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copias-thrall · 3 years

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Cause I'm Young and I'm Here and So Beautiful

A look into the rise and fall of Mary Goore's flash-in-the-pan modeling career.

~12.5K Mary Goore/Reader *drug/alcohol use; mentions of past child abuse; brief homelessness; plot no porn; POV shift*

This fic was inspired by and is very loosely based on Aurelio Voltaire's early days in NYC in the 90s, though I have set it in Boston in the early aughts. 😊

Many thanks to the artists who did commissions for this! 🥰

One Way Streets

Mary stepped off the regional rail and gripped his backpack. He had $72.57 in cash rolled into his socks and a give-em-hell attitude.

When he’d packed his bag the night before, he wasn’t even sure if he’d go through with it, but he couldn’t stand being home anymore. Some of his friends had told him he was crazy.

"Three more months, dude. You got this. Just finish high school, then bounce."

But they didn’t have to live with his dad and the step-monster. Every day was a new indignity. Having them bitch about his music and his style was one thing—that he could have dealt with—but everything else had just kind of…escalated.

Now that the kiddies were older, they’d turned into gremlins. They’d somehow sensed that Mary wasn’t their beloved older brother—he was some sort of half other. They’d stopped questioning why "mom was so mean" to him and had accepted that she was because there was something wrong with Mary. They realized they could be little shits and blame everything on him.

And dad just didn’t care. He’d throw up his hands and say, "I have to live with her"—as if Mary wasn’t in the same boat.

Dad hadn’t stopped her when—in a rage—she’d smashed every single vinyl album Mary had owned because the twins ruined her nice tablecloth. He’d shrugged when she cut all Mary's guitar strings so he couldn’t play "the devil’s music." He’d held Mary back when she took a match and burned all his secret stuff that Mary kept under his bed—action figures, books, guitar mags, journals—in the backyard because he got detention for smoking. He hadn’t said a word when the police showed up after she came at Mary with scissors because he’d dyed his hair black and he’d pushed her away before she could scalp him.

Mary thought for sure he was going to get carted off to jail as she screamed about him terrorizing the family and being afraid he was going to kill her sons in their sleep, but the officers had just looked at her bored and told her being a teenager wasn’t a crime.

So, no: Mary couldn’t wait 3 more months.

He’d scraped together what money he had left from his secret shifts working as a busboy under the table at a local dive downtown, packed his backpack with the essentials, and walked the 5 miles to the train station instead of going to school.

Eighteen was 10 weeks away. He could fudge it for a few months, especially since he could already get away without using his fake ID to get into shows most of the time.

So, to the big city it was.

He shifted his weight and tried to pretend that he belonged here in Boston, but actually facing the busy streets was a lot different from looking at a bird’s-eye view map. He had a printout in his pocket, but he didn’t want to look like a doe-eyed tourist. So he set off down the seemingly labyrinthine streets in the direction he could have sworn was the correct one.

It wasn't.

When he came out a side alley into Faneuil Hall, he almost wondered if he'd gone through a fairy portal, since he was clear on the other side of town. Begrudgingly, he checked his creased map, and set out once more.

And ended up spit out by the State building.

Finding the hostel turned into a fraught adventure, and he got turned around several times more. When he tried to ask for directions, most people pushed past him while one lady shoved $5 at him. He used the cash to buy a hotdog, and it was the vendor who ultimately gave him directions in his thick, Southie accent.

Of course, making it to the hostel ended up being just part one. The rates were almost double what it stated online ("Sorry, honey—that site hasn’t been upgraded since the 90s."), and two nights were practically all his savings. Mary had thought he’d at least have a couple of days to find a job, not 36hrs.

He left the hostel, wondering for the first time if maybe he shouldn’t go back home…but he decided it was a nice day out. Surely there was some place he could hunker down. Just for the night.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the cops at every fucking turn telling him to move along. And any place out of line-of-sight seemed to already be inhabited.

He finally found a place behind some rocks in the Seaport where he didn’t think he’d be murdered in his sleep, curled around his backpack, and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Mary woke up damp from the dew and the morning sun streaming into his eyes. The birds were creating an awful racket, but Mary guessed it was as good an alarm clock as any.

He ran his fingers through his bird's nest of hair, and he made his way back to the South Station. The men’s room may have smelled like a sewage treatment plant, but at least it was free. He had expected it to be mostly empty at the crack of dawn, but it was full of commuters making that last run to the head before they had to take the train 2hrs out of the city for work.

And it was a sight: a bunch of suits with their fancy lattes washing their hands, and Mary in the corner trying to surreptitiously wipe down with paper towels under his Misfits t-shirt and his shredded jeans. At school, he’d have probably gotten into several altercations by now—no one would have let him just turn into Mary Goore without a fight—but this was Boston, and no one gave him more than a cursory glance.

Just another college kid.

It emboldened Mary to go full-out in the kind of way he had only done when going out to the punk shows downtown at night: kohl all the way around his eyes, and some on his cheekbones; mascara because his lashes are long and thick, and he knows it (his dad had said it made him look hard, and Mary had sneered that maybe that was what he’d been going for. But maybe it had been because he’d liked the way it had made his green eyes pop.); a smear of the step-monster’s fanciest matte lipstick on his full lips; and airplane glue in his hair to give it that lift.

He made a kissy face at himself in the mirror, and headed back out.

It was a nice Spring day—almost boiling in the direct sun—and it tempted Mary to wear only his battle vest, but even he kind of figured applying to jobs half dressed was a mistake.

He walked all over the city, trying not to get lost, looking for any kind of work—dishwasher, busboy, barback—but all he had to show for it was blistered feet and a raging appetite. The only good part of the day was that he noted any restaurant or bakery that looked like it might toss perfectly good food at the end of the day.

He and his friends had become experts at dumpster diving in his podunk town, and he felt confident that he had a good feel for a jackpot. Mary staked out a bakery and was rewarded with a find of "old" bagels. He shoved as many as he could into the nooks and crannies of his backpack before slinking off to the Commons to inhale at least two of them.

Cold, stale dough never tasted so good.

He watched the tourists and the professionals walk by in ones and in groups while he ran his bare feet through the grass. Some laughed with each other as they sauntered down the path while others seemed singularly intent on their ultimate destination. A pack of dogs ran and played with each other as their owners looked on fondly, and nearby the baseball diamond hosted a casual game.

Mary counted his lucky stars that his first week in Boston was April at its kindest—always mild during the day, even when it turned cloudy, and a few times even downright warm. The nights turned chilly, though, and it had Mary in more layers than an onion. If the birds or damp didn't wake him, his butt cramps from being curled in a tight ball all night did.

He spent those days walking around the city proper looking for work. He wasn't adventurous enough to make the leap across the bridges to Cambridge just yet, but his travels gave him a good sense on how the different sections of Boston connected—and showed him potential places to crash at night. He didn't even mind living off day-old garbage food and drinking from bubblers (he'd bought a water for the express purpose of reusing the bottle), but the barren wasteland that seemed to be the job market was beginning to weigh on him.

At home, he could always find a shit job if he was willing to put up with shit hours and ridiculous requests. Here, though, Mary was just one of many desperate people willing to do desperate work.

And he didn’t look particularly trustworthy or reliable.

@dipendancesld

Hashtag WTF

I’m scrolling through Insta on the T, and I’m way down the rabbit hole of hashtags. New content was at a minimum this morning (how can I follow accounts in triple digits and only see the same 4 posts?!), so I’d started with some art tags and ended up where I usually end up—trolling social media for blurry pictures of my boy.

His band has been a local staple for years—or at least that’s what he told me on our first date. I had just moved from New York after a nasty breakup, ready to start fresh, and I’d seen him at a coffee shop hanging posters for his next show in his leather jacket, asymmetrical Metallica crop top, and stomping boots.

Fresh had never looked so good.

Then, a few months back, an online publication had featured his band in the year’s 50 best bands "you’ve never heard of," and now the band's starting to gain traction.

He’s starting to gain traction.

Finding the new online content of him first has become a game the two of us play. We had to stop counting images posted from the popular fan accounts because Mary's now acquaintances with most of them, and I said it was hardly fair to snipe me that way. Mary had pouted—but it was to cover up his grin. So now we troll for the pictures of his latest gig or at his favorite haunts from either his casual fans or one of his new ones. I even have a whole range of hashtag typos saved if I really want to triumph, since Mary just doesn't have the attention span.

I usually win, though, by virtue of not keeping Rockstar Hours—and because Mary doesn’t have a smartphone. Mary delights in spending the wee hours while I'm sleeping finding new content, and I'll often wake to one he's pulled up on my laptop and a "suck it" sticky note stuck to my monitor.

(But I’m reigning supreme.)

There’s a thirst tag I sometimes comb through (for reasons), and today I’m desperate for that morning serotonin to keep me from dozing off, which is why I stumble across a particularly convincing cosplayer in some…risqué poses and outfits.

The dude is really good, and I have to admit he really does have Mary’s mannerisms down pat. He’s younger and a little skinnier than Mary is now, but his facial expressions are on point. I zoom in to see the contouring technique because he's using one of those filters to make it look old…and that’s when I sense something off. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but usually there’s an uncanny valley to his serious cosplayers, and this dude looks so real. He’s even 100% accurate with the mole placement, which is something I never see.

My heart does a flip-flop.

Is that…actually Mary?

Foundling

Mary's sixth night in the city, it rained. It was more of a brief Spring shower, but it was still enough to soak him and his backpack through. He shivered through the early morning hours until the sun came up, then he made his way to the Commons to lay his belongings—and himself—out into the sun to dry.

By midday, he had a slight sunburn across his nose, but most of his things were dryish—though the food was a soggy lost cause. He cut his losses and decided to buy a sausage from the hotdog vendor, even if that meant he was down to $52.37 in his sock bank.

It was the most amazing thing he'd ever eaten in his entire life (sometimes he still dreams of it), and he gobbled it down as he sat in the grass and watched the show of people pass by.

He could take today off from his job search.

Just another Groundhog Day of rejections.

A gaggle of kids about his age walked past, and he lit up when he saw them: studs and bright hair and cuffs and combat boots. They ran and shrieked and shoved at each other, and Mary had never felt such longing to be a part of something.

Not that nebulous feeling of "my world is out there somewhere," but "my world is right there if I can just get to it."

And he realized maybe he could.

These were his people.

Mary hopped off the bench and approached the boisterous group.

"Uh, hey…guys."

The pack stopped and looked him over, confused but not hostile.

"Oh hey, man" said a girl with green fins and a studded, leather jacket.

"Hey."

I have nowhere to go. Can I go with you?

"Sorry, I forgot your name."

"Oh, you don’t—"

A guy in a tight striped shirt, snake bites, and blue hair interrupted him.

"Shit, were you in my intro into film class last year?"

Mary was a high school dropout.

"Nah, dude. I’m new and shit."

…But he wasn’t stupid.

A curvy white goth with bleached blonde hair and a cream princess dress smiled at him.

"Aww, that’s rough, honey. If you think about it, they really ought to give transfers on-campus housing. It sucks to be so new and away from the action."

Mary nodded. "Yeah. Sucks."

"Well, we’re going to The Pit, wanna come?"

"If you guys don’t mind…"

"Fuck, the more the merrier!"

Mary smiled as they assimilated him into the group. He found out the goth’s name was Vanessa ("But call me Vanity."), green fins was Alexa ("Or Alex. I’m trying it out."), striped shirt was Billy, and the two other punks were Mandi (Manic Panic red) and Aaron (band tee, spiked collar).

No one laughed at him when he introduced himself as Mary or asked him why he had a girl’s name.

They took him onto the T at Charles MGH, and Mary marveled at the setting sun over the Charles River before the train ducked underground to barrel in Cambridge. At Harvard, they ushered him off the train and directly into The Pit, and Mary almost cried when he saw the pit rats there playing hacky sack, strumming guitars, and smoking cloves. Mary watched as his group high-fived, bumped chests, and hugged nearly everyone there before introducing him as if they’d known him for years.

He was shit at hacky sack, but he accepted a round on the guitar and shared a clove with a white girl who had a rat's nest of hair.

"Fuck their beauty stands," she said when she caught Mary staring.

Mary smiled and pointed to his own mess of hair. "Fuck ‘em," he repeated.

She cackled and handed him a brown bag with what he expected to be whiskey, but tasted like turpentine.

She laughed harder at his face as he coughed, and she pounded him on the back.

"Moonshine, dude. Lenny makes it in his bathtub."

"Which one is Lenny," Mary asked as he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh, he’s not here. He goes to MIT. We have a strict trade agreement—booze for pot. I’m Katie."

Head fuzzy, Mary had made out with her until Aaron tugged on his arm.

"Shit dude, we gotta go before the T closes. You live close to here?"

"Uh…"

"Aww, I think he got into Lenny’s moonshine," said Vanity. "If he’s a transfer, I bet he’s at some shithole in Allston. You in Allston, honey?"

Mary just nodded.

"All right then," said Alex, taking charge. "We’ll put him up tonight. There’s no way he’s gonna make it back to Allston by himself, and I’ll be fucked if I’m trekking out there without a BU party to crash."

Mary wobbled slightly as Alex took his arm in his and led him to the T.

"Ok, we gotta go now or we’ll all be hoofing it."

They took Mary back to their dorm by the Hatch Shell and signed him in as a guest.

"Is this ok?" Mary asked warily—he didn't want to get kicked out in the middle of the night.

Mandi patted him on the back.

"We do it all time. No one really gives a shit. Vegan Mick dropped out 2 semesters ago and they don’t even check for his ID."

That night, Mary slept in the common room on a lumpy couch that was half as long as he was.

It was heaven.

The next morning seemed like the end, and Mary slumped as Vanity to sign him out. For one brief day he'd been a part of something, and now it was back to Mary, party of one. But Vanity took one look at his face and asked if he wanted to get breakfast at the dining hall.

