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lis-likes-fics · 6 months ago

Text

Love Letters

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Word Count: 8.1k words Warnings: Murder, torture, depictions of mental illness, typical Criminal Minds content... A/N: Collabed with a couple friends about the serial killer. Guys, this was hard. Spent sooo much time building this character and then didn't even end up using all of the stuff we came up with. But it was fun and I enjoyed this and I hope you do too! Special thanks to the ones who helped me plan, @the-nerdy-goddess and @thecreature-bug and my beta reader @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen!

A knock on your classroom door has you turning your head, and you smile at the sight of the math teacher one door down.

You know why she's here, sneaking a “meeting” before all the kids get here for homeroom. You roll your eyes, scooting back in your rolling chair and crossing your arms.

“So how was the date Saturday?” Esther asks, raising a teasing brow as she walks further into the room, taking a seat right on the side of your desk. “You get lucky?”

You scoff. “I wish. The guy was boring. It was a total snooze fest.” You pick up a paper from your grading stack, marking another consecutive one hundred on little Amelia's test. “I told him I was a teacher and he told me how he had a crush on his teacher from the eighth grade.”

“Blergh,” she groans, making a face. “Was he a gentleman, at least?”

“I wish, part two. He didn't pull a chair, he didn't open a door.”

She shakes her head in disappointment and pats your back. “Your gentleman is coming to you soon. You deserve it.” She reaches over, picking up your necklace and running her thumb over the F before dropping it back down. “And I like that necklace.”

You laugh sarcastically at her, jutting your chin out toward the mirroring E around her own neck. All the fifth grade teachers wear one, a gift from Sarah’s—the science teacher’s—birthday party. “I like yours.”

She brushes the golden charm on her dark chest with a smile. She scoots off your desk. “Hey, if you're looking for another date, I might have a guy.” She winks at you, and you almost throw a pencil at her.

“Don't you have a class to teach?”

“Eventually,” she shrugs. “Small accident a few blocks away, traffic’s backed up. Buses are late–”

“–and most of your class rides the bus.” You nod, “Yeah.”

She walks to the door, patting the frame twice. “But I'll leave you be. I have copies to print.”

You shoo her away. “Goodbye.”

She winks at you again, clicking her tongue. “See you.”

The elevator doors close as David steps in next to Aaron. After a quick once-over, he smiles. “You look tired. Jack?”

Aaron shakes his head as he glances at his shoes, “No. Jack's fine.”

“Oh,” Dave raises his brows. “Did Aaron Hotchner have a date?”

He chuckles, amused by the assumption. “Me?”

He shrugs. “Good to have a little hope.”

Another rare chuckle passes his lips as he shakes his head again. His voice is low and soft with his amusement. “Yeah, I had a date. With a wrench and a kitchen sink.”

He hums, tilting his head from side to side as if weighing the options. “A date is a date. At least you can fix the sink.”

“Alright,” he mumbles lightheartedly.

Dave pushes the doors open as they enter the round table room, watching as the rest of the team slowly makes their way. When everyone is present and accounted for, he begins.

“What have we got, Garcia?”

Penelope sets her coffee cup down, making a face. “Oh, my little ducklings, nothing good.” The screen turns on and presents a round of crime scene photos, multiple women covered in uniform cuts all matching the other perfectly, besides the differences in the letters adorning their chests. It's graphic and strange.

Garcia avoids looking with everything she has. “Some hikers at the New River Gorge Bridge in West Virginia were going about their business when they found five perfectly marked graves lined up in a row.” The presses a button and said graves are shown before and after they were dug up. When Garcia says perfect, she means perfect. The graves are perfect rectangles, all the same size and depth and almost as though someone used a ruler to make sure the lines were straight.

“The bodies found were Madeline Johnsons, Beatrice Cabrera, Clara Warner, Dakota Platt,” one more press reveals a woman with dark skin now pale with death, “and our latest victim, Esther Cooke.”

The team flips through the files they were given, analyzing the information as it comes. “All were found covered in multiple incisions all over the body, and letters carved on their chests.” She makes a face. “I don't know how much you guys gate papercuts, but I know that if I got as many as our victims here, I'd be forever emotionally ruined.”

Reid's analytical eyes take in the sight of the bodies. “It's almost reminiscent of Lingchi, translated to ‘slow slicing’ or ‘death by a thousand cuts’. It was a form of torture and execution used in China around the 10th century until the early 20th century.” He talks a mile a minute, squinting his eyes at the photos as he does.

Prentiss shrugs, “Well, one papercut is bad enough, I could never do a thousand.”

JJ brings her drink to her lips. “I couldn't do ten.” They chuckle to each other.

Morgan juts his neck toward his files. “How did they die? The wounds are made for bloodletting.”

Garcia groans lightly. “So not glad you asked. Their throats were slashed, two incisions made at each side of the neck to cut the jugulars.” She adjusts her glasses, glancing at her tablet. “Autopsy reports say very slowly and with a very sharp knife. Like the unsub was trying very hard to keep steady. They also found traces of chemicals used in disinfectant in the wounds.”

Prentiss' brows knit together. “Why not just cut it clean across?”

“Well, look, there are 26 cuts in total on all the bodies, including the one at the neck,” Reid points out. “The incisions were very specific.”

“‘Course it was, look at that pattern,” Morgan says.

Each limb has a total of six equal cuts along the top of them, with the last two finishing off at the neck. It's too specific.

“All of the letters on their chests match the beginning of their names, except for Madeline. She has an A,” Garcia explains. “Madeline's family said she went by Addy.”

“Then the letters carved into them match the first letter of their names,” JJ says. “Maybe he's trying to go through the alphabet.”

“Matches the cuts,” Rossi shrugs. “There are 26 cuts, 26 letters of the alphabet.”

“Who died first and who was last?” Hotch asks, not looking up from his screen.

“They were killed and buried in alphabetical order, sir.”

A few members of the team nod, their theory supported. Reid clasps his hands. “Paired with the perfection of the graves, the specificity of the incisions, the disinfectant, we could be dealing with someone struggling with high level obsessive compulsive disorder.”

They agree.

“But how is he targeting his victims, other than by their names?” Prentiss wonders, “I mean, how does he figure out what their names are in the first place?”

Rossi sighs, “I guess that's what we have to find out.”

Hotch looks up at his team, his stern gaze glancing among them. “Based on the timeline of these kills, we hopefully have about a week before he strikes again. Let's not give him time. Wheels up in thirty.”

You look up at the gentle knock on your door interrupting your silent lunch break. You clear your throat, dropping your hand from your necklace as you lay eyes on Principal Luis.

“Hey,” she greets softly. “You doing okay?”

You nod, offering a half-hearted grin. You've had to smile at your kids all day today, despite the grief, and you were really depending on your break to wind down from it. “Considering.”

“You think you could talk? There are some FBI agents here with a few questions about Esther.”

You sniff, furrowing your brows. “FBI?” For you? You supposed that makes sense. You were close enough…

Two agents walk into the room, their professional blacks offset by the colorful parade that is your classroom. It looks strange, almost silly. You stand to greet them.

The woman offers a smile, a kind face to ease any worries you may have. The man is a little more stern, but there's a gentleness you admire hidden beneath.

“Hello, Ms. Hughes,” he greets. “I'm Agent Aaron Hotchner, this is Agent Jennifer Jareau. We're with the FBI.”

“You can call me JJ,” she says as she reaches a hand out toward you. You take it. “We're here with a few questions about Esther Cooke.”

You try not to look too miserable.

Agent Hotchner’s voice is soft as he speaks to you. “The principal said you and Ms. Cooke were close?”

You nod, crossing your arms. The classrooms are always cold. It's felt a little colder lately.

“She worked right next door,” you try not to stutter. “We were the closest in our department. I'm holding conferences tomorrow with parents about taking some of her kids into my homeroom until we find a…a replacement.”

Noticing your disquiet, JJ speaks up. “Was there anything going on in Ms. Cooke’s life? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Thinking, you shake your head. “Not really.” You shrug, “It was school, home, and not much else. The occasional night out with me, we are–” you clear your throat, “we were both single.”

Agent Hotchner adds in, “We're there any strange absences or even a trip she was going on?”

Again, you think. But nothing really comes up until– “She mentioned that she went on this tour thing with her parents last weekend, local. Some sort of…hiking thing? It's usually for tourists but they won free tickets.” Then you back track, “Is that the kind of thing you're looking for?”

JJ glances at Agent Hotchner. You're not sure what that means. “It could be.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” he asks.

You shrug. “Monday…before she went home. She didn't show up Tuesday or Wednesday, I figured she just got sick or something…forgot to tell me.” You rub your cheek with your sleeve. “I thought it was weird ‘cause she didn't call in or anything. I had to request a sub for her.”

Agent Hotchner nods. “Thank you for your help.”

“Of course. Anything.”

He dug in the inside pocket of his suit. “Call us if you have anything else. Here's my card.”

You reach out to take it, your fingers brushing. It was a comforting feeling. “Thank you.” The words are gentle as they leave you. You shake out of your slight daze, “Uh, here's mine if you have any other questions for me.”

You go behind your desk, grabbing a sticky note shaped like a koala and the first pen you see (which ends up being the brightest green marker you own)... The kids love the colors.

When Agent Hotchner takes it, he almost grins. You recognize the hidden amusement in some of the kids you teach. The ones that are harder to get to open up, even at this age. It's a little sad. Those kids happen to be some of the sweetest you know.

The sight of him in a sophisticated suit with all his professionalism, holding a cutesy koala sticky note is almost comical. He nods his thanks, and then turns to JJ.

They both begin to make their exit when you stop them. “Hey.” They turn. “Did anyone find her necklace?”

“Necklace?” JJ furrows her brow.

You nod. “All the fifth grade teachers have necklaces with our letters on them. Just like this.” You pick up the little charm around your neck for them to examine. “Except she had an E.” You let it drop, scratch the back of your neck as you hum. “Her parents said they never found it when they…”

The thought of saying “dug her up” out loud was haunting, and you already felt that shrinking feeling in your gut.

JJ redirects. “Would she normally take it off?”

You shake your head quickly. “Not Esther. She loves–” you sigh, annoyed now that you keep making the mistake of present tense. As an English teacher, it hurts more somehow. “She loved that necklace. We all do. We wear it nearly every day. Especially now.”

Agent Hotchner nods again, a really gentle movement that you honestly appreciate. “We'll keep an eye out,” he says. “Thank you for your time.”

You nod back at him, offering what smile you can. “Thanks.”

They leave and you check the time. You'd have to get your kids from lunch soon.

“Did she have anything?” Morgan wonders as Hotch and JJ return.

JJ’s teasing brows bounce. “Other than Hotch’s number? A bit.”

Rossi smirks, leaning across the table. “Did you find something special with our Ms. Hughes?” He puts emphasis on the title so Hotch is fully aware of her marital status.

“Let's focus, please.”

Hotch doesn't seem particularly annoyed, but there is a case at hand and he wants it solved as fast as possible.

Besides, it would be unprofessional to call her like this…asking her on a date after questioning her about her recently deceased.

The team giggles quietly amongst themselves. Children. But they do focus in as Morgan's phone rings as a signal to their resident oracle.

“Talk to me, babygirl.”

“I ran those credit card records like Hotch asked,” she starts. “All of which come up with very different results with no special link but one: three of the five all purchased hiking tickets for a guided trail a few days before they went missing. But they're very popular trails, tourists and families go all the time.”

“Hiking trail?”

“Is that significant?”

JJ looks around at the group. “Ms. Hughes said Esther Cooke’s parents won free tickets. They just went last weekend.”

“That would explain why it doesn't show up on the credit card records,” she says. The clack of her keyboard fills the space before she's speaking again. “Oh, yes, I see. The reservation is written in her mother's name.”

Reid looks up from the board where he worked on his geographical profile. “Clara loved out of state,” he says, “she was visiting. That could be how he found out about her.”

Rossi agrees. “So he's choosing most of his victims at the trail. Maybe he's a guide?”

JJ shrugs, “But how is he picking his victims?” She walks over to the pictures of all the victims hung up, their differences glaring as she shakes her head. “He's compulsive, he can't do it at random.”

“I don't think it is,” Hotch says. Eyes fall on him, urging clarification. “Ms. Hughes said something that stuck out to me. Esther Cooke always wore a necklace with the first letter of her name on it, but it was missing from the crime scene.”

The wheels turn in Reid’s head as he breaks away from his map. He picks up the crime scene photos, sorting through them to compare them to the headshots of the victims lining another board. “We might have something,” he mumbles. He picks up the first victim’s pictures. “Here, you can see Madeline wore a necklace with her nickname, Addy, on it. But at the burial site, it's missing.”

Prentiss catches on, picking another. A quick examination has her nodding along. “And look here. Clara had one, too. Hers is just a C.”

Rossi’s heavy brows furrow. “So you think he's targeting these women based on their necklaces?”

Reid words fly from his mouth as he speaks. “If he's killing them, burying them, and carving their letters all in alphabetical order, that could be his trigger—seeing the letters already in place and feeling the need to make it permanent, perfect.”

Morgan picks up Esther's picture, nodding. “We ready to give the profile?”

“I think so. Garcia,” her attention is lightning quick at the sound of her name, just like her wit, “get me a list of everyone who went on those trails and every guide who has led the ones our victims participated in.”

“That list is going to be longer than the Nile, but like Neith, I shall be victorious,” she declares.

Prentiss adds in. “Go ahead and narrow that down to white males who live in the area.”

“That helps.”

“Thank you, babygirl.”

“Happy to help, my salacious little snack.” She smacks the “ck”. He can hear the smirk in her voice. “I'll have that list in a jiffy.” Morgan chuckles as the call ends.

You plaster a grin on your face as you welcome in the next pair. It's been a long day already. The children have been a little fussy, others just sad, about the changes going on during class. The parents you've seen already have been awkward, annoyed, or (on the better occasion) nice, and you're ready to go home.

Just a few more meetings, then you can go home.

“Hello,” you greet. “Thank you for coming in.”

Ms. Tucker smiles gently, doing her best to be kind. She's one of the more patient parents. Her husband on the other hand… You've never been able to describe him as patient.

“Could we make this quick?” Mr. Tucker asks, checking his watch. He blinks harshly once, twice, three times, before looking back up at you. “I've got an appointment in an hour and…thirteen minutes.”

“Don't be rude, Larry,” his ex-wife insists, rolling her eyes as they take a seat in the chairs set in front of your desk. You sit as well, mentally bracing yourself for his meeting.

“Well, she's bringing us in here to tell us our kid isn't doing well in school. How do you want me to behave?” Another tight blink follows as he whispers under his breath, “Behave, behave.”

Ideally, these meetings should take no more than maybe five minutes. But parents make that difficult sometimes.

“Maybe if you spent more time with Peter, he wouldn't be having trouble,” she insists.

The animosity coming off the two of them is creating an environment that makes you want to kick them out of your room and do what you want. But you can't.

He scoffs. “Spend more ti–”

“Actually…”

They turn back to you then, remembering you're there as they close their mouths and listen. “We're not here to talk about his behavior. Peter has been wonderful in class.”

You grab Peter's file. It's just a stack of papers with Esther's old notes for him and his grades. You clear your throat quietly. “As you may know, the teacher next door to me just passed, and we are rearranging her classes until we can find a suitable replacement because we are short staffed.”

You hate saying “replacement”. These meetings have been hard enough simply because she's gone, but being the one of the people already working to replace her has been mentally taxing.

You pull your necklace from inside your shirt, sighing as you look up at them, toying with the charm.

You don't catch it. The movement is so slight and the whisper is so gentle that the moment goes completely over your head as Mr. Tucker's eyes lock on your charm. Under his breath falls a small, “F…F, F.”

“This conference was just to ask about whether or not it would be alright to transfer Peter into my class,” you continue, grasping the top pages out of the file. “Otherwise, his behavior has been fine. He's a smart boy with good grades. Ms. Cooke’s notes do say that he has a bit of trouble mixing with classes though, and he can be a little distracted. Another reason he would switch, he needs the extra social help.”

Ms. Tucker leans in slightly. “You said he has trouble mixing in?”

You nod, tilting your head as you remember Peter's behavior during your classes. “He's a little lonely.”

Mr. Tucker murmurs under his breath, holding onto the words. “Lonely.” His brows twitch. “Lonely…lonely.” You know they're tics, so you try not to make it obvious that you've caught it.

“He got along well with the teachers, but he's closed off to the other students. She saw that a couple of other kids picked on him, but they were little things that we were able to solve fairly quickly.” You sigh, thinking for a moment. You have to choose the right words, or this will end in an argument. “I would recommend trying to get him into things outside of school. A sport or a club, just something to get him to interact with more kids.”

Ms. Tucker is all ears as you speak, taking in what she can as she contemplates a solution. Her ex-husband seems a little out of focus, however. He watches you, his eyes taking you in, in a way that makes you uncomfortable.

“It also helps when the parents are on the same page,” you push through, ignoring the crawling in your skin and focusing on this child and his needs. “I realize you went through a divorce recently, which can be tough on your son. I know it's not my business to manage your relationship, but for the sake of your son, it's important not to be hostile in front of him. It could force him into thinking he has to choose a side, which can lead to negative effects on his mental health.”

She nods, soaking it in. “We can talk about it. You have our permission to take him in.”

“Yes.” Mr. Tucker nods. You watch his head dip three times. “Yes, yes.”

You sigh internally, glad the meeting is coming to a close. “Thank you,” you smile. “Did you have any questions for me?”

He replies, smiling as well. “No. Thank you.”

“Alright,” you close Peter's file, “then we should be good.”

“Thank you,” Ms. Tucker says. She reaches a hand out to shake your hand, and you take it. Her ex-husband does the same, though he lingers a little longer than you appreciate.

“Of course.”

They leave. You take a moment to breathe before you welcome in the next parents. And two meetings later, you've wrapped everything up. After clearing your desk, you snatch your things and head straight for the door.

You're happy to know it's not too late when you step out of the building. The sun is still up, but the moon is beginning to show with the coming evening. As you make your way to your car in the relatively lonely parking lot, it blinks when you unlock the doors.

You open the back door to throw your things inside, slamming it shut and opening the front in one movement.

You don't hear the footsteps behind you over the sound of your relief about the end of your day. So when something comes down hard at the back of your head, your pain and surprise is interrupted by the sudden darkness that overcomes you.

“You're on speaker.”

Garcia’s voice arises from Morgan's voice like the oracle she is. “Then I shall speak my prophecy for all to hear. I narrowed that list down significantly to the tour guides that lead the trails all of the victims went on—except the one who didn't. Speaking of, it turns out that our odd one out, Dakota Platt, put in an application to work as a guide but was denied. Anyway, I came up with three matches.”

Rossi hums. “Narrow the list to anyone recently going through a major change. A divorce, potential job loss, something like that.”

The sound of Garcia’s keyboard is heard over the phone, her voice coming a second later. “That takes one out. There's Perry Williams, he's just suffered a loss in the family—his mother died of lung cancer four months ago, around when the killings started. Then there's one other, Laurence Tucker, who just went through a divorce around a year ago. He's fighting a custody battle with his wife, started a couple weeks before the estimated time of the first murder.”

“Can you take a look at their medical histories?” Prentiss requests.

“Tucker has diagnosed OCD. He stopped taking his meds at the same time as the divorce.”

JJ is already on her feet as she slips her phone in her pocket. “That's our guy.” The rest of the team follow suit.

“I've just sent his home address to your phones.”

Hotch is packing his things as he speaks. “Garcia, go through his history. There may be something to suggest where he may be taking his victims to torture them. He can't be taking them home.”

Morgan raises the phone to his mouth. “Thanks, hot stuff.”

“Anything for you. Garcia out.”

“Clear.”

At the sound of the last check, Hotch lowers his gun as he sighs. “Hotch.” He looks over to see Reid peeking his head out of a room down the hall. He follows him, walking inside and following his gaze down to Reid’s hand, where he's holding a necklace he's pulled from a dark box on the dresser.

There are four necklaces neatly arranged within it, the fifth in Reid’s hand. An E for Esther.

His phone rings. “Yes, Garcia?”

She speaks quickly. “Our guy grew up in the area and attended a schoolhouse when he was little that was shut down years ago for unusual practices with the students. Reports found that the teachers there used to discipline ‘bad kids’—and by bad, I'm not talking just behavior, these are kids with diagnosed Autism, ADHD, OCD, the whole alphabet. Oh…maybe that wasn't the best word.”

“How were they disciplined?” Reid asks, pulling her back on track.

“Oh, right! The teachers used to slap hands with rulers and spank these children, sometimes with paddles. Sometimes kids would come home with big red letters drawn on their chests or clothes when they received failing grades as a way to shame them into passing.” She hums, “I'm guessing that's where the signature comes from.”

Reid sets the necklace down, “Is the building still up?”

“Like I said, it was shut down years ago. It was marked for demolition, but they never got around to it. The building still very much exists, and it's covered in wooden boards and caution tape.”

Hotch nods. “Send us the address. This could be where he's killing them.”

“Already done,” she says. “Also, fun fact. I learned that Tucker's son attends the school Esther Cooke taught at. Apparently, he was one of her students.”

A chill ran down Hotch’s spine as he thought about that. Scrambling in his jacket, he pulls out the koala sticky note in the inside pocket. “Garcia, I need you to give me another address.”

Reid’s brow furrows at his sudden haste. “What's wrong?”

“Ms. Hughes held conferences today for the parents of children Esther Cooke taught.”

Reid walks after him as Garcia retrieves the address. “So?”

“She wears an F.”

Your bleary eyes are so dazed and heavy. Mixed with the pain, it was hard to keep your head up and your eyes open. The letters lining the top of the walls, the alphabet which wraps around the room, fly around your head. It mixes with the chairs and desks, arranged so neatly around the room, lining the walls like the letters do. There's chalk and pencils and paper, all old and run down but set so neatly. The chaos and the tidiness is maddening.

It really hurts. Your arms and legs are covered in cuts, slow and methodical and painful. Your limbs shake with exhaustion, sweat sticks to your forehead and you feel heavy and sick. He'd removed your necklace. It's sitting on the desk where he keeps the rest of his supplies. You want it back.

His disorder is evident, and it bleeds over you with a glaring taunt. Every time he cuts you, he measures it with a ruler, and then you're thrown through the added torture of him disinfecting the wound each time. He counts it each time. He chants under his breath every time he cuts you, every time you talk, every time he blinks.

You just want to go home.

“Mr. Tucker, please,” you beg for the hundredth time, your plea falling on deaf ears.

He shakes his head, his ruler in the middle of your thigh. You want to move it. If he can't make a precise cut, he won't cut. But you don't have the strength. It's taking a lot to keep your head up.

“Hush,” he urges absentmindedly. “Hush, hush.” He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose, careful not to use his hands.

“Why are you doing this?”

His attention is razor sharp as he measures. “I have to.”

It’s the most answer he's given you so far. Maybe if you just keep him talking, you'll be able to talk him out of it. You keep your voice gentle, trying not to sound as pained as you are. “Why?” you ask, though your voice wavers. “What did I do? What did Esther do?”

The name seems to spark something as he nods three times. “E, E, E.”

Your brow furrows. “Is this because of our necklaces?”

He shakes his head this time. Three times. “You won't understand.”

You sigh heavily. “Then help me understand.”

“You won't, you won't.” He picks up the knife, and you flinch away from him. “You won't.”

You keep trying. “You just have to talk to me,” you give him the best smile you can. “You can talk to me, Larry.” If you say his name, maybe you'll appeal to him. You can make it personal. You have to try something.

He mutters under his breath, as though he's thinking. “Talk, talk…talk.”

You nod, speaking slowly. “Yes. Just put the knife down, and we can talk.”

A scream tears through your throat as he drags the sharp blade across your thigh. It burns and it sears and tears stream down your cheeks at the feeling.

“19, 19, 19.”

You don't know what number he's going to, but you're scared for what he'll do when he finishes counting.

You struggle around the lump in your throat to speak, forcing out a breath to try and level yourself. “Is this about your OCD?” He glances up at you, but he doesn't give it too much thought. “I recognize it. Peter has early signs.”

“Peter,” he mumbles, finally taking pause to think. He hums and blinks.

“Yes, Peter,” you urge. “Your son. If you keep going, you could hurt him.” It's hard to see past your tears, but you keep going anyway. “When you get caught, and you will get caught, Peter will be taken away from you forever. He'd never forgive you.”

“Forgive me,” he huffs, shaking his head and rubbing his face. He grips his ruler in one hand. “Forgive me, forgive me.” He presses the ruler to the other leg, “Stop talking.”

