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courtingchaos · 1 year ago

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Hiding

FBoy!Eddie Munson x Fem Reader

Uh oh, Eddie found your hiding place.

Warnings: Language

A/N: It’s been a while, I know. I went through a lot of ways these two would run back into each other and I liked it not being a huge thing. Just Eddie being pushy and you trying to keep a brave face.

Late summer morning blows in off the lake, a cool breeze that mingles with the bright sun climbing a cloudless sky. Another night spent at Rick’s helping Lisa and another week spent ignoring most of your life. The floating pier you’re dangling your feet off of bobs under you with the small wakes that hit the shore. The house that you desperately needed to get out of stands darkened behind you, even though you can still here Lisa giving Rick every level of hell.

He’s been a bastard, a motherfucker, a shitheel and a fucking bastard again in about 20 minutes after another little blonde was found creeping out of his basement. You’d actually been the one to see her while you put your small bag of groceries away and she had tried to pad out past you through the back door. Honestly you probably would have let her go with just a searing stare but as luck would have it, Lisa had been outback, smoking. So to say sleep had been light was an understatement while Rick was sent through the wringer and Lisa threw anything she could get her hands on.

At least you could catch a hint of fall on the back of the breeze where it rustled the leaves in the bright yellow ginkgo trees lining the walk down to the pier. You’d lit your cigarette and promptly forgotten it, tucked between your fingers that clutched the edge of the wet wood. There’s a few almost waves that slap against the platform under you when an early morning boater glides by, drowning out the crunch of steps behind you. The ripples in the water have your three hours of sleep beat and the hypnotic shimmer around your bare calves has you almost laying back to take a nap.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

The last voice you’d expect at 7 am, the gravel in it betraying his own lack of sleep. You know you visibly tense but you’re not turning around to look at him, two months of avoided texts should have been a big enough signal for him. There’s maybe a quarter of your cigarette left that you end up sucking down, something to do while you continue to pretend he isn’t there.

“Gonna ignore me in person too?” Eddie steps onto the pier and it springs up.

“What are you doing here?”

“One of the guys called me, said Romeo and Juliette were at it again.” He takes a few more steps out and you still don’t turn around. “Asked me to come out and talk some sense into Rick.”

“You’re gonna have to pry Lisa off his neck.”

“Yeah, she’s taking a lap.”

That makes you turn to look back up at the house and you realize the shouting has stopped, Lisa’s Audi gone from the drive.

“Shit.” You stub out the ember on your smoke and finally drag your legs out of the water, snatching your slides when you stand up. Finally you lay eyes on him and he looks different. Old Slipknot shirt a size too big, jeans that he probably owned in high school by the amount of holes in them and terminally ill reeboks that saw better days a decade ago.

“What?”

You try to ignore him and walk away but he’s too quick for you on this thin strip of wooden slats.

“No, you don’t get away easy like that.” He grabs your arm to get you to stop and you chance falling into the water when you yank it out of his grip.

“Don’t put your fucking hands on me.”

“Why have you been ignoring me?”

“Because I don’t care.” The look you give him is dirty, your best practiced Mean Girl. You have no armor on this morning, no sharp liner or outfit that shows off your only assets. Even with your hair pulled up and grungy house clothes on you still slide into that persona like an old sweater. “Do you, Eddie?” You cock your head at him and point one of your long talons at him, one that desperately needed a fill. “You with your groupies and your two sets of friends. Why are you bothering me when you’ve got Dani and her Gucci purse? What happened to Kim?” You click your tongue at him and turn to keep walking away. “Go bother one of them.”

He doesn’t follow you until you’re well on your way up the embankment, far enough behind that he can’t hear you mumbling to yourself about him blowing up your phone. Inside is quiet except for the movement of Rick from his room. He’d sheepishly come out into the kitchen when he’d heard you come in, a hopeful look on his face that fell when he realized it wasn’t Lisa crawling back.

“Can I use your car.” You don’t ask, just stare at him until he scoffs and tells you no.

“You ran Lisa off, how am I getting home?”

“Uber for all I fucking care.” Rick runs a hand down his face, stubble scratching under his palm.

“You’re such a gentleman.”

“I never claimed to be one.” He grabs his keys off the counter and eyes you before heading back into his room and slamming the door.

Your shit is everywhere in the guest room and you sigh at yourself. Three days this time around and it looks like you’ve lived here for three years, shoes kicked under the bed and duffel bag left open and empty on the chest at the foot of the bed. There’s a short knock on the doorframe and you think maybe Rick is done being a dick but the scuffed white sneaker that comes into view tells you otherwise.

“Get out.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“Not from you, get the fuck out.” You keep picking up your work shirts and throwing them violently into your bag. Maybe he’d finally get the message.

“How’s your hand doing?” He apparently doesn’t and also avoids whatever fight you’re trying to start.

“It’s fine, get out.”

“Lisa told me you broke your fingers.” He moves into the room fully and stands at the foot of the bed looking too soft. His hair isn’t tied back this morning and it fluffs out around his head, obviously unwashed and freshly bed headed.

“Well she’s terrible at keeping secrets.” You have a handful of socks you try to drop but that hand with the still healing fingers cramps up at the most inopportune time and Eddie gets to watch you grimace and slowly unclench your fist. “Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me.”

“Had to somehow since you still don’t know how to answer a text.”

“No I can text, I just don’t reply to you.” Still avoiding his gaze but you’ve run out of clothes to pick up so you stare at the hardwood floor and sigh. “Seriously just go. I got a ride.”

“You paid for an Uber.”

“Same thing! Why are you stalking me Munson, huh?!” You yell and round on him finally. It would seem Rick’s was the place to have it out this morning. Eddie remains unfazed when you get in his face, voice rising and fingers jabbing into his chest. “When I don’t answer ten calls and a hundred texts it means I don’t want anything to do with you! I want you gone!” You shoo him towards the door, a gesture he also ignores. “You treat me like I’m some random asshole and then expect me to drop everything because what, you’ve got feelings all of a sudden?” Your laugh cuts through the quiet in the room and you catch the flinch of his shoulders. “I don’t fuck around with nobodies who push! I had my fun and now we’re done!” Mean Girl says this to him, full force voice and a final shove with your finger to make your point clear.

Mean Girl means all of this and she’s great at being cover for you. She keeps everyone on knifes edge and keeps everyone in check and keeps everyone’s dirty little secrets. She gets to eye Eddie like a butchers case and take her pick of prime cuts. She cuts and she cuts and she stays quiet and she gets the privilege of front row seats to heartbreak and fistfights and you? You get to pretend you’re her all the time.

You’d like Eddie to stay and you’d like a ride from him. He could drive through somewhere and get you a coffee for the ride home. Maybe he’d even help you pack up your laundry and even help you start a load at your place. He could look around your apartment and glean some personality off of your things and maybe he could let you have a redo of two months ago. He could clean off your rings and your knuckles; he could get you patched up and comfortable and not get thrown out. You wouldn’t close up this time.

But this isn’t that, it isn’t anything. He’s a fling, was a fling, with a full roster already and you refuse to warm a bench for him.

“Fine.” He shrugs coolly and leaves the room in two steps, hands still tucked up into his underarms. “See you, Red.”

He doesn’t slam the door behind him this time.

It takes your driver forever to find the house, giving you enough time to finally get ahold of Lisa. She’s already basically forgotten what she was screaming about, especially since Rick turned her Amex back on an hour ago.

“So he just called to tell you that?”

“No, I called him to ask if he was going to say sorry and he said he turned it back on.”

“So it’s kind of like an apology, but not really.”

“Babe, you wouldn’t get it. We’ve never put a label on us…”

You stop listening to her try to reason her way out of it this time. Your phone buzzes and you pull it away from your ear to stare at the notification that your Uber finally arrived. You cut her off to tell you’re leaving and she blows kisses over the Bluetooth in her car. You grab your things and pound on Rick’s door before you leave and when you get onto the front porch there’s no car. A double check of your phone shows that yes they were here but the only cars in the drive are Rick’s Jeep and Eddie’s Challenger.

“Where’s my ride, Eddie?”

A jerk of his head before he opens his door and climbs in, car already idling, waiting on you.

“I’m not getting in your car.”

“I’m not gonna fuck you in it again.” He presses a button and you hear the passenger door unlock. “I’m taking you home.”

God you want to fight him and not just verbally. The ache of your fingers reminds you that you shouldn’t but the fire remains lit all the same.

“Why are you being like this?”

“Because I want to make sure you get home safe.”

He doesn’t yell or spit it at you. He says it sincerely and you feel very soft and stupid for a moment. The low car looks almost inviting in the morning light, Eddie in overly worn clothes and sleep still settled in the faint lines around his eyes. He nods again at the passenger seat and closes his door while he waits for you to decide.

It’s not long, not with your options what they are and you slide in with your bag silently.

Eddie was expecting a little more fight from you and seeing you still and silent and unarmed gives him a swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach. He punches in your address and starts the 30 minute drive and he wonders who’ll break the silence first.

“I’m sorry about last time.” You say quietly, eyes glued to the handles of your bag. He reaches out and takes it, drops it in the backseat in the hopes that you’ll look at him.

“I really was only trying to help.”

“I know.”

“It was nice, what you did for Dani-“

You snort and cross your arms over your chest, head shaking at nothing in particular. “Always about fucking Dani.”

“It was about Dani!” It’s amazing how fast the switch is, from soft words to the yelling between you two.

“What do you want from me?” The firmness behind your question gives Eddie a clue to not fuck around right now. He lets the first thing in his head out of his mouth and flinches at your look of scorn.

“I want to be friends.”

“Friends?”

“Is that so unbelievable?”

“Yes.” A matter of fact nod of your head. “One hundred percent. You have yet to show that you even enjoy being around me so this?” You circle an open palm at him, “This is why I’m confused why you’re playing knight suddenly.”

He’s not really sure either but it makes sense. That first night was harmless fun but then he’d stare at your contact info, racking his brains for something to text you for. A pickup or a party, anything that didn’t make him feel like a teenager again, too afraid to ask out the cool girl. But now those ideas are moot as you’re sitting in his car without any of your façade, willingly letting him take you home.

“I just…” He won’t say it because it wouldn’t be true. He doesn’t think it would be true.

You’ve become a thing he looks forward to during his nights playing dealer, a welcomed distraction that no longer felt like just a distraction. Eddie cares what you think about him, from his clothes to the girls to his fucking car, but he’s spent so long avoiding those thoughts it feels foreign in his head.

“Can we start over?”

“This conversation or-“

“I could use some more friends.”

That makes you chuckle, a puff of air blown through your nose. “I thought you said you had enough?”

“Well I miscounted.”

The tension bleeds away with the faint music, the new silence warm again in its place. There’s a smile playing at the corner of your lips and he’s suddenly determined to make it grow.