Of course, he wanted to…but he thought of the dwindling cash in sock bank and hesitated. Vanity, bless her, misread his trepidation.

"It's on me, sweetie. I know most transfers don’t opt in. Too expensive when it’s not bundled. No worries, I got a ton of points I don’t use."

Alex and Aaron were already half done with their food when Vanity and he joined them, and they looked on in amusement as Mary ate half the breakfast buffet.

When the subject of classes came up, he shrugged off questions.

"None this morning."

Alex narrowed her eyes at him.

"What year did you say you were?"

"Sophomore."

"Not a freshman?"

Mary shook his head. "I’m not a freshman."

She seemed about to ask another question, so Mary quickly changed the subject.

"I thought I’d spend the day applying for jobs. You guys know of any place that’s hiring?"

"No work study?"

"No."

"What kind of work you looking for?"

"Shit, anything. I’ll sweep the fucking floors."

They bandied about ideas, places for Mary to try, but no one had any leads. Too soon, some unknown gong had them scurrying to get to class.

Mary suddenly panicked.

"Hey, do you guys mind if I spend the night again? I mean…"

"Yeah, sure," said Vanity. "Aaron?"

"Yeah, man. Meet me after class and I'll swipe you in."

It apparently was a time-honored tradition, passed down from upperclassmen to underclassmen, on gaming the guest system. Most kids used it to essentially move their significant others into their dorm rooms, but a handful every year used it to give haven to others who had questionable housing situations.

So, just like that, Mary had a place to rest his bones.

@dilfpassing

A Deeper Look

I’m so intent on scrolling through the comments on the grainy pics—which I'm sure now are actual scans—that I completely miss my stop, and I have to put my phone away so I can wheeze lightly jog my way to where I work as a receptionist at an alternative hair salon.

It’s really important that I start a good hour before we open so I can return any calls left on our voicemail first thing in case I can fit anyone in today. Which means I have to shelve my find for now, much to my irritation.

Mornings are super-busy because apparently there are some people in the world that like getting up with the sun and want everything done by noon. (June Cleaver’s salon lets me get away with a lot—like coming to work in denim short-shorts and ripped tights, free hair colors, and a snarky attitude—but late start times aren’t one of them.) I honestly don’t have room in my brain to obsess about the pictures because I’m too busy answering calls, making coffee, settling accounts, and giving the new customer spiel for the 57th time to a walk-in.

It’s just after midday, when Penny, the shampoo girl, collects my cash for the salon-wide sandwich run, and I finally have a moment to breathe. And obsess.

I take out my phone again, and I have to retrace my steps because of course the app has refreshed, which is why Sonia has the time to look over my shoulder.

"Missing dream boy’s dick so much you gotta spend your lunch hour ogling pics of him on the internet?"

I zoom in on the one of maybe!Mary in his underwear.

"Who does that look like to you?"

Sonia makes a guh sound in her throat and backs away.

"I don’t need to see your intimates!"

"That’s the thing! It’s not mine!"

"Your boy’s nudes get leaked??"

I wave my arms around.

"I don’t freakin’ know! They may not even be him. Fucking. C’mere and help me out!"

Sonia warily creeps back over, and so does Ryan, since all the yelling has attracted him.

The three of us peer over the phone as I scroll through the images again.

By the time Penny comes back with lunch, we’ve gone back and forth on who’s in the images—Mary or a fake—and I haven’t been able to do any actual research. The afternoon rush starts, and I have to table the whole thing again, having made no progress at all.

It isn’t until near-closing, when most of the other stylists have gone home—and it’s only June who does the post-work crowd—that I can really dig into the matter.

A deep dive and a couple of defunct, decade-old forums later, I find that what I took as an aspirational hashtag was actually the name of a zine called "Heroes."

There’s like, zero online trail about it—except for a few other grainy scans of other pages of articles, poetry, concert pictures, and art—but it seemed to be an early aughts missive for local underground culture and color.

It still doesn’t explain why Mary’s in there in various states of undress and poses.

Or why Mary has never said a word about it to me.

Stripped Bare

Mary settled into a sort of routine. He spent most days looking for a job—any job—with his backpack full of food from their dining hall. Most nights he rotated couches on different floors so the RAs didn’t notice that he basically lived there.

He made friends with Vegan Mick for about 5 seconds until Mary had eaten an entire Rotisserie chicken from 7-11 in front of him. Mick had launched into a whole spiel, and Mary had pointed out that Mick's jacket and Docs were made of leather. He’d only meant it as a joke—a callout in answer to a callout, like he'd do with his friends back home—but Vegan Mick had turned purple, then iced Mary out every time he saw him after that.

Oops.

The brief friendship had lasted long enough, however, for Mick to give Mary some tips and tricks of being homeless.

Homeless.

That had been a tough pill to swallow. Until Vegan Mick had put Mary’s situation like that, Mary had just thought of himself between places.

But it was true: he didn’t live anywhere. He skated by on the kindness of his new friends, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the ruse of "transfer student who didn’t like his shithole apartment and was too busy job searching to concentrate on classes."

He still spent a few nights a week finding an out-of-the-way place outside to hunker down in or huddling in with Katie and a few of the other gutter punks under their boxes in the corners of the T stations. He knew they would have been more than happy to make room, anyway, but Mary always emptied his backpack of all the pilfered dining hall food for distribution amongst them.

It honestly wasn't so terrible now that he had friends and a warm place to go on cold or rainy nights, but.

He needed an actual place to live. To afford an actual place to live, he needed a job. To get a job, he needed a place to live.

It seemed like a catch-22, and he began to despair that he’d never get ahead…until Mandi offered him a leg up.

Mary was sitting on the grass in the Commons in the shade, thinking that with summer coming up, maybe he could fudge it until the gang came back in September. There was always Katie and The Pit, and Mary was sure he could chip in somehow.

Mandi sat down next to him.

"I thought that mess of hair was you, Mare."

"Hey, Mandi. What’s kicks?"

"You still looking for a job?"

Mary put his head in his hands and sighed.

"Don’t remind me."

"You over 18?"

Just last week. But Mary hadn’t said, since they thought he was a Sophomore.

"Yeah."

"Wanna be at least 21?"

Mary grinned at her.

"That’s what my fake ID says."

She laughed, a tinkling thing.

"You got anything against strip clubs?"

Mary furrowed his brows at her.

"Uh…what’s the right answer here?"

She shoved him playfully.

"Do you want a job?"

"Yeah?"

"Then say no."

"No. No problems with strip clubs." He squinted at her. "Are they looking for male strippers?"

She laughed again.

"Definitely not." She canted her head at Mary. "I mean, you're very pretty, Mare. I could probably put you on as one of the girls…even with these triple As," she flicked playfully at his nipple, which had him grunting and batting at her, "but I was thinking more behind the scenes."

Mary held up his arm and made a weak muscle.

"I don’t think I’d be much of a bouncer, Mands."

"You said you’d wash dishes, sweep floors and shit, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the club I work at—"

"The club at you what now?"

Mandi gave him a strange look.

"Yeah. The strip club I work at."

Mary’s eyes bugged out.

"As a…waitress?"

"As a stripper, Mary. Duh." At his dumbfounded look she shook her head. "It’s kind of extra credit, as a dance major. I’m going to turn it into my thesis. Plus, I make hella bank."

She swept her arm across the park that made up her college "campus."

"How else do you think I can afford this rock-and-roll lifestyle? Not all of us are here on scholarship or mom and dad’s dime."

She tilted her head at him.

"I thought you’d get it."

When Mary didn't respond, she touched his shoulder.

"Mare. I know you don't go here."

"W-what…? I…"

He looked at her, wide-eyed as the blood drained from his face.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm not gonna tell anybody. Not if you don't want me to."

Mary looked down. "Thanks." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You know that means I've got no address."

Mandi bumped his shoulder and waved his words away.

"A lot of the girls dance. Paddy is used to dorm rooms as addresses. You can use mine."

Mary looked at her, hoping he could convey every ounce of gratitude he was feeling.

She grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

"So, you up for it? Sweeping floors and bussing tables?" She leveled a look at him. "Cleaning up puke?"

Anything.

"Fuck, I’m desperate, Mands. I’ll hold their hair back if it means a paycheck."

"That’s the spirit!"

***

Mary was sure Patrick was part of the mob—or at least in cahoots. The guy had taken one look at Mary’s ID and had said, "But how old are you really?" and Mary had said, "Nineteen."

Patrick had thrown up his hands. "Well, you ain’t gonna be serving alcohol anyway, kid. Your job is to do whatever I tell you. Some asshole breaks a bottle, you clean up the glass so the girls don’t hurt themselves. Some idiot ralphs all over the toilet seat, you scrub the shit out of that fucker. A bachelor party leaves a table a hot mess, you better be out there clearing off the table for the next one, got it?"

Mary had nodded.

"You show up at 5 to help the girls set up the bar. You stay til whenever it takes to close down—but you only get paid 'til 2am—and you get an hour to eat, unpaid. You don’t bother the girls, and," Patrick had leaned in, "you don’t steal from me."

Mary had gulped and nodded emphatically.

Patrick had jabbed a finger at him. "That includes the booze. If I get fucked because some snot-nosed, underage kid is drinking with my good friends Jim and Johnnie, I’m gonna be very put out."

"Got it, sir."

"Don’t call me sir. I’m Paddy to my friends, so you can call me Patrick."

"Yes, Patrick."

Patrick had looked him over.

"You get paid as an independent contractor just like the girls, so you gotta deal with your own taxes, you got that? I’ll start you at $10 an hour."

Mary’s eyes had gone wide. Back home he was lucky to get 5.

"Ten…?"

Patrick had tilted his head again.

"No, you’re right, 12. Do a good job, and I’ll think about raising it to 15."

Mary had to physically stop his jaw from dropping.

"You do weeknights for now so if you fuck up it’s not that much of a problem. If you don’t fuck up and the girls don’t hate you, you can get weekends. Deal?"

Mary had sat up straighter. "Deal." He’d held his hand out, but Patrick had just looked at it until Mary pulled it back into his side.

"Ariel vouched for you, so I’m giving you a shot. Don’t make her regret it."

Mary had shaken his head as Patrick had handed him some forms to fill out.

"Come back at 4 tomorrow with these and we’ll get you started. Now, get out, I got shit to do."

Mary had taken the forms and skedaddled.

Mandi was outside waiting for him, all smiles.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, but fuck—your boss is scary."

"Nah, he’s a teddy bear."

***

The job was awful.

The puke was an almost nightly occurrence, and by the end of the first week, little cuts covered Mary’s hands from the broken glass. The customers were loud, rowdy, and acted as if their mother was going to clean up after them.

Mary swore he would never get the beer smell out. It now lived in his soul.

One dude punched Mary and broke his nose for no reason Mary could tell before the bouncers dragged the guy away. The girls gave him some tampons to stop the bleeding, and Mary finished his shift.

Patrick paid Mary in cash at the end of every week with a "It’s your job to report that, not mine," and at the end of the month, Patrick bumped Mary up to $15/hr. He worked 5 days a week because, according to Patrick, "The Lord gave us a day of rest, and you get one day off per week."

Mary never reported a single cent to the IRS.

The girls loved him, and joked that Patrick had gotten them a pet. They showed him winged eyeliner and smokey eyes and how to contour. They guffawed when they watched him try out their shoes like a newborn deer. On slow nights, they tried to show him pole techniques.

He saw the gang less and less because by the time they were getting out of class, he was going into work, and when he was done work, they were crawling into bed. Fortunately, the desk sitters seemed to forget that he wasn’t an on-campus "student" and didn’t even bother signing him in anymore. There were a few sticklers, but Mary found that—while back home he was less than scum—here, he attracted all the right kinds of attention…and a smirk with the right compliment went a long way.

By the time their school year ended, Mary had saved up $1,000 (and he needed to transfer his money out of sock bank and into the ripped lining of his jacket).

Even though they didn't know just how much they'd saved him, Mary showed up on the last day as thanks to help them all move their stuff into family cars or rented trucks. They hugged him goodbye and said to ring them next semester.

Mandi bopped him on the nose and told him to keep his nose clean.

Mary took a sublet in Allston with 2 BU kids and a Berkley grad student. The "room" was a closed-in porch with a sleeping bag left by the last resident—but it was $400 a month until September, utilities included.

At first, Mary didn't know why the gang was so snobby about Allston, but the summer seemed to be one continual party. It didn't matter what day Mary got up, there were always broken beer bottles and stale beer on their front stoop, and the apartment had a designated watering can for washing away the vomit that dripped down from the top porches to their own.

But he took it in stride, and when he wasn’t at the strip club or sleeping, he was partying with the BU kids, or letting the Berkley grad show him better string fingering techniques.

Mary still tried to get out to The Pit with what groceries he could spare, but Katie had moved on with some of the others to do a protest tour with an activist street band that had come through town, and without her or the gang, it made Mary feel lonely.

By the end of the summer, Mary had saved up enough money for first, last, and security. He even had some left over to buy more than ramen and some new clothes. To Mary, it felt like a million dollars. He rented a garden-level apartment in the cheap part of Jamaica Plain for September 1st and spent that entire day with the BU dudes driving around in their rented truck for Allston Christmas’s best furniture finds.

Mary ended up with a mattress that he hoped on a wish and a prayer didn’t have bedbugs, a mismatched set of dishes, plastic drawers that were slightly warped, and a broken futon frame he swore he would fix. Throw in a few sets of slightly used string lights, and Mary’s cave felt downright homey.

When the gang got back, he simply told them he’d dropped out.

"Yeah, I just don’t think college is for me. Music’s my real passion, you know?"

Alex had groaned.

"I knew that Berkley kid was gonna be a bad influence on you."

Mary shrugged.

"My grades were shit anyway. But I’m still around, you know. The strip club’s only a block from campus."