You try to squirm, “Larry– Ah!” You purse your lips to stifle your shout, squeezing your eyes shut and clenching your fists.

“20, 20, 20.”

A round of sobs rack through you. You can't hide the pain anymore. It's so evident, and it's so intense. You can't breathe. You hiss as the disinfectant stings.

“Please,” you cry. “Please, just tell me why.”

He shakes his head. He's upset now, you can see it in the crease of his brow, in the excessive head shakes, in the way he rubs his face so roughly. “They said I have to.”

“Who?”

“My teachers.” He looks around the room, and his eyes fall on the alphabet lining the walls.

You follow his gaze. The schoolhouse actually makes sense now. You thought he'd chosen it because it was abandoned…

“I can't do the alphabet. I have to do the alphabet, alphabet.” He says it like he's reciting something, like he's punishing himself.

Your breath is heavy, you blink rapidly, trying to see past your tear-filled eyes. “Your teachers made you do this?”

God, sometimes you hate teachers.

He rubs at his eyes, sighing heavily. “A, A, A,” he begins, speaking quickly and almost like he's struggling to speak. It reminds you of memorization methods. Sometimes you suggest it to students who have trouble remembering vocab—write it down over and over until you remember. Maybe that's why he's doing it? “B, B, B. C, C, C. D, D, D. E, E, E. F.”

He opens his eyes and points his knife at you. “F. F.”

The fear flares within you again. You try not to turn to a blubbering mess. You can't communicate with him if you can't speak properly. “Is that what you're doing?”

He moves to your arm. You try to pull at the duct tape he's got wrapped securely around your hands. You've been trapped here so long, your hands are numb, your wrists are bruising.

“Have to get to Z, Z, Z.”

You almost shout it when he presses the ruler to your arm. “Listen, listen, listen!” you say it in a rush, so, so scared. He actually stops. “Okay, they said to say it three times, right? You have to write it three times?”

The number triggers his tic. “Three, Three, three.” It's honestly becoming annoying. It's insistent and repetitive and it feels almost invasive. But you have to be patient or he'll just kill you faster.

“You don't have to do this.” Your face is itchy from the tears drying and re-wetting, but you can't scratch. “You're gonna be okay.”

He's not listening anymore. “Behave,” he warns, holding the knife to your face. “Behave.” He shakes his head. “Behave.”

He's stopped listening. Despite your screams, he measures and cuts and cleans and measures and cuts and cleans, repeating each number as he comes to it with calculated method.

You clench your fists as the knife digs into your thigh again. You're surprised you can get your broken cries out as you struggle to breathe.

He stands up, taking large steps back to look at his work. You suppose he's almost done, and that terrifies you.

You think about your students, the little kids in your classroom who have already lost one teacher and are now going to lose a second. All those good kids are going through so much already. They all loved Esther. You know they all loved you. You have a wall of art, holiday cards, and plenty of hugged legs to show for it.

You don't want to lose them. You don't want them to lose you.

In a last ditch effort to dissuade him from his pursuits, you shake your head and sigh heavily. “Please.”

He comes closer to you, squinting his eyes to try to ease you. “Shh, shh, shh,” he says. “Just close your eyes. It'll be over soon, soon, soon.”

He presses the ruler to your neck, and you don't have the strength to fight it. It inspires more tears as you shake your head weakly. “Please, please, please.” You chant it, closing your eyes shut. You brace for the end…

Both of you jump when the loudest crash resonates within the room. Wood splinters and heavy boots stomp against the floor. Startled, he staggers back. You open your eyes, lights flashing as the room crowds with armoured people.

“Laurence Tucker, drop the knife.”

You know that voice. You recognize it. It's hard to see past the lights and the tears in your eyes. You know him.

“Can't! Can't. Can't, I have to finish. I have to finish. I have to finish.”

He's panicking. Too many things happening at once, everything out of order, everything out of control. He grips the knife tighter, looking between you and the cops in the room.

Someone else, their voice louder and less patient, shouts. “Drop the knife now!”

“Behave, behave. Behave!”

Someone else's voice, softer and somehow understanding, speaks. Though the voices are beginning to blur. “We know what your teachers did to you,” he bids. “We know how they hurt you.”

They hurt him.

He shakes his alphabet, losing it over the chaos. His frustration is palpable. Every time they speak, he gets more and more angry. “Can't do the alphabet. I have to do the alphabet. I'm supposed to do the alphabet!”

“Larry,” you speak, your voice hoarse from overuse. You catch your breath, keeping your voice level. Like you're talking to one of your students. He's scared, he's angry. He needs patience. “Larry, look at me.”

You can practically feel the concern of the agents rolling off of them. They don't want you misspeaking and making him more upset than he already is.

But he looks at you, and he seems to respond to the softness because his furrowed brows shift very slightly, his anger turns to some semblance of fear.

Although it hurts, you try to smile. It's taking so much to lift your head, even more to get the words out without the heaviness of your rising fear and exhaustion.

“They were bad teachers.” He rubs his face, but you press on, speaking slowly. “They weren't supposed to hurt you. Teachers are supposed to help. They were wrong.”

He closes his eyes. “They were wrong,” he whispers, like he's trying to convince himself. “They were wrong, wrong.”

The desperation seeps in. “Let me help you,” you whisper. “Let them help you.”

“Help me,” he mutters, his voice as quiet as yours. “Help me, help me.”

The first voice, the one you know, he speaks again, patient but still an order. “Drop the knife, and we can help you.”

“Help me,” he whispers. Slowly, he moves as he contemplates the words. “Help me.” They raise their guns in alarm, but he keeps crouching until he's finally kneeling on the floor. He grips the knife. “Help me.”

“Just breathe, Larry,” you huff. The spark of adrenaline you'd gotten from your rescue is wearing off again. You feel like you might pass out. “It'll be okay,” you mutter. “It's going to be okay, it'll be okay.”

He stares at the floor, thinking. “Okay…okay,” he drops the knife, and it clatters to the floor. “Okay.”

They make quick work of cuffing him, forcing his hands behind his back as the metal clinks against itself.

An agent immediately rushes to you, and you immediately recognize him, just as you had his voice. Agent Hotchner kneels before you, carefully removing the duct tape around your wrists and ankles. “Are you alright?” His voice is so soft and gentle. You lean into it as your eyelids become heavier and heavier.

“I think I'm gonna pass out.”

Your voice is scratchy when you speak. He looks you over, and his hand comes to press against your cheek. It's oddly intimate, though you know it's for comfort. You lean into the warmth. It's helping.

“No, you won't,” he says as he removes the tape wrapped around your middle. “I've got you.” He glances behind him, throwing his demand over his shoulder. “Get me a medic.”

He turns back to you. “Can you stand?”

You want to say yes, but you genuinely don't think so. You shake your head, “I don't know.”

“Do you want me to help you stand?”

You nod, the movement choppy. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says. He wraps his arm under yours, lifting you slowly, carefully, like you're fragile and precious. “Can you tell me your name?”

Your words are sticky and slow. You genuinely think you're going to pass out. “You know my name.”

“Yes, I do.” He nods, and when you glance up at him, he's giving you the gentlest smile, and you feel like everything is going to be okay. “Can you make sure I have it right?”

You hum. “Fawn Hughes.”

You're so discombobulated that you don't even give him your birth name, instead the one granted to you since you were little.

“Fawn,” he mutters. “Is that your nickname?”

You nod, slowly, and hum.

“It's nice.”

The both of you make your way as he helps you hobble out of the schoolhouse and into the evening air, past golden hour where pinks and purples coat the sky. It goes a little faster when the medic finally arrives. They help you onto a stretcher, and Agent Hotchner apologizes every time you whine at the pain.

When you're settled, he gives you a gentle nod. You grab his hand before he can turn to leave, hoping he doesn't notice the way you wince and knowing he does. “Thank you,” you mutter.

He sighs gently. “Don't thank me.”

“Thank you,” you say again, a little more insistent this time. You swallow thickly, the falling adrenaline increasing the solemnity as your exhaustion begins to crash down on you in waves. You're surprised when you feel a tear slip down the side of your face, disappearing into your hairline. You'd cried so much already, you weren't aware you still could. “He was going to kill me. If you hadn't come through, I'd be dead. So thank you.”

He looks down at you, nodding gently, the movement almost imperceptible. “You're welcome.” He glances at the medic, and then toward the ambulance waiting for you. “They'll take care of you.”

You didn't want to ask, but the need is too strong. You're so scared, and he's the only one here you truly trust. Besides the fact that he'd come to your rescue, you don't necessarily know why.

“Can you please stay?”

He thinks for a moment. Really, he should be here helping the rest of the team. But as he looks over, locking eyes with Rossi talking with Prentiss, he looks between the two of you and sends him a nod.

Agent Hotchner turns back to you and nods. “Yes.”

You want to thank him again, but you know he'll just tell you not to. As they load you into the ambulance, he holds your hand, and you lay back and answer the medics questions.

“Mom, I'm fine.”

You sigh, as your mother's worried voice rises from the other end of your phone. “You were kidnapped and tor—Shit!—tortured by a deranged serial killer. I have a right to be worried.”

“Well, you don't have to be. I'm okay. See?” You show her the bandages wrapped around your arms. “Patched up and healthy. Doctors say I should be out of here tomorrow morning.”

“We'll be there by then.”

“You don't have to come down.”

“Hush. We're coming down, and you can't stop us. I love you, and we'll see you in the morning.”

She hangs up before you can respond. You shake your head and sigh, setting your phone down. At least you know she was worried about you.

You glance up when you hear a knock at your door. “Come in.”

The door opens as Hotch steps inside. His face is gentle, though without a smile. You miss it in a way as you offer your own.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice just as soft.

You take in a breath. “Okay,” you say. “Considering.” You motion to your phone on the bedside table. “Got off the phone with my mom, she's…already on her way from out of state.”

He closes the door gently behind him, sitting on the chair beside your bed. “She's worried about you.”

You nod. “Yeah, I know.” You sigh, glancing over at him. His eyes are on you. Your lip twitches, fighting a bigger smile. You clear your throat. “Doctor said I'll scar, but…the knife was so sharp and steady enough that they should scar fine… They're discharging me in the morning.”

“That's good.”

“Yeah.”

Honestly, the quiet is nice. You look at him, at the features of his face, the softness mixed with his professionalism looks good on him.

“We retrieved this from the schoolhouse,” he says, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit. He hands you a necklace, your necklace. You smile gently, reaching out for it as he places it in your palm.

You're going to have trouble wearing it for a while, but it's nice to have it back. You look up at him thankfully.

“We also found this at Tucker's house.”

He hands you a second necklace. It's identical to your own, except this one has an E…for Esther.

You swallow the rising lump in your throat. Your smile aches as you breathe through the tears threatening to well in your eyes. You look up at him, your smile trembling as you hold back tears you've already shed. “Thank you.” He nods, smiling very briefly. “I'll, uh…I'll get it back to her family.”

“I'm glad I could help.”

Another comfortable silence falls over you. You tilt your head as you look up at him, wrapping the necklace around your fingers as you think. Something's on his mind.

“What is it?” you mutter.

He contemplates for a moment before he speaks. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you manage to talk him down so well? You seemed so…calm.”

You look down at Esther's necklace, thinking for a moment as you shrug. You speak slowly, clearing your throat as you rub the thumb of your free hand along the white bandage on your forearm.

“He told me his teachers made him do it.” You close your eyes and take a steadying breath, the events of the night before too fresh to ignore. “That agent…said his teachers hurt him, so I treated it like an abusive parent situation. He just needed someone to be on his side.”

You hate that it had to be you, but at least you understand why he did what he did. You almost hate that you understand. “He was hurt as a kid. That kid needs to know he's not alone.”

Hotch thinks about that, nodding gently. “You're a wonderful teacher.”

His words are genuine. It warms you and puts you back at ease. “Thanks.” You smile at him, his little one reflecting back at you. “I guess I'll just have to figure out what to do with myself until they let me go back to my kids.”

A tiny chuckle escapes him. It's a good sound for him. “I think the children will be fine.” You chuckle as well, the sound of his laugh a contagious thing that you can't help.

He glances over his shoulder, out of the open blinds of your room to see Rossi standing in the hall. Hotch’s smile simmers down as they make eye contact. He nods, standing to his feet with a sigh.

“I have to go,” he says, almost regretfully. “Get well soon.”

You turn your palm up as it rests in your lap, wanting to reach for him but not wanting to seem desperate. “Thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me, Ms. Hughes.”

After a moment, Hotch turns toward the door, placing his hand on the handle. “Agent Hotchner?” you call timidly, your heart thumping in your chest and your palms clammy. He pauses on his way to the door, turning back to you with a gentle look.

You clear your throat, dipping your head and trying not to seem as nervous as you feel. You almost died. If that didn't tell you how short life is, you don't know what will. Asking wouldn't hurt.

“I know you're probably busy and all, but…” you lick your bottom lip, summoning the courage to look him in the eyes as you smile nervously. “Would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?” You think for a moment, “I'll stop thanking you so much if you do.”

Since meeting this man, the smile he gives you is the largest you've seen on him. It summons your own beaming grin as he looks at you with cheeks you swear are tinted pink. He chuckles gently, taking a couple slow steps to you as he nods. “I would love to.” All the weight of your worries lift from your shoulders with a sigh. “Please, call me Aaron.”

Your cheeks warm at his gentle affection. You have to clear your throat to speak. “Okay, Aaron,” you say. “But only if you call me Fawn.”

Another tiny chuckle comes out of him. “Where did Fawn come from?”

It’s a genuine question, an innocent curiosity you're happy to sate. “I used to be obsessed with deer as a kid. The nickname stuck,” you say with a shrug. “Some people think it's stupid, though. You can call me by my–”

His interruption isn't rude. In fact, you have to fight the urge to hide your face away as he says next, “I'm looking forward to that dinner, Fawn.”

You smile. “I'll hold you to that.”

Aaron gives you one last smile, saying a soft goodbye as he leaves the room to join Rossi, who gives him the biggest smirk he's ever witnessed.

As David opens his mouth to say something, Aaron stops him immediately with a raised hand and an annoyed grin on his face. “Don't.”

David raises his hands in defense, walking silently next to Aaron to join the team.

Criminal Minds taglist: @queermaxwooo @mdanon027 @lilianhallee @hpstuff244444 @thegr8estpuff @niktwazny303 @bubbles2300

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #reader insert #female reader #fanfic #fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner whump #whump fic

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the-fiction-witch · 1 year ago

Text

Feelings

Media The Queens Gambit

Character Benny Watts

Couple Benny X Reader

Rating Sweet + SMut

Requested:

Hey fiction witch, if u can see this I have a request, in the show Beth leaves New York and goes back to her house and when Beth and Benny r on the phone Benny gets upset and tells Beth to not call him, after that happens can u plz make y/n find out that Beth hurt Benny and y/n being her sweet and empathetic self, goes to comfort Benny in his house and yk wtv happens next 🤭 if u can make that story asap that would be amazing thank u 🙏

I shifted my hips from side to side humming along with the tune coming from my record player speaker, My hands in the hot water washing up the dishes and pots from dinner. I jumped as I heard my phone begin its blaring. So I left the last pot to soak trying off my hands on my apron as I scampered my shoes across the floor of my little townhouse I quickly turned down the volume on my record player as I passed the shelf, I lost my footing a little on the rug's stupid curled corner and went tumbling onto my sofa on my back, luckily just beside my phone table so I picked up the red rotary phone from the table bringing it to my ear.

"Y/l/n Residence." I smiled

"Hi y/n" Beth smiled

"Ohh, My my to what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Harmon?"

"Oh you know, nothing unusual. How's queens?"

"Boring. But finally unpacked my last few boxes so shaping up nicely. How's kentuky?"

"Much the same" she smiled "So, I had a question."

"ahh there is the point of your call, of course, ask away"

"You've been to Moscow correct?"

"Yes, I have. I assume there is a follow-up question."

"Yeah, I'm doing a bit of packing. I know everyone says Moscow is cold but... exactly how cold?"

"When they say cold they mean cold beth. It's freezing in Moscow. The snow came up to my knees. I was so cold I ripped stuffing out of the hotel pillow to shove in my bra because I was convinced my nipples would freeze off. and that's coming from a New York girl" I laughed "Pack for ice. Pack for snow. Pack for seeing your breath inside buildings."

"Really?"

"If you're too hot you can always take layers off," I explained

"Fair enough,"

"That all?"

"I had something else to ask too"

"Sure, fire away."

"Did you... Like to fuck Benny?"

"That's a bold question for six pm"

"But did you, when you two were... together?"

I laughed "My darling Elizabeth. Me and Benny never have been... together. Not officially anyway."

"But when you did. Did you like to?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"You can say every time you've had sex you liked it? sometimes stuff's just shit"

"But other than those times"

"I did. Course I did. Benny... is a complicated man"

"How so?"

"Because he's Benny" I laugh "He's weird, he thinks fifteen steps ahead at any one moment, he's passionate and dedicated with an ego big enough to fly himself to Moscow and back, but he's also... you know a man. so he's blunt and simple, and can't see a hint five inches in front of his face." I explained, "Why?"

"I think. it might be over."

"Over? Did it ever begin?"

"I mean... kinda. sort of. It's complicated."

"Beth. What happened?"

"So you know how Benny's been bugging me to come to New York"

"Yes. Because he misses you. That's his way of saying that."

"Yeah he even told me"

"He told you he missed you?"

"Yes"

"And you did what?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing!"

"Yeah I mean we called a little more but not much else. and I kinda... pissed him off"

"What did you do?"

"I gave the church the money back. I tried to ask him for money. if he wants to come he can help me pay for it right? he flipped out and told me not to call him again. That was... two days ago and he won't answer the phone. Guess I'm just kinda..."

"You're serious?" I sighed

"Yeah."

"Okay... I have not got time to deal with you" I sighed sitting up normally "All I'm gonna say is you've fucked up Beth. And I am going to clean this up, not because I want to help you. But because I care too much about Benny. I will call you later and we will have a chat" I told her before hanging up the phone

"Fuck..." I sighed "Harmon, you do make my life difficult" I grabbed the phone again and dialled the number for the Brooklyn basement listening to it ring but no answer, I tried again but still no answer, I gave it one more try but still no answer.

I gave up setting the phone back on the receiver and I got to my feet untieing my apron throwing it on the kitchen table grabbing my handbag making sure to grab my spare key. changing my shoes and slipping on my gloves before rushing out locking up my front door as I scampered down the steps of the stoop I unlocked the door on my little red mini threw my bag on the passenger seat quickly started the car up and scampered through the New York streets using all the little cut thoughts I knew to travel the six miles from my townhouse in queens to the basement in Brooklyn. I pulled my mini up behind the little blue Beatle parked and grabbed my bag climbing out of the car and heading down the little foul-smelling stairwells until I finally reached the metal door giving it a firm few taps. No answer came. but I could hear noises from within. I knocked much louder but still no answer came.

I rolled my eyes grabbed the spare key from my handbag forced it into the lock and opened the door shutting it behind me immediately I could tell things weren't good.

This apartment was dark, gloomy and damp as usual, bottles littered his table enough you could use them as pieces in a chess game, and things haphazardly moved around the apartment. And Benny amongst it all. Barefoot. Black jeans tight to his body, his belt gone, his black turtleneck on with his sleeves rolled up, frustration across his face, a beer in hand that he finished and there across his apartment smashing it on the wall.

“Benny?”

He ran a hand through his hair and glanced up at me “Hey y/n.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine” he snapped grabbing a cigarette from his table setting it in his mouth and lighting it up with his old Zippo

“Benny.” I glared

“I'm fine.” He snapped

“Beth called me.”

“Did she now? You come down to tell me I'm an asshole”

“I don't make judgements till I hear both sides” I answered “So, tell me what happened.”

“So it fucking -”

“Calmly.”

“It's over. I'm done with her. I have put up with so much shit from her. She treats me like a doormat, and only calls me when she needs something. Well she can go fuck herself” he says pacing around his apartment

“Okay, what exactly happened?”

“She gave the money back. Asked me to pay for us. She ignored everything I told her. All because she didn't want to sign some worthless bit of paper. Now I can't go to Moscow with her. Fine, she clearly didn't want me with her anyway.”

“Alright, and you told her?”

“I told her not to call me again. She wants to do this on her own fine. She can. She won't hear a word from me, but she can fuck off if she wants anything.”

“You've been ignoring calls?”

“I didn't exactly feel like talking right now”

“Alright, go get changed and I'll make you some tea”

“I don't -”

“Benny. Don't make me bonk you with a spoon”

“Fine I will get changed” he sighed going to his room “and make coffee.”

“No tea. Coffee will keep you up and you do not need more energy right now” I explained going and making some nice tea one for me and one for Benny taking and sitting them both on the small table in the centre of the living space, as well as a glass of water I took a small dustpan and brush from the cabinet and cleaned up the broken glass from the bottle as well as any other little mess that littered the apartment. I went to the small record player beside the chair and for a moment flipped through his small collection grabbing a nice album of some gentle swing music adding it to the player letting it spin and turning it down to almost nothing, and I took a seat on the pile of pillows he used as a sofa. Soon enough he returned with a fresh set of clothes, some new jeans, a black T-shirt and his green button-down

“There you feel a little better now?”

“It is nice to have some fresh clothes on” he grunted back

“Come on” I offered patting the pillow beside me

“I'm not in the mood y/n”

“Benny. Come here.”

He rolled his eyes but came and sat beside me still as angry and frustrated as before leaning his head against the exposed bricks

“Good, now when did you last drink something?”

“I'm not thirsty”

“Did I ask that?”

“No”

“When did you last drink something? You're only going to give yourself a headache” I told him, offering him the water but he turned away “Hydrate. Or I will hit you with a spoon”

He took the glass and had a sizable sip

“Thank you, now come here and talk it out”

“Y/n I know you mean well but I’m-”

“I will get the spoon in a minute.” I warn “Come” I demanded patting my thigh

He rolled his eyes but leant over so I wrapped my arms around him letting him lay his head in my lap “I don't see how this is going to help”

“You need to acknowledge and work through your feelings”

“I don't have feelings. I'm a man.”

“Ohh no you don't have feelings. That's why you've been spending your days in a dark basement drinking like a fish and frustrated smoking. No feelings at all” I smiled gently petting his soft fluffy hair

“I don't need to work through my feelings.”

“Yes, you do. Otherwise, you're just going to be angry forever. And god knows I can't deal with that” I laughed

“Fine” he sighed

“Take a moment just to clear the brain” I smiled playing with his hair in all the usual spots he liked me too

“My brain doesn’t clear.”

“Then hyperfocus. On the ticking of the clock, the nice gentle music, clear the mind of all other things and just exist for a moment”

We sat for a few moments just enjoying the quiet of his basement, the gentle hum of the music and the rhythm of our breaths

“Okay” He nods sounding far calmer than before

“That help?”

“A little”

“Okay do a Big breath in.”

“Why do I-”

“Benny” I warned so he did as I asked “Big breath in. And back out. Another one in… and another out. Okay? Feel a little better?” I smiled walking him through it a few times

“A bit”

“Are you calmer?”

“Somewhat”

“So, tell me what happened”

“You going to tell me when I’m wrong?”

“No. I'm not going to say anything you just explain and I will listen.”

“I try asking her for months to come up to New York, actually spend some time together, no she's busy she needs to do this, she needs to do that, she ghosts me for six months, okay I try asking to go to Paris with her support her with the tournament, no she's going on her own, she can't afford to take me too, so fine she goes on her own only when she's fucked herself up so bad she looses her tournament and has headlines everywhere she was drunk as a sailor then! I got a call. I try to be supportive and offer to pick her up from the airport. No, she wants to be alone. I try to talk her through everything and offer her a safe space, so we can be together and work stuff out, no she wants to be alone. She wants to drink. Fine, I try! I try and say she can drink so long as she came here no she wants to go and get drunk. She goes home to Kentucky and ghosts me again. She calls me finally because she wants my advice and again I try to get her to come here, I try and be nice hell I told her I fucking missed her nope she wants to stay on her own meaning she wants to fucking drink. And again I'm ghosted. She completely ignores what I tell her to do. She gives the church their money and calls me up like I'm the problem! Like I haven't spent the last year waiting for your phone calls like some abandoned puppy! Says she's paying her own way to Moscow and can't afford to take me with her, if I wanna come I need to pay, when she knows full well I don't have two thousand dollars laying around to jet off to Moscow. Accused me of gambling it all away. So fuck it. Fuck her. She wants to go and her drunk and fuck her life up that's her decision she's not taking me down with her. I'm not staying as her fucking doormat fuck to treat her how she wants. If she'd rather get drunk than be with me fine I hope she and her bottle are happy”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Benny, feelings are not shit. use your words. Not just your swears.”

