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littlemissmentallyunstable · 5 days ago

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CHAPTER TWO

⋆˚࿔ Flaire Lockshot 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

After the night watching the stars I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know whether it was the fear of being awoken by a nightmare or a certain blonde whose voice I couldn’t seem to forget. It replayed in my head over and over like some kind of beautiful torture that blanketed me with calm yet stopped me from resting all at the same time. The smooth melodic chirp, every note in annoyingly perfect synchronisation, he was like the perfect symphony I only wished I had the talent to write.

Visiting Districts Three, Two and One were all a blur of technology, weapons and extravagance with many more brutal looking faces. And every night Finnick seemed to be the only face I cared to have on my mind, a plague I couldn’t rid myself of, a plague I didn’t want to rid myself of. I wondered in those stolen moments, if he might be thinking of me as much as I thought of him, if something so small as a colour he’d seen or sound he’d heard transported him back to our starry beach scene like it did me. I doubted it, if I was being honest to myself, but I often preferred the fantasise. I supposed it eased the pain, the expectation.

I repeated the same monotonous pattern at my final three districts that I’d done with all of the others. The poised speeches, false smiles and uncomfortable meetings with past victors until finally I rendezvoused into the centre of it all, the beating heart of our diseased world: the Capitol.

I stepped out of my room the day we were scheduled to arrive, into the dining carriage and was surprised to see the man who called himself my mentor sat at the breakfast table. I hadn’t seen him since I’d given my speech in district seven, when we’d argued and he’d retreated to every part of the train that I was not in to shield his brittle backbone like the coward he was.

I watched, leaning into the doorframe, as his sickeningly bony finger placed counters from one side of the table to the other. Over and over and over like a madman. If I hadn’t decided to stop it, I was quite sure he would’ve continued for hours, maybe even days, until his fingers were bruised and bloody and his brain comprehend the numbers he seemed to addicted to. I cleared my throat loudly, which sucked him from his fixation trance and sent his eyes flicking up to finally meet mine.

They were probably once that warm sort of brown that reminds you of the autumn leaves and rich coffee and fresh leather but now they were just empty and hollow. They bulged out of his sunken eye sockets and looked clouded, tainted by all the horrors he’d been forced to witness. A dull brown, a rotten brown, a dead brown. Part of me would have felt sorry for him if I didn’t know him as well as I did.

Cotton Damox was the only victor of Eight, ever in the history of the district. He’d won the 31st annual games by fashioning cleverly designed noose traps that immediately killed any who fell into them. All those years in the factories supposedly seemed to have paid off. I’d asked my father about him often but he’d always steered the conversation away from our only victor. It became clearer as I got older that my father had a distaste for the man of reasons he never lived long enough for me to ask.

“I thought you were hiding from me,” I clicked my tongue, sitting down on a chair at the head of the table as his eyes clung to my every move.

“Hiding?” he barked out a choked sound that I interpreted as some sort of laugh, “I don’t hide from people.”

“Oh yeah?” I folded my arms, leaning forwards slightly, “then where the hell have you been for the last week of this tour?”

“I’ve been here,” he shrugged, his attention now back on his counters, “maybe you just haven’t seen me past the end of your nose that always seems to be stuck to highly in the air. And if anything, doll, you’re the one who locks yourself away, you barely leave that room. Only when you have to make a speech or calm yourself after you’ve dreamt.”

That caught me off guard and my brain took a minute to process the words.

“Are you watching me?” I asked, disgust lacing my tone.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he grinned, sending a pile of counters toppling with an accidental knock of his elbow, “you think I don’t get those same dreams, you think I don’t wake up yelling like a banshee?”

I fell suddenly silent unsure how to respond. My mentor had never been one to share much and somehow this revelation that he too suffered was almost as if he was confiding in me. I didn’t like it.

“Well it’s real nice of you to show up for my final stop in the Capitol,” I snapped, a layer bitterness coating the outer part of my tongue, “just do me a favour and after this, don’t come anywhere near me.”

He looked up very slowly, not letting go of his current counter. My eyes were fire, their usual blue-gray now sparking embers of hot fury. I glared at him, my stare pinning him to his seat.

But he only seemed amused, “feeling feisty this morning?”

He wagged a counter at me in question so I quickly snatched it from his hand and hurled it across the room, “don’t test me,” I growled, as it hit the wall and fell to the floor.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a grimy, greasy looking bag that was moth-eaten and frayed and damp and dirty. I didn’t want to know where it had been. Slowly, he plucked a new counter from it to replace the one that now sat comfortably on the other side of the room.

“Why?” he replied, his attention more towards his counting than me, “are you going to gut me with a butter knife?”

He sounded unbothered, unthreatened as if I hadn’t just been in arena murdering people, as if I hadn’t been the only one that had come out alive.

“Want to find out?” I raised an eyebrow, my hand itching to grab one and pummel it into his throat.

“Little girls throw toys,” he sang, gesturing at the lone counter across the room, in a patronising way that slipped beneath my skin and writhed there.

I chuckled icily, “little girls don’t win the hunger games.”

He ignored me and moved on, eyes still glued to his little betting game, “I need a favour.”

“No,” I replied instantaneously, as if it was a reflex action.

“Let me rephrase,” he said, exhaling outwardly, shifting in his seat, “you’re going to do me a favour.”

“No I’m not,” I told him sharply, “you’ll never get a favour, not from me, not ever.”

He pushed a stack of counters towards me, with a crooked grin, “would you like to bet on that?”

“I don’t make bets,” I deadpanned.

“Shame,” he said slowly, “I need the money.”

I laughed, the sound a stranger to my ears. My head rocked back as the sound coursed through my chest, sending an unfamiliar hum over my ribs.

He grabbed my wrist with a skeleton hand, the skin so thin it stretched over pure bone. The breath was sucked from my lungs all in once and the laughter silenced. The coldness of his skin made me shiver, “I know what kind of money you get girl,” he growled barring his teeth like a starving rabid dog, “spare me some. It’s the least you could do, after all I was your mentor, the whole reason you won in the first place.”

“I won,” I said sharply, pulling my hand away with ease nearly snapping his small wrist, “because my father taught me how to throw knives behind an abandoned metal shed, because my mother taught me how to close my mouth at the right time, because my brother taught me how to hide away, because my sister taught me morality. I did not win because of you.”

He tilted his head back and took his turn laugh, though albeit cut off with a cough when his haggard organs fell weak, “then spare me some out of your morality,” he mocked, setting a counter down in front of me.

“Go to hell,” I spat, longing to pair it with the one I’d already thrown across the room but restrained myself.

“Don’t flatter me with your kind words,” he grinned, the sarcasm leeching from his tone, as he pushed a second counter forwards.

I exhaled, running a hand through my styled hair, “I don’t know why I’m even wasting my breath.”

“Because part of you,” he said, placing a third counter in front of me, “wants to lend me money.”

“Lend implies I’ll get it back,” I responded flatly, desperately trying to work out what the hell he was playing at with his counters.

“Give, may be a better word then,” he amended, surprising me when he broke the pattern of handing me counters and instead began to go back to his original obsessive piles. Silence stretched between us for a few beats until he leaned forwards, getting much too close for my liking, the outline of his ribs evident even under his shirt, “please.”

The word almost sounded like he was begging, if men like him even begged. He was so close I could see the cracks in his lips and the dryness of his skin. He looked ill, maybe even already dead.

“Eat some food,” I said, pushing a plate towards him harshly.

He placed a fourth counter in front of me, piling it upon one other, “I’m not hungry,” he replied, his twig like figure telling me otherwise.

“Eat some food,” I repeated, firmer this time, “you might as well seen as it’s free.”

“I don’t want their food,” he hissed, a disgust creeping up his throat. I thought he might even spit.

“Their food is the same food grown in Nine, slaughtered in Ten,” I rolled my eyes, “the districts make all of their things too, so stop being and such a stubborn idiot and eat the food, you’re already starved, no point in making it worse.”

“It ain’t my fault I can’t afford food,” he scowled, aggressively hacking his black and rotting teeth into a piece of white bread.

“There are people in the Splitt that can afford more food than you,“ I said, wrinkling my nose as he chewed.

The Splitt was the poorest part of Eight that bordered onto the wheat crops of Nin, people were so desperate for food they’d risk their lives trying to climb the electric fences to steal some produce. Many had died. I’d seen it with my own eyes. My home wasn’t the Splitt but it was right next to it, so we often heard the gunshot over the sounds of our own hungry bellies. We didn’t have a lot but more than those in there.

“You’re a victor,” I spat, “what opportunity did you have that you didn’t throw away as soon as it was given to you?”

“When you’re older and maybe a little bit smarter, you’ll realise my ways aren’t as stupid as you find them,” he responded, pushing a fifth counter into my pile.

I ignored the urge to ask what the counters meant and why the hell I was being sealed into a game I didn’t ask to play, “your ways will always be stupid and they’ll get you killed of your own accord.”

“Here, here,” he said, sloshing a cup of who knows what over the table, “to some peace for once.”

“You’re sick,” I snarled.

“Then pity me and send me your money,” he grinned widely, his absence of teeth and black ones left making him look like the antagonist of a child’s nightmare, “only a fraction doll, I won’t spend it all too quick.”

“You can lie to a lot of people very well but not me,” I chuckled darkly, shaking my head as I stabbed some eggs onto my fork.

“They say the games change you,” he mused watching me too closely, “I suppose they’re right, the girl on that reaping day I met would’ve helped me.”

The eggs tasted like sawdust suddenly and seemed to clog up my throat like thick cement. I put my fork down slowly and looked towards him.

“The girl you met was naive,” I replied slowly, holding his gaze, “she hadn’t faced the real world.”

“And you think she has now?” he chortled, “oh you just wait until you’re a few years into this shit, you wait and see what you end up like.”

“Not a penniless gambler who’s starving to death because he wasted his prize money on losing bets,” I bit back, an icy venom sharp in my mouth.

He laughed a deep throaty laugh, “you have so much left to learn about this world, it almost pains me.”

“Eat,” I growled again, forcing a second slice in front of him, “eat before I use it to choke you.”

He barked out another laugh, “I’m surprised you can joke about death having learnt the value of life.”

“I’ve learnt the value of life well enough to know I don’t value yours,” I scowled, as he put a sixth wooden circle infront of me.

Something burned within me, a hot fiery fury. He wanted this to get under my skin and make it prickle in torturous question. And he was doing a damn good job. I tried again to ignore my counters.

“Don’t criticise what you don’t understand,” he said, voice creeping up a little in volume.

“I’ll critique whatever the hell I want,” I shot back at him.

“Don’t be foolish, doll,” he smiled wistfully, placing the seventh counter into my pile, “your parents taught you smarter than that.”

“Leave my parents out of this,” I seethed, compressing all meaningful emotion into a mass of anger, “you don’t get to act like you know me and my upbringing, you don’t get to use it against me.”

He laughed again and my annoyance bubbled further but he was all too focussed now on his counters as if the ones infront of me never existed.

“Eat some more bread,” I muttered as I pushed up from the table, a wince-worthy clang of cutlery playing for my exit, but before I left I couldn’t help myself but ask the question that had seared a branded message into my soul, “and god would you tell me what the hell these counters are for?”

“You haven’t worked it out yet?” his salt and pepper eyebrows shot up in surprise, “my, my I overestimated you, doll.”

My tongue painted my teeth and I shifted my weight carefully, “are you gonna tell me or not?” I said, shortly.

“Seven,” he said, with a small sly smile that sent a chill down my spine, “there are seven counters.”

“I can count,” I deadpanned, rather bored of his amusement in my stupidity. What wasn’t I seeing that was so obvious? What significance was the seven?

I was from District Eight, I’d broken my arm three times, I had two siblings, I’d pricked my finger at least four hundred times on a sewing needle, I had five handmade items from factory scraps, my name had been in six times for the Reaping.

Where was seven?

“Seven counters,” he said slowly, “for the seven lives you took in that arena.”

Physical pain spreads into contorted branches across my chest, rooting an anchor in all my vital organs. Everything constricted like I couldn’t breathe, like I didn’t deserve to breathe. My bones ache and limbs burnt in shame and agony and realisation and all that was in between. I gripped even tighter to the table, my knuckles bleached to a perfect white, to steady myself as my legs grew weak and my vision hazy. My head spun, I felt nauseous.

How could I forget? How did my mind block that much out? My hand found its way to my collarbone and pressed flat against my beating heart. Just like the ones I’d stolen. Seven. Seven hearts all bloodying my hands. Seven. A number that haunted me, tortured me, clawed at me, suddenly gone from me.

I walked towards the door, not expecting or wanting to hear the wicked man’s voice and yet still froze when I did.

“You look like your mother today, doll” Cotton murmured, almost softly and for a moment his eyes glistened and the counters didn’t matter.

A nickname that was once sweet now was the sourest of all.

“You don’t know my mother, so shut the hell up about her,” I snapped, my voice choked up with far too much emotion.

I trudged out, steaming in my own fury and heartache and searched for the nearest mirror. The floor length one in my bedroom did the trick and I momentarily suffered a little deju vu to a few days ago where I’d admired myself like this. It seemed my reflection had been the only constant on this tour. I didn’t look like myself at all and as much as I hated to agree with such a lowlife, Cotton was right, I did look like my mother, so much so it scared me.

They’d pinned parts of it back and swirled parts of it round drawing attention to the darker blonde roots under the light on top, the same colour as my mother’s, making me look older by revealing my now more prominent cheekbones. They’d painted black onto my lashes and pink on my cheeks, accentuating something womanly in my features, hiding the girlish splattering freckles that decorated my nose and cheeks and making my eyes look that little bit darker. They’d dyed my lips a shade of deep red that was surely too old for any girl of sixteen and yet it seemed to suit me all the same. The dress I’d been told to wear this morning was long and extravagant, cinched my waist with a ribbon corset and exposed some cleavage in its low cut nature. The sleeves were large and puffed out and the fabric flowed like I was some enchanted waterfall, a temptress of sorts. I hated it.

I began to wonder if all the things I’d committed had brought out the hollowness of my cheeks, jaded ache of my eyes and those tired dark circles underneath.

First like my sister, now like my mother. Who should I be next? As long as it wasn’t myself I was sure I’d be happy with it.

As the train came to a halt, my body jolted towards a little. I walked to the window and was in shocked into stillness at what I saw. A blur of coloured hairs and fancy outfits squisedh against the railings, arms stretching through the thin gaps looking like some sort of haunting horror scene in rainbow colours.

I backed away from the glass, crashing into Amaryllis, not realising she had appeared behind me.

“Don’t be shy,” she ushered to towards the doors, “they love you.”

“And what if I don’t want them to?” I murmured.

She laughed, a sweet crisp sound, that sounded too princess like to be anyones real laugh, “of course you do, now let’s go and show you off to the most important destination.”

I disagreed but bit my tongue, stepping out of the train. Suddenly I could feel the souls of my shoes and the way my underwear sat under my clothes, I could feel the strands of my hair pulling and twisting as well as the creases in the corners of my eyes as I blinked away the brightness of the sky.

People were screeching my name, asking so many questions, none which I could clearly hear or a see. Their eyes roamed over me like hungry rabid wolves, licking up my every feature, stance, movement, blink. The blinding flash of cameras made my eye muscles ache and I had to cling on to Amaryllis’s arm to stabilise myself, which she didn’t seem to mind.

“Where are we going?” I murmured in her ear, realising how completely unprepared I was.

“Youre about to meet the President himself,” she grinned, “aren’t you excited?”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. My saliva was like thick glue, my jaw stiff and clenched. Amaryllis and Clo were finally home and I was furthest from mine I’d ever been. A turquoise gloved hand stretched through the barrier and stroked my shoulder, paralysed in shock I didn’t know how to react. Another hand, not so gloved, but instead bejewelled with rubies bigger than my forehead trailed down my arm.

“They love you!” Amaryllis cried, “oh they just love you!”

I wasn’t sure I really wanted them too, if that meant their fingers had to be all over me. People were throwing gifts out to me, calling my name, winking, blowing kisses, one girl that can’t have ben much older than me even held up her wrist with my name tattooed in golden ink. We weaved our way through the throngs of citizens which seemed to last a lifetime. Everyone seemed to be dusted in glitter, choked in frills and painted with vibrancy. I could only imagine how expensive the items they wore were, they could pay for three houses in Eight. It made me feel queasy, the imbalance of it all. Weak hands scavenged for food and did the labour whilst the smooth ones took the money and burnt it. When we’d finally reached the end, my head was pounding and I felt a little dizzy. Spots of colour danced in front of my eyes, reminding me of the so many wild heads of hair we’d passed. This experience had been nothing short of surreal.

I exhaled slowly leaning my back against the wall of a pristine building. It looked as if it were all made from crystal itself and something rogue within me wished for a hammer to smash it all. Tilting my head back, I closed my eyes to soothe my aching head. It was only then that it really truly met me that I’d soon be meeting President Snow, a private meeting just me and him. I’d be talking to the man who governs are corrupted society, the man my father schemed against, the man whose policies kept me in poverty for all of my life.

“Finally we’re home,” Clo said, analysing the multicoloured hearts on her nails, “doesn’t it just feel wonderful.”

“I know,” Amaryllis nodded, clapping her hands together, “I forgot how much I love being in the centre of everything.”

“I didn’t,” she snorted in reply, “I’ve longed to come back since the moment my father shipped me off to actually do something with my life.”

She looked disgusted, I could see it as her face creased and eccentric eyeliner shrivelled in turn. I swallowed slowly, biting my tongue. She had a father, she had a living breathing father, who was attempting to give her a good life with the great fortune he had.

“But Clo you’re a stunning stylist,” Amaryllis purred, setting a gold dusted hand on her coworkers arm, her hazel eyes glittered with a sort of adoration that I couldn’t quite place my finger on, “it would be an atrocity if we didn’t see your designs, your art.”

“I wish to be a Capitol designer Lysie,” she responded quickly, using an endearing nickname I didn’t recall hearing before, “not stuck in the districts.”

The districts. She said the word as if it were a disease and in some ways it was. Our sickeningly poor lifestyles, hungry children, bruised fingertips, blackened eyes, broken spirits, broken families. We have been robbed in every way, not just in material and resources and money but in our faith and morale in the world, of our sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, fathers and mothers. The districts were a disease, thick with agony and aching and despair, but this disease’s vector was everyone who walked these Capitol streets, slept in these beds, called this city home. The origin, the route, the problem was here.

“And you will be,” she said gently, “but you must work your way up.”

Her lilac head of hair blew softly in the smooth breeze, lifting and falling again as if the wind was running silky fingers through it, suddenly reminding me of the salvia flowers that used to grow on the outskirts of our district, the ones my sister and I would pick at dusk and put into a bowl of dirty water to surprise our mother with a makeshift vase. Oh how long ago those pretty days seem and yet I can still taste the air that morning, feel it in my lungs. That dull throb returned to my heart once again, the wave of homesickness deep in my bones. I would be home soon. Soon. The word rang around my empty skull, bouncing off the sides in a torturous chorus of echoes.

“My father has the kind of money where I wouldn’t have to but he’s so instant on me doing it myself,” Clo rolled her eyes, sucking me from the void of my memories, “I have the golden platter to my disposal and I just don’t understand why he won’t let me use it.”

“The world can be cruel sometimes,” Amaryllis nodded sympathetically.

Cruel. Did they even know the word? Had they felt him writhing in their bellies or had him rob their homes? Had they felt his beautifully gentle fingers stroke their faces and in the next second land a blow that left stinging and aching? Had they bruised their knees begging for his mercy or watched him suck the final breaths from someone they loved. Cruel. They didn’t know the word.

