it’s not like she has to, anyway. It’s no one’s business but their own. Just the two of them. This little world they’ve created, these little stolen moments. With Frankie everything else just disappears for a while and Bridget doesn’t have to worry so much about everything. She doesn’t have to care what people would think, what they would say; she doesn’t have to care about anything but this girl.

This impossible wonderful ridiculous girl with pink-orange hair and strawberry lip gloss, who makes Bridget heart-shaped sandwiches and makes her head spin. This thing, so precious and pure. Is it so wrong that she wants to protect it as long as she can?

She hopes Frankie understands. They haven’t exactly discussed it, but Bridget thinks that she does.

“Hey you,” Frankie says, still sprawled on her lap, arms resting casually around Bridget’s shoulders, hands tangled in her hair. Rubbing idly at the back of her neck. That feels nice.

“Hey yourself,” Bridget replies, with a giant ridiculous grin on her face, looking up at Frankie and the plastic pickles that are dangling from her ears. Because of course, Frankie has a pair of earrings shaped like plastic pickles.

God I’m just absolutely stupid for her, aren’t I?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Frankie asks her.

Bridge shrugs. “It—it’s nothing. You. This, I like this.”

She waves a hand between them.

“Hmm, me too.” Another casual kiss to Bridget’s cheek, and Frankie smiles, that smile that just lights up every single corner of Bridget’s stupid idiot heart.

Casual, she warns herself. Easy. Nice and light. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. To keep the rest of the world away from them.

5.

The fifth time Bridget sees Frankie is the worst, because they’re fighting. It seems like they’re always fighting these days. They’ve been whatever they are for over a month now, and Frankie’s frustrated. Clearly. Tired of keeping it a secret, of hiding. And Bridget knows that, she hates making Frankie feel like she’s ashamed of her, of what they have together.

But.

She just—

Brianna has started noticing things. They’re talking again, and she’s asking questions. Questions Bridget doesn’t—can’t answer. Doesn’t have the words to even begin answering them. And Ryan too—Christ they’re still technically dating, aren’t they? They made up before he left, and now he’s still texting her, even away at football camp, and she texts him back and it makes her feel—

Rotten.

Even her parents have almost caught them twice, and she can’t keep—she can’t keep doing this.

Bridget is scared. She’s panicking, she knows it, and she can’t stop. Can’t stop the anxiety that bubbles up whenever she’s not with Frankie. And lately, even when she is with her. Like now for instance. They’re at their spot, their safe private spot in the park but Bridget swore she saw someone from school walk by and now she’s totally freaking out. This is way too much, way more than she asked for.

It’s just—it’s, it’s too good.

So, Bridget pushes. Pushes Frankie away, and of course Frankie’s so stubborn she just pushes right back, and lately all they do is yell at each other, and—

And it just sucks so fucking much. Bridget knows that she picks fights with Frankie on purpose, some part of her just knows that Frankie’s way too good for her, so she’s decided to burn it all down before Frankie has a chance to get sick of her, to hurt her first. And Bridget hates herself so fucking much for it, for doing this, but somehow, she just can’t stop.

Coward, she thinks bitterly, as Frankie storms off, and Bridget immediately regrets it. The words she said still echo like a firework, like gunshots—why are you so fucking clingy all the time—and Bridget wants to call her back, to apologize. To beg and plead and make promises she can’t actually keep, to do whatever it takes just to see that smile back on her lovely Frankie’s face.

But she can’t.

Coward.

So the next time Frankie texts her to apologize, Bridget doesn’t respond. Through all the time they’ve been hanging out, she’s never once ignored a text from Frankie, but she just. Can’t. So she doesn’t.

And when Frankie texts again, worried, asking if she’s okay, Bridget just deletes the message, heart sunk like a stone deep in the black void of her stomach.

Bridget keeps deleting them, feeling her heart crack open a little more with each new notification, each new message more and more worried. And then the worried messages turn to angry messages, and it’s what she deserves, so Bridget doesn’t delete those. She reads every single one and lets them pierce through her empty cavernous chest, the ruined crater of her heart, all the while thinking coward, thinking monster, thinking—no knowing that she’s the worst person who ever lived.

And then finally, horribly, the texts just stop coming altogether.

Bridget pretends like she isn’t dying inside, looking down at that last message from Frankie: okay fine fuck you too you fucking bitch. It makes Bridget feel like she’s swallowed broken glass, seeing those words there. But she can’t fix it. This is what I deserve.

