#jersey biting weirdo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

woods2006gal · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 04 - I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman

Eight year old Bruce Wayne sits on the swing set. It was a cold and rainy day in Gotham. The weather matched his mood perfectly. He had retreated outside to escape the sad and pitying looks from the adults within Wayne Manor. He looks up upon hearing the soft footsteps. Zoey York climbs onto the empty swing beside him. He had heard about Zoey not talking since the car accident that killed her parents. A silence settles over them.

“Do…do you get to stay here,” Zoey softly questions. Her voice was raspy.

Bruce stares at her. “I thought you couldn’t talk any more.”

Zoey lets out an annoyed breath. “I can talk. I just choose not to.”

“Why?”

Zoey shrugs. “So people leave me alone.”

“Everyone thinks you’re a weirdo,” Bruce tells her. Zoey sighs and jumps down from the swing. She walks away, leaving Bruce alone on the swing set.

The holidays had been relatively normal for the Kent household. Zoey sighs as she walks down the Kent driveway. She had zero desire to do the project that had been assigned in her business class that morning. The project was the research a well known corporation. Companies were randomly assigned. Zoey had been annoyed to be assigned Wayne Enterprises. The last thing she wanted to do was spend anytime researching Wayne Enterprises.

“Sweetheart, is everything okay,” Martha questions when Zoey walks into the house.

“Zoey’s upset that she didn’t get CRC to research in business class,” Clark answers.

Zoey shoots him an annoyed look. “I’m not upset that I didn’t get CRC. I just don’t like the company I got and would rather have a different one. But Mr. Wilson wouldn’t let me switch.”

“Zoey, I’m sure you’ll do a fine job with the company you were assigned,” Martha comforts. She holds up a thick black envelope. “This arrived for you today.”

Zoey takes the envelope. Her name and the address were written in a silver cursive script. She turns over the envelope and sighs seeing the return address was somewhere in Gotham. She had a good idea what this particular envelope contained. Reluctantly, Zoey opens the envelope and her guess is confirmed.

Zoey Stella Carmichael York

is cordially invited to the 50th Annual Wayne Foundation Gala

February 16, 2002

Wayne Manor

Gotham, New Jersey

Please respond no later than January 29, 2002

Zoey turns over the invitation and finds an unfamiliar scrawl in pencil. I’d like for you to come - B

Clark grins. “You should go, Zoey. Maybe you can meet Bruce Wayne and interview him for your paper.”

Zoey shoots Clark an annoyed look. “I highly doubt Bruce would help me.” She bites her lip before turning to Martha. “Can I go?”

Martha sighs. The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint her goddaughter. “Zoey, we can’t afford for you to go to Gotham for a weekend.”

Zoey shifts. “What…what if I talked with Uncle Max and he took care of everything?”

“Jonathan and I would have to talk about it, but I don’t see why not,” Martha answers. Zoey brightly smiles and runs up the stairs.

“Do think Dad is going to agree,” Clark questions.

“I hope so,” Martha tells her son.

~*~

Zoey wrinkles her nose as she looks in the mirror. The tea length, strapless black dress wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. “Are you sure that I can’t wear the lace one,” she questions, motioning to dress she had picked out.

“This is one is boring,” Max points out, coming to stand behind her. Max Carmichael was a tall and slender man, with short sandy brown hair. He places his hands on Zoey’s shoulders. “It’s perfect for the Gala. Don’t worry, we’ll get the other one too. So, are you going to tell me why Bruce invited you? Last time I checked neither of you liked each other.”

Zoey shrugs. “No idea.”

Zoey looks around to make sure no one was paying any attention to the catering truck. Max always had an open bar at the annual Carmichael Fourth of July party. She didn’t really enjoy the party. She hadn’t since her parents died. Too many people kept comparing her to her parents or saying how proud they would be of her. She hated it. Zoey takes another glance around her before grabbing a bottle of Jim Beam out of the cardboard box. She quickly makes her way into the woods.

She knew the path to the original Carmichael family home like that back of her hand. It was an old cabin that had been built not long after her great-great-great grandfather, Elijah Carmichael, had started to garner some success with the first Rosewood hotel in Star City. Zoey learned about the cabin from her mother. Shannon had been the one to show Zoey where it was.

Zoey twists open the bottle and takes a swig of the amber liquid. The whiskey stung as it made its way down. She coughs. She raises the bottle of take another swig. A twig snaps. Zoey turns to find Bruce Wayne. She hadn’t been aware that he had been following her.

Zoey couldn’t stand Bruce. Every year Max invited Bruce to the party. And every year, Bruce would decline the innovation. Until this year for some reason. Max had been thrilled. Zoey had been dismayed. Max had purposely sat Zoey and Bruce next to each other. She didn’t know why but Max had made it his mission to play matchmaker between Zoey and Bruce.

“Leave me alone,” Zoey tells him.

Bruce ignores her, moving closer. The only reason he was at the party was to make Alfred stop nagging him. ‘It is up to you to keep the relationship between the Waynes and Carmichaels alive. The relationship goes back one hundred and fifty years, Master Wayne,’ the butler would constantly remind him. Bruce, on the other hand, didn’t care. He thought Max was too pushy at times. And Zoey…well, he still thought she was the over achieving weirdo who refused to speak to anyone for two years. Well, except for the one time at his parents’ funeral.

“Look who’s actually talking now,” Bruce says, grabbing the bottle out of her hand. “And drinking.”

Zoey glares. She reaches for the bottle, but he holds it out of her reach. “Give it back.” He takes a swig before handing her the bottle. She grabs it and continues towards the cabin. Bruce follows her. He was curious to know where she was going.

Zoey picks up her pace. She didn’t want him to know where she was going. Her foot catches on a tree branch. She starts to fall forward. Bruce quickly catches up to her. He grabs her arm and yanks her against his chest. She turns to face him, ready to tell him off. He doesn’t miss the fact that her breasts are pressed against him. The short sundress she was wearing hugged in the right ways. She definitely wasn’t built like the girls he was used to.

Thunder erupts. Zoey moves back from him. She didn’t want to let him know that she had actually enjoyed being pressed against him. That she had noticed how firm yet soft he felt. Rain pours down on them. Zoey grabs his hand. “Come on,” she yells, then takes off in the direction of the cabin.

Bruce stands there for a moment before following her. By the time they reach the cabin, they’re both soaked. Zoey opens the door and they step in. He looks around the cabin. While it had a rustic feel, the cabin was modern in furniture. A plaid couch was against one wall. Across from it was the fireplace. Zoey sets the bottle of Jim Beam on a coffee table before making her way to the fireplace.

“How long do you think it’ll take before someone notices we’re gone,” Bruce questions, sitting down on the couch.

“It’ll take Uncle Max until tomorrow afternoon,” Zoey answers. She grabs the matches off the fireplace mantle and kneels. Bruce watches as she strikes a match and carefully lights the fireplace. She had clearly intended to come out here alone. There was a small cooler in the corner along with a backpack. “How long do you think it’ll take Alfred?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Bruce tells her. “That’s if I don’t show up for breakfast.” Zoey sits down on the couch and takes a swig of the bourbon. She holds out the bottle to him. He grabs it and takes a swig. “Alfred is having dinner with an old friend.”

Zoey shifts. “Well, uh, I guess we are hiding out here until the rain lets up.”

A silence settles over them, each wonder how they were gonna pass time.

Zoey looks out the window as the SUV drives through Gotham. It was a far cry from Smallville. And it wasn’t anything like Star City. Gotham was full of gleaming art deco buildings and glass skyscrapers. The tallest building in the city was the Wayne Enterprises building. It stood in the center of the financial district. The only symbol on the building was a giant ‘W’ at the top. It was a reminder to the citizens of Gotham of which family had built the city. Through to others it was seen as a reminder that the upper echelons of Gotham society had destroyed the city. One didn’t have to go far from the gleaming financial district to see the reality for many of Gotham’s citizens. Crime, homelessness, drugs.

“The Wayne Foundation has dedicated itself to restoring the city of Gotham to its once famous glory,” Max says, reading the invitation of the annual Wayne Foundation gala. They were dressed in formal attire. Max in a tailor suit with his sandy brown hair slicked back. Zoey wore the strapless, black tea dress she and Max had picked out. Her hair was pulled into a slick ponytail, a light layer of makeup accented her natural features, and a simple diamond necklace.

Zoey had never been to a gala before. “Does that mean they’re going to start going after the people who actually caused the problems? Such as corporations, like Wayne Enterprises, not paying enough in taxes.”

Max shoots her an unamused look. “I see someone has been watching the opinion news shows today. And don’t let anyone hear you say anything like that.”

"Why do you want me and Bruce to be together so badly?”

“Because the Waynes and Carmichaels go back hundred and fifty years. We can’t let it fall apart now.”

Zoey leans back on the couch, laughing. The bottle of Jim Beam was nearly empty. They could still hear the rain beating against the roof of the cabin. Bruce sits down next to her, annoyed that she had him perform the chicken dance. “Your turn,” he says. “Truth or dare?”

The two teens had started to play the game in order to pass the time. “Dare,” Zoey answers.

Bruce smirks. “I dare you to kiss me.” He knew that there was no way she would do it. She was too shy.

Zoey shifts on the couch to face him. She wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. She leans forward and presses her lips against his. She didn’t care that it was her first kiss. She just wanted to prove that she didn’t back down from any challenge. She starts to pull back, ready to taunt him.

Bruce places a hand on the back of her head. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want the kiss to end. He actually enjoyed her company, though that was something he wouldn’t never admit to anyone. Keeping his lips pressed against hers, he gently pushes her back onto the couch. Zoey shifts, trying to get comfortable. Her knee brushes his hip causing her dress to ride up, exposing the pale skin of her thigh.

Bruce pulls back and looks down at her. “Is this okay,” he questions.

“Yes,” Zoey breathlessly answers. Her heart was racing. He leans down, pressing his lips against hers once more. His hand runs over her thigh, pushing the bottom of her dress up further. She rest her hands on his biceps. His hand brushes over the white lace panties she was wearing. Her breath hitches.

Bruce trails his lips across her cheek. His hand continues brushing against her. “Zoey—”

“Don’t stop,” Zoey interrupts. She knew exactly where this was headed. She didn’t know if was the bourbon or something else, but she wanted to experience what she had read in the various romance novels she enjoyed. She wanted to feel desired.

Bruce suddenly sits up. Part of him wanted to continue. He was ready. She was obviously ready and willing. Yet, there was a part of him that didn’t feel right about it. “We can’t do this,” he mutters, standing up. He adjusts his pants, hoping to relieve some of the tension he was feeling.

Zoey blinks. She sits up, shoving her dress back down. “Oh.” She looks around the cabin; trying to find something to distract her from the rejection she was feeling.

“Don’t get me wrong. I want to. It just…it doesn’t feel right.”

Zoey looks at him. She glances at the empty Jim Beam bottle. She stands up and walks over to him. She wraps her arms around his neck. “Are you trying to be a knight in shining armor,” she amusedly asks.

Bruce pulls her close; hands settling on her waist. “Like I said, it just doesn’t feel right. At least right now.”

Zoey looks up at him. “Right now? Are you saying you don’t find me weird anymore?”

“Maybe.”

Zoey sighs. The evening so far had been a wash. She hadn’t seen Bruce since she and Max had arrived at the Wayne Foundation Gala which was taking place at the Gotham Museum of Arts. She was confused. Bruce had been the one who invited her yet he wasn’t at the gala. She sits down on bench and looks up at the painting of a garden filled with roses and lillies. She’s so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice someone sit down next to her. A hand lightly brushes hers and she jumps.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bruce apologizes.

It takes Zoey a moment to realize that he’s wearing jeans and a sweater. He clearly no intention going to the gala. “Why exactly did you invite me?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Zoey lightly smiles. “You could’ve just asked.”

Bruce shrugs. His thumb brushes the back of her hand. “This was less suspicious.”

“Well, you did make Uncle Max very happy. I haven’t seen him this happy in years.”

“And what about you?”

“Happy. Confused. Annoyed.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Annoyed?”

“I’ve had to spend the past couple of hours listening to people tell how far I’ve come and that parents would be extremely proud of me. It gets very old very fast,” Zoey tells him, then stands up. She starts to walk away from him, but he grabs her wrist.

“I know,” Bruce tells her. He closes the gap between them. She could feel his breath on her face. She presses her lips against his. The kiss is slow and tentative. He pulls back. “Do you want to get out here?”

“I would love to get out of here,” Zoey whispers.

~*~

Zoey yawns and stretches her arms out. The sun was shining in through the window. The manicure lawns of Wayne Manor were nothing like the fields of the Kent farm. It’s at that moment that Zoey feels the weight on her waist; the heat pressed against her back. After sneaking out of the gala, the two teens had been driven back to Wayne Manor by Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce's guardian and trusted butler. They had spent the night eating pizza and catching up on what had occurred in their lives since last summer. She made the decision not to mention what happened at homecoming.

Zoey rolls over and finds Bruce staring at her. He had given her an old t-shirt that stopped just above her knees. He had chosen to sleep in a pair of boxers. She remembered him climbing into the bed sometime during the night. “Were you watching me sleep,” she amusedly asks voice husky with sleep.

Bruce remains silent. He had spent months trying to figure out what caused him to develop a sudden attraction to Zoey. He had dated a couple of girls at his school, hoping that it would help him figure things out. It didn’t. He leans over and softly kisses her. She pulls him close. Her hands on his bare skin felt electrifying. The kiss deepens. His hands run over her legs. She rolls onto her back, pulling him with her. Bruce pulls back. He looks down at her. “We need to stop,” he softly says; it was the last thing he wanted to do.

Zoey bites her lip. “What if I don’t want to,” she whispers.

“Are you sure?”

Zoey leans up and pulls him another kiss. Hands run over each other, exploring. Clothes wind up on the floor. She lets out a gasp when he swiftly enters her. She blinks back the tears. She heard that it would hurt the first time. His movements are fast and quick. He lets out a groan and falls onto her. Bruce lays there for a moment, then pulls out and lays on the bed next to her. A silence falls over them. Each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Zoey clears her throat and sits up. She ignores the stinging pain shooting through her. “I, um, I need to get back to the hotel before Uncle Max sends out a search party.”

“I’ll get cleaned up,” Bruce tells her. Zoey grabs his boxers off the floor and silently hands them to him.

~*~ Oliver lets out a groan. He had no idea who would even think about calling him so early on a Sunday morning. He glances over his shoulder and finds Tess still asleep. He sits up and runs a hand over his face before grabbing the cell phone. “Yeah,” he tiredly greets.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Ollie,” Zoey says. “I just…I didn’t know who else to call.”

Oliver straightens up. “Zo, is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know where Uncle Max is. His room is empty. But all his stuff is still here. I-I-I don’t know where he is. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get home, Ollie. I have this big test coming up in my environmental science class.”

He frowns. “Max told me that you both were invited to Gotham for the Wayne Gala.”

“Yes. And he’s not here. He’s missing. Oh my god, what if he was kidnapped or murdered or-or-or worse.”

“Zo, take a deep breath,” Oliver tells her, standing up. He pays no attention to the stirring redhead in the bed. “I’ll take my jet and come pick you up. Everything will be okay.”

“No, it won’t,” Zoey sobs. “Uncle Max might be dead or something. And I screwed up. Big time.”

“Tell me what happened, and we’ll fix it. Everything will be okay.”

“I-I-I had sex with Bruce. We-we-we didn’t use—”

“Zoey, when did this happen,” Oliver interrupts.

“This morning,” Zoey softly answers.

“I’ll take care of this, Zo. Don’t worry about it. Call whoever you need to and tell them the plane broke. That you’ll be home tomorrow. Okay.”

“Okay,” Zoey softly says. Oliver hangs up the phone and grabs his jeans off the floor.

~*~

It’s almost midnight when a knock comes on the hotel suite door. Zoey jumps up off the couch and runs over to her. Her heart had been racing all day. She hadn’t managed to get ahold of Max all day. The only bright side of the day had been that Jonathan and Martha believed her when she told them the plane was broken. She looks through the peephole and lets out a relieved breath upon seeing Oliver.

Zoey yanks open the door and launches herself at him. Oliver’s taken back but quickly rights himself. “It’s okay, Zo,” he tells her. He rubs a hand down her back. “Everything will be fine.” He guides her into the suite and softly closes the door behind them. Oliver walks over to the mini fridge and grabs a bottle of water. He pulls out a small vanilla envelope as he walks back over to her. He holds it and the bottle of water out to her. “Take this. It’s more effective the earlier you take it.”

“What is it,” Zoey asks, taking it from him. She opens it to find a white pill in it.

“Morning after pill,” Oliver says. “You’re going to take it. Then in a month, I’m going to visit you in Smallville, and we’re going to make sure it worked.”

Zoey puts the pill in her mouth and takes a huge gulp of water. “What happens if it doesn’t work,” she quietly questions.

“We’ll cross that bridge if we have to,” Oliver replies. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Did Bruce force—”

“No,” Zoey interrupts. She shakes her head. “No. No. Bruce didn’t force me or anything. I wanted to. I really wanted to. It’s just…it was really…disappointing.”