“You know,” she continued, so blissfully oblivious, that my face threatened to turn an unnatural green in my envy, “when I was a little girl I never thought I’d be an escort but here I am, more successful than all my siblings put together, you know Linnea shoot daggers from her eyes when I announced it to my family.”

“She’s always been the most jealous of you,” Clo tusked briskly, “it’s not your fault you shine.”

“You’re such a sweetheart, you know that?” She smiled affectionately, in reply, before latching onto Clo’s intricately painted arm tightly, “oh Clo, we really have made it, we styled and escorted the winning victor, our faces will be all over the Capitol.”

“As they should be,” she shrugged, putting a cigarette between her teeth with the free hand she had, “I should’ve been paraded around this place a long time ago, but that idiot of a professor said my features weren’t standout enough.”

She flicked open her lighter, the soft clink of metal taking me back to the sound of my mother cooking stew in the only pot we owned.

Amaryllis gaped, freezing for a moment, “he did not!”

Clo nodded, lighting her cigarette before taking a lengthy drag from it, the smoke curling from her mouth and nose when she breathed it out, “and he called Alliaira a masterpiece, deserving of being on every billboard from here to the districts.”

“But she’s so…” my escort paused, face pinched trying to find the right word as to explain to truth but not offend anyone.

“I know,” Clo nodded, seemingly understanding what Amaryllis had alluded to, “I’m pretty sure he was sleeping with her which explains a lot.”

“You don’t say!” she gasped, as if an incredible discovery had been made.

“Oh honestly Lysie,” she laughed lightly, the kind of pretty laugh only some people could pull off, “where were you?”

“Well at that time I would’ve been dating Chashore and I was so head over heels most things that year went over my head though I do remember when-“

“When do I meet the President?” I asked, cutting their conversations short. I couldn’t listen anymore, their privilege and obliviousness blinded them to greatly that it made me sick. I wasn’t sorry that I was so blunt.

Amaryllis pulled a bedazzled pocket watch from the inner pocket of her dress, it got caught on a few of her frills but she managed to tug it out. It sparkled with too many jewels to name and made me wonder why someone would ever make something so practical so very impractical, “you have a scheduled meeting in half an hour at the manor.”

I nodded slowly, “I think I’ll get going then,”

“Wouldn’t you like me to take you?” She replied, a touch of hurt pooling in her eyes that stirred a sort of guilt within me.

“You’ve done enough Amaryllis, really. I’ll do this final bit alone,” I said with finality, “you two go and enjoy yourselves, see your families.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, caressing my cheek, her gently touch a whisper of my mothers for a fraction of a second, “you are a kind soul and you have done so well. You’ve gotten Clo and I so far.”

“You’re welcome,” I murmured softly, “truly, you deserve it.”

As questionable as some of the things she said were, she did deserve happiness, she had been good to me in these last few weeks, made me almost feel worthy of this treatment. She had sweet words and small smiles for me, she left the little round chocolates in pink crinkly wrappers I was practically addicted to on my pillow each night.

I turned to Clo to wish her a final goodbye but she beat me to it, “keep moisturising so your skin doesn’t dry out, when I met you it might has well have been sandpaper.”

“I wish you the best too Clo,” I smiled tightly, knowing that was probably the nicest thing she’d ever say to me.

She only nodded in reply ad Amaryllis looped her arm into hers and they began to walk away, Amaryllis animatedly chatting, “I must stop off first and see Linnea, I can’t wait to see her reaction! Oh and we must catch up with our old friends from university, they would just rip their wigs off at the sight of our success and…”

Her excited voice trailed off and my heart squeezed slightly. She was annoying and entitled but honestly absolutely harmless and quite the sweetheart. If she hadn’t been so brainwashed, maybe I would’ve been able to bond with her closer, but it wasn’t her fault. She was also familiar for me over these past few weeks and that short span before the games, now it seemed as though everything I’d been so sure of was slipping through my fingertips, as if I was trying to carry water. I looked out to them one last time before turning my head away and beginning the walk. Oddly every step I felt hyper aware of something, the way my corset was pulled slightly too tightly, my corset was too tight and stole my breath as it squeezed my ribs with crooked fingers, the bodice clung to my skin like a scared child might to their mothers leg, how the sun beat down on the back of my neck, sending a pulsation through my temples that thumped in my brain. The fabric was too itchy and unnaturally fell bothering everything it touched, the sleeves puffed too much the sleeves eating at my arms and shoulders, and my underwear was digging into my flesh. I was hot but cold and had a heavy tightness in my chest that just wouldn’t ease, no matter what configuration of my finger tried soothing it with rubbing. It was stuck, I was stuck. My head was six feet under an invisible wave that would surely be the death of me and I didn’t even bother to scream for help, maybe I didn’t want to.

I made my way down the street getting a few odd looks from Capitol citizens, probably due to my lack of dyed hair, before they recognised me as their favourite killer from their screens. It wasn’t hard to find the President’s manor, its thick, tall walls and regal looking exterior as a dead give away. It was separate from the other buildings in the Capitol, less glass and crystal, less unusual shapes and fancy embellishments. It was stone and brick, the finest of each I supposed, right in the centre of the place. A show, a spectacle to marvel at, revel in, aspire to.

I wanted to spit on it.

But I knew I couldn’t and I wouldn’t so instead I stood still, staring. I took the moment for myself, to breathe in the rich air to see if it would kill my lungs any slower than the air from back home, to have one second where my mind was racing with uninvited thoughts.

Suddenly, thick, rough fingers tightly gripped around my arm and on instinct I jerked my elbow backwards but it’s quickly grabbed and twisted. I bit back a yelp on pain and blink away the tears from my eyes. I threw my head backwards, in attempts to throw my attacker off balance only to be met with the sickening crack of my own skull against something hard and metallic. It was only when I was seeing stars and nearly toppling over in the agony, with a gun pressed back that I noticed the recognisable white uniform. I was in a peacekeeper’s grasp, maybe multiple.

Panic clawed at my throat, burning in my chest like the bitterest of acids. I thrashed around as much as my body would allow until my muscles became numb and head became heavy. There were purple bruises blossoming to brand me with their fingerprints, a reminder of their power and my pathetic struggle.

“Release her.”

The voice was gritty and rough, with a jagged timbre and sharp tone. There was aggression and anger and authority. The hands all at once released me from their captivity yet my body had been too reliant on them holding me up. I weakened as my knees went to jelly and stumbled to the floor, pressing my palm to the back of my head. My breaths were deep and lengthy and pain was the only thing I could think about.

“He wants to see her now.”

Everything sounded as thought it’d been submerged under water, like a background sound to the prominent ringing of agony. It screeched through my ears, a ferocious tyrant who knew no bounds. I just kept breathing. I brought my shaking fingers to my face. The tips were stained crimson, the colour contrasting the pale skin it sat on. I winced, biting the inside of my cheek, I was bleeding from the back of my head.

“Get up.”

I wanted to, I was telling my body to but it was like it’d forgotten how to process thoughts. My legs wouldn’t move, feeling too feeble to push up. My body refused, resisted, rebelled every command.

“Did you not hear me, victor?” he sneered, shifting his body forwards so his face was so close to mine our noses were almost touching, “I said get up.”

He over-annunciated the t and p, his only purpose I could assume was to spit in my face. I could’ve told him I couldn’t but I was afraid that if I spoke my voice would shake and the tears would flow so I clamped my jaw shut, sealed it with an iron key and didn’t met his eye.

“You may have won in that arena girl,” he said, drawing back to loom over me, “but here youre just the same dead meat as everyone else so get up before I make you.”

I looked up slowly and smiled through a bloodied lip, splitting it a little further, though the sting was nothing compared to the throbbing in the back of my head “Make me,” I whispered with all I had left.

I think I must’ve hit my head a little too hard and the moment the words left my lips I cursed myself. I shouldn’t have spoken so out of turn. The peacekeeper grabbed my neck, like an animal being slaughtered and squeezed tight as he hauled my body from the floor. If he’d held me any tighter I was sure he’d snap my neck in half. He didn’t say another word, but instead made me pay in the guided walk Snow's office. My muscles ached and tension surged through them and I was barely putting my feet on the ground, he was more dragging me. And like a limp doll I only hung there.

The stars across my vision eventually faded and I was able to take in Snow's mansion for a few moments. The exterior didn’t do any justice to the interior. It was the biggest thing I've ever seen in my entire life, a museum of expensive art and vast walkways, regally decorated ceilings and silk curtains that costed more than a year’s wages. It could probably house a district or two.

But the room I was forced into was office like. It was large and overly formal with oak wood desk, glossy with wax with brass handles on each drawer. There was along walkway before you reached it though that what a landing strip of velvet plush carpet. It was hollow, ceilings too tall and walls too bare for it to feel comfortable. They were a stark, polished, almost clinical white that made me shiver despite not being cold at all.

Snow was sat at his desk, in a sharp suit, crisp deep red, like the gash now in the back of my head. The Peacekeeper, fingers still bruising my neck, forced me down the strip of carpet to meet him. He was smaller in real life than he looked on television, but his eyes were sharper and had a twinkle of something darker behind them. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on yet, despite it giving me that gnawing bad feeling deep within me.

He raised a white eyebrow at the peacekeeper.

“She was a little…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “…resistant,”

“You shocked me is all,” I bit back quickly.

“One of my men was close to being knocked out,” he said, answering me but talking to Snow directly, as if I wasn’t there.

“I was grabbed unannounced,” I gritted through my teeth.

Snow put his hand up and automatically we both fell silent, as if he had some sort of ethereal power.

“Thank you for delivering our newest victor,” Snow smiled slowly, not a warm smile, not a pleasant one but instead one that made something twist inside of me, “please return to your post as required.”

My neck was released and I was very aware that I was falling forwards, horribly off balance. I gripped the chair in front of me and with white knuckles steadied myself. With one sharp final nod the peacekeeper was gone. I listened until the sound of his feet hitting the floor in their dull monotonous thud became nothing and only then did I dare to meet Snow’s eye.

"Miss Lockshot," he said, widening that eerie grin, "what a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine President Snow," I smiled back politely, trying to shake off the metallic smell of blood and heavily perfumed roses that infected my nostrils. Though it didn’t work, the aroma seemed to settle in the empty air around us, casting its plague of intimidation.

“Please, take a seat,” he enticed with now a strange sparkly smile that exactly reminded me of the type of men my mother had warned me stole children up when I was a little girl.

“Thank you sir,” I replied, shaking the thought with the paranoia he could read them somehow.

“I see you got into a bit of an altercation this morning,” he said slowly, nodding towards a few of my injuries.

“I thought someone was attacking me,” i answered, keeping it short and sweet, as calculated as I could manage. In my eyes, the best angle was to say everything he wanted to hear in a way that looked like I either meant it or was clueless otherwise.

“The games make you like that,” Snow replied, leaning forwards in is seat, “…paranoid,”

“I suppose,” I shrugged, trying to wear the mask belonging to someone calmer than I was.

“You performed valiantly in the games,” he began, the compliment sickly sweet like an overdose of honey. It didn’t fill me with any sort of pride, just accentuated the weight of guilt that hung heavy in my chest. My ‘performance’ was that of a serial killer’s, I’d played the part I’d been forced into and it made me sick that I was being praised for something so grotesquely warped.

“Thank you sir,” I responded again, not having much else to say.

He smiled wider, something about me amused him. The hairs stood up on the back of the neck as I suppressed a shiver.

“Who knew a girl from Eight could come this far?” Snow continued, his voice too even, too smooth, too rehearsed, “I don’t remember the last time that happened.”

“Never sir,” I said. I knew the history of my district;s hunger games experiences like that back of my hand. The times where we’d lost within the first five minutes, gotten close to winning and the one time we did. Excluding myself of course. For the few hours we’d been in school and not out working in the factories it’s been drilled into us. To think of myself in the pages of a history book made my stomach twist violently, my face decorating a page the kids would look and point at and read about. She’s the one, she won the games by killing all those people, that’s so cool, I wanna be like her when I’m older. The newer, desensitised, dehumanised, robotic generation rising with the contours of my face etched in their mind for inspiration. No. I refused. That couldn’t be me.

“We’ve only ever had one victor,” I coughed, trying not to look too disgusted when thinking of my mentor and the conversation we’d had all but hours ago.

“That’s right,” he nodded, pausing for a moment, “Cotton Damox, if I’m recalling correctly.”

I bit back a little surprise. Who knew the president remembered the victors? Would it be my name he uttered to another victor one day? Would he remember my face, my voice, this conversation? It made me wonder if he’d sat here with Cotton once upon a time.

“Yes,” I nodded sharply , “he mentored me.”

“And a fine job he did at that,” Snow said, “tell me, Flaire,” chills ran down my spine at the sound of my first name held captive on his lips, “how have you enjoyed your victory tour?”

“it’s certainly been something to remember,” I replied carefully, “but I’m just anxious to get back home really.”

“Hmmm,” he almost chuckled, but instead wheezed, “home. Such an odd concept don’t you think.”

“I haven’t ever really thought much about it,” I said.

He didn’t reply but leant back in his seat to analyse me. I felt the aching burn of those piercing blue eyes that roamed every feature, every freckle, every hair and conscious of this , I went rigid. Paralysis became a new fixated state that seemed to last eternity, I only prayed that my stillness would become my saviour fearing if I moved in the slightest way he may be able to read my thoughts, my feelings.

“You remind me of someone,” he mused, pausing for a great length of time, maybe expecting me to answer, but I didn’t, “what was your father’s name?”

An icicle drove through my heart, freezing up the beating organ I relied on to survive. I felt as the pointed end was painted bloody, as its bitter coldness spread through me like wildfire. All breath was sucked from my lungs and suddenly I was silently choking on the grief that clogged up the back of my throat. I could see him now so clearly, as if he were sat beside me, hand on my knee, that kind look in his eyes. My eyes.

“Corduroy.”

I choked the name out, the sounds barely morphing together to make a coherent word. I hadn’t spoken it in so long, maybe not even since he died. He looked at my face and a panic seized me, if he’d wanted a reaction he surely got one. A thousand and one concealed emotions had one riot, I’d cracked under the pressure of the one question I never expected. The President’s eyes narrowed, eyebrows pinching in, as if he was trying to remember.

“No I don’t believe I’ve come across him,” he said, still persisting with that calm smile that made me too uneasy in my seat, “you must be me of someone else, maybe someone from my past, memories get foggy over the year.”

“I suppose so,” I murmured back, forcing the image of my father away. I couldn’t afford to grieve now.

“You know, I watched you in that arena, ruthless, a phenomenal fighter and yet you have such a sweet looking face,” Snow continued, “beautiful but deadly.”

I didn’t know how to reply so I didn’t. He had quite the skill for leaving me in limbo, not knowing whether it was right to answer pf stay silent. Part of me wondered if this was a calculated tactic he used to determine personalities, actions, threats.

“I’ve come across a few people on my long lifetime that have that sort of quality and yet they all have one thing in common,” he added, “…popularity,”

It took far too much willpower for me not to laugh at that comment. My name and popularity did not fit in the same sentence. Popularity was for victors like Gloss and Cashmere and whatever other careers with their blood money who had volunteered. Not for factory girls from Eight who practiced knife throwing illegally around the back of a metal shack, not girls with dead fathers and starving mothers, not girls who’d survived the hunger games rather than won it.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I replied slowly, trending lightly over eggshells praying my foot didn’t step on the tail of some venomous snake without me even knowing it.

“You’re dangerous, a killer,” he grinned, pearly white teeth almost as bleached at the white rose he wore in his lapel, “but put you in a velvet dress and you’re a performance.”

“I don’t intend to be a spectacle, I only intended to survive,” I said, a little more bite in my tone, tactfully direct.

“People like to watch a performance and in turn respect it, worship it, grow a love for something that they’re in awe of, that they could never be,” he said, his voice so eerily warm it felt unnerving, “sound familiar?”

He quirked a brow once again and all of a sudden it hit me, flashing before my eyes in one harsh blinding ball of light. My victory tour, all those people, the history books I would go down in, the propaganda, the interviews, this moment. I was the Capitol’s performer and people loved my tricks, but what would happen when I got too tired, ran out of ideas?

“I suppose I didn’t see it before,” I murmured.

“Hmm,” he hummed, “tell me, Flaire, do you know the word for having a strong feeling of want?”

“Desire,” I replied, tilting my head to the side in confusion

“Very good,” he nodded sharply, “you are desired by the Capitol and to do your duty to all of panem you must fulfill this desire.”

My mind raced. My heart thumped. And I didn’t dare breathe.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice so raw and vulnerable I cursed myself for being so exposed. My father was probably disappointed for giving into his tricks so easily. I knew what he meant. I just didn’t want to believe it.

“Come now Flaire,” Snow said a little do gently, “I know you’re a smart girl, I know you’ve worked it out.”

I had worked it out. My hands shook beneath the desk and I could barely formulate a sentence in my head. I had just so nearly escaped it all, nearly been able to go home and see my family again and now I was being told I would be used for the Capitol?

I shook my head, “I don’t want to work for you,” I said firmly, unafraid to meet his eyes, “I’m not doing that.”

He pursed his lips in something between annoyance and anger, “be very careful, I wouldn’t want any consequences to occur after our conversation.”

I stood up abruptly, momentarily forgetting who I was supposed to be playing, the mask I’d forged for nearly the whole of this meeting. My head throbbed, pounding over and over.

“President Snow, I have no interest in being used for my body, my dignity, my humanity, I refuse to play this game any longer,” I seethed, my tone and crisp, too sharp to be anger, too clean to be sadness, “I am a victor, I escaped alive and I won’t be imprisoned into another arena.”

His eyes twinkled again, that glimmer of menacing enjoyment as if he was fantasising a murder plan, “Is that so?”

“Very much sir,” I replied bluntly.

“Well I think this brings out meeting to and end then,” he said sharply, not the sort of sharply that is abrupt and annoyed, the sort of sharply thats a warning, that caused you to think carefully about where you stepped, “I hope you have a safe journey home and reunite with your family, for there is nothing more important in this world than family, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes President Snow,” I plastered on a sweet smile, “ I don’t think I could agree with anything more.”

He smiled back, that amusement creeping back in like an unwanted guest, “good luck Flaire Lockshot, I see great things ahead of you.”

“Thank you sir,” I said, realising that this outburst may just have me killed.

A peacekeeper entered, different from before, about an inch shorter. His fingers curled tightly around my arm, a boa constrictor around a mouse, and he squeezed hard enough for me not to ignore him but not hard enough to make me numb. I wondered if he might be dragging me to a cell or some sort of hanging tree but to my surprise I was left outside the gates to make my own way back to the train with my one way ticket to my homeland. And despite craving my home for so long, something felt off. There was a hollowness inside me, a strange feeling that something terrible was about to happen to me. Something that would make me regret turning down the President’s request.

