#what being raised by an abusive perfectionist who demands him to be number one in everything does to a mf without therapy

[ben-the-hyena]

The King is such a mood for real. He does one mistake, doesn't meet expectations once or finds out he is not somebody's favorite person, and he falls into deep depression, starts neglecting his looks and health, gets drunk, falls into a loop of existencial crisis and self-depreciation remembering all his embarrassing moments and failures and keeps thinking everybody hates him

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Old Habits

Peter Vincent x Reader, Angst, Comfort

AO3 Link/ Support Me on Ko-fi

Trigger Warning: Mentions of past abusive relationship  

Summary: You are trying to rebuild your life in Las Vegas working for the infamous Peter Vincent, but the past has trouble letting go. 

A/N:  I have no idea why I wrote this aside from I needed to. I’ve been a slut for David Tennant since 2009 and back on my bullshit, what can I say? PLEASE COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS!!!

Word Count: 3.3K

          You told yourself you would never go back to Las Vegas.

           It was a long decaying playground in the middle of nowhere that should had died along with the seventies. But, it was home.  And when everything in your life falls apart, what else can you do but go home?

           You had needed to get out of New York.  Too many terrible memories and mistakes haunted every corner of the city. You need familiar territory, someplace to ground yourself in the here and now.  Luckily, you still had friends you could rely on.

           Jane Brewster was the first person you called when you had finally decided to leave.  She practically demanded you stay at her place until you had one of your own. Charley was off at college and wouldn’t be back until winter break. You talked her down, and with respect to your pride, she conceded a motel room would be best for the time being.   That didn’t stop her from reaching out to a friend about getting you a job.

           You were certain the story of how Real Estate Agent, Jane Brewster and Occultist Magic Performer, Peter Vincent became friends was a long and interesting one. The fact you could never get a straight answer from either of them as to how it happened, however, told you otherwise.

           He was a little prickly about your employment at first; but, once you showed him a resume the length of his arm detailing the performers you had been either personal assistant to or represented, on and off Broadway, he started changed his tune.

           Peter Vincent was, complicated, to say the least.  On the one hand, he was a dick.  One could say it was just because he was a perfectionist, but that was being generous. Fright Night wasn’t exactly the Royal Shakespeare company, and he had a tendency to snap at other performers and make-up people alike when he was even slightly irritated.  At the same time, he had his own unique charm, an indefinable manic energy that couldn’t help but draw you in.  Pair that with his more flamboyant tendencies, and he could be downright entertaining. It left you in a constant state not knowing whether you wanted to laugh or smack him.

           He seemed to understand your predicament and made it his mission to leave you even more confused than before.  

          You wouldn’t go so far as to say you were friends.  You never hung out after work, or disclosed anything too personal, but there was a comfortable familiarity to your interactions.  You could call him an asshole and know he wouldn’t take it personally, while he could call you an uptight know it all, with the assurance that all you’d do is give him a light-hearted eyeroll.  In short you liked him. And slowly, the idea of Las Vegas truly becoming your home once more didn’t seem so terrible.  But, like so many things in your life, the good things could never last.

          You were standing in Peter’s apartment when it happened.  Another show had ended, and you were going over upcoming appearances at various occult conventions.

          “No, no, no, please I’m begging you.  I am literally begging you, don’t tell me they put me on a panel with that prick,” Peter complained, pouring himself a drink.

          You shrugged.  “You can’t deny Chriss Angel is one of the few magicians people can actually name.”

          “But I’m not a magician,” he defended. “I’m an occultist, there’s a difference.”

          “You put on a goth-tastic special effects show wearing guy-liner and skin tight leather pants, name me a difference that counts.”

          He looked like he wanted to argue, but settled on making an exaggerated grimace before taking a sip from his drink.

          “Besides that, I already RSVPed for you,” you continued.  “Rest assured there will be a cabinet of alcohol in your hotel room you when you’re done.”

          “I know I should be insulted, but that really does make up for it.”

          Your lip involuntarily twisted upward at his sardonic response. “And auditions.  Maggie is going off on maternity leave soon.  I’ve already sorted through head-shots and just need your approval on who to call back.”