Oliver snorts. He pushes her towards the bedroom. “It was your first time. Of course, it was disappointing.”

Zoey spins around in his grasp. “I bet your first time wasn’t disappointing.”

“I barely remember my first time, Zo. And that means it wasn’t that good.” He brushes her hair over her shoulder. “You’re fifteen. You have plenty of time to have sex that’s not disappointing.”

The door to the suite opens, and they turn to see Max enter, wearing a pair of oversized floral board shorts and an equally oversized t-shirt with Caesar’s logo on it. “Uncle Max, you’re not dead,” Zoey exclaims, running over to him. She tightly embraces him.

Max hugs her back, frowning. “Why would think that I’m dead?” It’s at that moment that he notices Oliver standing in the suite. “What are you doing here, Oliver?”

“I called him,” Zoey answers. “You weren’t here. And I thought you were kidnapped or murdered or worse—”

“What’s worse than being murdered,” Max interrupts.

“Where have you been, Max,” Oliver questions.

Max shifts. He runs a hand across the back of his neck. “I, uh, I woke up in a hotel in Atlantic City. Tied to a bed. Naked.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “That explains your clothes.”

“Are you okay,” Zoey asks, still worried.

Max shrugs. “I’m fine. Pride hurts. But I’m fine, Zoey.”

Zoey turns to Oliver. “We should call the police.”

“Zoey, I’m fine,” Max snaps. He rubs his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. And I just want to sleep.”

Silence falls over them as Max walks into his room and closes the door. “Ollie,” Zoey softly begins. He looks at her and finds a concerned look on her face. “Can you…do you think you can talk to Uncle Max? Make sure that he’s okay?”

Oliver lightly smiles at her. “Of course,” he tells her. He guides her towards her room. “You need to get some sleep, Zo. We have an early flight in the morning to get you home.”

Zoey hugs him. “Thank you, Ollie.”

Oliver presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. “It’s no problem, Zo.”

I’m not a girl Not yet a woman All I need is time, a moment that is mine While I’m in between I’m not a girl

#fanfiction #smallville #bruce waynexoc #bruce wayne / oc #zoey york #series rewrite

0 notes

natashawritesstuff · 2 years ago

Note

I hope your request are open so if u don't mind this one I was hoping to get like haikyuu boys(kageyama,oikawa,atsumu & kenma(maybe))with reader going to the doctors going to see a ultrasound of the babys?if you don't mind i love reading your stuff!have a good day!

pregnant reader x setters

cw: pregnancy stuff, vomit

2 weeks w/ Oikawa

Oikawa holds your hair back as you throw up in the bathroom toilet. As you wipe your mouth with the napkin he had gotten for you he jokes, “so you don’t like the new recipe?”

You pant, “no, I don’t.’’

Later in the day as the two of you are cuddling on the couch you sit up quickly clutching your stomach and Oikawa looks at you concerned.

“Baby, are you okay? Should we go to the doctor?”

“No, no, just period cramps probably.”

He paused, “speaking of when was the last time you had it?”

“What? It was….oh shit.”

***

“Congratulations,” the nurse says nervously, reading the room and seeing how you both didn’t seem to be in a celebratory mood. “I’ll give you a minute.” He excuses himself and then closes the door behind him.

“Parents, huh?” Oikawa says and you can only nod.

“Parents,” you confirm.

“Think we’re ready?”

“Hell no, but…we’ll work it out.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, walking over to the image of your child, “we will be.”

12 weeks w/ Kageyama

“Water?” he asked.

“Check,” you confirm.

“Snack for the car?”

“Check,” you sing, holding up a granola bar.

“Phone?”

“When do I ever forget my phone?” you wager and he clicks his tongue.

“Right, you do have a problem,” he mutters.

“Rude.”

“What’s rude is being late, so let’s get going,” he tells you, lacing your fingers together as he nearly drags you out of the apartment.

Ever since finding out you were pregnant, Kageyama, being Kageyama, has been so particular about everything it nearly causes a headache. The moment you wake up, he’s there with water and morning prenatal vitamins, and breakfast is already ready- in fact, everything you eat is already meal-prepped for you, by him, days in advance. He has notes of your favorite foods in his phone back from when you two were dating and used them to predict your cravings. Everything is taken care of and nothing is unexpected. He is seemingly prepared for anything involving the baby.

When you arrive at the office, you can see a hint of a smile fighting to form on his lips. Today is the 12-week ultrasound- aka-

“D-day,” he says, as he helps you out of the car- not that you needed it.

Today is the day it is confirmed that you two are having a boy. Not to be confused with the day you find out, because Kageyama already knows. He says it’s a ‘dad gut feeling’ something you wouldn’t understand. He’s already ready to fill the nursery with posters of his old volleyball teams for ‘inspiration’ and has his jersey number on a onesie coming in the mail next Tuesday. Kageyama was prepared for anything.

“And it’s a girl,” the nurse says with a smile and you feel your heart skip a beat before you look back at your husband who stared at the sonogram unblinking.

“Really?” you ask for the two of you.

“Yes, congratulations.”

The car ride was silent, dinner was silent, everything for the next 4 hours was silent, and you were sure you broke him. It’s not until your moments before turning out the lights does he finally speak.

“We’re having a girl,” he whispers, voice hoarse from lack of use.

You turn your head and nod, agreeing, “yeah, baby, we’re having a girl.”

He smiles at you, and a single tear falls as he confessed, “I wasn’t prepared for that.”

His smile turns wobbly and you pull him in for a hug as he sniffles against your shirt.

“Can we name her Tobia-”

“Baby that’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking-”

“Oh no, you have to be,” you tell him and he chuckles.

15 weeks w/ Atsumu

You don’t learn how much of a weirdo Atsumu is until you are pregnant. You should have known something was up when he’s giggling when he serves you dinner one night and the moment you take a bite he tells you, “ya know yer eating our child.”

You nearly spit the food out as you stare at him shocked.

“What the hell?”

“Did I word that wrong? Our baby’s the size of a sesame seed,” he explains then gestures to your food, confused why you stopped eating.

This continues on, for 4 weeks it was sesame, 5 poppy seeds, 6 lentils, and so on and so on. By fifteen weeks little Miya is an apple and he’s grinning all the way through the beginning of the appointment as she spreads the gel on your stomach, which is now finally starting to show a bump.

“There’s baby,” the sonogram specialist says and Atsumu’s eyes grow wide.

He’s speechless for a moment staring at the sonogram before he whispers, “the little apple has my nose.

“Yeah, I guess he does,” you agree before you confess, “I hope he’s just like you,” but it’s too quiet for him to hear as he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the baby, already the apple of his eye; your little apple.

40 weeks w/ Kenma

“Hey guys,” Kenma greeted his chat as he logged onto his stream.

Comments started flooding in and he squinted trying to read them, finally catching one, he replies, “no Y/N hasn’t given birth yet.”

“Wish I did,” you call out from the couch in the back of his room and even more comments flood in.

Once nearly everyone in the chat is asking questions about you, Kenma sighs, sitting back realizing he’s not going to get to the game and accepts it.

How’s Y/N doing?

whens the due date

congratulations

is the nursery done?

boy or girl???

baby kenma loading!!

“Y/N’s fine, the due date passed, thank you, yes the nursery is done, baby girl,” he answers rapidly.

Then squints again trying to catch a particular question, “I actually wanted to address this. No, you won’t be seeing baby Kenma until she understands what the internet is and can consent to being on it. I also want to keep that portion of my life private.”

how is he already such a good dad

we understand!!

will you teach her how to game off screen

Understandable, still wish we could see her though :/

Kenma leads the last comment and quickly mutes his mic and turns back to you, asking a question the chat can’t hear. After a few minutes, he unmutes and takes the framed photograph of the latest sonogram.

“There’s baby Y/N,” he introduces your daughter to the world before he quickly takes the picture out of frame.

Awww!

so cute

make sure she gets some rest!!

we love you Y/N!!

baby y/n >>>>>>> baby kenma

Kenma lightly confessing, “yeah, yeah, I like Y/N better than me too.”

hope you like it!

Aoba Johsai Materlist

Nekoma Masterlist

Karasuno Masterlist

Inarizaki Masterlist

Return to Main Masterlist

917 notes · View notes

blushweddinggowns · 2 years ago

Text

Eddie was biting at his nails as he paced around the apartment.

Steve still wasn't back.

He still wasn’t back and it was an hour past when he said he would be.

He checked out the front window every few minutes, praying that he would show soon. He wouldn't be able to take this all night, he was only ten minutes away from finding him himself, parents be damned. He was probably overreacting, Steve had insisted he was overreacting, but nothing about this felt right.

Two years they had been together, two years and Steve hadn’t seen them once. They had been at their vacation home in Jersey when things went to shit, and decided to stay there for the foreseeable future, son be damned. There were a few calls here and there, maybe once every two months, calls that Steve was always expected to initiate, calls that he would walk away from downcast and depressed, always crawling into Eddie’s lap with a short, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eddie’s not exactly proud, but he had eavesdropped once on the other line, morbid curiosity and worry taking full control. It was his dad who picked up, who completely ignored Steve’s small, “Can I talk to mom?” to berate him over still living at home, and how he was lucky that the housing market in Hawkins was at its worst or he’d be homeless, and how it was about time he started to pay some rent.

“If you can actually learn to be responsible down there, we might let you live with us when the house is sold, whenever that may be. But we'll be damned if we let a free-loader stay in our home. Do you understand Steven?”

He hadn’t even said goodbye when he was done, just a short, “Your mothers sleeping, I’ll tell her you called,” and the click of the phone.

Steve hadn’t set foot in his old house for nearly a month before that call, it was more of a glorified storage unit if anything. Steve had basically moved in with him and Wayne when they were still dancing around each other, and he could probably count the times they’d slept apart in the past two years on one hand.

And he was already paying rent, in his own way. Even when Wayne had absolutely refused to take a dime from Steve the first time he’d tried it.

“Just keep my Eddie out of trouble and smiling, and you can stay here as long as you want, free of charge,” The embarrassing, wonderful old fuck.

It helped that Steve was slowly becoming Wayne’s new favorite, because his uncle had fantastic taste, and Steve was probably the sole reason they had stopped eating cut up hot dogs and canned green beans every other day.

So Steve bought groceries, gas, even snuck in a few twenties into Wayne’s wallet every month, the little weirdo. He cooked and cleaned, forcing Wayne and Eddie to do the same, out of the sheer guilt of watching someone so sweet do all of their dirty work.

It’s not that Eddie and Wayne couldn’t take care of themselves, they could, but it had been just the two of them for so long, and Wayne had been a mill working bachelor living in a trailer park before Eddie came along, he hadn’t been brimming with knowledge on how to keep a clean house, just a moderately decent one that CPS wouldn’t raise a brow to.

But Steve…Steve was a cleaner.

“You learn a thing or two when you gotta get rid of all traces of a house party,” he had laughed, when Eddie had caught him cleaning under the couch, a concept neither Wayne or he had ever grasped. Though that explanation hadn’t explained how he was so good at cooking.

It had been almost shocking the first time Steve had cooked for him. He loved Steve, he really did, respected him too, but back then the guy basically subsisted on granola bars and pop tarts, and it was Robin or Eddie who usually had to shove real food down his throat, even if it was from a shitty fast food place half the time.

He couldn’t really be blamed for the expectation that Steve couldn’t cook for shit. So imagine his surprise when Steve blew him away with something he hadn’t even heard of before, beef bourg-something, which ended up being about the best thing Eddie had ever tasted.

“You can’t be gorgeous, sweet, and a good cook Stevie, you gotta pick a lane here.” He had been worried for a split second that he’d gone too far with the gorgeous and sweet bit, but Steve had just laughed, so obviously pleased that Eddie liked what he made. Which, in hindsight, Eddie should have taken as a massive green flag, it could have saved him weeks of pining.

It became a regular occurrence after that, and Steve would always glow from the approval he would get from Wayne and Eddie, like they were doing him a favor by eating delicious food.

“My mom used to like it, when I cooked,” Steve had admitted, much later one night, “Dad hated it, said that it was a short fall to being a fag, but my mom…she always said thank you. Always smiled. She’d ask me about my day sometimes, if I made something she really liked.”

“I like doing it,” he confessed, “But I haven’t had anyone to cook for in a long time."

"Steve…"

“But now I do.” Steve interrupted with a grin, so sincere as he grasped Eddie’s hand, “For someone who deserves it."

Eddie had kissed him silly that night.

He still wasn’t sure if he actually deserved it, but he could agree that the Harringtons certainly did not. He didn’t even know what the fuckers looked liked. Their house was always shockingly impersonal, no family photos ever in sight, just expensive meaningless art that went with the furniture.

So why were they calling now? And how did they know to call Eddie’s house?

It had been Wayne who picked up the phone, just on his way out, eyebrows raising to his hairline as he passed it to Steve. It had been a short call, and then Steve was getting dressed, trying and failing to reassure Eddie that everything was fine.

“It happens sometimes, when they get back, it’s like a checklist item, to see me.” Steve had said, shrugging on Eddie’s jacket. He was failing to reassure him, not when he could see his hands shaking as he tied his shoes, “I’ll be fine. It will be one awakward dinner, and then I’ll be back before you know it.”

Eddie watched him, trying to process the whiplash of Steve being calmly cuddled up to his side to getting ready to rush out the door.

“If it’s not gonna take long then I can just wait in the car baby, it’s not that big a deal-”

“Eddie, no,” He was firm and unyielding, but was refusing to look Eddie in the eye,“I’ll be fine, trust me okay?”

He kissed his cheek on the way out the door, “Nine at the latest, I swear.”

Eddie didn’t trust him, not with this. Steve didn’t talk about his parents much, but the small things he had been able to coax out of him were never good. Selfish, neglectful, mean, but he wouldn’t elaborate, never going further than small stories and tidbits. Eddie never pushed him, never asked explicitly, but he had a pretty strong suspicion it didn’t end there.

Steve had scars, some he would talk about and others he wouldn’t. He could perfectly recite the story of the mark on his chin, even though he was messed up on truth serum with a russian induced concussion, but when asked about the thin, silvery lines that adorned his body, he suddenly couldn’t remember a thing.

And Eddie wasn’t the only one suspicious, the rumor mill of Hawkins was strong. Daniel Harrington was known for his temper, and was borderline psychotic in highschool according to Wayne, always trying to pick fights, and always buying his way out of the consequences.

Back in highschool, there were a few whispers in the hallways, small shit about hearing screaming from the Harrington household, rumors about hand shaped bruises seen in the locker room, questions about why Steve startled so hard at loud noises.

Eddie had dismissed it, something he still hasn’t quite forgiven himself for, and most of the school did with him. Afterall, kids who had their dads beat the shit out of them weren’t popular, they weren’t captains of the swim team, they didn’t walk around in designer clothes or drive new cars. They were supposed to be damaged losers, easy to pick from the crowd. Someone like Eddie, never someone like King Steve. When in reality, even without his parents, Steve had been dealing with shit that would have sent normal people spiraling for years.

Even Wayne was on edge, obviously disturebed by the Harrington's sudden arrival. He eventually called from his girlfriend’s place, checking in on how it went, grunting unhappily when Eddie told him he still hadn’t gotten back yet, “If he’s not home in a few hours call Hopper.”

“Agreed.”

Eddie gave up on pacing and peeking, deciding to just sit his ass down on the front stoop and stare at the street. He was seconds away from giving in entirely, already trying to remember where he put his keys when he saw it. Familiar headlights were making their way up his street, parking crookedly on the curb.

Oh thank god. Eddie finally let himself breathe for the first time in hours. He should have just trusted Steve like he said-

His brain short-circuited as he watched the car door open and Steve tumble out of the driver's side, falling to the curb. Eddie was flying off of the stoop, at Steve's side in a moment as he struggled to stand.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, his baby was bleeding. His baby was bleeding and blurry eyed as he pathetically tried to stand up. Eddie didn’t hesitate, scoping him up in his arms to bring him inside.

“What the hell happened Steve?” Eddie asked, panicked as he laid him out on the couch. He looked awful, so bad that Eddie wanted to cry. His right eye was swollen and already purpling, his lip was split, sending dark, red tracks down his chin. Eddie took his jacket off for him, eyes widening to see the blood running down his arms, embedded bits of glass sparkling in the light.

"I'm sorry I’m late," Steve slurred, trying and failing to help Eddie remove the jacket, “It didn’t go so good.”

That was the understatement of the fucking century. Eddie’s mind was a cluster fuck, filled with worry, confusion, rage, despair at seeing Steve so hurt, for no fucking good reason. But he needed to focus, freaking out wasn’t helping Steve, who was still fucking bleeding. Stopping that took precedent.

Steve looked down at himself, frowning as he seemimly took in the damage for the first time, before stupidly trying to sit up, “I’ll get blood on the couch,”

That stupid statement was enough to get Eddie out of his shock.

“I don’t give a shit about the couch Steve.” Eddie hissed out, fighting not to yell. He was feeling too much all at once, but he refused to let himself be mad at Steve for being so idiotically self neglinat, not when he needed him. He rubbed a hand over his face, steeling himself to get his shit together before standing.