I know it’a been a while so thanks for reading 🤍🤍 all parts

next part

taglist: @angelnextdooor @gay-as-a-daffodil @hyunjinieandlix @crawlinback2youat505 @inmyheaddd @eternal--dream @lovethornes

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wpmz · 23 days ago

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deltarune chapter 3 initial thoughts!

major spoilers under cut! obviously!

doing a little post to try and collect my thoughts right after finishing chapter 3 for the first time.

i guess first off- it was SO different from how i was expecting, but also SO good. basically my only 3 hopes/expectations going in were: A) i hope there's at least one surprising lore reveal B) i hope there's a character i can really get obsessed with and C) i hope it's fun :] and BOY HOWDY were those expectations met lmao

i guess the thing i wasn't expecting the most (well. besides the one Big reveal lmao) was the structure of it? i was far more expecting something along the lines of chapter 2 i guess, with toriel as like a tag along character and a relatively linear area layout, but it turns out pretty much neither of those things were true??

the minigame/tv show sections with tenna were SO fun. honestly i feel like i can't talk about those without talking about how much i loved tenna as a character, so first of all: OH MY GOD I LOVE TENNA. he's ridiculous and over the top which is basically all i hoped he would be if he were the sort of gameshow host type that it was looking like he was. his speech quirk thing with the word art is so very good. and honestly i think part of the reason i like him so much is bc i started out the chapter trying to do character voices and he was Very fun to read dialogue for lmao. i also love his whole thing of like. being afraid of being abandoned bc no one watches tv anymore. and all the spamton references oh my goodness. i already said this in a liveblog somewhere but i was really expecting maybe a couple lines vaguely referencing spamton, and there was SO MUCH more than that (at least in my playthrough. no idea how/if it differs if you haven't beaten him in chapter 2).

i feel like i got off track. the minigame like zelda-esque sections were so fun i really liked doing the puzzles and that part where the fun gang all swapped controllers and the part where you get the raft and can go out into the ocean and find secret stuff lmao.

the enemies were also pretty alright, a lot of them were hard but i'm hoping i'll get better at them when i inevitably end up replaying these chapters a couple times. standout for me is Obviously shuttah, its design is bangerrrrrr and its bullet patterns with the freeze/unfreeze type parts and its act things with the photo taking minigame were my favorite new battle mechanic.

i am kinda sad that the secret boss seems very secret this chapter, no idea where they were besides maybe the s-rank rooms or something to do with the minigame sections? i think i saw "shadow mantle" on like the loading screen of the very first one and there was stuff out of bounds that i didnt know how to get to thats gotta be something right? (please don't spoil me on if its either of those i kinda wanna replay and see if i can figure it out myself lol)

tenna's boss battle was alright too, not the most fun boss fight to me bc i think that title still goes to giga queen but i liked the minigame rush thing at the end that was pretty cool

oh my god wait i forgot to talk about lanino and elnina and rouxls. possibly top ten best/funniest sections in all of deltarune to me i love rouxls' loser polyamorous-and-bisexual-but-no-one-wants-him swag i was dying laughing at their interactions. also veryyyy intrigued by the possible asgore/toriel parallels with elnina and lanino especially since they ended up together by the end? but then again who would be the awkward third to bring them together...? rudy? ...sans??

also fascinated by the little bit of darkner lore we got. like the ones who were supposed to be from this dark fountain turning to stone? idk if i understood that fully im gonna be honest. is it because they didn't fit in with the tv theme, or because tenna didn't want them there, or both? or was it something else, like because dess/the knight showed up at the end and she like... brought more darkness in and that made them turn?? idk

speaking of knight dess. KNIGHT DESS??????????? i was not prepared. it was never a theory i put thaaaat much thought into simply because it felt like a scenario where it only made sense because there wasn't that much known about dess but like. i guess that worked out lmao! happy for anyone who was heavy dess knight believing before this u guys earned it. i did have a thought like. a few weeks before the new chapter's release where i was like. maybe gaster is opening the fountains in order to make us fulfill the prophecy and that way you don't have to worry about who could've had access to those rooms to make the fountain bc he's in the depths or outside time and space or whatever. and i had another thought off of that that was like well it could also be dess for the exact same reason. but like. I DIDNT EXPECT IT TO BE TRUE?? im like. still reeling from this. knight dess real. ALSO SHE HAS GASTER HOLE HANDS. IS GASTER HOLE HANDS ACTUALLY REAL AND NOT JUST FANON CUZ IF IT IS I'LL LOSE MY SHIT.

idk i think that's most of what i have to say as far as initial reactions go (outside of all my live reacting i did today as well lmao). crazy that toriel just slept through all of that she must sleep like a rock goddamn

will prob take a break before doing chapter 4 tomorrow bc it's getting kinda late and also i wanna see if i can draw some of the new stuff :3 shuttah im coming for you you Will get drawn....

#deltarune #deltarune chapter 3 spoilers #deltarune spoilers #deltarune chapter 3 #moss.txt

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epicfranb · 2 years ago

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Fuck it I'm not even rereading this. Here you go

Doc hired Etho, a skilled (probably) assassin to kill two of his most hated hermits: Keralis and Bdubs. And, after a long and fierce battle with Keralis that no one ended up winning, Etho wiped the layer of sweat from his forehead and said "Next one's gonna have to wait."

Does he even need to fight Keralis again? Hopefully, the fact that the fight took place is enough. After all, Doc's main goal is to scare them, isn't it? Etho and Doc go way back, so the guess probably has some truth to it.

Fixing up the gear after a long fight like this is a pain though. His sword needs sharping, the bow probably needs replacing, and his armor is... Well, everything could be in a better shape had Etho thought of a plan beyond "spam crossbows, then do whatever". His anvil aim could use some training, and his crossbow machine gun design could be improved. But it's better off in the hands of a more skilled player anyway.

Etho thinks he is quite a skilled player. But not in terms of fighting, no-no. Someone else could take the lead, someone more experienced – Etho's happy enough devising a plan and preparing the gear. Fighting isn't his forte.

Assassinating Bdubs is gonna need a better plan than this. If he succeeds in at least one of the hits, Doc will be happy enough (to pay him). But, unlike Keralis, Bdubs is... Too easy to kill. Pathetically so. It's just going to be boring. He needs a better plan than this.

Fixing armor was a job so usual and monotone to Etho, that it was easy to space out and lose himself in thoughts, and then wake up to a set of fully repaired gear. Normally, he would get some music on, but he kind of forgot about it before he spaced out, thinking about...

Yes, him again. Bdubs.

That man had an annoying habit of occupying all of the space within Etho's head. And, Bdubs himself doesn't do it directly, but Etho blames him anyway, because he knows it'd make him mad.

Bdubs has a funny voice. Every time he speaks, he voices his thoughts in such a strange manner, using some of the strangest vocabulary, interspersed with his "patented" "Bdubs noises". His speech patterns make no sense, the words never quite come out right, he's loud, he's boisterous, he's hilarious, and he's very, very talkative. Man has so many ideas and thoughts running through his head at all times, and he needs to get ALL of them out, to the point where he's been talking for hours, jumping from topic to topic, from idea to idea, and if he isn't stopped, he gets his throat killed. And a lot of the times, his throat does get killed after talking to Etho, because the other spaces out or falls asleep, as if Bdubs's voice is a lullaby to him.

Even now, one swing forth, one swing back, Etho's hands move on their own, the only sound in his head is a replay of Bdubs's voice, saying gibberish. It's like a catchy song that's been stuck in your head, you may not remember the lyrics, but you're enjoying the general sound of it. And Etho enjoyed his imaginary Bdubs singing to him. He has such a beautiful voice.

Helmet done, now onto the wings.

Honestly, it's appalling how different Etho and Bdubs are, even in the small things. Like, taste in food as an example. Etho's first impression of Bdubs was that he's the same sweet tooth that he is; turns out, it's quite the opposite. Bdubs doesn't put any sugar in his morning drinks, and he's a fan of green tea, which Etho only tolerates. He also likes bitter chocolate, and Etho thought those kinds of people only exist in myths... Oh, and he likes raisins. What a weird guy.

Their sleep schedules are so different, that at the rare occasions they've lived together, they barely ever saw each other. Bdubs goes to sleep early, and, despite taking his sweet time getting out of bed, he gets up early, too. A real morning bird with a solid schedule, in contrast to Etho, who stays up all night, working when no one and nothing is around to bother him – and gets up whenever. Sometimes he woke up first, and took his chance to prank Bdubs; other times he wasn't so lucky, and got pranked back. It was a fun back-and-forth while it lasted, but now Etho has the advantage of knowing Bdubs's exact sleep schedule, which Bdubs can't brag about – Etho's schedule is too chaotic. Those games are always fun.

With all the holes in the wings patched up, leggings are next.

Etho recalled his surprise when Bdubs came to him, all those years ago, and with eyes beaming of excitement, exclaimed: "Teach me how to fight!" Etho was never more than decent at fighting, but Bdubs seemed to be so caught up in his idealized version of Etho, that he thought it'd be better to ask him, and not someone who had actual skill. At least, that's what Etho thought at the time.

It was never about the fighting, no. It was never about swords, nor was it about bows or armor – it was about admiration. Bdubs admired Etho, and wanted to be closer to him. No, not in his skill – although, Bdubs admitted, that too – it was just about spending time together. The warmth of the other's skin on his hands, guiding him, on his torso, teaching him, his voice so close like it's reverberating in his heart, and his breath tickling his neck from behind... At least that's what Etho imagined Bdubs felt. Back then, he couldn't put his finger on why Bdubs shivered and blushed so often during their trainings, but, thinking about it now, it made some sense.

Swords clashing against one another, bodies in perfect sync, moving one after the other, shifting their feet in the same rhythm they got adjusted to – it was more like a dance than it was fencing. Sometimes, all of the competitiveness between the two would fade, and they were moments away from throwing their swords on the ground and taking each other's hands, wrap their arms around the other, to guide him somewhere else, in the same dance, same rhythm, but with much different implications. They regretted only a little bit that they never ended up getting into dance.

It was a nice memory, but Etho was somewhat bothered by his cheeks getting hotter. His entire body got hotter, in fact. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and his hands shook slightly.

It seems that it's time for a rest, Etho thought. He still had his boots to repair, but they could wait. He'll be gone only a little while.

For now, maybe he can think about a plan to kill Bdubs... Kill Bdubs, huh. Normally that'd sound quite tempting, but he wasn't really in the mood for any killing now. Getting soft, Etho chuckled to himself. But being soft felt kind of nice once in a while.

If I don't want to kill him, Etho thought as he got into the kitchen – if you could call it that, – maybe I'll find a way to make him die, and me not have to see it. That meant a trap, and, thankfully, Etho had an extensive catalogue of traps permanently in his head. Some of them more obvious, others – devilishly hidden, and whichever one he chose depended on what would get a funnier reaction. In chat, at least. Or in a later conversation.

But nothing really felt right. Etho cracked an egg – fill his base with chickens? no, that won't kill him. Entity cramming maybe? Etho whisked some dough – drowning is a good idea. But it's long, he can get out. And it's painful. Since when was Etho hesitant about a trap being painful? Etho put the cake in the oven –– Wait, cake?

Etho crouched in front of the oven, taking a curious look inside – sure enough, that is a cake. When did he make a cake? Why did he make a cake?

Etho has a pretty strong grasp on his own mind, but even that becomes a mystery when Bdubs is involved.

If the cake was meant to be a trap, it was a bad one. He didn't even put any poison in it! The frosting is now finished too, and that doesn't have any poison either... Unless Etho adds it. Which he doesn't. Whether he forgot, or just didn't want to, he didn't really know. Looking for the right poison, or making it from scratch, was a hassle, and Etho was too lazy to deal with that.

Besides, his mouth watered at his own cake. It was his sugary masterpiece, and he was itching to take a nice big bite off of it... But he held back. This cake is for Bdubs. Once he figures out how to make it into a trap.

Will Bdubs even want to eat such a sweet cake? Etho's mind wandered somewhere else while baking it, so he had no idea how much sugar he actually put into it. Knowing himself and his taste buds, it was probably... Way too much for Bdubs to handle. Maybe the excess sugar can kill him. Yeah, that'll do.

Etho rummaged around his storage system to find a nice big box and some wrapping paper with heart patterns to wrap the cake into. Maybe the heart patterns were excessive – Etho swore he had other types of patterns somewhere – but he couldn't find anything else, and wasn't bothered to. The cake neatly packaged, Etho grabbed his freshly restocked redstone box and flew off in the direction of Bdubs's base.

Etho usually thinks. He thinks about what he's gonna do next, even when he does something on a whim, he thinks first. How am I gonna do it? What are the steps? What am I going to need? His mind was in a haze as he flew, as if locked out of his own head, only able to peek through the bars, and the only thing left of his brain was an enormous screen with just images of Bdubs on it. This was getting ridiculous, but he couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. The thoughts felt nice.

Bdubs wasn't online, thankfully, so setting up a trap didn't require any stealth ninja moves. Etho didn't even try to hide that it was a trap: the gift box was sitting right on top of an observer, ready to trigger it. There was nothing under it but a dispenser – what was in it? a damage potion? lava? exactly 24 boats to entity cram him (forget that you can't fit 24 boats in one dispenser)? Well, Bdubs is going to have to find out himself. The joy of discovery, and all. Etho's heart raced, despite knowing Bdubs isn't here to catch him in the act; he felt hot all over, despite Bdubs's biome being cooler than his; and his cheeks hurt from smiling, even though nothing happened yet. There was no rational reason for any of those body reactions to occur; and yet, they did. A human's body is hardly ever rational, but Etho found comfort in knowing what causes which reactions, and he was clueless about his current state. He guessed that he was just really looking forward to the prank working... I mean, what prank? It's a death trap! Totally!...

***

Etho had completely forgotten about the trap, when his communicator buzzed in his pocket. All of the gear repaired, and all the hitman matters taken care of, he has managed to distract himself from thinking about his... Friend, and get to work. However, the friend demanded attention, and who was Etho to decline him that attention? In his mind, a picture of an excited dog replaced Bdubs for a second, prompting a sudden outburst of laughter from Etho, which, he was pretty sure, could be heard even from Xisuma's base.

Etho took the familiar route through the Nether to Bdubs's base. He circled above it for a second, looking for the town's proud owner – he spotted him right next to his starter house (made of diorite, of course), and landed right behind him, scaring him to death.

"What are ya doin' sneakin' up behind me like that, huh?!" He fumed, stamping his feet all over the place. "What are you, role-playin' a ninja?!"

"Some people do call me a little bit of a ninja." Etho shrugged, prompting a scowl from Bdubs. "Anyway, whatcha got there? A cake?"

Behind him, the cake was sitting on the observer like on a table, unwrapped, with a small piece cut out of it. Bdubs probably checked it for poison; or maybe he couldn't eat the rest because it was too sweet. Either way, same thing, really.

"Aww, dontcha pretend like you don't know what it is!" Bdubs sang proudly like he just solved the world's hardest riddle; Etho couldn't help but smile, giving himself away. "Yeah, I knew it! It's yours! I know how you bake your cakes, you won't fool me!"

"Did I poison you with sweetness?" Etho asked through laughter.

"I'd rather not say what I did with the piece that I put in my mouth." Bdubs nodded behind him, in the direction of the river. Ah, so it was that sweet.

"Awwww, you spat out my cake? That I baked for you, with such love and care?"

"Yes, but I don't want to do it with the rest, so you're here to get rid of it." Bdubs walked up to the cake and shifted it around, sending a short pulse down. The dispenser didn't fire, meaning Bdubs saw the message.

"You mean you aren't going to eat it." Etho sobbed, hugging his arms. "Welp, more left for me!" He smiled.

"Great! Cuz I physically can't eat it!" Bdubs laughed.

He brought Etho a chair, a plate and a spoon, some tea (three spoons of sugar, as usual) and even a tablecloth to turn the observer into a real table (that ticks sometimes). Etho dug in immediately – he'd completely forgotten he hasn't eaten anything since that battle with Keralis. And oh was the cake sweet. Too sweet even for Etho, but he enjoyed it. Bdubs watched him enjoy the dessert, sipping his own tea, with a wide smile on his face.

"Didn't know you enjoyed watching people eat." Etho commented.

"Nope, just you."

"That's weird."

"You're weird, consuming that amount of sugar and not dying." Bdubs chuckled, but kept smiling. He was rather calm – calmer than Etho expected right after a prank.

The warm smile would get imprinted in his mind forever, Etho felt. There was just too much fondness, too much affection in it, that his skin started burning again.

Bdubs took the cherry from the top of the cake, closed one eye and put a cherry in front of the other: "You're as red as this cherry right now." He didn't even let Etho react, before putting the berry into his mouth. Etho tried not to think about the implications of that. "Come on now, what happened? What are you getting flustered for?" He teased.

Etho looked away – tried to, Bdubs followed his gaze – and put on his mask, even though he still had cake left on his plate. That didn't help hiding his rosy cheeks, and now ears too. Etho gave up trying to guess why his body was doing it at that point. He just didn't want Bdubs seeing him like this.

"Ay, you didn't finish your slice!" Bdubs laughed. "Sorry I took your cherry, but it the only edible thing on it."

"It's fine, I'm just gonna take the rest home," Etho said, attempting to appear collected, but regretted it immediately: his voice cracked in the most pathetic way possible.

Bdubs burst out, leaning on the observer for support, sending a few ticks again. The corners of his eyes teared up, but at least his face was now all red too, so Etho wasn't the only one. It was hardly comforting.

"Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't laugh! I shouldn't...!" He wheezed. Etho was ready to just take the cake and fly away in embarrassment, but the cake needed to be put in a box first – doing it now would only make the situation more awkward. Etho believed he could endure it. "Sorry–" Bdubs kept apologizing, "Know what? Next time, c'mere, and let's bake an actually edible cake together. Sound good?"

Etho sat still for a second, eyes wandering in the forest afar. They could bake a cake together, a cake that both of them could enjoy.

"That... Sounds good." Etho uttered from under his breath. It did sound good. Sweet, even.

"Then it's a deal!" Bdubs clapped his hands together. They arranged a time, he helped Etho pack the cake back up, and then it was time to say goodbyes.

Just as Etho was about to take off, Bdubs pulled his sleeve – and then pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around his torso in a sudden embrace. Etho instinctively put his arms on Bdubs's back, resting his head on his messy hair that tickled his nose. Etho could stay like this forever – or if not forever, then for a long time. But Bdubs let him go, and then they needed to go. Etho hastily took out his rockets and boosted off into the sky, to not let Bdubs see his face again.

Bdubs yelled after him:

"You have a good day as well!..."

Etho felt warm.

#I'm probably being too critical of myself again but i see so many things wrong with this. I'm sorry #ethubs #hermitshipping #my fic #hermitfic

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dumbfinntales · 6 months ago

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Yesterday night I finally beat Mario & Luigi Superstar Saga. What a hell of a ride. Not super long either, took me like 18 hours to beat. What a proper way to start off this year with game reviews, right?

Superstar Saga is such a joyful, funny and charming game filled with entertaining characters. The sense of humor was on point and I could immediately see where Brothership got its style. I very much enjoyed the more "open world" exploration than island exploration. You have a map that you can traverse freely and you can enter new places as you gain new abilities.

This game being the first in the series the battle system is a bit more simple, but the basics were there. You got your jumps, hammers and bros moves. I like that the bros moves are literally you and Luigi working together to attack enemies. Oh, and you got the hand moves as well, which was a neat surprise. I felt that dodging was a bit iffy at times, some enemy attacks felt impossible to avoid. I still have no idea how to avoid that Fawful attack where he flies at you. I managed to knock him away once when I hit immediately after I heard the sound cue, but I tried it again and nothing, still got hit. Doesn't help that he fucking kills you if you don't manage to interrupt him.

Much like Brothership the game was so charming. Every character was unique and fun, plus I was so surprised to see E. Gadd in this game, accompanied by the Luigis Mansion theme. I honestly didn't care much for Cackletta, she was alright, but didn't feel like there were many stand out moments with her. She felt like a very typical bad guy. Fawful was fun for his strange speech pattern and how chaotic he was. Why did he have to wear a skin tight suit in our final battle? He sure has fury. Can't wait to see him as the main villain in Bowsers Inside Story.