“Like… why should I bother you know? Like I'm trying so so much and you're giving absolutely nothing back. And that makes me feel like I'm the asshole for wanting anything”

“You're not an asshole for wanting acknowledgement Benny. You've done a lot for Beth and it's not easy for you to be emotionally numerable”

“Exactly! It's like you bare your fucking soul to someone and their response is okay cool. What else? Like I don't know what more you want from me. Am I being a dick? Asking for too much or something?”

“I don't think so, I do think you also need to respect Beth is also not an emotional person. The two of you aren't going to have a great emotional conversation because neither of you are good emotional communicators and that's fine some people aren't, but it would seem you are putting a lot of effort in, now Beth may not see it as a lot of effort in her mind and may not be seeing how much effort that Is for you and not appreciate it as much or it could be that she just expects more. and if you can't give her that then you can't there's nothing wrong with that Benny”

“Do you think I'm an emotionally distant person?”

“You can be. You're… very practical Benny. You're emotional to the extent of practically, when emotions aren't useful you don't bother to express them. But I do think you not in the wrong here you've made a lot of moves to be more outwardly expressive and it was clear you were upset long before this” I explained “I think, and of course, you don't need to take my advice. But I think you and Beth need time apart I think you both need to not see one another, not speak to one another, for a couple of weeks I think you both need to separately decide the kind of relationship you want together. If you want to have the kind of relationship where you call every other day and talk or if you want a relationship where you talk every six months how much emotional investment you each have needs to be equal and it clearly isn't so I think spend time apart to think and when she gets back from Moscow you two need to talk and see where you go from here.”

“... Your right.” He sighed sitting up “Where did you learn all this stuff anyway?” He asks having some tea

“Therapy. You know that thing I keep telling you to go to”

“I don't need therapy”

“Everyone needs therapy, Benny.”

“I don’t”

“Yes, you do.” I told him “You have a lot of untapped emotional issues rattling around in that big head of yours” I told him having some tea “And I’m boarder line convinced you have… some type of-”

“No I don’t” he snapped

“Benny you hyperfocus on chess, don’t understand your own emotions, freak out when someone tries to touch your skin, and use your rings like fidget toys… and you don’t think there might be a possibility you could have some form of -”

“No.”

“Fine, fine. I’m not going to argue with you” I giggled “You should go to therapy though Benny.”

“Ohh what because I have ‘emotional trauma’?”

“Yes. you do.” I told him “Even if it's just having someone to talk to, to rant about your problems”

“That's why I have you”

“I'm not your therapist Benny”

“Sorry”

“It's fine” I smiled pressing a kiss to the top of his head “You really liked her didn't you?”

“I did. I kinda thought we were the same. Maybe we're too much alike”

“Do you think maybe… you're seeing the bad things in Beth that you see in yourself?”

“Kinda. I think it's … made me realize how bad it is to be on that side of it. To be the one waiting by the phone on the promise of a call that never comes. I think I'm .. trying though. I can see how bad it is and in trying to fix it but just feels like bailing a bucket out a lake”

“Well, baby steps. Just the fact you see it and are making steps is still better. You're never going to bail the lake if you don't start with a bucket”

“I guess so. It makes me wonder… how she sees me. I know officially we didn't label anything but, I kinda think she just saw me as a chessboard that could make her cum”

“What did you want her to be?”

“....I don't know. Guess I wanted someone to call. Someone to spend time with. Someone who wants to talk to me. Listens to me. Makes me feel like what I say makes a difference. Like I Matter to them. Someone who gets excited about spending time with me, who wants to be with me not because we might play chess or we might have sex but just because we like being together”

“You ever tell her that?”

“No.”

“Then … you can't expect her to give you that Benny. She's not a mind reader. She doesn't know that's what you want same as you don't know what she wants. You two are both people not great at emotions be the best course is to straight forward sit her down and say that's what you want and if that's not what she wants you can either try to find a middle ground or that can be it”

“Your right. But I don't want to see her. Or talk to her. I don't completely want to think about her but there's no getting out of that” he explained lighting another cigarette “But I'm done. Unless she's willing to try I don't want anything more than to be her friend”

“If that's what you want. That's what you want” I smiled taking the cigarette from him putting it out in the table’s ashtray “You’re not smoking because you want it you smoking because your frustrated.” I laughed

“Your therapist tell you that too?”

“No. I just know you, Benny. Besides you’ve been doing really good. Don’t destroy all your progress just because you’re mad” I told him

“You rather I drink?”

“I’d rather you have healthy coping mechanisms but you know… baby steps.” I smiled “You feel a bit better? Got all that off your chest?”

“Yeah. Thanks y/n.”

“Your welcome” I smirked having some tea “It's kinda funny”

“What is?”

“That's exactly what I wanted. Back when we …”

“Really?” He asks

“Yeah. I'd have killed for you to want to spend time with me without it seeming like I was dragging you away from something you wanted to do more”

“.... Fuck. I was a dick.”

“You kinda were.” I laughed “But we wanted different things that's okay”

“I feel like shit. Maybe things would be different if I figured out this is what I wanted”

“Maybe” I shrug “But you didn’t want that then that’s fine you can change your mind as life changes, that wasn’t the sort of thing you wanted then”

“You’re a very emotional person. I think I struggled with that”

“I can be… overly emotional. In working on it. Trying not to overthink everything so much.” I said “How do you think it felt for me sitting here miles deep in overthinking as to why you weren’t talking to me, that you were mad, that I did something wrong, all the while you just sat there playing chess completely unaware I was even upset being quiet because… you like to sit quietly.”

“I saw you were upset… when it was too late. By the time I picked up on it you crying so far down an emotional rabbit hole even if I did know How to deal with it, it was kinda too late”

“And yes that is on you for not noticing my emotions but also on me for not being clearer with them, literally could have fixed all my overthinking with, Benny are you mad at me? But no I wanted to sit there pouting getting more and more anxious waiting for you to figure out that I was worried.”

“I always felt like a dick for asking you what was wrong,”

“Because I wanted you to pick up on it. I didn’t want to tell you I just wanted you to pick up and fix it. And that's on me. That was my issue and I’m getting better. Can’t expect people to know everything. But you're getting better too, learning when people are upset being more outwardly emotional if you need a little coaxing.”

“Or threatening”

“Everyone is different Benny. The sooner you realize that the easier life is. Everyone you speak to, and everyone you see is completely different we all think differently, behave differently, and have different responses to things, and no one can read minds. We all need to give each other a little more slack because we don't know what's going on in their head and they'll never know what's happening in ours. Some people can read emotions across your face like a book, some people need to be told or they'll never learn. I was an emotionally overthinking young woman craving emotional intimacy without having to ask for it. While being in a non-official relationship with a man who can't read emotions, has a hard time expressing his feelings and craves reassurance. On top of the very basic one, what's to fuck one wants to love problem. You surprised it went south?”

“I crave reassurance?”

“Benny. You're a chess player who dresses like a goth pirate.”

“Point taken”

“It's fine people grow and change neither of us are the people we were then”

“That's true” he nods “Can I get the number for your therapist?”

“Why?”

“He sounds good. The fact you rattled all that off is pretty impressive”

“Find your own therapist. Don't want conflicts of interest”

For a moment he was puzzled “You talk about me in therapy?”

“Yeah”

“God was I that much of a cunt?”

“No. You’re my friend. Our lives are very intertwined is all” I laughed leaning on his shoulder

“that’s fair” he laughed “... Do you think I ask for too much? With Beth?”

“I think… you ask for more than she's comfortable with. Let's face it Benny your fighting against an addiction. You might have an ego and you might love chess but you're not physically addicted to it”

“I just feel like in trying so hard, pushing myself so far beyond what I'd normally be comfortable with the least she can do is try”

“if that's how you feel. Then I think she should respond to that”

“I'm not a dick?”

“I don't think so” I smiled

“Thanks y/n. I'm really thankful you came over”

“Well I can't just leave you someone has to try and get you through these gross… feelings you're not used to”

“Can you stay?”

“What?”

“Can you stay? I don't think I wanna be on my own tonight”

“Of course Benny”

We stayed up a little long chatting about things but soon it came time for bed he put up the air bed for himself and I took his bed even if I argued but he let me have it.

I changed borrowing one of his shirts for the night getting cosy in the warm bed.

The lights out the only sound the occasional sound of the New York cars above the basement.

I was about to drift off when I perked up hearing the creek of the door and soon enough the covers moved and Benny crawled in with me

“Hi”

“Did you want your own bed back?”

“No, I just… I don't wanna be alone right now” he says slowly wrapping his arms around me and pulling me tight to his body my hips to his my back to his chest squeezing me almost like I was his teddy bear

“Okay Benny, you don't need to worry I'll be right here,” I reassured letting him squeeze me tightly to his body, he held me tight pressing his lips to my shoulder

“Can I get my anger out?” He asked

“Alright” I nodded

He moved and pushed me down on my back “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” I nodded

He nodded and leant down to nibble and kiss my neck, before he pulled down his boxers and tugged off my panties, he started off gently slipping himself inside me he held my hips firmly digging his nails into my skin as he aggressively thrusted, often bitting his lips and gritting his teeth letting out his frustration and anger though the movement of his hips. He began to slow so I smiled and held his hips gently turning us so he laid on his back and I sat on top of him gently moving my hips slowly “Reveling in your anger is not going to make you feel better” I smiled stroking his stomach as I moved

“I know. I just wanted to get the anger out” he sighed moving his hips with me

“Wouldn’t this be nicer?”

“It is much nicer.” he smiled “Nice and calming” He cooed sitting up a little and wrapping his arms around me to pull me into his chest for an intense kiss I smiled into the kiss as I moved my hips faster trying to match his own speed getting more and more intense the longer it went on I knew I was close starting to nibble on his neck as I began to slow getting close to my edge he noticed and smirked making sure to work as hard as he could letting out the last of his frustration until I reached my peak biting his neck as I did which in turn got him to his own edge burying himself deep inside me and riding it out before he collapsed against the bed and I basically fell off onto the other side

“Feel better now Benny?”

“Yeah” he nods between gasps “That is way better than therapy”

“They're not mutually exclusive Benny.”

“I still think this is better”

“You can’t just ignore your feelings and deal with your frustrations through sex” I told him

He smirked and turned over to spoon me “Did it work?”

“...yes but?”

“Did it work?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'm gonna do it” he shrugs

“Alright Benny, if that’s how you wanna deal with your feelings” I laughed “Come on, let's get some sleep”

“Alright, Night”

“Night” I smiled giving him a little kiss before we cuddled up and drifted off to sleep.

I yawned as I woke up I gently pushed Benny’s arms off me climbed out the bed and headed across the apartment, I went to the kitchen and began to make coffee humming to myself a little.

“Morning,” Benny spoke up from the bedroom door

“Morning, How are you feeling today?”

“Better. Much better” he smiled coming and wrapping his arms around me giving my neck some kisses “You always make me feel better”

“I do?”

“You do. I’m sorry”

“For what?”

“For being a dick, when we…” he began “I realize it and I’m sorry”

“That's very sweet. Apology accepted. I’m sorry for how I was too”

“Apology accepted” he smiled

“I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with the shit from Beth”

“It’s fine. I know how to deal with it”

“Oh?”

“She can find another doormat. She wants to drink and wants to go on her own she can. I don’t want that. We can be friends if she wants but nothing more than that. I don’t feel like I want anything more”

“Okay. I’m proud of you, for expressing your feelings” I smiled

“Did you wanna stay for a while? Spend some time together?”

“Is that also part of you dealing with this?” I giggled turning to face him

“Kinda. But Now I know what you wanted. And I want that too. Maybe now we're a little older we’ll be better, more communicative, better with our feelings. So? Did you wanna try again?”

“On one condition.”

“Oh?”

“Go to therapy, Benny.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“How much therapy?”

“How about one session, one date.”

“Three dates one session”

“Two.” “Deal” he smiled pulling me into a sweet kiss “Will you help me find one?”

“Yes, I will.” I giggled “Come on we’ll have coffee and a cuddle”

“Sounds perfect”

#tbs smut #thomasbrodiesangster #tbs imagine #tbs imagines #thomas sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster smut #thomas sangster #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster #tbs #benny smut #benny fanfic #benny #benny watts #benny watts smut #tqg benny watts #benny watts imagine #bennywattssmut

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bookwyrminspiration · 1 year ago

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Reading your response to my last few asks has left me with more questions than answers

1. Why was Emmet in the egg outfit anyway? Are those actually eggs?

2. In what circumstances would Jacob believe that being naked and shifting in front of Charlie (the dad of the girl he was presumably trying to woo) be a good idea?? Also, as a side note, do werewolves actually need to be naked in order to shift or is they just something the one fanfic that I read got wrong?

3. Can you like give me a summary of all of Edward’s family? Cause like I feel like there’s something going on with that. Also, did Edward’s parents actually die in a plague that led to him being adopted or am I missing something here?

I apologize for my lack of twilight knowledge again. I have plans to go read it, but that might be another 2 years, so for now I’m bugging you about it.

⚙️

That's how it always goes with twilight, dw. Every response opens a whole new can of worms. I'll do my best to answer!

Why was Emmett in the egg outfit? No clue! (and yes they're actually eggs, they're hardboiled). That's just what the costume department dressed him in for that brief scene when filming--also, just so we're clear, the "egg outfit" is this outfit. It's not the outfit Roisin created related to eggs in her twilight drawing. I call it the egg outfit because it's what he was wearing while carrying the eggs and matches in color. As for why the actor was carrying a bag of eggs, it's because the director saw the actor actually doing that irl and was like this is so ridiculous we have to add that to the movie.

Why did Jacob get naked and shift in front of Charlie? It's because he was forcing the Cullens' hands pretty much. This was after Renesmee was born and he was no longer infatuated with Bella; Bella was a vampire now, and the whole family intended to uproot and move on from the area for a few reasons. One, so Bella wouldn't be around humans and be tempted to kill them while learning self control (newborn vampires are supposed to be full of bloodlust, but Bella's disappointingly well adjusted). Two, so that people wouldn't realize they weren't aging or changing at all--especially Bella, because she had active connections to people like her father. They could only keep it from him for so long, and it'd be easier to do from far away. Also wouldn't hurt to get away from the werewolves, as wolves and vampires don't really get along.

However, Jacob is tied to his pack and Forks, and if the Cullens left he'd have to make a choice between them. And he'd choose Nessie, but he didn't want to have to chose--and he wasn't sure the Cullens would let him tag along. He wanted to insure they'd stay. So with the crux of it being everyone worrying about how Charlie would handle it and deciding the solution is to not tell him and leave, Jacob went hey what it I tell him and prove to you he can handle it. And boom now Charlie knows so you don't have to keep secrets and run away, you can all stay here! It did create a tense situation where Charlie rushed over, and it was the first time Bella had been up close near a human and everyone was worried she'd lose control, but she didn't, so that solved the other problem. Bella wasn't at risk of losing control and killing a bunch of humans, so they could stay. That's why Jacob did it

And wolves don't have to get naked to shift, they just tend to because otherwise their clothes get shredded by their expanding bodies and when they shift back they don't have anything to wear and go through clothes really fast. So they wear minimal clothing (that's why they're just wearing shorts and sometimes shoes in the movies), and have a pouch on their ankle they put their shorts in when they shift so they don't have to carry their pants in their mouths.

And now a family summary! There are 7 Cullens (8 if you count Bella marrying in). And I'm trying to encompass everything important while not taking up too much space--considering there's four books I think it's rather condensed

Tw for: violence, death, abuse (including sexual), suicide, illness

Carlise Cullen is the father figure, the oldest of them all (a few centuries, turned age 23ish), and works as a doctor. He's known for his compassion and has legendary self control (only rivaled by Edward post meeting Bella), and has never drank human blood before. His father was a witch-hunter of sorts, and after he took over (though Carlisle was much more cautious about it), he ran into a vampire and was killed/transformed in the 1600s. He was horrified and tried to destroy himself, but couldn't, until he realized he could feed off animals and didn't have to kill people. He roamed the earth very lonely for centuries before he finally caved and created a companion for himself, Edward.

Esme Cullen is the mother figure, the third to join the family, and is known for being very sweet and loving; she's a little over a century old and was turned age 26 in 1921. She was in an abusive marriage and lost a baby in her human life, prompting her to take her own life, where she was then transformed by Carlisle. They are now mates.

Edward Cullen was Carlisle's first family member, transformed age 17 in 1918 because he was dying of influenza. Both his parents had already died from it, and his mother requested Carlisle save his life in a way only he could. He has the special ability to read the thoughts of those around him as though they were broadcast, sans Bella's. he had a phase early in his vampire life where he abandoned Carlisle and Esme and used his ability to hunt evil people, feeding on abusers and villains and the like, but he grew tired of the death and felt immoral, so he returned to Carlisle and Esme. He's very melacholic and generally displeased until he meets Bella and his world is turned around

Rosalie Hale was the 4th family member, transformed age 18 in 1933. She's known for her beauty and being self-centered. She was the picture perfect daughter of a wealthy family during the great depression, happy to be desired and admired, and was going to be married to another well-off family. Her greatest desire was to be loved and start a family of her own. Unfortunately for her, her fiance was actually a piece of shit, and his true colors were revealed when he and his friends got drunk one night, assaulting and killing her. Carlisle found and transformed her, and afterwards Rosalie went back and killed every one of them while wearing her wedding dress. She's also known for being quite jealous, liking cars, and wishing desperately she could start her own family

Emmett Cullen was the 5th family member, transformed age 20 in 1935. He was part of a wild crowd, but also hunted for his family for game. During one unlucky hunting session, he ran across a bear and was mauled to death. Rosalie found and saved him, taking him to Carlisle to be transformed. He's pretty much the only one of them who is happy to be a vampire and has no complaints. He's known for being boisterous, very strong and muscly, loving competition and fighting, and being absolutely in love with Rosalie, his mate. He's a himbo.

Alice Cullen joined the family at the same time as Jasper, but was transformed in 1920 at age 19 before that by someone else. She has the special ability to see the future, but only as the possibilities will play out based on current decisions. If someone changes their mind on what they're going to do, what she sees changes as the future changes. Vampires with special traits generally have hints of them in their human lives, but Alice's was incredibly strong, landing her in an asylum for her premonitions--this is why her hair is so short and spiky, as it was shaved there. She was also being hunted by a vampire tracker, James, because she had appealing blood. To save her from him, an older vampire working at the asylum transformed her, but was killed by James. Alice has no memories of her human life (compared to the vague and fuzzy few others may have) because of her time in the asylum. Once she was out, her visions guided her to Jasper (her mate) and the Cullens so they could join the family.

Jasper Hale was an aspiring military leader in the Confederate Army (yep, he was really a genuine confederate) and incredibly charismatic. He lied about his age when joining and was the youngest general in the army. At the same time, there was a secret vampire war going on in the area, and because of his charisma, he was scouted out by a vampire because she thought his charm would turn into a special ability once he was turned (by Maria in 1863 at age 19)--and it did. He can read and influence the emotions of others. So he served in Maria's army for a while. But he grew depressed from feeling the emotions of the people he was always killing, and his creator was thinking of getting rid of him because of it. A friend offered another way of life and he ran away. A while later, Alice found him (very planned out and intentional), and while she was acting strange (because of her knowledge of the future) he could feel the complete love coming from her. So with Alice they found the Cullens and joined the family. Though Jasper has the hardest time with the vegetarian diet, and while he does love the others, his primary concern is Alice. He has numerous scars and is very formidable in battle.

No one is officially adopted through legal means, all their documents and such are fake. The reason they all have the Cullen last name is part of the ruse--except for Jasper and Rosalie, who go by Hale because people assume them to be siblings and they think its better to let humans make assumptions and follow along. Though they are still adopted siblings with the others in the whole ruse.

I've given you a lot to mull over so I'll stop there, but I hope that helps! If you do read twilight I hope you have fun, but also no pressure to!

#the twilight saga #the twilight renaissance #quil's queries #⚙️ nonsie #my favorites are emmett and alice #though edward's melancholy in midnight sun is top tier he's so silly #but yeah! that's his family #the summaries were longer than I intended them to be #but there's a lot. so even though some are hefty paragraphs I tried to be concise

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clunelover · 19 days ago

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Agh since deciding on foot surgery I’ve gotten all in my head and am bugging out. Like, okay per the surgeon it’s 10 weeks before I’d be walking in normal shoes again, sounds like a long road, but everything I’m reading says that’s not even full recovery, which is more like 6 months away. Which I guess makes sense and that was probably the case with my old foot surgery too, and makes it even better that I picked to do it in December so I’d be hitting that "full recovery" mark in summer, but still it freaked me out. I also read about how once you fuse a joint, the joints around it start absorbing more stress and can deteriorate faster, and that sounds bad…but I also WAS told by the guy who did my original foot surgery in 2010 that the current issue in that foot "will just keep getting worse until it’s time for surgery" so like, it’s happening someday regardless so maybe better to do it now while I’m younger and better at healing? And while I still have a job and short term disability benefits if in fact I do end up quitting at the end of May and becoming a SAHM as we’ve been roughly planning…BLAH BLAH I guess there’s just no really right answer, it’s just that any plan comes with pain and it’s hard to know what’s the "right" pain - like more pain from surgery but hopefully less pain once it heals but also no guarantee and maybe other joints get more painful later? Vs the just for sure pain I have right now that’s bad and getting worse and will for sure get continually worse?

Oh and I got on the flat feet subreddit and that really bummed me out, just seeing the extent to which this is a progressive condition! Which I guess I knew but it was hard to see it more concretely - like, okay even if I get this surgery, there’s no magic fix to having flat feet, my life might just keep getting worse lol…gotta stay off that damned Reddit I guess (there are also real benefits to getting more info on Reddit, but r/flatfeet and r/thritis are bummer places to visit)

Also I read about platelet rich plasma injections and how they’re a still experimental but possibly helpful tool that can help with osteoarthritis and tendon probs, so now I want to consider that too? From what I read, maybe it’s quackery or maybe it will help, but it won’t hurt anything to try (unlike the steroid injections I got which I’m now reading can degrade cartilage and maybe make things worse long term so maybe it’s good I only got three? Agggghh must stop reading!)

One thing I’ve decided FOR SURE: I gotta get back into yoga! Any way you slice it, I am having problems related to my tendons and flexibility and mobility and strength, and yoga is a thing that can massively help with those things as well as help manage stress which I am also generating a lot of lol.

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missrosiewolf · 1 year ago

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What elements make up a good trio?

An archetype/trope that’s an absolute ick?

Book (or books) that you’d recommend to others to understand u?

How’s your day so far :3?

My day has been good so far! I'm over halfway through season 5 of Lucifer and I have better work shoes now too! I also gave my dog a much-needed bath.

Unrelated, but my bookmark collection of D&D sourcebooks is growing and going through Dragon Magazine #236 'The Seldarine Revisited' is...a journey. I might do a post about those folks sometime (an actual post not me being baffled over the state of Melira's section).

What elements make up a good trio?

Everyone's thoughts on this will differ, but for me I think a good trioe of adventurerse or heroes is made up of:

The Funny Guy or (alternatively) The Chaotic Gremlin

The "Let's Do This" Guy

and the person who holds the group together: The Only Sane Guy

Yeah I know that's kind of trope-y, but it is my favorite one. I think it's because it kind of describes me and my own friend group(s). I think the role I find myself in most often is the Only Sane Guy. Like for instance, me and one of my friends chat pretty much daily and she is a bundle of chaos (she has her serious moments ofc but she's a chaotic gremlin most of the time), especially when she's simping over a fictional character so I'm often being like that bugs bunny gif of "no"

An archetype/trope that’s an absolute ick?

I've got so many but I'm just gonna keep it down to just two tropes

Sibling Triangle

For those who do not know, the Sibling Triangle is a trope where a pair of siblings fall in love with the same person and try to get with that person. This can turn into a rivalry, one sibling eventually deciding to back off so that their sibling can be happy, or a reenactment of Abel and Cain (and I don't think I need to tell anyone about how that ended).

And it's a trope that I do not like. I just do not like it. I do not enjoy it being in whatever media I am consuming. I tend to get irritated and lose interest in the story and characters when this trope rears its ugly head. The only reason I don't completely drop whatever it is I'm watching or reading (that that trope pops in) is because I'm one of those who needs to finish watching/reading before I can move onto something else. I might walk away for a bit, but I always come back to finish it.