“Wait here sweetheart, and keep your eyes open, okay? I’ll be right back,” Eddie had to gently push Steve back down when he tried to sit up, “Just let me take care of you.”

Steve nodded, seemingly accepting the fact that yes, his literal life took precedence over cheap furniture. Eddie made it to the bathroom in record time, for once surreally grateful he had experienced the Upside Down, because it had forced him to have multiple first aid kits on hand.

He was back in less than a minute, horrified to see Steve standing on unsteady feet, spreading a blanket on the couch, like ruining the upholstery with this blood was really the priority here. He had the good grace to look guilty when he saw Eddie, sitting back down with a heavy sound, unprompted.

Calm down, calm down, calm down, Eddie thought to himself, before kneeling in front of Steve. His hands were shaking as he opened the first aid kit, but he made them work. He pressed up against the cut on his lips with cotton rounds, placing Steve’s hand against it to keep the pressure. His arms were worse, and his shaking wasn’t helping him tweeze the glass out, beer bottle by the looks of it, but he managed.

Steve was still acting woozy, barely acknowledging the sting of the alcohol as Eddie bandaged and cleaned all of his cuts, “What hurts the most baby? I need you to tell me.”

“Head,” Steve mumbled, “feels like it’s burning.”

Fuck, Eddie didn’t know what to do with that. Surface level shit he could handle, but it sounded like he had a concussion, “Steve, I think we need to take you to a hospital-”

“No.” It was automatic, so quick from Steve’s mouth that Eddie did a double take.

“Why the hell not?”

"I don’t…" he sighed, "I don't want everyone to know, okay? Not yet. I just want you."

"But-"

“Eddie, please?” He was begging, pleading in a way Eddie didn’t know how to say no too.

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to be patient, “Okay, okay. Just stay right here, and keep your eyes open, got it? I’ll be right back.”

Eddie kissed him on the forehead, ignoring his soft comments about being sweaty and gross. He went straight to the phone, calling the only number he could think of.

Wayne picked up on the third ring, obviously expecting the call. He told him everything, desperate for advice, “He doesn’t want to go to the hospital, but he looks bad, Wayne. I-I don’t know what to do,”

“Jesus christ, wait a second.”

Eddie kept peeking his head out into the hall, like Steve was going to spontaneously combust if he let him out of his site for too long. He repeated everything to Mindy, relieved that there was someone who knew what to do.

“Oh honey…Keep him awake okay? If he can’t stay conscious, call 911, don’t wait for us. And don't move him too much, we’ll be right there."

Thank god for Mindy, the saint. He had already adored the woman the first time they’d met, just from the way she made his uncle smile, but this was going to have her in his good books for the end of time.

Steve was still awake when he got back, thankfully. Eddie sat on the floor next to him, taking his hand, “Wayne and Mindy are coming over in a bit, okay? Someone has to check on you.”

Steve started to protest, but one look at Eddie’s unamused face shut him up. He looked away, “I forgot she was a nurse.”

“If she says you need to go to the hospital, you’re going.”

“Okay.”

Eddie waited for Steve to start telling him what the fuck had happened, so he knew who he had to murder. But he didn’t say anything, he just kept occasionally playing with the rings on Eddie’s hands, proving that he was still awake.

Eddie broke the silence first, he just couldn’t take not saying anything,“You’re not going back there. Ever. I'm never letting you out of my sight again.”

Steve laughed, wincing when it made his lip bleed a bit more. That was almost enough to have Eddie crying all over again.

“I, um, can’t go back there, actually.” He didn’t even look sad, just resigned, “They said it was you or them. I chose you and,” he chuckled, humorless, “And they did not take it well.”

“They know?” Eddie asked, the answer obvious, but the how wasn’t. They were hundreds of miles away, never giving a single shit about their son’s life.

He nodded, “They told me on the phone, said they knew what I was up to, that I owed them an explanation.”

“How?”

“Tommy, I guess. He called them, sat down with them or something,” he shrugged and even that small movement looked painful, “Worried about my life choices or some shit.”

Another one to the list of people Eddie was going to have to choke out.

Eddie should have never let him go over there alone, or at all. He knew something was up, he fucking knew it, but he was here sitting on his hands while Steve was getting the shit beat out of him.

Eddie wanted him to look at him, needed him to look at him. He cradled Steve’s face, carefully moving him to meet his eyes, "Stevie…baby, why did you go?”

He looked so broken down, tears starting to gather in the corner of his eyes. Steve went to bite his lip, flinching when he realized what a mistake that was, “If I didn’t go he would have shown up here. A-and I didn’t want you to get hurt. I thought I could talk them down or something, or just lie my way through it but…I couldn’t.”

Eddie resisted the urge to argue with him, to say that Steve mattered more, that he couldn’t put himself in harm’s way for his sake, that he would have gladly been the one to take the beating if it meant he would be okay. He was tracing the outline of his jaw, half for comfort and half to check for more injuries, biting down all of his indignation.

“How many times have they done this before?”

“They haven’t-”

“Sweetheart, please don’t lie to me,” Eddie wiped the tears from his good eye, patient.

Steve took a deep breath, closing his eyes, admitting the truth out loud for the first time in his life, “I’ve lost count.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

"I didn't want to scare you away,"

Eddie frowned, immediately confused, “What does that mean?”

The tears were really starting to fall now, Steve wincing at the sting of them in his cuts, “I-I know I’m already a lot okay? I’m clingy and annoying a-and I fucking scream and shit in the middle of the night and I just didn’t want to add another thing for you to have to deal with.”

Blaming himself for the terrible things other people did to him, classic fucking Steve. Eddie wanted to shake him, to yell at him that he was the most important person in his world, how could anything ever scare him away? But he held it all back.

"There is nothing that would ever make me not want you," Eddie swallowed, his own eyes starting to sting, "I'll always love you, don't you know that?"

"I-I do, really, I just...I don't know. I should have told you," Steve managed to look ashamed through his tears, and it just made Eddie's heart hurt more. He wanted to hug him, to hold him tight, and never let go. But he couldn't, not without hurting him. Steve's favorite thing in the world was getting held, and they managed to take that away. Eddie didn't know why that fact was standing out so much, but he'd never forgive them for it.

He could hear the sound of Wayne’s truck pulling into the driveway, footsteps not far behind. Eddie kissed the side of his mouth, as lightly as he could before standing to let them inside.

Mindy made quick work of tending to him, revealing more injuries under his clothes that Eddie hadn't even realized were there. His heart almost stopped at the sight of Steve shirtless, mottled yellow bruising strewn across his sides.

He and Wayne stood on the sidelines, both anxious as they waited for the news. Wayne was furious in a way that he hadn’t seen since he was a kid, back when it was Eddie being patched up from his own shit dad.

"You can stay home tonight," she finally declared to Steve, gesturing Eddie over, "You just need lots and lots of rest. Give those ribs a chance to heal a good while before you do anything strenuous. Now let's help get you to bed.”

"Thank you," Steve mumbled as Eddie scooped him up. Now that he had gotten the go-ahead to sleep, Steve was already letting his eyes fall closed, clearly exhausted. He set him down on the bed carefully, helping him change into clean clothes, ignoring the weak protests that he could do it himself.

“Please don’t go after him,” Steve mumbled when Eddie got him under the covers, "Promise me?"

Eddie hesitated, "But-"

"It's not about them," Steve rushed out, shaking his head, "Getting arrested isn't worth it. Losing you isn't worth it. Swear?”

He was right, Eddie knew Steve was right. His father wasn't just anybody, he'd press charges against almost any offense against him. And he had the lawyers to back it up. Steve was still looking at him, struggling to keep his eyes open as he waited. Eddie relented, begrudgingly giving into stupid things like logic, “I swear.”

"Thank you," Steve whispered, finally letting himself fall asleep, "I love you."

Eddie kissed his forehead, staying by his side until he was fully out of it, losing himself in his own thoughts. He wouldn’t lie to Steve, he couldn’t lie to Steve, even if he wanted to.

He wouldn't lay a hand on his father. But that didn't mean he couldn't get his shit back. Preferably before it was thrown out or damaged by his psychotic family. He left Wayne with a sleeping Steve, after a few dozen promises, that no, he was not going to go commit a violent felony.

Just a few misdemeanors.

“If they haven't already skipped town, then you come right back. You hear me?” Wayne insisted, watching him tie up his boots with narrowed eyes.

“I hear you. It'll be two hours, tops.”

He parked a block away, slinking along the sidewalk. Lucky enough for him, there were no cars in the driveway of the Harrington house, and all the lights were off. The whole neighborhood was quiet. It sure looked like they booked it, maybe too afraid of an assault charge actually sticking to stay in town.

Breaking into Steve’s room was easy, first floor with an unlocked window? Child’s play. His room looked untouched, thankfully. Whatever had happened, hadn’t happened here. He didn't waste time, immediately starting to throw the few things left in his bag. There really wasn’t much to grab, a few mixtapes, some drawings from Will, the last of his clothes. Eddie was searching under the bed when he heard it, the sound of the knob turning.

He froze, hearing a sharp intake of breath behind him. He expected whoever it was to start yelling, but instead there was only the click of the door closing shut behind them. He turned slowly, surprised to see who was standing there.

He had never seen her before, but he recognized her immediately. Steve looked just like her. The same big eyes and pouty mouth, the same gravity defying hair. They stared at each other, but she didn’t scream. She kept her eyes on him as she walked forward, primly sitting at Steve’s pristine desk.

Eddie was trying to calculate how much time it would take to book it back down the window and to his car, when she opened her mouth, “You can keep packing, don’t worry. Daniel’s gone for now.”

She was shuffling around in Steve’s old desk as she spoke, "You're Eddie, I presume.”

It was a statement, not a question, despite the phrasing, but Eddie answered anyway, “That’s me.”

She found what she was looking for, plain paper and a pen and started scribbling as she spoke, “Is he okay?”

That broke him out of his stunned little trance. Eddie stared at her, baffled and annoyed that she would even ask, “He’s alive.”

“Did he go to the hospital?”

“Why do you care?” He was pushing it. He should just pack Steve’s shit and go, but he was stuck, seething at the woman who allowed Steve to live with that monster, too angry to keep his mouth shut.

She shrugged, “If my husband is about to be arrested for disciplining our son, I’d like to know about it.”

There it was. Eddie was pretty sure this was the first time he had ever wanted to hit a woman before. He scoffed, “Un-fucking-believable. I’m not even going to answer that.”

He made his way into the closet, grabbing the few things that were still left on hangers. She was still scribbling at Steve’s desk, when he came out, flipping the page over to start on the back.

She didn’t look up at him, “He’s…” she shook her head, eyes on the paper, “It’s never been that bad before.”

Eddie ignored her, hurriedly going through Steve’s drawers, desperate to just get away from this bitch, this house, and get back to his Steve.

She was folding the paper up, letter style, before finally looking back up at Eddie. She was biting her lip, the exact same way Steve did, “Will you take care of him? If he stays?”

“Better than you.” Eddie snapped, mind jumping on the if.

She stood giving him a head to toe look, obviously displeased with what she saw. She held the letter out, “Give him this. He deserves to know he has options, and everything he’s giving up, because of you.” She said it matter of factly, like Eddie was just a temporary bump in the road, “We can give him a new start, and he’ll need a new start somewhere anyway, his father is spreading the news of your affair as we speak.”

Eddie stared down at the letter, making no moves to take it, "Your husband nearly kills him, and you think he’s going to be open to giving him a new start?" He scoffed, “Are you insane? Steve’s never going near that psycho again.”

“I could convince him,” she insisted, “When he calms down and realizes Steve needs help, he’ll be willing to give it to him.”

She shook the letter at him, her forced calm finally starting to crack, “Just give it to him. Consider it a trade for me not having you arrested for trespassing.”

Eddie snatched the letter from her hands, stuffing it into his back pocket, "Fine."

“Good. You can go back out through the window,” she said, turning to leave, “No reason for the neighbors to see more than they already have tonight."

“He won’t come back,” Eddie said, staring at her back,“He has a new family now, a real family, and I’ll never let either of you hurt him again.”

She scoffed, “We’ll just see about that,” Eddie could feel the venom behind her words, a peek into the real person behind the pretty mask. She slammed the door on the way out, like the petty child she was.

Eddie hated her, hated how she was so sure of herself, so confident with someone she didn’t even fucking know.

He hated how she thought she loved Steve.

Eddie was still fuming by the time he got home. He dumped the duffle bag into the entryway, the letter still burning a hole in his pocket. Steve wasn't going to leave him because of some scribbled words from his mom, on some level he knew that.

But even on the off chance he had suffered some serious brain damage and wanted to go back he wouldn't let him anyway. He'd kill Daniel Harrington himself before letting his Steve be around the piece of shit. He stepped from the hall into the living room, freezing when he saw Steve curled up on the couch, wide awake. He looked relieved to see him, before letting a frown take over his bruised face.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Eddie asked, shrinking a little at Steve’s glare. He ignored the question.

“What did you do?” Eddie flinched, but he couldn’t really blame him for expecting the worst. His track record wasn’t exactly…stellar in the physical protection department.

He raised his hands, placating, “Nothing, I promise! You won’t be seeing my name plastered on any headlines. I just got your stuff.”

Steve stared at him, looking for any tells. Eddie didn’t know how he did it, but the guy would just know when he was lying. Eventually he seemed satisfied with whatever he saw, relenting.

“Come here then,” he made grabby hands, adorable even when he was pissy and all bruised up.

Eddie went to him, hugging him with careful hands, “How are you feeling baby?”

“Horrible,” Steve admitted, cuddling into his side “But not worse.”

Eddie nodded, taking him in. He still looked awful, but he was way more coherent than a few hours ago, a sign in the right direction. He thought of the letter burning a hole in his pocket, wondering if it would really be so terrible to just throw it away, Steve none the wiser. What could she possibly say to make up for this?

But on the other hand…it wasn’t his choice to make.

“I uh, “ he rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, “Kinda ran into your mom, while I was there.”

Steve went rigid in his arms, staring up at him with wide-eyes.

"But nothing happened!" Eddie rushed out, flinching at the sight of Steve’s panicked face, "We just talked."

“Why would she want to talk to you?”

Eddie sighed, digging into his back pocket. Now or never he guessed, “She wanted me to give this to you.”

Steve stared at the envelope, taking it in shaky hands, “She gave it to you?”

"Wrote it out in front of me. She said, uh, that you deserved to know everything you were giving up.”

Because of me.

He left that part unsaid.

Steve frowned at the paper in his hand, shaking his head, "Help me up,"

“You’re not supposed to be moving-”

“Just to the kitchen,” Steve insisted, “I’ll lay down right after,”

Eddie gave in, helping Steve to his feet, fully intending to drag him back to bed the second he was done with whatever this was. Steve steadied himself, shooing Eddie away to weakly walk towards the kitchen.

Eddie followed him, confused as he dug around in the drawers, finding whatever he was looking for before going to the sink. Eddie watched, wide eyed as he lit a match, promptly setting the paper on fire.

"Steve-"

“It doesn't matter what it says," Steve cut in, letting it drop into the sink, "I made my choice."

He turned away from the sink, stepping back into Eddie’s arms, “All I want is you.”

Eddie held him, forcing himself to be gentle when all he wanted to do was bury himself into the other man, "You won't regret it.” Eddie choked up, teary-eyed, “I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you don't."

"It sounds like you're proposing," Steve said with a wet laugh. Eddie started kissing his face, helpless to not touch him.

"Maybe I am,”He managed to gasp out in between pecks, “But only if you'd say yes."

Fuck being young. Fuck every doubt that other people would have. There was no future that existed where Eddie wouldn't want Steve. This was it, the only person he would ever want, ever need. Steve stopped him at his mouth, careful of his cut as he kissed him, so light it was barely there.

He whispered into the small space between their lips, like a secret just for them, "I would."

738 notes · View notes

ghostbellies · 2 years ago

Note

I would love to hear more about Cyrano! He has such a wild and fun design, very curious to know what his personality is like, or what he does and such!

Eheheheheh…My nasty Boy!

Cyrano is a Fontaine Locomotive - a fucked up lookin engine with stacked driving wheels who was made to go fast…but wasn’t actually that much faster.

“The Fontaine Locomotive was now Fontaine's Folly; Fontaine's Flop; Fontaine's Freak.”

Cyrano is a Baldwin built engine, so he’s a Jersey Boy. he was purchased before he was due to be converted to a normal engine and then scrapped. So he is a privately owned engine (kinda like Spencer) and is kept up by an eccentric rich Texan who lives on Sodor and is obsessed with trains. His presence is only tolerated (and Cyrano and his bad behavior) because he donates a substantial chunk of change to the GNR railway.

because he’s so rare and such an oddity, Cyrano has both an inferiority complex and a raging self importance boner. he would probably love to be useful and hard working, but he also thinks he’s way better than all the ‘brownnosing brit’ engines on Sodor, and would balk at the idea of working hard on the regular. that said though…being a big toy for a rich guy doesn’t provide a lot of mental stimulation, so he’s usually PAINFULLY bored. that makes him restless, and of course mean.

he is also -a man eater- in every form. he has disposed of man flesh in his smoke box. he has eaten whole ass humans as a teratoma. her has bitten drivers. he has a reputation.

he’s always low key panicky of being scrapped, sarcastic, self centered, brutish, spiteful, and cruel (he also has a teratoma form cuz he’s a weirdo)

in closing…Cyrano is a Rich Bitch Bastard experimental engine who doesn’t listen to anyone, acts nasty, and tries to bite.