          You handed him a small pile of photos.  He took it, making a cursory glance at each of them without bothering to look at the resumes on the back before he tossed them into two piles.

          “Yes. No,” he said pointing to the left and right piles respectively.

          “Okay, just remember to be there Thursday.”

          He let out a long groan.  “Can’t you just do that?”

          “You’re the one who has to work with them.”

          “Sure, but I trust you to know which ones are idiots and which ones are actually going to hit their marks.”

          You rolled your eyes. “If that was really all you cared about, you’d just have me do it.”

          “You could,” he said, sounding oddly okay with the idea.

          “I don’t think I can pull off a pho-leather corset,” you replied, sardonically.

          He didn’t say anything, taking a moment to look you up and down before tilting his head to the side in thought. “Well…”

          You pressed your lip into a thin line and raised an eyebrow.  Immediately his eyes widened as he attempted to back track.

          “You’re right, you can’t.”

          You crossed your arms, your expression making it very clear you were not impressed.  

          “Not that you couldn’t if you wanted to,” he floundered.  “It’s just it would perhaps be inappropriate for you to…” He stopped, as a realization dawned on him.  “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

           You broke as a wide smile spread across your face.  “Only a little.”

           “Right.” He straightened up, trying to scrape together at least some dignity. “Let’s just erase the last minute of conversation.”

           “Already deleted,” you assured.

           He smiled in thanks, but before either of you could say something clever, your phone rang.  You didn’t bother to check the ID before you answered.

           “Y/N speaking.”

           “Hello Y/N,” an all too familiar voice answered.

           You froze.  You could feel the blood drain from your face even as your heart pumped hard against your rib cage. You needed to hang up.  You needed to will your limbs to do something other than stand there. Your hand began the process of pulling away from your ear when he spoke again.

           “Don’t hang up.” There was no urgency in his tone.  Only a casual confidence, as if he were standing in the room with you instead of thousands of miles away.  Logically you knew it wasn’t the case but thought of it made you stop.  On instinct, you brushed your hand against your throat as if to make sure there was nothing pressed against it but empty air.  

           “How did you get this number,” you asked, trying desperately to keep your voice calm.

           “Believe it or not some of our friends still talk to me,” he replied easily. That was always his trick, wasn’t it? An easy answer to everything. “I just want to talk.”

           “I don’t.”  Your hands weren’t shaking so badly as before now the initial shock was gone. “Goodbye Eric.”

           “Don’t hang up!” he snapped into the line.  To your surprise, you didn’t feel the sudden urge to obey.  Before you could question why, you hung up.

           Immediately your phone began to ring again.  You denied the call, clutching your phone tightly in your hand as if that would suddenly make the vibrations disappear.

           He had no power over you here, you remined yourself.  Your mind was clear.  You had control over your limbs and thoughts.  There were no hands are teeth pressed against your throat. He couldn’t hurt you.

           You were so determined to repeat those thoughts over and over again in your mind, you forgot who else was in the room with you.

           “Y/N,” Peter’s voice cut through the fog. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

           You didn’t know what to say.  The truth was out of the question. You weren’t certain you knew the truth yourself. But there was no hiding the way you were shaking.

           He looked lost for a moment, shifting back and forth, still deciding if it was safe to come near you.

           You flinched as your phone began to ring again.

           Peter made the first move.  In a single stride he crossed the room, pulled the phone away from your death grip, and practically threw it into the closest chair before covering it with a pillow for good measure. The vibrations where now effectively muffled leaving silence in its wake.  

           He turned to you, keeping his voice as calm as possible.  “Y/N.”

           You met his gaze.

           His eyes were soft and a little unsure.  It was an expression you had never seen from him, but you felt just a little better at the sight.

           “Who was that?” he asked.

           You didn’t want to say his name again as if repeating would somehow summon him. All you could manage of a small, “Ex.”

           Peter nodded in understanding.  You weren’t sure how much Jane had told him, if anything at all, but you knew he was smart enough to tie your reaction to why you left New York.

           “What do you need?”

           You needed to throw up.  You needed a ticket to a desert island with no chance of him finding you. You needed a death certificate with his name plastered all over it.  But at that exact moment you just needed to curl into a ball somewhere private.