The reason why I don't like this trope is mostly for the same reason why regular ass love triangles don't appeal to me: two people (friends, siblings, coworkers, whatever) fighting over a person does not sit right me at all. That's not an object. That is a fucking person. Fighting over a person, over who gets to be with this person and not bothering to ask what this person fucking thinks does not pass the vibe check.

Also the very idea of fighting with a sibling over the same person is just a big no from me.

It just feels icky.

2. I don't know the name for this trope but it's the one where the dude is portrayed as dense when it comes to one girl in particular but then, when you read between the lines, it turns out that she just refuses to fucking communicate for some fucking reason.

I hate that shit.

Book (or books) that you’d recommend to others to understand u?

Oh that's a tough one. I'm not entirely sure how to answer that because I don't remember all of the things I've read over the years that made some kind of impact on me and who I am as a person, but I'll try to answer as best as I can.

The books I'd recommend are:

J.R.R Tolkien's books. Anything involving his Middle-Earth stories. In middle school, I read The Children of Hurin and The Hobbit and The Lord of The Rings (trilogy). In college, I read The Fall of Gondolin, The Silmarillion. None of these were assigned readings. I checked out of the library or they were given to me by friends and family. I loved the LOTR movies and I wanted to read the world Tolkien had created.

The Dragonlance Trilogy Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. Read them in high school.

The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini. Read in middle-school and high school.

The Redwall books by Brian Jacques. Read some of these in elementary and middle School.

A lot of what I read as I was growing up was fiction. Fantasy books. Adventures. I was...lonely and those genres of books where the ones I could more easily pretend to be traveling alongside the man character was an escape of sorts, I guess. I didn't very many friends (1, maybe two per grade) in elementary and middle school and those friends I did have I didn't hang out with because they didn't live anywhere near me (and there were the grades where I didn't have any friends).

So books, once I started reading chapter books, became my first real friend(s). The friend I'd see every day when I woke up, went to school, and came home.

High School and College is where I got my first real group of friends that I still talk to. I guess that is probably why I don't read as much as I used to. I'm not filling a void anymore.

#Ask: Drizzit #Ask answered #personal

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myherowritings · 4 years ago

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Hey There, Roomie

— After being set up on a bad date with Ushijima, he insists on walking you to your doorstep. Not wanting him to know where you live, you lead him to Iwaizumi’s apartment and pretend Iwaizumi is your roommate.

pairing: iwaizumi hajime x reader word count: 4.0k genre: college/university au, fluff warnings: mentions of drinking, language, secondhand embarrassment, suggestive comments at the end, oikawa is meddlesome, awkward but cute confessions™!!

a/n: ur bad date is with ushiwaka ok i’m sorry he’s a nice guy but i had to make it someone HDJSJS,, also this is based on real life events except my friend who lived in an apartment near me isn’t cute like iwa-chan :( LMAOOO i hope u enjoy reading!!! xx sof

「 hq masterlist 」

“I assure you, you don’t have to walk me to my apartment.”

“It’s not a bother. I insist.”

“No, it’s fine.” Although you tried to keep a smile on your face, you were certain it looked more like you were baring your teeth at him. “Really. You don’t have to do that.”

Ushijima shrugged. “I told you, it’s no big deal.”

Your grin turned into a grimace as you stepped outside the car and headed towards your apartment complex. You managed to grit out, “Great. Thanks.”

A friend from your class had told you they had a friend of a friend who saw an Instagram post of you and thought you were cute. After they showed you a picture of him, you said the same. Little did you know it would lead to a mess of a date set up by said friend.

The date was at a karaage chicken place and it was filled with the most uncomfortable silences you had sat through since office hours with a professor who you were sure hated you. Ushijima was nice enough and it wasn’t the worst date ever, but the two of you just did not click. You figured it was partly your fault for agreeing to meet with him despite not having a single clue about his interests and never having talked to him once, but it was too late to undo it now.

He was a gentleman, at least. Offered to pay, held your seat out for you, drove you to your apartment complex, and, now, was trying to walk you to your doorstep.

The thing was, you did not want him to know where you lived.

You didn’t get red flags or feel threatened by any means, but having a guy you went on one uncomfortable date with know your exact address wasn’t really something that sat well with you. You’ve heard enough college horror stories to be wary. But, you didn’t have the heart to tell him explicitly not to walk you home… So the only solution?

Head to your friend’s apartment in the same complex instead.

“Do you know where you’re going?” asked Ushijima, examining you as your eyes darted around from building to building.

You’d been to Iwaizumi’s apartment before, but that didn’t stop you from looking lost and confused in this maze of houses. And it didn’t help to have Ushijima’s semi-condescending gaze on you the whole time. The worst part was, you were almost certain he didn’t even mean to be condescending— He just was. To you, at least. It definitely rubbed you the wrong way during the date.

“Yeah,” you laughed, walking past your apartment, “of course I know where my own apartment is.”

Iwaizumi’s place was just a few buildings north of yours, which you were quick to remember after catching sight of your place. You briefly wondered if he would be home on a Friday night, but quickly decided it wasn’t important. It’s not like you would be entering his house anyway. In fact, if all went well, he might never even know you were outside his apartment to begin with.

The plan was to have Ushijima drop you off at the doorstep (since he so unwaveringly insisted that he had to and it was no trouble for him to do so), tell him goodbye, fumble with your bag to “look for your keys” as he walked off, then—when he was out of sight—dash to your apartment and lock yourself in your bedroom for the remainder of the night.

A foolproof plan.

“Well, we’re here!” you chirped, standing outside Iwaizumi’s door labeled 237E. You whirled around to face Ushijima. “Thanks for walking me. See you around!”

“Of course.” He nodded but made no move to leave.

Your smile wavered. Was he waiting for you to enter your house safely? If he didn’t seem so innocent, it would’ve been incredibly creepy.

“Err,” you drawled, ruffling through your bag. “I’m just finding my keys. You can leave now; I don’t want to keep you any longer!”

“It’s not a problem.”

Your right eye twitched. What did he think could possibly happen in the time it took you to unlock your door and enter? While it was sweet—in a very suffocating way—it wasn’t what you wanted. After the bad date that was disappointing for the both of you, you expected him to eat his food and dip. Not see you all the way into your house despite the fact that, deep down, he’d much rather be in his own home. It was domineeringly kind.

Didn’t he understand how stressful this could be for someone? His obliviousness was overbearing, but you supposed you couldn’t blame Ushijima when you didn’t verbalize your discomfort to him.

“Everything okay?” he asked for what felt like the fifth time that night.

You chuckled nervously. “I guess I…can’t find my keys?” Looking at him sheepishly, you scratched the back of your head. “But, my roommates will probably be home soon! Or, they might be here now. I’ll just ring the doorbell when you leave!”

Ushijima blinked. “Why not ring the doorbell now?”

“R-Right,” you stammered, unsure whether you wanted to rip your hair out or cry in frustration. Maybe both would be good. “That’s smart. I can do that.”

He looked at you expectantly.

You winced, bringing your pointer finger to the white button of the doorbell. Before you even had the time to gather the courage to press it, the door swung open suddenly, startling you enough to let out a small yelp.

“Ah—! Iwaizumi!” you cried, eyes wide as you stared face to face with your very confused-looking friend. He glanced between you and Ushijima with a questioning expression, but you rambled on before he could say anything. “Hey there, roomie!” You batted your lashes, pleading with him to play along. “I forgot my keys again.”

Iwaizumi’s face displayed a look of pure confusion and you were certain he must never have gotten any acting awards when he was younger. His expression became even more puzzled when you wiggled your way inside the door, standing snugly next to his side.

After an awkward silence, you continued again, “Well, thanks for walking me Ushijima-san! And thank you for the date. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

If he noticed anything suspicious going on, he didn’t show it. Instead he simply nodded and wished you a goodnight.

Yup, there was definitely no chance of Ushijima wanting to ask you out on a second date. Not that you were complaining.

You shut the door—the door to an apartment that wasn’t even your own, mind you—and let out a sigh of relief. With your eyes closed and your back resting against the wall, you momentarily forgot you were standing in the entrance of Iwaizumi’s living room. That was, until you started feeling his heavy gaze on you.

Gulping at the intensity, you cracked your right eye open ever so slightly. “Yes?” you asked innocently.

“Yes?” repeated Iwaizumi incredulously, voice raised in exasperation. “You want to explain what just happened here?”

You had a sudden interest in your shoes as you shuffled in place. Iwaizumi was your friend and someone you considered yourself semi-close to— Comfortable enough to hang out with regularly and talk with almost every day, but not someone that you confided in with no qualms. And definitely not someone close enough for it to be normal to show up at his place unannounced. You were much closer to his best friend, Oikawa, but that was largely due to him finding out you had a big crush on Iwaizumi a number of months ago and feeling the need to tease you endlessly. Apparently, nothing brought people together like relentless goading.

“Another bad date,” you answered with a noncommittal tone. “A friend set me up with that guy you saw, Ushijima, and the date was so awkward.”

He folded his arms across his chest, pulling his white t-shirt snug around his biceps. You tried not to let your eyes bug out of their sockets at the sight. “And yet you let him bring you home?”

“I couldn’t say no! I tried dropping hints but he just didn’t get it.” You looked up, a sheepish half-smile on your face. “But I was smart enough not to bring him to my apartment. Hence why I came here. Roomie.”

Iwaizumi let out an exasperated half-chuckle, half-sigh as he motioned for you to come further inside. You slipped off your shoes at the doorway and followed him into the living room, taking a seat on the couch next to him. He rested his arm against the headrest of the sofa and you were consciously aware of his hand mere inches behind your head.

“Are your other housemates here?” you asked, curious as to why there wasn’t the usual amount of chatter and rage gaming from inside their respective rooms.

He shook his head. “They’re all back at their hometowns for the weekend.”

“And poor Iwa-chan is home all alone on a Friday night instead of out partying with friends?” you teased, reaching over to pat the top of his head mockingly.

Glaring at you for the nickname, he lightly swatted your hand away. “You’ve been spending too much time with Oikawa. His shittyness is rubbing off on you.” There was the slightest hint of amusement in his voice to let you know he was only joking. “And being home alone is better than being stuck with a bad date.”

“Ouch,” you cried, crossing one leg over the other and sticking your tongue out at him. “Yeah, sure, I would rather have been curled up in my bed than go on that date— But you didn’t have to call me out like that.” You pouted. “At least I got free food, I guess.”

He rolled his eyes with a snort. “If you were uncomfortable, you could’ve called me to come pick you up.”

Despite his gruff voice, there was a look of concern on his face. His eyebrows were furrowed and the corners of his mouth were downturned. Iwaizumi’s offer made you feel warm in the stomach, even if you were sure he was just saying it out of courtesy.

“Or better yet,” he continued in a murmur, “don’t let your friends set you up on dates with guys you barely know, dumbass.”

“Hey! Aren’t you and Oikawa the ones always telling me I need to go out and date more in the first place?” you said, huffing at his insult.

They told you your college years were your prime dating years and you might regret not going out with a variety of people now. When else would you have the free time and the patience to date, anyway? That was part of the reason you agreed to blind dates and set ups, after all. If Iwaizumi was insisting you date around, that most certainly meant he didn’t reciprocate your feelings for him. Meaning, you had to get over him somehow before the hurt could kick in, even if that somehow included less than ideal fraternization.

“I never said that,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Why would I tell you to go on dates with other people? It was just Oikawa who said you should.”

You blinked in confusion. “But you were there and you nodded in agreement.”

He shifted his body to get a better look at you, a scowl on his face. “I did not. You were drunk and you probably thought my head was moving when it wasn’t.”

“Well, you were drunk too! Maybe your head was moving and you just didn’t know.” The lines between his forehead deepened and you laughed, unable to stop yourself from tapping the wrinkles with your ring finger. “Don’t think too hard; you might hurt your brain.”

“You really have been spending too much time with Shittykawa,” he said with a defeated sigh. “But whatever you think I said back then, it’s probably not what I meant. You shouldn’t date anyone unless you want to.”

The thing was, you did want to date someone. Iwaizumi. You were just under the impression he didn’t want to date you.

You shrugged. “What about you? Have you been dating people you don’t want to?”

He shook his head. “No. I haven’t dated anyone recently,” he admitted, averting his gaze from you for the first time that night. “I actually...am interested in someone, though.”

Your stomach dropped. Oh.

“But I don’t think they like me.”

Trying not to show him the crestfallen expression on your face, you looked down at your lap. You had been mentally preparing yourself to accept that Iwaizumi didn’t have a crush on you like you had on him—you were ready to face the harsh reality—but you were not expecting him to tell you he liked someone else on top of that. That was just a double blow to your gut.

You forced out a laugh, hoping it didn’t sound too strained. “That’s silly. Of course they like you.”

“I didn’t even tell you who it was.”

“Don’t need to,” you said diffidently, fingers toying with a loose thread on the blue sofa. “I already know. There’s no way someone wouldn’t like you back.”

Iwaizumi snorted disdainfully. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Them going on dates with other people and telling me about them after seems to be a solid indicator that they don’t.”

You froze, letting go of the string you accidentally pulled from the couch. Now, you wouldn’t say you were an overly optimistic person, but you still couldn’t help but think the situation he described was oddly familiar to yours. There was a large chance he was referring to someone else, but with the way you felt his smoldering gaze on your body, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could be talking about you.

“Maybe they think you don’t like them so they’re going on those dates to get rid of their crush on you— But only because they thought you told them to do so! And, honestly, the dates probably aren’t helping at all on getting rid of the crush; it just makes it get even bigger and bigger as they realize they can’t like anyone the same way they like you and now they don’t know what to do,” you babbled, unable to stop the word vomit.

After processing the words that you had just uttered, you slapped your hands over your mouth to shut yourself up. That was a little more than you had originally wanted to say… Okay, a lot more. You winced. You wanted to subtly hint that you were talking about yourself, not be so obvious as to yell it out with a megaphone and have a blinking billboard pointing your way.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

You could only hope Iwaizumi was oblivious enough to let this whole thing go and assume that you were only speaking hypothetically. But he was smarter than that. You knew it. He may be a little dense when it came to romance, but even he couldn’t be dumb enough to misunderstand your conspicuous slip up.

Your stomach churned as you awaited his response.

“So,” he spoke slowly, keeping his cautious regard on you, “Oikawa was right?”

You blinked. That wasn’t the response you were expecting. But things just didn’t seem to go as planned today, you supposed. “What do you mean?”

“You do like me, then?”

“W-What? When did…” You gaped, trailing off as your throat tightened. “He told you that?”

“A month ago, he told me he thought you might like me,” Iwaizumi admitted, a rosy red darkening the apples of his cheeks. “But that was before you started going on those crazy dates, so I figured he was wrong.”

A cry of indignation escaped your lips as you heard the news. “Seriously?”

He nodded.

“No way!” you sputtered in disbelief. “He found out I liked you months ago— At the beginning of the school year! And then last month, Oikawa told me I should to get over you by going on a bunch of dates.”

Your brows were furrowed and arms folded as you glared into the sky, wishing Oikawa were there so you could yell at him for making a fool of you. Iwaizumi caught your gaze with a disgruntled look of his own.

“What on earth?” you groaned, burying your face in your palms.

“I’ll kick his ass the next time I see him,” Iwaizumi vowed.

“Please,” you muttered, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind.

Oikawa knew you had a crush on Iwaizumi. Why would he tell him behind your back? And was Iwaizumi’s response negative? Is that why Oikawa told you to date to get over him? Trying to understand Oikawa’s thought process was enough to almost give you a headache.

“But, wait,” said Iwaizumi quietly, effectively interrupting your train of thoughts. “Months?”

You peeked at him through the cracks between your fingers. “Huh?”

“You said you liked me for months now? Since the start of this school year?”

The heat rose to your cheeks in embarrassment. “T-That’s not the point—!”

“Because I’ve liked you for a few months now too,” he interrupted before you could deny anything. Your eyes shot open as you stared straight at Iwaizumi, just now noticing the serious expression on his face.

Was this a confession?

“Ever since that night we ditched our friends to stay inside and watch Godzilla instead of going to the party.” He shared a small, slightly sheepish smile with you as he recalled the memory.

In the beginning of the year before classes had started but everyone had already moved into their respective apartments, Oikawa decided everyday of the week leading up to the first day of school would be a good day to get shit-faced drunk. It was fun for the first three days, but by day four you were getting worn out, and by day five, just the thought of consuming one more jello shot made you shudder.

So when Iwaizumi—who you had then only recently realized you had a crush on—suggested you two sneak away to his empty apartment and watch some movies instead, you were more than happy to oblige.

“I thought you looked...cute that night,” Iwaizumi managed, his voice gruff and tentative. “It was funny how you were scared by the movies even though it was hardly even horror.” He snorted at the recollection, hints of a grin playing on his face. “And I may have realized then that I had already started liking you.”

You bit the inside of your lip to keep your face from splitting into a beam. Your eyes were wide open, almost as if you were in a daze and were only dreaming the events of this night had happened. Iwaizumi shoved his hands in his sweatpants’ pockets, ducking his head to hide his delight at this situation.

“You like me too?” you asked breathlessly. There was still a tone of disbelief in your voice.

He nodded. “Have for a while now. But I didn’t tell Oikawa about it until last month. And that’s when he said he thought you liked me back.”

At his words, you visibly relaxed. So Oikawa didn’t blab about your crush on his best friend— Though, in all honesty, maybe if he had, you could’ve had a relationship with him sooner. You leaned your head back against the headrest of the couch with a sigh. “Then if he knew you liked me, why did he tell me to date other people that night we were all out drinking together?”

“To piss me the fuck off.”

You laughed in surprise, not expecting Iwaizumi to sound so furious.

“He probably wanted to get me to disagree with him, that dumbass,” he hissed, a scowl forming on his face. Even with his nose scrunched and forehead crinkled, you thought Iwaizumi was as handsome as ever.

“Maybe Oikawa thought you wouldn’t confess without his help so he wanted to push your buttons and make you jealous by seeing me date other people,” you said, chuckling at the audacity of this situation.

Iwaizumi apparently didn’t share your amusement, since his scowl deepened. “I would’ve confessed without his unwanted help,” he grunted. But you knew he wasn’t too annoyed by his best friend. Oikawa never had any ill-intentions towards the two of you, and you both were aware of that. “I was a little jealous, though,” he admitted with flushed cheeks. “And I may have gotten a bit happier every time you told me afterwards that you didn’t like your date—especially tonight.”

You smiled shyly at him, only mildly embarrassed by the routine you two had picked up. Go on a date (usually prompted by Oikawa), wish your date was Iwaizumi the whole time, go home, message Iwaizumi about your bad date, repeat. But in today’s case, you went to him in person instead of texting.

“But I was dreading that one night you’d message saying your date went well,” he said, hands balled up into fists and gaze downcast. “Or worse— Not message that night at all.”

Your expression turned somber as you realized that while you were casually dating around to try to get over Iwaizumi, he was there watching you go out with other people. A feeling of guilt spread through you as you bowed your head slightly, wishing you had taken the chance to tell him your feelings instead of trying to toss them aside.

“Iwaizumi, I’m so sorry,” you said. “I didn’t even think about how it could be affecting you.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” He placed his closed hand on the top of your head, making you look up at him. He nodded once. “You didn’t know. And Assikawa was the one pushing you to go on dates you didn’t want,” he said wryly, though his tone was more amused than bitter. “But maybe now you don’t have to keep going on those bad dates anymore.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. Was he offering—?

“Y’know,” he said, “if you… If we…”

“Went on a date?” you completed, hesitant but hopeful. “With each other, I mean.”

“Yes. With each other.” He held his breath. “What do you think?”

After a beat of silence, your face split into a grin. You practically jumped off the couch in excitement, bouncing towards Iwaizumi to tackle him into a hug. He let out a surprised grunt, but caught you in his arms nonetheless.

“I think you could’ve saved me loads of wasted nights if you had asked a month earlier!” you laughed, burrowing your face into his chest— His very strong, very muscular chest that had no business being this comfortable. “To think all this time I could’ve been going on dates with you instead of random people I end up blocking a day after?”

His right hand rested between your shoulder blades while his left was lightly cupping the back of your head. He chuckled and you felt the vibrations through his thin t-shirt.

“We’ll have plenty of time to make up for it now,” he said, voice warm and inviting. “We can catch up on dates this whole weekend. Or just rewatch all of Godzilla again.”

“That sounds like the perfect date weekend.” The grin on your face never left as you stayed tangled in his arms. “And your roommates aren’t back until Monday, hmm?”

He titled his head down at you to see your expression, the corner of his mouth quirked upward as he smirked. “Yup. They’ll be gone all weekend.”

You two exchanged knowing looks, causing you to wiggle your eyebrows suggestively and make him laugh. His ears turned red and when you pointed it out he got even redder. You smiled at each other as you held him even tighter.

It didn’t matter what you two would be doing this weekend. All you cared about was getting to spend more time with Iwaizumi.

“Then we most definitely have a lot of catching up to do.”

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princessozera · 3 years ago

Text

My R

A/N: inspired from the song My R, taking place after the shenanigans in chapter 16

Tw: suicide attempt/ suicidal ideation

GN!MC (they/them, 3rd ppov)

Word count: 640

MC took their shoes off at the top of the staircase before slowly creeping along the carpeted corridor. Belphegor didn't stir as they tiptoed past the attic room so they went to the end of the hall and climbed the final staircase, leading to the to of the manor- the roof of the house of lamentation.

They left their shoes by the closed hatch, making sure to lock it behind them, and went to stand on one of the open beams by the towers. They leaned over to look at the ground, unbothered even as the wind picked up and pushed on their back.

"When was the last time I was up here?"

Lilith. Right.

Not like they had actually forgotten, since after that day everyone kept a close eye on them and it had been 2 months before the brothers were okay with leaving MC alone for hours at a time. If they had known MC came up here that first night, Lucifer might have welded the door shut.

The attentiveness was sweet.

And suffocating.

As if they could feel it now, MC strips off their jacket and drops it behind them, running their nails along their neck to reassure themselves that there was nothing there. No one there.

"Is it still her that bugs you?"

MC traced the tower they leaned on with one hand, rocking their weight back and forth a bit.

No. Not her. Yeah, realizing that you've been stalked by a dead ancestor isn't exactly comforting but MC can't exactly fault her. What else are you going to do if you're stuck in some limbo of hell?

It was them. It always had been.

"They're not mine."

Maybe not the best mentality or way to phrase it, but that's what it was, plain on its face. MC watched a few hair strands move with the wind, unconsciously leaning with it a bit over the ledge to follow the winds guidance, but heels still firmly planted on the roof.

These brothers, these lords, these friends, weren't exactly theirs. Was the other MC watching them now, take their spot and feeling betrayed at how easily they'd been replaced? Was it wrong to feel snubbed by yourself?

MC had wanted to ask Barbatos but wasn't sure they could handle the answers. Or even be sure he'd tell them the truth.

MC tucked the hair strands back and started swinging one leg, then the other, over the edge of the roof. No more words to phrase it in, just mulling over the same thoughts that plagued them in their happiest moments.

Can you steal from yourself?

Didn't the other me deserve happiness too?

MC remembers that first night so clearly and now leaves one leg dangling over the edge, no longer leaning against the tower. They wiggle their ankle around like it's any old thing, just stretching a bit.

It hadn't been the bullying or harassment, or initial hunger when everything seemed inedible and poisoned that brought them up here- even if Lucifer hadn't been blocking the staircase.

It had been MC's own actions every step of the way that had put them on this roof that first time.

"Do I deserve them?"

MC has no sense of time standing there on one leg, now completely numb. They moved with the wind, wanting to leave it all up to fate one more time. When MC was able to focus on something again, it was their nails- now starting to turn blue- and then the trail of wind right behind their ear, making them fully aware of how cold they were.

"Maybe I just wasn't built for this." MC steps back, picks their jacket up and pulls it tightly around them, assuring themselves that they were only shaking from the cold.

"It's not high enough to do enough damage anyways."

#tw suicide implication #i really never got over ch 16 #curse you time/space manipulation #tw suicide attempt

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salazarslytherin · 3 years ago

Text

dance lessons (j.p x gn!y/n)

requested: yes! by @riddikulusweasleys

🃛 masterlist!

summary: james teaches you how to dance

cw/tw: nothing, fluff is all, genderneutral!reader!!!

word count: 1.5k

a/n: short and sweet james fluff <3 hope you like it love! reblog to boost xxx

tag list at the bottom ☯︎ join tag list here

"So Y/N, who are you going to the ball with?"

Suddenly, all eyes were on you, the vivid conversation that had fogged the large table vanishing as you stared at Sirius like a deer in headlights. Froth covered your top lip from the mug of butterbeer you'd been sipping on, and you quickly wiped it away on your sleeve, blinking and stuttering slightly as you tried to answer the question.