14 notes · View notes

jade-likethegemstone · 3 years ago

Text

C’mere You Weirdo (Carli Lloyd x Reader)

The final whistle has gone, and you can’t help but feel your heart sink at the knowledge that the USWNT had just beaten your team in the World Cup final. You were so so close, but destiny wasn’t on your side today and if you were being honest, the USWNT played an excellent game. You can't be mad at them winning, today they were the better team.

Carli on the other hand can’t believe it, they had won the World Cup for the second time in a row. She was a World Cup champion again. She can’t fight the huge smile on her face as Christen, Alex and a few of her other teammates embrace her, celebrating this massive win.

“We’re world champions!!” Megan screams as she jumps into Carli’s arms, the purple-haired woman practically bursting at the seams with excitement.

As much as Carli wants to completely immerse herself in the joy and excitement of winning, she can’t help but look over at the other bench where you’re comforting some of your teammates whose tears are running freely.

“You should go to her Carlos. Tell her she played one hell of a game.” Megan says knowingly when she sees Carli’s focus on the Dutch goalkeeper.

“I can’t, that’s just rubbing salt on a wound.” Carli says, somewhat dejectedly, not even chiding Megan for calling her Carlos.

“Or it’s the person you love comforting you for your loss and congratulating you on a good game. But it’s up to you.” Megan says with a shrug before going to join the rest of the team.

While still contemplating whether or not to go to you, Carli doesn’t notice that you’re barely a meter away from her, on your way to congratulate her.

“You look pretty conflicted for someone who just won the World Cup.” you tease, a little concerned that Carli doesn't look as happy as she should.

Carli’s head shoots up when she hears a voice she’s learnt to love over the past few years.

“I’m sorry.” she says with a soft chuckle, trying to analyse your face to gauge how you’re feeling.

“I’m fine, a little disappointed, but fine.” you say with a small grin, already knowing exactly what Carli was trying to do.

“You sure? You guys played an amazing game. At one point I thought we were gonna lose it.” Carli says, searching your eyes for any hints of sadness or anger.

“Thank you, but you guys definitely outplayed us, especially you. I get why they call you the motherfucking GOAT.” you say with a cheeky grin.

You know Carli is tiptoeing around celebrating her victory but honestly, you were ok with it. It didn’t mean that you weren’t disappointed, losing still hurt, but knowing that the woman you love achieved her goal was enough to make you content to enjoy this moment with Carli.

“I’m not the GOAT, this was a team effort.” Carli says, trying to deflect from your compliment. You just shake your head, knowing just how stubborn Carli is when it comes to compliments.

“You are the GOAT.” you say simply before lifting your arms up slightly. “And I am not worthy.” You continue before bowing dramatically in front of Carli.

Carli’s eyes go wide at your antics, but she can’t help the lovesick smile that is firmly planted on her face.

She shakes her head, biting her lip before grabbing the front of your jersey. “C’mere you weirdo.” she says before pulling you closer and firmly planting her lips against yours.

Your eyes go wide when you realise that Carli Lloyd is kissing you in front of the whole world. You hadn’t really spoken about coming out, both of you – more Carli, than you – were pretty hesitant to come out to the world.

“What are you doing?” you ask, after pulling away from Carli’s lips.

“Just shut up and kiss me.” Carli says with a smug grin before she pulls you, again by your jersey, into a searing kiss. This time you just allow yourself to melt into the kiss and forget the world around you. You can deal with the fallout later.

“Finally.” Megan says proudly as she watches the two players kiss each other with no fear of the world around them.

#carli lloyd #carli lloyd x reader #carli lloyd imagine #carli lloyd imagines #uswnt imagine #uswnt imagines

150 notes · View notes

notquitetwilight · 4 years ago

Text

THE CULLANOS: A TASTE OF BOSTON, PART ONE

The Cullanos head to Boston to take care of some business.

“Well?” Carlisle Cullano asked his wife from across the table. “How does Boston pizza compare to Jersey pizza?”

“It doesn’t,” Esme answered her husband automatically. “Especially not ours.”

“Typical Jersey girl,” he smirked. He looked to their daughter beside her. “Rosie?”

Rosalie wrinkled her nose, looking up at him from the slice she was chewing on. “It’s too thick. I don’t like it. But then again, Jersey pizza doesn’t compare to New York pizza, either.”

Esme gave a deep sigh and threw her daughter a look. “Really?”

“What? You know I’ll always be a Manhattanite.”

“You were born in Jersey City Med,” Esme pointedly reminded her.

“Where I was abandoned,” Rose said slowly. “…To be raised in Manhattan.”

“You weren’t abandoned at the hospital,” Carlisle countered.

“She wasn’t abandoned at all!” Esme hissed before he could continue. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

“I know, I know, you were just kids, younger than I am now,” Rose waved the hand that wasn’t holding a pizza slice dismissively. “I’m over it. But I don’t know why you always get mad at me for saying I’m a New Yorker when you’re the ones who chose not to raise me in Jersey. Well, chose not to raise me at all.”

A tense silence fell over them. Rose lowered her eyes to the table of their booth as she continued chewing. Esme glowered out the window, her jaw clenched. Carlisle nudged his foot against her leg in an attempt to comfort her, but she ignored him.

It was a little over a year since the couple had gotten their daughter back. Though she had left her adoptive family and seemed to have settled into their lifestyle, the topic of their lost time together still occasionally raised its head.

The couple had had her at the tender age of 17, unbeknownst to their families. Both of them decided they were too young, too broke and already too involved in the mafia game to raise her themselves. She was adopted by the Hales, a wealthy couple of lawyers who raised her in a Manhattan townhouse and gave her the finest private education New York City had to offer. Carlisle and Esme secretly watched her grow from park benches and the back of school auditoriums. They never interacted with her or allowed her to see them, but watching her grow up safe and happy from a distance filled the void that giving her up had left.

Well, it did, until it didn’t. A year and a half ago, right before the couple finally married, Esme’s sister gave birth to her first child. The family rejoiced in the arrival of the baby boy, with Esme’s mother proudly parading her “first grandchild” around. “Aren’t you jealous, Esme?” Mrs. Platt had asked at the wedding. “You hate it when others have something you don’t.”

“No, mom, I don’t get jealous,” came her answer. Carlisle stifled a laugh at that. The death certificate of his previous wife proved otherwise.

“I always thought you’d be the one to give me my first,” Mrs. Platt continued, causing her daughter to bristle. “But your little sister has beaten you to it.”

Esme’s knuckles went white around the champaign glass she held. “She’s just drunk, baby,” Carlisle muttered in her ear. “Fuggedaboutit.”

But it didn’t matter. Esme’s moods worsened in the weeks that followed as she grieved 17 years’ worth of parenting the daughter they tried to do right by. She stopped parking outside the Hales’ Upper East Side building in hopes of catching a glimpse of the girl, or regularly checking her social media pages for updates on how she was doing. Carlisle knew it had become too difficult for her, particularly when her sister got to be a mother so openly. Mrs. Platt was right; Esme hated going without what others had. And Carlisle could never let her go without.

So one day, he pulled his yellow Alfa Romeo into the garage of the couple’s home and paged Esme to meet him there. “Hey doll,” he greeted her from against the bonnet as she entered and closed the door behind her. “I gotcha somethin’.”

She looked around in confusion. Normally when he asked her to come to the garage it meant he had bought her a new car. “What?” She wondered, but before her husband could respond, she was answered by a chorus of thumping and muffled screaming from the trunk.

“Who’s in there?” Esme asked, bored. Visitors to their home arriving by car trunk wasn’t exactly new. He grinned at her smugly as the thumping continued. “What?” She said again, but he could tell he had piqued her interest. He sauntered over to the trunk and opened it, a flurry of blond immediately lunging at him from inside. Esme instinctively reacted with a raised gun, but as Carlisle restrained the girl, her eyes widened and she lowered her weapon. “Is that…?”

He beamed at her as Rosalie struggled in his arms. Her wrists and ankles were tied, but still she writhed around. Her eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and fear, and duct tape covered her mouth. “Take that thing off of her,” Esme commanded. “I wanna proper look.”

“Hold still or it’ll hurt,” Carlisle told the girl. She stopped wriggling long enough that he could gently remove the tape without ripping her skin. She immediately attempted to bite his hand, but he was too fast. Then came an ear-piercing screech that caused both adults to wince, but Esme was smiling.

“You wait,” Rosalie said once she was finished screaming, her voice hoarse. “Just you wait. If it’s money you want, good luck. You might as well kill me now.”

“She looks just like you,” Esme said as if she hadn’t heard her, though she didn’t take her eyes off the girl. “We knew it already, but up close, it’s crazy. I didn’t get a look-in.”

Rosalie’s face contorted to an expression of both confusion and disgust. “What the fuck…?”

Carlisle laughed at her exaggerated expressiveness; the narrowed eyes, the over-the-top frown, the grimace that caused her cheeks to apple. He had seen Esme pull that face a million times before. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he told her as they both went back to staring at Rosalie — who was attempting to naw at the rope around her wrists — with the kind of fascination people usually reserved for newborn babies.

“Carl, untie her,” Esme instructed. He gave her a hard look, thinking it was a terrible idea. She arched an eyebrow in response, and he knew better than to argue with her.

“Wait ‘til my father hears about this,” Rose grumbled as he began cutting through the thick rope. That amused him, and he couldn’t help but grin. “What’s so funny?” She demanded.

He shook his head. “Nothin’,” he tried, but he heard Esme giggle and he started laughing again.

Rosalie’s face flushed angrily as she looked wildly from her almost-free hands to Esme and then to Carlisle. “I said, what’s. So. Funny?” She said it slowly and punctuated, as if she thought he was stupid. Esme’s laugh was turning into the loud cackle she gave when she was particularly thrilled. He sniffed with a smile and shook his head again.

Rosalie was then red-faced, her eyes flashing with rage. “What the fuck is so funny, you piece of shit?”

The couple collapsed into full belly-laughs for what had to have been at least a full minute as Rosalie could do nothing but glare. “It’s funny—“ Carlisle started, pausing to try and compose himself. “It’s funny that you said ‘wait ‘til my father hears about this,’ because I am your father.”

Rosalie rolled her eyes, irritated. She clearly thought that was his lame attempt at a joke.

“It’s true, saweetie,” Esme tried to turn her amusement into a sincere-looking smile. “Your our daughter. I’m your mommy! Were you ever told you were adopted?”

“What kind of weirdos are you?” Rosalie mused, her eyes still narrowed. “Don’t normal kidnappers just tie someone up and leave them be ‘til they’re paid ransom or get arrested? What is this, some sort of house-play shit? I saw something about that on TLC once.”

“Look, princess,” Carlisle started, struggling to get the blade through another bit of rope. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but it’s the truth. I didn’t bundle you up in my car for money, or to hurt you. I bundled you up in my car to bring ya home, where you belong. We’ve missed you your whole life, and now that you’re a lil’ older, we’d love to make up for lost time.”

She looked silently from one to the other. Carlisle could see that it would take a while to convince her. She was suspicious, defensive, and unyieldingly stubborn. Just like her parents.

“Whadiya say, kid?” He smiled at her. “Wontcha give your ol’ man a hug?”

The last of the rope snapped and Rosalie immediately punched him so hard in the nose that it made a horrible crack. He held it as she tried getting away, having seemingly forgotten about the rope around her ankles.

The pair of them allowed her to hop around the garage as both exits were locked. Esme handed him a tissue for his bloody nose and they stood side-by-side against the car, watching Rosalie noisily hunt for something she could either free her ankles or hurt them with. It took him a second to realise Esme was quietly crying.

“Don’t worry, doll,” he put a consoling arm around her and pulled her into him. “She’ll come round eventually. She just needs time. And maybe a car, or a pony, or whadevathefuck teen girls are into deeze days. Whadeva it takes, we’ll do it.”

“It’s not that,” Esme swiped at her tears and turned to him. He was surprised to see she was smiling.

“Then what? What is it, baby?”

Esme wiped another tear away as she proudly cried, “she’s got my uppercut!”

Getting the three of them to work as a family unit had been no easy feat. After showing her the paperwork that proved they were her biological parents, the couple brought Rosalie back to her adoptive home the same evening they had taken her from it in an attempt to show her they were no danger. She didn’t tell the Hales about what had happened, instead blaming her broken curfew on losing track of time while at a friend’s house. Carlisle knew that this was more out of anger at them for lying to her her whole life than it was out of loyalty to the Cullanos. The couple returned to watching her, but this time it was on a daily basis, and they made sure she saw them either by waving across the street or approaching her if she was alone. They often arrived with bribes, but she rolled her eyes each time.

“Hi, Rosalieeee,” Esme sung one day, the two of them having waited for her to get home at the corner of her block. “How was school?”

“Get lost,” Rose muttered as she went to walk past them as usual. Carlisle caught her arm, so she begrudgingly came to a halt and rounded on them with a glare. “What? What do you want?”

“I bought us matchin’ Birkins!” Esme said excitedly, unfazed by Rosalie’s attitude. She held up her arms, each hand gripping the handles of a bag.

“I already have expensive bags. I don’t need more. You know what? I already have parents, too.”

“Who had about as much of a hand in raisin’ you as we did,” Carlisle said. “Tell me, Rosie, which nanny was it you used to mistake for your motha?”

She flinched for a second before recovering her steely expression. “I told you not to call me that. You don’t get to give me a nickname. You don’t get to ask me how my day was. You don’t get to wait around for me every single day. Seriously, you’re both stalkers. You’re already breaking the law by seeking me out before I’m 18. Stop before I call the police and report you for harassment.”

“I don’t think you will,” Esme said gently.

“Oh yeah? What makes you so confident?”

“If that’s what you wanted, you’d have done it already.”

There was a pause. Esme took her chance to hand Carlisle a bag, freeing a hand to caress Rosalie’s arm. “Look, sweetheart. All we’re askin’ for is for you to get to know us. If you get to know us, and you decide you want nothin’ to do with us, we’ll walk away, no questions asked.”

Rosalie considered this for a moment, then looked back and forth at the two of them. “You swear?”

Carlisle traced the cross-my-heart motion on his chest. “Hope to die.”

“Promise,” Esme said firmly.

She let out a sigh. “Fine. But how will it work? I can’t just disappear to go live with you. I’m in my senior year, and my parents would have the mayor turn the city upside-down looking for me.”

“Well, they work ‘til late, right? So we’ll start pickin’ you up from school, and get you back before they come home,” Carlisle said.

“No, you can’t pick me up. Friends will see me getting into some random car. Plus, I’ll have homework...studying....that kinda thing.”

“Ahrite-ahrite,” he nodded. “Responsible, I like it. Education is very impawtant.”

Rosalie rolled her eyes again. “Yeah, it seems to have played a huge role in your life.”

“How about we get you a cell that you can use specifically for us?” Esme asked. “And you can call or text us whenever you’re finished with schoolwork? We can take ya out to eat or...well, do whateva you wanna do.”

Rosalie paused again. “Do I get to pick the phone?”

“Of course,” Esme smiled. She had told Carlisle the bribes would pay off eventually.

“What about your...business?” Rosalie asked curiously. They hadn’t explicitly told her what they did, but she was bright enough to guess.

“We do most of our work at night, anyway,” Esme answered.

And so the months that followed were filled with evening family bonding. Rosalie would call or text, they’d go out to eat, do different things around NYC or Jersey City, drop her home, go take care of business, get home either a little before or after dawn, and sleep while she was at school. She seemed to enjoy her time with them; she never said she was happy to continue allowing them to be in her life, but she never again brought up wanting them to leave her alone, either. So they continued the way they were as her 18th birthday drew closer.

One evening, when the family had gone go-karting, Carlisle noticed Rosalie’s ability to drive with extraordinary speed and precision. He decided to test it out in an actual car, just the two of them, and was thrilled to discover this skill was transferable.

“Guess what, baby?” He approached Esme from behind at their kitchen counter the next afternoon, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder.

“What?” She smiled sleepily as she prepared breakfast, though it was 1pm.

“I think I’ve found us a driver.”

“Really? Who?”

“Rosie.”

She frowned and pulled away so she could properly look him in the face. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Remember how great she was when we went go-kartin’? Well, I brought her to a track last night and she was amazin’. Turns out she’s actually really into cars — kid knows more about ‘em than me!”

“First of all, drivin’ round an empty racetrack at night is very different from drivin’ the streets when you’re fleein’ a scene or bein’ chased,” Esme said, pulling fully out of his arms and heading for the sink. “Second, Rosie’s goin’ to college.”

“Whadiyamean, she’s goin’ to college?”