"Because we saw you so much then," deadpanned Billy.

"Hey! Stop piling on Mary," said Vanity. "He’s following his path."

Mary shot her a wide smile.

"Thanks, Vanity."

Patrick finally gave him a little more leeway with his days off, and Mary started taking Saturday night to join the gang in Harvard Square for the shadow cast of Rocky Horror. One of Aaron’s classmates, Amber, was in it, and they all wanted to support her.

Mary felt that something again. That thing that told that this was his place and his people. This eclectic group who got up in front of strangers every week in their underwear for free enthralled Mary.

He and Amber bonded immediately, and Mary began going even without the gang. The cast welcomed him in as an honorary groupie, and Mary's friendship with the gang waned. There was still Mandi to cavort with at the strip club, but now when Mary wasn't there, he was at any one of the Rocky crew's apartments getting high and playing dress up.

"You’ve got such a Look, Mare," sighed Amber. "I’d kill for your cheekbones."

"I’d kill for your tits."

She slapped him playfully. "Don’t be gross."

"No, I’m serious. Someone once put it in my head that I'd be a hot chick."

The girls had giggled and proceeded to dress him up in bras and corsets with cutlets. They added a wig, and the glo-up surprised even Mary.

Still buzzed, they went out for girl’s night and hit up all the bars in Fenway and flirted their way to free shots from the dude bros before batting their falsies at bouncers to let them into the clubs ahead of the line and without the cover.

The cutlets eventually became a nuisance—and soon they were all flapping them about above their heads as they danced—but Mary had loved the feel of the lace and satin corsets against his skin.

When they’d all collapsed in a pile at the end of the night, Mary wondered if they’d tell him where to get some lingerie for himself.

***

By August, Mary was ready to quit the strip club.

He was tired of cut fingers (they were making it hard to play the guitar he’d bought), the drunks, and the sick everywhere. Now that he had a little cushion, he thought maybe he could at least find something with better hours.

Mandi had graduated and was well into a summer internship at Disney in hopes they’d bring her on as a dancer.

Alex had also graduated and moved out to LA to make it as a film editor.

Vanity and Aaron had started dating after finals, and they had moved in together in Cambridgeport for their last year.

Billy had stopped going to classes before dropping out altogether. No one seemed to know what happened, and when they called his home, his mother just said he was unavailable.

There didn’t seem to be much reason to stick around the Grid anymore, and it was a bitch of a commute back to his place if he wasn’t going to hang out with the Rocky crew. He landed a job at a record store that was walking distance to his apartment.

Patrick seemed surprisingly sad to see him go, saying, "Ah, the good ones smart up," and gave him a $500 bonus for not "fucking up."

Tim, one of the older Rocky people, turned out to not live too far from him, and when Mary started hanging out there, so did the party.

Now that Mary was no longer shackled by the strip club’s hours, his world opened a few more degrees. He spent his nights dressing up while he watched the cast rehearse. (When he showed them a move or two he learned from the women at the club, they tried to get him to do a guest star as Frank. But Mary had shaken his head and said that wasn’t the kind of performing he wanted to do.)

When they weren't rehearsing, they dragged Mary to TT The Bear’s, The Middle East, and The Milky Way Lounge for underground shows. They took him to fetish night at ManRay after a trip to Hubba Hubba for pleather and lingerie, and Mary made a lot of new friends.

Sometimes, Mary would show up to work straight off a night out in his club clothes, eyeliner smudged and lipstick smeared. It should have got him fired, but his boss just shrugged.

"I used to keep rockstar hours too."

Mary still wore all his old vestiges—his battle vest and his ripped jeans—it was just that now he sometimes added a corset and heels.

Wherever Katie was now, he hoped she knew he was still fucking their beauty standards.

ry.omen Insta

Answer Me This

I practically vibrate the entire way back to our place. I'm still trying to wring information out of the internet like it's too-wet clothes, but the only thing I accomplish is making myself motion sick on the bus, so I put my phone back in my pocket and breath through my nose.

When I get home, Mary is sprawled across the couch in his pjs with various limbs hanging over sides and edges as he watches some extreme sport show on my laptop.

I wonder if he just got up, but I see the start of dinner on the stove, so I decide not to snark at him.

"Hey," he says without looking up.

I am, however, gonna need some answers on "Heroes."

I gently close the laptop, and he meets my eyes.

"What?"

I climb onto the couch, and Mary’s limbs recede like vines to make room for me as I scroll through my phone to my photo app where I’ve saved screenshots.

"Lucy," I say in a terrible accent, "you have some ‘splaining to do!"

Mary squints at me and takes my phone, his expression morphing into one of surprise.

"Shit, babe. Where’d ya find these??"

"So they are you!"

He chuckles.

"Christ…I haven't thought about these in fucking years."

"Mind telling me what the fuck?" I ask, my hands on my hips.

I'm only half joking.

Mary grimaces at me.

"Ah."

"I'm gonna need more than that, mister."

He rubs the back of his neck.

"Fuck, you know those were hard times for me."

I know about his family, the homelessness. I know he tried out a lot until he found a life that fit. He'd given me the overviews with occasional anecdotes filled with names I never remembered.

But none of them included naughty pictures.

I worm my way under his arm.

"Yeah, I know, Mare."

His hand strokes down my arm.

"I mean, shit. I was kinda an asshole, you know?"

I wrap an arm around his chest.

"You're still kind of an asshole, Goore."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

When he doesn't say more, I poke him hard in the side.

"I’m literally dying here."

He laughs a little.

"Fine. But you gotta remember you asked."

Model Behavior

One day, Mary was walking down the street on his way to drinks with the new friends he'd made the weekend before. It was a good day. He wasn’t hungover as fuck, his makeup was only smudged artfully, and he was pretty sure he was going to get laid.

A guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans maybe a few years older than Mary stopped him on the street.

"Hey, man! I love your style."

Mary batted his eyelashes at him. "Thanks, dude."

"You ever think of dark modeling?"

Mary squinted his eyes at him.

"Dark what now?"

"You know—modeling but like," he gestured up and down Mary’s form, "for dark beauties. Show the world beauty isn’t cookie cutter."

"For like what? A website or some shit?"

The guy dug into his pocket, pulled out a card case, and handed one to Mary.

Heroes Greg Karson, Photographer/Web Design Butera School of Art

Actually, Mary had heard of this. It was a zine about the local happenings around town—concerts, art shows, parties, etc. There was a stack of them next to "Rrriot!" in the record shop. He’d flipped through one occasionally, mostly interested in the band reviews.

"We’re really on the lookout for anyone with the right look. You know, wear stuff you already own."

"So like a street fashion spread?"

"Well, we might do a little more with it, but—you know how it is. Most of the budget goes toward printing costs."

Mary perked up.

"Would I be paid?"

Greg laughed.

"Peanuts, my dude. But yeah. Even if it’s a T token. You interested, then?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Mind if I take a few test shots."

Mary smirked at Greg.

"How do you want me?"

"Just natural."

Putting his hands in his pockets, Mary arched his back and gave Greg his best snotty hipster face.

Greg dug out a digital camera from his carrying case and took a dozen or so pictures of Mary from different angles while telling him to turn this way or that.

Afterwards, the two of them huddled over the camera and scrolled through the shots.

"Aw yeah, this one. I love the attitude. The guys are gonna love it. You have a number where we can reach you?"

Mary gave him the number of the record shop. (His apartment had a phone, but he’d never gotten around to wanting to pay for service.)

Later, he and Amber looked up the Angelfire website on the back of the card. It was one page that contained the mission statement, bios of the creators, and locations to pick up the zine.

"Omigod—you’re gonna become a famous model, Mare!"

"Yeah, right. You know most of it ends up in the trash, right?"

But when Ben called, Mary said he was game. He directed Mary to a co-op in a converted warehouse in Dorchester, and Mary brought his favorite clothes in a borrowed duffle.

A girl in cat pajamas opened the door and pointed at a set of metal stairs with her cereal spoon.

On the second floor, Mary found Greg setting up a makeshift studio. A girl with multiple piercings and yarn dreads leaned against the wall in her black babydoll dress.

Mary sidled up to her.

"You here to model, too?"

She gave him an unimpressed once-over.

"I’m the art director, asshole."

Mary flushed hard as she turned to Greg.

"Couldn’t find one with brains?"

She turned back to Mary.

"I don’t know if you thought this would be a good way to meet chicks or what, dude. But I’m letting you know right now that I’m here on my day off to make sure this adheres to our aesthetic, so if you're not serious, fuck off."

Mary rubbed the back of his neck.

"Shit, sorry. I was expecting a dude named Ben."

She waved her hand in the air as if dispelling Ben.

"The Bens are morons. Good idea, terrible execution. I’m here to make sure we remain true to the idea of 'Heroes,' so don’t fuck up my shoot." She gave him a once over. "Christ. You have any experience?"

Greg turned from where he was testing the white balance.

"Angelique, stop harassing the talent. We get it, you have a degree from RISD."

Angelique snorted.

"As if I don't hear you going on and on about being a professional photographer. 'Hey, lemme shoot your portfolio, baby.' Whatever. As if we're not your only professional credit."

"Hey—you wanted a photographer for peanuts? You got me. You wanted models for peanuts? You got him."

Mary gave her his full snaggle-toothed grin.

"I take T tokens."

Angelique sighed, then pasted on a smile.

"Hi! So happy you’re here!" Her smile drooped. "You got your wardrobe in there?"

"Yeah."

Mary handed her the duffle, and she handed him release forms.

"Here: sign these"

She pawed through his offerings.

"Not bad, not bad." She pulled out a corset and his heeled boots. "We'll keep you in your jeans and have you wear your jacket over your corset. Cool?"

Cool.

The shoot was as professional as a shoot in a warehouse in what Mary was taking to usually be a living room could be. Angelique directed Greg with what she wanted. Greg called out positions and expressions for Mary to pose in.

It was surprisingly hard work, and by the end of a solid hour, his smirking lip was getting tired. Angelique and Greg scrolled through the shots, murmuring to themselves and nodding.

Mary waited—greeting at the other inhabitants as they squeezed by on their way either up or down—until Angelique approached him.

"That’ll do. You mind if we post on our website?"

Mary preened.

"Yeah, that’s kosher."

She handed him a pen and pocket notebook.

"Write down a quick bio."

He scribbled down a quick elevator pitch

Into general skulking and metal \m/

and handed the notebook back to her.

"Great, thanks."

She handed him a $20 bill, her eyes skimming him up and down.

"Next time we should show off those hip bones. Just jeans, I think."

Mary perked up. "Next time?"

"We’ll call you."

***

"Omigod, omigod!"

Amber perched on the record store counter, flipping through "Heroes," as Jon peered over her shoulder.

"Mary…look at you!"

Mary tried to swallow his smug smile.

Failed.

"Yeah. I’m hot shit, ain’t I?"

She bopped him on the nose with the newsprint.

"Don’t be vain."

He showed her his toothy smile.

"I like to think of it as confidence."

"So did Icarus."

Mary snorted and went back to putting prices on the new CDs.

"The camera loves you," said Jon, who was always quiet and reserved as you please…until he put on Frank’s corset and heels.

Mary had tried flirting with him, but Jon always ducked his head and played it off.

"Thanks, man," said Mary, giving him a softer smile.

"So??"

"So what, Amber?"

"Are you gonna do it again?"

Mary shrugged.

"I mean, if they call me, sure."

But he was kind of hoping they would.

When the next issue came out weeks later, Mary stared at the cybergoth on the pages and felt himself deflate. Listlessly, he thumbed through the delicate print, barely skimming the section devoted to the World/Inferno Friendship Society’s set he’d been at the week before.

He set it down with a sigh before he picked up his guitar and plucked out a tune he was trying to coax into a riff.

By the time a Ben called again, Mary had given up the modeling thing as a one-off.

"Hey, dude—thought maybe you guys forgot about me," Mary said in a teasing tone.

The Ben on the other end chuckled.

"It’s like herding cats to get shit out. Nah, dude—we definitely want you to be one of our regulars. You in for next Saturday?"

He was.

***

Over the course of a year, "Heroes" had Mary come out multiple times for shoots. Mainly, Mary wore his own clothes and did his own makeup, but occasionally, Angelique wanted something specific.

"How comfortable are you with boudoir shots?"

"With what?"

"Like a pinup, but more…saucy than sexy."

I'd pose nude if you paid me enough.

(Sure, he was a noodle boy, but he knew he had the goods.)

"Yeah, I’m cool with that."

Angelique brightened at him.

"Great!"

She picked up a set of complicated leather garters and thrust them at him.

"Put these on."

Mary had only ever worn lace garters—mostly out to clubs, but occasionally under his ripped jeans for an extra pop—but he found he liked these even more, liked the way they emphasized his thighs.

"Hey—where’d you get these…?"

(He was already thinking of what he could pair them with for goth night.)

"Local leatherworker. He mostly does pieces for Renn Fairs, but he'll also do custom. I can give you his info."

She led Mary into what was clearly someone's bedroom.

"Don't fuck anything up, or Joye will never let us use this again."

Mary shot her his best shark smile.

"Hey, I only mess up the sheets if someone asks."

Angelique gave him a flat look and called for Greg.

(But when he draped himself over the bed and told Greg to "Paint me like one of your French girls," Mary could have sworn she almost smiled.)

On one memorable occasion, she brought in a guy whose rope bondage demo she watched at a sex convention.

"Put on some of that lingerie and we'll truss you up. You ok with that, Goore?"

Mary ran his fingers over the coils and gave her a wolfish smile.

"You know I'm game for anything."

She gave him a vulpine smile of her own then, and she looked down at him from the height of her platformed boots.

"Good. I thought you should be submissive for once."

Mary had no witty rejoinder for that.

He listened with interest as the guy carefully explained what he was going to do, complete with pictures, and he relaxed easily into the process. (They put bunny ears on him, and it would be much, much later that he got that particular joke. Well played, Angelique.)