“Since we’re friends now…”

“Mm.” A fraction of growth while you play with your phone.

“I was thinking we could hang out sometime. Just us.” Stopped at the red light he looks over at you just as that smile drops before it could ever form.

“Eddie…”

“Christ, what? I can’t ask you to hang out?”

You give him a heavy look and he almost misses the light turning green.

“You’re still just trying to fuck.”

“Maybe I’m trying to ask you out!” His hand slaps the steering wheel out of frustration and he passes the car in front of him, speeding unnecessarily.

“You’re asking me out.”

“Not now!” He sounds like a whining child, even to his own ears. He can’t look back over at you, refuses to see whatever derision or disgust you’re gracing him with. He drives in silence and the ruined mood he created yet again while you sink further into your seat. He’s turning into your complex before he’s ready to let you out, a lot of dumb emotions still sitting like lead in his gut. His phone burns against his leg with all the unread messages from the morning and not for the first time does he wonder why he’s even trying to do this.

The door unlocks and his attention snaps over to you before you can open the door.

“I’m serious.” He blurts out and drops a hand on your knee that you immediately stare at. “About the date.”

You freeze under his touch, such a change in your normal response to him and he feels a twinge of trepidation. You stay wound up around yourself but there’s a softening of your shoulders and you don’t push his hand away so he takes it as a small victory.

“One stipulation.”

“What?”

“You need to delete their numbers.”

He doesn’t need to ask who’s. He stares past you at something outside, eyes unfocused while he chews on his lip. “I mean that’s-“

“If you want to take me on a date, a real date, then you’re going to treat me like I’m not a random hook up.”

The car idling is loud in the silence that follows and Eddie thinks it’s a little pathetic that he can’t find words, let alone lie to you right now. Normally his silver tongue gets him out of situations like this with nothing more than a whisper and a practiced grin.

“Of course baby, I’ll delete them.”

But he doesn’t know for sure if he will. You give him such a tired look and he doesn’t want to be the reason you look so defeated but he knows himself, the kind of shit he pulls.

“I uh, I don’t want to make a promise I might not keep.” Honesty wrapped around a shitty reality.

You huff softly and reach in the back to grab your duffle, carefully swinging it to rest on your lap before you exit his car.

“Seriously? A few numbers?” You ask and he can hear what you’re really trying to say, ‘Aren’t we a little old for this?’

“I don’t want to lie to you.”

“Doesn’t get you a date just because you don’t want to.” The door opens and the bright morning light spills into the tinted interior. You climb out of his car and lean back in for your keys and he has a distinct memory of playing pool with you. “I hope you grow up some day Eddie.”

You don’t slam the door like he expected, like the last time you were in his car. You don’t walk away with a switch in your step and you don’t look back at him with a cheeky wave. Eddie watches you climb the wooden steps slowly, tiredly, to the top landing and he watches you unlock your door and disappear from view.

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Fic #Eddie Munson Angst #Eddie Munson x Reader #My Work #My Fic #Vlad

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brighttears · 1 year ago

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What is Thicker Than Water

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description, no use of y/n

Summary: In the aftermath of an attack on you, Joel, and Ellie, Joel cleans someone else's blood off of you. You reflect on your maternal violence, you and Joel connect without needing words.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Vivid descriptions of violence, injury, and blood, mentions motherhood (reader is not a mother), pet name (baby)

A/n: this is purely self indulgent kind of based around inner monologue ? and perhaps a little weird . I have a request that I am going to do! just haven’t had the fluff in me past couple days 😪

—

You feel your screams more than you hear them, all of your attention focused on your fist colliding with his face. Drowning in a vengeful ferocity, you’re barely aware of where you are until something heavy pushes you off of the body. You thrash under the new grip on your arms until Joel’s voice, “It’s me, it’s me.” reorients you, “It’s okay. Ellie’s okay.”

His eyes are wide looking at you and then down to your reddened fist. Carefully, he takes it in his hands to evaluate. “We need to go.” looking past you, he adds, “Now, Ellie, we gotta move.” and then he’s pulling you by your wrist and you fall from one foot onto the next. Everything is blurred and blaring; your hand and face are throbbing hot, pain stabs through the soles of your feet as they land harshly on the concrete and you heave fire. Shouts and gunshots chase you.

“Ellie,” you swing your head around, looking.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” you find her at your side and then you’re back and remember to sprint.

When you get to the truck, you fling the back door open and shove Ellie in before you. Joel’s door slams shut as he jerks onto the road.

In the backseat, you take Ellie’s face in your hands, frantically examining her, “Are you ok?” you ask, gasping raggedly. The truck rattles and bumps.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you see doe eyes looking back at you and a harsh red contrasts in the corner of your eye. Removing your hands from her face, you find the source and stare down at your shaking hand.

“Shit.” Your knuckles are maroon, seeping bright red down into your sleeve.

“Are you ok?” Ellie’s young voice sounds over the pounding in your ears as you continue to stare, unable to understand what you are seeing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, are you ok?” you shoot your eyes back up to her, panic’s adrenaline having your teeth almost chattering.

Ellie blinks her doe eyes, a mystery flashing over her brow before she responds, “Yeah, I’m ok. Okay?” she raises her eyebrows, trying to find your focus with her eyes until you nod in acknowledgment.

“Joel?” you look to the front seat.

His shoulders are strung up, knuckles white and twisting on the wheel. In front of him is a wash of muted blue and a strip of speckled gray, the yellow divider lines rushing centered under the car. “I’m alright.” he reassures you. Staring straight ahead, all you can see of him is his tense shoulders, taut curled hands, and silver streaked hair. “Ellie, check the rest of her.”

You look down and wet red is spattered over your brown plaid flannel. Ellie takes your shoulders to turn you, leaning around to look over your back, then smooths her hands over your covered arms. She leans down, tugging at your jeans to check over your legs, and then calls to the front, “She’s fine except for her face.”

“My face?” you raise a hand up to touch it and immediately regret it when a sharp pain from your nose electrifies your entire face. You pull away red fingers. “Did I break my nose?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Joel tells you, “Everythin’s fine. I’m gonna find somewhere to stop as soon as I can.”

“Shit,” you sway as you recollect the events prior to being here in the rickety, rumbling truck—

The raider had Ellie on the ground, one hand holding her hands clasped above her head and the other pressing the barrel of a gun against her forehead. Her wailing resounded in your skull and your body went numb. Then you were straddling him, screaming and hammering your fist into his face. You look back down at your bloody knuckles. “Shit. Did you get the stuff?”

Joel sighs through his nose, “No.”

“Shit.” you rub your palms over your eyes and then drag them down your cheeks.

“We’ll find it another way. Don’t worry about it. You’re my main concern right now.” he glances at you from the rearview mirror.

You can feel the adrenaline flowing out of you as your body weighs into the cool leather seat. Knowing that the three of you are all safe, together in the small cabin of the truck, you let your head lean back as your brain smothers you with sleep.

—

“Baby, hey,” a voice ripples from somewhere above you. Barely on the cusp of consciousness, you can’t identify whose it is, but something makes you want to go to it, so you kick your legs and swim back up to opening eyes. “Hey, we’re stoppin’ here for the night.”

“Stop where.” you push yourself awake, blinking your eyes wide. “Oh fuck. Ow.” You reach a hand up to your face but Joel blocks your wrist.

“Come on, we’ll take care a that inside.”

You follow another painful ache to your hand, bloody and swollen. “Jesus.”

“It’s alright, just let me get you inside.” Joel touches your arm, urging you out of your seat, and your feet drop onto gravel.

“Where’s Ellie?”

She appears in front of you, “I’m here.” Her voice is clear and refreshing.

“Okay.” you stare at her, she gives you a soft smile, and then you bring her into your arms, resting your chin over her shoulder. You pet her hair once, shaggy and loosely held in her hairband. Ellie takes a deep breath and it flows over your neck and shoulder. You let her go and the three of you start walking to the run-down motel.

Inside, Joel unloads your gear onto the stiff, tan armchair and fake-wood side table in the corner while you and Ellie sit down on the creaky metal queen bed. He digs out his water canteen and a scrap of cloth, nearing threadbare, and turns to you sitting behind Ellie, combing your fingers through her hair before retying her ponytail, murmuring consolations. She giggles, light but warm hearted, her finger tracing over the flowers on the bedspread. Joel touches your shoulder for you to stand, and then gently guides you into the bathroom just across from the bed with a hand on your lower back.

You lift yourself up to sit on the counter, facing Joel, and he pulls the door in until it’s open only a crack. He takes your chin to turn with his thumb and index finger and you watch his eyes run over your face. “Looks much worse than it is. Just bloody.” Then he takes the cloth and presses it folded around the lip of the canteen, flipping it briefly to wet it. When he starts wiping the cool wetness over your forehead and cheek you look at him quizzically, under the impression that the only wound on your face is your nose. He avoids your eyes so you turn to look at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection startles you.

The thick red running from your nose, over your lips and down your neck, dark and clotted, isn’t unexpected, but the smears and splatter covering the rest of your face are. A slit on the bridge of your nose has coated it almost entirely in red, but the rest of you is heavily freckled with blood that is not your own. It’s gotten into your mouth, it sticks in your eyebrows and passes your hairline. Looking at your reflection, you see a mutilator, a knife, a butcher, a murderer. In your eyes you recognize something that you can’t immediately place, but realize it is a look you’ve only seen in a mother’s eyes. You’re emblazoned with bloodshed, decorated by the inherent aptitude of love. You go to wipe two fingers over a large blotch near the corner of your mouth and there you are met with your bleeding instrument. With a shuddering sigh, eyelids fluttering, you continue to rub.

“Hey,” with a hand on you trap, Joel pulls you back to face him, “it’s okay, it looks much worse than it is—”

“Did I kill him?”

Joel sighs, “I don’t know. Didn’t stop to check, just ran.” he goes back to swiping broad strokes over your face with the cool cloth.

You remember the face under your fist again and Ellie, the way she looked with that gun on her forehead, and then the way she looked at you in the car.

“Ellie.” you whisper, looking into Joel’s eyes and grabbing his biceps, anxiety puckering your brow, “She saw all that. What if she’s scared of me now? What if she thinks I’m gonna hurt her?”

Joel shakes his head. “Kid’s seen way worse. You don’t need to worry about that. This is gonna hurt now, I’m sorry.” he looks back to your face instead of your eyes, moving the cloth to your nose. The pain is stifled by the burn of his words, the reminder of the tragedy of young Ellie. You can’t save her from what’s happened to her before you met her, you can’t protect her from all of it, you can protect her from very little. Death is only one of many enemies. You could kill half the country, beat anyone who even has a thought of hurting her, and you still couldn’t save her. You stay still as he mops up the blood.