"Um, no one."

Mutters of confusion sounded around the round table, a few other students in the Three Broomsticks whispering to each other as they caught wind of your words.

"What? Did nobody ask you to-"

Marlene delivered a quick slap to Dorcas's shoulder, widening her eyes as a quick sign of 'shut up' before turning back and smiling at you, a reassuring look in her eyes.

"It's okay Y/N, there's still time before the ball."

You shook your head at your friends, biting your lip to prevent a laugh from bubbling out of your mouth.

"No, no, no. It's not that, I just don't really feel like going to the ball."

A series of gasps sounded around the table – your friends were quite the drama kings and queens indeed.

"It's not that big of a deal! Relax."

Protests of "of course it's a big deal!" came around, but you quickly cut them off, wanting nothing more than to just move on from the conversation.

"Who wants another round of butterbeer? I'm buying!"

⚔︎.

"So, Y/N."

It was three days later now, you and James were sat in the library working on a transfiguration essay that was due the day after. Leafing through a reference book, you hummed lightly at James, a gesture for him to continue.

"Why aren't you going to the Yule Ball?"

Letting out a groan, your head fell to the table, knocking against the book.

"Can we not talk about that? Sirius literally bugged me about it all of potions."

Twirling his quill in his hand, James quirked an eyebrow at you, an inquisitive look in his eyes.

"Yeah, but unlike them, I know that you were asked. I was there when you were asked. By like, four different people. Why didn't you just agree to one of them and go?"

Letting out a deep sigh, your head turned to face the boy, tucking your hands under your legs as you sat on them, sheepish as you stared at him.

"Okay I can tell you. Just, don't laugh or whatever."

The boy nodded at you, his brows furrowed in uncertainty as he watched you trap your bottom lip between your teeth. Gnawing on the flesh, your eyes fluttered between his, dropping down for a second before exhaling:

"I don't know how to dance."

⚔︎.

That's how you ended up in the Room of Requirement, staring at your shoes while James fiddled with a charmed record player, putting on some old classical song that you might have heard somewhere in passing.

"Alright, are you ready?"

You looked up at James, pursing your lips in a semi pout.

"James I swear I've got two left feet or something, s'not gonna work out very well."

The boy rolled his eyes, straightening his back in true Pureblood fashion as he looked down at you.

"Please. I've had dance lessons since I was four. I can teach you to dance anything."

Stretching his arms out towards you, James raised his eyebrows, gesturing for you to move towards him.

"Come on, I'll lead."

⚔︎.

"Left, two, three."

"Shit!"

James's foot snapped away from under yours, the two of you stumbling as his arm wrapped tighter around your waist. Holding you closer to him, the pair of you fell down to the ground, you landing on top of him.

Your chests were pressed together, your lips ghosting his for a moment as your eyes refocused on James's. Your face was dangerously close to the bespectacled boy's, your breath fogging his glasses slightly. Noticing your distance, you scrambled to get up, brushing yourself off as you stood up. "Sorry James! Fuck, told you I can't dance." The boy laid on the ground for a few more seconds, his eyes blinking in a mist of mild confusion before he stood up as well, clearing his throat awkwardly. "That wasn't too bad. It's literally your first attempt, don't get so distraught over one mishap."

You raised your eyebrows at the boy.

"Really. One mishap. Sure, that's the first time we fell on the ground, but it's like the tenth time I've stepped on your foot."

The seeker rolled his eyes at you, stepping closer to wrap his arm around your waist again as the music automatically looped on the player. He took your hand in his larger one, extending your arms towards the door before stepping backwards.

"Yeah, well, mistakes happen Y/N. This doesn't mean that you can't dance. You're literally learning. It takes time. Not just three hours in this room."

You sighed as you stepped to the side, instinctively responding to James's movements as the two of you waltzed in time to the music.

"Do you really not want to go to the ball?"

You rolled your eyes as your feet glided over the wooden floor, James's hand resting on the small of your back as he guided you into a heel turn, shoes clicking on the smooth maple.

"I-, I don't know."

Your arm was lifted over your head as James twirled you gently, your arm extending as your left foot stepped out sideways, your intertwined hands extending as your free arms stretched outwards, before turning back in to clasp each other gently once more.

"Come on Y/N, it'll be fun."

As if to emphasize his point, James twirled you outwards, the tenacity with which he did so making you laugh as your hand flew out instinctively. Laughing alongside you, James pulled you back in, your body whirling closer towards his in a laugh.

The laugh was cut off as the momentum made you stumble, James letting go of your hand to catch you, fingers interlocking as he wrapped his arms around your waist fully. Eyes squeezing shut in fear of falling, only to find your chest pressed against James's as he pulled you in.

One eye opened as you looked up at the bespectacled boy, the other quickly following it as you watched James, his eyes darting down to glance at your lips before looking back into your eyes.

Your chests rose and fell in unison, as the seconds ticked on you became acutely aware of the fact that his grip hadn't loosened, hands wrapped around your waist, eyes boring into yours.

"Um-"

"Y/N-"

Your mouths opened in unison, smiling as both of you stopped simultaneously.

"You go."

James nodded, his bottom lip sticking out as he furrowed his brows in a bout of uncertainty.

"Do you, wanna go to the ball with me?"

A smile blossomed on your face.

"Don't you have a date?"

James looked up awkwardly, his arms stiffening around you but still not quite letting go.

"Um, I might have... been waiting to ask someone."

The corner of your lip curled upwards as you looked up at the boy.

"Oh yeah? But what if that someone still doesn't want to go?"

James's arms pulled you closer – somehow it was still possible. Your chest fully pressed against his, the prominent smell of broom polish and mint dancing into your olfactory senses.

"I thought I might've persuaded them. They'll have a fantastic dance partner too so they won't have to worry."

Your eyebrows shot up in amusement.

"But... What if they still need some persuasion?"

It was now James's turn to smile, the sides of his mouth turning up as his eyes darted down to your lips once more.

"Would a kiss persuade them, you think?"

"Maybe-"

Before the word had left your mouth properly, James had caught your lips in a kiss, melding your mouths together as your eyes fluttered shut. His hands finally left your waist, trailing up your sides to cup your chin. Your hand moved to hold him by the nape of his neck, memorising each and every crevice of his lips.

After a fleeting moment that seemed to last forever, the two of you fell apart, chests heaving as your hands left each other for the first time in minutes, the ghost of James's hands on your waist haunting you.

"So, are they convinced?"

A soft chuckle left you, pressing your lips together in a moment of shyness, cocking the edge of your mouth upwards.

"Hmm. I think they are. So, shall we practice more? So that somebody won't be too embarrassed on the dance floor?"

James held his hands out, tilting his head to the side as he smirked at you.

"Of course. But it's your turn to lead now."

Your mouth fell open, staring at the boy, bemused.

"What?"

James barked out a laugh, ruffling his hair slightly as you just watched him.

"You don't expect me to lead all night, do you?"

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#mine #writing #james potter #james potter fluff #james potter imagine #marauders #marauders era #marauders imagine #marauders fluff #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #harry potter imagine #harry potter fluff #hp fluff #hp imagine

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3rensgf · 4 years ago

Text

rent a gf - two eren yeager x reader

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of sex, talks about "getting bitches", eren is an idiot, fuckboy!eren implied, tatbilb mention, uhh fluff idk theres not much to warn abt in here, not beta read

notes: chapter two is out! i'm really glad a lot of people are enjoying rent a gf. it really means a lot! i see some people commented on the previous chapter, and i would love to reply to them, but i'm not familiar with tumblrs commenting system D: if you wanna leave a comment for me to just read, that's fine you can still keep commenting here on tumblr. but if you would like me to reply to it, you can comment on ao3, and i will reply! happy reading :) p.s, waffles w whipped cream r so much better

[ read on ao3 ]

previous ✩ series masterlist ✩ next

In the early hours of Saturday morning, you felt a hand shaking your shoulder to wake you. Groaning and mumbling, you sleepily swatted the hand away and pulled the covers over your head. No one should be forced to wake up early on the weekends. It was Saturday, for fucks sake. Not to mention your hangover due to last nights mistakes was making your head throb.

The hand rested on your shoulder once more, shaking you gently. “(Y/N),” Mikasa said softly. “Your alarm has been going off for the past 10 minutes. Wake up. I have water and Advil.”

“Nooooo,” you moaned, snuggling deeper into your bed. “Don’ wanna.”

Mikasa stopped bothering you for a moment, and you let your guard down. Finally you could sleep. When it was time to wake up, you’d wake up.

Right as you were about to pass out again, your blanket was roughly tugged off of you. “Mikasaaa!” you whined, covering your face with your hands. “What was that for? I was trying to sleep.”

“Get up. You have to shower and get ready for lunch with Eren today. Breakfast is almost finished,” she explained, setting down the pills and water on your bedside table. “Go brush your teeth and wash your face so you can eat. Now,” she instructed sternly, moving to your window to open the curtains. The bright sunlight hit your still half-asleep face, making you hiss quietly.

She left the room moments after, probably to check up on breakfast. Honestly, you didn’t know how she could function this early in the morning despite having partied all night last night. Curse her and her inability to get hungover.

Grumbling to yourself, you adjusted your sleep clothes that had gotten disheveled overnight to make sure you looked decent. Your sleepy gaze wandered over to your nightstand to see two Advils on a napkin beside a glass of cold water. Thanking every higher power for sending Mikasa to you, you downed both pills and the glass of water. Even though you might bitch and moan to her constantly, you really weren’t lying when you said you’d die without Mikasa.

After sitting down at the edge of your bed for a few moments, you eventually shuffled into the bathroom to brush your teeth and do your morning routine. It took longer than usual thanks to your sluggish and tired movements, but you got done nevertheless.

A wonderful aroma came from the kitchen when you left, stomach grumbling in anticipation for the wonderful food you were about to scarf down. Mikasa was in the process of setting down both your breakfasts on the island, sitting down on the stools when you walked in. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she greeted, resting her chin on her hands.

“Morning, sweet angel,” you replied, sitting at the stool beside her. In front of you was a plate of Funfetti pancakes with whipped cream instead of maple syrup (syrup was for pancakes only). There were a couple of cut up fruits beside them, too. “Where did you get these?” you asked, picking up your fork to take a bite of your breakfast.

Mikasa dug into her own breakfast of oatmeal as soon as you started eating. “Went grocery shopping and saw the mix in the baking aisle. I thought you’d like it,” she explained, taking a bite of her food. “Good?”

Your response was a moan, tilting your head back as you chewed. “Insanely,” you said, cutting up another bite. You stabbed the piece with your fork and guided it to Mikasa, keeping your hand under it to catch anything if it dropped.

She finished her bite and leaned in to take the bite, humming in satisfaction at the taste. “Good,” she nodded.

“They put like crack ‘n this shit,” you said through a full mouth, shoveling forkful after forkful into your mouth.

You could feel Mikasa's judging gaze for eating like a pig, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was eating these crack laced waffles as greedily as possible. “What time are you supposed to meet Eren today?” she asked to make conversation.

You remember drunkenly slurring to her that Eren was supposed to take you out for lunch today while she was trying to put you to bed. All she did was nod and dodge your flailing limbs while she tried to change you into your night clothes.

“Uhhh,” you trailed off, “I dunno actually. I think he’s gonna text me when.” The familiar notification from your phone indicated you had a text from Eren. “Right now.”

ren ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ - 9:04 AM picking u up at 12 dont be late

you - 9:04 AM k

ren ᕙ(`▿´)ᕗ - 9:05 AM dont use k with me that makes me sad :(

you - 9:05 AM k

“He says 12,” you told Mikasa, setting your phone back down on the table. You went to go take another bite of your waffles, only to be met with stray bits of whipped cream and waffle crumbs. How disappointing.

“You have time to get ready then,” she said, finishing up the last bit of her own breakfast. Holding her plate, she got up to go put it in the sink, taking your plate for you as well. Literally an angel.

Suddenly, she leaned in to sniff you like the weird English professor you had your freshman year and cringed. “You’re gonna need all the time you can get. You stink.”

Never mind, not an angel.

Grumbling and cursing under your breath, you got off the stool to go take a shower. “And here I was about to offer to get you something for lunch while I was out.”

“A burger from the joint I like would be nice. So would a Coke and side of onion rings.”

“Size?”

“Medium for both.”

You would’ve caved in and bought her something, anyways. Might as well know what she wanted in the first place.

Showering took longer than expected. Most of your time got wasted by you standing under the shower stream and soaking in all the warmth. It wasn’t until Mikasa knocked on the door asking you not to use up all the hot water that made you actually start going through your routine.

The clock read 10:09 when you got out. You still had more time to kill until Eren came, so you elected to sit on your bed in your towel to scroll through social media. At 10:45, you started to get ready for real now.

Your makeup was just enough to cover any imperfections on your face, and your outfit cute enough for a lunch outing with your friend-fuckbuddy.

At 11:50, you stepped out into the living room with your belongings in hand to lounge around while you waited for Eren. You would’ve gone to bug Mikasa, but she had just stepped into the shower minutes prior.

12 on the dot, a rhythmic knocking was rapped on your door, meaning Eren was finally here. Skipping over to the door, you opened it to reveal him while slipping on your shoes.

“Hey,” he grinned when the door opened. He leaned in to give you a kiss on the lips after you’d straightened up from putting on your shoes.

A grin found its way on your lips during the kiss. It only lasted a couple of seconds, ending with you pulling away with a quiet smack. “Hi,” you greeted back.

“Ready to go?” he asked, one hand leaving his jacket pocket to jut his thumb down the hallway towards the elevators.

“Yup, ready,” you said. Over your shoulder, you yelled into the apartment to say goodbye to Mikasa and locking the door once you closed. “Okay, ready for real now.”

There was a new hot pot restaurant near campus, Eren told you, that he so desperately wanted to try. He overheard some people talking about the place in his Stats class, and he’s been wanting to go ever since.

“So, about what I told you last night,” he said, leaning on the table close to you after giving your orders to the waitress. “You said you would help me get Mina.”

“I said it was a bad idea,” you countered, taking a sip of your drink.

“But you said you would help me. For a price.”

“That I… did say,” you sighed. “What’s your plan?”

Smiling, he opened up his jacket and dug into the inner pockets, getting out a small notepad and a pen. Your eyebrows raised at the sight of them. “Okay,” he started, flipping through his notepad. “So I was thinking about it this morning, and this is what I have down so far.”

Sliding it towards you, he waited impatiently for you to read what he had.

Your lips pursed to prevent giggled from leaving your lips. Well, it was a plan, alright. Written in Eren’s chicken scratch of handwriting were a few very simple steps.

eren yaegers fool proof plan to get bitches get mina aka operation rent a gf by eren yaeger 1. talk to mina to get her interested in you ✓ 2. get hot girl ((Y/N)) to pretend to be your gf and show you can be a good bf 3. get mina jealous so she wants you even more and not poopy thomas wanker 4. “break up” with (Y/N) and pretend to be sad 5. get mina to comfort you 6. get bitches make mina your gf 7. pay (Y/N) for her services 8. ta-da!

When you looked up from the notepad, you saw Eren waiting for your answer. “Well? What do you think? Is it any good?” he asked.

“Were you high when you wrote this?” was the first thing you asked him. Eren shook his head innocently. “You’re 100% serious?” He nodded.

You bit your lip, deep in thought about Eren’s supposedly fool proof plan. “What makes you think it’s gonna work?”

“I know girls and how they act. If Paradis University let me major in women -- don’t get smart with me I don’t mean Women Studies -- I would be passing all my classes with flying colors. I know it’ll work, trust me,” he said cockily, leaning back in his chair.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. I know you. I know everything about you, (Y/N). I even know how to make you scream my name in--”

“Okay!” you cut him off, not wanting the strangers around you to know the intimate details of your sex life with Eren. “Okay.”

“I knew you were gonna do that. See, I do know women.”

A moment or two passed, both of you staring at each other. You with a deadpan expression, and him with a proud one. You were the first one to break the silence with a heavy sigh. “Okay, say I agree to this. What do I get in return?”

“Anything you want,” he said. “Within reason, of course. Please don’t ask me to like, hide a body or something.”

Ignoring his last comment, you continued speaking, “You’re not allowed to back out of whatever I ask you to, right? If this plan fails or succeeds, you still owe me whatever you promised.”

Eren nodded. “Of course. I swear on it.” He shifted a little so his elbow was on the table, holding out a pinky. Instinctively, you held out your pinky as well and intertwined the both of them. Pinky promises were something you and Eren had been doing for years now. It meant that the other was dead serious on their promise.

The waitress came back with your broth and dipping ingredients, setting them on the table for you right when your pinkes left each other. Thanking the waitress, the two of you talked some more while you waited for the broth to heat up.

“We should make it official. With a contract and set of rules,” he said. “Like that one movie you forced me to watch with you. The Boys I Loved or some shit like that.”

“To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before,” you corrected.

“Yeah, that. They’re kinda doing something like us, yeah?”

“Guess so,” you shrugged, picking up your chopsticks and a sice of pork belly when the broth started to boil. “After we eat though.”

Idle chatter was shared between the two of you as you ate. Even though you saw each other nearly every day, you never ran out of things to talk to. You could be talking about complete nonsense or how quantum physics made no sense, and you would still have the best time of your life.

By now, the broth had been drunk up and the table had been cleared out to be replaced with banana milk and ice cream. Eren brought out his notepad again to write down the set of rules for your fake relationship while enjoying your desserts.

Good progress had been written so far on the notepad. Both of you had given input and criticism on each rule made. In the end, you finally had a good set of rules written down.

(Y/N) and erens contract and rules for eren yaegers fool proof plan to get mina aka operation rent a gf by eren yaeger 1. act normally. eren and (Y/N) act like a couple already. just double the pda a little more 2. don’t tell anyone about the deal. the more people who believe in the relationship, the more likely it is for the plan to work 3. post each other on ig a lot. maybe add names and a date to bios to make it more believable 4. date night every saturday (go out or just hang out) 5. go to parties together 6. walk each other to class if you can 7. call each other cute pet names 8. after breaking up, the couple act has to stop including the sex 9. DON’T SLIP UP

payment for (Y/N):

Eren tapped a beat on the notepad, reading “payment” over and over again. Eventually he looked up at you, deep in thought. “Have you thought of anything so far?” he asked, clicking the pen to write what you wanted.

This was a tough decision. Eren was ready to give you anything to help him get Mina. You had to be wise and pick something big to take advantage of him. Something you were sure you wouldn’t ever regret getting.

“How about,” you started, trailing off, “you do my laundry for the rest of our time at ParadisU, buy me lunch every Wednesday even after we break up, recommend that godsend of a tutor you keep gatekeeping to help me too, and…”

“And?” Eren asked, looking up from his writing, waiting for your next words.

“All the orgasms I want during our relationship,” you finished, satisfied with what you chose.

“Is that all?” he asked, writing down the last of your words. “That’s a lot.”

“How about I let you know if I wanna add more,” you said. Eren nodded in response. His head hung to look at the notepad again, writing something down. Once he was done, he plaed the pen on the pad and slid it to you.

“Sign it so it’s official,” he instructed.

There were two lines beside each other, one already with Eren’s signature. Without hesitation, you signed your name neatly on the paper, giving the items back to Eren once you were done.

payment for (Y/N): eren has to do the (Y/N)’s laundry for the rest of university, buy her lunch ever wednesday, get tutor to help her and give her as many orgasms as she wants during the course of the relationship

signed x eren yaeger x (y/n) (l/n)

The two of you shook hands when Eren put away his things, to seal the deal again. The waitress came by again to give you the bill and collect your dirty dishes. Eren set down the cash needed to pay along with a tip in the check presenter before the two of you left.

You walked hand in hand back to Erens car before you realized you missed something. “Wait. What do we tell people when they ask how we got together?” you asked, pausing in your tracks.

Eren stopped with you, turning to look at you. “Um, you can say I confessed after lunch, and that this is technically our first date,” he suggested, tugging your hand to walk back to the car.

“Huh. Okay. That works,” you nodded.

The two of you got into the car a little bit past 2:30 in the afternoon, ready to go home. “Wait,” you said again, making Eren pause. “Mikasa wanted a burger from that one joint near our apartment. Could you take me there first?”

Eren smiled and nodded, starting the car. “Of course. Burger with medium Coke and onion rings?”

“How did you know?”

“She always gets that when we go there.”

“Huh… I guess you’re right.”

“When am I not?”

"Always."

taglist - @thestrugglesofateenagedirtbag , @lazalee , @countthemoons , @se-va-muriendo-mialma , @liaxxx109 , @prxttyguardian , @jeansbabycake

italic names, it wouldn't let me tag you!

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pappydaddy · 4 years ago

Text

Make-up (s.h.)

A/N: I am finally being able to start writing more (slowly but surely)! This is a request sent in by the lovely @secretjellyfishpolice (I love your profile pic by the way lovely!!). I love writing Steve x Henderson!reader stuff purely because I love Dustin and Steve’s relationship! This might be a little short, but I just thought it should end there, felt like it would be better. Sidenote: I had absolutely no idea what to name this... So, thank you so much for your request and I hope you like it💛!

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!fem!reader

fandom: stranger things

requested

masterlist | taglist | wips | navigation

warnings: fluff. good dustin and steve content. slightly suggestive, mentions of sex.

- not my gif -

For as long as Y/N could remember, her dream was to go to Cosmetology school to learn how to professionally do make-up. Her mother always told stories of how Y/N just couldn’t stay out of her make-up when she was a baby. Unfortunately, her mother told those stories to everyone who would give her the time-of-day to tell the said stories. No matter how embarrassing the stories and the pictures that came along with the stories were, they helped Y/N realize what she wanted to do with her life after high school.

When the day came that her mother had yet again pulled out the photo album loaded with the embarrassing photos to show Y/N’s now (much more) serious boyfriend Steve Harrington, she had decided to finally take the plunge and apply for the Cosmetology school a thirty-minute commute away. It was in the city, sure, but it was very prestigious and close enough for her to still live at home if she managed to get accepted. Steve was the ever-loving boyfriend through the entire application process, offering to help hold the light so she could take the required photos of her make-up skills (that she had used her mother as a model for) to send with her application. But his support didn’t end there.

“I am sure your acceptance letter is on its way right now, stop pacing and come sit down,” Steve tried to calm his pacing girlfriend down as she just about wore a path in the carpet in front of the door. “Come on, Sunshine, I bet your legs are exhausted from all that walking back and forth.” He spoke as he patted the couch cushion beside him.

She stopped her pacing, looking up at him as she wrung her hands together. “I’m too nervous to sit,” She shook her head, resuming her pacing. Steve remained silent, simply looking at her. He knew her, he knew that in any given moment she would rush over to the couch and worry from sitting down. Sure enough, with a final over-dramatic one-eighty whirl, she scampered to the couch. Sitting on her knees, she completely faced Steve with her eyes wide. “Why do you think it’s taking so long? It should have arrived by now, shouldn’t it have? Maybe they are trying to figure out the best way to let me down? That’s probably why it’s taking so long! They are trying to tell me that I suck without making me want to run through a wall-”

“Y/N, darling. You know how the postal service is in Hawkins, it’s complete shit! It’s probably sitting in a mailbag attached to some mailman taking yet another forty-minute coffee break and talking about everyone behind their back with the other mailmen that should be working.” Steve rambled, resting one of his hands on hers, shifting to prop one leg up and face her. His elbow propped up on the back of the couch, resting the side of his head against his closed fist.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” She sighed, slumping back slightly as she relaxed. Steve once again watched her, knowing that her mind was still racing and that it wouldn’t stop until she held that letter in her hand. She suddenly stiffened up again, sitting up straight as her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Steve wasn’t startled by the sudden action, only blinking and trying to hold back his smile. She was too cute in his eyes. “That doesn’t mean they don’t think I suck though.”

“They don’t think you suck,” Steve reassured her gently. “And if they do, they are clearly blind since you are the best damn make-up artist ever. Seriously, I am always amazed. You work wonders.” He praised her, boosting her confidence. She smiled at him, her body finally relaxing to the point where Steve knew that she would be relaxed for at least a few minutes. That was until she spotted the mail carrier walking towards the mailbox from the window.

“He’s here!” She jumped out, this time scaring Steve out of his mind, He jumped in his spot, his hand flying up to his chest in an attempt to calm his wildly beating heart. Taking deep breaths, Steve stood from the couch.

“Give the man a chance to get to the mailbox before you trample him.” Steve told her, watching the man lazily shift through the disorganized mail. Y/N surprisingly listened to him, dancing around on her tiptoes to try and peer out one of the three triangle-shaped windows at the top of her door.