I do adore this game, but I always find things to complain about. Number one, I would have appreciated a real map. The in game one doesn't show you anything. Some dungeons have maps, but they're plastered on walls and you can't view them when you want. And I HATED the mini games. Oh how I loathed them, starting with that infernal border jump at the beginning of the game. The only mini games I tolerated were the minecart one and the arcade game. I also kinda hated platforming with Luigi. This might be controversial, but I'm glad he became automatic in Brothership. No more one of the bros falling down a platform so now you can't move and have to go back to the start of the platforming.

This isn't a negative per se, but made me really scratch my head. But the end of the game is really bloody difficult, right? I had no trouble with the game until the final dungeon where the difficulty skyrockets. I didn't have too much trouble with the koopalings (their mini games too sucked ass), but holy hell Fawful and Cackletta kicked my ass. Fawful took me like 4 tries to beat, and Cackletta 9 tries at least. She has SO much HP and two phases where at the start of phase 2 you can die immediately, which I did, thanks spinny arms move. It felt like the opposite of Brothership where the final boss was a bit of a pushover. Didn't help that apparently I was underpowered? I watched videos on how people beat Cackletta and they were doing 100+ damage per attack, while my strongest bros moves did a maximum of 60 damage. I also found out that I missed some sidequests and gear!

I didn't brew all the coffees at E. Gadds cafe place, mostly because I hated getting the rare beans from the mini games, but I did brew most of them. But either way, it was a fun experience. Maybe one day if I'll replay the game I could give the 3DS remake a try.

#mario and luigi #superstar saga

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kevosaicreations · 3 months ago

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Title: “Axe the Sales… Oops!”

SETTING: A Conservative Party campaign press conference. PIERRE POILIEVRE stands at a podium, mid-speech. A banner on the podium reads:

“AXE THE SALES

TAX ON HOMES”

The media, staffers, and a live TV audience are all present. The crowd is largely serious—until the realization hits.

⸻

SCENE 1: The Press Conference Disaster

PIERRE POILIEVRE (confidently)

“Under a common-sense Conservative government, we will axe the sales tax on homes!”

(Reporters murmur. A few chuckles break out. Poilievre notices and stiffens.)

PIERRE POILIEVRE

“…A strong economy starts with—what? What’s so funny?”

(A reporter gestures to the podium. Poilievre looks down. His eyes widen in horror.)

PIERRE POILIEVRE (reading, horrified)

“Axe the sales… tax on homes…” (pause) “AXE THE SALES?! I’m not here to destroy commerce! Who made this sign?! WHO?!”

(The laughter grows louder. Camera flashes pop. A reporter raises a hand.)

REPORTER #1

“Sir, are you confirming a new policy to, quote, ‘axe the sales’?”

REPORTER #2

“And if so, what are we axing? Goods? Services? Entire industries?”

REPORTER #3

“This seems to contradict your earlier stance on not burning the economy to the ground.”

PIERRE POILIEVRE (gritting teeth)

“It’s a typo. A very, very stupid typo!”

REPORTER #4

“With all due respect, Mr. Poilievre, your three-word slogans always follow a formula. First a verb, then a noun, then another verb. ‘Axe. The. Sales.’ You’ve backed yourself into a grammatical corner.”

REPORTER #5

“So what’s next? ‘Burn. The. Economy?’ ‘Shred. The. Budget?’ ‘Explode. The. Jobs?’”

(The crowd erupts in laughter. Poilievre grips the sides of the podium, seething.)

PIERRE POILIEVRE

“We are FIXING THIS. PRESS CONFERENCE OVER!”

(He storms off. Campaign staffers scramble.)

⸻

SCENE 2: The Campaign War Room Panic

CAMPAIGN MANAGER

“WHO APPROVED THAT BANNER?!”

INTERN (nervous)

“I just followed the usual three-word slogan layout—”

SENIOR ADVISOR

“That’s the problem! Three-word slogans have ruined us! They always look strong and punchy—until you accidentally advocate for the exact opposite of what you want!”

STAFFER #1

“What do we do? We’re already trending! #AxeTheSales is exploding!”

STAFFER #2 (scrolling Twitter)

“Oh no. The memes are relentless. Look at this one! It’s our logo but it says: ‘End. The. Economy.’”

CAMPAIGN MANAGER (grabbing their head)

“Alright. Damage control. We need Poilievre to tweet something clarifying the message—”

STAFFER #3 (reading phone, horrified)

“Too late. He already tweeted. It just says: ‘Destroy. The. Doubters.’”

(Silence. The team groans.)

⸻

SCENE 3: The Nation Reacts

CUT TO: A FAMILY WATCHING AT HOME

DAD (laughing, pointing at the TV)

“Well, I guess I’d better go axe my sales before Poilievre comes for them.”

MOM

“I don’t think he meant to say he’s pro tax on homes, but… I mean, here we are.”

TEENAGER (scrolling phone, smirking)

“Someone deep-faked his face onto a lumberjack. He’s ‘Axe-ing the Sales’ in a literal forest now.”

⸻

CUT TO: A COFFEE SHOP

(A group of people is gathered around a laptop, watching a replay of the press conference.)

CUSTOMER #1

“This is worse than the ‘Bring it Home’ speech when he accidentally made it sound like he wanted to physically transport every Canadian to a new location.”

CUSTOMER #2

“And ‘Axe the Tax’ would’ve been fine! But no, he had to stick to the three-word pattern!”

CUSTOMER #3 (shaking head, laughing)

“Verb. Noun. Verb. It’s a curse.”

⸻

SCENE 4: The Fallout

(Back in the Conservative war room, the campaign manager slumps in a chair.)

CAMPAIGN MANAGER

“Okay. We pivot. No more three-word slogans.”

STAFFER #1

“Agreed. Let’s go with something safe. Something four words.”

STAFFER #2 (tentative)

“How about… ‘Cut Taxes on Homes’?”

CAMPAIGN MANAGER

“Good. Simple. Easy. Print the banners.”

INTERN (timidly raising hand)

“Uh, just to be sure… where’s the line break?”

CAMPAIGN MANAGER (pauses, eyes widening in fear)

“Oh no.”

CUT TO BLACK.

TEXT ON SCREEN:

“Axe the Graphics Department.”

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hops-hunny · 4 years ago

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Stories That Are Told

Pairing: Tarrant “Hatter” Hightopp x Reader

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: (Y/n)’s so used to being the background character in everyone’s story that she forget she can be the main character in her own.

Warnings: Slight angst but majority fluff!

A/N: I love this man with my whole being omg pls

Stumbling into Wonderland with Alice had been a wonderful thing for not only Alice, but (Y/n) as well. For Alice it was an escape from all the things she didn’t wanna do and would never wanna do. She wasn’t forced to marry some sod of a guy who’d make her miserable for the rest of her life or to be the proper lady she was expected to be, but instead she got a taste of freedom. And although it was an escape for (Y/n) as well, it was an escape of a different kind.

In the other world, with it’s dreary skies and monotonous patterns and cycles, (Y/n) lived a very humdrum life. Her family had never been as fortunate as Alice in any ways of the sorts, it was a miracle that they were friends to begin with. Alice’s father had been friends with (Y/n)’s since boyhood and because of that, he always made sure they knew they were welcome to anything of his that they wished. And while (Y/n)’s father had never taken advantage of that from the way Alice’s mother treated (Y/n) and her family, it wouldn’t be hard to think otherwise.

When Charles was still around, she hadn’t done anything out of line. The older woman always kept to herself, occasionally having an afternoon cup of tea with her own mom. However, her true colors and feelings came to light after the passing of her husband. During the next few months after her husband’s absence, the (L/n)s were there for Kingsleighs. Although they didn’t have the funds to help them monetarily (for they also didn’t need it), they offered their labor and services to the two as much as they needed. Farm work, house cleaning, garden maintenance. Anything you could think they had done. But as soon as Helen was well (as well as you could be after losing someone so dear) , she had forbid them from coming to their property. She didn’t believe her and Alice should associate with people of “such low stature” because it didn’t “align with their image”. But that had never stopped Alice.

Anywhere Alice went, (Y/n) was always there by her side right along with her. They practically went everywhere together and that hadn’t changed since they arrived in Wonderland. (Y/n) was grateful that she had chased after her friend. It was like she knew something would happen. Afterall, crazy things always happen when you put two curious girls together for more than a moment. The friends they had made since they arrived were nothing short of lovely. She knew her sister would describe them as odd characters and disturbing individuals. Telling her to stay far away from them and to not associate herself with those types. But what was wrong with being odd or even disturbing? The only things worth doing in life were a bit odd and disturbing and if that made her peculiar than so be it.

For the first time in her life, she felt as though she belonged. Sure, it wasn’t her story nor her destiny to be here as it was Alice but that did not mean she did not appreciate Wonderland for what it was. The story had never been her story, not here, and certainly not where they were from. Alice was the main chat and she was the topic that would get trickled in after.

“Everyone has a part to play, (Y/n). Even if it is not large or as set in stone, each person’s role is necessary for the story to progress, even yours. You’ll see.” the words of that tricky caterpillar replayed in her head over and over again whenever she had a moment to think. What had he meant by that? Was her story not more than to be here in support of her dearest friend and the latest edition to their friends? Was she not just a tool in the scheme of things? (Y/n) had never known people of lesser importance as herself to contribute much of anything big to a legacy as large as Alice’s!

From her end of the table, she watched as Hatter threw his hat high into the air before it landed on his head causing everyone to erupt in a jostled mess of laughter and cheering. She smiled fondly from a far. Tarrant was a kind man. No matter what was going on or where they were, he always had a way of making her feel included. That’s just who he was. He had known what it was like to feel excluded from things and the last thing he’d wanna do is be the cause of that for someone else. But it was nothing more than his nature, that’s it.

“You know, you should just tell him how you feel.” a velvety voice sounded from beside her ear causing her to jump. The (h/c) haired girl glared at the purple cat, reaching a hand to swat him away but he disappeared once more before appearing on her other side. “He watches you often, even when there is not many around to see. But I always do of course.” The Cheshire cat said in a sure tell tone. The girl scoffed at him, shoving another small pastry into her mouth.

“I’m not in the mood for one of your jokes today, cat. So if you’ve come to mock my feelings during my 2nd to last day in Wonderland, I wish you well and send you off.” she huffed out, crossing her arms across her chest, turning her gaze away from him back to Tarrant who was already looking at her. The Hatter gave her a secret wink and a smile before turning back to the March Hare who seemed rather frazzled about something. Or perhaps excited. But once again, the grinning cat appeared in front of her face once more.

“Silly girl, you ignore the plain truth in front of you? I can see why you and Alice get along so well, both of you can be quite foolish. Oh well, the story isn’t over yet after all.” and with that he was gone. What did he mean by that? The story was clearly over. Alice had done what she set out to do. The Jabberwocky had been slain, the White Queen ruled once again, and all had been made well. And what was with everyone with stories? Not everything you can do will always be a story and not every story comes to an end. She decided not to dwell much on it. This was her last night she’d ever spend in Wonderland and she’d rather like to keep it in good memory.

So when the White Queen offered her a hand to dance she took it, their dresses swaying in the wind in oppositional unison. They all danced with one another, twirling, laughing, and having a grand time. The entire time the smile never once left (Y/n)’s face which a certain hatted man enjoyed with all his being.

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

“I can’t believe you’re leaving today. It seems as if it was only yesterday when you arrived.” the girl swiveled around to see the red head there, a bittersweet smile on his face. His smile grew once she turned to face him. Removing his hat, he bowed as he grabbed one of her hands placing a delicate kiss to the top of it. “I am delighted to have known a woman as graceful as you.” hot tears sprung into her eyes which she quickly got rid of before he stood up. Giggling some she hopped onto the large sit swing, motioning for him to join her.

“Don’t get sad yet, Hatter. I’ve still got a few hours left. You can’t rid of me that easily.” he joined her on the swing, a wide grin still on his face. Although it was partly real, she could tell there was some sadness lingering behind it. (Y/n) turned her gaze to the sight in front of them. From the large benched swing, you could see just about all of wonderland over the edge of the cliff. “Besides, there’s not much to miss. I’m just me.”

“And ‘just you’ is a lot! I’ll miss everything about you. The way you mimic the bird calls you hear, the way you get excited when the rock you skipped across the water goes further than you imagined,” she looked at him in shock as he continued to speak, “E-even the smaller things like how you leave the crust of your sandwich for last and give your crumbs to the ants. But I think more importantly I’ll...I’ll just miss your presence.” he said the last part softly, staring off the edge of the cliff to avoid her gaze. A million thoughts raced through her heads as he spoke. Could it really be? Could he really share the same feelings as she did? (Y/n) reached a shaky (s/c) hand to lay on top of Hatter’s pale one, intertwining their fingers.

“Hatter, I've got something to tell you. During my time here in Wonderland, I’ve enjoyed every second I’ve had with everyone. But more importantly, I’ve enjoyed my time so much with you and I believe it’s only fair to share with you that my feelings I have for you go beyond those of normal friendship. I guess you can say I’ve grown...quite mad for you.” his head whipped to face her as he stared into her eyes, tears welling within his own. He flashed her another smile except this one was genuine, filled with the love and warmth he had shown her the entirety of her time in Wonderland.

“(Y/n)! Alice sent me to fetch you. I’m afraid it’s time for the two of you to head back.”

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

After a lot of shedded tears, heartfelt speeches, and goodbyes that were nothing short of wholesome, it was time for the two to head home. Alice patted (Y/n)’s shoulder before holding her arm out for her to grab. As they neared the portal, (Y/n) turned around once more to stare at her friends but when she got to Tarrant, her heart began to break. The gaze they held with one another was long until she simply couldn’t take it. Without thinking she ran up to him once more, grabbing his shoulders tightly.

“Hatter, Tarrant, I need to know how you feel. I couldn’t live with myself if I left and never knew.” he shook his head, looking away from her as he tried to stop the waterworks that were withheld behind the dam. Hot tears streamed down the delicate skin of the girl’s face. “Hatter...please.” her voice was broken as she begged.

“I believe I wasn’t honest myself either. I am completely enamored by you, my dear. I wish I had said something sooner but even though I couldn’t, I’ll always hold a special place for you in here.” he said, placing a hand over his heart. Standing on the tips of her toes, she leaned forward placing a quick peck to his cheek.

“What if it isn’t too late? What if I stayed?” she started, watching as he shook his head, “Hatter listen! You may think I’d regret if I stay but I think I would regret even more not following my heart the first time it’s ever tried to tell me something. Nothing would make me happier than staying here with you...that is if you’d allow it.” a silence fell over as everyone awaited his answer. Without another thought Hatter leaned down, pressing his lips to hers. The kiss was soft and sweet. Filled with a silent promise, a silent vow to care for her as deeply as his heart will allow.

“I do not know what I did to get so lucky, but I would do it again if needed.” she felt herself grow flustered at his words. A quick peck was placed on his lips before walking over to Alice once again. The blonde had tears of her own in her eyes. She was glad her friend had found something to fight for, something to call her own. But also for the first time in many years, they would not see each other everyday as they once did. They both stared at each other before throwing themselves into each other's arms, laughing in unison as bittersweet tears fell.

“Good luck. Make sure you put your foot down. You’re Alice! You listen to no one and march to no one’s drum but your own.” Alice gave her a curt nod.

“Take care. We’ll meet again, do not doubt it.”

Although Alice’s story had seemingly come to an end, it seemed as though (Y/n)’s story was just beginning. For once she wasn’t the side character in someone’s tale, but the main character in her own.

TAGSLIST: @de4ds0up @pink-hufflepuff @redpanda-poetry

#hatter #alice in wonderland #hatter x reader #tarrant hightopp #tarrant hightopp x reader #mad hatter x reader #alice in wonderland x reader #hatter hightopp x reader

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writefightandflightclub · 5 years ago

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Clean-up in Aisle 4 (Will Miller x GN reader blurb)

Summary: a grocery store meet-cute with Will. Little bit of fluff, mainly angsty.

Author’s note: First time writing Will. Super quick one but hope you like it. Helps a lot if you know Will’s canon from the movie. You can read-up here if you wanna. Told you I was in Triple Frontier feels tonight!

Warnings: vague but thematic mentions of prior trauma related to military service and PTSD / anxiety themes, though nothing in-depth / graphic. Swearing.

GIF: @will-grammer

The first thing you noticed about the man was the broadness of him. Wide shoulders, leading down to a nipped-in waist. You weren’t ogling. Really. It was simply hard to miss, since you nearly drove your cart into his back, the brick wall of a man coming to a sudden, dead halt in front of you as you each approached the grocery store.

The second thing you noticed, as you huffed out air and scooted your cart around him, was the way his hands white-knuckled as they wrapped -achingly tight- around the handle of his own cart, the tension extending into his forearms and along the veins of his straining biceps.

The third thing, causing you to fully abandon your intended pursuit of a passive aggressive side-eyeing, was his ashen expression; the way his gaze fixed unerringly on the sliding, automatic doors as though they were the gates to hell and he was deathly afraid to enter. You saw then that the tension extended all then way through the chords of his neck, into his chiselled jaw, which was covered in a scruff of blond beard.

You’d seen that look before. Seen it on others in the field; and out of it. Had seen it plenty when you looked in the mirror too. It looked like trauma, raw and exposed and bile-inducing, and the recognition had the words rising out of your throat before you could stop them.

“Hey, are you okay?” you had asked casually, in a cooling voice as you lined your cart up side-by-side with his.

It was reflex by now. You had seen too many comrades freeze in the face of danger - and in your experience, freezing near-always led to sub-optimal outcomes. Perhaps that’s why you felt a personal responsibilty to shock him back to life. He seemed stuck. He seemed like he needed a push, like that damn cart.

The man’s eyes - hazel centred and fringed with a piercing yet muted blue - flicked fiercely towards you, and the hint of volatility made you very suddenly take note of his size and latent strength, your body’s fight or flight response firing as he appeared to take a little unkindly to the interruption.

Of course, you stood your ground. You always do. It’s a bad habit of yours.

His eyes softened, however, just a little, as he clocked gentle concern rather than confrontation in your own, and he self-consciously shuffled from foot to foot, his heavy combat boots seeking surer-footing on the paving; quite literally grounding himself.

Oh, he’s definitely military this one. You recognised that too in the way he moved. In the habits ingrained in his body.

Still, you saw the rush of panic fleeting across his eyes as he ignored you and fixed his stare back on the threshold of the store. It might have looked like nothing -a simple line to cross- but you knew all too well how the smallest of lines could be something much bigger; a marker, a milestone, a hurdle.

It seemed hard for him. And if it seemed hard, and he was still here, trying, then you were damn sure it seemed important too.

You had noticed the ticks in his body then too. He tapped his boot and his fingers on the handle, almost as if he was counting. Counting-up or counting down to something, you were not sure.

“Afraid to go in?” you had asked him gently, devoid of any mocking.

“I had a bad experience here...” he had told you, his voice a deep, drawling, painfully empty baritone.

He told you this much, though he was not sure why or how he even began to speak. Why or how he looked at you. He was not sure either, why he was unable to continue speaking.

He was a speaker by profession, wasn’t he? He had repeated his story often enough as part of his motivational speeches, and yet, the words died in his throat now.

Cart. Blacked-out. Choked. Almost...

His hands tightened their grip on the cart, just like they had tightened...

“Hmm,” you acknowledged, chewing on your lip as you digested the new information.