When he refolds the cloth you see the bright red starting to permeate it and swallow hard as he starts brushing it over your lips. Joel tips your chin up with a finger and then takes the back of your neck to hold it in place as he slowly drags the damp cloth over your chin and down your neck. “Okay, lemme see your face again.” He whispers, then using his thumb and fingers to rub at the faded spots, his other hand still on the back of your neck. “Does your nose hurt?”

“A little. How fucked up is it?”

“It’s a little bent… kinda cute, though.” He smirks and it slices through your film of gloom and you smile. He stills his hand and watches his thumb resting in the flesh of your cheek.

“You should see the other guy.” you whisper.

Joel chuckles, “I did.” Then he sighs softly, taking his hand away from your face to scan it with half lidded eyes. “Alright, lemme see your hand.” He lets go of your neck and fully refolds the cloth, flipping it over the bottle again to wetten it, then changes his mind and chooses to first run the water over your hand.

“Fuck.” you whisper, flinching as it burns the open skin at the peak of your knuckles.

“I know baby, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t worry about it. Just reflex.” you take a deep breath and he starts wiping at the caking red with the near already saturated cloth.

“I know. I’m still sorry.”

“Is it broken?”

“A little. It’ll heal on its own. We’ll just keep it wrapped.”

‘We’ll’ sounds good coming out of Joel's mouth, meaning us, as in I'm with you.

He runs the last of the water from his canteen over your hand, does some final brushes and blots with the cloth, and then says, “Stay here.” He dips out of the room and comes back with a brown stained tan rolled bandage. He folds the wet cloth to lay over your knuckles, securing it with his hand under yours, palm up, able to hold each side down with his thumb and index finger. He starts wrapping your hand, taking his time, stopping to redo a roll if he’s not happy with it. You smirk unconsciously, watching his knitted brow and lips pouting in focus. When he’s done, he holds it from below again, turning it slightly to make sure it’s to his liking. Joel looks up to meet your eyes and takes his other hand to rest under your jaw and over your cheek. He takes another deep breath as his eyes flicker down to your lips and back at your eyes. He sighs.

There is still residue from the thick pour of blood from your nose over your chapped lips. He can't help himself and brings them to his, transferring copper onto his tongue, tasting the bloodshed as justified. He keeps gentle hold of your wrapped hand until you bring it to rest over his shoulder, then moving to hold your waist instead, fingers, dirty and scarred, digging soft nails into your charred and stained skin. He steps closer to you and you take your other hand to grasp his hair, raising your chest, inadvertently seeking more contact. For the sake of your nose, he’s trying to be gentle, but you thirst for each other, hooked on the stranger’s wine on your lips and tongue. Joel moves closer until he’s against the counter himself, taking the hand from your waist down to splay over where your shirt and pants meet to pull you closer; your bodies are pressed middle to middle, organs to organs. Your back is arched to adhere to him and you roll your hips into the heated contact. When a soft moan slips out of you, you and Joel pull apart, temperature falling remembering Ellie in the next room. Still connected, you’re Narcissus in the pool of each other’s eyes; revealed, wet and tragic; decoded, devastating captives of love.

Copper rolls around on your tongues bittersweet. You thumb away your red mark on Joel’s cupid’s bow and another on his cheek. It’s ironic how easily blood can be washed off of skin.

In the faint vestige spots of violence on your face, Joel reads ‘Ellie’. Again he treasures your eyes and the look he saw in them from the rearview mirror—hysteria, soul gripped so hard it was turning blue, instinctually boring into Ellie, short circuiting in it and asking her twice. He is Narcissus in your eyes. He slides his hand over your neck, finding your pulse with his thumb. “You’re okay.” he whispers.

“I’m okay.” you whisper back.

“She’s okay.”

#the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller the last of us #the last of us fic #the last us hbo #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fan fiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #joel miller tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou #tlou hbo

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genuine-wrestleboy · 1 year ago

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the attraction (1/2)

words: 5,031

(here on ao3)

It isn’t that you’re easy to scare, no matter what your friends say. So maybe heights make you nervous, and blood, and the concept of eternity, but none of that has ever stopped you. On the contrary, you like it. Love it, even—the adrenaline, the thrill, that tingle down your spine. Haunted hayrides and rollercoasters and horror films, anything that strips away the thin veneer of safety for long enough to get your heart really pumping. That’s why you’d accepted the invitation tonight, even though you don’t know the first thing about Freddy Fazbear’s, or the rumors your friends excitedly discuss on the drive over.

“Wait, there were, like, real, actual murders here?" you ask, peering out the windshield at the grungy-looking building. It's smaller than you'd expected, the neon sign above the doors flickering weakly.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” your friend tells you with gruesome excitement.

You frown a little. “That seems kind of tone deaf, doesn’t it?”

Another friend rolls their eyes. “There weren’t any real murders, it’s–ugh what's the word? Urban legend. Creepypasta shit.”

The final member of your group cuts the ignition. “If we see a photonegative Foxy I will fully shit my pants, just warning you guys now.”

Your friends laugh, and you turn back to the old pizzeria, something warm and familiar kindling in your chest. Anxious anticipation; the first sparks of fear.

It's a predictable pace from there. You made sure to get here as close to opening as you could, so the line's not too bad, but the tickets are steep.

"This better be terrifying," your friend groans.

"I better be able to fuck Freddy Fazbear himself," agrees another.

"Yeah? Is that gonna be before or after you shit yourself?"

A shrug. "Depends on what Freddy's into."

"Guys, the line's moving." You love your friends, but if you have to listen to another second of this there are going to be very real murders here tonight.

"Ooh, nice, you wanna go first or last?"

You give this question the consideration it deserves. Which kind of scared do you want to be? Do you want to face the horrors ahead and force yourself to push through them? Or do you want the eerie unknown of endless possibility at your open back? Either way is bound to get a scream out of you, which you know is mostly why your friends offer you the choice.

"Last, I think."

"Alright! Get thee behind me, scaredy!"

"Harr harr," you reply dryly.

Single file and giggling, you friends put their hands on one another’s shoulders and shuffle through the blacked-out doors. You follow suit, but the friend in front of you slaps your hand off their shoulder like a bug.

“You know you grab too hard,” they whisper harshly.

“Right, sorry.” You knot your hands into the front of your shirt instead.

It’s a bit like losing a sneeze, at first—tension building and building and then fizzling out into one long, empty corridor after another. Dim, streaky fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting strange shadows in the corners, but there’s not much else for them to work with besides the creepy crayon drawings tacked to the walls.

Then, slowly, other things start to appear: the rusted skeleton of an animatronic, strung together with wire like the bones of a museum dinosaur; a dark-stained purple vest and bowtie behind a pane of glass alongside a picture of a waving yellow rabbit suit; a skillful reproduction of a red animatronic head with a loose, toothy jaw that your friend tries to stick their hand into.

Somewhere near the shadowed ceiling, a speaker crackles to life.

“Please don’t touch the displays,” says a muffled, tired-sounding voice.

“Boo,” hisses your friend, retracting their hand. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do. This place is fucking boring.”

The rest of your friends mutter in irritated agreement. You pinch your mouth shut before you can say something you’ll regret. This hasn’t been what you’d expected, sure, and you’re not exactly scared, but you’re definitely interested. Maybe it’s just because you didn’t know anything about Fazbear’s before coming here, but you think if they just pivoted a little and turned up the lights this place could be really cool, part horror and part history.

Or they could've hired some actors or something, you suppose, but that's neither here nor there at this point.

The next hallway is entirely wallpapered with vintage advertisements and framed posters, faded photographs and glossy magazine pages and a huge full-blown painting of a goofy-looking bear with a top hat and gentle eyes.

"Mr. Fredbear, I presume." As you lean in to squint at it more closely, you notice a newspaper article pasted on the wall next to it, photocopied and blown up in size to make the letters legible even in this near-dark.

Kids Vanish At Local Pizzeria—Bodies Not Found

Ah, the creepypasta bullshit. Your eyes briefly scan the body of the article. There’s a surprising amount of detail, considering, you suspect, that not many people are expected to read it. A couple steps further along the wall, you spot another article, and you hold your phone up to it for a little extra reading light. You pause for a moment, in case the voice on the speaker has an objection, but if he does it’s apparently not big enough for him to mention it.

Five Children Now Reported Missing. Suspect Convicted.

“...where a man dressed as a company mascot lured them into a back room, eugh.” If they’re giving you backstory now, maybe this is where it starts to gear up, where the story comes in and the scares really start.

“Hey, guys, check this out.” They’ll like this, you think, gesturing them over. You hope so, anyway. “Guys?”

You look up to another long, empty corridor, and your heart drops into your stomach. Your friends are gone.

Shit, they’re going to be so annoyed if you get yourself left behind.

You abandon the articles reluctantly and follow the only path until you hit a bend in the hallway. To the left, there's a glass window, and then what looks from here like a dead end. To the right there’s a makeshift plywood door marked Cast Only, but the sign is in rough shape, and the door itself is hanging slightly ajar, like someone has just gone in.

Feeling a little dumb, you reach out and try a tentative knock. At least if it is actually an employee-only area there might be someone who can help point you in the direction of your friends.

From behind the door comes the sound of movement—heavy, halting footsteps, the beginnings of a cry. Then a sort of wet cracking sound, echoing silence. A thrill goes through you, and you feel suddenly perfectly clear, excitement honing you like a blade. That's terrifying. As you push open the door, you wonder if they only replay the track when someone is close enough to hear it or whether it's on a loop, whether you'd hear it all again if you stayed put and waited long enough.

You pass through into a cold, dank room that reeks of mildew. The only light comes from an abandoned industrial flashlight on the floor, the bright arc of its cracked bulb swaying ever so slightly side to side, as if it's only just been dropped. It makes the room into a funhouse mirror of itself, shadows stretching off in every direction like hungry searching fingers. It also makes it impossible to tell how big the room actually is, the opposite walls lost to darkness.

Fortunately, you’re no amateur, and you know the best way out of a labyrinth. The wall is distressingly sticky under your hand, but you keep your fingertips pressed steadily against it as you make your way forward. The humid air of the room is like wearing a damp sheet over your head, and your skin tingles with gooseflesh beneath it. Everything feels muffled, your own racing heartbeat the only thing your straining senses can detect.

The flashlight on the floor wobbles one more time and comes to a rest.

Your next step nearly takes your feet out from under you. Your shoe slips on the floor, the surface suddenly slick, and you barely manage to catch yourself on the wall before you go down. You let out a little involuntary yelp of surprise; it sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise silent space. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you stare out into the darkness, still as a startled rabbit. Nothing stirs, but you could swear you feel the weight of someone else’s gaze.