“Is he gone yet,” She asked, rolling back down to her flat feet, unable to see out the windows. Steve shook his head, stretching his arms and legs as he watched the man add envelopes to the mailbox one by one. “God,” She let out a dramatic groan, slumping her shoulders over. “What is taking him so damn long?”

“By the looks of things, he decided to skip the part where he pre-sort the mail,” Steve observed. “There, he’s done-” He didn’t even get to finish his statement before she yanked the door open and took off down the driveway, not even caring that she was running into the crisp air of late August in her thin socks. “You could have at least put shoes on!” He called after her, standing in the open door.

“I got it! I got it! It’s here!” She ignored him, smashing the mailbox door closed before racing back up the driveway, nearly bowling Steve over to get back into the house. Steve kicked the door closed, following her back into the living room. She threw the other mail on the coffee table, not caring about the assortment of bills and junk mail. Steve settled back on the couch, his knee bouncing as he waited impatiently for her to open the letter she inspected with awe.

“Well, come on, don’t leave a guy hanging here,” Steve spoke up after he watched her flip the envelope for the second time. “Open it and see if you got in!”

She followed his instructions, using the letter opener she had placed on the coffee table weeks ago to tear along the fold of the envelope. Her nerves were overridden with impatience as she pulled the tri-folded paper out. The empty envelope fluttered to the carpeted floor by her feet, but she paid it no mind, too busy unfolding the letter. “I got in!” She screamed, turning to Steve, her eyes wide and her mouth dropped in shock.

“You got in!” He yelled back, shooting up from the couch once again, his arms open wide, his eyes just as bright and excited as Y/N’s.

“I got in!” She repeated, stepping onto the coffee table before launching herself into Steve’s arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. The force of her body flinging towards him knocked him off balance enough to send him falling back to the couch. His head lulled to rest on the back of the couch, his eyes set on the excited girl still clinging to him, the corner of the letter digging into the back of his neck little, but he didn’t mind.

“I told you that you would!” He reminded her. She pulled her head from his neck, peering down at him with sparkling eyes, he assumed it was from the excitement of getting into her dream school, but he didn’t know it was because of all the love she felt for him.

“You did, didn’t you?” She asked, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She was beyond thankful that she had managed to find someone that believed in her even when she didn’t believe in herself.

“Just to prove how proud I am of you, I will gladly loan my face to you for practice anytime,” He suggested, tapping her nose. She scrunched it up, pulling away from his finger. “All you have to do is ask.”

____

Steve did mean his words with his whole heart, but when a few weeks passed without her taking him up, he had thought she didn’t want to. It wasn’t until two weeks before she started school that he was proven wrong. “Steve!” She called in a sing-song voice, skipping through the house in search of her boyfriend. Her shopping bag swung by her side as she skipped through her living room into her room. Instantly, she spotted Steve laying on her bed on his back, tossing a slinky back and forth, giggling lightly to himself at the noise it made.

“What’s up, Sunshine,” He asked, not taking his eyes off the metal slinky, still pushing it back and forth. She hopped onto the bed, causing her and him to bounce. Dropping the bag between him and the slinky, she obscured his view as she practically vibrated with excitement. He oohed at the bag, not seeing the label on the other side of it. “Did you go to the naughty store to get me a present?”

She scoffed as he sat up, moving to dive his hands into the bag, thinking that was exactly what she had done. “You wish,” She commented, flipping the bag around so that he could see the store logo. He pouted in disappointment when he realized that it wasn’t from the dirty store. “I had to go get some supplies for school because they want us to get used to these specific products before the first day.”

“Okay?” Steve questioned, looking into the bag. He saw a bunch of make-up products that he wouldn’t even try to figure out what they were. Y/N had tried to explain the different things, but he just could not get the hang of it.

“Well, I can’t possibly get used to them without a model,” She pointed out, snatching the bag back from him. “You told me that I could use your face, all I had to do was as and this is me asking.” She bounced on her knees, her hands pressing against Steve’s side to shake him lightly.

“I did say that and I always stay true to my word,” He agreed, smiling as she clapped happily, cheering. She scrambled off the bed and over to her desk. “But I am really disappointed you didn’t go to the dirty store.” He added in, standing from her bed and plopping himself in her vanity chair, the slinky still in his hand. She plucked the slinky out of his hand, tossing it to the bed before resuming to unpack her make-up.

“If you behave, maybe we can go together tomorrow.” She bargained, clipping his hair back from his face. He nodded eagerly, making her laugh as she reached behind her for some primer.

“Make sure you match to my skin tone,” He reminded her his eyes fluttering closed as she started to apply the primer. It was almost like he could see the look she gave him when he added a quick ‘just making sure’ behind it. Shaking her head, she set to work on the base of his face.

____

“I am surprised that you’ve sat still enough for this long.” Y/N voiced her amazement, her eyes zeroed in on his eyelids as she swept the pigmented pink eyeshadow over it, carefully putting it in the right spot. Steve scoffed, trying his best not to move too much.

“You have no faith in me.” He muttered sarcastically. He was even surprised that he had sat for this long without getting antsy. Maybe it was because she had let him rest his hands on her waist as she worked, maybe it was just that he wanted to help her in any way he could, but it was probably the promise of going to the dirty store that kept him so still. Either way, they were both utterly shocked.

“Not true, I have lots of faith in you,” She corrected, moving to the next eyelid to cover that in pink. “I leave you alone with faith that you won’t burn my house down,” She pointed out, her eyes nearly crossing from how hard she was focusing. “I also leave you alone with my brother with faith that you won’t kill him, though both times he could have been killed, you were almost killed instead so-”

“Yeah, but was Dustin in danger?” He perked an eyebrow in question. She gave him a look.

“Last time I checked, trying to not be killed by Demo-dogs, Billy Hargrove, Russians, and a Giant Flesh Spider is classified as dangerous. So yes.” She pressed her lips together, twisting around to grab another eyeshadow brush, collecting some pigmented blue eyeshadow on it.

“But he didn’t die.”

“True,” She started, brushing some blue in the outer corner and crease expertly. “But you almost died instead, so I don’t think that pleads your case.” She jumped to the next eye, trying to get it the exact same as the other one. She leaned back, inspecting the blue powder on both, adding more to the second one.

“What’s the third colour you want?” She asked, unable to pick the next colour for his eyes.

“Purple.” He blurted out, not even sure that the other two colours were.

“Purple it is then,” She shrugged, plucking yet another brush off the table beside her, coating the end with purple eyeshadow, placing it in the inner corner gently. Steve scrunched his nose up as it tickled lightly. “Sorry,” She whispered, too focused on trying to perfect it. “You know, I didn’t think these three colours would look good together for an eyeshadow look, but I am pleasantly surprised,” She spoke as she started the other eye. “Once I blend it, it’ll look better too.”

“Remember, make me look good,” His warm breath fanned over her wrist as she put the final stroke of eyeshadow on. Grabbing yet another brush to blend the eyeshadow. “Dear God, how many brushes do you need?” He questioned, feeling the new brush swirling over his eyelids, making them flutter.

“A lot, now keep your eyes closed or you’re gonna mess it up,” She exclaimed, moving to the next eye. Steve remained silent, fighting to keep his eyelids closed. “Now, lipstick, mascara then I am done! You want pink or red? Pink might look better with your eye make-up.” She trailed off, looking at the two tubes of lipstick.

“Pink.” He chose, his eyes staying closed.

“You can open your eyes now, you Doofus,” She giggled, uncapping the lipstick and twisting it up. The creamy lipstick smeared onto his lips easily, taking no time at all. “Now, you need to keep your eyes open for this or it’ll mess this all up, okay?” She instructed, putting on the lipstick and grabbing the tube of mascara. Steve nodded, watching her intently. He visibly gulped when she pulled the wand out and brought it to his eye.

“Woah, woah, woah,” He panicked, leaning away from it in fear. “What the hell are you going to do with that?” He pointed to the black-coated wand. Y/N glanced down at it, shrugging as if it was nothing to be scared of.

“Put it on your eyelashes,” She told him, looking back at him. Her hand gripped the back of his head, keeping it in place as she brought the wand closer. “Stop being such a baby, it’s not going to hurt! I do this to myself all the time!” She struggled to keep his head in place, finally touching the wand to his already luscious lashes.

Just as she went to do his other eye, her door burst open to reveal Dustin standing there. The couple jumped, snapping their heads to look, the wand still raised in the air, and Y/N’s hand still on the back of Steve’s head. Dustin looked between Y/N and Steve, his eyes stitching together in question. “Did I just walk into some weird sex thing,” Dustin posed the question before squeezing his eyes closed and frantically shaking his head. “You know what, don’t answer that please?” He pleaded, opening his eyes to look at the couple again.

“It’s not a sex thing, it’s a make-up thing. Steve offered me his face to work on,” She clarified, turning Steve’s head back to face her. Whisking the wand on his eyelashes, she spoke to Dustin. “What do you need Dustin?”

“I honestly can’t remember now that I walked in on this.” He gestured to the scene in front of him, trying to hold in his laughter as he looked at Steve all made up.

“Stop laughing!” Steve cried in protest, his eyes tearing up slightly as Y/N fanned his eyes to make the mascara dry, her other hand placing the now capped mascara on her vanity. Dustin couldn’t help but let out a barking laugh at the comment.

“Yeah, stop laughing Dustin.”

“I’m sorry, but do you really expect me not to laugh at Steve with make-up on?”

“Yes, because A, make up doesn’t have a gender, and B, I think a man who is in touch with his faminine side is very sexy - so do a lot of girls, you should take notes from Steve for when Suzie finally comes to meet us.” She listed unclipping Steve’s hair from his face.

“Yeah, Twerp.” Steve stuck his tongue out at the teen.

“Real mature, Harrington, real mature,” Dustin narrowed his eyes at Steve. “I am ordering a pizza and I expect you guys to pay since you’ll end up eating most of it.” With that, he turned on his heel, marching down the hall. Y/N huffed out as he left the door wide open.

“You know what it is,” Y/N turned to look at Steve, pointing to the open door that Dustin was just standing in. “This attitude is all because his teeth are starting to grow in.” They both hummed at this, agreeing.

“Can I take this off now?” Steve asked, interrupting Y/N as she worked to put everything away. Looking behind her, she saw the glammed-up Steve blinking back at her. Furrowing her eyebrows, she put her brushes back in the spray-painted mason jar she kept them in, slipping her new eyeshadow pallet in the drawer with the rest of her make-up.

“Why, don’t you like it?” She asked, worried that he didn’t like the idea of having make-up on (which would be fine). Steve shook his head frantically.

“No, no! I do like it, I love it even, but, uh,” His nose twitched weirdly, making her eyebrows furrow even more. “It’s just my nose is itchy and I don’t want to ruin it, also, I am weirdly warm right now,” He gushed, his face scrunching up as he tried to survive the itch on his nose. “I have no idea how you guys wear this all the damn time, honestly.” He muttered in awe.

Y/N laughed, tossing him the package of make-up wipes. “Here you go.” She chuckled, sitting down on her bed, sliding a magazine off her nightstand table to read.

“I look damn good though, I almost don’t want to take it off, but I can’t take this itch anymore!” He exclaimed, scrubbing at his face with a wipe. Y/N peeked over her magazine at him, watching as he leaned close to the mirror, working hard to rid his face of the perfectly applied make-up. Glancing at the clock, she hummed, a smirk on her face.

“Hey, Steve,” She sat her magazine on the bed beside her. Steve hummed, working on the eye make-up just like he had watched Y/N do countless times before. She bit her lip, trying to stop the sneaky smile stretching onto her face. “As a thank you for doing this for me, I think I should give you something in return,” She paused, scooting to the foot of her bed. “How about we go to the dirty store today instead of tomorrow? We’ve got the house to ourselves after Dustin goes over to Mike’s for an overnight campaign.” She said with a suggestive tone.

Steve snapped his head to looked at her so fast, she was sure he’d be feeling the whiplash soon. “Really?” He asked with wide, excited eyes, a multitude of colours smudged around the from the eyeshadow, mascara, and eyeliner. She nodded, giggling at his excitement.

“Really! The store doesn’t close until nine and it’s five now, so hurry up, we can go after we drop Dustin off.” Steve started madly.

“Hey, Dustin, how about we give you money for pizza and drop you off early at Mike’s,” Steve yelled, still scrubbing at his face. “I guess he was right, this was a weird sex thing.” He commented, dropping the used wipe in the garbage by her vanity.

“It wasn’t a weird sex thing!” She defended weakly.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington preferences #steve harrington blurbs #steve harrington fluff #stranger things #stranger things 2 #stranger things 3 #stranger things 4 #dustin henderson #stranger things imagines #stranger things preferences

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lochtayboatsong · 4 years ago

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The Jesus Christ Superstar essay absolutely no one asked for.

Last weekend, I watched the pro-shot of the 2012 arena tour of Jesus Christ Superstar starring Ben Forster, Tim Minchin, and Melanie C, because it was Easter and it was up on YT for the weekend. I never managed to do my annual listen-through of Leonard Bernstein’s Mass this year, as is my usual Easter tradition, so I figured “Why not watch/listen to this instead?” It was my first time seeing and hearing JCS in full, and Y’ALL, it has been living rent-free in my brain ever since. I have a mighty need to get my thoughts out, so here they are, in chronological order by song.

1) Prologue: I love the way JCS 2012 makes use of the arena video screen. The production design and concept clearly took a lot of inspiration from the “Occupy ______” movement, which makes it feel a bit dated now. But every single production of JCS is a product of its time period, so this is a feature and not a bug.

2) Heaven On Their Minds: This is a straight-up rock song. It wouldn’t be out of place on any rock and roll album released between 1970 and 2021, and it boggles my mind that Webber and Rice were both in their early twenties when they wrote it. Also, the lyric “You’ve begun to matter more than the things you say” hits hard no matter the year.

3) What’s the Buzz: A+ use of the arena screens again, this time bringing in social media to set the tone. Also, this song establishes right from the outset that Jesus is burnt out and T I R E D by this point in the story. Seriously, can we just let this man have a nap?

4) Strange Thing Mystifying: Judas publicly calls out Mary and Jesus claps back. Folx, get you a partner who will defend your honor the way Jesus defends MM in this scene. Also Jesus loses his shoes and is mostly barefoot for the remainder of the show.

5) Everything’s Alright: Okay, this is one of the songs I have A LOT to say about. First, it’s important to know that I was a church musician throughout all of my adolescence and into my early adulthood. The pianist at the services I usually played at was a top-notch jazz pianist, and also my piano teacher for about six years while I as in high school and undergrad. (Incidentally, I had a HUGE crush on his son, who was/is a jazz saxophonist and clarinetist and also played in the church band, but that’s a story for another day.) One of the hymns we played a few times a year was called “Sing of the Lord’s Goodness,” which is notable for being in 5/4 time. Whenever this hymn was on the schedule, it was usually the recessional, or the last song played as the clergy processed out and the congregation got ready to leave, so we were able to have some fun with it. After a couple verses the piano player and his son would usually morph it into “Take Five,” a famous jazz standard by Dave Brubeck which is also in 5/4 time. Anyway, the first time I listened to this song in full, it got to Judas’s line “People who are hungry, people who are starving,” and I sat bolt upright and went “HOLY SHIT THIS IS ‘SING OF THE LORD’S GOODNESS/TAKE FIVE.’” And I was ricocheted back in time to being fourteen and trying to keep up with this father/son duo in a cavernous Catholic church while simultaneously making heart-eyes at the son. Final note: This is the only song in the musical to feature all three leads (Jesus, Judas, and Mary Magdalene) and is mostly Jesus and MM being soft with each other in between bouts of Jesus and Judas snarling at one another.

6) This Jesus Must Die: I LOVE that all the villains in this production are in tailored suits. LOVE IT. Also, Caiaphas and Annas are a comedy duo akin to “the thin guy and the fat guy,” except in this case it’s “the low basso profundo and the high tenor.” Excellent use of the arena video screen again, this time as CCTV.

7) Hosanna: My background as a church musician strikes back again. It honestly took me two or three listens to catch it, but then I had another moment of sitting bolt upright and going “HOLY SHIT THIS IS A PSALM.” Psalms sung in church usually take the form of call-and-response, with a cantor singing the verses and the congregation joining in for the chorus. If I close my eyes during this song, I have no trouble imagining Jesus as a church cantor singing the verses and then bringing the congregation in for the “Ho-sanna, Hey-sanna” chorus.

8) Simon Zealotes: This is part “Gloria In Excelsis” and part over-the-top Gospel song. Honestly it’s not my favorite, but it marks an important mood change in the show. The end of “Hosanna” is probably Jesus at his happiest in the entire show, and then Simon comes in and sours the mood by trying to tip the triumphant moment into a violent one. Jesus is not truly happy again from this moment on.

9) Poor Jerusalem: Also not my fave. It kinda reads like Webber and Rice realized that Jesus didn’t have a solo aria in Act I, so they came up with this. But it has the distinction of containing the lyric, “To conquer death you only have to die,” which is the biggest overarching theme of the story.

10) Pilate’s Dream: Pontius Pilate might be the most underrated role in this entire show, and I love that this production has him singing this song while being dressed in judge’s robes.

11) The Temple: The first half of this is one of the campiest numbers in Act I, at least in this production, and it’s awesome. The second half is one of the saddest, as Jesus tries to heal the sick but finds there are too many of them. Also the whole scene is almost entirely in 7/8 time, which I think is just cool.

12) I Don’t Know How To Love Him: Mary Magdalene’s big aria, and one of the songs I knew prior to seeing the full-length show. This production has MM taking off her heavy lipstick and eye makeup onstage, mid-song, which is kind of cool. Melanie C says in a BTS interview that MM’s makeup is her armor, so this is a Big Symbolic Moment.

13) Damned For All Time: The scene transition into this song is played entirely in pantomime, and I love it. The solo guitarist gets to be onstage for a bit, A+ use of the video screen again to show Judas on CCTV, etc. Love it. And then this song is Judas frantically rationalizing what he’s doing, and what he’s about to do, with Caiphas and Annas just reacting with raised eyebrows and knowing looks.

14) Blood Money: This is where the tone of the show really takes a turn for the dark. I think this might be one of Tim Minchin’s finest moments as Judas, because his facial expressions and microexpressions throughout this scene speak absolute volumes. And the offstage chorus quietly singing “Well done Judas” as he picks up the money is a positively chilling way to end Act I.

15) The Last Supper: Act II begins with major “Drink With Me” vibes. (Except JCS came WAY before Les Miz, so it’s probably more accurate to say that “Drink With Me” has major “The Last Supper” vibes.) Jesus and Judas have their knock-down, drag-out fight, and it’s honestly heartbreaking, thanks again to Tim Minchin’s facial expressions. A well-done production of JCS will really convey that Jesus and Judas were once closer than brothers, even though their relationship is at breaking point when Act I begins.

16) Gethsemane: This is Jesus’s major showpiece and one of my faves. Jesus knows he has less than 24 hours to live, he knows he’s going to suffer, and worst of all, he doesn’t know whether it’s going to be worth it. It’s an emotional rollercoaster to watch and to perform, and it goes on for ages: something like 6 or 7 minutes. Fun fact: the famous G5 is not written in the score. Ian Gillan, who played Jesus on the original concept album, just sang it that way, so most subsequent Jesuses have also done it that way. Lindsay Ellis has a great supercut of this on YT. John Legend notably sang the line as written during the 2018 concert.

17) The Arrest: Judas’s Betrayer’s Kiss is played differently across different productions. The 2012 version is pretty tame - I’ve seen clips and gifs of other productions, including the 2000 direct-to-video version, where they kiss fully on the mouth and have to be dragged apart by the guards and it is THE MOST TENDER THING. Then the 7/8 riff from “The Temple” comes back and the 2012 version lets the video screen do its thing again as Jesus is swarmed by reporters.

18) Peter’s Denial: Not much to say about this one, as it’s basically a scene transition. But it’s a significant moment in the Passion story, so I’m glad they included it.

19) Pilate and Christ: The 2012 production continues with the theme of Caiaphas, Annas, and Pilate all being bougie af, since Pilate intentionally looks like he just came from tennis practice during this scene. Also he does pilates...hehehe.

20) King Herod’s Song: Tim Minchin says in a BTS interview that JCS works best when Jesus and Judas are played seriously and the rest of the production is allowed to be completely camp and wild and bizarre all around them, and he is bloody well CORRECT about that. Case in point: King Herod. There is not a single production of JCS that I know of where Herod is played “straight.” He’s been played by everyone from Alice Cooper to Jack Black, and everyone puts a different zany spin on him. In JCS 2012 he’s a chat show host in a red crushed velvet suit, who is clearly having the time of his LIFE.

21) Could We Start Again Please: This is another of my faves. Just a quiet moment where MM, Peter, and the disciples try to grapple with the fact that Jesus is arrested and things are going very, very badly. This is also my favorite Melanie C moment of the 2012 show. Her grief is very real, and the little moment she has with Peter at the end is very real.

22) Death of Judas: This is basically Tim Minchin screaming for about five minutes, and incredibly harrowing to watch on first viewing.

23) Trial Before Pilate: Possibly my single favorite scene in the entire 2012 production. This is another harrowing watch, but there’s so much to take in. The “set” that the entire show takes place on is essentially just a massive staircase, and the people with power are almost always positioned above the people without power. In this scene, the crowd shouting “Crucify Him!” is positioned above Pilate, which is a very telling clue to Pilate’s psychology during this scene. Jesus is at the very bottom of the stairs, of course. Excellent use of the video screen once again during the 39 Lashes, to show the lash marks building and building until the entire screen is a wash of red. Pilate’s counting also gets more and more frantic, especially starting around “20.” And all the while the guitar riff from “Heaven On Their Minds” is playing. Jesus’s line “Everything is fixed and you can’t change it” is played quite differently in different productions - here it’s defiant, but elsewhere (in JCS 2000 for example) it’s almost tender, like Jesus is absolving Pilate for his part in the trial. But it always ends the same - with Pilate almost screaming as he passes the sentence and “washes his hands” of the whole sorry business.

24) Superstar: The most over-the-top number in the show. Judas, who died two scenes ago, comes back to sing this. There are soul singers. There are girls in skimpy angel costumes. The parkour guys from the prologue are back. Judas pulls a tambourine out of hammerspace midway through the song. And Jesus is silently screaming and crying as he gets hoisted onto a lighting beam while all this is going on.

25) The Crucifixion: More of a spoken-word piece than a song, it’s Jesus’s final words on the cross over eerie piano music, and another harrowing watch.

26) John 19:41: An instrumental piece in which Jesus is taken from the cross and carried, at last, to the top of the stairs, before being lowered out of sight as the video screen turns into a memorial wall and everything fades to black.

So. I know I’m anywhere from three to fifty-one years late to this particular party, but I am on the JCS bandwagon now and I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. :)

#jesus christ superstar #jcs 2012 #jcs is all i have been thinking about all week sorry not sorry #ben forster #tim minchin #melanie c #andrew lloyd webber #tim rice

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sparxwrites · 3 years ago

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@manoessay replied to your post:

This post activated my brain harder than most so even though you arent gonna make a fanfic i will add, Dream testing how many times you can bring a person back on quackity once he gets out.

(i absolutely fully got possessed by this idea, and then wrote this self-indulgent and weirdly experimental fic feverishly at like 1am last night. this is... probably not what you were imagining, but it’s what fell out of my brain, so! enjoy? written to “innocence” by madeon.)

cw moderately graphic torture / gore, mental breakdown, mind games, temporary character death

[ao3]

“How many times have you died now, Quackity?”

The words flash hot through his skull, but don’t translate into meaning. Don’t translate into anything other than noise. The floor is cold beneath his palms. Russet-brown flakes up beneath his nails when he claws at it, chest heaving, lungs trying to remember how breathing works.

His first inhale gurgles, wetly, makes him jerk on his belly like a worm on a hook. His throat is raw from disuse, from screaming, from the sword that had sliced through his trachea like a knife through so much butter. When he tries to speak, the only thing that comes out is blood.

It goes like this, every time Dream drags him back from Limbo: his ears full of a high ringing, his lungs not working, his body numb. The link between flesh and brain is faulty, sparking wrong – like the battered neurons take a few precious minutes of life to rewire back together fully. It fixes itself a little less each time, the link; he’s permanently numb down most of his left side, now. The fingers on his right hand are going insensate in terrifying inches.

“How many times?”

Crooked mask, ragged voice, cracked porcelain smile. Dream looks better than Quackity feels, but not much – crouched low on a stone floor that’s caked in layer after layer of old blood, watching Quackity like a bug under a magnifying glass. His hair’s a greasy mess, his mask dirty-white and chipped, his clothes spattered with weeks of gore. With Quackity’s gore.