The ropes hadn’t let him do much posing, but Mary had kind of liked the constriction, and his thoughts were already on asking Amber to help him create a more versatile version for fetish night.

He’d left that day with a new kink…and the guy’s number.

"Why not just do one big shoot?" he asked another time. "Get it all done in one big bang!"

Angelique held up his garments to eyeball over him.

"Honey, we never even know if there's gonna be a next issue. The Bens spend most of the time arguing. My god you should hear them—Ben bankrolls the whole thing, so he says he should get final say on shit, and Benji wants total artistic control because it was his idea, because 'he's the graphic designer', and because it's his Kinko's employee discount they use."

She gave Mary a curled-lip smile as she tossed a few items at him.

"In the end it's this bitch you're looking at who gets shit done."

Mary began to change (they were long past modesty).

"How'd you get involved?"

"Went to school with Benji."

"Ben too?"

"Neg. The Bens are childhood friends. Ben works some cushy start-up job, so Benji lets him bankroll them both. Rent, utilities—everything. I love Benji to death, but he's a giant mooch."

"Shit, that must be nice."

Angelique shrugged. She stood back to appraise Mary's look.

"It's fucking lame. But it least it gets us fucking paid."

Mary didn't say I'd do this for free. Instead, he struck a pose and said, "I'm just happy for the exposure."

Angelique rolled her eyes and went to fetch Greg.

***

That year and a half would become a nonstop party with Mary as one of the VIPs; he wouldn't say no to anything—be it casual sex, club appearances, or whatever drug the current pretty thing was offering him in the bathroom.

But recognition started slow.

At first, it was customers who would leaf through the zine and recognize Mary.

Then, it was the occasional scenester who’d stop him on the street in JP as he walked about, and Mary would pose for grainy cell phone pics.

Soon, he was being approached at shows and clubs. The first time it happened, Mary was high off his new infamy and ready to please. A woman in a black bandage bra and pleated skirt with bondage straps approached him, and Mary was already thinking of what he could do with those.

"You look like that guy in ‘Heroes’!" she'd shouted to him over the music.

Mary had flashed her a crooked smile and leaned in.

"Maybe I am the guy in ‘Heroes’."

She'd given him an exaggerated once over before sidling closer with hooded eyes.

"I dunno…you're wearing way more clothes."

Mary had pulled his mesh top down by the collar in a tease as he'd curled over her.

"Take me somewhere more private and I’ll let you do a comparison."

She'd compared him all night.

And that was before he and the other "Heroes" models formed their own posse.

The Bens had thrown a BBQ and had invited everyone they'd ever met. There were people packed into their little 2 bedroom in Brighton, spilling down the back stairs, and equally packed into the little square of shared backyard. Ben had taken the 12-pack of 'Gansett beers Mary had brought, then introduced him to the other dark models.

"Now you're all here!" said Ben. He slung his arm around Mary. "Guys, this is Mary. Mary this is Mayhem, Lesley, Lola, and Bryan."

Mayhem was a rivethead, and Mary took to him instantly, but he was wary of the others. Lesley was the cybergoth who'd been in the first issue after him, and Mary still felt a bit salty at them, even though Mary knew by now the Bens rotated the models. Lola, the romantic goth, reminded him enough of Vanity that he felt guilty for losing touch with her and had him projecting a little. Bryan was a metalhead, so: competition.

Mary had thought they'd get along like cats and water, but weed, booze, and "Never Have I Ever" went a long way to creating a shared bond.

And there it was again. That pull. The magnetic force telling him that he'd found the place he was supposed to be. They quickly coalesced into their own pack, calling themselves the "Deathbutantes" (because they always killed it when they debuted for the night).

It had been rare for Mary to miss Friday and Saturday night shenanigans with the Rocky crew, but now, every night was Friday night. There was always a show or a concert or club that one of them knew about—and if they couldn't get lucky with the local color, they'd just go home with each other.

Mayhem taught Mary what Lola jokingly called the "grab a bat" dance, and the two of them cut quite the picture on the dance floors.

Lesley took to Lola, and the two of them could always be counted on for scintillating conversation in dark corners when Mary's limbst needed a break from flailing about.

The clubs weren't really Bryan's scene—take him to a sticky hole in the wall with concrete floors and a stage close enough to feel the sweat from the bands, and he was in heaven—but he liked to come along to hang. He'd drink PBRs, rub Lola's feet when she invariably abandoned her heels for the evening, and argue with Mary about the purity of death metal.

Mayhem and Lola weren't really into live music of the screaming kind, so—while Lesley, Bryan, and Mary bounced off each other in the mosh pits—they'd save a "home" base at one the bartops.

Amber noticed Mary's diminishing presence and stopped by the record shop to call him out.

"So you're not dead! Could've fooled me."

Mary was organizing the albums into order, and he grunted at her.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a cad. I'll make it up to you."

"You missed game night."

"Sorry. Jethro Tull played some tiny venue in nowhere Mass, and Bryan was salivating. I mean, Jethro Tull. Can you blame me?"

He looked at her, arms out wide in supplication. But she just blinked at him.

"You have no idea who Jethro Tull is, do you?"

"Sorry, dude. But christ, Mare. You should have invited me. I'd've gone. Maybe I would have even liked them. Now you'll never know."

"I could just lend you an album."

"Nope! The moment passed. Too late!"

Mary riffled through the stock and shoved a Jethro Tull CD into her hands.

She tapped it against her thigh.

"So, when do I get to hang?"

"I can get us into 80s night free."

"No, I mean, with your cooler friends. Your 'murder models', or whatever."

"You wanna hang out with the Deathbutantes?"

Amber scrunched her nose.

"That's so fucking pretentious."

Mary kind of liked it.

"Dunno if they're really your scene."

"Oh? And what's my scene?"

"Musical theater on crack."

She mock gasped at him, "Called out!" before smacking him with the CD. "Whatever. You love musical theater on crack."

Mary draped his arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah, I do. But I don't live it, you know? You guys have your niche—and fuck…I love to visit—but it's not mine."

Amber looked up at him, her expression serious.

"So the Dumbutantes are your niche?"

Mary shrugged and went back to shelving.

The Rocky crew had been good to him. They'd taken him under their wing, no questions asked, and helped him realize things about himself. Tim had taken him to the ER when Mary had come down with a serious case of the flu. Matty had taught him the basics of sewing. Gretchen had held him after a bad trip. Omar and he had had many drunken heart-to-hearts about their shitty home lives.

And Amber was his best friend. She'd been his #1 cheerleader for years and had never been afraid to call him out on his shit.

So yeah, he loved the Rocky crew…but they laughed at anyone who took anything too seriously. Mary would show up to game nights in his latest creation—with everyone else in pjs or jeans & hoodies—and they'd tease him about trying to impress the wrong people. He'd try to talk about the newest guitar god he'd been mainlining, and they'd make snoring noises at him.

How could he explain the kinship he felt with the Deathbutantes? That they were as serious about music as he was, that they just…got why he felt the need to dress the way he did to express the way he felt inside on his outside.

Instead, he said, "I'm just trying shit out, Ambs." He quirked his eyebrow at her. "I gotta do something while you guys do your real-person jobs."

(Amber had recently started as a junior marketing assistant at the American Repertory Theater. "Purely mercenary," she'd said. "Maybe it'll give me a leg up during auditions.")

She made a disgruntled scoffing noise in the back of her throat.

"Fuck, don't remind me. I actually gotta go to bed a reasonable hour now."

"Don't worry." Mary winked at her. "I'll keep ya honest."

"That sounds a lot like my head in a toilet, Mare."

"I'll hold your hair back."

She gave him a good-natured shove, and he pretended to cower.

If she wanted to cross pollinate, who was Mary to stand in her way? So, he invited her out the next time the Deathbutantes went to a show, and it went exactly like he thought it would.

They disliked her, and she was equally unimpressed. They thought she was too loud and frenetic, and she thought they had no sense of humor.

"I fucking told you," Mary had snorted as they sat on the curb sharing a clove.

"Shut the fuck up, Mare."

But she'd put her head on his shoulder.

"They make you happy, though. So I guess I approve. Just as long as I don't have to play nice."

Mary still hung out with the Rocky crew—there were still game nights and drug-fueled sex parties and theater games—but the Deathbutantes introduced him to the underground scene. They always seemed to have insider knowledge about the best up-in-coming bands and the secret shows. Theme nights at the goth clubs were always a must, and they rarely missed one. Sometimes, Angelique would crash, and they'd take the commuter rail to Providence to party at Club Hell before collapsing in a sweaty, smeary pile at a friend of a friend's hole in the wall.

As a bit player in the Rocky crew, Mary had been another made-up face in the crowd. As a certified member of the Deathbutantes, Mary became the face.

They all did.

The owners loved them because they bought round after round at the bar, and if word got out that the Deathbutantes were there, their admirers came to spend money as well. The employees loved them because they were fun and talked to them as equals. The clientele loved them because they were pretty young things.

Sometimes, though, Mary wasn't in the mood to party or get laid, so he talked to the DJs instead. He'd buy them rounds and stay past closing to help them pack up while they talked about the history of punk and 80s new wave and nu metal. There was one in particular, Dave, that Mary even considered a friend.

The two of them would sit in the club past closing, sharing a whiskey and talking about life while the bartenders closed down and cashed out. Occasionally, Dave's other friends would be around, and they'd all walk back to his place; he'd fool around spinning in his home studio, and they'd drink box wine as they danced and laughed before Mary would have to sit on the ground in an intoxicated exhaustion, good for only thumbing through Dave's vinyl collection.

Mary was just happy to talk shop with another music aficionado, but Angelique had pointed out that he should leverage his minor clout.

They'd been waiting for Greg to finish setting up, and Mary had been struggle city after a particularly hard night out. It was all he could manage to sit there quietly and hope some god would put him out of his misery.

"You need to get your shit together," Angelique had said out of nowhere.

Mary had cracked a puffy eye and had slowly (as to not bring the nothing in his stomach back up) turned his head to her.

"As if I haven't seen your melted ass on the floor wanting to die."

"Fuck, Mary. You've turned it into an art form."

He'd closed his eyes and given her the finger, but that hadn't stopped her.

"You wanna be a rockstar, boy? You can't just sit on your ass and hope the right person on the right night hears you. You're effervescent and charismatic—heads turn when you walk into a room and not just because of your skinny jeans—but you need more than air, Mary, which is all you are right now."

"Fuck you, Angela."

She'd clapped in front of his face, and she was lucky he didn't Exorcist bile all over her.

"You're a fucking pain in my ass, Goore. I'm doling out the good stuff, try not to bite my hand off, k?"

"All right, all right!"

"You wanna start that band? You wanna get play and amass fans? Well, make that demo you're always droning on about and give it to those DJs you're alway fanboying over. Fucking network, Goore."

At the time, Mary had been too hungover to care, but her advice would sink in…

Eventually.

For the time being, Mary was content. He loved the attention, and it made him feel invincible, made him feel like it was finally His Time. And he was going to make up for every slight, every unfair situation, and every beat down with sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

With his newfound nightlife, Mary's day job had become an afterthought. He started sleeping through opening shifts, but with the extra foot traffic Mary brought to the store, his boss seemed resigned to let Mary slide (after a stern talking to and a pay docking).

The shadow cast had started using him as a mascot of sorts, and he was happy to show up on Saturday nights and hype up the waiting line with a pseudo striptease. (Even if it was sometimes to kick off his evening with the Deathbutantes and not hang with the cast after.)

Mary started a band ("auditioning" any and all of the many admirers who said they’d be more than happy to join it), and after a few false starts and a couple of lineup changes, they began working on an EP. (At least, when Mary showed up to rehearsal, they did.)

A Boston Phoenix reporter got wind of the Deathbutantes and called around about doing a story on them. The Bens were excited about the exposure that meant for their zine, and Angelique and Greg were excited about what it could mean for their careers. Mary did a brief interview over the phone where he answered questions about his style and talked about his dream of making his band a household name.

Mary saw his name up in lights, and he was reaching for it, full speed ahead.

But then things turned.

The story fell through at the last minute with no further explanation or contact by the reporter.

His boss finally fired him after Mary showed up too high to function too many times—or not at all.

The shadow cast had a turnover, and suddenly he was old news—a cringey hanger-on.

A trip to the clinic and a round of antibiotics for an STI had him way more wary of who he hooked up with.

"Heroes" lost momentum when imitators popped up and Ben cut off the gravy train.

Angelique moved to NYC for "better opportunities," and the Bens took their brand of counterculture to Portland, OR.

Greg took down the website when he got offered a legit job as an apprentice at a food magazine, and that was that.

The physical zines were cheap things, most ending up papering the sidewalk after trash day or lining the bottom of cages. Without the online presence, did Mary's "modeling career" even exist?

Mary was a little sad to see the era go, but when he woke up in Maine on the hood of some girl's car and only a hazy recollection of how they'd gotten there, he was beginning to see Angelique's point. He needed to get his shit together if he was ever going to become a rockstar. And frankly, he kind of felt like he needed to spend an entire month eating carrots and hydrating.

The 24/7 party had always been an ephemeral thing; it had been sand passing through his hands in a finite amount as he'd tried to hold onto it

He put himself on detox, and waking up sober for the first time in months felt like a revelation. And as it turned out, playing the guitar without badly shaking hands was way, way easier.

He found another job in another music store, and his starter!band was bringing butts into the smaller venues, like Toad.

He still had his old Rocky friends and the Deathbutantes. The club and venue owners still let him in for free, and Dave was always happy to give his demos a spin. By anyone's else's measure, he was steal one of the scene's darlings.

But Mary was beginning to realize that he needed to stop seeing himself as that scared kid who’d arrived in Boston 4 years ago with only a backpack, $72.57 to his name, and void where his family should be.