You pause, scarcely breathing, to give your eyes time to adjust, and slowly the floor separates into grimy checked tile and a spreading pool of thick, dark liquid. A little further down, you can just make out the limp shape of a figure slumped in the corner. Curiosity draws you closer, and you pick your way carefully around the blood, leaving shoe-shaped smears around the edge as you go. That has to be a safety hazard, right? It’s amazing that no one has fallen and gotten hurt yet—or sued Fazbear’s Fright, more likely. Maybe they have really good lawyers.

The figure in the corner seems to be a young man, blonde and ponytailed, wearing what looks like a security guard’s uniform. You brace yourself for a jumpscare as you approach.

Then you see the angle his neck is at. His back is propped against the wall, but his flat, lifeless eyes stare straight up at the ceiling, mouth hanging slack. There’s a faint trace of blood on his teeth, and a great deal more where a considerable section of his shoulder has been torn away completely. It’s an incredible piece of work, but—honestly it’s edging on a little too realistic. A deep, nauseous discomfort settles thick in the back of your throat, and you step backwards, away from the wall and the corpse, and straight into something else.

You turn, hands raised, and look up and up into the grim, grinning face of an animatronic rabbit.

"Hello!" Adrenaline spikes through you, the one-two punch of terror and delight. It’s always made you a little prone to blurting.

The rabbit stills, one broken ear flopping as the sculpted head tilts slowly to the side. You do your best not to touch the actor as you duck around him and flee in the opposite direction, away from the door you entered through.

After a moment, you hear him follow, the same slow, metallic footfalls that had enticed you in here to begin with. You feel yourself grin so hard that it hurts; this place is fucking good.

The beam of the flashlight clings by its nails to a bank of bulky steel lockers near the center of the room, and it’s these that you aim for. They give off a bluish light of their own, maybe not lockers, after all, but some sort of machinery with faintly glowing panels on their pitted faces. You follow the line of them until there’s enough room to go around, and though there are glowing panels on this side, too, the light from the flashlight is all but blocked. You have about two feet of dimly-illuminated floor before the room descends again into utter blackness. Behind you, the hiss and click of struggling hydraulics tells you that the actor in the animatronic suit is closing in fast.

Okay, deep breath. What’s your next move? Fight and flight tangle in your chest, knotting themselves together as effectively as a noose.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run."

You freeze. Horror slithers down your spine and coils cold in the pit of your stomach. How can he do that with his voice? It sounds…shredded, like the throat that produced it barely remembers what it is. Your own throat activates automatically in sympathy.

But he’s singing. You can’t tell what direction it’s coming from, but you can tell that it’s getting closer.

“Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, run.”

Two knocks, trailed playfully along the barrier behind you. Then one deafening bang. You jump, the spell broken, all but throwing yourself into motion.

A mitted hand snaps shut around your wrist and yanks you back. Before you can even process what's happening, your back hits metal with enough force to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The rabbit animatronic leers down at you, both long arms caging you solidly in place. Washed in blue, the finer details of his face are lost, but you recognize enough to connect him to the drawings on so many of the posters in the lobby.

“Hello,” says the Springtrap. The smell that rolls out of his mask when he speaks is a bit of a demented touch.

"Oh wow," you breathe. “I didn’t know you guys were allowed to touch us.”

Springtrap makes a gravelly, gargling sound that you realize belatedly is laughter. He leans in, leans down, looming ghoulishly as he stares you down with unblinking interest. His eyes reflect the cold blue light like polished silver, half-hidden by the suit’s heavy lids. You meet his gaze and feel suddenly strangely exposed, like you might as well be standing here in nothing but your socks. Your heart races in your chest, and, humiliatingly, another, lower part of you starts to respond, too.

Lifting one huge paw, the actor in the Springtrap suit runs the pad of his thumb down the side of your neck, and a gasp drops from your lips. The texture of his fur is like greasy velvet rubbed the wrong way, waxy and matted, and you feel the bite of metal as he hooks the digit into your shirt collar and drags it aside. Your skin tingles in the wake of his ungentle touch.

“Can you feel that?" The question bursts out of you like nervous laughter. “I mean, those gloves, do you, are they easy to use? I’m not—I don’t want to seem like one of those assholes who think they’re too good to be scared, I’m honestly terrified, you’re just—” don’t say hot, don’t say hot “—gorgeous.”

Oh god, that is so much worse.

“Gorgeous,” he repeats, and you could swear he sounds amused.

A blush tears its way across your face. “Wait, no, I meant—I mean, I did mean it, I just, mostly I meant that whoever made that suit must be, like, incredible, it looks amazing, I—I am so sorry, I babble when I’m scared. Usually not this much though."

You hear that broken laughter again, and Springtrap reaches and spreads the broad length of his hand along your windpipe. He doesn't press down, but he doesn't have to; one sharp fingertip traces the underside of your jaw, and your breath stutters and catches hard.

"And what if I told you," he says, "that I made this suit?" There’s a grin in there somewhere—you can hear it, even if you can��t see it. There’s also, you think, the hint of an accent, something round hidden in the harsh rasp of his consonants.

"Did you?" you ask dumbly.

"I did," he confirms.

"Well you totally killed it. It’s—it must’ve been a real labor of love." Jesus, what has your life come to? You're making first-date small-talk with a haunt actor who has his hand around your throat and you're barely resisting the urge to grind against the seam of your jeans.

"It was." His grip tightens, and you do your best not to go completely boneless against him. You can hear how breathless you are when you speak, but it feels sort of fuzzy and far away.

"It's cool that you get to wear it, too, then. Instead of just, like, watching someone else do it."

Springtrap stills. "That I get to wear it," he says. His voice rests on a precarious note between wistful and annoyed.

A beat of silence, snapping-tense. He stares at you, thoughtful in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s contemplating your words so much as he’s contemplating you. When he turns your face towards the wall, you let him, swallowing hard against his palm. Hot, foul air stirs your hair as he nuzzles along the juncture of your jaw, your pulse fluttering madly at his fingertips.

“Funny, frightened thing." There's something almost wondering in his voice, almost soft. "What am I to do with you?”

You honest-to-god whimper at that, a thoroughly telling sound you don't quite manage to stifle.

Springtrap chuckles, rumbling and low. “You seem like you have ideas.”

This might be the most embarrassed you have ever been in your life. Unfortunately, the same could probably be said for how turned on you are.

“Are they, uh, bad ideas?” you ask.

A single trailing finger scrapes itself down your throat, your chest, and the topmost button on your shirt pops free and clatters away.

“There's a very good way to find out.”

The thing is, you don’t need him to tell you that it's a bad idea, it is an objectively bad idea. He’s a stranger, and you’re in public, and there are—oh god, oh no no. The voice on the speakers, don’t touch the displays, and it’s not that you think Springtrap counts as a display, per se, but.

“Don't they—aren’t there cameras?”

Something about the question seems to strike him as funny. He tilts his head, and you can see the flash of a leer behind his teeth. Another button snaps off with a snk.

“Not in here.”

"Oh," you say.

"Oh," he confirms smugly.

With a flourish, Springtrap claims a third button, putting your shirt officially past the point of damage that is going to require explaining to your friends later. That, and the red, raised line bisecting your chest, a stinging arrow that leads directly to where his finger pauses with intent between your tits. A low rumble rattles through his chest, the shredded suit honing the harmonics into something snarling and inhuman.

God, you are so fucking wet.

"Fuck," you breathe. You catch yourself pushing your chest forward, tempting his touch like some horny, preening bird. His hand returns to your throat, steady, merciless pressure until your vision starts to soften at the edges.

"Language," teases Springtrap idly.

"Yes, sir,” you laugh wheezily. You can't help it; maybe it's the oxygen deprivation.

The sound melts on your tongue as he takes your breast in one huge paw, kneading the sensitive flesh experimentally. Heat thrums between your legs, and he hums, pleased, at the needy little noises it draws out of you instead. Despite the hand on your throat, he touches you with this strange, unexpected tenderness, like he hasn’t touched anyone else in a long time. Hesitant. Hungry.

“How refreshing to find someone who knows their place,” he murmurs softly, and, god, that does something terrible to you. You gasp as his thumb brushes roughly over your nipple, once and then again, panting into the stale air as you cant your hips unthinkingly in his direction. He chuckles, rubbing soothing circles against your rabbiting pulse point. “As I thought. You’re just a slut, aren’t you?”

“Hn–!” It hits you like a shock, white heat touching every nerve in your body. Your pussy aches for attention, throbbing and slick and so sensitive you’re pretty sure you could come with a single touch.

“Hm?” prompts Springtrap blithely.

You swallow a moan. “Yes, sir.”

"Good," he says approvingly. His voice is rough as he leans in, "And good little sluts who know their place deserve a reward, wouldn't you agree?"

"Holy shit." If you were any more coherent you'd shove his hand down your pants yourself. "Yes, please, yes, yes, sir."

Mercifully, whatever playful objections Springtrap might have to your language this time don't stop him from obliging. He makes quick work of the rest of your shirt, the remaining buttons sliced apart like butter. The skin beneath them feels burning hot.

This is such a bad idea, what are you doing, are you insane? Are you stupid? Springtrap dips a teasing touch low along your stomach, and you have your jeans undone and around your thighs before your brain even has time to process the thought. He laughs, hooking a claw under the waistband of your panties.

“Greedy,” he says fondly.

“God,” you gasp. Your face flushes with heat, but it’s impossible to distinguish from the heat taking you apart everywhere else.

Springtrap growls and tears your panties open with an effortless twist of his wrist. “Close enough.”

The first hint of pressure on your clit almost makes you howl. You bite down on the heel of your hand, your head hitting the metal behind you with a hollow thunk. Springtrap rubs you in slow, steady circles, watching you raptly with his bright, pale eyes. Pleasure builds fast—you’re already so worked up, it won’t take much to send you over the edge at this rate. His finger eases back towards your eager hole, and you buck your hips forward, a cry falling from your helpless lips.

He presses his fingertip to your entrance. "That's right," he coos sweetly, "Show me how badly you want it."

You know some of those fingers are sharp, you have plenty of evidence on your skin to attest to that fact. It should matter more, probably, but then again a lot of things should probably matter more to you than they do. Right now all you can bring yourself to care about is the slow, ready stretch as you lower yourself onto him, glorious fullness that feels like you've been waiting for it your entire life.

Springtrap allows the movement, following without ever fully removing his grip from your throat. Between his hands, your breath tears into desperate shreds, tight, shallow inhales that leave you dizzy and loose. You roll your hips, pleasure bleeding lazily through you, and it's so good you could sob.

"What a shameless display." His voice wants to be light, but there's a red thread of hunger in it that he can't quite hide. "You'd let anyone have you like this, wouldn't you?"

You keen high in your throat and shake your head, too overwhelmed to form proper words.

"No?" he asks. His thumb grazes your clit, and your whole body jerks at the wave of heat that rolls through you. "You expect me to believe that, with how easily you spread your legs for me?"