There’s blood dripping out from beneath the mask, though, fresh and hot. His hands shake. The knuckles clenched around the hilt of his sword are white, the skin beneath his fingernails faintly purple-blue.

The eyes behind the mask are just a little too green.

“Can you even hear me?” There’s a giddy slur to the edge of Dream’s words, the manic lilt of a man high off the same shit that’s melting his brain out through his nose. That feeling was familiar to Quackity, in another life. “Quackity. Hey, Quackity. Anyone in there?” He laughs, short and cruel and batshit crazy. His eyes are the colour of battery acid. “Have I finally broken you?”

There’s no response – because Quackity’s still trying to remember how his lungs work, remember what ribs are, remember how to do things that aren’t screaming and curling in on himself and rocking – and the amusement in his voice turns angry, sour. “I said tell me how many times, Quackity.”

Dream stands, unsteady, swaying as he does and leaning heavily on the sword for balance. His hands are still shaking. The blood’s stopped dripping, but there’s a sickly tinge to it, and when he wipes at his chin with the back of one hand it leaves a smear that’s more brown than red.

There’s a flicker of something, as his knuckles touch the half-inch of exposed face – dirty white light, bridging the gap between skin in a static-shock flash. There and then gone, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.

The eyes behind the mask glow a little brighter. A little greener. A little less human.

The point of Dream’s sword sinks into Quackity’s shoulder, splits open an old scar. Quackity’s covered in them, now, more scar than skin. More ruined than not. He spasms, chokes, bleeds wet and red and fresh over the dried blood that carpets the floor. The noise he makes is animal, leg-in-a-bear-trap high and thin and dying. Barely alive five minutes, and he’s bleeding out again already. It’s almost funny.

Dream laughs, and leans on the pommel of the sword. It pushes in another inch.

“Month!” manages Quackity, forcing the word out through the wetness in his lungs, through the broken-bone grind of his throat. If he weren’t so many shattered parts, pasted back together by unholy power and Dream’s capricious whims, it might have been a howl. As it is, he barely has the energy to sob, the words raw and hoarse and threadbare. “A month, a month– thirty– haha, thirty-six days in, in, in Limbo, fuck, please, please–”

There’s wet on his cheeks. Tears? Blood? Worse? He can’t tell any more. He can’t even feel the left side of his face.

He grabs for Dream’s boots, presses his forehead against them, gasps for air that doesn’t seem to bring any relief from the cold ache in his lungs. One of his hands finds an ankle, a strip of bare skin between shoe and pant leg. Dream’s skin is fever-hot, sickly, bottled lightning gone past its sell-by date.

The shock of the contact knocks him silent for a second, though. They won’t touch him, in Limbo, the ghosts – or can’t, or both, can’t and won’t. Because they’re bastards, because they hate him, because he isn’t one of them. They can’t-won’t touch him, can’t see him, won’t see him, won’t speak to him– and he’s left, alone, in a room full of the faded impressions of people he once knew, once loved, once was loved by. A room full of people who do not see him, and do not touch him, and do not hear him when he talks.

(When he screams, when he swears at them, when he tries to claw their eyes out with unsteady hands that don’t make contact– when he begs, when he pleads, when he wheedles and bribes and bargains to deaf ears– when he wraps arms around himself, when he rocks himself back and forth until the blood rushes in his ears, when he whispers to himself until his voice fades to nothing, and tries to pretend it is the same thing as being loved and held and comforted–)

“Please, don’t– hahah, don’t kill me, fuck– please, look, look, hurt me, please, hurt me– anything, anything, I don’t–” He doesn’t have the breath for this. Doesn’t have the energy. Doesn’t even really have the words any more, after screaming for thirty-six fucking days straight, after talking to himself for so long his vocal cords wore out and left him mouthing silence in a desperate attempt to keep himself company. “Don’t, don’t send me– not, don’t send me back, please, fuck, anything, ha, haha, don’t, don’t–”

“I said I’d make you beg for death,” says Dream, amused, bored, manic. “Not torture. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just kind of funny. Don’t you think? I think it’s funny.”

He pushes the sword in, another inch. Quackity sobs, desperate and pathetic, and feels no shame for it. Presses his face to Dream’s boot, clings to his ankle like a lifeline, and feels no shame for it. Shame was beaten out of him, bled out of him, several lifetimes ago. “But that’s not what I asked, though. How many times have you died now, Quackity?”

The sword in his shoulder twists, and Quackity screams. Something severs with a pop, and then another, and then another, until the joint is little more than a hot ball of pain and wet meat, grated bone. Until he can no longer scream, gasping desperately through the pain, weeping like a child. Another twist, and something else severs, something vital, a second’s resistance before a give and a spray of warm blood.

He bleeds out between one sob and the next, tumbling into darkness, the golden net of the respawn reaching up to catch him as he falls.

He wakes up three feet away, sprawled out on the filthy bed that occupies one corner of his cell, still sobbing. The respawn clings to him like a second skin, like weights around his ankles, frightening and familiar all at once. It fades slowly, reluctantly; slower each time he dies, he thinks. Like it’s getting used to holding him. Like it doesn’t want to let him go.

It’s only barely gone by the time Dream crosses the space between them, two short steps, no time for him to flinch, no time for him to hide–

Dream grabs him by the wrist, wrenches his body up from the bed, and slots the sword neatly through the front of his throat. The broad, well-used scar carved across it parts for the blade like an old friend, swallows it whole – and Quackity dies for the second time in as many minutes, choking on his own blood.

The respawn catches him. Drags him down into darkness. Drags him back up to the surface of reality, deposits him back onto a bed now sodden with crimson. He’s shaking. He should be used to it, but he’s shaking so hard his teeth clack together, so hard he’s not sure it will ever stop.

Dream drags him off the bed, back onto the floor. Back onto the filth, the layers and layers of dried gore, a carpet constructed from every time he’s been slaughtered like an animal in this tiny, lightless cell.

“Dream,” he begs, quietly. “Dream, Dream–”

Even to his ears, it sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

“It’s a simple question, Quackity. How many times have you died now? Properly died. How many times have I brought you back? I just want a number. Just a number.” The mask obscures Dream’s mouth, but his grin is audible. His eyes are so bright, they hurt to look at. “How many times have I proven to you that I’m a god?”

Quackity tries to curl in on himself, but Dream is in the way, one boot by his shoulder and the other pinning his wrist to the floor beneath its toe. He’s not surprised. Dream is everywhere, always, omnipresent. His free hand seeks out Dream’s ankle onces more, curls around that curdled-lightning skin, desperate and needy. It grounds him, touching the only real person in his whole entire world, and he hates himself for it.

“…T- ten?” he tries, and knows as he says it that it’s wrong. The panic rises like the respawn, choking him. He can’t breathe. “Ten, ten times– maybe eleven– fuck, fuck, Dream, please–”

The sword-tip finds his back, finds the space between his fourth and fifth rib. Finds the ropy scar there, beneath the rags, soft from re-use – like a zipper, easy to pry open right down to his weak, wet heart.

“Good guess,” says Dream, quietly. “Closer than before. But still not right. You need a little longer to think about it, I guess. But– hey, you know what? I’ll be nice, and give you a hint.” He pauses, and Quackity’s world stands still. “You’re guessing too low.”

He pushes the sword down. It slips between Quackity’s ribs like an old lover, lodges in the crusted filth and stone below, pins him still against the floor. His heart beats once, twice, a butterfly-flutter around the diamond skewered through it. His body convulses. He falls still.

The blood from his mouth dyes the toes of Dream’s boots crimson, as the light leaves his eyes.

He wakes in Limbo, on his knees, in a room full of people – full of impressions of people, like the ghosts of a faded photograph. He sees them all there, their backs to him, as they move amongst one another, as they talk amongst one another. Tubbo, and Schlatt, and Fundy, and Wilbur, and–

Sapnap, who looks right through him. Karl, whose eyes skate over him. They hold each other’s hands. The rings on their fourth fingers gleam weakly in the strange, nebulous light of the afterlife. They do not hear him when he says their names, ragged and desperate, like a plea. Like a prayer.

And then they, too, turn their back on him. And Quackity – still raw, still bloody, still skewered open right through his butterfly heart – screams and screams and screams.

#manoessay #dream smp #quackity #dream #dsmp fic #dsmp tag #fic #to my ex-y*gs fans: say hello to dirty white source code light and weird respawn headcanons again!#something something stop fucking around with creative mode or the dirty white light will eat you from the inside out like a parasite #it wants to pour the entirety of the universe into your head until there's no space left for *you* in there any more #that's not something you dick around with just to ensure the guy who tortured you in prison is broken down into more animal than human #also i will not apologise for making quackity's limbo so fucking miserable #he's in a hell of his own creation lmao #hc that you get what you think you deserve in limbo lmao :3c #torture //

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novelconcepts · 4 years ago

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fic: souvenirs you never lose

prompt, for @karatam: five scars Dani found on Jamie’s body (and one she left behind on her heart)

It takes Jamie time, to open up. This does not surprise Dani in the least; the Jamie she met at Bly wasn’t the sort to show off--not her innermost secrets, and certainly not her body. Even innocuous bits, elbows and forearms and collarbones, were covered half the time in thick jackets and jumpsuits. She didn’t see Jamie’s knees for the first time until they slept together.

It feels less like Jamie is hiding something, and more like Jamie appreciates a certain barrier between her body and the rest of the world. Dani can respect that. Knows the value of armor, of a good sweater and pounds of hairspray and the effort to be seen only as you choose. And what Jamie chooses, mostly, is to be seen as the job. As soil under fingernails, as hair messy around her face, as small hoop earrings and old t-shirts and overalls. Jamie doesn’t much put in the effort, because she’s busy channeling all of that effort into more important things. Dani likes this about her.

Still, for the first month or two, she doesn’t see much of Jamie’s bare skin. Maybe because Jamie is still working out the angles of their relationship in her head, easing in gently even as she’s taking enormous leaps of faith on little more than Dani’s word. Maybe because they’re leaving England (where, even in summer, a chill holds dominion over most nights) for Vermont (where, by the time they arrive, fall is chipping away at what remains of the year). Either way, for a while, Dani thinks Jamie is hiding in baggy sweaters and loose jeans because it’s just Jamie.

It isn’t until they’re in bed in a hotel in Pennsylvania that she thinks for the first time: maybe it’s about something else. Maybe it’s about the lives Jamie lived before meeting her. Maybe there are some boxes Jamie holds close to her chest, will need time to unlock.

Dani can be patient.

“It was a pot,” Jamie says, like that’s the whole of the story, but a story is never so simple or so short as that. In fact, it was not just a pot, not just water, not just a child left to raise a baby like she’d ever be prepared for something like this.

Jamie, maybe eight years old--she has trouble thinking back this far, has trouble remembering anything from this time with an adult’s clarity--stands as tall as her meager height allows whenever she’s in this house. Shoulders thrown back, chin up, the way she’d seen her mum in shops. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it land. Just keep your chin up, eyes forward, and keep walking.

Jamie, maybe eight years old, with hair that hasn’t been trimmed in months and hand-me-down trousers from Denny, who scuffed his shoes and scowled and said nothing, because what could he do about it? Denny, who keeps his distance, who hasn’t had a kind word for her since she can’t remember when. Jamie tries not to mind. Tries to understand, with an eight-year-old comprehension of human instinct, why her big brother is so determined to shut her out.

They call her mum things in the street, and maybe that’s why she left. Maybe sticks and stones aren’t all that can tear you up, in the end. Jamie’s had her share of both, has limped home and mopped up tattered knees and scraped cheeks more than she likes to recall, but maybe words can do the same kind of damage if there are enough of them all bound up together.

Or maybe she left because Jamie wasn’t big enough to wrap her arms around all the little aches her mum was made up of. Maybe because Denny turns up his nose at anything he doesn’t like, and Mikey screams all day, and Jamie--sandwiched between them with no way out--is just too small.

She’s trying. She’s trying so hard. Mum’s gone, and she hasn’t seen Dad in...what’s it been now, days? A week? She’s losing track fast. Losing track of a lot of things, really. She’s falling asleep draped over her desk, sneakers dangling off the floor, waking to wadded up chunks of paper drenched in someone else’s spit clinging to her neck and hair. Her homework, when it gets done at all, usually gets stolen out of her bag and shredded before she can turn it in. She’s starting to hear the whispers at night, falling asleep with one eye open, one arm wrapped around Mikey’s tiny frame: Whore. Cunt. Your mum’s a--

She doesn't even know what these words mean, but they live beneath her skin like razor blades, and she is so small, and so tired, and only eight, only eight, only--

The day the pot goes over, she knows. Something prickles at the back of her neck like a bad itch, like a bug bite, like the worst kind of déjà vu. She’s got Mikey in one arm, bouncing him up and down the way he likes, and the other hand is trying to stir pasta. It’s one of the only things she knows how to make, and Mikey probably should have something more, something better--baby food, or fruit, or something--but Dad’s been gone for maybe-days, maybe-weeks, and Jamie hasn’t figured out how she’s going to buy groceries yet. Problem for another day, she keeps thinking, the idea growing more fringed and frazzled by the hour.

She’s standing on a chair, baby in one arm, stirring, and it wouldn’t have happened if only she were bigger. It wouldn’t happen if only she could stand taller, if only she didn't need to climb on things to reach, if only she had been able to sleep last night under all Mikey’s whimpers and Denny kicking the wall they share and the hisses of whore, your mum’s a dirty whore reverberating through her head.

She’s swaying, bouncing Mikey up and down, up and down, and then she’s swaying too far. Too far to the left, too far to correct, and before she knows it, gravity’s got her in a headlock. She pitches sideways, the chair skidding out from under her with a squeal on linoleum, and Mikey is already bawling. Even before her stirring arm yanks the pot. Even before the water sloshes over, all bubbles and steam and Jamie distantly realizes she is shrieking. Her right shoulder comes up in a protective shroud around her little brother, taking as much of the splash as she can stand, and her shirt is pasted to her skin, pasted and bubbling and Jamie hadn’t known anything in the whole world could hurt as much as listening to Mikey screech from against her chest.

“Just a mistake,” she says, yawning in a dimly-lit hotel room. “Just a mistake that a little kid makes on too little sleep and too much responsibility. It’s okay.”

Dani, fingers tracing the edges of raised skin, watches her. Jamie’s head is turned away, her body tucked into the space where Dani suspects she’s always sort of been waiting for someone to lay. Jamie is bunched up tight in the too-high AC, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hand holding gently to the arm Dani has draped loosely over her waist. She feels small in Dani’s arms, which is strange, because Jamie always feels like she takes up so much space in the world. Brass bells on her laugh, brass tacks in her smile, walking like she was told one too many times to sit down and her only response was to flash the finger.

Dani sometimes wishes she could walk like Jamie does. Breathe like Jamie does. The closest she comes to it are nights like this, pressed close in a bed barely bigger than a twin, Jamie speaking slowly, tiredly, to the opposite wall.

“You protected him,” Dani says softly. She doesn’t so much like the feel of the scar under the pad of her finger as she does the sensation of Jamie breathing beneath her hand. Jamie, exhausted from a long day on the road, still pressing backward into her like she can never get close enough.

“Had to,” Jamie says sleepily. “Was so little.”

Dani gets that, understands what it is to hold something small and precious and innocent, and know the world doesn’t care about any of it. The world doesn’t want to keep small, soft things safe. The world just barrels on, riding its own track, and damned be the rest of them.

She bends her head, presses her lips to the top of Jamie’s shoulder, waits for permission. Jamie exhales, leans her head back.

“Go on, then.”

She smiles against the soft slope of Jamie, of the lightly freckled skin where no secret memories lurk, and drops a kiss right on the edge of the scar. Jamie doesn’t move, doesn’t push her away, just breathes lightly in and out as Dani explores the spot where a child’s error in judgment left a permanent brand. She traces the map of it with soft lips, careful not to do anything that might cause Jamie unease, careful to simply embrace this part of a woman who pretends it was just a pot because it’s easier than admitting the rest. How much guilt she must have carried for years after. How much it had hurt in ways that have nothing to do with searing burns.

Her hand tightens across Jamie’s stomach, pulling her reflexively closer, and Jamie arches her back. Her breath is coming a little quicker now, her laugh deep in the shadows cast by one tiny lamp.

“S’just a scar,” she says, and turns in Dani’s arms to kiss her lips. “Just a scar, Poppins. S’all right.”

A few months go by, Christmas stumbling past with all the grace of a young puppy, the winter months unspooling after in its wake. Eventually, the world begins to wake again. The days warm, the sun casting its light on a new apartment, and Jamie--for the first time since Dani’s known her--is wearing shorts.

“You’ve never told me about this one,” Dani says, seated on the floor of the living room, surrounded by clean laundry. Jamie is on the couch, legs dangling on either side of Dani’s shoulders, a book propped gently against Dani’s hair.

“Which?” she asks absently, flipping the page. Dani shakes the book away, pressing her thumb lightly to a spot high on Jamie’s right inner thigh. Jamie sucks in a showy breath. “Gettin’ a bit handsy there for all that laundry, Poppins.”

“One,” Dani says, “you can get down here and help me fold. Or two, you can tell me about this one.”

Jamie tosses the book aside, leaning over to look. “Ah. That. Was just a bad jump.”

Dani can tell right away that this is like the burn, that nothing with Jamie’s past was ever just anything. She rests her head against Jamie’s knee, gazing up at her, waiting.

Jamie doesn’t advertise it or anything, doesn’t think anyone really needs to know, but she’s always been a good runner. Had to be, when she was little, when the other kids were big and strong and the only thing standing between her and a busted lip was to take off like the wind at the first sight of them. Had to be even more in foster care, when quick thinking and quicker legs were maybe the only chance she had at a peaceful evening.

She’s not much to look at, seventeen and gangly, hips still figuring themselves out and legs prone to tangling when she’s tired. But, oh, can Jamie run.

She’s running now, in fact. Running like all the world’s vices have her number and are ringing her up, and it feels good to move like this. Arms pumping, chest expanding and contracting around heaving breaths, eyes wild. A woman dives out of her way, almost upending her shopping cart, and Jamie laughs like she’s got the breath to spare.

It would all be better, maybe, if she didn’t have the goddamn police on her tail.

If she didn’t have a rather damning piece of fine silver tucked up under her shirt.

If she could be sure why she was doing this in the first place.

But no matter. No worries at all. It’s just pavement beneath her battered old work boots, just the breeze tearing at her hair and the dirty glares of complete strangers, and Jamie thinks, Yeah, you wish you could move like this. You wish you had the fucking freedom.

Hands, catching at her jacket tails. Big hands, broad-palmed and nasty, and if they close over anything that counts, she knows she’s done for. Knows this is the price of living free: sometimes, you’re free to make choices that get you run down. Not that she cares. Not that she minds it in the least. So long as she can run like this, Jamie figures she can go just about goddamn anywhere.

She shrugs the groping hands away, hears one of the uniformed men swear as she bolts left down an alley. She knows this street like the back of her hand, knows if she can just get to the end and up over the gate, she’s home free. The cops are older, bigger, slower to swing around such a tight corner, and Jamie’s leap takes her halfway up the chain link before she even has to start her mad scramble.

She’s all seeking hands and desperate boots, gasping around the burn in her lungs where a fresh smoking habit is not doing her endurance any favors, and she’s laughing still. Even as she goes over, even as she feels something barbed catch along her inner thigh and tear, she’s laughing. Blood, spilling hot down the leg of her jeans, soaking black into the faded denim. Still, she throws her head back and brays insane laughter toward the sun.

She’s still laughing when she rounds the corner and slams straight into the barrel chest of a beat cop. Not the grabby one; he’s still puffing his way over the fence behind her. This one has mean eyes and a shark’s grin, and when his hand closes over her forearm, all the laughter seventeen years can produce goes rotten in her chest.

“That,” the cop says, “doesn’t belong to you.”

Jamie, lungs heaving, silver hot against her belly, feels the shredded skin of her thigh pull tight, and winces.

“Went in not long after,” she says, shrugging and resting a hand lightly atop Dani’s hair. “Stayed in nearly five years.”

She says it like everything’s okay, like it doesn’t hurt to remember a teenage girl who felt her only recourse from the world was to steal from it. Dani shifts, pulling Jamie’s leg higher on her shoulder, and kisses the jagged remnants of the day Jamie saw her freedom stuffed into a cage.

“Honest,” Jamie breathes, watching her with eyes gone dark with some mix of desire and memory. “It didn’t even hurt all that much.”

She’s lying, Dani can tell; Jamie’s a terrible liar, so bad at it that she rarely bothers. She holds Jamie’s gaze, feels the uncomfortably sharp edge of the scar against the soft skin of her lower lip. Jamie’s brow pulls like she’s warding off something dangerously akin to shame.

“I did it because,” she says, and Dani kisses the spot a little harder, shifting to her knees on the carpet. Jamie swallows hard, leaning back against the cushions. “Dani, I was...”

Don’t, Dani thinks. Don’t say my name like you’re confessing something. She presses her face against the hot skin of Jamie’s thigh, tries to imagine being young and desperate and foolish. It isn’t so hard to do.

“You were just a kid,” she says, muffled. Jamie rests a hand lightly on the back of her head, giving her permission. “Just a kid running from so much.”

“It was stupid,” Jamie says thickly. “I was--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dani says, so fiercely she surprises herself. “Doesn’t matter who you were at seventeen, Jamie. Do you have any idea how stupid I was at seventeen?”

They could go back and forth all day--Jamie’s mistakes stripping her of five years of freedom, Dani’s nearly stripping her of a lifetime. They could, but Jamie is looking at her with such love in her eyes that Dani knows it isn’t the time. It just doesn’t matter, not as much as this place and Jamie’s smile and knowing they're both who they need to be for one another, regardless of the past.

Her hands are moving toward the zipper of Jamie’s shorts, her mouth light and gentle on Jamie’s skin, and they don’t talk about the scar again. Even with Jamie moving her hips restlessly, even with Dani’s tongue teasing and tasting, even as Jamie grasps her by the hair and makes the most wonderful sounds above her, Dani keeps her thumb pressed gently into that spot. Reclaiming it, in a way. Giving Jamie a dose of what it feels like to fly, to forget all her mistakes, to know only what it is to be loved.

She likes to think she knows Jamie’s body pretty well by the time she finds the third scar. They’ve been together three years--three years of blessed, shocking serenity, and Dani feels good. Has felt good for so long, in fact, she’s almost forgotten anything else.

That always feels a little like rattling the bars of some enormous cage, like taunting something huge and bestial she still can’t make out among the trees. Still. It’s no less true.

They’re in the kitchen, of all places, when she notices it. Jamie’s shirt has ridden up as she stretches to retrieve a plate from the cupboard, and there--just under the strap of her bra--a mark Dani’s never really registered before along her ribs. It’s a small thing, a puckered spot smaller than the nail on her pinky.

“What’s that from?”

Jamie twists awkwardly, trying to look under her raised arm. “Ah...bit of a mishap with a sharp implement.”

“At the shop?” Dani frowns, trying to imagine what kind of barbed plant it would take to skewer Jamie in such a way. Trying, too, to imagine what would keep Jamie from sheepishly showing her the same night, allowing Dani to patch her with rubbing alcohol, bandages, a long kiss.

“Uh, no, actually. Inside.” Plate recovered, Jamie drops back down and tries to sidle around Dani toward the stove. Dani raises an eyebrow.

“Inside like in prison?”

“Just about the only place I can think of gets described as such,” Jamie says lightly. Dani jabs her gently in the shoulder.

“So, how’d this one happen?”

“Accidentally.”

Her voice is too light. She’s doing a little dance back and forth, trying to pass Dani, who finally relents.

“You got accidentally stabbed. In prison.”

Jamie sighs. “I suppose you’ll want this tale, too, mm?”

Dani gives her a look, half-exasperation, half-deeply entertained. A well, yes, Jamie, if it isn’t too much hassle to clarify the time you got shanked in prison look. She hadn’t even known she had a look like that, but bless Jamie: always teaching her new things about herself.

It’s not as bad as it seemed at first, Jamie learns quickly. Prison isn’t a picnic by any stretch, but for the most part, the other women leave her be. Maybe it’s something about the way she walks, a trick picked up before she was even into her teens: a good healthy swagger keeps at least the lowest-tier assholes at bay. Walk like you know what you’re doing, walk like you own the place, people are often less likely to take interest. Self-preservation’s a hell of a thing, especially in a place like this.