“Well. Me too,” you admitted, as his eyes segued back to those double doors, bumping open and closed as his proximity continually reactivated the sensors. “It was bad. My shorts had split clean in half right down the ass-crack and no-one thought to tell me. Some of the clerks still call me Cheeky to this day.”

The incident you spoke of was painfully true, and at least mildly cheering, you thought, but the man barely registered it. At least, not initially. He took a moment, still staring, still counting, but then he looked at you with a reluctant and pained amusement that evidently took him by surprise.

Now, he saw you. His eyes gave you the once over.

You were not what he was expecting. That story wasn’t what he was expecting. He wasn’t expecting...

“Wait, what?”

Letting your mouth draw open into a smile, effortlessly holding his attention now, you had pressed on with your distraction.

“Split right up the ass-crack. Mortifying. So... I could use the company, if you’ll brave it with me?” You had nodded your head towards the double doors, and you had shifted your cart to casually bump his. “We could go together?”

The man had simply stared at you, and you had patiently waited for his response. The muscles in his jaw had twitched, tendons slipping over bone. He was frozen still; that is, until you had politely nodded and started to move away from him, with a sincere, “Take care of yourself, man.”

“Hey, wait up,” he had called as you moved ahead of him, and you threw your head over your shoulder to humourously inspect the seat of your pants.

“Shit, why, is my ass out again?” you had laughed, and Will tentatively laughed with you, following you into the store; crossing his personal boundary.

It was hard, and it was important.

You had waited for him to catch-up with a soft smile, proud of the man although you did not know him yet, and this time he had drawn his cart to a halt alongside yours.

“Your ass is not out,” he had promised. “Shit. Not that I was looking. I just, uh. Shit. I could actually use the company?”

“Sure,” you had nodded, without judgement, and you had stayed closely by his side on your usual, winding route around the store.

You had tried your best to cheer him and distract this stranger, and even earned a few smiles as you engaged him in meaningless conversation.

Then, the man had paused at the mouth of a particular aisle and stared turbulently into the vacant space there, face and body pulled taut as if replaying an unpleasant memory. He was about to abandon his cart, you thought. About to leave you with a hanging apology he in no way owed you about how he wasn’t ready for this.

It was important, but perhaps it was still too hard.

However, instead, you had blitzed into the centre of the aisle and trampled over his ghosts, barraging all of his memories out of the way as you shifted armfuls of dog food into your cart with a clatter.

He had swallowed thickly, his hands stuffed into his pockets, until you shot him another soft smile.

“You have a dog,” he observed tentatively, consciously tearing himself away from the past. Counting the seconds; his breaths, his heartbeats, the cans of dog food. Moving forward.

“I do. He’s the goodest boi. He even has medals of honour.”

The man tips his mouth into a lop-sided smile. “What for? Can he walk on his hind legs?”

“Ugh, okay. I love it when smug fuckers underestimate my mutt.” You had added the last of your tins to the cart and gestured for Will to follow you into the next aisle. Away from his demons. He did follow. “No, actually,” you begin more softly, “he sniffed out IEDs when I was on my tour of duty.”

“Holy shit, you’re army?”

“Ex-Army,” you correct. “You too, I’m guessing?”

He had that look. That manner to his movements. The man looked like he had killed. It was a look you had learned to identify at ten paces. It was a look you saw in the mirror often enough.

“That obvious?” he says, sucking in air through his teeth.

“Oh yeah.”

He had smiled nervously at you. For the first time since meeting him, you noticed that he looked sweet.

“Yep, uh, I got out. Now I give motivational speeches where I relive my trauma and try ‘n’ convince recruits it’s all worth it.”

You had nodded, thin-lipped, as you moved towards the check-out.

You had wondered what happened to him out there, but something about the way his gaze had fallen on that spot in the aisle told you that what weighed heaviest wasn’t what he did while he was in, but what he did when he got out.

Cart. Blacked-out. Choked. Almost...

That could happen. You had seen the pattern too many times amongst your buddies. Still, you had seen regret in this man’s eyes. That doesn’t always happen. Not everyone can pull back from the violence. Not everyone wants to.

You had peered into the man’s cart as he moved the items to be scanned. He had cola, lemons, and some sriracha in his cart, but... one step at a time. Coherent meals could come later.

This was hard. This was important.

“You should meet my floofy war hero. He’s outside in my truck,” you had offered, picking-up your bags, and the man picking up his... lemons etc..

“Oh yeah? Sure. Would be an honour,” he had smiled shyly, and you had tracked together over to your truck, thrown your bags in the back, and had let your boy out of the passenger seat.

“Hey, buddy,” the man had cooed, kneeling down on the ground to deliver some quality scritches, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile at the sight.

“Aw, he loves you! Freddie, you slut!” you had laughed as this huge, burly man baby-talked to your mutt, your dog rolling on the floor and showing his belly like you didn’t feed and water him and take him for walkies.

You had watched the man for a moment. You had noticed a lot about him already, but now you noticed that, shit, he was handsome. That smile. That laugh. Blonde hair and beard and piercing eyes. His arms rippling beneath his pale blue t-shirt.

He had risen back to standing and leaned up against your truck, looking like soemthing out of a catalogue. And then, there it was again. That look. That raw, exposed, bile-inducing look.

“Listen,” he had said earnestly. “Thank you. I probably would still be standing out front if you hadn’t taken pity on me.”

“No problem. Except, not pity. Not at all,” you had reassured. Affinity, maybe. Recognition.

He had huffed out a gentle, grateful breath.

“For real though, I was getting kinda tired of eating gas station noodle pots. Wouldn’t have my...” he had finally peered into the paper bag, registering the groceries he had panic bought. “Fuck. Wouldn’t have my lemons and sriracha without you.”

“Okay. Now maybe I’ll take pity on you,” you had smiled, gently teasing, and you shifted a few choice ingredient from your bags to his, despite his protests that you’d done enough for him already.

“You did it,” you had said firmly. “I just walked into a place where all the clerks accidently saw my ass cheeks. Whatever you did. It was hard and it was immportant. You did that. You should be proud.”

He had looked at you curiously and disbelievingly with those piercing eyes of his, like he didn’t deserve your words - even though they were merely the truth. So, you had bumped him on the arm, loaded Freddie back into the truck, and had thrown him a “Take care of yourself, man” as you clambered into the driver’s side.

“Wait.. I...”

The handsome, troubled man had motioned to you and you had wound down the window, leaning your arm out the side of the truck.

“Yeah?” you had asked, with a soft smile, but the man had simply shaken his head.

Cart. Blacked-out. Choked. Almost...

Nevermind.

He had looked apologetic, like maybe he wasn’t ready to subject himself to anyone just yet. As if he looked at you and saw the ghost of someone he let down standing over your shoulder. Maybe even in your face.

Cart. Blacked-out. Choked. Almost...

His brows had knitted together, and he had looked down at his boots, shifting and seeking sure-footing all over again. Grounding himself.

“Listen,” you had offered, starting your engine up. “I do my weekly shop at 2pm on Sundays. You know, if you ever need some company? Or,” you had added with a smile and a casual wink, “if you ever need an excuse to check-out a nice ass again.”

He had nodded his head and pursed his lips together, before a broad grin split his features, his deep baritone now sounding full as a chuckle spills out of him.

“Good to know,” he had smiled, looking up at you shyly, and he had stepped back to let you swing the truck around and pull away, offering you a wave.

He never did tell you his name, but you had a feeling that you might be seeing him around.

Sometimes, things were simply better with company, after all.

#will miller x reader #will miller #charlie hunman #triple frontier #triple frontier fic

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utterlyinevitable · 4 years ago

Text

The Conference (Part 9)

Paring: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Rebecca Lao) Word Count: 3.7k Rating: T+ Warning: Some cursing Summary: It’s the evening after the keynote and they go out for a civil dinner date.

A/N: shout out to ruby @starrystarrytrouble for reminding me people actually like reading this mess 💕

________________________________________

After we finished up the panel I stuck around the conference hall to network whilst Ethan had ditched the crowd at the first opportunity he got, heading back to our hotel room and venturing away from the pecking vultures. To be honest, I didn’t really blame him. Everyone wanted a piece of the poor, well-endowed man.

A couple hours later, I shuffled back into our apartment. My aching feet somehow prevailed without causing me to collapse on the odd geometric carpet floor, or ditching my heels along the way and walking barefoot like some uncultured frosh stumbling home at 3AM. Once through the heavy metal plated door, I headed straight to my room, not throwing a single pleasantry towards Ethan in the seating area. From what I could tell he was typing furiously on his laptop after nursing a scotch - the empty crystal tumbler on the table was a dead giveaway.

The anxiety and delirium inducing stress of the day lifted the second my kinda-sweaty body collapsed onto the private armchair in my room, clutching its aqua-colored arms and sinking into the velvet cushion. Staring out at the familiar skyline my mind started to replay the happenings of the day; every little thing that happened - from the confidence I felt during our speech, to the way that asshole called me out, and how Ethan stood up for me every step of the way. How proud he was even if he relayed the sentiment in such small words.

We survived today. We haven’t strangled each other nor suffered any little deaths. All that’s left for this trip is the tour we have tomorrow morning, and then we’ll be on our way back to Edenbrook. Back to the way things were…

Somehow my tired and self destructive brain decided it wanted to revel in the memories of the last few days. Thinking about all the non-work things that happened this trip. Thinking of all the words shared, and the blast from the past. And the revelation that little adventure birthed.

Fuck me...

Things are weird. Like, so weird. I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m even thinking this… but I miss him. Today showed me how great we are together! Professionally and as friends. We’re the dynamic duo: Ramsey and his Rookie. His. I -

I need to stop thinking that.

I belong to myself. I do what I want when I want and with whom I want.

And so does he. And that’s why I walked away. I’m-

I’m still getting over him.

While simultaneously trying to get under him…

Thoughts wandered back to Ryan and how long it took me to get over the detrimental ‘what if’s of him. If I held on tighter and longer and didn’t get in the way of myself back then - if one thing was different - everything could be different.

A small, revelatory gasp escaped me.

I didn’t want things to be different.

After eight fucking years I finally understood.

If I didn’t love and lose Ryan I never would have found my way to Boston. To Ethan. And here - knowing what I do and having all the experiences of the last few months - I couldn’t continue a life without knowing Ethan Ramsey.

I’m going to do whatever I can to repair our friendship.

I changed my clothes into something not requiring heels - black skinny jeans, a blouse and my trusty Chelsea boots - and my hair pulled back into a bun. Simple, sleek, and completely me. No pomp and circumstance, or hiding behind anything. Just me, making an effort.

With all the determination I could muster I sauntered into the living room where I assumed Ethan would still be.

I was right; he hadn’t changed positions at all. Sitting there on the couch, his feet up on the gaudy footstool with his laptop perched on his lap, tortoise-patterned glasses framing his face, and furiously typing on the keyboard.

“So...” I trailed awkwardly to break the tension surrounding him, leaning against the wall with my hands stuffed in my armpits. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“Oh,” He planted his feet on the floor and turned to face me fully, moving his laptop off of him and folding his arms in his lap. “Uh, well-”

Quickly I added, “If you’d rather eat alone it’s fine by me. I was thinking of grabbing pizza at John’s.”

Ethan nodded in response, saying, “Sounds good.”

“Cool,” I nodded back. “You ready or…?”

“Let me grab my things,” he stood, collected his things and headed to his room.

Less than two minutes later we headed out of the apartment together, walking side by side. Though this time wasn’t like earlier. There wasn’t the blind determination and need to impress like this morning. Right now we were two people who used to know one another going out to dinner in a spectacular converted synagogue.

***

For anyone who doesn’t know John’s, it’s a local family-style pizza joint. There’s three restaurants around the city and the Times Square location is by far the best. Every time I have a hot minute to spare I try to go - the stained glass and craftsmanship of the building is everything! But you don’t want to hear about that… and neither did Ethan when I tried to fill the silence during our walk with all the reasons to love this place. For some reason he preferred to barge and weave in silence.

Whatever.

Lucky enough he was more chatty once we were seated.

Our table was in the mezzanine with not much of a view besides the stone staircase in the corner and the large dome towering above. The dim lighting complimented the deep wooden table and beige upholstered seating.

We ordered. And without the menu to keep our attention, I tried my hand at conversation once more.

“Be honest, how did we do?”

Looking me in the eyes, ones that mirrored mine, showed such confidence and pride as he said his next words;

“You handled it well, Becca.” There was a tug at the corners of his mouth that pulled at my own. I was about to get a rare Ramsey smile - one I’ve been devoid of for far too long.

“Dare I even say, like a natural.”

I got to revel in the small compliment for a few moments as the server brought over our food - garlic knots, small veggie pizza, and a chef’s side salad.

“I didn’t stutter too much or come off too young?” I couldn’t help but ask when it was just us two again. His opinion matters more than anyone else’s when it comes to my career.

“You did.”

“But you -”

He cut me off, a slight shake of his big head, “You are young and this was your first keynote.” he clarified. And once more he said pridefully, “You did well.”

After what felt like ages we shared a private smile. How he was able to bring me back into myself with a few words and stop fussing over imposter syndrome is a wonder.

“Now eat some pizza and be happy.”

My smile grew to a goofy one by the way he was looking at me, bemused. I refrained from sticking my tongue out and dug into a little slice of heaven. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

We dug in. Letting the flavors dance over my taste buds and make me only as happy as a New York slice could make me. No amount of fantastic sex could compare to pizza. Everything kind of disappeared - time stopped while the first bites settled in my tummy. Even Ethan looked to be enjoying it even though it’s not fancy smancy and artery clogging.

Eventually I broke our companioned silence;

“How was lunch with Chief Fredericks?” I asked as I reached for a scrumptious ball of garlicy dough.

The response left his lips so swiftly he didn’t even bother to look up from his plate;

“Informative.”

I scoffed at the non-answer answer.

My little grumble pulled him out of his bubble and he looked over at me - those damn baby blues challenging my thoughtfully indecent outburst. I just gave him a look right back.

Ethan rolled his eyes and reached for another slice. Cutting it up with a fork and knife like an absolute weirdo.

“He heard about the state budget cuts. Wanted to know what I think and if I’d be open to consult every so often.”

“And?” I probed.

“And what? You know how I feel about the future of Edenbrook.”

“Yes. But if it goes under, what do you think you’ll do? I mean, everyone’s going to be throwing themselves at you.”

I shoved some greenery in my gob to keep from adding the jarring truth.

Everyone throws themselves at you.

But who he gives his attention to is another story.

Ethan shrugged ever so nonchalantly, “I haven’t thought about it.”

The cavalier way he was speaking of his life after Edenbrook had thrown me off. Ethan was never this laid-back. It just wasn’t in his nature. There’s always something for this man to stress over. And Edenbrook’s closing should be his anxiety numero uno.

But here he was, ever so calm.

Hmm...

“Are you in denial?” I said through a bite, fully anticipating another non-answer.

“Maybe.”

The way he said it took me aback. It was inherently honest and soft. All of his jagged features were rounded and there was a dulled little twinkle in his eye.

Yeah, something’s going on here he’s not telling me.

“Ethan -”

And of course he deflects by turning the conversation on me; “What are you going to do?”

Keeping from rolling my eyes at his obvious deflection from roaming into his feelings deeper, I replied, “Transfer my residency.”

“Where?”

“I…” - dammit - “don’t know.”

I haven’t really dwelled on what happens when the hospital closes. Obviously I need to finish residency if I want to be an actual practicing doctor. But the matching process can go screw itself. I don’t never ever want to do that again - all I cared about was matching with the best. And I did. So who’s the second best now?

Is it wherever he goes?

There’s just so much to think about, and I’d really rather not. Not until the last few nails are lined up against the coffin.

“See,” he said with a hint of a lopsided grin, “Neither of us are ready to leave Edenbrook behind.”

He was right. Of course he’s right. You didn’t need to be a diagnostician or even a doctor to see that we’re holding out hope of a buyout.

I’ve just gotten to Edenbrook - only a few months into my dream career with my dream boss - and now, what? It’s all over before it even really began? No. I can’t accept that.

There was a beat of silence as we both reached for the salad tongs, our hands brushing on accident. Both our eyes shot to bear witness to the contact, pulling us out of whatever ran wild through our thoughts and into this new, secluded moment. Everything around us dulled in the distance; the sounds swirling in the air muted and like a faint breeze. The warm lighting dimmed further, yet there was a spotlight on the salad bowl. The greens and reds and purples of the ruffage illuminated like it was the only thing that mattered. Like right now the earth was spinning just for this moment of closeness.

Surprisingly, neither of us made a motion to move. His large hand overlapping my dainty fingers, the metal underneath the pads of my fingers warming up instantly. Electricity still coursed through me like the very first time. Except now it carried the memories of all the other times and places he set me aflame.

I had to be the one to pull back.

Almost, like it needed time to comprehend why the moment was intentionally ruined, the atmosphere around us began to revert back slightly. I could hear the idle chatter of those around us now. I could see the full picture of Ethan sitting across from me and all the individuals pattering around behind him. What couldn’t pretend to go back and hung off kilter was the beating in my chest - I could feel the electricity coursing through my veins and putting my heart through the ringer.

Ethan made up for it by serving me.

Does he know he still has such an effect on me?

Quick! I needed to divert my thoughts off of the creeping flush and want from taking hold. So I went back to talking about work, our safe topic.

“If you could work anywhere else in the world where would it be?” I asked.

Ethan took a moment to think as he served himself some salad. He looked like he was actually thinking of an answer, maybe, for the first time he’s digested the hospital’s fate.

“I think the next logical step would be the Mayo Clinic. They’re the best diagnostics in the world.” His eyes diverted back down to his plate and, after a beat, he added, “I also wouldn’t mind spending more time on missions with The WHO.”

My eyes searched his as they looked anywhere but where I was seated across from him, trying to find any sort of fault in his features. Something, anything, that I could hold onto. Nothing. Just stupid sincerity. The first fucking time in weeks he actually lets us talk about his time in the Amazon I can’t be mad at him.

“You really enjoyed your time there, huh?”

“It…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

We’ve wandered into emotional territory and we both needed to tread carefully. I need to remember that he was never mine, as much as I felt like his from our first kiss. Need to recall that back then everything was drawn out in plain sight. Our end was always just that - an end. I Need to forgive. And try to remember that at one point he did try to fight for me, in his round-a-bout noncommittal way, and I was the one to end things officially.

We both need to forgive. Especially if these are the last few months we have working together.

“Was important work and I got to make a difference in the lives of thousands of indigenous people.” Ethan took another small pause for breath. When he continued, his deep baritone voice was lower, “Even if my intentions for going were skewed, it was an opportunity of a lifetime.”

The simplest thing to do would be to nod, or eat - distract myself - or even change the subject. To try not to dwell on the implications of the statement. But I couldn’t. My body tensed and the warmth from moments before fled completely.

We were silent. The brutal truth of why he left stinging just as much as it did the day I found out.

Minutes, many many minutes passed with me finding solace in sweet savory carbs and Ethan pushing things around on his plate.

Eager to change the subject there was one other topic of the day I was endlessly curious to know more about;

“So, what’s the deal with Dr. Schwab?”

“Don’t.” He dismissed, his authoritative voice seeping through just a tad. Though I’d like to think he’s smart enough not to use it with me outside of Edenbrook.

“If you don’t tell me I’ll be forced to fabricate my own. I’m feeling a one-night stand gone wrong.”

He looked back down at his food.

“Oh my god, I’m right.” The smile that erupted literally took over my entire face. I could not hide it even if I tried.

“Rebecca,” he tried to scold.

“Now you have to tell me.”