He needed to stop finding people to please into loving him.

Instead, he needed to live for himself and let them love him for who he was—fuck ups and all.

@slimylayne

Epilogue

"Honestly, that’s probably the reason I even got a band together," he says. "I was still kind of shit at guitar, but people came to see ‘Model Mary’ perform in his underwear."

He shoots me a smirk.

"I’m sure there’re pictures out there of me looking more glam than metal. I kind of played up the whole pinup thing for a while."

"Fuck, I would kill, literally kill to see that."

He pulls me into his lap until I’m straddling him.

"I could open up my underwear drawer and show you right now."

"Goore, you temptress."

I lean down to kiss him, and his hands sneak under my shirt, but I pull away again.

"I kinda thought I knew all your torrid secrets by now. Shit, how come Dave's never needled you about it?"

After 2 years with him, I’m surprised I hadn't even heard a peep from his oldest friend.

Mary snorts.

"Dave would miss shit hanging off his nose. Great dude, amiable as fuck, but he's always had fucking tunnel vision for his music."

I smirk at him.

"Sounds like someone else I know."

Mary pulls a face at me, and I apply kisses to every line until he laughs and bats me away.

"But really, Mare—how come you never told me about your brief career in blue steel?"

He blows out a breath, his hands smoothing up my thighs.

"Fuck. Cuz maybe I was a little embarrassed at how off the rails I was then, ok? Didn't want you to know what I fuck up I was." He takes my hand and kisses my palm. "And even I know it's a shit move to pitch woo at someone by telling them about banging half of Boston."

I make a face at him, and he laughs.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought."

His hands rest on my waist.

"Christ, everything about that year's a bit fuzzy, and it was like 10 years ago. Sometimes it feels like it happened to someone else, honestly. And shit—most of those people aren’t even around anymore. College kids who moved on and 20-somethings that grew up and moved who knows where. I used to watch Amber have—what is it when it’s four people?—and now she lives in bumblefuck Pennsylvania with 3 kids. After she left, I just kinda drifted away from all that."

He shrugs, his eyes downcast.

"I’m sorry, Mare," I say as I smooth his eyebrows.

He shrugs again.

"I mean, we all kinda keep in touch. It's like the only reason I have Facebook."

"When was the last time you even signed into that?"

Mary grins at me.

"Lola's birthday."

"One of the models? What happened with them?"

Mary bites his lip and thinks.

"Mayhem found religion after an OD and kinda ghosted everyone. Lesley followed a girl to New Hampshire. Uh…Lola pursued a PhD for something sciencey involving renewable energy with sugar beets in Idaho, and Bryan moved back to Florida to care for his grandma, who raised him."

Mary leans his head back on the couch and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I mean, shit. We were fucking babies back then. Head empty except for a good time and unlimited potential."

I run my fingers through his hair.

"You miss it?"

His eyes pop open to look at me.

"Fuck no. Not for a million dollars. Too many question marks." His eyes glint as he runs his hands down me. "I like what I got going on right here."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss his forehead. The fucking sap.

Mary picks up my phone and scrolls through the pictures again.

"Fuck. I used to be goddamn adorable, though. Half this shit wouldn’t even fit me anymore."

I squish his little potbelly, and he grunts at me indignantly.

"Do you still have any originals?" I ask.

He shakes his head, his eyes wistful and his smile sad.

"Nah. Got destroyed when my roof collapsed and leaked everywhere. Fuck, landlords are useless. Glad we fucking own now, babe."

He scrolls up, scrolls back down.

"Just these four?"

I nod.

"Yeah. They were the only ones I found—and I did a lot of searching."

"Christ, I think there were at least 10."

I smile ruefully at him. "It’s not gonna be long anyway before they make their way into the popular tags and shit starts coming out of the woodwork."

He tosses my phone onto the table.

"Whatever. Just shows that I’ve always been cool."

And then he’s kissing me again, his hand tangling in my hair.

"You know, I’m your family now, Mare. Just for you."

He brings my hand up and kisses it.

"Fuck, I know that. Why’dja think I put a ring on it?"

#mary goore #longfic #gender neutral insert #aurelio voltaire

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beardofkamenev · 3 years

Text

When Adults Attack! (Teenagers)

(Sorry to everyone for dragging this up again, but some people are chronically incapable of letting drama die down.)

The last time I posted about this was 18 February. It’s now late-March. Despite repeatedly claiming to be “over it”, a self-proclaimed “respected history blogger” has been screaming into the void for over a month now. She seems to be under the unfortunate impression that she’s completely innocent of wrongdoing, all the criticism is unprovoked, she has been targeted by “white bigots”, and that she’s somehow the real victim here. So now I have to explain why that’s bullshit. Unlike her and her two friends, I don’t make extreme but vague accusations with zero evidence. I don’t make empty threats about “exposing” people.

The short story? She involved her own self in a situation that had nothing to do with her, downplayed her friends’ racism towards others, incited her followers to harass a teenager, repeatedly lied to her followers about the multiple POC who criticised her friends being “white”, and has continued to inflame the issue while trying to downplay her role in doing so. The long story? Well, I’ll let the receipts do the talking.

That’s Olivia’s first post at the start of February, days before I or anyone else had even said anything. “My anonymous Jewish friend said!” should have been a red flag to anyone capable of reading anything longer than 280 characters. I’ve already explained why Haley (lucreciadeleon/turtlemoons plus her 92849374 alt accounts) is full of shit and so have plenty of others (here, here, and here, to name a few).

Olivia claims that, as a Romani woman, she’s not obliged to engage with content that offends her. Fine. So why is a black teenager obliged to engage with Haley’s deranged anons? Why are her hate anons are so worthy of a response that not responding is an act of ANTISEMITISM that warrants Olivia telling everyone what an antisemite this teenager is for not responding? FYI, NO ONE is obligated to respond to anon hate, especially from people they’ve already blocked. And considering Haley admitted not once, not twice, but three times to breaking Tumblr’s TOS to circumvent a mutual block and send those anons (including how she did it), people are especially not obligated to engage with her.

I made my first posts exposing Taylor (lucreziaborgia/elizabethblount) and Haley’s lies and backtracking on 6 and 7 February. This was before I acknowledged Olivia’s role in inflaming the situation. In fact, I didn’t even know about her tweets until 8 February. Yet, here she is on 6 FEBRUARY already bitching about my posts to her Twitter followers. She has some nerve acting like I victimised her, just because I posted the screenshots of her bitching about me. And bragging about ‘gaslighting’? The word that multiple people have separately described what her two friends subjected them to? Classy.

I can’t “stalk” her public Twitter any more than she can “stalk” my public blog. What an exceptionally stupid claim to make, considering her tweets kept getting recommended to my mutuals whether they liked it or not. Have some integrity and own the shit you say, rather than backtracking, deleting your posts, and pretending that you didn’t say the things we saw you say. If you want to talk shit about others in public, be ready to answer for it in public.

I also wonder how this started over Henry VII. I specifically wonder how this discussion between myself and May (richmond-rex) triggered Taylor’s totally unprovoked racist comments about how we and Nathen Amin “simp for a dead white man”, and we should “simp for someone who actually advocated for the rights of others” instead. The implication being that Tudor history is only for white people like Taylor, and that only her fave is worthy of discussion (“AnNe BoLeYn WaS oThErEd BeCaUsE sHe WaS tAn.” Good grief).

When multiple POC called bootleg Regina George out for it, not only did she say she couldn’t possibly be racist because Haley approved of her racism, but also tried to argue that Nathen Amin deserved it because it was inappropriate for a British man to joke about Brexit. She then claimed we called her “anti-Welsh” (another fucking lie) to make it seem like a bunch of cRaZy blacks and browns were attacking poor, innocent white her (with Olivia coming to the rescue, of course). And as if that wasn’t enough, Haley then sent these bad faith hate anons calling Nathen Amin’s tweet ANTISEMITIC, for no other reason than to retroactively justify Taylor’s racist comments (though I didn’t see Haley getting offended when she was hate-scrolling through his blog before Taylor was called out).

That was the “antisemitic shit” Haley “privately messaged about” that Olivia thinks deserves a response. In case it's not clear: defending racism makes you complicit in racism. Being Jewish is NOT a get-out-of-racism-free card, and Haley trying to use it as one is absolutely dishonest, especially when NO ONE even knew she was Jewish until she finally admitted in February she was the anonymous ‘Jewish friend’ who sent those batshit anons. Other Jewish people also called Haley out on it, yet Haley and Olivia have conveniently ignored that little fact since it contradicts their narrative.

You think it’s over? Nope. Taylor then slunk into May’s dm’s with a half-arsed apology, where she admitted that the only reason she made those racist comments about Nathen Amin was because we “attacked Gareth Russell first” (“BeCaUsE AnNe FaNs CiTe HiS wOrk”) and she “just wanted to educate us about not lionising Henry VII” (even though anyone with eyeballs can read our discussion see she’s full of shit). At the same time, she and Haley were messaging other history bloggers, telling them that everyone who called them out were antisemites (including an openly Jewish mutual of ours) in an attempt to alienate them from the community. And this was just in JANUARY.

“I can’t be racist! My Jewish friend agrees with my racism!” That steaming load of backtracking horseshit is unfortunately the kind of nonsense Olivia has chosen to defend. FOR WEEKS Taylor ignored May’s messages, explaining why she — a black woman — found Taylor’s comments offensive. Did Taylor listen? Nope. In fact, she only replied in February: after she already started posting about how ignoring Haley’s hate anons was “antisemitism”. How convenient. Taylor might be a fucking idiot but we’re not. She only replied to May because she was afraid we’d use her own words against her. Clearly she never learnt a damn thing because here she is on 6 February backtracking on her apology. “Actually, I did NOTHING wrong! Also, you’re all antisemites for saying I did because my Jewish friend agrees with me!” And what made Taylor feel as though she had permission to start deflecting her vile behaviour onto others in order to get the heat off her? Olivia’s post about ‘their Jewish friend’ Haley: the one that followed Olivia’s “private discussion” with “her two friends”. Taylor is a racist hypocrite who hides behind the few minority friends she has to justify her racism, and attacks every other minority who disagrees with her. It’s no coincidence that the majority of the history bloggers who have a problem with Taylor and Haley’s nasty behaviour happen to be POC.

Despite Olivia admitting that she knew nothing about that situation other than what those two told her, she still took it upon herself to misconstrue and downplay to all her followers the extent of her friends’ racism, lies, and general nastiness (here she is on 9 MARCH). For her, our problems with racism are little more than “stupid drama”, “Henry VII drama”, “Gareth Russell drama”, “overreacting to a joke”, and “petty disagreements over dead people” because her friends are the perpetrators. Yet she demands everyone sympathise with her never-ending dramas and projects her behaviour onto others, despite the fact that she’s shown absolutely no understanding for why so many people have problems with her friends and has consistently defended the perpetrators. She’s entitled to be upset at whatever she wants to be upset at, but she is not entitled to tell her followers that we can’t be upset about racism directed at us, especially when that situation NEVER EVEN INVOLVED HER.

I agree. It’s disturbing that three grown women in their mid to late 20s have a vendetta against an 18 year old. Olivia acknowledged that her posts were reckless and that she would have acted differently if she just sat down and thought for one fucking second. But rather than correct the record on the same platform she made those accusations, she doubled down and took off to Twitter, saying that her anger entitled her to act that way. All with zero acknowledgement of the fact that the teenager SHE falsely accused and repeatedly mocked for her age was still being harassed by HER followers as a direct result of HER posts.

She might love the ‘clout’ that comes with a large following, but she evidently doesn’t care about the responsibility that comes with it. In Taylor and Haley’s case, it’s little more than a means to intimidate others into silence. Olivia might be a “respected history blogger” or a “good historian”, but that definitely doesn’t make her a good person. Far from it, if her behaviour is anything to go by.

This was on 9 February, 3 days after my first post. Bitching about me was all fun and games until the receipts came out, huh?

There’s nothing “insane” about keeping receipts, especially when Taylor and Haley are notorious for lying out of their arses and fake-apologising to people in the dm’s, only to continue mocking them on Twitter afterwards. You know what is insane though? Searching ‘romani’ on our blogs in a pathetic attempt to dig up dirt that doesn’t even exist (yeah, stat trackers exist). Do you know what else is insane? Haley spamming people with passive aggressive anons and sending anon hate to people who’ve already blocked her. She also “stalked” our WOTR group chat, though she’ll never admit to it, despite accidentally posting the dated receipts proving it. Oops!

It’s no secret that Taylor and Haley are cowards (as all bullies are), so it was no surprise when they eventually involved Olivia in their month-old vendetta against a teenager. They wanted to school a black girl on racism and Congolese genocide apologism, so they needed to get a “respectable history blogger” on their side. And Olivia happily obliged, kicking up such a fuss on their behalf that the teenager just offered to end it (despite the fact that Olivia vagued her first). Yet still Olivia continued, publicly mocking her age and calling her an “antisemite” long after the discussion was over (here she is on 24 February still carrying on). Either a teenager is old enough to be publicly shamed for being an “antisemite” and “antiromani bigot”, or she’s too young to be taken seriously. But at 25, Olivia is certainly old enough to know better than to participate in this kind of vile, petty, wannabe Mean Girl behaviour.

Olivia is not black. Taylor is not black. Haley is not black. So for the record, if you are not black, it is not your place to tell BLACK PEOPLE whether they can take issue with apologism for BLACK GENOCIDE. Multiple black history bloggers have already explained why they had a problem with Gareth Russell’s comments about the Congolese genocide (including the teen in question), yet that was less important to Olivia than not being able to call him a sexist weirdo because he’s gay. Olivia cannot speak on all minority issues — especially black and brown issues — and it is arrogant of her to assume that she can, especially since her understanding of the Gareth Russell issue came purely from “what she discussed with her two friends” by her own admission.