“I mean what the fuck I said: she’s goin’ to college!”

“We just got the kid back and now you’re gonna send her off to some otha parta the country to go to college?”

She turned back to him with a glare. “The whole reason we left her in the first place was so that she could have a normal life. College is a normal life.”

“Normal life? She was bounced around from nanny to nanny! We didn’t give her a life with normal parents, we gave her human cash cows and babysitters!”

“Well, at least she was safe.”

“We’d never let anyone hurt her.”

“We couldn’t guarantee that. We still can’t. That’s why she should go to college like the rest of her friends.”

“What, because college is so safe for young girls? Have you neva read a newspaper?”

“Don’t tell me about the dangers young women face,” she practically growled.

“She’d be with us,” he said, his tone much softer. “Where else could possibly be safer for her to be than with the two people who’d die for her?”

She stared at the counter for a moment. “Her 18th is comin’ up,” she said slowly. “That’s her opportunity to decide if she wants to come live with us or not. If she does, she does; if she doesn’t, she goes to college like the private-school kid she is should. But I don’t wanna force her like we did last time. If she chooses us, I want it to be because she chooses us.”

“Okay,” Carlisle smiled, then added, “and she will.”

And she did. She turned 18, deciding to finish out the school year where she had always lived. After graduation, she packed her bags, told the Hales she knew the truth and that she was leaving them for good, and came to live in the Cullano house. The Hales were a little persistent in trying to convince her to come back to them, but it was nothing that couldn’t be solved by sending Emmett, the most intimidating-looking member of the crew, over to their house to smash a couple of things up. As Carlisle had envisioned, Rose started driving for the Cullanos and their team, initially just the occasional, stress-free errand here and there. But she found it brought a certain amount of thrill and excitement her life had been missing, and so she worked her way up to riskier jobs. This trip to Boston would be her riskiest job yet.

“Is everyone done?” Carlisle now asked. Esme still had a slice left over while Rosalie sat with nothing but crust in front of her.

“Mmhmm,” Rose answered. Esme mumbled something about being full.

They gathered their things and headed back to the borrowed Bugatti that Emmett had arranged for them. Though Emmett was a Brooklyn boy, Boston was his father’s city, and he had relatives all around it. Relatives that would be more than happy to see the Cullanos through what they planned to do tonight.

Rosalie set the GPS to their hotel. “How many Ivanovs are there, again?”

“Six— well, 4 Ivanovs, a Petrov and a Ryan,” Esme answered from the back.

“Who’s the head?”

“Mmm, Tatiana. Or at least she thinks she is,” Esme smiled.

“Is she the one who...did she kill Emmett’s dad?” Rosalie met Esme’s eyes in the rear view mirror. She had developed a bit of a soft spot for Emmett over her time with them.

“No,” Carlisle answered instead. “That was Katarina and Garrett.”

“Garrett doesn’t sound very Russian.”

“Garrett is the Ryan. Irish mob, like Emmett’s dad,” Carlisle said.

“They worked together ‘til he fell for Katarina,” Esme added. “So it was a real blow when the two of them killed him. A big betrayal.”

“Then how come no one’s taken them out yet?”

“They’re powerful. Ruthless. Batshit crazy,” Carlisle said.

“Look who’s talking,” Rose said with a slight smile.

“That’s why Emmett’s mother left here and raised him in Brooklyn,” Esme said. “That’s where she grew up, so she knew she’d be safe. The Ivanovs have people everywhere around Boston. And with a target on the back of every McCarthy, stayin’ woulda been a death sentence.”

Rosalie frowned then. “If they’re that bad, what are we doing here? There’s three of us— two, technically, since I’m just the wheels. Those don’t seem like very good odds.”

“There’s also Alice, virtually,” Carlisle reminded. “She’ll be there behind every camera to tell us what we’re dealin’ with.”

“Cool, so she can say, ‘hey guys, you’re about to die’ right before we die. Helpful.”

“It is helpful,” Esme said. “Even the shortest of warnin’s can buy you just enough time to save your life.”

“Besides, we’re not plannin’ a massacre,” Carlisle said. “I’m expectin’ only one to be there. We hit ‘em, we go. Then we’re even for how they fucked us over with the Kiev deal they were supposed to facilitate.”

“So it’s...a blind hit? It doesn’t matter who you get, as long as you get one of them?”

Carlisle nodded. “But it would be...convenient, if it was Tatiana.”

Once they got back to the hotel, they freshened up and changed. The couple pulled out the stuffed bags Emmett had also organised for them. They took only what they needed, a couple of guns and knives each, and shoved the rest back under the bed.

“Don’t forget my favourite,” Carlisle smirked, waving Esme’s thigh holsters in the air.

“Never,” she said, holding up two pistols that were identical to her favourites back home. “Put them on for me?”

He knelt down, lifted up her skirt and strapped one around her right thigh. Then he moved to her left as she slotted her gun into it. After buckling the left one, he ran his hand down her inner thigh, causing her to giggle. Rosalie burst through the door of their adjoining rooms and froze as she registered them, her face immediately screwing up in disgust.

“Oh, for shit’s sake,” she said. “Get a room.”

“This is our room,” Carlisle pointed out.

She rolled her eyes. “Why aren’t you in all-black?”

She was wearing head-to-toe black like they taught her, as she always did. Carlisle was dressed like an office worker from Mad Men, while Esme looked like a housewife from the 50s. Neither of them said anything.

“This isn’t one of your weird sex things, is it? Like, you can’t possibly get off on killing people together?”

The silence continued. “Ugh, don’t answer that.”

They made their way down to the car and Rosalie silently drove them to a street two blocks down from the address they’d given her. As the pair got ready, she drummed her fingers against the wheel.

“You scared?” Carlisle asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“No,” she said, a little too forcefully.

Esme leaned forward into the gap between the two front seats and put a hand under Rosalie’s chin, directing her so she could look at her intently. “Remember the plan. Stay inside the car at all times. Stay put here, lights off, engine off. Only turn it on when you see us. Or when you see people who aren’t us carryin’ guns. If that happens, you drive and you drive and you don’t ever stop. Same goes if we’re gone past, mmm, a half hour. Forty minutes, tops. There’s a loaded gun in the glovebox if you need it. Got it?” Rosalie nodded. “Good.”

“Stay safe, princess,” Carlisle kissed her on the cheek, opening his door. “Love ya.”

He closed the door and Esme took her hand and squeezed it. “Everything will be fine. But in case it isn’t, you know what to do. I love you, sweetheart.”

She nodded wordlessly again. She never said it back; it was probably still too weird for her. But she swallowed tightly. Esme brought the hand she held onto up to her lips and kissed her knuckles. She then let go and opened the door.

“Esme?” Rose choked out just as she was about to close it.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Come back to me, like you did before.”

Now Esme was the one who could do nothing but nod. And with that, she closed the door, and the couple walked off into the night.

223 notes · View notes

hansolmates · 4 years ago

Text

popular-ish | (04)

pairing; popular!jk x normie!reader summary; you are way out of jungkook’s league. Or is it the other way around? genre/warnings; self-deprecating language, your typical college!au, jungkook is a piner, shy!oc, oc just wants some damn pizza, maaa yyybeeee eventual fwb 2 lovers au, oc is also a little cold-cutie but who can blame them, dang how did this get so angsty? this is comparable to cher’s reflection arc in clueless–jk’s a doof in this one :((( w.c; 1.1k a/n; happy saturyay y’all :)

taglist is OPEN: @jiminskth @scalubera @aretha170 @apollukee @livewittykid @papamochiissad @koo-zy @honeyj00ns @iflruledtheworld @betysotelo18 @zeharilisharaban @loversometimesafighter @mukeovernetflix @betysotelo18 @koochiekoo @shubhiixxx @hermiones-enchantment @iamnamjoonsbxtch @gracehiii @tea-n-kookies @iamnamjoonsbxtch @codeinebelle @ggukkieland @celestialflamefairy @dammit-jjk @kurochan3 @sunsetsnsirens-blog

unable to tag: @btsfanficsrepost @monvieesdaebak

“So in a Think-Win-Win situation, why do you think empathy and maturity are large factors in a high success rate?”

“Uh.”

“Jeon?” you look up from your lashes, and Jungkook can see the way the yellow lamp puts a little golden glimmer to your eyes, “Jeon, did you even study?”

“I—I uh yeeess?”

He can’t help it, feeling out of water as he babbles for an answer like a fish gasping for air. You can’t help the subtle roll of your eyes, masked by you picking up your textbook to peer closely into the text. It hurts him, and he suddenly feels tiny and sweaty despite bench pressing two-hundred and taking a quick shower an hour before.

Jungkook notes that you’re also the only one who brought their textbook, the rest of the study group either coming back from lacrosse or just decided not to.

“C’mon,” Jimin smiles lazily, bumping his knee with yours. Your eyes shift to where his skin makes contact with yours, “we’ve had practice all day. We’re tired. The cheerleaders had a rough evening too,” he sends a wink to Sooyoung, who just scoffs with her berry tinted lips, “I’m pretty sure you finished the project anyway, so why are we here?”

Jungkook watches the way your legs press together, black leggings hugging your thighs. He doesn’t mean to stare, he probably looks like a weirdo if not for the fact you’re so focused on burning stare to Jimin. It’s then he realizes he knows you. A hookup, maybe? A friend of a friend he was introduced to in-between practices? He isn’t sure. He really fucked up not noticing you the second time around, and he’s not sure you’ll give him a second chance.

Instead of biting back, you flush. You shrink in the uncomfortable wooden seat, looking at Jimin with furrowed brows. Jungkook squeezes his hands between the kangaroo pocket of his lacrosse jersey, wishing he could instead squeeze his hands between the two apples of your cheeks. It’s unfair how adorable you are, even in a situation as fucked up as this. Unfortunately it’s still majorly unfair to you, being paired in unnecessarily hard core-elective with three prime procrastinators and D1 athletes. The professor must’ve done it on purpose, hoping you’d knock some sense into them.

You frown, and press your lips together as you stuff your things in your Mickey Mouse tote bag. In goes your textbook, then your MacBook, and finally your fuzzy pink pen. “Right,” you mutter under your breath, most of the fire directed towards Jimin, “because I orchestrated and worked around all your schedules just for fun.”

Jungkook’s hands twitch by his sides, watching you walk out of the library without so much as a glance towards their table. He shakes his head towards his teammate, “You didn’t have to be such a dick about it,” and grabs his phone, following you out.

Cool air slaps Jungkook’s face, and he immediately finds you hunched over your phone on a bench. You’re not even trying to make a getaway, legs spread comfortably as you scroll the Grubhub menu for the nearest restaurant. He calls your name, and you jolt out of your relaxed state. You look up at him, startled at the way your name rolls off his lips.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, sitting down next to you.

You blink at him, confused. “Jeon? Did you need something?”

“I wanna help you with the project.”

“Didn’t seem to contribute much back there.”

Ouch. “Okay, but I’m a really good listener and I can follow directions. Just tell me what to do and consider it done,” Jungkook usually prides himself as a smooth talker, but now he feels like he’s grappling on strings when talking to you, “that’s… what a Think-Win-Win situation is, right?”

A small huff of a grin ghosts on your lips, and he smiles wide. “Not really,” you answer smoothly, “but it’s a start.”

He takes that as his in, and immediately rolls with it. He follows your pace, trying to slow down because you’re so much smaller than him and he’s so excited that you’re not immediately pushing him away.

“After we finish, it’ll only be like 10PM,” he follows you to your first destination, a local pizzeria. “It’s a Friday night, and I was wondering if you wanted to go to a party with me? It’s for Hoseok. I don’t know if you know him but he’s sort of my captain and we could celebrate finishing the project together that way?”

“No thank you,” you reply to Jungkook, and then you point at whatever item is on the menu to the counter lady, “and please have extra chilli flakes on the side.”

You said no to him, and it didn’t even take a heartbeat for you to think about his offer. “Wait, why?”

Your smile twists into something undecipherable, “Not my crowd,” you eyes scan him briefly, taking in the clean lacrosse jersey and the baggy sweatpants, “besides, you’d leave me within the first five minutes of arriving. And even if you didn’t, girls would probably steal you anyway.”

Jungkook feels a little gross at your blunt honesty. He’s insulted, to be bunched up and lumped with a bunch of popular jocks and cheerleaders and all the in-between. It isn’t fair for you to be making assumptions about him when you barely know him and he’s trying to let you get to know each other a little better.

When Jungkook looks down however, his hands are empty because he didn’t bother to bring the textbook and materials he was supposed to bring. His hair is still damp from the shower and not blow-dried, proof that he rushed to the library because he was late to the meeting you spent all week arranging. His mouth is shut because he didn’t defend you when Jimin called you out in the library, even though he knew he and his friends were in the wrong.

He hates how much you’re right. It’s like you’ve stabbed him with a fleet of truths, mapping out his night down to a T. His habits are a notorious connect-the-dot puzzle, cultivated over the course of four years: whoever he’d bring would escape his thoughts, too absorbed in how everyone compliments the All-Star’s record last match. Girls and boys alike will flock to him like bees to honey, reveling in him and he’ll lap up the attention. He’ll get requests for a quick fuck, and if it’s a nice night, he’ll oblige.

And what, he expects you to think this time is different?

You’re pretty, and smart, and Jungkook’s undeserving of you.

“I’ll see you Monday, Jeon,” you say breezily, brushing shoulders. He gets a whiff of your hair and the scent of fresh bread as you walk away with your pizza pie.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #btsghostie #kwritersworldnet #goldenclosetnet #kpop fic #bts fic #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst

576 notes · View notes

itsamejin · 4 years ago

Text

this love || yoongi angst

Summary: A story through the years detailing your relationship with Yoongi and all the ups and downs that came with dating an idol.

Warning: cursing, sexually suggestive content

Genre: angst, fluff, idol!yoongi, artist!yn

Pairing: Yoongi x female!reader

Premise: Based on the song ‘This Love’ by Taylor Swift. Reader is an artist.

Commission Request: @minyoongail

Word Count: 7,681 words

—

You met Yoongi when he was just a trainee, ready to take on the world and bursting with energy to get on stage. He had visions of grandeur- him living in a beautiful mansion, wearing name-brand jewelry, cruising in rare sports vehicles. When times were simpler, he’d promise that you’d be there with him, indulging in the glitz and glamour that came with his fame. He’d be an idol and you’d be his muse. Yet under all those pretenses, under all those empty promises, he was just Yoongi.

He was a guy who walked in and out of your life as easily as ocean tides come and go on the shore. He taught you how to fall in love, fall out of it, and rekindle it all the same. It was a sort of beautiful asphyxiation, being wrapped up in his lifestyle and learning to accept the consequences that came with dating a celebrity.

You wonder even now as you search his name on the internet, if you had any regrets. After all, you lost too much to be with him.

—

April 2013

A first meeting meant everything to you, especially when it came to your clients. You didn’t accept jobs from weirdos who didn’t respect your craft and you definitely hated impatient ones who badgered you to finish your pieces as quick as possible.

Big Hit was a happy medium and had hired you as a contract employee after reviewing your portfolio. Although the style of work they wanted from you was not at all what you specialized in, you were happy that they treated you like an actual employee and not some sort of machine. Plus, the pay was good.

You were asked to work on some cute animal characters for an upcoming boy group that you weren’t terribly familiar with, maybe stumbled on a vlog of theirs that you forgot about. You were intrigued by the slew of trainees that sat in front of you, their palms clenched out of anxiousness.

“I’m [Y/N], one of the digital artists that will be working with you guys from now on,” you introduce yourself politely to the seven bright-eyed boys in front of you.

You were in a room with other staff members, discussing the concept of the “Hip Hop Monsters” your graphics team was working on. This was a planned project lasting over a span of years and would eventually result in collectors edition items. It made you giddy just thinking of the royalties you’d earn from it all.

“I’d like it if the animals took after us,” one of the boys suggested shyly, slightly intimidated by the large number of corporate employees there were in the room for something that seemed so trivial. “I think our fans would like the characters more if they kind of resembled our personalities and stuff...”

You nod along to his suggestions, staring at his jersey to notice that the member who spoke up was Rap Monster. It was cute how they all wore clothes with their names on them. That’s one way to attract attention, you suppose.

“Any other suggestions you guys have for us?” you ask, jotting down notes and making rough sketches as they talk amongst themselves.

“I’d like it if,” a somewhat husky voice starts and you can’t help but stare into the guy’s eyes as he speaks, “my character was a turtle.”

You burst out into a fit of laughter along with the other staff members. He had said it with such a straight face and with so little enthusiasm, yet you could tell from his slight blush that he was serious. He was cute in the way that he wasn’t trying to be.

“You resemble one,” you grin at him, drawing out a small turtle with a cute beanie on your iPad, like the one he wore in front of you. You show it to him. “Something like this?”

“Exactly that!”

He breaks out into a gummy smile, one so bright that it hurt your heart to stare at him for too long. Now you were the one left flustered. He realizes how enthusiastic he was and got embarrassed once again, scratching the back of his head to avoid eye-contact.

“S-sorry, for shouting. It looks good.”

You bite your lip from forming too big of a grin. You still had to remain professional after all.