           “I want to go home,” you said.

           “You sure that’s a good idea?”

           You nodded.

           Peter took a breath, before nodding himself. “Alright, I’ll give you a lift,” he said, swinging on his jacket. “Don’t argue.”

           You didn’t have it in you anyway.

           The elevator ride down to the parking garage was a silent one, for which you were grateful.  You couldn’t really explain how you were still standing up right.  

           Peter led you to his car, and the pair of you sped off into the night.  It wasn’t until you were clear of the strip and well into the desert that he spoke again.

          “You sure your ex isn’t in town?”

           The questions took you by surprise.  You had been preparing for yourself for the inevitable “what did he do”.  But, it was obvious the answer didn’t matter to Peter, all that mattered was how what he did affected you.  You had never been so relieved in your life.

           “I don’t think he would have called me if he was,” you said, having given the matter a great deal of thought.  “He’d just show up.”

           “So why call you?” Peter asked, confused. “Why not wait until he knows where you are?”

           “I think he was hoping I’d just tell him.  He’s…” You paused, trying to find a way to describe what Eric could do without sounding completely insane. “He’s got a way of getting people to do exactly what he wants.”

           “How?”

           You shrugged.  All you could really remember was the way Eric’s eyes would penetrate yours before the inevitable fog overwhelmed your senses until you couldn’t tell up from down. Once again, you hand went to your neck.  The scars had faded, but the ghost of pain remained.

           “He just does,” was all you could say. “I guess it doesn’t work over the phone.”

           Peter noticed your motions but made no comment on it.  A look crossed his features you couldn’t name, but it left you wondering if he knew something you didn’t.  

           “Are you going to be alright?” he asked, not allowing you time to dwell on the thought.

           You let out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

           Eric wasn’t the first. He was simply the latest in a long line of assholes you had allowed to control you.  You didn’t know how it happened.  Everything started off fine, but sooner or things would start to happen. They’d start screening your calls. Girls nights would be canceled because they claimed you weren’t spending enough time with them. Accusations of cheating would be leveled left and right to make you feel guilty at even talking to anyone else.  Then, one night, they’d take it too far and you would run until you found someone else and the whole cycle would begin again.  Maybe Eric was the logical end to all this. Someone who could quite literally take complete control. Maybe you had been asking for this.

          “Do you ever feel like you’re making the same mistakes over and over and over again?” you said, quietly. “You get yourself in or put yourself in a situation, and every time you know exactly how it’s going to end, but you go through the same motions every time and it never stops; because for some sick reason you don’t want it to stop. Because there’s…I don’t know, a comfort in the repetition.”

          “You’re asking the barely functional alcoholic this?” Peter said.

          You laughed.  You were surprised you laughed, but matter of fact sarcasm in his voice paired with a reassuring smile gave you permission to do so.

          “Well, you ask a stupid question,” you mumbled sardonically.

          Peter shook his head.  “It’s not a stupid question,” he assured. “I think it’s just something people do. Good or bad, you stick to what you know.”

          You didn’t say anything for a moment, allowing the truth of the statement to float in the air a while. This was the longest conversation you could recall having with Peter that didn’t involve you either reminding him of an appointment or ending in some kind of banter.  But what was weird was it didn’t feel weird.

          Still you felt obligated to say, “I’m sorry I’m laying all this on you.”

          “It’s alright,” he assured.  He sounded like he meant it too, even as a slightly awkward expression settled on his face.  “I’m not sure how to not make this sound bad, but it’s kind of nice to know I’m not the only one with issues.”

          You blinked.  “You’re right. There is no way to not make that sound bad.”

          He winced, his mind clearly working very hard to find a way to back track.  Given the circumstances, you decided to show him some mercy.

          “But, I know what you’re getting at,” you said, with a half-smile.

          You could almost hear his sigh of relief.  

          “I wouldn’t have guessed it,” he admitted, after a short pause.  “You always struck me as someone who would never let anyone tell them what to do.”

          “I try to be,” you admitted, as your insides turned over. “But, old habits.”

          He didn’t say anything more, and you were grateful.  You each had given more away than either of you intended.