You think, giddily, that you might never spread your legs for anybody else again. Springtrap hooks his finger, pressing against a spot that makes you see stars. A moan rises and spills, liquid and sweet, from your tongue, and honestly there’s a chance that you’re maybe also drooling a little, too. He laughs, curves himself to speak directly into your ear.

“Or, let me guess,” he says conversationally, “—is it because I’m gorgeous?”

He punctuates the final word by thrusting another finger into your pussy, and you cling to his arm reflexively as your trembling legs threaten to give out beneath you.

“Ohhh, god, yes.” You’re wet enough that the pain is only an echo, pleasure the screaming constant. He feels huge inside you, like something you’ll never properly recover from, something you’ll need forever. He ghosts brief bursts of pressure against your clit, knowing and cruel, his breath ragged as you fuck yourself raw on his fingers.

“Needy thing, I can feel how close you are, shall I let you come?”

“Please,” you gasp, “please, yes, please let me come.” Everything is swimmy and tingly and sweet, your world reduced to the tight coil of heat in your core and the places where Springtrap touches you.

Sharp fingertips dig into your neck. “Watch your manners, slut.”

Fuck. “Yes, sir, please, sir.” You feel like a match just struck, stuck suspended in the moment before consuming ignition.

Springtrap growls, angling his wrist to slam a thrust home to meet your desperately rocking hips. “Good. You’re so good for me.”

Anything, you think senselessly, you could do anything if it meant he’d tell you that you’re good, and you would, you want to, you—

“Go ahead, come for me, darling,” he hisses, and you clamp your thighs shut around his hand and obey.

Climax consumes you, blissful combustion at last, wrings a hoarse shout from your abused throat and whites out every other sensation in its blazing wake. Springtrap waits patiently as you ride it through, his touch gentling, leaving a litany of little nonsense niceties against your skin as your senses return to you. His fingers slip out of you, soreness already blooming. But bright, giddy joy seeps in to fill your chest, and you laugh, feeling it reverberate against his palm.

“Would it be weird if I asked to give you my number?”

He pets your hip idly, chuckling warmly into the crook of your shoulder, and for a moment you think maybe you’re on the verge of the world’s best and most inexplicable meetcute.

Then you hear the door on the other side of the room creak open. Reality takes you by the shoulders and shakes, and you’d jump back if you had anywhere to go. Springtrap stills, head tilted, listening with an obvious tense recognition. A voice—familiar, the same voice from the speaker, muffled and tired, only now it’s obvious that he’s in the room, and he’s—

He’s calling your name.

“Are you in here?”

You look to Springtrap but he’s just…gone. Without so much as a goodbye, all six foot huge of him, silent as a ghost into the darkness. All the warmth in your body floods away–and you get it, sort of, at least you try to, but mostly now you’re left standing here feeling stupid and—oh fuck. You scramble to get yourself sorted, yanking up your jeans over a cold, uncomfortable wetness and clutching the ruined edges of your shirt together. You turn just in time to see the edges of a light bob across the floor.

“Shit. Shit." He calls your name again, this time noticeably more frantic.

"I'm here!" Your voice is a dry rasp; you clear your throat, not without pain, and try again. "Hi! Here!"

A figure rounds the corner wearing what you recognize now as a security uniform. His hat is pulled low over his forehead, and whatever it doesn’t obscure is covered by one of those paper surgical masks. His light cuts across you; you lift a hand to shield your eyes. He pauses, then seems to start, freeze a little. Then he rushes over to you, pushing his hat back and bending to examine you, half reaching out as he does.

“Please tell me you’re alright.”

“What?” you ask. “I—yeah, of course, I’m fine, I—” You’re probably a little scratched up, but most of that is at least still partially hidden by your disheveled clothes. You look down at yourself, the mess now illuminated by the guard’s cold white light.

You’re covered in blood. Smeared low on your stomach, on your hip, poking suspiciously out from under your shirt. Your hands are tacky with it, too, leaving a trail of smudges everywhere you’ve touched yourself. You pointedly do not check the flies of your jeans.

“Oh, it’s fine! It’s not real,” you tell him awkwardly.

The guard has been made up for the house, and he’s wearing these incredible contacts, black scleras that turn his pupils bright white. They dart over your face with something that feels terribly akin to pity.

“You saw him?” he asks. This close, his voice sounds as rough as yours.

“Him?” you parrot dumbly.

“Shit,” says the guard, glancing away. “Never mind. I, uh, need you to come with me, okay? It’s not—your friends were looking for you.”

“They were?” you ask. You feel sort of stunned, swarming inside like a hive of angry bees, too full of buzzing emotions to hear any one more clearly over the others.

The guard waves a hand in front of your eyes. It’s skeletally bony and painted in bruisey purples, presumably to match whatever they’re doing with the rest of his costume.

“I think you might be going into shock. Can I touch you?”

You nod. He takes your arm gingerly, and you sort of sag against him, your own weight suddenly a lot to ask yourself to handle. Together, you pick your way back across the dark room—he brings you the opposite way, avoiding his mannequin counterpart—and into the building proper, where he lets you lean against the wall in the dim hallway. It feels cool out here, making you very aware of everywhere that you’ve sweated through your clothes.

“Wait here,” says the guard. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna get you something.”

Something? you wonder, but he’s back almost as soon he goes, tossing you a bundle of fabric. You shake it out curiously. It’s a sweatshirt, faded purple and soft with age, the remnants of white lettering arcing across the front: H-U-R-R-I-C-A-N-E.

“Thought you might need it more than I do,” the guard tells you. He has a faint accent, you realize, just like.

Just like Springtrap. What’s going on here?

“You don’t care if I get it dirty?” You lift your bloody hands illustratively.

“It’s seen worse,” the guard assures you. Little crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. You wonder if they’re grey under those contacts.

“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it.” You pull the sweatshirt over your head, immediately relieved to have none of your undergarments a sneeze away from being on display.

The guard shrugs, sweeping his flashlight across the hallway like he’s looking for something. “Least I could do. Do you feel like you can walk?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m—” you flash a thumbs-up. “I’m golden.”

That makes the guard laugh, a hard, cold snort of mirth. He gives you another long look, familiar in its surveying weight. Then he lifts his hand slowly, taps a bandaged finger against a coppery nameplate on his uniform shirt.

“Hi, golden, I’m Mike.”

#springtrap #springtrap x reader #my fic #THERE'S CHOKING IN THIS TOO THAT TAG IS EDITED ON AO3 BUT HEADS UP #william afton #william afton x reader

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whipplefilter · 11 months ago

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In 2004, NASCAR introduced the green-white checkered/overtime, so no race would finish under yellow, as well as the Chase (which would later become the Playoffs system).

The 2006 Piston Cup still operates by an older ruleset, though, where the Champion is decided by straight points, which suggests they also don't have a green-white checkered. But do they race back to the caution or not? (Prior to 2003, when a caution flew, cars still raced for position to the start/finish line; in 2003, the caution rule changed so that the race freezes at the moment the flag flies.)

I was thinking about this in the shower last night, because when Lightning chooses to stop before the finish line and help The King finish his last race, he's at a point in the race where it would be easier to win than not. It would be easier to keep momentum across the finish line, and infinitely harder to come to a complete stop on track like he does. Unless you're wrecking, there's no point in a race you'd come to a full-stop on track under green, because it's really hard!

It would have been easier for Lightning to cross the finish and loop back around to push The King to the line. He'd have been back around in 30 seconds; The King would've even finished on the lead lap, because Lighting would still be behind him. But he doesn't.

He makes the explicit, physically difficult, choice to stop.

And then I thought, oh my GOD, if the tower had thrown a yellow for Strip's wreck, the race would've ended under yellow, and what if their positions were determined by the scoring loop, and Lightning won whether he crossed the line or not? WHAT IF THAT RUINED HIS LIFE because he didn't get to lose this race like he was trying to.

In a normal race, that yellow probably would've gone up immediately for a crash like Strip's--but then, maybe not. It wouldn't really have posed imminent danger to any other racers, because there were only three on track and none were behind Strip at that point. Strip technically also wasn't... on the racing surface any longer, though if EMS were gonna rush out there (which apparently they did not) they'd still want the yellow. The Piston Cup in general seems stingy with their yellows, but when/whether a caution flag flies is a constant controversy in NASCAR.

CAN YOU IMAGINE...

#pixar cars #cars fandom #cars 1 #lighting mcqueen #strip weathers

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silverstudios · 6 months ago

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Veldigun/Human oc!

Okay so- The oc won the vote thing but unfortunately she is saying No to being drawn out- and so instead I will type her out and hey, maybe the fellow artist of the fandom can help me. Putting this under a read more cause I am gonna ramble.

Okay okay okay- I should mention this oc thing happens many years after the main doai story- In this case, the sitcom story line where alex turns into a velgiun (I promise this is relevant)

Her name is Beatrice- but everyone has always called her Bee. She's 17, has black hair, brown eyes, small in size (4'11), and her fashion sense would likely be kinda cottage core but if cottage core and pastel goth mixed. Crop top jean jacket with flower patterns along the edges, honey pot dangling earrings, A novelty bee backpack, so on and so forth.

She's quite energetic and friendly, although she's not the most popular kid but she's alright with that. She's got her friends, she's got her brother, she's got her moms, she got her mysterious (Yet wealthy and loving) god father (Who she's never seen face to face, only ever phone calls and once they tried zoom but he couldn't figure out how to turn the cam on.) She's hoping to study to be either a botanist or a biology once she gets to college age, which her scientific family loves.

She also has a fasciation with the super natural, with ghosts and ghouls and cryptids. This is...less than popular with her parents, and her god father seems to hate it, always trying to suggest and recommend different interests to have or to focus more on her main interests. It's not like she wants to upset them, it's just that....learning about creepy ghost stories and haunting old legends just- feels right. She can only assume the distain is because of those old Smiling snatcher stories, but those happened like- 23 years ago? She didn't get why everyone was still so hyper focus on those old rumors...

Well- after her school bus, heading to a field trip out of town, got body slammed by something massive and blue, she'd wake up maybe a hand full of miles away, head pounding, heart feeling just about ready to breach from her chest....And patches of her skin turned black as night with pale yellow strips, a tail with a stinger on the end and a pair of stripped wings that had torn apart her jacket to escape.

And well- I do want to keep the rest quite but I hope this caught your attention. This is basically what happened when I saw alex turning into a velgigun and I went- Hm, I want to make something like this but with a twist. Guess you all will have to wait and see what that twist is :D

#silver rambles #doai sitcom au #veldigun #veldigun oc #long post #hehehhehehe #But pls help me figure out a design for her #I can fake a human design but the veligun part is kicking my ass aaaaaa

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bullet-prooflove · 1 year ago

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The Half Way Point Part Four: Grow Strong - Angel Reyes x Reader (Feat Felipe Reyes) - Final Part

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @witches-unruly-heart @keyweegirlie @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @appreciatelove @the-wandering-lunatic @weiwei0210 @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @harperdoodle @est1887 @prettyinpunk85 @thanossexual @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @librarian1002 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @thebaileybugle @legally-a-bastard @oureternalbond @bonsaijoons @sclitvdes

The Half Way Point:

Part One: Pink Roses - Felipe doesn't like you.