“You’re welcome,” you smirk slightly as he goes back to trying to look cool. You can’t help but doodle his name on your iPad even as the other members shared ideas for their own animals.

Suga, Suga, Suga.

You smile to yourself. It does have a ring to it.

—

June 2013

Yoongi sees you in the hallways sometimes and wants to say hi, but he can’t because other people are watching. Though, that isn’t the only reason.

He tells himself every day that he’ll muster up the courage to go talk to you, but every time he sees your face his legs turn to jelly. Yoongi was busy with debut stages recently, but he found some free time in his schedule to approach you.

Yoongi was never the shy type, more reserved if anything else, but you had something that enamored him- intrigued him. He wanted to know who you were other than the cute girl he was stuck in meetings with from time to time.

As you sat there on your desk, Yoongi lingered in an area nearby. He would give you his number today and if things didn’t work out then that would be that. There was no need to be all shy about this; it’s not like this is his first time asking someone out.

He strides over to you with feigned confidence and you look up after a minute, not noticing how his shadow loomed over you. He sees that you’re working on realistic portraits of the members and not the cutesy characters he usually sees you drawing.

“Hi,” he says curtly, trying to seem disinterested though he was the one that approached you first.

“Hello,” you smile up at him.

Suga.

“You draw really cool stuff,” he says to break the awkward tension. “You should show it to the CEO. I’m sure we’d have cooler concepts for our albums with your work.”

You look up at him, a happy glint in your eyes. He was complimenting you, although avoiding eye contact to seem a little less nervous than he really was.

“Well, I’m just a contract worker so I don’t think I really have the authority to start up new projects out of nowhere,” you say with a smile on your face at how flustered he looks. “I feel like you’re here to ask me for something. Am I right?”

He looks away for a split second, coughing to alleviate his nerves. He was a grown man for fuck’s sake, why was this so difficult?

“I was actually wondering if you could come give me some opinions about some art that I drew,” he lies through his teeth, just trying to find a way to get you in a more private area than the corporate floor teaming with watchful gazes. “I’ve been trying to start a new hobby.”

You chuckle slightly, seeing right through his words. You stand up to amuse him.

“I’d be happy to.”

He leads you to a studio filled with whacky knick-knacks and dim lighting, not necessarily the best place to draw. You know by now that he just said those things as an excuse to be alone with you.

“So where’s this masterpiece?” you tease slightly at his nervous expression. How did a guy who looked so deadpan have such a giddy personality?

“Well actually,” he starts off, palms already sweaty. “I-It’s not here right now, but I think I left it at the dorms. Maybe if we exchange phone numbers I can text it to you.”

He tried to appear nonchalant, but his hands moved as if he was doing a public speaking presentation. Yoongi thought he was doing great, though growing a little more nervous at how you were giggling.

“You know, Suga,” you start teasingly, “My number is in the company directory. Feel free to text me anytime.”

Yoongi slightly cringes hearing his stage name. He loves it, don’t get him wrong, but he didn't like hearing it come from you. He didn’t like the unfamiliar aspect that came with using his stage name- like you two only went by professional terms.

“Call me Yoongi,” he says with genuine confidence this time. “I like it better when my friends call me Yoongi.”

You nod, relieved that you could finally know this cute guy’s name. Truth be told, you were snooping around his conversations with other people to figure it out.

“So we’re friends?”

Yoongi nods, sitting down in his rolling chair.

“I’d like to be,” he grins, patting the sofa, hoping you’d take a seat with him.

And you do.

—

Present

It’s hard to work efficiently when you’re no longer in a corporate space. There’s no boss to check up on your progress nor is there a nosy coworker trying to see what you’re doing from the corner of their eye. You missed the hustle and bustle of an office floor, but it was nice exploring your creativity through freelance work.

You tap your digital pen onto the table repeatedly, looking at the reference image over and over again. It was a sick joke played by the universe to have been commissioned to draw your ex-boyfriend’s idol group, but you couldn’t refuse the hundreds of dollars the ecstatic fangirl was willing to give you. Truth be told, she might have offered too much pay, but you took up her offer anyway. Money is money.

Yet a face you’ve touched so often, a person you’d been with for years felt so unfamiliar to you. It wasn’t like you were drawing him realistically either. The client wanted anime-style figures that resembled them, looked enough like the boys to display it as her Twitter header. In the end, it’s still too difficult to draw. The rest of the members were lined up and sketched perfectly, but there was a blank area where Yoongi’s face should’ve been.

Your wrists hurt from the constant drawing and erasing so you set it down to massage your hand from cramping. In moments like these, you hated your job.

Ting.

A message notification popped up on your phone that laid beside your iPad. You usually left it silent when you were working, but you opened yourself up to distractions when drawing this particular piece. Whoever thought it was a good idea to specialize in celebrity artwork? You pick up your phone and smiled softly at the text.

hey, can I come over?

—

March 2014

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Yoongi, happy birthday to you~~”

You cheer on with the rest of the boys in their cramped dorm. Somehow you had gotten close enough with them to be at this level of comfort, sitting crisscrossed and shoulders touching with Jungkook and Seokjin. Yoongi blows out the candles and claps his hands, a little sad that another year passed by so quickly. He kept glancing at you who was focused on cutting the cake like the perfectionist you were.

He couldn’t help but feel like time was running out, like if he didn’t confess to you now then it would never happen. Yoongi took off the beanie he wore and ruffled his hair. He was feeling anxious all of a sudden.

“Dude don’t do that your dandruff is gonna get everywhere,” Hoseok whines. “The cake is gonna be decorated with your dead skin cells.”

“Go wash your hands,” Jin commands and Yoongi could only roll his eyes.

“Relax, I don’t even think we’re gonna have cake anytime soon when this slow-poke is taking forever to cut.”

He flicks your forehead as you glare up at him.

“I could so easily throw this in your face, but I choose not to,” you stick your tongue out at him and he scoffs.

“I’d like to see you try.”

All the members groan out of annoyance.

“Oh my god they’re having a lovers quarrel again,” Jimin yawned. “Aren’t you guys sick of arguing?”

Yoongi freezes at his words. Lover’s quarrel. That was a nice way to put it.

“They’ll stop arguing when Yoongi finally-”

Taehyung was cut off as Yoongi swipes three fingers worth of frosting from the cake and lathers it all over Taehyung’s face.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi shakes his head and soon chaos descended. Cake flew in places it shouldn’t have and ended when Namjoon knocked over a glass of water, managing to break it on the floor tiles. In the end, no one got cake.

Yoongi and you were laughing amongst yourselves at the kitchen sink, washing off some of the bits that got onto your shirts.

“I’m so sorry about your cake,” you say through your chuckles. “I’ll make it up to you some time.”

Yoongi only smiles.

“Yeah, you can treat me on a date,” he replies a little too boldly. You look at him in shock, not quite processing his words.

“A date?”

He nods.

“We should go out sometime.”

You purse your lips to prevent the huge grin about to be displayed on your face.

“We should.”

—

Present

It was subtle, the way it all started. You trace over the features you drew so far, only getting to his eyes. Yoongi and you were innocent lovers for a while, keeping your trysts a secret from everyone in the company except his managers and the members. A few of your friends knew, but none of them knew BTS well enough to be all that surprised. It wasn’t all that rare to go out with a celebrity in your line of work.

You almost miss those days when he was unrecognizable. After your friends realized who he was after he hit it big globally, you felt like a secret of yours was displayed to them. Your love was supposed to be private, but his fame left very little room for privacy. You missed when you were the only one that knew of him and maybe it’s selfish to think that way, but you were past the point of being selfish.

You text back.

yeah, can't wait to see you

—

Jan. 2015

Yoongi lays you down on the couch gently. His hands caressing your sides underneath the thin material of your shirt as he pulls you in closer to his kisses. This felt different from other nights, different in that there was nothing around to stop what would come next.

He pulls away from you slightly, panting from the lack of oxygen.

“Are you sure?” he asks, drawing circles on your hip with his thumb. He was only supposed to come over to help you unpack some stuff for your new apartment and here you were, pinned on the couch and sweating from the close contact.

You nod back in response, not finding the right words to get him to continue. He pulls your shirt over your head, peppering kisses on your neck and atop your breasts. He fixates on your neck languidly, biting as he sees fits.

There was a pause as you felt him press up against you and you knew then that there was no making it to the bed. You would have your first time with him on this newly moved-in couch.

The clothes dropped to the ground as his touches get more impatient, more desperate. It all passes by like a blur and you could only remember the pleasure that came with his long fingers, the satisfaction you felt when he was inside you. The climax of it all made you realize that you loved him, truly and without regret. He holds you in his arms when you come undone, flashing a satiated smile as you look up at him. It’s like the stars were in his eyes.

“How do you feel?” you ask him, worried he was already drowsy. You didn’t want to have to sleep on the couch naked.

“Satisfied,” he says with a smile on his face.

You can’t help but swoon, his eyes fixated on you. At least for now, he was yours He wasn’t Suga, a rapper. He was Yoongi, your boyfriend.

It didn't matter to you that he was struggling to make a name for himself in this cut-throat idol industry or that he would spend countless nights cursing as one of his numerous tracks get rejected. None of that was in your mind. Only he swam through your thoughts. Only him.

“I love you,” he sighs out. He was the first to say it.

“I love you too,” you reply back and he holds you tight against him.

He’s nuzzling himself in your hair, his chest pressed up against you so his heartbeat can synch with yours. He loves this, can’t get enough of it. He catches your lips and once again you are whisked in the pleasure of it all. This is it. This is what love is.

—

Present

The piece is finally finished and you send it off to your client, hoping she doesn’t ask for revisions because you can’t handle another second of drawing his stupid face. His soft skin, his tiny moles, his gummy smile...

It's not like you hate him. It’s just... a certain contempt lingers after a breakup from a long-term relationship. It’s the type of resentment that can’t really be explained. You don’t want to see him, but you catch yourself watching his videos on Youtube. You don’t want to think about him, but you hope he thinks about you. You don’t see yourself ever getting back together with him, but you don’t have his phone number blocked.

It’s a sort of paradox you catch yourself in and you wonder if you could ever get out of it. Will Yoongi ever escape your mind?

can't wait to see u too babe

—

Aug. 2016

Yoongi hugs you from behind, his face scrunched at the nape of your neck where several marks were made from last night’s events. Your eyes stayed focus on the TV in front of you, still impressed by your own ability to afford one in your bedroom at your salary.

“BTS' SUGA drops new music video for his song and mixtape Agust D...”

The news anchor drones on and you could barely hear her through the sounds of Yoongi’s soft snores. His hold on you grew tighter as he hears his stage name from an unfamiliar voice and it makes you giggle slightly at how different the edgy music video being displayed was from the same person wrapping you in his arms so tightly.

“Babe, wake up. I have work to do,” you whisper into his hair and he only shakes his head back in response.

“No,” he mutters, pulling you into him closer. You roll your eyes, managing to pry off one of his hands as you sit up on the bed.

“Don’t you have studio stuff to do today?” you ask him, searching for a shirt to wear.

He shakes his head as his eyes start to flutter open. You both reeked of alcohol since you opened a bottle of wine last night to celebrate the release of his first solo work. He was proud of it and you were proud of him.

“Can you turn that off, I’m getting a migraine,” he whines, covering his head with a pillow. You opted to wear Yoongi’s shirt instead of your own since you couldn’t be bothered to walk to the other side of the bed to find it. You smiled at his laying figure, cooped in a fetal-like position. He was still naked, but you were with him long enough to no longer be phased by that sort of thing.

“From one bottle of wine?” you tease slightly. “I think you’re losing your touch, Agust D.”

You chuckle as he throws the pillow on top of his head towards you.

“Don’t call me that,” he pouts, “It feels like you’re making fun of me.”

You stand up from where you were, stretching out your back as you make your way to the door.

“That’s because I am,” you smirk, “You know you’re saved on my phone as Sugar?”

He gives you a glare.

“It’s Suga,” he says, attempting to add some intimidation to his voice. It doesn’t work because all you do is stick your tongue out at him.

“Whatever sugar.”

He chuckles lightly and watches the silhouette of your figure exit his view. Yoongi can’t help but mindlessly follow after you.

As you exit towards the kitchen, you can’t help but hear the television from the bedroom.

“Suga has recently been caught up in a dating scandal with Suran, the solo artist, who sang with him in a song...”

Your head snaps up from those words, your skin crawling with goosebumps. You make it into the kitchen but with a heavy heart and no appetite.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, passing by you to pour himself some water.

“Nothing,” you say, though you sounded bitter. He caught on quite quickly. You were jealous again.

Yoongi heaves out a deep sigh and sets the glass of water down. He comes over to your angry figure and gives you a soft hug, laying his head on top of yours as if to comfort you. You try to pull away but he keeps you close.

“I’ll tell them to drop the rumors, okay?,” he says, genuinely enough to make you believe him. “I don’t want us to fight so early in the morning.”

“You promise?”

He pulls away.

“I promise,” he says, brushing a hair away from your face. “Let’s not think about those rumors right now. You and me both know they’re not true.”

You were never one to forget so easily.

—

It was around 2016 when you had stopped working at Big Hit. They halted the Hip Hop Monster brand and your contract was expiring with them anyway. You went from living a kush office life to struggling freelance worker in a matter of a second. It also meant that Yoongi and you would be spending less time together. His busy schedules couldn’t permit him to stay with you longer than a few hours and his presence slowly started to disappear from his side of the bed.

It was like a sinking ship, what you had with him. The pain starts off slow, unnoticeable. You’ll still laugh and keep up appearances as time passes, but you could tell there was an ominous atmosphere that wasn’t initially there in the relationship. Your screams start to grow silent as more problems start to stack on top of each other. It’s then when you hit the iceberg. It’s then when it all starts to fall apart.

He was still good for you, you convinced yourself, even as the currents swept you out under your feet.

—

Dec. 2016

“What the fuck do you mean you’re not coming?” you yell through your phone. You were sitting on the floor of your living room, holiday decorations strewn around the apartment. He promised he’d come spend a day off of his winter promotions to be with you.

“You know how hectic the end of the year gets with promotions,” he says in quiet hushes. “I can’t do anything about it. This is my job.”

You suck in your cheeks to prevent yourself from yelling. From the sound of it, he was in public.

“Yoongi, I called out of talking to a really high-paying client,” you say through gritted teeth. “And I still came home. Why am I the only one making sacrifices?”

He sighed at the other end. He didn’t have the patience to deal with you today.

“Look, can you stop being so fucking needy. I don’t need this right now.”

He couldn’t tell from the phone call, but your heart broke at the word. Needy. He thought that you were needy.

“I’m already stressed out as it is,” he continues through the phone. “I don’t need you up my ass all the time.”

“I’m not gonna wait for you,” you reply, tears threatening to spill over. “I’m going to sleep and you’re gonna get rid of all the shit you have in my apartment. I’m sick of you, Yoongi.”

He scoffs.

“I’m sick of you too.”

Yoongi hangs up, about ready to hit the wall when Jimin comes to calm him down. Small things that were never meant to be taken seriously built up until it was ready to crash down.

When Yoongi comes at night to visit you, he sees that you’re asleep on the couch. He sits next to you, pulling you into his arms.

“I’m sorry baby,” he whispers quietly. “I’ll do better.”

You nuzzled closer to him, comforted by words you forget the next day. Even when you woke up with a bad neck and Yoongi snoring onto your skin, you couldn’t find a way to stay mad at him. You knew, deep down, that some way or the other you’re gonna find yourself arguing about the same thing next week.

—

Present

Junghoon comes to pick you up. Junghoon, your boyfriend.

He’s a little uptight and too stern for his own good, but has a good heart and a knack of giving great gifts. You met him from working in the same industry, a 3D graphics designer for several video game companies. He was a new addition to your life, your relationship only about three months old.

You were warming up to him slowly, thankful for finally having a consistent presence in your life. He always made time for you, never used work as an excuse, and didn’t act cold just for the sake of acting cold. Junghoon was sweet in the way that Yoongi used to be when he wasn’t such a massive celebrity.

It was a relief to have someone like Junghoon in your life that didn’t walk in and out of your door without much of a thought to even say goodbye. Your life with him has been a tad bit dull, but you don’t mind all that much. Junghoon’s made you feel secure in ways that Yoongi couldn’t.

—

May 2017

“Your boyfriend is winning a whole ass award across the world and you’re having ramen with me?” Chaerin sighs. It’s typical for a best friend to judge the actions of the other.

“Yeah and?” you reply snarkily, swirling your chopstick around to find the perfect clump of noodles. “I’m not the top social artist according to Billboard, what’s it have to do with me?”

She rolls her eyes at you.

“I don’t know, you could at least watch him win the award?” she suggests. “The live stream is literally happening right now. Your boyfriend is making history and you don’t even care!”

You look at the clock on the restaurant wall. It was nearing 2 o’clock and your client meeting would be starting soon. You were in high demand as a graphic artist recently and as far as you were concerned, that was the only thing on your mind at the moment. You stare back into your bowl, suddenly losing your appetite.

“The apartment is lonely without him,” you admit sadly.