Just like earlier he turned the conversation back on me; “What’s with the frat boy?”

“Ryan was never in a fraternity,” I responded, not hiding the grin that formed by putting Ethan in his place. “He’s a jock though.”

He expelled a dry laugh, “I don’t think that’s any better.” He took a bite of his salad. Something radiated off of Ethan I couldn’t quite place.

“We were close in high school,” I added for reasons I’m not quite sure why. Like that explained who Ryan was and why he came back into my life now, of all times.

Ethan made a condescending, “mhm”.

I rolled my eyes; “We had a thing for a while, okay.” I conceded. “We grew apart senior year, and then I went off to college. Last night was the first time we’ve spoken in, like, eight years.”

Ethan made absolutely no reactions to the statement. Not even a stupid wiggle of his dumb perfect eyebrow.

Is he even paying attention?

“Now tell me about Schwab - sorry, Hilary,” I coaxed.

Ethan’s hand flew to the bridge of his nose and up to carefully rub his eyes.

This has gotta be good.

I waited patiently and eagerly for this story. She couldn’t have been Ethan’s type and yet… What happened!?

Eyes still shut tight, he grumbled, “What’s there to tell?”

“Obviously something happened,” I couldn’t help but mock, “You slept together!”

“Yes, and it’s something I do not like to dwell on.”

“Sorry, buddy, but it looks like she does.”

He groaned. Then shifted in his chair. Ethan took a long drag of his drink. And just when I figured he was going to wait this out until one of us changed the subject, he spoke;

“A moment of weakness a few years back. And she was…”

Ah! It’s actually happening! Ethan’s telling a salacious story!

Shifting in my seat and placing my head in my hands to give him my full attention; My brows and smile grew as I finished the sentence for him, “Eager?”

He scowled.

“Jesus Christ, Ethan, just tell me what happened!”

“I will not go into details.”

“Fine.” I made a motion with my hand for him to continue without the juicy details.

“Harper and I had just ended things for good not long before…”

We ended up going back and forth for a while - Ethan not wanting to give anything up and me pulling as much as I could out of him. Long story short, Ethan was in a weird mental state after breaking up with Harper for the hundredth and final time in their six year relationship. He took up a conference opportunity to get away for two nights. Knowing how much he loves people, Ethan spent most of his time drowning his senses at the hotel bar. And low and behold, enter Hillary.

From the sounds of it she was agreeable and very very forward. And Ethan was so lost in liquor that her voice didn’t irritate him as much as it did the next morning, and every single time they were in close proximity thereafter. Hillary had been going through a separation with her husband and needed a distraction just as bad. Really, who could blame her? Toting Ethan around would be the best revenge.

The first night of his stay was fine - apparently the sex was satisfactory and she didn’t do anything remarkably memorable. Or so he says. I still think she looks like a squawker. He didn’t linger around long after before retreating to his hotel room. Then the next afternoon he was bored and weak and agreed to lunch. And lunch turned into drinks which turned into round two. In his room. And she didn’t leave. She wasn’t leaving. So Ethan bought an earlier plane ticket, and shook her awake before checking out.

And every conference since she seems to want to entertain a rematch.

“Oh my god, you’re horrible!” I exclaimed ever delightfully. This was hilarious!

“I shouldn’t really be surprised. You flew to another continent after we slept together.” Shaking my head, a stupid little smirk on my lips I asked, “Have you ever had a one night stand before?”

“Wha - of course I have!”

“One’s that didn’t end up with you getting on a plane?”

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “If you must know, I’ve had my fair share in undergrad.”

Now it was my turn to send a condescending “mhm” his way.

We spoke longer and polished off our plates - not a single crumb remained. This was nice. Really nice getting to be close to him again and just being friends. Telling stories and exchanging playful jabs here and there. It’s how I fell for the idiot in the first place.

Baby steps.

Two hours after we arrived the server came over with the bill.

She was friendly and lovely the whole meal. The best part about her style of service is that she let us just exist and didn’t check up all that often. When she did I could tell she overheard someone of the crap Ethan and I were spewing. She had one of those knowing smiles, like she was in on our jokes the entire time.

“Can I just say, you guys are adorable,” she relayed with the brightest of smiles after setting the padfolio on the table, her hands clapping together excitedly. She looked like a child who had just met Santa Claus for the first time.

L O L she thinks we’re together.

At that I actually laughed out loud before informing, “We’re colleagues. In town for a conference.”

The horror on the girl's face said it all.

“Oh! My mistake, sorry. I can split the bill for you.” She reached for the pad where it sat in front of Ethan.

He grabbed the black leather at the same time I spoke;

"Nope, dinner’s on him.” I cupped a hand over my mouth and pointed a not-at-all discreet thumb towards him, “He'll get reimbursed," I laughed more to myself than anything.

She smiles, a little relieved by my warmth, then turns to look at Ethan - silently asking permission or if it’s okay that he pays. Generally looking for some sort of direction from the old man.

He shoots the server a look. Then forks over his credit card.

As she saunters off, I smile at him sweetly, “Thank you.”

Of course he rolls his eyes. But that rise in the corners of his mouth says so much more.

________________________________________

A/N: sorry it’s shit. thank you for sticking with this series 💕 we’ve just got one chapter left!

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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 4 years ago

Text

Deleted Scenes: A Character Study (Part 1)

Longer title -- “Deleted Scenes: if the Criminal Minds writers had any idea how to incorporate dramatic back story into a working narrative, A Character Study”

Every once in a while I get impassioned about something that happens in the show, or more importantly that doesn’t happen in the show -- but should have. This will probably be one of at least a handful, but for now, enjoy the pinnacle of my rage. Fueled by all the OPENINGS for Hotch to talk about his past and the writers taking advantage of NONE OF THEM, but this was my breaking point.

Rating: General

Warnings: mentions of past child abuse

Pairing: none

Characters: Hotch, JJ

Episode, and placement: Season 10, Episode 05, “Boxed In”; after the episode

Word count: 2,404

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796501/chapters/73302726

A Prime Example

Very few things get to Aaron Hotchner. Especially things that are said with no relatable context to him or the details people don’t know about his life. His past, in particular. He pushes them back in compartmentalized little boxes, carefully labeled and sorted and set aside to be unpacked at a later date. They aren’t important when he’s on a case. When a twelve-year-old boy is missing and his life hangs in the balance. When time is of the essence.

Which is why, on numerous occasions, he lets the things people say slide.

Especially on the topic of Nature versus Nurture.

He, himself, has written a handful of papers and reports on the very argument. There’s no doubt that Nature and Nurture have complicated roles in why ‘bad people do bad things’, in layman's terms. But the stigma surrounding it, cutting it into a black and white, all or nothing scenario will always rub him the wrong way. Not because he believes in it, one way or the other, but because he lives it. Day after day.

It’s not his team’s fault that they don’t know that. Hotch keeps those parts of his life to himself. Lessons only he has learned, and has grown from, and keeps as careful guidelines.

Until this case.

“I guess we all become our parents at some point.”

The way JJ had said this -- steady, with no hesitation, despite the choice in phrasing indicating it could be a right or wrong assumption -- gave the statement an air of inevitability. Creating a precedent in her mind that set Hotch's teeth on edge, though it had not been the appropriate moment to correct her on it. But it's not the first time JJ has said something along those lines.

“Does the son of a sociopath even really have a chance?”

Not a lot gets to Aaron Hotchner. Every other remark, observation, detail of an unsub’s correlation between their upbringing and their crimes he doesn’t let sting his exposition. It has never affected him before, and he vowed it never will. His father doesn’t get to take that away from him, too.

But the inevitability of her statement, indicating it was only a matter of time. No matter what he has done with his life or the person he has worked so hard to become and imbody, ultimately it wouldn’t matter in the end. That one day, Aaron Hotchner would be just like his father. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to live with himself, if that were to happen.

That single, throw-away sentence, with a pedestrian phrasing he has heard over and over again, gets to Hotch. It buries itself in him like a tick and refuses to let go, not for tweezers or fire or smothering indifference. It is still there, echoing in his head as if shouted down a long tunnel, even after they get back to Quantico and are finishing up the closing paperwork later that week. He finds himself barely able to glance at JJ for longer than a moment without hearing her words once more, and Hotch berates himself for it. Over and over again. This is why he shuts it all down and doesn’t talk about it. This is why he keeps it buried, where it will never resurface. It interferes with the present, with his work and his friendships and his relationship with his son.

His past needs to stay dead and buried in a plot in rural Virginia, where it belongs.

“I have those reports for you, Hotch,” JJ says, as if procured by his musings. He glances up for the briefest of moments, barely a blink, to acknowledge her and nod in thanks as she leaves the folders on his desk. Then he’s turning back to the SWAT team justification reports and expects that to be the last of it. Drowning himself in his work, where everything is strict codes and formal speech patterns and no emotional influence whatsoever.

Which is why he is surprised to hear JJ address him, again. Never having left his office.

“Sir?” The formal term catches his attention even more. “Is everything alright? Did something happen after you missed Halloween night?”

“What?” The question genuinely throws him off, though it doesn’t show on his face. He had missed Halloween, the first time he had ever done so, but Jack understood. He was always much more accepting of the parameters of Hotch’s job than Haley ever was. It was all he’s ever known. “Oh, no -- Jack had a fun night. Slept on the couch so I could see him in his costume when he got home. How was Henry’s night?”

“He and Will had a great time,” JJ answers, her careful, worried expression not waning in the face of Hotch’s slightly more upbeat tone. It’s something he slips into subconsciously when speaking about Jack, or to Jack, or anywhere Jack might hear. Compartmentalization. “I just… noticed you seem off.”

Hotch nods once, in acknowledgement, because he knows he has. He’s working on it. There was no need for an intervention like this. He’s the Team Leader and Unit Chief, he wasn’t the one people were supposed to be checking on.

“Delayed reaction to the case,” he answers, looking back to the SWAT team report and signing off on another section for mobilization after hours. Overtime justifications. Bureaucracy needs the ‘i’s dotted and ‘t’s crossed. “Nothing to worry about.”

JJ takes pause, and still doesn’t make for the door of his office. Like she needs to elaborate somehow, now that Hotch has left a small crack of an opening into his inner sanctum.

“I know we all have cases that hit us too close to home,” she concedes, the start of a much longer speech. “Young boys, even the troublemakers --”

“No, JJ, I appreciate the concern,” Hotch interrupts, and does his best to appease her by keeping the hardness off his face. “But it’s nothing to do with Jack or facts we found. It’s a personal matter.”

“Of course, it’s just --”

Years ago, that would have been that and JJ would have left his office. But time and history have blurred their relationship from boss and subordinate to friends and family. Personal matter no longer meant private, it meant a switch in barriers. It meant family.

She steps closer to his desk.

“You are always there for us, for these kinds of cases.” Her blue eyes bore into his, a technique Hotch recognizes as a fellow parent, to get through and make sure the person they are speaking to is really listening. “But, do you ever allow anyone to be there for you?”

He sighs through his nose. She’s not going to let this go, he can see that. No profiling needed.

“Sit.”

Closing the file, Hotch resigns himself to the fact that this was something inadvertently he’d been wanting to talk to JJ about, anyway. She had been a profiler for the team almost nearly as long as she’d been communications liaison, now, and although this could have waited for her performance review -- it tied into what was bothering him. The small smile of victory, and relief, slips from her lips as she sees the serious set to Hotch’s mouth. JJ is one hell of a profiler. The best ones did it without even knowing they were doing so.

“Wait… is this about me?” she looks mildly scandalized to even have to suggest it. Although really, it shouldn’t surprise her too much. Hotch knows he isn’t great about making things about himself, even when the conversation is supposed to be. So he gathers his thoughts, with such little prep time, and decides to start with where this whole debacle had begun.

In the car. When JJ had made her off-handed comment.

“The events of our lives shape us, and bring us here. As they do for everyone. It’s a technique that also helps us narrow down our profiles. How we were raised, what he have gone through. Heredity factors.”

JJ is staring hard at him, now. Deciphering the point, attempting to look ten steps ahead when Hotch has barely revealed three.

“You’re talking about Nature versus Nurture.”

“You could say that,” Hotch acquiesces. “In a lot of ways we are our parent’s lineage. Unless we choose not to be. I only became a prosecutor because my father was. But now, here I am.”

The parent’s lineage is a direct drop towards the conversation in the car. Both JJ and Hotch are intelligent adults, as is the entire team. Sometimes the most direct reference isn’t needed. Sometimes a key phrase is what links the mind back to the moment, replays it in the mind’s eye so it becomes fresh and there’s no confusion. Fewer words can connect more than a thousand, Hotch had learned that early on as well.

“I was… I was speaking more toward behavior,” JJ elaborates, still unaware where the conversation is going. How this has correlated to Hotch’s odd mood.

“I know you were. And my statement still stands,” Hotch answers plainly. “I’ve noticed that sometimes agents, myself included, let bias dictate their profiles. And we need to stray away from that kind of influence.”

JJ’s slight frown becomes defensive. Confused, but not angry. She’s learning quickly, Hotch notices.

“Nature and Nurture are a part of standard psychology practices. With a lot of information and testing to back it up. Spence could give you statistics for days, I’m sure. It’s proven.”

“Yes, as a theory. Not as a rule.” Hotch continues, giving her that steady, stern but gentle tone that borders on chastisement.

“I have yet to see an exception to that rule, when it comes to children of violent offenders,” JJ buckles down. “If they are the target of that violence, it warps them, Hotch. Plain and simple. How do they recover from something like that?” She’s shaking her head, getting caught up in the emotional aspect of it all over again. The hopelessness of its appearance.

“Any way they can.”

Now he has JJ’s attention, because she hears the shift as soon as it forms on his tongue. The air heavier, hazy like an old memory.

“Sometimes they leave home as soon as they graduate just to escape the situation, and spend their whole adult lives trying to eradicate it. By burying themselves in, say… Law School.” JJ’s stare goes vacant, and Hotch at least has the decency to look away from her as he continues. He has a point to make. “So they can put away people like their abuser. But when that’s not enough, prosecuting after the fact, they start to focus on ways to catch the offenders in the act. Save victims in the real world. Use what they know from experience, but in the field, so no one else slips through the cracks.”

“H-Hotch, I--”

“If there was a file on me as detailed as these on my desk, and there probably is somewhere in this building,” Hotch barrels on, not letting JJ get a word in edgewise. “Then the first seventeen years of my homelife would look nearly identical to John David Bidwell's childhood.” He didn’t need to go into further detail, though bullet points from the case all bust flash between them in neon.

Strict, domineering father figure. Church every Sunday, as a control and appearance factor. At home: a constant deluge of beratements, fear, shouting and fists. Something was always wrong, someone always deserved a punishment. No one was safe. They did what they could, followed the rules to a tee, but that wasn't always enough.

They survived, because that's all that they could do.

And he had.

“If you really require a physical, living exception to the rule, I’d like to hope we know each other well enough that you would consider myself that exception.” It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting what happened in his father’s household, and Hotch knows that’s as far as he will let it go. No elaboration needed. “Even if I can be ‘a bit of a bully’.”

Stunned and shocked, the last part probably wasn’t needed. But, again, Hotch has a point he’s trying to get across -- and he wants it to make an impact.

“Hotch, I’m so sorry,” JJ croaks out, and he still can’t look right at her.

“Don’t be, you didn’t know,” he soothes her, swallowing a little hard. “No one on the team does, not even Dave.”

“--No one?”

“The only one who probably did was Gideon, but not because I told him. He was just that good of a profiler. You will be, too, one day -- I see that level of potential in you. Profilers are always learning, evolving, developing their skills.” Hotch finally turns his head, and catches sight of JJ with her eyes bright and her nose red. Her tell-tale physical signs that she’s been holding back tears. “Let this be one of those moments.”

She nods, wipes at her eyes discreetly, and collects herself with more strength than Hotch or anyone else ever gives her credit for.

“Was he ever convicted? Your father?”

“No,” Hotch says, level. “He died of colon cancer ten years ago. He never even met Jack. Neither did my mother, though I am sorry for that.”

Silence stretches in the wake of Hotch’s reveal, and JJ only breaks it when she can’t seem to keep it back any more.

“You’re… you’re not really a bully. You know.”

“Yes, I am,” Hotch tells her, the smallest traces of a smile smoothing the sharp edges of his face. “But only when I choose to be. When it matters.”

JJ huffs out a watery laugh, scoots to the edge of her seat as if to stand, but hesitates once more.

“You didn’t have to tell me. But thank you. I’m… I’m glad you felt that you could.”

The sentiment warms the inside of Hotch’s chest, ice cold from the memories he never dredged up if he could afford it. It helps ease them back under the floorboards of his mind, where they belong.

“Thank you for listening.”

She was right. He didn’t confide in anyone, and he doesn’t know if this will help him -- more than likely, not -- but it helped JJ. And that’s what mattered. His team. His family. Growing, learning, becoming all the better for it. The best people he had ever known.

The family he had chosen for himself.

“Goodnight, Hotch.”

“Night, JJ.”

-end scene-

#I got irrationally angered and wrote a thing #criminal minds fanfiction #Aaron Hotchner #jennifer jareau #no ships #angst #cw: mentioned child abuse #katyswriting #idk what I'm doing but I'm doing it in style

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k-popmakesmyday · 5 years ago

Text

Only One of You - lmk

➵ pairing: Mark Lee x gender neutral reader

➵ genre: a lot of fluff, angst if you squint, idol boyfriend au

➵ warnings: none

➵ word count: 1.6k

➵ summary: while Mark is away on a schedule you find yourself stepping into his shoes and playing around with one of his prized possessions, but what will happen if something were to go horribly, horribly wrong?

➵ A/n: credit to @your-world-with-nct for the beautiful header, go give her some love 🥰💞

➵ A/n 2: not proofread

‘Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgod what have you done?’ You thought as you looked down at the horror before you. Head clouded with horror-stricken thoughts as you replayed the last ten seconds over and over again in your mind. Desperately searching for an answer on what you were going to do. Or, better yet, how in gods name you were going to tell mark why his precious guitar was currently on the floor in front of you in two pieces.

But how did you end up in this particular predicament you ask? Well let’s see..

[3:17 pm] “Hi Y/n! Mark is out with the others right now but you can go wait in his room, they went out shopping but I wasn’t feeling it today” Jungwoo greeted as you walked into the dorm you had become so familiar with.

“Thanks, Woo! How lucky you are today, you have the dorm all to yourself!” you exclaimed with a smile

“Yeah, had the dorm all to myself” he retorted back, narrowing his eyes though his tone held no real malice”

You clasped a hand over your heart in fake offence before you stomped off to Mark’s room with a ‘hmmph!’, hearing the red-haired boy chuckle at your antics as you opened the door.

Sighing lightly upon entering the comforting room, you lightly flopped yourself onto your boyfriend’s bed, your hair splaying out against the beige duvet cover as your eyes looked up at the ceiling. Your gaze soon began to wander around the room, a smile settling upon your lips as the whole room just screamed ‘Mark’; from the slightly messy desk decorated with various lyric sheets to the polaroid picture he kept of the two of you on his bedside table.

You two were so happy that day, running around the city as if you didn’t have a care in the world, and you didn’t. The only thing that mattered to the pair of you that day, was simply each other. Almost feeling your heart fill with warmth, your emotions overwhelmed you at what you laid your eyes on.

That guitar. His guitar. Mark’s guitar. The comforting instrument that accompanied you both through countless sleepless nights, lying in his lap with your eyes fluttering closed as the soft strumming along with Mark’s hushed, tired voice making you inwardly smile, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Without another thought occupying your head, your feet stood up and brought you closer to the object until they took you directly before it. You contemplated for just a moment before chuckling and shaking your head of your worry-some thoughts.