Part Two: Blessing - Felipe gets to know you a little better.

Part Three: A Safe Space - Felipe helps with some repairs.

The two of them have been watching you for ten minutes through the kitchen window and you still show no signs of coming indoors. Instead, you’re at the front of Felipe’s house digging out the borders alongside the rose bush because you’ve arrived with compost and a determination to do something about Felipe's shitty soil.

“When I invited you over for dinner this is not what I had in mind.” He tells Angel as he sips from his beer bottle.

“It’s her thing.” Angel states, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “She fucking loves getting her hands in the dirt.”

Felipe knows what you’re doing. He fixed your bench, oiled your gate, and then weatherproofed them both, and now you’re repaying the debt. He wonders if this is how it’s always going to be between the two of you and then realises that he’s started to think of you in the long term.

“You gonna marry her?”

“Eventually.” Angel tells him, his gaze never leaving you as you dump a fuck ton of compost into the earth. “We’re three months in. She’s going to think I’m nuts if I propose now.”

“I think she’s a little nuts anyway.” Felipe remarks turning his attention back to the oven. He slips on a pair of yellow oven mittens that Marisol used to use, before pulling out the oven tray with the jacket potatoes. “Go get her in before the neighbours think I’m too frail to attend to my own front yard.”

Angel complies with the request and Felipe watches the conversation through the window. When you tip your head back and laugh, he knows Angel’s told you what he said. He finds the corners of his mouth turning up as he heats the pan for the steak, he’s been marinading all afternoon.

He knows what love looks like and he knows that Angel is head over heels for you. It's the first time he's seen his son actually happy. He thinks you feel the same way, you’re tender with your affection, stripping off your gardening gloves and slipping them into your back pocket, before your fingers trail along the line of his jaw guiding his mouth to yours. It's almost too intimate to watch.

Felipe turns his attention back to the stove as you come through the door, heading straight towards the sink to wash your hands.

“It's too late Felipe,” You tell him as you turn on the tap. “One of your neighbours has ready asked me if I’m your new gardener.”

“That makes a refreshing change.” He remarks and Angel can't help but laugh at the sentiment as he pulls out a chair for you.

It's surprising how normal eating with other people feels to Felipe, despite the fact it's been a couple of years. The conversation flows easily, switching from the work that Angel's been doing at the community centre to other programs they have. He gets the sense that Angel is hedging around something when he shares a meaningful look with you.

“What?” Felipe says setting his knife and fork down in the centre of this plate.

“Are you sure you want to do it tonight?” Angel asks quietly tilting his head towards the urn on the sideboard.

Felipe sighs before leaning forward, his elbows coming to rest upon the table.

“I think it's time, don't you?”

Angel meets his father’s gaze, his lips pursing together before he nods his agreement. It’s been over six years since his mother died, it’s time for her to rest.

“Do you want to wait for EZ?” You ask him, pushing your empty plate away from you. “It's starting to get dark out, if we’re going to do it tonight, it should probably be soon.”

“We'll give him a few more minutes.” Felipe says looking up at the clock.

“We can always do it by candlelight.” Angel says, looking pointedly at the cupboard under the sink. “There's always a few in the disaster kit.”

It's half an hour later that you find yourself on your knees in front of Marisol's rose bush, digging out a small hole in the soil alongside the roots. Each of the Reyes men are stood behind you, EZ and Angel holding a candle to illuminate the darkness, while Felipe cradles Marisol’s urn to his chest.

“You're sure about this?” You ask them again as you set the trowel down in the grass beside you.

“Mom would have loved it.” EZ says reassuringly, his hand coming to rest on his father’s back for the briefest moments. “Something new growing from her ashes.”

You look to Felipe before kneels down beside you and removes the lid from the urn. You watch as he tips his late wife's remains into the soil. You use your trowel to cover up the hole before you pat it down flat. Felipe places his palm upon the earth, his thumb smoothing over the dirt as he whispers into the night.

“Grow strong my love.”

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x you #angel mayans #angel reyes #felipe reyes mayans #felipe reyes

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weixuldo · 1 year ago

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Enigma// ch 14

anakin x reader

a/n: This chapter i longer than they have been lately, so sorry for the wait!!

Things are getting a little...complicated.

warnings: cursing, cannon disabled character, insecurity, emetophobia, pregnancy test

_______________________________

You inhaled as you opened the box-

It's all gonna be fine…

You took the test and followed the instructions, once you were done you let it sit and you washed your hands.

You left the bathroom to check your email- because if you stayed, you would have done nothing but watch the test calculate.

After ten minutes you walked back in and nervously reached for the white stick.

Your stomach dropped as you looked at the test…two little pink lines.

Shit.

You really thought Anakin couldn’t get you pregnant, the doctors told him it was nearly impossible for him to have children. Did he lie to you?

no, he wouldn’t lie about that.

Did he even want to have kids? Even if he did, would he want them with you?

Your head spun as you gripped the bathroom counter to steady yourself. You never thought that this would actually happen; you were betting on the fact that it was all just nerves and that you were just going to get a late period…

Fuck.

Not only were Anakin’s feelings to be taken into account, but your own as well.

You were still in college, how would you have time to raise a child? How would you afford a child? Did you even want a child? What if-

Your racing thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door, who the fuck was that?

“Hey? Y/N, you in here? Your door was open but I didn’t see you in the room” Ahsoka’s voice rang from the other side of the door.

Damn.

You totally forgot she had a Brunch planned downtown. Quickly you wiped your watery eyes and prayed she wouldn’t notice anything.

“Yea! One minute!” you responded as you shoved the test into one of the sink’s drawers and hid the box at the bottom of the trashcan. You splashed some cold water on your face to get rid of lingering redness before taking one last look at yourself in the mirror.

It'll be ok… it has to.

_____________________________

The small cafe that Ahsoka chose for brunch was a cute mom-and-pop shop downtown. Seated around you were Ahsoka, Anakin, Ben, and Satine. The five of you were on the patio section at a sanded wooden picnic table with a large yellow umbrella.

It was hard for Anakin to situate himself on the wooden bench so only you and him were able to fit on that side and the rest sat on the other.

Everyone’s food had arrived and they began eating, but suddenly yours didn’t look appetizing, instead you silently sipped on your coffee.

Ben and Satine’s wedding was coming up in the next year so the discussion at the moment was centered around plans for the celebration.

“Do you have any bridesmaids picked out?” Ahsoka eagerly asked as she wiped some syrup from the corner of her mouth.

“Well actually that was something I wanted to ask you two, I feel like we’ve all gotten to know each other so well in the past months, and I’d be honored if you both would like to be bridesmaids” Satine smiled as Ben smiled beside her.

“I would love to!” You exclaimed.

“Same here! When can we plan your bachelorette party?!!” Ahsoka asked excitedly.

“No strip clubs, Ahsoka” Ben butted in, “we all know that would be more for your entertainment than Satine’s” he joked.

“Ughhhh, ok fine” Ahsoka dramatically rolled her eyes before giggling like a schoolgirl.

The conversation continued and you grew more and more nauseous. At one point everyone was immersed in conversation and Anakin lightly squeezed your thigh under the table. When you turned to look at him, he looked concerned; his brows were furrowed and you could see the worry in his deep blue eyes.

“Are you ok?” he mouthed and you nodded.

“You haven’t touched your food,” he said.

With the mention of food you feel your nausea taking over. Suddenly you stood up and hurried to the bathroom inside, you were going to throw up.

Once you were inside you quickly leaned over the porcelain seat and emptied the minimal contents of your stomach. Maybe it was the nerves or maybe it was morning sickness, either way, you felt absolutely awful.

You wiped your mouth and popped in a mint and some gum you had in your purse.

They were all going to ask about you.

You leaned against the stall and shut your eyes; this was really happening.

_____________________________

Outside the four friends were left wondering where you went in such a hurry.

“She barely touched her toast,” Ahsoka commented.

Anakin knew something was wrong.

“Is she not feeling well?” Ben asked.

Soon you emerged from the restraint with a pale face.

“Maker! Y/n are you ok?” Satine gasped, hurrying to bring you water.

“Yea, I'm fine. I’m just not feeling the best, I think I’m gonna go back home and take a nap.”

You got out your phone to call an Uber but then Ben asked “didn’t you come with Ahsoka?”

“Yea, but she has a function after this with the athletes association and I don’t wanna make her take me all the way back to campus”

“It’s no problem y/n, I can” she butted in.

“No, no-“ you began but Anakin cut you off.

“I can take her, Snips you should go to your meeting, plus I need to run a few errands on that side of town”.

“Are you sure?”

“Yea, this bench is hurting my ass anyways” he added as he began to get up.

The two of you said your goodbyes and headed to his car. Once you were out of sight from the table, he rested his hand on the small of your back.

“I know something’s up, what’s wrong sweetheart?” He asked, his voice laced with concern.

“It’s really nothing Ani, I just don’t feel well” you said.

“Have you been eating?” He asked, opening the door to his car for you to enter.

“I don’t know, I haven’t really been hungry” you admitted.

He entered the other side and started his car; the drive to campus was a silent one. You looked out the window, mainly focusing on keeping your emotions in check.

You began to feel light headed, you needed food. Soon enough Anakin pulled up to the curb near your dorm and parked the car. He turned towards you and lightly brushed your cheek.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asked nervously.

You knew he was insecure about affection and relationships; his last one seemed to be going so well but it still ended in heartbreak. Your heart twinged, you never wanted him to feel like that with you.

“No babe, I really just don’t feel well. I promise you, you have done nothing wrong” You said as you opened the car door.

“Would you like me to walk you to your room or-“

“I’m ok, Ani. Thank you though” you said as you closed the door.

He nodded and you waved him off before heading back to your dorm.

______________________________

School finally ended and you had your first appointment for your pregnancy.

You were around ten weeks… what the fuck.

You had to check that they were looking at the right chart because you had only missed your period once; the nurse assured you that false periods were common and that not all expecting mothers had the early signs within the first weeks.

You were barely showing, even for being in the first trimester but she also told you that not all pregnancies showed early on.

Honestly that benefited you; you had longer to figure out what you were going to do about this and when you were finally going to tell Anakin.

You didn’t have the best relationship with your parents, so you didn’t even bother to consult them. But you were scared.

You were only in undergrad and had no stable income- how were you going to raise a child?

There always were other options, you could make the decision to have an abortion, or you could give the child up for adoption?