He bought one for himself and had you move in. ‘It’s easier to not get noticed by the tabloids,’ he convinced you. The modern sleekness of his penthouse was a nice change to your lifestyle, but you missed the comfiness of your small studio apartment. It was often too cold when he wasn’t around.

“You could watch it with me?” Chaerin suggested. “Yoongi’s probably so sad that his own girlfriend doesn’t even want to watch him win such a major award.”

You bite down on your chopstick harshly.

“Well he didn't even want me to come with him so I don’t wanna hear anymore about him from you.”

Chaerin squinted her eyes in your direction.

“Well I mean I get where he’s coming from. He’s still an idol, [Y/N],” she scolds. “It would be a massive risk to take you with him.”

You shook your head disapprovingly, pushing the bowl away from you.

“I’m not an idiot, Chae. It’s not like I was asking to be on the red carpet with him, I just wanted to be there waiting in the hotel room after the show. Two nights ago he suddenly backs out and says I shouldn’t come.”

Chaerin’s jaw dropped out of shock. That wasn’t what she was expecting at all.

“Did he say why?”

You stare down at your nails, your heart growing heavy as a long pause of silence takes place. It would be better to be honest, right? You shouldn’t have to pretend like everything’s okay when it clearly isn’t.

“He said he wants space,” you say, careful not to get choked up. “So I’m giving it to him.”

You clutch your thigh instinctively, remembering how Yoongi had brought that up with you just nights before. You two weren’t happy and that he needed to figure himself out before the relationship gets any worse. It’s just a break or whatever bullshit he spouted.

She scoffs.

“What is wrong with you two?” she asks, genuinely concerned. “You are not the type of person to take a break in a relationship.”

You stare bitterly into the reflection of your soup.

“I just don’t think I’ve been happy for a while,” you reply, taking a sip of your water that was left untouched for a better half of the night. “I don’t think he is either.”

—

Sept. 2017

The break lasted for months and you wondered if it was really even a break at all. It felt more like a break up if you were honest. He’d text once in a while and video call you when he was free but other than that it felt like he became a stranger, just another celebrity billboard you walked past on your way to a client’s workplace.

You’d draw sketches of him countlessly, in fear you’d forget how his face looked in real life and not through a low-quality screen. You etched every baby hair, every small blemish he’d hide with makeup. It was your method of not forgetting who the real Yoongi was because honestly, you didn’t know anymore. You didn’t know him.

Trrrringggg.

The sound of your doorbell could be heard all throughout your apartment. You stood up from where you sat on the bed, leaving the sketchbook of his face on the comforter. You weren’t expecting any visitors, but surely enough, Yoongi stood in front of you with a lopsided grin on his face.

“Hey.”

You let him in, not uttering a single word. He looks different now. His hair was black, thank god, but his face was a little softer than you were used to. You remember him being so paranoid about turning bald just a few years ago and here he was, no bald spots to be found. He looked healthy.

“It’s been a while,” you respond, hugging your arms close to your chest, uncomfortable that he was in your presence. It was his apartment technically, but you lived in it more than he did. He opted to stay in the dorm ever since he issued that idiotic break.

“I miss you,” he says in a lowly voice and you almost believe him. Almost.

You scoff.

“It seems like you’ve been having fun without me though,” you say through gritted teeth. “I thought you still wanted space?”

He shakes his head and brings his hand to touch your arm.

“No,” he swallows his saliva. “I miss you.”

You could feel his sincerity, but you can’t help but not trust him. He’s been viciously cold to you, but you find yourself pulling him closer anyway.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you threaten. “It’ll really be over then, Yoongi.”

He sighs into your hair. He loves you. He does. But he doesn’t know why it’s so hard to express it.

“I promise [Y/N]. I won’t leave.”

—

Aug. 2018

He buys you flowers, your favorite kind. It’s a small gesture, but it has you jumping into his arms all the same. It shows that he still cares somewhat. It’s been a while since he’s last shown it.

He holds you closely, appreciating the softness of your body and how you curl perfectly into him.

“I want to stay like this,” you say mindlessly, just relishing in his presence.

You’re not mad at him today and he’s not frustrated with you. It’s a high point in your relationship.

“Me too.”

His words are simple but it warms your heart nonetheless. Yoongi looks at you with twinkling eyes and for a moment you think that this could last forever and that it will last forever. You kiss him slowly and he reciprocates.

It reminds you of your first time, slow and careful- like you were the last person he’d ever want to hurt.

His love, although painful at times, was good to you when you needed it to be.

—

July 2019

Yoongi’s gone again. He’s on tour, as usual, and not giving you any updates. You were getting sick of it. The constant waiting, the constant insecurities that ate you up inside. You weren’t built to endure this kind of torture.

Suga. Suga. Suga.

It rolls off the tongue but it feels disgusting coming out of your mouth. His stage name, a persona. He starts to resemble that name more and more as the days go by. You hear it so much now that it no longer registers as an actual word.

You call him.

He doesn’t pick up.

Again.

No answer.

You’re about ready to throw the phone at the wall until a soft ring was heard from the small device. You take the call immediately, smiling as if you passed the hardest difficulty of a video game. The grin would soon be wiped away, though.

“Why’d you call?” he grumbles from the other line, loud music blasting in the background.

“Why weren’t you picking up?” You sound bitter. You don’t care.

“I’m out right now,” he says, exasperation laced in his voice. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

Clearly, he just wasn’t in the mood to talk to you. Yoongi was at a party or a club or wherever he could possibly be in the streets of Shizuoka at 10 p.m.

You just wanted to chat, check on him as a good girlfriend would. He’s been complaining that you haven’t been in a while. You thought this was what he wanted- for you to care.

“I just wanted to see if you were doing okay,” you sigh. “How’d the concert go?”

“Good,” he says, clearly distracted. “Some of us snuck out of the hotel rooms to let loose for a bit.”

You nod as if he could see you.

“So you’re partying?”

You could hear him laugh at the other end, but it wasn’t from your comment. Someone else was making him laugh. Someone with a light and dainty voice, whiny as she got closer to Yoongi.

“Yeah, I guess you could call it that,” he says, clearly distracted. “Listen I’ll call you back, okay?”

You feel a lump stuck in your throat. There are no words left to say. The foreign girl on the other end giggled harder at whatever Yoongi was saying and it felt like you were invading their privacy- as if she was his girlfriend and you were nothing. You hung up, your mouth feeling dry as the tears poured down.

You see a text from Yoongi just a few seconds into your wallowing. You sniffle as you read it.

don’t misunderstand. nothing’s happening rn i'm just having a bit of fun.

This time you really threw your phone at the wall.

You go to your iPad that’s sitting untouched on your desk. You open your drawing app and just let the anger in the stylus take you from there. You draw a rough sketch of a couple on the edge of a beachside cliff. The woman seems to be falling into the water as if she was pushed. The guy’s hand reaches out to her, but you can’t really tell if he was trying to grab her or if he was the one that let her go in the first place.

As the tears spilled onto the cool surface of the iPad, you sob harder. Nothing could be fixed and everything still felt broken. It was meaningless, sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothes when he was all the way in Japan snuggling up to girls that were probably much prettier and much more willing to understand his lifestyle.

You look around the penthouse he had bought for the two of you, beautiful wide panel windows and modern furniture. It mostly looks empty, everything nice and tidy as if no one lived here. It had such a stark contrast to that of his old life when he shared rooms with other members and had no place to really put his keyboard except the studio. You smiled at the memory of you all hovering around the small coffee table in the cramped living room eating ramen.

Maybe it was your fault for falling behind, for letting the world around you build up and not follow in Yoongi’s tracks.

—

Present

You guess it was then when the relationship had passed a point of no return. When everything that felt right had started to feel incredibly wrong. You tolerated his presence rather than bask in it. You heard him speak but couldn’t bother to listen. Maybe you were petty, but more than anything you were angry.

You were angry that he could break you that badly and you would still forgive him for it.

You stare over at Junghoon who’s cooking you up something on the stove. This is what you needed.

—

Nov. 2019

Yoongi was back from some big-name award show that you didn’t watch. You heard he won Artist of the Year or whatever, the accolades that he’s collected no longer having meaning as the days pass. Why be happy for him when he himself showed no signs of excitement? This was routine. He expected the awards at this point.

You walked towards him. Yoongi looked angry, though you have no idea why.

“Hey, I made dinner to celebrate,” you tell him. Yoongi’s sitting on the couch, scrolling through the congratulatory messages he received from other industry stars. He looked like he needed to get something off his chest.

“I’m not hungry,” he mutters. “Just leave it.”

“Are you sure?”

He scoffs. It was a simple question.

“Not in the mood.”

You give him a pointed look and sit next to him.

“Why are you never in the mood for anything?” you ask him. “It’s just food Yoongi. I just want to eat with you.”

You don’t see it properly but he rolls his eyes.

“Just drop it okay? Today’s a good day, I don’t need you to ruin it.”

You suck in your cheeks.

“Ruin?”

Yoongi sighs heavily.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he starts, facing you. “Why do you have to be so dramatic over everything.”

You grit your teeth.

“Dramatic?” your voice quivers. “I didn’t know feeling hurt was being dramatic.”

His gaze softens and he touches your arm lightly.

“Sorry, I didn't mean it like that.”

You shake your head, feeling your eyes dampen at his words.

“I hate your apologies, Yoongi,” you say in a hushed tone. “They don’t mean anything anymore.”

He’s shocked, not really sure how to respond. You were never one to confront him, especially when he was angry. Instead, he holds your hand softly. He was terrible at comforting people.

“Yoongi are you really sorry?” you ask abruptly. It was a question you’ve been meaning to ask for years now.

His grip on you tightened and you can’t quite read his expression, but you can tell that it’s not a positive response. He looks conflicted and he shouldn’t have to be if he really was. You force him to let go of you.

“I am,” he says, knowing he answered a little too late for his words to not seem suspicious.

“I don’t think you are,” you reply sadly. “You say sorry more than you-”

say I love you.

He doesn’t let you finish the sentence because he knows. He knows what you’re trying to say.

“I am,” he says with more sincerity, but he looks at you with an unreadable expression. “I just don’t think it’s enough at this point.”

“What’s not enough?”

You were confused. Is he still talking about whether he's apologetic or not? Or is it something entirely different?

“I do love you,” he says with a certain conviction in his voice, “and I always will, but it feels like nothing’s working out.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at you and focuses on the leather of the fancy couch. He doesn’t say anything but you know what this means. He’s about to stand up, but you grab onto his wrist.

“This is your apartment,” you say before he could say anything to break your heart even further. “I’ll leave.”

“[Y/N], no,” he says. “You don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m just gonna stay over at the dorm. I just...”

Your eyes get blurry from the tears. Even now it felt like he was looking down at you. Nowhere to go. It was like he pitied you.

“...need to go clear my mind,” he finishes the sentence, standing up to grab his coat.

You shake your head and stand in front of him. He’s usually like this. A coward. A bumbling fool who would rather avoid problems than face them head on.

“I need you to stay, Yoongi,” you cry out. “I need you to actually stay for once and comfort me.”

He looks at you, mouth open but no words come out. He smiles sadly and walks toward you, kissing your cheek.

“I don’t think I can do that anymore, [Y/N],” he says and you watch him leave as easily as he walked in.

It’s not like he ever comforted you in the first place.

—

The break up happened silently over a late-night phone call a few days after he disappeared on you. You packed up your things, stayed over at Chaerin’s house, and braced yourself for what was to come. It should’ve happened sooner, you admit, but your heart still sinks when he speaks.

“I just don’t think either of us is willing to try anymore,” he says solemnly. “We’ve been on and off for the past few years and I don’t think it’s healthy for either of us to continue.”

You agree, just wanting the call to end quickly so you wouldn’t have to hear his voice any longer. It hurt to have to listen to him rationalize breaking your heart.

“I don’t think we should be together anymore, [Y/N],” he says, not even a tiny bit choked up. “I think we’ve... outgrown each other.”

You knew what Yoongi really meant. He’s outgrown you.

“I think so too,” you say rigidly. Short and simple. You left nothing to be desired. “Let’s break up.”

Yoongi looks at his phone, slightly disappointed. He wished you would fight back, maybe rekindle something in him that he’s lost over the years. Yet you were silent on the line and he just had to accept it- that there was nothing left to be saved.

“Take care, okay?” he says softly because in the end he still cares- he just doesn’t want to anymore.

“I will,” you reply, ultimately hanging up the phone. You collapse onto a bed unfamiliar to you. Yoongi would no longer sleep beside you, no longer reach over to hug your side and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. He was gone and you had to accept that maybe he was never yours in the first place.

His last words replay in your mind.

Take care.

That was the most concern he’s ever shown you in the past few weeks. You almost scoff at the absurdity of it all. You don’t notice how truly broken you were until the tears start streaming down your face. You see the image of him through blurry eyes and you wonder how you could let Yoongi leave such a permanent scar on your heart.

—

Present

“Do you like your eggs runny or no?”

Junghoon asks as you approach his figure. You hug him from behind and smile at his warmth. Safe.

“Just a little runny,” you reply.

He smiles and nods, turning off the heat and grabbing some seasoning from your cupboard. You detach yourself from him when you realized what he was grabbing.

“Babe that’s not salt. That’s-”

Sugar.

You stop yourself from saying it and Junghoon looks at you with concern. He chuckles at your stoic state and ruffles your hair.

“Cat got your tongue or what?” he asks, grabbing the right container this time. “Maybe I should’ve asked if you like your eggs sweet instead, huh?”

“I’ve never tried that combination before,” you say teasingly. “Why don’t you test it out for us.”

He clicks his tongue at you and splashes some salt on your face.

“I’ll pour sugar all over you if that’s what you really want.”

You laugh half-heartedly. A simple word shouldn’t affect you this much but you find yourself get more teary-eyed as it repeats in your head. It wasn’t fair to Junghoon that you were thinking of your ex in his presence. It wasn’t fair to you either.

You feel a vibration from your pocket and you pull it out to serve as a distraction from your wallowing thoughts. It’s a text.

From Sugar.

—

A/N: This was so hard to write because my mind has just been empty these days but I’m so glad it’s done now >_< Thank you to @minyoongail for requesting this story. I’ve been bumping to the Taylor Swift song now because of this commissions T^T I recommend you all to listen to it. I tried to write this in a different style from my other works so I hope this is still readable for you all LOL

I’m closing commissions temporarily to focus on the ones I have now and to also start writing my own stuff. Let me know how you feel about this, I appreciate all types of comments and criticisms <3 Look forward to Part 2!

516 notes · View notes

tkpuke · 4 years ago

Note

Can you please do iwaizumi and Oikawa (or iwaoi 👀) for the ask meme thing, it’s cool if you don’t wanna do it!!

DYNAMIC TICKLE HEADCANONS MEME !

Iwaoi (Iwaizumi & Oikawa)

1. Who has the cutest tickle laugh?

O-I-k-a-w-a. Makes the weirdest yet strangely the cutest noises ever?? His laugh is dorky as hell, you can’t tell me otherwise. He goes from giggling, to cackling, to snorting all in 5 seconds.

2. What are their tickle spots?

For Oikawa it’s every inch of his legs. Knees, thighs, calves, back of knees, you name it and it will be ticklish. I like to say his inner thighs are the most part that gets him screaming bloody murder, his knees are definitely a close second.

Iwaizumi? He takes the title ‘world’s ticklish ribs’. His lower ribs aren’t that bad, but if you get them a little higher he’ll start to beg in the snap of your fingers.

3. Who is ticklish in unusual places and where would that be?

If you tickle under Iwaizumi’s chin you’ll send him to a fit of breathy giggles, all the while swatting your hands away to quit it.

4. Who gets cheer-up tickles?

Oikawa gets them more than Iwaizumi. They aren’t necessarily ‘cheer-up tickles’, more like ‘we-don’t-have-time-being-sad-so-wipe-that-frown-off-quickly-and-get-back-out-there tickles’.

Iwaizumi once got ‘cheer-up tickles’ by Oikawa when he was in another one of his grumpy moods. To say the least, Iwaizumi wasn’t so fond of the act and instead when finally getting the upper hand he didn’t hesitate to give Oikawa his own medicine, when all Oikawa was really trying to do was cheer him up! Guess that irritated Iwaizumi even more.

“Iwa-chahan! I was hehelping you cheer u- EEK! No!”

“Shittykawa! Don’t surprise pounce on me ever again!”

5. Do either of them try to hide their ticklishness?

Iwaizumi would deny he’s ticklish to the day he dies. He finds it embarrassing, how a few touches can make him go into a blushy giggly mess. When you’re tickling him to pieces this guy would still say he isn’t ticklish when he’s literally wheezing his lungs out.

6. Who takes advantage of the other one getting their arms stuck while taking off their shirt?

Oikawa, no matter how many threats Iwaizumi spills out, will always swipe his finger down his side when he’s taking his shirt off. So whenever they go change out of their jerseys, Iwaizumi keeps his far distance.

“Iwa-chan, why you changing so far away from me?~”

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face, Dumbass! You know why!”