Instead she goes back to Ryan, back from camp now looking all boyish charm and tan and big muscly arms, and it’s just easy, so easy to flirt and to bat her eyelashes and let him woo her again; and she goes back to Brianna and Brooklyn, and they don’t ask questions.

And the worst part of it all really, is that Bridget can’t tell anyone about it. No one even knows. The whole wretched summer is locked away in some alternate universe and she can’t say a single goddamn word. And then, even worse: the one person who could possibly comfort her in a situation like this, the one person who had so quickly become her biggest emotional support, so vital to her, is the exact fucking person she can’t turn to, because Bridget is a fucking monster who has ruined everything good in her life.

So, she pushes it all back down, way deep down into the pit of her, to rot with the rest of her emotions. Bridget had been well-practiced in the art of bottling shit up way before she had ever met Frankie, and she can do it again. She can smile and laugh and be pretty and perfect and popular. With her handsome wonderful boyfriend and her two best friends. All of it just so fucking perfect.

But no, that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part comes a week later, at the tail end of summer, when she gets home from Brianna’s house one evening to find her parents waiting for her in the kitchen, her laptop open on the table and a small box she’d somehow forgotten about sitting next to it. Bridget recognizes that box instantly, and it feels like a bullet straight to her heart. She stops dead in her tracks, voice caught in her throat.

That box. Random empty packaging from a birthday present, kept hidden under her bed. Secret, safe. And after—after everything, she’d simply forgotten all about it, forgot to throw it away. The things inside aren’t that important; photobooth strips and a couple silly little arcade prizes, the mix tapes, cute notes folded into origami hearts—but then, not quite so meaningless: the ring. It hadn’t been anything like, crazy, just, they’d been them for a couple weeks, and Bridget had spotted this pretty rose gold ring in one of their favorite thrift stores. It was a small, delicate thing, shaped like a wreathe of intricate little leaves. No stone, but elegant and dainty and nothing like Bridget had ever owned. So Frankie had surprised her with it the next time they went out. And absurdly, Bridget had almost wanted to cry when Frankie gave it to her.

She never wore it, of course—that felt like too much of something—but even just keeping it near her, in her little vault of treasures, it was—

Ryan had never bought her jewelry before.

Seeing that box now, on the table, it feels like Bridget’s entire chest has been sliced open, every awful weeping oozing thing she’s been trying to keep bottled up leaking out all over their pristine tile floor. She feels—flayed. Raw. She wants, bizarrely, to laugh almost; and then suddenly, she wants to cry, and the rush of emotions makes her feel dizzy.

They know.

“Bridget,” her father says, his voice so cold hard angry that it gives Bridget goose bumps. They. Know. “Your mother and I found some—concerning messages on your phone last night, on your computer, and we’d just like to talk to you.”

They know oh God they know how did they—

It’s all come tumbling down, crashing in on her, crushing her under the weight of it. Catching her breathless and she can’t—Bridget can’t—she—so she does the only thing she can think to do. She lies.

When it’s all said and done, her parents know all about poor Bridget and her Psycho Lesbian Stalker. She pours it all out of her, exactly what they want to hear. How she’s just so sorry she didn’t tell them, how she was so scared—because Frankie scared her—they were just friends, Bridget was being nice because she pitied her until Frankie got all crazy and delusional and obsessed with her and Bridget couldn’t tell them, she wanted to so bad of course, but she couldn’t, she was just so embarrassed about it all.

There’s threats of a restraining order; a tense meeting between her parents and Frankie’s parents and lawyers (it’s almost ironic, Bridget thinks, that this is how she finally meets Frankie’s family), and when it’s all said and done, Frankie promises to stay away from Bridget at school, promises not to try and contact her again so they don’t have to involve the authorities in this ugly business. Frankie will leave Bridget alone and no one else has to know.

And the whole time, Bridget can’t look anyone in the eye. She decides then, sitting in that horrible office watching Frankie caved in on herself, defeated, that she is done feeling things for good.

She doesn’t tell Ryan or Brianna anything about it. She couldn’t do that to Frankie. Not that. Of course it doesn’t matter, it couldn’t possibly make up for the colossal mountain of horrible things Bridget has already done to Frankie, but still. She doesn’t want to talk about it anyway.

And then about four days later Bridget finally breaks up with Ryan for good. Sick of him, sick of being near him and pretending. She’s sick of seeing the way Brianna looks at him, like she’s mentally inserting herself where Bridget’s standing next to him. And of course, they’ve barely finished typing their goodbye texts—amicable enough—when Brianna is suddenly calling her, utterly, utterly heartbroken but wanting to know if Bridget minds, maybe, if she asks Ryan out. Apparently, she had just dumped Matt, her so-called True Love, the day before.