No, no. You shouldn’t be making plans without consulting Anakin first…

But that was a whole other problem…you had to tell Anakin.

The whole situation was crazy, but you knew that he was the only person you had been with intimately since last summer… there was no one else who could be the father.

The doctors said it wasnt likely that he could have kids ...not impossible.

But he was so sure that he was infertile, would he even believe you? Or would he freak out?

You truly held him so dear to your heart; it made you nauseous to think what would happen if this pregnancy ruined your relationship.

But no matter your worries, you needed to tell him relatively soon before you began to show.

__________________________________________

Ahsoka left town that weekend for her tournament and the rest of the group had a small watch party for her match. Anakin brought you over to Ben and Satine’s place after you decked him out in your school’s merch.

He wore a tight long sleeve that showed off his upper arm muscles nicely and a pair of gray sweats with the school’s logo along the pant leg. You wore a short tennis skirt and a cheerleader uniform top and some sneakers you painted for games.

It was actually really cute to see your boyfriend repping your university’s colors- it made you blush.

Apparently he had never really been enthusiastic about sports but on the car ride over he told you how happy it made him to be wearing your colors (of course he was proud to rep Ahsoka too, but the fact that his girlfriend went there too was a huge bonus).

The four of you sat around Ben’s flat screen and cheered as your school scored point after point; you knew your school was good, but not that good!

Ahsoka’s team was up against another highly acclaimed school with a stellar athletic record, but they were being crushed by your team.

After a few bowls of popcorn and other game foods, Ahsoka’s team secures a sweeping victory, it was almost embarrassing how much the other team lost by.

You and Anakin thanked the others for having you over and then went back to his place.

He flung the door open and entered the living room with your lips on his; his gloved hands pawed at your back as his breathing quickened. You headed towards the sofa and gently pushed him down.

He spread his legs as he sat and beckoned for you to sit in his lap with a needy gaze. You complied, straddling his lap with a bare thigh on either side of him; your skirt wasn’t much help to cover your ass from feeling the soft material of his pants.

With his non-driving hand, he grabbed a handful of your ass and lightly bit at your neck. His lips felt like heaven on your skin.

“A-Anak-” you sighed as you began to grind your hips into his.

“Yea Princess?” he asked through kisses.

“Lay down”

He nodded and you helped him shift his legs onto the sofa before mounting him again. You continued to grind on his clothed cock as you ran your fingers down his chest, leaving the faintest red trails of passion.

He moaned at every thrust you dealt and shuddered when you would pass over his tip.

“Fuck P-Princess- it f-feels so good- mmmhh” he tossed his head back in sheer pleasure.

In the moment you forgot all about the matter you needed to discuss with your boyfriend, instead only clouds of lust formed in your brain.

You bent down and hugged him close to your chest as he began to buck his hips into your thighs. His hard member kept running over your sensitive clit…. You were close.

“Nnghh- Y-Y/N s-slow down” he said as he steadied your hips.

“Why? What's wrong babe?” you asked, still lightly swiveling your hips.

“I-I don’t wanna cum yet” he admitted.

A mischievous grin landed on your face as you sat still for a moment before grinding harder than you had previously been.

“Fuck!” he shouted before he wrapped his arms around you and shuddered. You could feel the warmth of his cum through his pants.

With each small move you made, a small noise would escape the man under you. You eventually got off and lifted his waistband to see your work; his dick was coated in cum and was still twitching.

You smiled but then the dreaded feeling of doubt found its way back into your head.

The news.

He needed to know and preferably sometime soon.

Anakin breathed heavily on the couch as you retrieved his inhaler; once he was good he gently guided your face to his lips and gave you a loving kiss.

“I love you so much Y/N… so so much” he sighed.

Maker… you hoped he loved you enough to get through the news you would eventually have to tell him.

***

A/N: Stuff is heating up guys!!! Hopefully you are all ok w/ the turn this story is taking (IK pregnancy is not everyone’s favorite trope) But I havent written a pregg reader story in an ongoing series so I wanted to try it out (its good for angst heheh)

taglist : @dnamht @sxoulohvn @angeelcoree @wtf-andys @httpeachesblog @katsukiswrld @jetiikote @poisonedsultana @imarimon

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yazzberry · 4 months ago

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posting the prologue of my high school au total drama fanfic

it is also posted on wattpad: ENDGAME [total drama] by aliasyasmine

link in bio <3

no beta reader so lmk if u find any errors :0

chapter 0: the funny way i feel tonight

— ❈ —

"Yo! Gwen!"

The faint tap of a popcorn ball landing (and sticking to) her head brings Gwen's attention back towards the party. She had been in the midst of zoning out, as her friends knew she was privy to doing, before loosening her lips into a waxed smile at the sight of them—her friends.

Friends. Wow, never thought I'd use that word so fondly, she thought to herself as her ears readjusted to the discordant mixture of blasting party music and blasted partygoers—Gwen could tell from the lingering fumes of weed spilling in from the patio, where everyone would go for a smoke. She considered that she hadn't taken a hit all night, and should likely go out for one later. Thank God she wasn't driving home.

"I didn't realize we were back in middle school, what's with the food projectiles?" She scoffed, picking the popcorn out of her hair and launching it back at its thrower.

"Oh come on, pasty. Don't act like you're above it." He didn't miss a beat as he spoke, smartly dodging her lame attempt at a rebuttal. Duncan—it's crazy to see what his smirk could do to Gwen, even now. But she's not into him, of course she's not. Gwen and Duncan, they've always been the best of friends. Huh, there's that word again: friends.

His playful expression was perfectly painted by the dancing firelight, courtesy of Geoff's fireplace. All the emanating hues of red and orange and yellow accentuated every corner of the den, acting as the only source of light probably across the entire house, save for a few LED strips and lamp fixtures.

Nevertheless, on a night as auspicious as the last Saturday before the first day of school—the final, dying call of summer—all darkness of the night was welcome. And, like with any high school party, it served the ultimate purpose to guise all the soon-regretted (yet presently indulgent) decisions made by dumb teens looking for cheap thrills.

For Gwen, it let her sneak longing glances at Duncan without him noticing. She knew her affinity for darkness would serve her good one day, aside from labeling her as the 'weird goth girl'.

She playfully punched his shoulder, eliciting an eye roll from Heather, whose uncanny insight and understanding of the teenage brain once made her a formidable opponent, but now, an all-knowing friend.

"Ew, is this really any better than third-wheeling with Bridge and Geoff?" Heather said, looking down on them from her comfortable position on an armchair, a lazy arm propping her head up on the side of the couch and legs tucked parallel into the seat. "And where are they anyways? I'm bored." She added, feigning a deep interest with her nail beds as she stretched her hand closer to the fire, trying to examine them.

Duncan and Gwen sat on the floor with their backs against another couch. Duncan cackled as he laid his head back, slightly resting it on the cushion behind him, "Oh I'm sure they're getting nice and cozy in some random room."

Her voice dripped with attitude, lined with disgust, "Like I needed you to tell me that."

He scoffed back. "Well, it's not like you outright asked me or anything—oh wait, you did."

"It was a rhetorical question."

"Didn't sound it."

Now Gwen was the one to roll her eyes, before deciding to be a good samaritan and end the spat before it killed the vibe: "Guys, I'm gonna go get a refill. Anyone want another drink?"

But before she could even get up, another voice chirped in. "Wow I guess this is great timing!" Bridgette exclaimed as she and Geoff set down their load of red party cups on the coffee table, in number totaling five. One for each friend of the group: Geoff, Bridgette, Heather, Duncan, and now, as the most recent addition, Gwen.

"The party turnout is great tonight, I'm so glad everyone from school could make it!" Bridgette sighed as she threw herself on a loveseat, consequently dragging Geoff down with her from their intertwined hands.

Geoff doted on her, moving a careless strand of hair that found its way right in the middle of her face, "I always thought my parties were great, but they're even better when you help me plan them. I'm starstruck by you, babe."

Gwen, Duncan, and Heather, for all their differences, looked amongst each other and shared the same expression, lost somewhere between disgust and humor.

"No way am I sitting through your little love-fest this sober," Heather remarked as she reached for a drink, Duncan doing the same as he shook his head in understanding.

"No!" Bridgette exclaimed, jolting herself out of Geoff's touch and paying indivisible attention to her friends. "You see, I kind of had an idea.."

"Alright! Malibu's got a new drinking game for us to play!" Duncan hooted, raising his cup to her.

Gwen smiled as she followed in suit, grabbing a drink and clutching it a teasing distance from her mouth, certainly close enough to get a foul whiff of whatever concoction Geoff had cooked up for them moments earlier. Gwen couldn't help but grimace at the strong stench of liquor—how anyone could stomach a sip of that was beyond her.

Bridgette coyly rubbed her neck, tousling her honey blonde waves as they moved with her nerved expression. "Not exactly, Duncan, I just thought maybe we'd go around and say some stuff we wanna do this year, y'know, like goals." Then, finding the confidence to properly pitch her idea, perhaps herself excited about the prospects of a new school year, "Junior year is a really important one—it's our second-to-last year before college! Big big deal, guys!"

She frantically waved her arms in the air, as if the earnestness of her expression wouldn't be enough to convince them of it.

"God you sound like my mom," Gwen laughed as she set her cup back down (at a safe distance from her nostrils, of course).

"I think that's a great idea Bridge!" Geoff declared, raising his cup to his girlfriend's ingenuity.

Duncan leaned into Gwen's ear to whisper, "Can't remember if he's in Division 1 lacrosse or D1 glazing." She only slightly bursted with laughter as she tried to feign her whole attention on her too-wholesome friend.

"Laugh all you want guys, but I for one want to have a memorable year with you all," the blonde huffed as she protectively hugged her cup to her chest, as if it were a manifestation of her most sincere ideas.

"Well you've got a point there, Bridge," Heather started, leaning into the conversation and raising her cup to toast with a devious smile, "Junior year will be perfect, because I'll be taking my rightful spot as cheerleading captain and Queen Bee, especially now that last year's seniors have graduated."

At this Gwen couldn't help but scoff, Oh, this is too good.

"Yeah, fuck this year's seniors, right? It's not like they'll wanna go for those much coveted positions either," Gwen spotted her an incredulous look, at which Heather only smirked.

"Well, unlike you, Gwen, I'm not scared off by a little competition, or confrontation." She confidently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "Especially when I know that I'll always come out on top."

Gwen didn't dare humor her antics with a response and instead just rolled her eyes at Heather's massive ego. And it wasn't like Gwen didn't pick up on Heather's subtle dig at her—"scared off by confrontation" what the hell was that supposed to mean, Heather?!—she just had to swallow back all angered sentiments and stuff it into the brimming jar of "Heather Complaints" she had, filed away in her mind.

But no. They were friends. Friends! Even with all the qualms, contentions, complaints. They had to (at least for everyone else's sake) pretend they could stand each other and weren't actually at each other's throats half the time.