Now, Mark had taught you a few chords here and there over the year that you had been together, but you didn’t know nearly enough to play a full song. Not dwelling on that fact, you picked up the acoustic guitar and held it in your arms.

“Okay, baby, place your fingers here, here and here.’ you could hear Mark’s voice in your head as you recalled the chord pattern. You brought your fingers over the strings as the chord’s beautiful sound raced around the room, the strings in mention vibrating under your fingertips.

The nostalgia seemed to run through you like the vibration of the guitar’s strum. After strumming a few more times you gained a rush of confidence before you added mindless adlibs and hums to your performance, the mere thought of Jungwoo catching you doing something so terribly embarrassing made you wince, but you currently weren’t concerned with that prospect, not in the slightest.

Until it all went so, so awfully wrong. A sharp turn while you were strumming non-melodically caused Mark’s precious, timeless guitar to collide with the wall, and oh, did it collide. The horror you felt envelope your body as a bang proceeded by the entirety of the neck belonging to Mark’s guitar snapped and fell to the floor, the sheer force it hit the wall with also caused the strings to snap in two.

So here you were, staring down at the two, demolished pieces of Mark’s heart at your feet as your mind put you in a whirlwind- what do you now? What will Mark say? Could you.. fix it? Is it possible to.. tie guitar strings together?

The sound of the front door opening followed by the boisterous voices of the other members rang throughout the dorm, sending waves of panic through your veins as you quickly picked up the evidence of your crime and stashed it at the back of Mark’s closet.

When said-boy entered the room you had your back facing him as you were swiftly closed the closet, twirling around at the sound of a tired, ‘hey, baby’

“Heyyy!” You said a little too loudly for it to be believable, “how was your day?”

Luckily for you, Mark was too exhausted that he didn’t catch on to your tone.

“Tiring, but we got a lot done today” the boy mumbled as he flopped onto his bed. “But I don’t wanna talk about work.”

“No?” You mused

“No,” Mark pouted and held his arms out, “I wanna cuddle my baby and take a nap”

You couldn’t say no to that, you smiled and settled in the warm arms of your boyfriend. You tried to relax yourself with the sound of Mark’s steady heartbeat, but the thought of Mark’s reaction to what you had done caused your breathing to quicken and your eyebrows to furrow.

“Can’t you sleep, babe?” Mark mumbled. Oh god, you thought, Mark could always tell when you felt uneasy.

“Mm-mm” you replied softly as you shook your head

“Awe, my baby,” the dusty-blonde cooed as he sat up. “Want me to play you a lil’ smn’ to send you off to sleep?”

If your heart wasn’t currently beating out of your chest, you would’ve found Mark’s words endearing and agreed- instead you said:

“NO!” You erupted and sat up immediately, “I mean- no, thanks. If you start playing then we’ll just have another karaoke session” you smiled, in turn making the boy across from you giggle.

Mark nodded and open his blankets for you to snuggle under with him, you buried your head in his chest as you forced your eyes shut. Go to sleep, y/n. Just fall asleep, everything will be fine if you just-

“Baby, is something wrong?”

“Uh- no, w-what makes you say that?” You spluttered back

“Y/n, I can feel you shaking and you sound like you’re about to cry. I know somethings bothering you.. you don’t have to tell me but I want to know if somethings upsetting you- or if I’m upsetting you”

You took a shaky breath as Mark moved away from you and gazed at you in bewilderment, eyes laced with concern as he gently wiped a stray tear from your cheek.

It was that, that broke you. You broke down into tears and uncontrollable sobs as your hands flew over your face, Mark’s eyebrows furrowing as he sat up and pulled you into his lap.

“Shh, babygirl/boy, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you”

It took several minutes of Mark gently rubbing his hand up and down your back for you to calm your heaving breaths, his soft whispers of affirmations bringing you back to earth as he consoled you.

“Now.. why are we crying, baby?”

“I..I’m so sorry, Mark. I promise I didn’t mean it, if you don’t wanna see me anymore I completely understand but just know that I’ll always love you and-”

“Y/n, slow down.” Mark’s voice brought you out of your panicked speech as you gazed into his warm, brown eyes in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. “What are you sorry for?”

You took a deep breath before admitting, “..I broke your guitar” you uttered out meekly, feeling tears well up again as a result of you admitting your antics out loud.

“Oh baby,” Mark let out a huge sigh of relief as he took both of your hands in his, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, “you had me really worried there”

“You’re.. you’re not mad?”

“Angel its just a guitar, you’re so much more important to me” he reassured you as he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. “I’m more upset that you got so worried because you were scared that I’d be mad”

You sighed and shook your head, “Mark, I know that guitar is important to you. I know that you’ve had it since you were little.. I know that I’d be devastated if I were you, I’d probably never speak to me again.”

The boy before you took you in his arms once again and settled beneath the blankets. He cupped your face as if you could shatter at any second.

“Babygirl/boy I can take the guitar to the shop to get fixed.. or just get another one. There are a million guitars in the world, but there’s only one of you”

~ epilogue ~

“So, babe, how exactly did you break my guitar?”

It was at that very moment your eyes widened and you spat your orange juice out during breakfast the day after your musical shenanigans.

“I uh-”

“You broke Mark’s guitar?” Asked a shocked Jaehyun, “Mark has had that guitar for 4 years and even he hasn’t broke it.. I’m weirdly impressed but.. how did you break it?”

All nine pairs of eyes turned to you before you winced and admitted:

“So I may or may not have been dancing around in your room pretending I was a performer when I may have possibly... accidentally.. smashedhisguitarintoawallwhenispunaround”

It’s safe to say you never heard the end of that story from the other boys- especially your boyfriend.

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ghosttotheparty · 4 years ago

Text

i just kind of want to be near you

Something in Troy changed while he was at air conditioning repair school, but it has nothing to do with… well, everything that happened at air conditioning repair school. Which was a lot.

He’s not sure he would be able to explain it out loud if he had to, or if he wanted to. So he keeps it under wraps, makes sure that not even Abed can pick up on it, on the slight, subtle, ground-breaking, earth-shaking revelation that broke Troy in pieces overnight.

The revelation that occurred at approximately one thirty in the morning, while Troy layed in bed, staring at the ceiling, with nothing but the sound of air whirring under his window (he was growing to loathe air) and his thoughts to keep him company. He’d gone to bed at about ten, he had every night since arriving. But, like every night, he’d stayed there, on his back or on his side or on his stomach, squirming and turning and flopping and rolling in the dark, too sensitive to the fabric of the blankets or too cold. (The A.C. in his room was like a cheap hotel’s. Fucking freezing. Looking back, he supposes he could have fixed it so he wasn’t constantly shivering, but he didn’t think of it then.)

He’d been thinking about where he’d rather be. In his bunk bed, looking up to the familiar ceiling that he could just barely see when his eyes got used to the dark. Listening to Abed’s familiar breathing. Troy liked listening to his breathing. It was like Abed, even when he was practically unconscious, had a pattern: slow, steady, careful inhale, and a sharp, heavy exhale.

A few nights Troy had felt his breath on him, on his chest and neck. He doesn’t think he’d ever slept better. (And he certainly hasn’t slept like that since going to a.c. school.) Troy had wrapped his arms around a pillow, remembering, squeezing his eyes closed even though it was the same darkness whether they were open or shut, trying to hold on to the memory. Every time they’d slept together, twice in Abed’s bed and once in Troy’s, Abed had carefully placed his head on Troy’s shoulder, sliding an arm across him and holding on to his waist, and Troy had gently run a hand through his hair, caressing his head as Abed’s breaths evened out, absentmindedly tracing lines up Abed’s arm until he drifted off.

The night they’d slept in Abed’s bed, Abed had asked him too. Troy remembers how he looked that evening, quiet during dinner, wincing slightly as the forks scraped the glass plates Annie had picked out. Tired. Exhausted. He’d excused himself quietly when Troy and Annie had begun to clean up and Troy had let him go to do what he needed. When he’d entered the blanket fort, Abed was in bed, covered in his blankets and he moved slightly when he heard Troy. Troy changed quietly, not wanting to disturb him in case he had a headache or was feeling sensitive.

“Troy?” Abed had said quietly as Troy was pulling on his pyjama pants.

“Yeah, buddy?” he’d responded softly, and Abed was quiet, so Troy waited, standing and watching as though Abed was going to pull the blankets back and use sign language.

“Will you sleep with me?” He said it weakly, carefully.

“...What?”

“I need…” His face was still covered, hidden from view, but Troy knew him well enough to read his voice. Nervous. Hesitant. “I need… pressure.” Troy had stood there for a second, unsure of what to do, before simply saying, “Okay.” and gingerly lifting Abed’s blankets to climb in next to him. Abed seemed to be able to tell he didn’t know what he was doing (Abed seems to be able to read Troy like a fucking book), because he pressed hishand to Troy’s chest and layed him down, leaning over him to tug at the edge of the blanket, and then rested on his chest, and when Troy looked down, tilting his head to an angle, he could see Abed’s eyes shut.

That was when Troy had slowly slid his hand into Abed’s hair, scratching his scalp and hearing Abed’s breath change. He’d stopped, looking down, whispered a quiet “Okay?” and Abed nodded.

That happened once more.

And then another time, late at night, Troy woke up to Abed saying his voice quietly in the dark, and when he asked what was wrong, Abed said in a fragile voice, “I need you.”

“Do you want me to come down?” Troy had asked, sitting up, fully awake, and Abed hadn’t answered, just tossed aside his blankets and started climbing up the ladder to Troy, who moved toward the wall, making space for Abed by lifting the blanket and holding his arm out for him to lay on.

He’d fallen asleep with his fingers tangled in Abed’s hair and Abed’s face in his neck, his breath warm and steady against his skin. Somehow it grounded Troy. It felt real.

Anyway.

That night in Troy’s dorm, he’d clutched the pillow to his chest, maybe hoping it could feel something like Abed, when he realised how often he really thought about him.

During class, between classes in the hallways, during lunch, after classes, as he went to bed, when he woke up. Everything reminded him of Abed, Abed, Abed.

And then that night, as he replayed those other nights in his head, replaying Abed’s soft voice asking to sleep with him, trying to feel Abed’s head on his chest, trying to remember the feeling of his fingers in Abed’s hair, he came to the ground-breaking, earth-shaking, painfully obvious revelation that Troy is entirely, completely, hopelessly in love with Abed.

It was a mess of feelings that night, a hurricane with winds made of relief that finally everything makes sense and he understands now why he’s alwaysalwaysalways thinking about him and why Abed takes up so much space in his mind, and a downpour of Fuck I’m in love with my best friend. He’d fallen asleep with his arms still around the pillow, with a tear stained face.

---

He’s almost sure Abed noticed it when he got back, though Abed didn’t do or say anything that would suggest it. Their hug was brief, and if he’s honest, Troy hadn’t been planning on hugging him. He’d planned on ignoring the feelings for as long as possible, on just pretending they’re not there at all, like everything is normal (as normal as they can be with TroyandAbed).

But he couldn’t do it.

He hugged him.

And exploded on the inside, and he wonders if Abed felt what he felt, that blissful, magical thing in his chest and stomach and lungs like glowing, effervescent butterflies. If he did, Abed didn’t do anything to betray these feelings to Troy.

After dinner (chatting with Annie and Abed, trying not to stare at Abed too long), he excused himself to brush his teeth, change into his pyjamas, and unpack, which is where he is, in his own room instead of the blanket fort (which he was nervous about at first; what if Abed needs him again and Troy isn’t close enough to help him? What if Abed gets lonely?), unfolding and folding, examining every piece of clothing before putting it away. He unpacks the clothes he didn’t even wear at the a.c. repair school. They only wore their uniforms, those dreadful grey jumpsuits (which Troy managed to convince them to abandon as mandatory).

There’s a tentative knock at his door as he shuts a drawer, and he turns, half-expecting Annie with ice cream or something, but it’s Abed, and Troy’s heart leaps and dives simultaneously. Troy’s door is already open, and Abed is leaning against the door frame, a sort of casual James Dean lean that looks unintentional but who knows, and Troy wonders how long he’s been standing there.

“Hey,” Troy says, smiling.

“Hi,” Abed says, and his voice isn’t low like his Don Draper, but he still sounds… off. Troy can read Abed better than anyone else (except Annie, who’s learned a lot since moving in with them), but he still can’t quite get it. It’s like reading a long word and being able to understand a sentence with it in it but not knowing what it means by itself. Or something.

“What’s up?” Troy asks, because Abed just stands there, looking at him. Troy can feel himself heat up under his eyes, like somehow Abed just knows. Troy pulls another jumpsuit out of his bag and makes a face at it as he folds it.

“Not much. How’s Britta?”

“What?” Troy almost drops the jumpsuit, looking up abruptly.

“Britta?” Abed says. “You’re dating now, right?”

“Uh--” Troy turns away, finishing the fold and opening his drawer, hiding his burning face. “No, we actually decided that uhm… That maybe a relationship isn’t for us.” It was partially mutual, but Troy couldn’t help but feel guilty as he told her “There’s someone out there for you, like, romantically. But I don’t think it’s me.”

When he looks back, Abed’s head is tilted and his brows are furrowed looking partly confused and partly concerned and partly whatever it is that Troy can’t quite place.

“But I thought you both like each other,” Abed says, almost resolute.

“We do!” Troy clarifies. “Just as friends.”

“Oh.”

He’s quiet as Troy folds a pair of pants, and when Troy looks back to him, he’s looking at the ground, biting his lip, looking like he’s thinking.

“What’s wrong?” Troy asks, unable to stop himself even though he’s almost certain that Abed’s figured it all out.

“I just…” Abed looks up and then away. “I just kind of want to be near you.”

“Oh.” Troy tries not to react visibly. “Okay.” Abed still isn’t looking at him, and Troy wonders. “Do you want to sit on my bed while I finish unpacking?”

Abed nods and shuts the door behind him and he goes to the bed, sitting cross-legged and looking at Troy, who smiles and turns away as he folds.

“So what’s this about wanting to cut off Jeff’s arm?” he asks, turning his back to Abed as he tries to fit a shirt into the drawer neatly, but he gives up and shoves it in, folding the hem in so the drawer closes all the way.

“That was Evil Abed. He’s gone now. Jeff changed his mind and he’s gone back to the darkest timeline.”

“The darkest timeline…” The drawer finally closes and he turns to look at Abed. “You mean from the night Jeff tried to use the dice to decide who got the pizza?”

“The die. And yes.”

“But Jeff convinced him to not be evil?”

“He gave another Winger Speech during court and Evil Abed was there and heard it. It wasn’t directed at Evil Abed, it was more to the general audience, but it still struck a chord I guess. It even got Pierce to call out someone using ‘gay’ in a derogatory way.”

“Huh. Good for him.”

“Evil Abed, Jeff, or Pierce?”

“All of the above.”

He hears Abed’s “Hmmm” laugh, and smiles even though Abed can’t see him. He has that effect on him.

“You said you’re the air conditioning messiah?” Abed asks after a moment, and Troy spins around, folding a shirt against his chest.

“Oh my god, yeah, I totally forgot to tell you.” Troy tosses the shirt into the drawer, not bothering to try and shut it. “There’s this whole prophecy about ‘the Truest Repairman,’ and it’s me. Isn’t that crazy?”

“Not really.”

Troy looks at Abed in confusion. He’d assumed he’d be super stoked about a prophecy.

“I get it,” Abed explains, his hands in his lap, looking so cute it’s making Troy’s heart ache. “You’re really good at it, so it makes sense that it’s you.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Troy says softly.

“I missed you,” Abed says abruptly, like the thought just occurred to him, and Troy swallows, unable to stop smiling at him, and Abed is beginning to smile back, that little subtle, Mona Lisa smile he does when it’s real.

“I missed you too, Abed.”

He turns away to close the drawer and places his bag on top of the dresser after stooping down to pick it up. He pulls out the textbook he’d gotten (Understanding Boat Refrigeration and Air Conditioning Systems) and sets it gently on the dresser, trying not to drop it.

“Troy?”

“Yeah?” He turns to look at Abed over his shoulder.

“I love you.”

Troy’s brain short-circuits and his breath stutters in his throat, and he’s sure Abed can hear it because it sounds like a gasp, and he turns to face him.

He isn’t sure what to do, and he’s thinking hard about it (Kiss him? Say it back? Smile?) but he’s taking too long, and Abed’s face is changing again, so he takes a breath and stops thinking.

He steps forward and holds his hand out.

Abed looks at it for a second and then looks up to Troy’s eyes, his own pausing at Troy’s chest, surely looking for his other hand, and then he holds his own out, letting his fingers slide into Troy’s and Troy tugs, pulling him off the bed and into his arms.

Abed stumbles into him, catching himself by holding Troy’s waist, and even though they’ve hugged and held each other plenty of times, Troy feels his whole body combust, and he wraps his arms around Abed’s neck. Abed is still at first, uncertain and hesitant, but he relaxes after a second, sliding his hands around Troy’s waist to wrap his arms around him, pulling him closer and he takes a deep breath, and Troy can almost see him closing his eyes.

Troy’s heart aches, and he closes his own eyes, burying his face between his forearm and Abed’s neck, feeling his nose and lips just barely brush his warm skin.

“I love you too,” he murmurs after a minute (or thirty), and Abed’s arms shift, holding him tighter, and Troy hears him exhale shakily. They sway slightly as Abed steps closer, holding onto each other, and Troy doesn’t ever want to let go. This is perfect.

Troy shifts a hand to touch Abed’s hair, caressing the back of Abed’s head, gently scratching and tugging his hair the way he used to whenever Abed fell asleep with him, and Abed lets out a small noise, somewhere between a whimper and a hum.

Troy tightens his arm around his neck and his lips accidentally brush Abed’s skin.

He feels Abed’s hand press against him as they do, feels his fingers spread over the small of his back, and even though he really, really, really tried, even though he latched so many locks over his heart, he thinks maybe the locks are made of paper, and he gives up. Because Abed’s skin is right there, and he’s so warm.

So he kisses him.

It’s slow, and soft, and gentle, and he hears Abed take in a breath and feels his hand press into him again, holding the small of his back until they’re pressed together completely, like a butterfly’s wings when it’s not flying. When he pulls his lips away, Abed tilts his head slightly, his eyes still closed, so he does it again, and then again, and again, slowly and softly like Abed might break. Troy’s hand holds the back of Abed’s head, his fingers tangled in his hair, and when his lips reach his jaw, he slides his other hand up, over the back of Abed’s neck (and Abed shivers, so slightly Troy almost doesn’t notice. But he does.) into his hair. It’s always so soft.

Troy pulls away just enough to look at Abed’s face.

His eyes are closed like Troy had thought, and he looks like he’s asleep, relaxed and peaceful, and Troy’s mouth curves into a smile without him telling it to. His hands slip over his neck, pulling him in until their foreheads are pressed together, and he trembles as Abed’s hands slide around him, over his waist and up his chest until he’s holding Troy’s neck, and his hands are warm.

Troy slides a hand back into his hair and slips the other to his face, softly brushing his thumb over his cheekbone, and Abed sighs, tilting his head and turning his face into Troy’s hand.

“I love you so much.” He doesn’t mean to say them, but Troy breathes the words, like they’re only for Abed, like the rest of the world has no right to them, and Abed’s eyes open. His eyes land on Troy’s mouth, like he’s trying to find the words in the air, and they go up Troy’s eyes, flicking back and forth between them, like he’s looking, searching for something.