          Soon enough had pulled up in front of your apartment, but neither of you felt the immediate need to get out of the car.

          “Do you need someone here?” he asked.  “You know, just in case?”

          You shook your head. “I don’t think so.  I might call Jane, see if she can come over.”

          He nodded, but that awkward expression didn’t leave as he ran a hand through his hair.

          “Or, I can stay,” he offered, “if you’d like.”

          You stared at him a moment.  You imagined inviting him in.  You could see him entering your small apartment with the pile of empty cardboard boxes still sitting in the corner of your living room. You imagined sitting down on the couch side by side, the space fading between you until you could rest your head against his shoulder.  You imagined those warm brown eyes staring down at you, before you pressed your lips to his and--

          You tore you mind away from the thought before it could go any further.

          “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you said, softly.

          A flash of hurt played out behind his eyes before he got the chance to hide it. “Right, yeah.”

          “No, that’s not what I—”

          “It’s fine.”

          “I didn’t mean—”

          There was a pause.  Neither of you could look at each other, but you also didn’t want it to end the night this way.  Why did you always find a way to make things complicated?

          “Peter,” you said, taking a long breath, “my life is a complete mess. I’m a complete mess. Bad things just keep happening and I… I don’t want bad things to happen to you.  I’m sorry, I—"

          “Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t apologize for something he did.”

          You stopped then.  There was a conviction in his tone that made you have to stop, even as your heart rate spiked. He seemed to have noticed, and his tone immediately softened.

          “Y/N? Please, look at me.”

          You did so, and in that moment, you wondered how you never noticed just how wide and open his eyes truly were.

          “Look I don’t know if I’m crossing a line, or behind the line, or dancing a jig on top of it, and if I am making you uncomfortable, I’ll hop right back over it again, but I just…”

          He stopped running a hand through his hair to get his thoughts in order. “So, you’re a mess, that’s fine because that doesn���t stop you from being a good person. And you are, Y/N, you are a good person. You’re so good.  And you deserve…fuck, you deserve only good things to happen to you.”

          You could feel your throat tighten.  The way his eyes bore into yours reminding you again and again of the sincere place his words were coming from.  A surge of emotion flooded your chest until it spilled over into tears on your cheeks.

          “Shit,” Peter said, immediately going into a panic. “Shit, shit, shit. Look, what I said, if I—”

          “No,” you assured.  “No, what you said was perfect.”  You tried to get a grip, but the tears continued down your face as your breath shook. “It’s just…you’re really nice.”

          Peter stared at you, clearly unsure as to what to do.  “I’m not though,” he said.

          A sad smile came to your lips. “Yes you are.”  

          Before you could question your actions, you cupped his cheek, and closed the distance between you, placing a gentle kiss against the other. Your lips landed a hair away from the corner of his mouth, his light stubble feeling oddly comforting against your skin.  

          He looked like a dear in headlights by the time you pulled away.  Neither of you moved, for a moment.  You could only take a guess at what he was thinking. For a second you noticed his eyes dart to your lips.  You wondered if he would close the gap and kiss you properly this time, but he made no move.  You had drawn the line in the sand, and he was going to stay respectfully on the other side.  Somehow, that made having to leave even worse.

          Without another word, you pulled your hand away and walked out of the car to your apartment.

          ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

          Peter stared after you as you walked through the door and well after it closed.  He could still feel your hand on his cheek and the warm of your lips against his skin. His heart pounded against his ribs and in his throat, it was making it impossible to think clearly.

          He leaned back against his seat trying to calm himself down.  You weren’t in a good place right now.  Putting aside the general obstacle that you were still his employee; you had just gotten out of an extremely toxic relationship with a man who was either a class A manipulator, or quite possibly, some sort of supernatural creature.  

          Of course, he couldn’t say that.  Not without proof.  And he hoped for your sake he wouldn’t get it.

          You weren’t in a good place.  Anything you said or did tonight didn’t count.

          He let out a long breath, repeating the thought like mantra over and over again.

          He really had wanted to kiss you just then.

          With a frustrated groan he gripped the stirring wheel tightly before mumbling softly, and with feeling, “Fuck.”