I mean sure, they had their moments of camaraderie—some sort of pseudo-friendship existing between them—but never mind the fact that were it not for Bridgette's unwavering kindness, Geoff's welcoming and contagious joy, Duncan's uncanny ability to attract all things fun, exciting, and maybe a little dangerous, they would not be friends at all.

Duncan, completely ignoring whatever subtle feud was occurring between the two and taking Heather's toast as an excuse to go in for a greedy sip of his drink, offered his signature smirk and dismissive shrug, "The seniors this year suck; if it means sticking it Scott and his loser girlfriend, I'm game."

At this, Bridgette melted into a sigh of frustration.

"Now that's something I can get on board with. I mean, seriously, I'm so glad we don't have any douchebags like him in our grade," Bridgette added, also taking a drink from her cup (and with no visible reaction, Gwen noted—maybe Gwen was just a lightweight after all).

The gears started turning in Gwen's head. She'd already been apart of the friend group for a whole year now, but even so was still catching up with all the complex lore of her friends' dramas with other people. "Scott..wait a minute is he the person who you guys said st—"

"Yep." Duncan responded before she could even finish her remark.

Hmph, guess he's still not over it. Understandable, though unexpected from someone as stoic as Duncan makes himself out to be.

"Well Bridgette's right," Geoff beamed at his girlfriend, "Everyone in our grade's hella chill." He sat back contently, and, as if on cue, all of the attention in the room was snatched by someone singing, loudly, into a microphone all the way in the living room

"AND I JUST CAN'T LOOK, IT'S KILLIN' ME...AND TAKIN' CONTROL..."

At the sight of Cody belting his little heart out, drinking in all the glory of the generous crowd pooling and cheering at his feet, Geoff's kitchen island being his stage, Gwen immediately whipped out her phone to take a picture.

"JEALOUSY, TURNIN' SAINTS INTO THE SEA!"

"With some notable exceptions," Bridgette said, finishing her boyfriend's thought.

"That's so fucking embarrassing," Heather sneered, her bored expression apparently not quelled by the sudden mosh pit forming in the living room. Duncan followed in suit, taking his eyes away from the train-wreck of a performance, "Remind me to bully him for it later."

"Come on, you guys don't have to be mean. How about you share your goal for this year, Duncan?" Bridgette chastised, trying to find a lighter conversation within his general broodiness.

"Yea pass, I don't have goals," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Oooh you're such a bad boy, Duncan. You don't have any hopes or aspirations—let me guess, juvie crushed them," Gwen taunted with a playful smirk, setting the bait for a much too-humorous reaction.

"If the role's already written, might as well play into it," he nonchalantly shrugged, a similar smirk finding its way onto his face, "And besides, the chicks love a bad boy."

Now he was looking straight at her, and, put simply, Gwen could not deal. "Alright, cool down, Casanova." She tried to play it down, even turning away so that he couldn't see a layer of blush spreading across her cheeks, noticeable against her (way too, according to Heather) pale skin.

"You think you're slick but I see your game, D-man," Geoff professes with a knowing expression. "And let me just say, you're out of luck, because the best girl in school is already taken-"

Geoff tried to give his girlfriend a sweet peck before she abruptly stood up in sudden excitement, even knocking his beloved cowboy hat off his head.

"OH MY GOD!" She shrieked, clutching her phone.

Geoff joined Bridgette on her feet, sneaking a peek over her shoulder at her screen. A matching smile soon colored his own appearance with elation, "No way! Mocha's coming to town??!!"

"Ugh, your nickname-giving skills suck, Geoff. Who the fuck is Mocha?" Heather scoffed, feigning pretension to hide the the great curiosity baked into her question.

Bridgette still hadn't stopped her gleeful jumps as her fingers flew across her keyboard, "You guys know Courtney, my friend from California?? Her older sister got into the residency program at our local hospital, y'know, the one for neurosurgery?! And anyways—they're moving to Wawanakwa!!"

The bubbly blonde hugged Geoff in excitement and the two were in the air, squealing with joy.

Duncan burst out laughing, "Geoff, dude, have some dignity."

But Geoff, whether he heard his friend's disapproval or not, didn't care and kept jumping up with Bridgette.

"Pretty underwhelming if you ask me, especially considering you've never mentioned her to us," Heather dryly stated.

"Yea Bridge, is she the other woman?" Gwen joked, falling victim to her friend's contagious joy.

"Come on guys, you're all gonna love Mocha! She's really cool!" Geoff added, trying to get his underwhelmed friends excited.

"Personally, I couldn't care less. Call me when Latte and Cappuccino are in town," Duncan lamely remarked as he took another sip of his drink.

And then, he did what Gwen never expected him to do—he looked straight at her.

Not at her, per se, more like into her. It was really stupid, actually, how one single motion—it's not even a motion! just a turn of the eye—could have Gwen second-guessing her entire existence under his unwavering glare.

The truth is, Gwen's not as lovestruck as she sounds. She's just a teenage girl with a crush, and while Gwen had never previously been able to identify with the cheesy generic teenage experiences, she felt a small internal victory within the fact that, for once, she finally fit a socially acceptable stereotype.

"So pasty—you gonna share your goal with us now?" He taunted her, his trademarked smirk covering his face.

"Yea Gwen! Come on, share with us!" Bridgette doted as she sat herself down on the floor right next to Gwen, with Geoff sitting down right beside Bridgette, scooping her with his arms.

Gwen sighed, slightly wringing her fingers in her lap. Cheesy as it sounded, she had a lot of goals for this year. And while she was never one to set high expectations for just about anything—with the knowledge that they'd inevitably be let down by some cosmic force in the universe, denying her a happy and conventional life—this time around, the question found her with more hopes and dreams than she'd like to admit.

"What is weird goth girl pining for? Hmmm, let's see, can I take a guess—" And before Heather could even finish her sentence, Gwen threw a pillow at her, having anticipated a lame remark from her direction.

"Come on Gwen! Speak your truth, brah!" Geoff encouraged, raising a cheerful cup at her hesitancy to, well, 'speak her truth'.

As she looked around at all her friends, Gwen couldn't help but revel in the disbelief that a) she'd actually made friends as the weird new girl in town and b) got close enough to people that they actually care about what she has to say. Seriously, her former self would've never bought this.

Oddly enough, her life was perfect in the way it was imperfect—she had friends, and a love interest on the horizon. It was the scene where every cheesy high school movie would cut to the credits. What more could she even say?

"Umm," she started, "I guess this year I want to...do more stuff."

At this, Bridgette raised a questioning brow. "Care to be just a little bit more specific?" she prodded.

"I mean that I want to take more risks, go after what I want, and not let things pass me by because I'm too...self-conscious, or, in my head." Gwen took a deep breath, not realizing that she had been staring into her lap this whole time and couldn't hold eye contact with anyone in the group when she was being vulnerable. But, in the spirit of her professed goal, she hazarded a look up, "Y'know what I mean?"

And all of them, even Heather, offered a knowing glance. "Yes...dorkula." She admitted, hiding her smile behind her cup.

Geoff applauded the side of his cup, "Well that's a toast-worthy goal if I've ever heard one—to Gwen!"

"To Gwen!"

They all took a hearty drink from their cups, even the honored girl herself despite her great aversion to alcoholic beverages.

The burning sensation of the mystery juice sliding down her throat produced a sour expression on her face, much to the humor of the rest of her friends (friends!).

Yep, she definitely was a lightweight.

— ❥ —

"Psst, Court! We're here!"

Another gentle tap and nudge on her shoulder was enough to wake the brunette up from her sleep. It takes her a second or two to come to—her eyes slowly blinking, panning around the car to find a disheveled mess of snacks and candy wrappers thrown askew the floor, a wool blanket wrapped around her body, and her sister sitting beside her, trying (and failing, but waking up from a nap is disorienting anyway) to softly wake her up.

"Josie...how long was I out for?" Courtney asked, sorely rubbing her neck in a sorry attempt to recover from whatever horrid position she had slept in.

Her sister scoffed, blowing an unruly strand of blonde that had fallen from her messy bun—emphasis on messy—out of her face, "Oh, you know, not too long; maybe just the whole car ride over from the airport, so basically like 2 and a half hours."

"Talk about middle of nowhere," Courtney groaned as she took a wistful look out the window.

"Well, I prefer to think of it as small-town charm!" Josie beamed as she hopped out of the car door and embraced the fresh air of a forgiving, 3:00 AM Wawanakwa night.

"Yes, and how charming it is to be so stranded from civilization. Tell me, you do know that Santa isn't real, right?" But even as she teased, Courtney couldn't fight the shadow of a grin appearing on her face.

Josie's energy was contagious, and while sometimes her optimisms were misled on some fantastical, idealistic (and ultimately unrealistic) notions of what the world had to offer, Courtney had to admit that it felt nice to just take things as they came—nice and easy.

In theory, at least.

She joined Josie in getting off the car and stretching her limbs a bit, before getting back to business and taking their luggage out and paying the driver.

"Come on Josie, let's get inside—it's freezing out here!" The brunette called to her sister as struggled in trying to maneuver all six of their suitcases up the walkway and onto the porch.

"Oh Court, hold on! It's such a pretty night, and look at the stars!! We never got these in LA," The latter comment was more of an afterthought as her thoughts fixated only on the sight above, her eyes wide, her jaw dropped.

Courtney rolled her eyes before deciding to indulge in her sister's wishes and bother a glance a upward.

Oh, how she hated to admit when Josie was right. But she really was.

It seemed as though every single star in the galaxy put on its best dress to welcome the Barlow sisters that night, in a true display of beauty that Courtney, with her cache of travelled places and around-the-world luxe vacations, couldn't say she'd ever seen before.

So this is Wawanakwa Falls, a light chuckle and the shadow of a smile punctuated her thoughts.

"Alright," Courtney muttered, "let's get inside."

And even as she started to walk towards the entry of their new home, her gaze was still fixed above.

—୨୧—

Hope you enjoyed this short prologue! Some food for your thoughts:

What do we think of Gwen? Her liking Duncan, shocker, right?

And what about her and Heather being friends-ish so early on in the story? They obviously seem like they have stuff to work out, but most fanfics make them friends way later on, if at all. I don't know, we'll see how this goes.

And also a Scott mention in the prologue—what is his deal? And what's his beef with Duncan?

Drop all your thoughts, opinions, predictions (?) in the comments, PLEASE, I love interacting with you!! The lengths of full episodes will be longer (this prologue was about 3k words and my writing average is 6-8k (!) words), so don't worry if this was much too short for your taste. See you next time!

a. yasmine

#total drama #total drama island #total drama au #tdi #total drama fanfiction #total drama fandom #td courtney #td gwen #td duncan #td bridgette #td heather #td geoff #gidgette #high school

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