7. How did they discover each other’s ticklishness?

If you never knew that your childhood best friend is ticklish, are you guys sure you’re childhood best friends?

They’ve gotten their playful moments with each other in the past, chasing each other down and wrestling that turned into a few pokes and squeezes until the other yells “I give up!”. Don’t get me wrong, they still have their little fun together but a bit rarely now.

8. Who can’t take tickle bites/raspberries?

Raspberries are the last thing Oikawa wants on his belly, and Iwaizumi knows this. This gets Oikawa to shut up, to stop being a lil brat. This only results if Iwaizumi is super irritated at Oikawa’s antics, which in all honesty is everyday. Poor Oikawa, I hope he knows that tugging on Iwaizumi’s hair isn’t gonna make him stop anytime soon.

9. Who has to be tickle-forced out of bed in the morning?

Iwaizumi never has to result to this. A tug on Oikawa’s ankles to make him roll off the bed is enough for him to be wide awake. It only happened once, But Iwaizumi soon caught on that Oikawa slept in on purpose in hopes for Iwaizumi to tickle him awake.

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Iwa-chan!”

10. Who initiates tickle fights?

This pester king, Oikawa. A tug on Iwaizumi’s shirt. Getting in front of the tv when Iwaizumi is watching something. Calling Iwaizumi embarrassing nicknames that he never wants to hear. Blowing air on his neck. That was the last straw.

“Okay, You’re just asking for it!”

“What? I don’t know what you meHEAN! WAIT—“

11. Who gives up in tickle fights?

Can you believe it? Oikawa. Oikawa is the one who wanted the tickle fights to happen, but he’s always the first to beg for mercy!

Don’t blame him, alright? Oikawa swears this time he’ll get the upper hand and make Iwaizumi lose, but it always switches up last minute. Suddenly, Oikawa is the one looking up at Iwaizumi as he shoves his face in the pillows to muffle his dorky laughter.

“Iwa-CHAHAN! No more! I give up! Plehehease!”

“This is your fault, Loserkawa. Maybe if you weren’t so annoying, huh?”

12. Who is in danger of getting hurt when attacking the other?

They both flinch to the point you gotta look out for yourself. This happens when you chose their death spots right away, so it comes with risks! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

13. Who always provokes the other into tickling them and how?

It doesn’t take much to pull Iwaizumi’s strings. Sure, sometimes instead he smacks the back of Oikawa’s head or gives one of his death glares, but if he’s in the mood to be really mean that day he won’t hesitate to show it!

#haikyuu!!#tickle headcanons #haikyuu headcanons #iwaoi #haikyuu tickle headcanons #haikyuu drabble #haikyuu tickle drabble #iwaizumi #oikawa #ticklish! Iwaizumi #ticklish! Oikawa

25 notes · View notes

nothingunrealistic · 4 years ago

Text

casting call information from the two river theater production of love in hate nation

A turbulent rock romance set in a 1960s Juvie Hall, Love in Hate Nation uses classic “bad girl” movies as the inspiration for the story of young people caught between eras of a changing America. Sixteen-year old Susannah Son is carted off to the National Reformatory for Girls to get her head put on straight. There she meets the aggressively incorrigible Sheila Nail, and a relationship forms which leads to an all out “revolution in the institution” as they attempt to break out of the boxes society has created around them. Girl Group Wall of Sound harmonies are filtered through a punk rock spirit in this rebellious and romantic new musical.

NOTE: The show is set in 1962. The world is stylized, but the characters should feel firmly planted in the time period in terms of timing, delivery, speech patterns. Specific inspiration was taken from the “bad girl” movies of the late 50s – early 70s. See: Switchblade Sisters, Kitten With a Whip, Rebel Without A Cause, Female Trouble, etc.

SUSANNAH SON: In Juvie for attempted suicide. A total weirdo and our heroine. SUSANNAH is a black girl from suburban CT. Her father is a former military man, her mother is drunk. She’s adopted. Neither parent understands SUSANNAH or seems to like her very much. She’s been teaching herself ukulele for a few years. She loves girl group pop music. She has never felt at home anywhere and she always feels alone in groups. She felt calm around her grandma, but now her grandma is dead. She designed a logo for herself (what’s the logo for, exactly? Unclear) and draws it on everything. She is not badass. – Should have a versatile voice that has lots of personality. Ukulele skills a real plus. Guitar skills a plus but not necessary. (Who would play her in the movie: a teenage Kimya Dawson, a teenage Odetta, a teenage Janelle Monae.)

SHEILA NAIL: In Juvie for theft, pyromania, violent tendencies, thrill-craziness, and rampant waywardness. Sheila is total badass. Unsentimental, sexy, tough, weird, furious, calm. – Should have a great rock and roll voice: think Aretha, Janis, Smith, or Amy (Winehouse). Any ethnicity. (Who would play her in the movie: a teenage Gina Gershon, a teenage James Dean, a teenage KILL BILL-era Uma Thurman.)

DOROTHY DONALDSON: In Juvie for incorrigibility and impersonating others. Dorothy is a Southern belle, by way of Jersey. A warm criminal from New Jersey whose “special skill” is impressions. She does a few characters from time to time but her main guise these days is Southern Belle. – Any vocal type will do. Any ethnicity. (Who would play her in the movie: a teenage Ellie Kemper, a teenage Cookie Mueller, a teenage Mindy Kaling.)

BRENDA “Rat” RATOWSKI: In Juvie for kleptomania and destructive tendencies. Rat is a scrappy little thieving weasel. A rough, snarling sneak with a mean streak. Pure Brooklyn, total street rat. – Any vocal type will do. Any ethnicity. (Who would play her in the movie: a teenage Steve Buscemi, a teenage Cyndi Lauper, a teenage P.J. Soles.)

KITTY MINX: In Juvie for “cross-dressing” and sexual deviancy. Kitty is the ‘family secret’ who feels at home in Juvie. In 2019, Kitty would be referred to as transgender. In 1962, she’d be referred to as a “cross-dresser.” She is confident and kind and strange and in love with the screen goddesses of the 1940’s. She is a rebel in the making and she bites. – She should possess a strong rock/soul voice: think Anohni, a female Elton John, Nina Simone. Any ethnicity. Seeking Transgender and Gender Nonconforming actors. (Who would play her in the movie: a teenage Candy Darling, a teenage Justin Vivian Bond, a teenage Jackie Curtis.)

JUDITH RAMONE: In Juvie for cutting a guy’s dick off. Judith is one tough cookie. She’s got an eye patch. Don’t ask about it. Tough, nasty, woke up on the wrong side of the bad. The school bully who revels in being the bully. She roots for the Wicked Witch every damn time. She’s totally annoyed by you and wants you to know it. – She should possess a personality-filled voice that ain’t pretty. Any ethnicity. (Who would play her in the movie: a teenage ROCKY HORROR-era Tim Curry, a teenage Pam Grier, a teenage Divine, a teenage Grace Jones, a teenage Ellen Greene.)

GLORIA “Ya Ya” MEEKS: In Juvie for general strangeness, compulsive behavior, and promiscuity. Gloria might be an alien. Bizarre, sweet, prickly, warm, cool, painfully unhip, fragile. The weirdest one in a group of weirdos. – Any vocal type will do. Any ethnicity. (Who would play her in the movie: a teenage Melanie Griffith, a teenage Courtney Love, a teenage Brittany Murphy, a teenage Amanda Plummer, a teenage Jennifer Tilly, a teenage Amy Sedaris.)

MARGARET ASP: The Warden. “Ms. Asp” is a fraying version of a 1950s suburban housewife. She is trying desperately to hang on to the values and sensibilities of days gone by. Her flawless exterior and just-so mannerisms mask the fact that she is losing her grip on reality. She’s all smiles as she stabs you in the heart. A disturbed human being who will go to any length to show you that she is absolutely not disturbed in any way. – She should possess a versatile musical theater-y voice that can maybe do some other fun stuff. She’s not a rocker, but she wishes she were. (Who would play her in the movie: Judy Davis, Lucy Liu, Mary Woronov, Kathleen Turner, Lynne Whitfield, Glenn Close, Charles Busch.)

THE GUY: FRANCIS, SUSANNAH’s buttoned-up intellectual, pretentious boyfriend. Presents as a liberal, but is completely trapped in the 1950s and is often unintentionally racist / misogynistic / etc. And, more often than not, intentionally racist / misogynistic / etc. Physically intimidating/imposing. ALSO plays: BUZZ, the bizarre fast-talking orderly; DOC SHOCK, an evil scientist Shock Treatment facilitator; MR. SON, SUSANNAH’s military father. – A brilliant, versatile character actor. Dangerous, alive, and period. Voice type not important at all. (Who would play him in the movie: Michael Shannon, John C. Reilly, Vincent Kartheiser, John Goodman.)

#link in source #love in hate nation #susannah son #sheila nail #dorothy donaldson #kitty minx #judith ramone #gloria meeks #miss asp #francis alcott #i'm guessing some of these details no longer apply to the characters as written / as cast but it's interesting to see where they started #casting calls

19 notes · View notes

lailannajacobs · 6 years ago

Text

Just Dumb Luck - Final Chapter

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Summary: Time to see if you can work things out with Loki or not.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: None!

A/N: A HUGE thank you to everyone who has been following this series! I can’t even begin to express how much all your love for these two has meant to me and honestly, I can barely believe it! As a little thank you I’ve decided to give you guys an epilogue next week, maybe it’ll set up another project, maybe not, we’ll see! Again, thank you so much and feedback and requests are always welcome! <3

Updated: 31/01/19

Neither of you had said a word on the way to your apartment. You were both too aware of the gravity of what Loki had to say, and you knew it wasn’t the kind of conversation you could have while walking home.

He’s sitting on your couch, a steaming cup of tea in his hands, waiting for you to sit. Your heart is hammering. You’re terrified to hear what he has to say. It would be less terrifying if you’d have any sort of clue as to what is about to come out of his mouth.

Less than a half hour ago you were warming up to the idea of letting him back into your life, but now, you can feel yourself shutting him out – and you don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. You don’t want him to give you a reason you can’t accept and you sure as hell don’t want to get your hopes up. You have to keep convincing yourself that those aren’t your only two options. If you’re lucky, it’ll turn out for the best.

When you sit, he doesn’t say anything, but you wait, knowing he will. You have a feeling he knows the weight his next words will hold and he’s choosing them very carefully.

Looking at him now, you realize every inch of his mask has faded away. He looks like he went through hell to get here but he made it through if only to sit on your couch. You desperately want to know what has happened to him since he left, especially since all you can hear, echoing through your head is: The Only Thing I Am Playing For Is Your Company. The words had eased your anger initially, but you can feel it returning. Regardless of what has happened, he hadn’t told you the truth, and that wasn’t something you could forgive without an explanation. No matter how much, deep down, you wanted him back in your life, you would stand your ground for this.

You’re halfway done your tea when he speaks up. “I haven’t been completely honest with you (y/n).”

“Really?” You scoff, “I never would have guessed.”

He winces at the bite in your words.

You don’t want to stop him from telling you the truth. You told him you’d hear him out and attacking him won’t help anything so, taking in a deep breath, you motion for him to go on. You don’t trust yourself to speak right now.

“I’m not sure you’re going to believe me, but I need you to know I’m not lying to you (y/n). You have my word.”

You nod and listen.

* * * * *

“(y/n)?” Loki breaks the fragile silence with a whisper.

You haven’t said anything since he finished telling you who he really is. At first, you hadn’t been able to help but laugh in disbelief, but the laughter had died on your lips at the seriousness in his voice and at the memory of the promise that he wouldn’t lie to you.

If you really thought about it, you’d always had some sort of inkling that he was different, and hearing your suspicions aloud had only served to quiet you even further. You hadn’t realized how different he truly was.

You can tell he’s terrified by your silence. He’s fidgeting, unable to find a comfortable position on the couch, and can barely keep eye contact without having to look away after a few seconds. On anyone else, you’d say that he looks guilty and regretful all at once, but it’s not a look you’ve ever seen on him before. You don’t know if you’re imagining the look or not.

You can’t answer him, at least not right away. It’s almost impossible to wrap your head around everything. You had never been one to think too hard about what was out there, in space, but you guess you must have always assumed that no one else was out there because suddenly the world feels like a much larger place; and you, now, so much smaller.

You can’t help but think back to the one mythology class you had to take as an elective while you were in college. You hadn’t taken it seriously considering it had nothing to do with your marketing major, and at the time it seemed like a load of crap, but you know your professor would have had a field day with all this knowledge. You, on the other hand, are still stunned into silence.

The man you had come to know, and if you had to admit it, love, was basically a god. What do you do with that kind of information? You ask yourself if it changes anything. Does it change everything?

Loki lets out a sigh and pushes himself up and off the couch.

You grab his hand, “Wait. Just…give me another second.”

You can’t let him leave without at least trying to wrap your head around all this.

He raises a brow and when he sees that you want him to stay, sits back down, fiddling with the tea cup in his hands. His eyes are dull, no longer that bright, passion filled green and his shoulders slumped, curled in around that tiny mug.

After searching deep down, you realize you’re no longer angry with him. You had wanted the truth and he had given it to you. You understand why he wouldn’t think you could believe something like this. Who would? You’re a little surprised you believe him now. It makes you think back to the day you first met, when he had walked you home. You’re reminded of something he had said and finally find your voice.

“Why didn’t you say anything? That first day. I feel like maybe… maybe you were about to?”

You want to think you would have believed him then. Maybe you would have. Maybe you wouldn’t. Either way, you know that it’s what you do now that counts.

He lifts his gaze from the mug and rubs the back of his neck, “I didn’t want you to see me as a monster; a villain.”

The realization dawns on you, “You were afraid I wouldn’t see you for you…that I still won’t.”

He shrugs.

“I would have seen you for you, you know.” You say softly but firmly.

He shrugs again.

“I have a question though Loki.”

You have many questions, but you narrow it down to one. There’s only one that matters above all of your curiosity. One that, depending on his answer, will decide whether or not you’ll ever give this thing with Loki a chance.

He dips his heads slightly, enough to tell you to ask away.

“How much of it was real?”

His answer is quick, “All of it.” And as if he can sense that you’re still not quite convinced he continues, “How I behaved, how I acted, it was all me (y/n). That was real. I meant what I said earlier, and I stayed because I enjoy your company. But I had to leave, and I will have to leave from time to time in the future, but I will be here as much as I can. I know you may not believe it and I won’t blame you if you don’t, but I will stay… if you’ll have the god of mischief.”

He’s sitting so stiffly, you know he’s waiting for you to tell him to leave. Even though you’re pretty sure he didn’t tell you everything about his home and what happened with his family, you’re guessing the things he didn’t tell you are the reason he’s expecting you to be afraid of who he really is. That, or maybe he’s afraid of himself. Maybe he can’t imagine why, if he is, you wouldn’t be too.

“I don’t need the god of mischief,” you begin holing that intense green gaze of his, watching the disappointed acceptance flash through his eyes. “I need Loki. The man who helped me out of an embarrassing situation without asking more than one question like a weirdo. The man who challenges me every time I go all competitive. The man who pushes me to be a better person. The man who, even if it was only to win a stupid breakup, listened to every word Amelie had to say with genuine care. The man who bought a Yankees jersey just because I told him he’d have more fun that way. The man who’s truly terrible at pool. That’s who I need. And I’m not saying I don’t want the other part of you that you kept hidden. I do. I want to it all, to see every part of you. But for real this time. I only wanted the truth Loki… I only wanted you.”

His shoulders sag.

Before you know what’s happening, he’s pulling you toward him and pressing his lips to yours. You’re sure he can feel your smile through the kiss, and you pull him even closer. You’re instantly flooded with feelings of relief and familiarity. As you tangle your fingers in his hair, he lets out a sigh of content and his hands begin to explore the rest of your body. There’s a gentleness in his touch as if he can’t quite believe you’re still here. The gentleness of it all almost feels taunting.

You’re about to harden the kiss but he pulls away, that familiar half smile on his face.

“I should probably tell you that I did not buy that jersey.”

You tilt your head, your brows furrowing, “Wait, what? But I saw it on you. Don’t tell me you stole it?”

In your surprise, you don’t mention that you had also been wanting to take it off him yourself that day. That little tidbit you can save for another day – another game.

“That would have been a little bit of conjuration.” He replies sheepishly.

You sit back, crossing your legs under you and bouncing back a little on your hands, all thoughts of his shirt and what’s underneath, making way for intrigue. “I have so many questions.”

He tilts his body slightly to the side in a slight mock bow, a wolfish grin lighting his whole face, “Ask me anything love.”

Epilogue

Tag List:

@lokixme @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @perceptorxbrainstorm @ihavenofilter @tony-sassmaster-stark @crescent-night @wrappedinlokisarms @lemonie2 @thatkidofwarandpeace @ihavenofilter @jessiejunebug @bbcsassdeadass @casualminiaturetimemachine @artsymeadow @laufxysn @save-myself @bilesxbilinskixlahey @grey-stardancer @thathedonistgirl @fyeahlitaajpunk

#Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki #MCU fanfiction #MCU fic #fan fiction #fanfic #loki imagine

193 notes · View notes