What a take. Here’s the “anti-Romani” post that I supposedly made. Precisely ZERO of my posts were about Olivia and not once did I even name her directly. So her claims that I mounted some kind of “vicious attack” against her is, uh, bullshit. Criticising her and her friends for their nasty, dishonest, and irresponsible behaviour isn’t “anti-Romani” just because she’s Romani. It’s no more “anti-Romani” than her erratic attempts to “expose” me are anti-Asian just because I’m Asian. It’s not any more “anti-Romani” just because the UK government has passed anti-Romani laws, any more than her telling deranged lies about me for over a month is an anti-Asian hate crime simply because there’s been an increase in anti-Asian hate crimes. I’m not British. I’m not from the UK. I have no control over whatever dumb, racist crap her government does. So she can fuck off and continue fucking off if she wants to make me personally responsible for that. The backlash she received had nothing to do with her identity and everything to do with how she purposely incited harassment against a teenager, defended her friends’ racism, and spread demonstrable lies to her followers. The “viciousness” of the backlash she received is directly proportionate to the viciousness of her own baseless attacks against others. She can claim to be more mature than an 18 year old all she wants, but do you know what the actual mature thing to do would have been? To not promote her friends’ lies and nonsense, especially when the other people they tried to involve had the sense to stay out of it.

Olivia, Taylor and Haley are fully-grown adults, but take no responsibility for their actions. Yet, they expect teenagers to have total control over not only their own emotions, but also the emotions and actions of others. Olivia thinks that a teen should be personally responsible for the behaviour of fully-grown adults, yet she’s close friends with Taylor — a racist, xenophobic bully who screenshots Tumblr people’s posts to mock them on Twitter (here and here from December), called Poles who’ve lost relatives in the Holocaust “genocidal loving freaks”, accused an openly Ashkenazi Jewish blogger of “internalised antisemitism” just for criticising her (a white gentile), said that people who like Mary I “resent their own siblings”, co-opted our struggles under Spanish imperialism just so she could bully ‘Spaniards’ (despite her being American and therefore equally responsible for genocide, by her flawed logic), and said that the black teen who called out her racism “really deserved to be bullied” and “needed to be policed”. Olivia is also close friends with Haley, who has a history of attacking people over posts that have nothing to do with her, publicly admitted to circumventing blocks in order to send hate anons, and likened me — a Filipino immigrant — to DONALD TRUMP and a neo-Nazi conspiracy theorist just because I posted the receipts exposing her lies, harassment of others, and projection.

Most of the people who have spoken out against these three didn’t even know each other until last month. Some of ‘us’ have actually blocked each other. Yet all of us agree that their behaviour towards others has been absolutely unacceptable. How is it that so many unrelated people from different corners of the ‘fandom’ have exactly the same problems with exactly the same people? If Olivia want us to take personal responsibility for “our friends’” behaviour, then she should first take responsibility for hers.

This is on 26 February, over a week after I last posted. As anyone with eyeballs can see, I called her British once. Not “repeatedly”. ONCE. So she can fuck off again with that bullshit. And why did I point that out? Because Olivia, a British citizen, made pejorative comments about “white Eastern Europeans!!!” just because she thinks some Polish people committed the heinous crime of... screenshotting her tweets. They didn’t even do it, and even if they did, how is that even relevant? Everyone knows that one specific Polish person lives rent free in Taylor’s head, so clearly Olivia just took Taylor’s word for it that it must have been The Poles who were “stalking” her. Maybe don’t take paranoid liars at face value next time?

Shameless, ignorant, tone deaf nonsense. Olivia constantly demands that people treat her and her identity with the utmost respect, yet here she was on 9 February already disrespecting the identities of others just so she can score some petty ‘oppression points’ against them. Why even bring their nationalities up? And why call them “white Eastern Europeans” instead of Polish since she knows they’re Polish? Is it because acknowledging that they are Polish would mean acknowledging that she doesn’t actually have a monopoly on a claim to discrimination or Holocaust trauma? Could it be that dismissing them as just some “white Eastern Europeans” was just another way for her to add credence to her own “pathetic lies” about the situation? There’s a word for that behaviour, and it starts with pro- and ends with -jection.

Let me reiterate: it is IGNORANT of her to use their identity against them, especially when hate-crimes against Polish immigrants have increased in her home country, and especially when the specific people she insulted lost close relatives (including Jewish relatives) in the Holocaust. It’s not “repeatedly mocking her identity” to point out her hypocrisy. Her being Romani is not an excuse for casual xenophobia. She might be able to hide her identity in the UK (though she shouldn’t have to), but Polish immigrants do not have the privilege of passing as first-language white British. I cannot pass as non-Asian. The black girl she and her friends tried to bully off Tumblr cannot pass as non-black. Olivia weaponising people’s identity against them just because she thinks they saw her public tweets is ignorant, petty, and completely uncalled for. She should be absolutely ashamed for using that pathetic argument, but based on her most recent farrago of nonsense, she probably won’t be.

Here’s her on 7 MARCH. And of course Taylor was the first to like it lol. Olivia may have deluded herself into believing she was just an innocent bystander, but unfortunately, enough people saw her admitting to inserting herself into the situation at the behest of her two friends. With every post before and since, her accusations have gotten wilder and wilder, falser and falser, and more and more irrelevant because she knows full well that none of her followers will bother fact-checking her. That’s the beauty of vagueing people. It’s how Taylor and Haley have been able to get away with pulling the wool over peoples’ eyes for so long. Too bad repetition, projection, and self-righteous outrage doesn’t equate to the truth because those are all those three have.

“SOMEONE NEEDS TO EXPOSE THE WHOLE DAMN LOT OF THEM! BUT IT WON’T BE ME!”

No one has said anything since 18 February, yet here’s Olivia publicly inciting her followers again. She’s “done talking about it”, yet she’s the only one continuing the drama. She is being ‘persecuted’, yet she mobilises her followers to go after others. She needs to be defended against critics, yet she also can’t resist bragging about big her Tumblr following is, how “piddly” our notes are compared to hers, how she got over 30 followers to report my posts (they’re still up lol), and how many people she can get to dig through our blogs to find anything to “expose” us. Olivia, I’m sorry that you require constant validation from strangers on the internet, but not everyone has the same priorities as you. Some of us just come here to have fun, but having shitstarters in the community is decidedly un-fun.

All my posts were directed at Taylor and Haley, but since Olivia insists on making this revolve around her, let me clarify: she is a hypocrite and a professional victim. Words have meaning, and those words are the most accurate words to describe her behaviour. It has fuck all to do with her identity. She and Haley are professional victims because they act as if their minority statuses exempt them from basic rules of online courtesy and entitle them to run their mouths about others with no consequence. And Olivia is a hypocrite because she demands the respect and understanding that she has repeatedly refused to show to others. She made ignorant, xenophobic comments against Polish people because she falsely assumed they screenshot her public posts bitching about others. She pretends that the many POC who have spoken out against her are just some “white” hive-mind because admitting that we’re not white will discredit the victimhood narrative she’s been peddling to her followers. And she arrogantly presumes to be ‘our’ voice in the community, all while mobilising her following to intimidate and silence the minorities who take issue with her and her friends’ vile behaviour.

It��s extremely telling that in every one of her unlettered rants, Olivia made the conscious choice to conflate us with “white gentiles”, “white antisemites”, and “white Eastern Europeans”. Why? Because in order to “name and shame” us, she’d have to admit to her followers that the majority of the people criticising her aren’t actually “white”, but are in fact black, brown, and Jewish. Having repeatedly demanded that her followers defend her, her reputation and credibility now depends upon people continuing to see her as the oppressed victim of “bigoted whites”. Unfortunately for her and her friends, the truth will always come out. That’s what receipts are for, no matter what they claim.

The history community didn’t side with “a white gentile woman”. We sided with a black teenager who Olivia and her friends repeatedly mocked for her age, publicly and privately spread false accusations against, and incited their followers to harass with their never-ending posts. We sided against white racists like Taylor, and her white-passing enablers like Olivia and Haley. Since being called out for racism by a black girl discredited them, they had to discredit her. And unlike the others Taylor and Haley tried to involve, Olivia was their willing accomplice. If she has now been “alienated by half the history fandom”, it is because of her own behaviour and rightly so.

The ideal course of action would be for Olivia to finally take some responsibility for her actions, publicly apologise for her role in inflaming this drama, and move on like the rest of us have tried to do. But unfortunately, she may be too far gone in her own pathological need for online validation to ever admit wrongdoing without some serious introspection. So perhaps, Olivia, if anything else, you should just take your own advice and, once and for all, SHUT THE FUCK UP.

#here's my fucking rent #seeing as i've lived in your head for a whole month #dumb and dumber #disk horse for ts #long post

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 5 years

Text

Imagine: PRT THREE.

Reader gets a surprise visit from nasty Erik.

This was requested for another part. May be the final part because I didn’t plan for this lol. Wrote this today.

Part One. Part Two.

You had a certain pep in your step that didn’t go unnoticed. Heading towards your Micro Biology classs, books in hand and a blush on your face, you try and discreetly enter the classroom only to find eyes on you. Head down, you pull your hoodie further over your head, sitting down slowly so you wouldn’t gain anymore attention.l

Erik put it on your pussy last night. You ended up spending the night and fucking another two times after the first. After each hard fuck this man’s fat dick would just plump up and harden with the tiniest look in your direction. He loved the way you looked dressed in his large t shirt with your curly hair pulled back from your face. He would kiss your cheeks and stroke it with his thumb lightly, causing you to bite your lip and blush profusely.

He knew what he was doing to you. He was your new addiction and it had only been one night of him. As you open your laptop to begin typing, the vision of him burrowing deep inside of you with your legs over his shoulders had you rubbing your hands over your face. Your shoulders begin to bounce with excitement as you laugh, still perplexed that you even opened your legs and gave your tight pussy away to a 30 year old man.

A hung, freaky, pro of an older man.

“Miss Y/N?”

You hadn’t noticed that your Professor had been calling you the entire time.

“Your research paper, please?”

Your heart sank.

Fuck. You forgot to grab your written paper from your desk within your dorm this morning when you came back around 6:00 am. Brandy, your room mate and close friend, was knocked out on her bed, snoring and all. Brandy didn’t have an 8:00 am class like you did. And to top it all off your paper was also on a flash drive you forgot to bring to class.

“I’m so so sorry, I-“ you shake your head with disappointment in yourself. So much for a 100%

“I forgot to grab it from my desk this morning. I didn’t wake up to the alarm.”

Your professor nodded his head slowly, “Okay, you know how I feel about late assignments, correct? That will be a five point deduction from your grade, Miss Y/N.”

Your professor left it at that, returning back to the discussion about virology and parasitology.

“You know, this shit ain’t really like you, Y/N.”

That deep voice made you laugh. Your assigned partner and school friend, Lakeith, has to have something to say about everything you do.

“Lakeith, mind your business for once, please.” You sass in a hushed tone.

“I would if I wasn’t enjoying the fall of a supposed future Nurse Practitioner.”

With a death glare, you turn to him, his chestnut eyes always a hypnotic thing for you. Then he decides to smile, showing off his dimples.

They weren’t deep like Erik’s but they were still something.

“I got my shit on lock, Sir, worry about scoring higher than me on the TEAS, Mr. Future RN.”

“Baby girl,” he chuckles low, “My shit always on lock. Coming up in here like you just left a dick appointment.”

Your heart flutters. Was it that obvious? I mean, the dick appointment was hours ago but damn it was still written all over your face. You decided not to respond to that portion. He didn’t need to know.

“So, somebody hitting that and you down played every chance I offered? Wow.” He laughs to himself, leaning in towards you, practically all up in your grill.

“You getting some dick, Y/N?” He smiles, his shiny teeth almost blinding. Damn him for being this fine.

“Why are you checking for me so much?” You roll your eyes into your head.

“I’ve been checking for you. Don’t act brand new because you let some other nigga wow you.”

He smelled like cinnamon. Lakeith always smelled good.

But Erik smells like sandalwood and citrus.

Even Erik’s sweat smelled like cologne. The thought of him had you shivering down the spine, you focus your attention back on your typing.

“Yeah, you got a noticeable arch in your back that wasn’t there before.”

You heard a chuckle from Lakeith’s partner in crime, Marvin. Both of them, two Kappa brothers that joked like teenagers.

“Fuck you.” You fire back, flipping him off, “sit on it and spin, nigga.”

“Yeah, okay,” He puts a base in his voice, “I’ll have your little ass sitting and spinning on something if you keep playing with me, big headed ass.”

“You started with me!” You argue back, trying your best to keep your voice low.

“Whatever,” he shoves your head, “do some damn work.”

Kissing your teeth, you throw your led pencil at his head, watching him scrunch his face with discomfort, rubbing the spot that stung.

“Bitch ass,” you end the argument there, cracking your knuckles to get back into the grind. Lakeith wasn’t about to fuck up your A average.

How about Erik and his big Daddy dick fucking you? Remember, he said you can come see Daddy anytime you wanted some dick.

You press down over a series of keys, typing out something like dmcbcdjendh.

———————————-

“And again, this tutoring shit will not help me get through Calculus I. I don’t need some student tryna teach me.”

You ball up the flyer that your calculus teacher gave you for tutoring help. Tossing it in the recycle can, you march out of her office, fuming with fists balled and cheeks puffed out. Yes, you were a straight A student but the last calculus exam you took you received a 79 on it. That had you crying into a bowl of cookies and cream ice cream. Now, she was offering you tutoring yet again. The students who tutored acted so self righteous. She didn’t need for any them laughing at her behind her back or hounding her because they had the upper hand at the moment.

“Y/N!” Your young, chipper, Calculus teacher called out to you. She reminded you of Daria but less moody and socially awkward.

“Yes?” The annoyance in your voice was clear.