Abed looks back at Troy’s mouth and Troy can hear his own heartbeat, can feel it pounding in his veins. He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t look away, not as Abed’s smile comes back, not as his hand slips over his jaw, not as his thumb just barely brushes over Troy’s lip, and his eyes lock on Abed’s. His eyes always look so gentle, always so dark and shiny.

Troy doesn’t even realise how close they are until Abed’s finger isn’t touching his lip anymore, until he feels Abed’s breath on his mouth.

And everything makes sense.

Why Abed was so quiet as Troy said goodbye before leaving, why Abed always sought Troy out during bad days, why everything always comes so easy with them, like they’ve existed together over and over and over and over, like their souls are familiar.

Oh.

And Abed’s lips are finally on his, and it’s Abed, not the Inspector or the girl from Kickpuncher or any of the other characters they play in the Dreamatorium. It’s Abed and it’s real, and it’s fucking magical.

Troy’s eyes flutter shut and he gasps, tilting his head and sliding his hands to hold Abed’s face, reveling in the way Abed hums quietly, in the way Abed’s hands tighten on his neck like he’s scared to let go. Troy’s hands are shaking, but Abed’s feel so steady, so sure, like always.

Troy wraps his arms around Abed’s neck, standing up on his tiptoes, and Abed smiles against his mouth, gently biting Troy’s lip, and Troy’s legs almost give out under him.

“Shit,” Troy gasps when they part, his eyes still shut, his arms still around Abed. Abed’s fingers hold his face, and he can feel Abed’s eyes on him, so he looks.

Abed is smiling, beaming, and he brushes his thumb over Troy’s lip again, gazing at his mouth fondly.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Abed whispers, looking into Troy’s eyes.

“Do it again,” Troy breathes.

Abed kisses him harder, holding his face between his hands, squishing his cheeks, and something changes. The air changes colour and all the longing and yearning float to the surface, and the kiss turns desperate, Troy’s hands shifting from his neck to his hair to his shoulders, gripping him like a lifeline, and Abed’s move from his face to his neck to his back and his waist, coming to a stop at his hips as Abed licks between his lips and Troy’s jaw drops.

Abed pulls away for a gasp before leaning back in, kissing him breathlessly and desperately, tilting his head, sliding his tongue into Troy’s mouth, biting his lip, humming, knowing exactly what to do to make Troy’s knees weak, to make his heart pound.

Abed pulls at his hips, tugging him closer and a sound escapes Troy, a small whimper, and he realises his eyes are burning. He squeezes them shut, drawing Abed’s lower lip into his mouth, gently biting and sucking and

tryingnottocry tryingnottocry tryingnottocry.

It doesn’t work.

Abed pulls away and Troy tries to catch his mouth again, leaning forward and opening his eyes, whining softly, but Abed doesn’t let him, looking into his eyes with his brows furrowed. He lifts a hand and gently wipes under Troy’s eyes.

“Why are you crying?” he asks softly, moving the hand on his waist so he’s rubbing the base of Troy’s back.

“I’m just--” Troy chokes out, shaking his head, moving to hold Abed’s face. “Relieved,” he says after a second, after a deep breath, looking into Abed’s concerned eyes. “I thought… I thought it was just me.”

The corners of Abed’s mouth quirk into a quick, subtle smile, and he shakes his head.

“Not just you,” he says quietly, leaning down and kissing him again.

“Do you wanna sleep here tonight?” Troy asks when they part, his voice soft, and he opens his eyes to Abed nodding.

“Should I turn off the light?” Abed asks, and Troy nods, reluctantly letting go of him and Abed goes to flip the switch. Troy waits, standing at the edge of the bed, watching in awe, forgetting about sleep, and Abed looks at him and smiles before turning off the light.

There’s a small streak of light coming from the window, and Troy can just barely see Abed coming toward him, and Abed’s hands land on his shoulders, feeling, looking, searching for him in the dark. His hands slide up to his face and Abed leans forward and kisses him gently before he slides his hands down to his waist, pulling him closer as Troy entwines his fingers with Abed’s hair.

He startles when Abed grabs his legs, pulling at his thighs until he lifts Troy up, and Troy lets out a surprised “Oh!” accidentally tightening his grip in Abed’s hair and pulling.

“Sorry,” Troy says breathlessly, releasing his hair and pressing his palms to Abed’s neck as Abed turns and kneels on the bed, placing Troy under him. Abed doesn’t respond, just lets go of Troy’s legs and lifts himself high enough to lean down and kiss him, framing Troy’s head with his forearms against the bed. Troy’s legs wrap around Abed’s waist. Troy can feel Abed smiling against his mouth (and then against his cheek and jaw and neck and throat and collarbone).

---

Troy falls asleep with his fingers in Abed’s hair, with Abed’s head tucked in the crook of his neck, feeling the slow pattern of his breaths, warm and familiar, against his skin. Their legs are tangled beneath the blankets, and Abed’s hand slipped under Troy’s pyjama shirt as he started falling asleep, his fingertips and nails lightly brushing over his skin until they stopped, pressed against him.

His lips still feel raw from the feeling of Abed’s teeth against them, his neck still tingles, and his eyes are burning again.

He just lifts a hand from Abed’s arm and wipes his eyes, trying not to wake Abed up, smiling at the ceiling.

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mrsmaybank · 5 years ago

Text

Gas Station Girl - Spencer Reid x Reader - CH 3

Spencer Reid’s first impression of the Reader is mixed. She’s “audacious, promiscuous, clever, and troubled.” and there is so many things Spencer would like to do about it.

CHAPTER ONE HERE

CHAPTER TWO HERE

A/N:I’m writing a Spencer Reid x Reader multific! The series will be intense and 18+. Age gaps, Explicit sexual content (dom/sub dynamics/kinks), angst, family issues, dark themes including: violence, suicide, murder, death, blood, and drug use and addiction. (Chapters will of course have trigger warnings depending on the content) HIGHLY recommend you listen to the playlist as you read!

A/N2: This chapter is the most wholesome one in the whole series! Other then the kinky smut LMAO. No for real though, this is as fluffy as it gets. Next chapter gets um... well you’ll see!

TW: Language, Age gap, use of ‘Little Girl’ as pet name, explicit sexual content (light degradation & unprotected sex), mentions of death, smoking weed, mentions of violence

Fic Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WYosdR6Tz4y9lsmUghoMU?si=ZvyS_2oqSDW95PxULRs2fQ

The seconds of ignorant bliss after opening your eyes for the first time since a night of horrible decisions didn’t last as long for Y/N anymore. Pains and aches serving a reminder of all the apologies that were owed from her. Instant dread and distaste for confrontation swirled in her stomach. Ah but she deserved it all. The night was blurry, but from recollection, it was only Teddy. He’d dropped her off home, she remembered that. From where? Who knows, but it probably didn’t matter. Teddy’s services didn’t really warrant (nor did Teddy want) a heartfelt, apologetic phone call she decided. Instead a simple, “thx” text sufficed.

She stepped out of her room, pleased with the sight of her roommate rolling a joint on the kitchen table. “Good fucking morning.” she meant it. The weed would ease the sting of the bruises and busted lip.

“Morning.” Kena said, licking the joint to seal its precious contents. “What the fuck happened to you last night?” making a face of amusement.

The friends bursted out in laughter in unison.

“Got my ass beat.” Y/N started telling the story as Kena lit the j. “Remember ‘Record Shop’ Dude’?”

“Do I remember? You guys fucked for like a week straight. Thought you guys were gonna get married.”

“Well,” she couldn’t contain her laughter anymore, “Apparently he has a girlfriend. They’ve been together for three years.”

Kena passed her the joint laughing, “Apparently.” she watched as her friend inhaled the smoke, “I’ll never understand why you don't fight back every time. I’ve seen your left hook, it’s deathly. It’s like you like getting your ass kicked.”

Y/N finished the joint, putting it out. “Yeah, I get off. Masochist, remember?” she said in a serious tone. Kena understood the satire of her response.

“What’re your plans tod-” she was cut off by her phone ringing. She saw the unknown number and smiled putting it on speaker for Kena to hear. “I’m fucking broke!” she shouted as Kena laughed. “You can’t scam me! I don’t have any fucking money to steal!”

The line went silent and they awaited the confused stutter of some telemarketing con artist. And a confused stutter came.

“Y/N? It’s Spencer.” he paused, “Spencer Reid?” he paused again. Perhaps she’d forgotten him. “Dr. Spencer Reid?”

“I know who you are.”

Kena looked at her friend in confusion, but she was busy replaying the events of the previous night. Spencer had called Teddy, from the parking lot of a shady...her memory stalled, liquor store.

“Holy fuck I’m such a piece of garbage.” was the only thing her subconscious could render.

“I am so fucking sorry. Holy shit. Thank you for last night, dear fuck. I’m sorry about that. And for screaming at you! I didn’t have your number saved.”

Spencer lightly sighed. She remembered. “It’s okay. How are you feeling?”

“Uh, great.” she stammered, “I’ve woken up a lot worse.”

Spencer could hear the slight embarrassment in her voice. “Good, good.” he took a deep breath, “Well I was wondering if maybe I could take you out to lunch? We’ve only ever spoken in parking lots.”

Kena opened her eyes in delight, mouthing “Yes!”

Y/N couldn’t contain her smile, “I’d like that Dr. Reid. Pick me up at three?”

“Sure little girl. See you soon.” Spencer hung up and Y/N melted.

Kena screamed, “You’ve been fucking a doctor?!”

“No.” she smiled a devilish grin, “But I’m about to.” she sang, practically skipping with joy back to her room.

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Spencer hadn’t gotten a good look at the complex in the dark, but now he could see it in its full glory. Beer bottles and cigarette buds littered everywhere, sulky characters loitering at practically every corner, and a reek of marijuana. Not his personal idea of home sweet home.

He watched as the girl he was waiting for exited from apartment 209, looking just as wild as ever. He wondered if the disheveled look was intentional or if she always looked so crazily hot. His eyes continued to follow as she walked down the steps and into his passenger seat.

“Hi.” she said, eyes wide and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was blushing. Y/N didn’t seem like the kind of girl to blush.

“Hey. You look nice.” he started to pull out of the parking space.

“You don’t have to say that you know. I don’t look nice. I never look nice.” she sighed, “Truthfully I hate the idea of looking nice.”

Spencer was amused with her little ramble, “Why?”

“‘Cause nice is what you look like when you’re going to church. Or brunch. And I don’t do either of those.” she said plainly.

“What’s wrong with brunch?” he questioned smiling.

“Nothing is wrong with brunch.” she paused for a minute, deciding whether or not to tell him all the atrocious memories she had in connection to brunch. He only asked you about fucking brunch. Don’t reveal all your baggage already. Don’t be a dramatic bitch. Just say your vegan or some bullshi-

“What are you contemplating on telling me?”

Her mouth gaped playfully. “Fucking cut the profiling! Three minutes in and you’re already doing your weird government shit.” she remarked, teasingly defensively.

Spencer laughed, “Weird government shit? Really?”

“Yeah.” she pursed her lips, “I said what I said.”

“It’s psychology, not weird government shit. It’s analyzing body language, and speech patterns and-”

“I get it. You’re fucking smart.” They pulled out to a red light.

“You’re smart too.”

“Thanks Doctor.” she smiled, it did make her happy to hear that. “So where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”, and see she did. As they got out of the car, Y/N couldn’t stop smiling. At first it was the way Spencer’s hand found hers, but then it was the sight. The restaurant was placed under the biggest trees she’d ever seen, with ivy hanging just a couple feet over her head. It was illuminated with lanterns and tiny hanging lights and she felt like she was in a fairy tale. It was beautiful.

“Hey Spencer?”

“Yes?” he said approaching the hostess, “Table for two, Spencer.” His attention shifted back down at her. “This is the prettiest place a boy has ever taken me.”

He smiled, “Yeah? You like it?” The hostess led them to their table and they sat. “A lot.” she giggled and Spencer swore his heart would explode. The sound was just too adorable.

“So Y/N, where are you from?”

She was a little surprised at the question, almost like nobody had ever asked. Had she ever been on a date? Like a proper sit down date?

“New York City, originally. But I uh, moved around a lot as a kid.”

“Tell me about that.”

“You really wanna know?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he questioned.

“Okay, fine. I used to live in this beautiful townhouse in Manhattan. I had a pink room with a huge bed and canopy. A gorgeous chandelier, this vanity with all my tiaras, and my dolls! Oh my god, those dolls were so fucking pretty.” he listened intently, relishing in the way her eyes lit up in a way he’d never seen.

“And then my dad died.” the glint of joy in her eyes was gone. “When I was seven. And we moved to West Virginia, living with my grandmother, until she died!” she let out a small laugh in attempts to keep the mood up. “Then we were living in this mobile park, which wasn’t so bad. Creeps and meth-heads came and went, but overall not a horrible place to grow up. It’s where I met Teddy, you know him.”

He nodded his head, still listening to every detail of the story.

“After my mom got remarried, him and I decided we wanted to go to California. This was supposed to just be a pitstop, get our shit together, you know? But we had a falling out, and he went without me. Came back when his brother got cancer. Then after Casey died he came back to D.C, got me to enroll in school with him And uh, now I’m here. I go to Washington Uni, by the way. Major in Journalism.” she ended shyly.

“I’m sorry about your dad. And your grandma. That’s a story.”

She nodded her head. “Its okay. Better place, you know?” How about you?”

“Well, uh, I’m from Las Vegas. It’s been just me and my mom for a while. My childhood was a little weird, graduated high school when I was twelve, then I-”

“Hold the fuck up, twelve?” he nodded. “Holy shit. You’re one of those freakishly smart prodigy motherfuckers aren’t you?”

He laughed, “IQ of 187, not to brag.”

“Oh fuck you, you’re totally bragging.”

“You got into Washington, you did well in school too.”

“Yeah uh, despite the shitty childhood school wasn’t really ever an issue. My dad was a Senator, George Y/L/N, in New York. He had a lot of random contacts. When we moved to West Virginia I got to go to some snobby private school ‘cause his friend was a board member. Saint Matilda Preparatory School. Top of my class.” she smiled, “Not to brag.”

“You’re definitely bragging.” he teased.

Scoffing, she said, “I didn’t drop my IQ number, so you’re still the gloating one here.”

“I didn’t think you were a high school drop-out.” �� “Aw Spencer really?” she said sarcastically.

There waiter came and took their order, but neither of them really cared about the food. They stayed there talking for longer then the restaurant would’ve liked, telling each other their craziest dreams, wildest experiences, bad decisions, and nothing and everything. Before they knew it, the restaurant was kicking them out. They walked back to Spencer’s car, hysterically laughing at the disdained waiter who had to so awkwardly ask them to order something else or leave, Y/N clinging to his arm.

“Nobody’s ever done something like this for me before.” Y/N said as Spencer got into the drivers seat.

“What do you mean?” Spencer turned to face her.

“Picked me up, taken me to a pretty restaurant, paid, opened doors for me.” her eyes locked in his, “Listened to me talk for so long.”

“I could listen to you talk forever.” he grabbed her face and kissed her. The kiss was nothing like he’d expected. It wasn’t an aggressive make-out fired by lust, it was a kiss of passion and dear affection.

They began to drive in silence. Not uncomfortable Awkward silence, more like enjoying each other's company silence. That is until Y/N did something Spencer should’ve seen coming as this was the same girl he’d met at the gas station. Her hands were inching their way up his leg to his crotch, teasingly slow. She scanned his eyes for some note to stop, but it never came. She palmed him gently through his pants, watching him struggle to keep his eyes on the road, as he twitched under her touch. “Fuck.” he sighed out quietly, “Stop.”

“Take your shoes off, get in the backseat.” he turned off the main road, driving down a more secluded street until he found a tiny spot almost completely hidden by trees.

“Take your clothes off.” he still hadn’t made eye contact with her since telling her she was smart. She did as she was told, taking off her top and shorts as fast as she could. Spencer got out of the driver's seat and got into the back passenger seat, only the middle seat separating them. “Come here.” obeying, she did. In only a bra and underwear, she crawled into Spencer's fully clothed lap, as he grabbed her face and kissed her. Her barely let her move, wanting to be able to explore her mouth freely, She gasped for air, whispering a small “Oh fuck.”

He tightly gripped her jaw, toying with her bottom lip as he spoke, “You have such a dirty mouth.”

She smiled more poisonously then he’d ever seen, it was mischievous and seductive, and it made him crazy. “What’re you gonna do about it sir?”

Now it was him smiling as the small girl looked up at him with big eyes, “So many things.” He started to kiss her again, this time his hands going down to tease her clothed clit. She moaned into the kiss and rocked her hips down harder into his hand. “Please?” she moaned again.

He moved her panties to the side, sliding a finger through her wetness, “You need something don’t you?” She nodded her head.

“Well, use your words.”

“Touch me.” she got closer in his ear, “Please.”

“What’s with the niceties little girl? You don’t want to be touched, no, Good girls like to be touched. You, you are a desperate little slut, hm?” His fingers dipped into her with no warning, curling immediately, “You want to be destroyed.”

Her hips bucked almost instantly as she cried out, “Yes. I do.”

“Beg for it.”

“Sir,” she opened her eyes to lock with his, “Please.” Spencer continued to curl his fingers while still rubbing her clit, and her moans and breathes got sloppier and louder.

“Please!” she whined. “Please sir.” He couldn’t contain a small laugh, “No.”

“This is a bit pathetic even for you, no? You’re here naked in my lap begging for me to let you come.” She nodded her head. “Oh but I’m sure you’ve done worse haven’t you love?” She shook her head. As badly as he wanted to lecture her about lying, he could feel her tighten on his fingers. “Can..” she stuttered in between moans, “Can I? Please let me come?”

“Awe, good girl asking for permission.” he pulled his fingers out, “No.”

He slipped his fingers in her mouth and watched as she sucked them off. “Figures you’d be good at that.” he unbuckled his belt, pushing his pants and lied back so the door supported his back. “Come sit on it.”

Her eyes opened in delight as she crawled over and did as she was told. He watched in awe as she sunk herself down onto him, clenching as their thighs met. He let her think she had some control, eyes never leaving her as she bounced and moaned. “You’re such a good girl baby.” He could see her teetering right above the edge, and seeing as he was so close as well, he gave in. “Come for me.” and with that, she did. Practically screaming as he fucked up into her through her orgasm, pulling out and finishing himself.

He hugged her into his chest, whispering small praises and delivering soft kisses to her sweaty forehead. She made small circles with her nails on his arms, “I fucked a doctor!” She giggled.

Spencer broke out into laughter, “I fucked YOU.”

“We fucked each other.” They laid there for a moment, Y/N practically melting to the feeling of being in his arms. It was too comforting.

Eventually, Spencer began driving back to her apartment, loving every moment of her outlandish singing and dancing in his passenger seat until he parked to drop her off.

“You’re a very special girl.” Spencer said as she smiled.

She took a deep breath, “Spencer, I fucking like you. A lot. I can’t remember the last time I had a good time like this that I wasn’t fucking high or drunk or both.” she continued to ramble, “And I guess what I’m just trying to convey is-”

She was cut off by Spencer crashing his lips to hers. “I know what you mean.”

She smiled and gave him one last peck on the lips, “I hope I’ll see you soon Dr.”

“You will.”

As she walked back up the stairs to her apartment, Y/N only had one thought. How am I gonna manage to fuck this up?

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Taglist (Comment to be added!): @generaltheoristexpert @psych0crybaby @areallyusellesblog @arctic-duchess

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