She doesn’t make friends, exactly, and maybe that’s for the best. The last friends Jamie made all had too-pretty eyes, too-quick smiles, hands that could produce a knife or the wallet out of your pocket with equal glee. She’d fallen in with them in all the wrong ways, these girls who knew too much of the world and were all too willing to share it with a gutter rat who kissed like it was the only thing worth doing, so long as no one went talking about it later.

Prison feels like that life magnified to its highest order. Still some pretty eyes, still some too-quick smiles in here, but no one Jamie feels secure even chatting up for long. Everybody in here is in for a reason. Some reasons less justifiable than others, maybe, but still.

Still, there is one girl. Jamie’s been in for maybe two years, maybe three--gets hard to keep track, after a while--when this one arrives. Fresh meat, as the worst of the women say. Walk says she’s been around the block, but Jamie’s fair certain she can’t be older than Jamie herself was upon arrival. Just a kid.

Kids make bad choices sometimes, she knows better than anyone. It isn’t her problem.

Even so, she finds herself trailing along in the kid’s wake. Keeping an eye out. Kids who walk like that sometimes get skipped over--Jamie did, after all, but Jamie also knew when to say when. Head up, mouth shut. The back half of that plan is crucial to survival.

This kid doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Every time Jamie comes around a corner, it seems like she’s walking in on another bag of bullshit. The kid, always picking fights with women bigger, or crueler, or more capable than she is. By the time Jamie realizes it, she’s taken to talking these women down. An extra pack of cigarettes in exchange for letting the girl live to see another day. A shift in the garden traded for a shift doing laundry. The women grudgingly accept Jamie as one of the level-headed among them, even if they don’t particularly love her for it.

Not my problem, Jamie thinks each time she sees the girl raise hackles, and each time, she finds herself making it her problem anyway. Stupid. But maybe if she’d had someone in her corner, someone watching her back...

She’s been cleaning up after this kid’s messes for about three weeks when it happens. Jamie’s just minding her business, just walking around the yard, and suddenly...there’s pain. A weird, blazing, hooked-talon pain radiating up through her side.

Pain, and the bared teeth of a teenage girl.

“You keep the fuck out of my business,” she hisses, brandishing the sharpened bit of what Jamie’s pretty sure was once a toothbrush. “Hear me? Fuck out of it.”

Jamie, hand clapped around a small puncture in her jumpsuit, pulls her palm away streaked with red. She raises her eyebrows. “Clear as day.”

She doesn’t see the girl again. Doesn’t question it. Can’t bring herself to wonder if it was a transfer or something else altogether. All Jamie knows is, this is what comes of sticking your nose into other people’s shit.

“Wasn’t my finest hour,” she says, checking that the chicken in the oven isn’t actually on fire. “Just left me feeling dumb, really. Imagine getting poked by a goddamn toothbrush.”

“You said it was an accident,” Dani points out. Jamie sighs, opens the fridge, closes it again.

“It was. Wasn’t meant for me, not really. I just happened to be there. She would’ve stuck anyone silly enough to step in her path.”

There’s a look in Jamie’s eyes Dani isn’t sure she’s seen before. Something tired and responsible, though not exactly guilty. She moves closer, carefully sliding Jamie’s shirt up until the tiny scar is lit by the overhead lamp, gleaming pink against Jamie’s pale skin.

“I knew better,” Jamie sighs, leaning her hip against the counter as Dani gently touches just beneath the scar. “Saw myself in her, y’know? Same caged-animal desperation. Same darkness. And I didn’t think I could save her or anything so...fucking noble, but I thought maybe she just needed a little time.”

Time, thinks Dani, right. The one thing none of them are ensured enough of.

“Never tried anything like it again,” Jamie says, taking Dani’s hand from her ribs and kissing her knuckles. “Never saw the use. I was in the garden by then, and actually giving therapy its due, and by the time I was up for anything like real human connection, I was out. Probably for the best, though. Imagine if she’d gone for my face.”

She’s teasing, trying to pull the sympathy from Dani’s frown and replace it with something brighter. Dani lets her. There’s little point in dwelling on a scar Jamie has already put to bed, after all.

“It was good of you,” she says before letting the subject drop. “To try.”

“Maybe,” Jamie says softly. Dani cradles her face in both hands, willing her to believe it. A small smile touches Jamie’s lips.

“Speaking of trying,” she says, giving Dani a light kiss on the cheek. “Think the bird’s burnin’.”

The fourth scar, Dani doesn’t feel too terrible about missing. She only finds it by accident one night, sitting on the side of the tub while Jamie soaks off a long day, and only then because her hands are busy massaging Jamie’s scalp.

“Hey,” she says softly, so as not to shatter a mood built of lit candles and quiet music. Jamie leans her head back, questioning. “There’s something here...”

“Nothing big,” Jamie says, in that tone of voice that says she knows Dani will want to hear anyway. She sighs, patting gently at the foam of bubbles climbing the sides of the tub. “Just another tale of my misguided heroism...”

Dani laughs. “For someone who says she doesn’t care, you sure do get into a lot of hero-shaped situations.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jamie teases, and some of the light fades from Dani’s grin. She doesn’t want to talk about that. Doesn’t want to think about it much. A night a thousand years ago in a lake a million miles away, and though she can feel it all creeping in at the edges, she thinks there’s still time to turn her head.

“Anyway,” Jamie adds in a slightly louder tone. “Anyway, how are you only just finding this now? With all the times you’ve pulled my hair...”

Her hand is creeping toward Dani’s knee, armed with a thin trail of bubbles. Dani shakes her head.

“After,” she says, “you tell me the story.”

Jamie moves into the little flat above the only pub in Bly and thinks, Right. Home. The way a person who’s never really had a home does, she’ll reflect later. When you think a home is just four walls and a bit of furniture, a place to lay your head. At the time, in this moment, it feels better than anything she's ever had.

She's already decided how the next year--maybe five, maybe ten, maybe the rest of what she’s got ahead of her--will look. Nothing complicated. Nothing big, or heavy, or loud. No pretty eyes. No quick smiles. No one to tell her they’ll love her if only she’d do this one little thing for them, no one to tell her they’ll kiss her if only she can keep her mouth shut about it afterward.

Just this, she decides, looking at the tiny flat with its tiny sink and tiny bathroom and tiny spot where she’s just managed to wedge a bed. Just this, and the job. Don’t need much else to get by.

It’s a good job, one she was unaccountably lucky to snag so soon out of prison. There’s so much green, she can feel her head spin to look at it all, and knows there is fortune in being asked to care for such an expanse of life. Five years ago, she doesn’t know that she could have done it. Doesn’t know if she could have been trusted. These days, she can’t imagine anything better.

A good job at a great old manor, flowers as far as the eye can see, and this little flat. She’s doing all right for herself, Jamie. She’s doing just fine.

Though the pub is a bit much some nights.

She usually comes straight home after work, uninterested in playing nice with the very specific breed born into Bly. There are some, she supposes, who are pleasant enough, but the grand majority remind her of watching her father climb into and out of a coal mine. They have the same blank expressions, the same vapid smiles, the same shape of mouth that so easily tends toward words like whore, whore, your mum’s a--

Nah. Better keeping to herself, really.

Every so often, though, despite the noise and the company, she treats herself to a drink. Just one, usually alone at a corner table or the far edge of the bar. At first, there were men who tried to get involved, men who thankfully got the message--or if not the message, at least one similarly postmarked not interested--fairly quickly. Good for everyone. Jamie’s patience is only so thin, and there is something deeply alluring about a sharp fork on a bad night.

She’s thinking about this on the night one of these men--one she remembers fairly well from a couple of weeks back, dark hair and patchy beard and bad aftershave--takes it upon himself to visit the backside of a woman’s skirt. His hand is trembling, a whiskey reverb taking the wheel, but it lands exactly where he’s aimed it. The woman, tall and angular and nervous, flinches away.

Jamie casts a quick glance around, reading the room. Everyone saw that. A pub like this, in a town so small; everyone sees everything. And yet, stunningly, no one is moving.

The guy knows it, too. She can see it all over his face, the triumph of having gotten away with a misdemeanor. Did it even happen, if no one calls him on it?

Best not find out, she thinks, and before she’s got a handle on this impulse, this stupid impulse that once got her stabbed in a prison yard, she’s up and moving. Just got out, she reminds herself, even as she’s stepping between the man and his target.

“Lady doesn’t look like she’s having a good time,” she points out. There’s a feral smile on her lips, one she hasn’t entertained in a very long time. Never ended well, nights that put this smile on like a coat of deepest red.

“Don’t remember asking,” the man sneers. His breath is so stained with alcohol, it nearly sends her reeling. The woman behind her makes a tiny noise.

“We could ask,” Jamie says, faux-brightly. She twists at the waist, just enough to glance at the woman. “You having fun with this pack of shit?”

“Hey,” he snaps. “Bitch. Who the fuck asked--”

She loses her brief struggle with restraint on bitch, her head punching forward into his nose. It hurts, a little. Hurts him worse. He’s staggering back, blood streaming between his fingers when he reaches up. She’s gratified to see he nearly pokes himself in the eye in the process.

“Might wanna,” she adds to the woman with a little nod toward the door, watching as the drunk’s intended prey rabbits on out into the night. It feels good in a way she doesn’t entirely like, listening to the blood sing in her ears. Men like this shouldn’t be allowed in public. Men like this are--

A crashing, tinkling sound, as if from very far away. Jamie’s eyes go dizzy, her hand fumbling for purchase on the bar to stay upright. Glass rains down out of her hair as she gives her head a small, aggrieved shake.

A bottle. This fucker has a bottle--well, what remains of it after introducing its length to her skull--in hand, his eyes wild. Jamie stares at him with gray disbelief, blood trickling down the back of her neck.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she says thinly, just getting the words out before another man throws himself at the first. Then, a woman, apparently deciding the night has been too dull to stomach. And her friends. Before Jamie knows what’s going on, the world has devolved into the very particular chaos of a bar brawl, people slipping and screaming and slapping at each other with aplomb.

Right, she thinks distantly, too aware of the blood pooling sticky under her collar. Head injury. Maybe time to...

She’s back upstairs, the door double-locked behind her, before anyone notices. Briefly, while pressing a damp cloth to the back of her head and gazing at her nerve-wrackingly gray pallor in the mirror, Jamie considers calling Lord Wingrave and telling him she needs tomorrow off. Imagines how he’d sound, clipped and unyielding, over the phone line.

Of course, she won’t do it. Of course not. This job is important. This flat is important. Everything else?

Everything else is just a reminder of why she’s best left to her own devices.

“So, anyway,” Jamie says, absently patting a foam of bubbles into a small tower. “That’s why I didn’t spend much time in that little pub. If you were curious.”

“Jesus.” Dani can’t quite find something more coherent. “Jesus, didn’t you press charges?”

“For what?” Jamie looks honestly puzzled. “Small town bar, small town life. It happens.”

“You could’ve been concussed!” Dani says, louder than she means to. “You could’ve gone to sleep and never got back up again!”

Jamie reaches up, touches her cheek gently. “Hey. Poppins. Easy. I’m here. Right here.”

Dani realizes the breath is pounding out of her faster than it’s coming back in, a sure sign that she’s about to tip over the precipice of something dark and exhausting. She leans into Jamie’s hand, squeezes her eyes tight.

“Hey.” Jamie’s sitting up, knees squeaking along the bottom of the bath as she shifts. Water drains over the edge of porcelain, soaking into Dani’s skirt, trickling onto the tile. “Hey. With me, yeah?”

She lets herself be folded into Jamie’s arms, finding balance in each deep breath Jamie draws until Dani is able to match her. Jamie is still sopping wet, slippery, and the most stable thing in the room.

“Still here,” Jamie says against her ear. “Bit battered around the edges, but it’s nothing new, is it? You still like me this way, dented packaging and all?”

“Love you,” Dani corrects in a thin gasp. Jamie squeezes tighter.

“Exactly. That scar? It healed up. Like all the rest. It’s just a memory now. Can’t hurt a fly.”

Dani reaches up, combing searching fingers through Jamie’s hair until she finds the spot again. That strange raised bit she must have touched a hundred times, and only just registered. Someone hit Jamie there. Someone hurt Jamie there.

“I’m all right,” Jamie says, enunciating every word right into her ear. “Save for being a bit chilly. I don’t suppose you can help with that...?”

She’s tickling Dani, moving to kiss her neck with sloppy good humor until Dani finally breaks. Even so, for a moment longer, that image holds: Jamie alone, Jamie holding a cloth to her bleeding scalp, Jamie with tears in her eyes and a decision never to care branded on her heart.

“I love you,” Dani repeats, so forcefully, Jamie pulls back to look at her.

“I know, Dani. I love you, too. Now. Hand me a towel, or get in here with me, I’m cold without you.”

The fifth and final scar, Dani doesn’t have to look for. Jamie shows it off herself, wearing an expression Dani remembers all too well from a panic attack, a shrub not quite big enough to hide behind, a mention of just how many times a day the average Bly groundskeeper bursts into tears.

It’s a bad day, and this is Jamie’s way of making her smile again. Jamie, whose body she knows so well now, whose heart she knows even better, who wears her ring and has barely left her side in days.

It’s a bad day. They’re in bed, one of the last places in the world Dani still feels completely safe. All of the mirrors are gone from this room. The pictures on the walls are strategic in placement, making sure Dani can never catch an accidental glimpse of herself--or not--in their glass. This room, where she sleeps with Jamie each night and wakes to Jamie each morning, is a bastion against the monsters.

“Here,” Jamie says. She is, as Dani prefers her, without pants, hair up in a messy tangle, gold band gleaming on her finger. She is also, baffling Dani, holding up the bottom of her left foot.

“What...?”

“This,” Jamie says, “may be the final frontier.”

“Your...foot,” Dani replies slowly, wondering if the increasing bad spots are taking a toll on her memory. Maybe this is a conversation that would make sense, if only she hadn’t spent so much of yesterday in a daze.

“My foot,” Jamie says confidently. “More specifically: this.”

She’s pointing to a spot about midway down the sole of her foot, a spot Dani only just now can see is actually a small three-pronged scar. She frowns.

“What happened there?”

She’s a bit afraid to ask, if she’s honest. Jamie has told her so many stories over the years, and they’ve gotten progressively more intense, progressively more violent. She's not sure her heart could take it if Jamie were to tell her this was from some unexpectedly grievous injury.

“You sure you want to know?” Jamie asks gravely. “It’s quite the story. I mean, really, this is among my best. I’ve saved it just for a night like this one.”

Her mouth is somber, but her eyes are dancing. Dani feels herself smile, just a little.

“Tell me,” she says, settling her head in Jamie’s lap.

Jamie has been working for the Wingrave family for a couple of years, and it’s been better--and worse--than she could have imagined. The land is sprawling and fertile, incredibly eager to grow whatever she plants. Her rose gardens--and they are her gardens, make no mistake--are thriving. Sometimes, she thinks they’re doing better even than the human residents of Bly Manor.

It’s been a rough couple of years, even with the fulfilling nature of the work. She’s met people she can’t help regarding with a deep affection bordering on family: Hannah, and Owen, and Rebecca, and the kids. She’s met some she doesn’t get on with so well: namely, that prick Peter Quint. And things have happened, things no one could guess at or control. Lord and Lady Wingrave, once so kind and generous to her, are gone. Rebecca is gone, too, in a fresher sense. Jamie’s starting to think letting any of these people in was a mistake. People have a way of vanishing.

The plants, though. The plants are lush and green and loving. It’s silly, but Jamie thinks they believe in her more than anyone else ever has.

This middle ground between grieving people and loving the gardens of Bly is where she’s grown most comfortable, and it is that comfort she blames for being surprised when things change one sunny day.

She’s been puttering around the greenhouse for a couple of hours, glad to have the time away from prying eyes and whispering children. Flora and Miles--Flora more than Miles, lately--are charming, even wonderful, for kids, but they’re also under the age of thirteen. Jamie rarely knows what to do with kids that small, save for tossing them over her shoulder and teasing them mercilessly. They make her think of days long gone, of brothers not seen in two decades, and it scratches a strange, painful itch she doesn’t like thinking about.

So, the greenhouse. Quiet, off-set from the main property, a nice place to prepare pots and experiment with seeds. She likes it out here better than anywhere, except maybe the roses.

She especially likes how no one visits her out here. Not even Hannah or Owen, who know her better than most, and therefore understand a person’s need for solitude. No one comes out here at all--which is why, when she raises her eyes and spots a figure passing the window, she almost shouts with surprise.

Blonde, she registers. Blonde, and a sweater in some pastel off-shade of purple, and--

Who the hell...

She’s drifting toward the door, she realizes only when her legs carry her through and out onto the lawn. The woman is walking with Flora, talking to her in a voice that does not carry out to Jamie. The new au pair, she realizes. Rebecca’s replacement. Of course; they were bound to find one eventually.

And something about this one...

She isn’t looking where she’s going. It’s a rookie mistake, especially out here where the ground slopes and there are as many holes dug by rabbits as by Jamie’s own hand, and while she’s gazing after the blonde woman’s retreating form--

--her foot comes down on the upturned teeth of a fallen rake.

The breath whistles out of her through clenched teeth, pain shooting up through the bottom of her foot in radial bursts. She hops for a second, grabbing hold of the greenhouse wall, and grasps her ankle for a better look.

“Son of a,” she hisses. These boots were good, once, but good only lasts so long on a fresh-out-of-prison budget. Three of the four teeth she managed to land on have punched straight through the base of the shoe and into her skin.

“Jesus,” she mutters in mild disbelief. Years without injury on this property, and the first time she deals herself a good one, it’s because she was mooning after some woman she’s never even seen before, Jesus fucking wept.

At least she’s way out here, all on her own. At least there are bandages and a slightly less beloved pair of boots to change into. No one ever has to be the wiser.

“You see?” Jamie makes a grand gesture, wiggling her toes. “My most glorious story yet.”

Dani sits up, mouth working, unable to land on any one expression. “Are...did that really happen?”

“Did I step on a rake like a true goddamn idiot because I’d just caught my first glimpse of one Dani Clayton, you mean?”

“Yes,” Dani says, her throat suddenly dry. Her eyes are itching, tears pulling at the corners. Jamie smiles fondly.

“I did. But I recovered myself marvelously. Bet you didn’t even notice the limp.”

“You weren’t limping,” Dani recalls, remembering in a hot rush how Jamie had strolled into the kitchen that afternoon. She’d looked so at home, so confident. Dani had felt instantly, wildly, as though they’d already done this once before. Like taking a test to which she had all of the answers.

“I was not,” Jamie confirms. “Because I’d already spotted you once and made a fool of myself, and I was not about to pull that trick off again. Did you think I was cool?”

“The coolest,” Dani says, unable to stop the tears from spilling over onto her smile. Jamie pulls her close, kissing her forehead, rubbing comforting shapes into her back.

“Then mission very much accomplished. Want you to know, though, it did hurt like a--”

“Why are you telling me now?” Dani asks from against her chest. Jamie pauses.

“Why am I telling you my deepest, most embarrassing secret?”

Dani nods, sniffling a little. Jamie thinks on it.

“Because,” she says at last, reaching down to tip a finger under Dani’s chin until their eyes meet. “There are some people you don’t want to keep anything from. Some people who have earned rights to every story in your book. That one? That scar? No one knows about that. Just me. And now you.”

It means more than Dani could possibly explain. More than she could clarify, even to herself. Jamie, seeming to understand the hugeness of such a small moment, pulls her close again, kissing her with all the weight of thirteen years finally at home.

Jamie’s body is a map of scars, she thinks sometimes. A map of all the strange little accidents and intricacies of a human experience. Things that have gone wrong, so wrong, in her life as to leave a permanent mark in their wake. They’re on her back, her thigh, her side, her scalp, her foot. A road map of a life lived fully, if not always precisely well.

None, though. None could match this one.

She won’t show it off to anyone. Won’t have an ugly raised bit of flesh where the wound sealed over and made itself whole enough to carry again. Won’t have a cute story of clumsiness or a vicious tale of chivalry to back it up. This kind of scar, she thinks, is different in a way no one could understand unless they bear its ilk themselves.

The letter stays by the bed. Every night, before completing the ritual of Dani’s shirt, Dani’s pillow, Dani’s reflection refusing to show itself in the bath, Jamie picks it up. She had it memorized by the end of the first night back here, alone, pressing as close to Dani’s side of the bed as she’d dared. One night, spent back in their bed with all its pillows and blankets and emptiness.

And then, never again. She reads here, sometimes, remembering the way Dani would lean back against the headboard and watch old movies. She’ll do paperwork among sheets where Dani once lay, sprawled naked and happily asleep. She makes the bed each day as though it had been slept in the night before, rumpling the blankets a little before leaving the apartment so she’ll have something to fix when evening comes around again.

But she doesn’t sleep here. Not without Dani. Not ever.

She stays, instead, on the couch. Turns it to face the front door, with the lock that always seemed to stick with Dani’s key in it, and turned smooth as butter for Jamie. She props that door open with one of her oldest shoes, careless of whether it will still be there in the morning. Dani’s shoes, the heels she hated and the flats she wore everywhere and the sneakers that had started off Jamie’s and been slowly co-opted onto Dani’s side of the closet, stay safely tucked away. If one of those went missing, the price of some desperate thief in the night, Jamie suspects she’d lose her mind trying to track it down.

She stays on the couch, door open just a crack, bathtub full. That first night, she’d thought about just laying down in that bath and letting herself fall asleep. A bad thought. A thought running contrary to Dani’s final word on the subject. That Jamie was, above all else, to keep going without her. That she believed with her whole heart that this was the right answer. That she’d see Jamie again, and Jamie would be able to tell her off then, tell her off, and kiss her blind, and love her endlessly.

But first: this one thing. This one last, hopeful thing. To keep living. To keep going.

The worst thing, Jamie thinks each night, laying with pillows behind her back and her eyes on the door, she’s ever asked of me. Maybe the only bad thing Dani has ever asked of her in almost fifteen years. Dani was never cruel, not once, but sometimes Jamie is still angry with her for this much. For doing exactly the one thing she knew Jamie could not deny her. For asking this kind of oath.

She can’t show this kind of scar to friends at parties, can’t find the words to spin out a pretty story about how it mapped its way onto her body. All she can do is sleep with it each night. Wake with it each morning. Walk with it each day. Sleep. Wake. Walk. And know, deep down, that there is nothing like a scar left by someone like Dani.

Nothing in the world like it.

Sometimes, with her eyes squeezed shut and one of Dani’s shirts against her skin, she thinks she can still feel a hand tracing the spot on her back, that spot just under her shoulder where a small girl once dragged a boiling pot off a lit burner. Sometimes, if she closes her eyes hard enough, if she lets herself drift through the black dots behind her eyelids, she imagines slim fingers finding the raised edges, mapping them with such care, such wondering love.

She wishes Dani could ask after this one, too. She wishes more than anything she could turn a corner and there Dani would be, asking how she missed another one, how she possibly could have one more story to unburden. How would I even explain it, she wonders. How could I even tell this kind of tale?

Maybe she’ll work it out, someday. Maybe. She can’t imagine anyone wanting to hear it. Can’t imagine anyone understanding the kind of print, the kind of wound, the kind of sear one person leaves on another when they’re gone for good. Maybe someday. Maybe Owen would, or Henry. Maybe she could...

But not now. Not yet. The wound is still open, still bleeding, and every day, she finds something new to pick at its edges. A journal Dani bought and only wrote in three times. A sock lost under the couch on laundry day. A package of those silly hair ties Dani liked, the ones Jamie liked to pull gently from her hair until it tumbled in waves around her shoulders.

The place still smells of her. Jamie knows that will change, is nearly wild with horror at the idea of it. She goes to the shop in a daze one day, impulse-buys an entire cart of Dani’s shampoo. Her brand of deodorant. Her perfume, used only on special occasions like birthdays and engagement dinners and when she just wanted to get Jamie into bed for the hell of it.

This is what a scar does, Jamie thinks, staring fixedly into a mirror that stubbornly refuses to show her blonde hair and a wry little grin. This is what a scar is. One that sits in your chest. One that sits here, and tears itself back open every time you think you’re starting to heal. It picks at you. It owns you.

A story for another time, maybe. Another night, maybe.

Right now, Dani is a scar Jamie couldn’t share even if she wanted to. Dani is hers alone to carry.

She sleeps, and she dreams, and from somewhere far, far away, she imagines Dani pressing a kiss against her heart.

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #fanfiction #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #anyway this is also all karatam's fault so go yell at her for making it happen #I hope you're pleased with yourself. it certainly acted as a great distraction from this extremely stressful day #and now I'm a mess so you're welcome #also I'm sorry in advance to anyone currently in class

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