Bridget honestly does not fucking care anymore. She feels emphatically nothing about it, about either of them. Fine. Let Brianna have him. Bridget honestly can’t even remember why she wanted him so badly in the first place, except because Brianna did too. Whatever. She hopes they get married and have a bunch of perfect fucking children and grow old together and die.

She lets it go. All of it, she keeps on Not Feeling Things all the way until school starts. Right until the night before, when she wakes up suddenly, startled by a nightmare, her heart aching with fear and guilt. Bridget reaches out—still half-asleep—like somehow Frankie would be there, would be beside her telling her that it’s alright and to go back to sleep. But all Bridget feels is the empty sheets instead.

And then, Bridget is done pretending she doesn’t feel things. All at once it all bursts out of her, all the regret and shame and guilt and anger and wretched awful heartbreak pining, all the gross ugly tears she’s been keeping locked up for way longer than this summer. All of that pain finally pouring out, spilling out all over her, and Bridget just hopes she doesn’t sob too loudly.

Thankfully no one wakes up or comes to check on her, and that’s almost worse, somehow. Bridget curls up into a ball on her floor, and that’s when she notices the a small forgotten plushie under her bed. She recognizes it instantly. Herman the Alien. The very first thing Frankie had given her, before, before everything, before they’d even—it was that very first time they hung out together, at the arcade. He’d somehow come out of the box and managed to escape the Great Purge.

Bridget looks at him through the tears streaming down her face, his giant black eyes and tiny little smile, and this stupid green alien plushie just breaks something inside her, another wall come crumbling down. So, fully aware how completely and totally pathetic she must look, Bridget crawls over and pulls him out, cuddles him close. Wishing it could somehow bring her comfort, that it could somehow bring Frankie back.

Stupidly, Bridget wishes that she could go back in time and undo the entire awful summer, that she could fix this, and she’s not entirely sure which part she wants to change. She hardly understands anything anymore, really, except that she misses Frankie, right down to her marrow, and she hates it so much.

Most of all, Bridget wishes that she was a different person, a better person. Somehow who could have deserved something as sweet and as good as what she had with Frankie. She wishes that she hadn’t been such a colossal idiot, a coward about it, and that she hadn’t thrown it all away.

But it’s useless. Bridget is not a better person. She’s known that all along, of course. This is what she deserves. She is a horrible monster who fucked everything up, and she can’t ever fix it. So instead, she holds a dumb stuffed alien and she cries and cries and cries.

It doesn’t help.

6.

The first day of school, Bridget walks up to Green Valley with her head held high. There are rumors swirling around, but there always are, and Bridget is too used to pretending she doesn’t hear them. Everyone knows about the Ryan-Brianna situation by now of course, and the looks of pity people shoot her would normally drive her nuts, but Bridget doesn’t feel anything anymore, so she hardly notices them. She finds Brianna waiting at their normal spot, her and Ryan standing close together like they had been made for each other in a lab somewhere, his paws draped all over her. Obnoxious. And the rest of their friends stand there too, all of them talking and laughing and just so fucking perfect.

Bridget can’t help but notice that Matt is conspicuously absent, however. She doesn’t blame him.

Of course, her and Brianna and Brooklyn have all their classes together. They’d set up their schedules at the end of last year, before the summer, before—everything. It had seemed natural, logical, at the time. The three of them always had all their classes together. Now though, Bridget walks into first period wishing she could join the witness protection program and move to another country where no one speaks English.

Their first period is Chemistry—which is already torture enough, honestly—and she comes in and sits at their usual spot, back corner, forever Brianna’s right hand woman. The two of them talk like they don’t secretly hate each other’s guts, performing for their audience.

And so of course in first period Chemistry with Bridget’s blood near boiling, simmering rage and everything carefully hidden underneath, all bottled up but almost leaking out of her, that’s when—

God. She walks in.

Frankie. In one of her fanciest tea-length floral-print vintage skirts, all perfect poofy petticoat and hair freshly dyed a bright aqua-teal color; bangs straight, eyeliner sharp. Looking for all the world like a woman on a mission. Determined. Proud. Bridget’s heart aches.

She watches Frankie’s eyes scanning the room, looking for something, and then—she sees Bridget staring at her and her mouth drops open in a small, startled “oh.” Almost like, like she’d forgotten, somehow. Bridget feels what remains of her heart shatter into impossibly tinier pieces, feels like she’s about to vomit up every single wretched shard right there on the table and so—

So, Bridget looks away, and she pretends she doesn’t see her.