“Would you like another referral? There is a guy on campus who is here as a Graduate Student receiving his Doctorate. I graduated with him and he’s basically a genius. If you want, I can set you up over the next few weeks to meet with him during library time.”

Another teacher? Maybe this would help. She lectured crappy and it had you zoning out every few seconds. You had to result in teaching yourself.

“What’s his name?”

She motions for you to re enter her office. Closing the door behind her, you take your once vacated seat, staring at her accomplishments from M.I.T.

“His name is Erik Stevens. He is back getting his Doctorate in Engineering.”

Your Calculus professor handed you his business card. It was laminated, perfect watermark and everything. She didn’t understand the pure shock on your face. How could you forget that name after you moaned it and imprinted it within the hippocampus of your brain.

“Is there something wrong?” She asked with a slight smirk on her face. You must have looked crazy.

“No!!” You take the card, placing it in your hoodie pocket, “No, I just thought of something out of nowhere. You know how that happens sometimes.”

“Yeah,” she laughs it off awkwardly, “Give him a shot, Y/N. He’s really good at what he does.”

“Mhm,” you felt a sudden wetness in your panties. He sure as hell is good at what he does. Even your own teacher recommending him to you had you horny as a bitch.

This fucking man.

“I’ll give him a call today.” You look up at your teacher one last time before grabbing your bag, exiting her office.

//////////////

Erik: Call me and put that pussy on the phone, lol. I wanna hear her talk to me cuz I know she wet as a motherfucker.

You bite on your thumbnail while sitting in one of the study rooms within the Library. You were surrounded by Lakeith and a few other Micro Biology class mates to study for the next exam. You didn’t inform Erik about him tutoring you yet because you wanted to drive over to his apartment and tell him in person.

Y/N: It is wet, but I’m in study group right now I can’t show you. 😩

You were NEVER this damn bold with a guy.

“Y/N, you’re supposed to be the one writing on the white board what the fuck you doing?” Lakeith startles you from your sexting.

“Shit, my bad,” you stand up, grabbing your phone and expo marker. The group began telling you information to write out, your mind in tune with education. After applying the top to your marker, you hear a soft knock on the door as if knuckles were tapping it. Craning your neck, you make out the outline of a guy around 6’3, new balance on his feet and a navy blue Champions sweatshirt with matching pants. He had a black North Face beanie on his head, with an artistic pair of gold rimmed glasses on.

At first glance you didn’t recognize him but the moment you stepped closer to the door to open it, a deep pleasure ran through your veins like lava. With a sly smirk on his face, he leans into the door further, staring down at you while curling a single finger for you to come here. He bit down on his bottom lip the moment you were staring at him face to face, the only barrier between you both was the door. He jiggles the door knob, motioning with a tilt of his head for you to open it before he did. Sighing nervously, you open the door, his body smelling like testosterone and patchouli. The thought of the pheromones he produced after sex had you buckling at the knees.

“You in here studying?” He asks with a whisper.

You knew eyes were on you at that door.

“Yes, Biology.” You respond, but not with a whisper. You didn’t need any of them wondering why you were being secretive.

“What kind?” He asks with a tilt of his head, his finger discreetly stroking your hand. You pause to breathe, shifting on your feet.

“Micro.” You meet his gaze, blinking away as soon as you saw the heavy lust there. Why did he have to bring his fine ass over here? Clearly he was in the library the entire time. He did say he’d been watching you around campus and he wanted your thick ass for a long while. So maybe he was watching you study with friends?

“Were you keeping an eye on me, Erik?” You smirk.

“That’s all I can keep on you for now, ma. Ain’t like I can keep this dick on you while you in front of your friends.”

Erik looks over your shoulder. His eyes fell on Lakeiths. He knew from that moment that homeboy wanted you. It was all over that niggas face.

“Let me help I know a lot about Micro Biology.”

Erik wasn’t asking really because he pushes past you, fully within the room. You shutter slightly before closing the door, taking in calming breaths.

“Can we help you?” Lakeith speaks for the group like he was the leader.

“Nah, looks like y’all need it though,” Erik takes it upon himself to spread your notes out on the desk, craning his eyes behind his glasses to read what you had. He takes his other hand, stroking his gotee before turning to the white board.

“Y’all sure y’all know how to study for this?” He asks with a joking tone. Lakeith and Marvin share a look before turning back to Erik.

“Yeah, we got this, bruh. You looking at the top students in the class.”

Erik nods his head slowly, “How about you, Y/N? He speaking for you like he know you smart.”

Lakeith laughs, “we work close together all the time. I know she got it going on.”

Erik lifts a single brow, taking your notes to stack neatly, “Y/N, this nigga always speak for you?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, staring from Erik to Lakeith. There was clearly a weighing of dicks in this room but Erik would come out on top for sure, gold metal and all.

“Not always, but he has a habit to sometimes,” you hide your smile, focusing back to the white board.

“Y/N,” Erik calls for you. He had the right to do that you felt. He opened your pussy up and ate your pussy like a bowl of ice cream, licking his fingers and all. He could call you and you would answer.

“Yes?” You turn to him, giving him your undivided attention.

“You want me to help you study? I can do that right now I got time before my evening class starts,” he places his hands in his pants pockets, waiting for your answer. You both knew you would say yes, and you didn’t hesitate either. This could lead to what you needed.

“Okay, sure,” you try and pack your things but Erik was already on it, zipping up your back pack and throwing it over his shoulder. He walks to the door, opening it for you to leave first.

“You not gonna say goodbye to your little friends?” He says with a smirk before licking his lips.

“Bye y’all, see you this Wednesday,” you step out of the study room, Erik’s arm around your shoulder. Before you could leave the library, Erik pulls you in between an aisle full of history books, slamming you against the shelf. He pauses, trying to keep the solitude of the library at bay.

“Who is that little nigga?” He asks you with a calm that had you squirming.

“His name is Lakeith.” You respond with a whisper.

His eyes look from your toes and back up to your face. Erik takes off your hood, your messy curly bun frizzy from wearing it all day.

“Damn, you ain’t even fix this after I was all in yo’ shit last night.” He laughs with a deep raspy tone.

“I didn’t have time,” you whine, pouting like a baby.

“Why the fuck are you so cute? He had a slight tendrill of anger building up, you could tell from how his brows furrowed, “why you so damn cute, lil mama? Out here having these weak dick niggas craving you.“

You swallow spit, shrugging your shoulders nervously, “I don’t know.”

“What I tell you about that I don’t know shit?”

You forgot he didn’t like for you to tell him that.

“Sorry.”

“All you gonna do is say the shit again. But it’s cool, I know you remember how this strong dick nigga had you crying.” He was even closer now, breath on your cheek.

“I mean, to be honest, aint like you can do much about being the cutest bitch on campus. Cutest bitch with the tightest pussy.”

You could feel him grabbing your breasts with no restraint. Anybody could spot the both of you. You watch as he unzips your hoodie, the thin t shirt you wore underneath giving him a clear view of your big ass nipples.

“Y/N....shit,” he takes both, pinching your nipples and playfully slapping them.

“Big ass titties.” He kisses your neck on both sides with a little tongue.

“Erik,” you moan out with a shiver.

“I’m the only one allowed to put it on you, you hear me?” He whispers. Erik pulls you from the shelf by the collar of your shirt, palming your ass hard before slapping it.

“Daddy is gon’ be all in your shit girl, you wait and see,” he bit your ear, taking you by your hips to make you grind on him from the front. It was the wildest shit ever. You never did anything like this in public. For the most part it was kissing and ass grabbing but not this.

Erik pulls one of your legs up, his hands on the shelf while he dry humped your crotch.

“Damn, babygirl, that leg all the way up there, huh?” He pulls you with three quick pumps over his clothed and now fully hard dick. You could feel it against your leg and it was long as hell. He had you so open last time...Damn, he was gonna do that shit again.

“Let me stop before I have a big ass nut,” he chuckles, lowering your leg but never moving his hand away from your ass, “girl, when we get back to my place, I swear to God your ass is mine.”

————————————

“You’re so hard, I can feel all of that big dick, Daddy.”

You moan while grinding on his crotch, wet pussy wrapped around his bare dick. The minute you stepped out of his car and entered his apartment, he started undressing you without a word. Now here you were, fully naked and coating his dick with that good sticky shit. Erik has his fingers on your clit, rubbing in a slow circle while he instructed you to keep wetting his dick down to his balls.

Erik places his fingers within his mouth before grabbing your waist, angling you and making you bounce on his dick in rhythm with his grinding. It was an erotic sight to see, legs spread wide, pussy wet, hard dick all slick.

“Fuck, Y/N, got me ready to buss a fucking nut, damn girl!” He slaps your ass, “You ain’t all sweet, your little ass a fucking devil. What kinda sweet girl put a pussy like this on a nigga? Ain’t never heard of that.”

Erik grabs his dick, smacking your pussy with it, “Get on your fucking knees. Go on, ma, get down there.”

You were on your knees now, grabbing his dick with one hand, licking yourself off of him.

Damn this girl.

“Y/N, don’t be shy girl, c’mon, lil mama,” Erik motions for you to take him more, “open up...yesss, just like that. Mhm, good girllll.”

You gag on him. He was just so big. You had to stop and look at his dick like it was from another world. He laughs at your tear stained face and swollen lips. The spit on your chin he had a lot of fun with it seems, smearing it in with his fingers.

“I ain’t say you were done,” he jerks his dick, smacking you in the chin, “let’s go, ma, dick ain’t gonna suck itself.”

You grab him up, sucking him again. This time, he was fatter than before. What the hell was this! Your pussy was leaking, no lie. You could feel it on your thighs. Fuck if you weren’t sucking his dick. Erik rolled his eyes, head falling back when your tongue snaked up his dick.

“And you was tryna play scared?! Shit,” he shakes his head, “scared of what Y/N? You ain’t afraid of all this big dick.”

Erik grabs your hair, fucking into your mouth. You grab his thighs, eyes on him while he fucks your mouth.

“Damn, I’m balls deep in your mouth.” He grunts, pushing one final time before releasing your mouth, a thick stream of spit caught on your lips.

“Sloppy mouth bitch.” He slaps you with his dick. You were so astonished. He just hit you with his dick.

“Fuck. Me,” he looked from his dick to your wet face, “Come ride Daddy.”

You climb up, watching him apply a condom again. You pout with sadness, looking down at him roll the condom over all that spit on his dick. The vision was covered and it had you rolling your eyes.

“Fuck you doing all that for?” He caught that shit.

“If you fuck me raw I won’t act like this,” you speak in a timid tone. Erik licks his lips leaning back to admire you.

“You want some raw dick?”

You nod yes.

“Ard...take the condom off then.”

Quickly, you snatch it off, throwing it to the ground.

“Like I said, a slut for this dick,” he pulls you over him, “Get up here and fuck me since you want it raw. Fuck this dick like you tryna mold my shit in that little kitty.”

You squat over him on your tip toes, rubbing his dick over your clit a bit before lowering over him. He slaps your ass extremely hard, the connection complete and your lips in a full pout now.

“Yeah, thats my fucking girl, such a good little girl. Making that face I like, that dumb struck face with all this dick in you balls deep, fuck.”

You start bouncing, hands on his shoulders and head thrown back.

��Ohmygodddd ohmygoddddd.”

He was really hitting different. It was so much pressure you were sure to squirt. The dick was knocking on your walls for a squirt in return. Damn, his big dick was all the way in there. Shit didn’t make no sense.

“You hear all that?” He speaks to you but you were dickmatized, “you are splashing on me, girl! What the fuck!” You sure were. You could hear it loud and clear.

“Yes I am, oh my Godddd,” you gasp.

“Yes I am, Daddy. I’m so wet, Daddy.”

“You taking this big dick girl, it’s okay for me to keep fucking you like this? Fuck, Y/N this pretty pussy so wet.”

His hands were everywhere. He was low on the couch, hips pumping up into you with his eyes low and on your face. You were in an eye lock with him and it made the moment even better.

“Never thought you would be bouncing on this dick did you?” You both shake your heads at the same time, “I already know I just wanted you to agree with me, sexy bitch.”

You watch as he presses his hand into your back, lifting your leg with the other hand, pounding into you, beating your shit in.

“Damn, ma, I got you looking possessed,” he says all of this while fucking you deeper, flesh smacking louder, “mhmmm, this cool? Huh? Daddy hitting that spot, right?”

You were in no shape to speak. This man had a tight grip on your leg while he beat the brakes off your pussy.

“Shit better than the first time? You getting all of me girl ain’t no holding back. You want this raw dick you taking it like a big girl.” He slows down, making you feel every inch. It was literal murder.

“You a big girl,” he looks down at the way his dick was fucking you, “big girl when you getting this pussy fucked.”

“Fuck, yes.” You moan out. You’d be a big girl and take anything. This man had you wide open.

Damn, hold up, shit,” Erik slips out, arching you over the couch now. He used your shoulders, pushing you down so your face was pressed into the cushions. Your ass was pointed so far up, pussy spread wide for him to slip inside with ease. Your pussy was already wet anyway so he would be in that shit with no problem real soon.

“Throw this phat ass back on me.”

You move with as much energy as you could force. He had you tired. You move your hips seductively while throwing it back, your eyes on him to watch his every reaction. You watched him take in a deep breath, several to be exact, trying his best to control the urge to cum.

“This little pussy finna make me buss.”

You were about to buss from the way his head stroked your sweet spot.

“Ahh, I’m about to cum, Daddy,” you grab the back of the couch, legs shaking and cum spilling out like warm sugar.

“Pussy so sweet, Y/N,” he grabs your hips, taking control now while drilling you. The change of pace had your mouth wide open and eyes glossy from the pressure.

“Damn, you really in there!” You yell, back muscles flexing from the intense feeling. This man was stirring your guts around like a bowl of noodles.

“You putting it on me Daddy I don’t wanna stop!!!” You yell with literal tears in your eyes. You were being completely honest. You didn’t want him to ever stop. You wanted him to keep going and going.

“Putting it on this tight pussy?” He asks with a smirk, “This my tight pussy, you hear me? My tight pussy, little mama.”

“Yes, it’s for you!” You couldn’t believe it, you were cumming again, “DADDY MY PUSSY!!!”

The way you reacted to him had his balls tight and dick rippling, ready to cum.

“Best believe little girl I’m taking. this. SHIT.” He started fucking then stoping, fucking then stopping, like a pattern of torture. Your body would jerk forward in surprise, and then he would stop for about three seconds leaving your clit a throbbing mess. Each time he started back up you would gasp, the surprise of it leaving you motionless and breathless.

“Mhm,” he stops, slapping your ass, “Mhm.”

You reach back, hoping for him to grab your wrists. When he does, you prepare for the pounding of your life. Arching more, you feel him increase momentum, eyes growing lower and lower each time. He had you hooked. That’s it. You were fucking Erik Stevens from now on.

“How you feel about me bussing this pussy open?” He says in a breathless tone.

“I feel so good, Daddy.”

/////////////////////

You watch as he sucks on your nipples, your shirt lifted over your head. You just got out of the shower, your legs weak. He had you against his front door, wet hair all over your face and chest arched forward into his mouth. You cry and do it loudly like a whiny brat, his tongue flicking your nipples in the best way.

“Daddy...stop...” you push at him weakly.

He starts sucking like a damn baby and you extend your head back, hitting the door with a loud thud.

“Chill out,” you say between breathless moans. He was a damn animal for you.

“Daddy, what the fuck,” you rub your thighs together, “ooo...stop,”

He doesn’t say a word as he tongues and sucks on your titties. Nipple play never aroused you this much. Erik was a man of firsts for you. How was it that you could feel your pussy throb and drip from this? His eyes meet yours while he flicks his tongue over your right nipple. Damn, he was a fine motherfucker with a mouth you wanted to sit on. Imagine having a tongue like that slipping from front to back and side to side in your slit.

“Daddy eat my pussy,” you ask with no regard.

“Suck on that pussy?” He lifts with spit on his chin, “If I eat it you ain’t going no where for the night cuz im only gonna fuck you again.”

“So?” You sass, “plus, I’m gonna be here more often anyway. My calculus teacher recommended me to you for tutoring.”

He looks at you with dark eyes of lust while twirling your nipples, “Damn, forreal?”

“Yeah, I figured you could reward me with more dick if I do well.”

“Yeah, I can do that. But that means you gotta do well though.”

You kiss your teeth, “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

“Put that bag down and undress. Squat over the couch with that pussy sitting over the edge, okay?” He said it so casually, his naked chest looking edible.

“Okay,” you put your bag down, undressing again. You know you looked a mess but he didn’t care about that shit. Walking to the couch, you watch him as he takes a hit from his blunt. You get into position, arching with your legs wide and pussy sitting for his mouth. Erik admires you while blowing smoke from his lips, walking over to you and getting on his knees.

“You gon pop that ass and pussy while I eat your juicy shit from the back?”

“I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

“Good.”

You could feel him turning around, his arms up and on your ass, spreading you wide. You feel his lips kissing your pussy, eyes closing with bliss. He tongues your folds apart, his tongue dancing with your nectar. He slobs, then slurps, slobs, then slurps, a continuous pattern. Each time you would flinch, your clit jumping each time he did it. Fuck if you would get your pussy ate from someone else. He knew your pussy like the back of his hand. His tongue started flicking upward, only the tip of it teasing your clit and inner folds. It moved all over, Erik working that thing. You claw at the couch, turning your head no matter how painful to try and watch how he did that. This man was full of surprises.

“Daddy, how you doing that?” You ask with a sweet tone. He responds with a sloppy kiss to your clit. You fall against him, giving in to his dance.

“Fuck, Daddy.” You start popping your ass, the feeling of his gold slugs making you shiver. Shit, he was making you cum. Already this man was making you squirt. You were overwhelmed.

“SHIT,” you shake, pussy squirting in his mouth. He applauds you with a slap to the ass before going back to work. Now your clit was overworked and sensitive. The more he slobs the more you cum. And just like that, you were creaming.

“Oh, fuck yeahhhhh.” You talk into the couch cushion beneath you.

“My dick hard again. I told you.” He stands, dick ready to rip through his sweats.

You could hear your phone ringing, sure that it was Brandy but all that didn’t matter, Erik had you up in the air. You could see yourself in his mirrors that he had on his living room wall over his TV. You were so small compared to him. He’s taller, extremely taller, and so toned and cut, not one part of his body was covered with fat. He looked into that mirror too, eyes on you at times but also on the way he held you up like you were as light as an infant, bringing you down over his dick. Each time you both connected he would look back at you to catch your reaction. It didn’t matter how this man fucked you, it was great each time.

Erik walks over to the mirror while he still bounced you, turning sideways now, those full lips of his pouty and his eyes low and hazy.

“Creaming on me something serious,” he rewards you for that buy fucking up into you quickly. Your toes curl, hands around the back of his neck squeezing.

“Y/N, damn,” he scrunches his face, hands palming your ass to keep you up and open for him, “Baby girl, look at me.”

You look at him, moans stuck in your throat.

“Why you letting me take this pussy like this? You not afraid to fall for a nigga?”

You were already falling. It was only day two. He knew what he was doing. He played the game well.

“You not afraid to fall for me?” You catch your breath, “you’re not afraid to get pussy whipped by a girl like me? A little mama?”

“Nah, ma,” Erik shakes his head with a smirk, “not at all.”

You blush, your pussy gushing further over him. He may be your fuck buddy now but the thought of him being more excited you. He made you forget about your ex. Erik was the man of your dreams now a reality.

“Shit, I’m about to have a big fuck nut!!!” You watch as he fucks you at full throttle, body bouncing, wet pussy sliding, moans and groans loud for the entire apartment complex to hear.

“Fuck, girl!!!!” Erik slips out, resting you on the floor while cumming on your face and titties. You catch as much as you could and scrape up the rest to put on your tongue. Erik watched you with primal eyes, his sweat dripping on you. The sweat that smelled like citrus and patchouli. While you tasted and swallowed his cum you wished he would cum in you. You know why but damn his dick was good that’s where you wanted it next! You could only beg for it honestly.

“Ard, ma, time to get up we got some studying to do.” He picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder. You watch him pick up your back pack Erik walking you back to his bedroom. How were you going to study and get through the semester with Erik’s dick in you at any given opportunity? This was going to be tough. Erik drops you on the bed, your body bouncing. As you sit up and fold your legs, Erik opens you bag while his blunt rested between his lips, pulling all of your things out that you needed.

“I’m serious about this studying, shorty. Education is important. You want me to help you out you gotta pay attention to everything I tell your little ass, Aight?”

“Okay, whatever you say, Erik.” You pull your hair up into a top knot bun.

“Gotta work hard for what you want,” he looks at you, a smirk growing on his face, “you hear me talking to you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Daddy Erik when I’m in that puss, professor Erik when we hitting these books,” he takes a puff of his weed, “you smoke?”

You take the blunt without answering, smoking a little.

“Aight, what you get on your calculus exam?”

You felt embarrassed to say. You knew he would frown at you if you told him what it was.

“I’m an A average student, Erik.” You try and ease away from answering his question. His eyes were on you like he was ready to fuck you yet again.

“Ma,” he shakes his head, “just tell me. What you get?”

“A fucking 79.”

“You can do better but that’s better than shit I’ve seen. Stop beating yourself up, Y/N.”

His words had you dripping on his bed. You bounce, titties jumping and a seductive smile on your face. Your eyes focus on him, his still hard dick pointed to your mouth. He bites the corner of his lip, eyes peeking at the way your big ass titties looked bouncing. With a shake of his head and closed eyes, Erik grabs you by the chin, making you look up at him. He opens his eyes real slow, trapping you.

“Just suck my dick again, ma. You did that shit right the first time. I like the way you look chocking on my stick.”

Yep, this was going to be difficult.

@dameshaemonique @sheisexcellent1 @blktinkerbell

#killmonger imagine #killmonger x reader #killmonger fanfiction #black panther killmonger #erik killmonger #nahimjustfeelingit-writes

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Best Part of Me -Chapter 37

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @ocfairygodmother

“Two more weeks and I’ll be six!”

Millie makes the announcement as she stands on a kitchen chair; pushed up against the counter next to the stove as they work side by side to prepare their customary Saturday morning breakfast. Clad in a t-shirt that once belonged to Ovi; the color long faded and holes under the arms and tears at the hem, yet still bearing the crest from Hargrave school in Mumbai. It’s far too big on her; reaching her ankles and having to be tied into a knot at the back of her neck in order to narrow the shoulder and keep the garment on her slight frame. But it’s one of her favorites; a prized possession that she refuses to part with, as if it's worth more than any other priceless artifact in the world.

“Well I’m really six in ten days,” she corrects herself. “‘Cause two weeks is fourteen days and that’s when my party is but my birthday’s before that.”

It still bothers him; the mere mention of the age of six bringing back a lot of painful memories. There’d only been three months between Austin’s diagnosis and death; the cancer shockingly aggressive, no treatment -no matter how severe- touching it. And he’d only been in Afghanistan for a week when he’d gotten the call that he’d passed away; taking a three day sabbatical for the visitation and the funeral before heading back. He’d known before he’d left out of the house that it would be the last time he’d ever be there; that his marriage was over. Sarah had refused to even speak to him since he arrived home; avoiding him even at their own child’s funeral. They’d barely spoken their words to each other over the course of that weekend, but he’d seen the hatred and the disgust in her eyes. The disappointment. He had abandoned his only child when he’d been needed the most; leaving Austin scared and lost and questioning why daddy hated him so much that he’d take off without even a proper goodbye.

In reality, their marriage had been falling apart for quite some time. They’d tied the knot fresh out of high school, wanting to do it before the start of his basic training and scared by the prospect of him being immediately sent overseas. The cheating began only a year into things; word travels fast when your wife is the ‘base whore’. He’d tried to pass it off as gossip, even though the evidence began to add up as time went on. And he’d confronted her many times, only to be told he was ‘imagining things’ and being ‘paranoid’; that he needed to grow up and get some balls and be ‘less of a little bitch’ and not so self conscious. He would have left the first time he caught her red headed, but two days later she was begging him for forgiveness and telling him she was pregnant and that there was no way the baby WASN’T his. So he stayed.

He’d been much younger then. Foolish. Convinced that she was the love of his life; the woman he was destined to be with forever. Who he’d have a family with and grow old and gray alongside of. Someone that would not only be a spouse, but best friend and confidant. He’d still been a kid when they’d gotten married, and years later -seventeen, to be exact- he’d realized just how wrong he’d been about her. Thirty-five years old and addicted to booze and pain meds yet somehow managing to find the most incredible woman he’d ever met. Someone who could handle him at his most unbearable and difficult times; strong and fierce and never backing down from a challenge. At that point he’d given up on himself; hopeless and lost. Broken. Believing he wasn’t worthy of absolution. And then Esme had come along and tore all those walls down. Showing him what love -real love- could be and SHOULD be. Never once...in seven years...questioning her loyalty or faithfulness. Someone just as damaged and tattered as he was. Two broken halves that had come together to make a slightly dented whole.

“Six is a pretty big number, you know.” Millie says, as she carefully ladles pancake batter onto the griddle. “It means I’m getting closer to ten. Double digits!”

Tyler sips slowly from a steaming mug of coffee. “Why do you have to break my heart like that?”

“I can’t stay little forever,” she informs him.

“Doesn’t mean you have to grow up as quick as you are.”

It seems like yesterday they were bringing her home from the hospital; all of eight and half pounds soaking wet, with a head full of light auburn hair and enormous blue eyes. And he’d sit on the couch or lie in bed with her sleeping against his chest, marvelling over how perfect and incredible she was; impossibly tiny hands and feet and the soft, content noises she’d make while she was eating. That little yawn with the squeak at the end and how long and dark her eyelashes were. Overwhelmed by just how much he loved her and how grateful he was that…after all the shitty things he’d done in his life, especially to Austin...he’d been worthy of being a dad again. And it’s almost as if he blinked and she suddenly grew up; going from taking those wobbly first steps being able to ride a bike without training wheels. Fiercely independent and strong in both physical strength and convocation and insanely intelligent. Tall and lanky, yet powerful for someone so young; fearless and brave and always willing to stand up for what’s right, no matter who is against her.

And beautiful. So fucking beautiful. With that thick wavy hair -lighter now, the exact same color and texture as his- that falls over her shoulders and nearly reaches the middle of her back; those blue eyes framed by those dark lashes and those freckles across the bridge of her nose. For a brief moment he can see her as a teenager; tall and slender and a mixture of both fierce and feminine; all the boys wanting her attention. And he doesn’t know if that breaks his heart or makes him want to lock her in her room forever.

Maybe it’s both.

“I can’t help it,” she says, and uses her elbow to push hair away from her ear. “That I’m growing up so fast. You just don’t want me being a teenager and meeting boys and stuff like that.”

“What makes you think I want to talk about this crap?” Tyler retorts, stepping behind her chair as she removes the hair tie she sports around her wrist and passes it back to him. Continuing to place batter onto the griddle and flipping off the nearly cooked pancakes as he gathers her hair in his hands and secures it with the elastic.

“Don’t worry, daddy. I’ll only date the nice boys.”

“Sure you will. You’ll probably date the ones you know I’ll hate the most.”

“Nope. Just the nice ones. Mommy says I’m a good judge of character. Like

“She did, did she? She said she was a good judge of character?”

“Yep. She said that's why she fell in love with you. ‘Cause her heart told you were a good guy even though you tried to act like you weren’t.”

“Really?”

“She said that you had a big heart even if it was really sad and angry. That guys like you weren’t supposed to be nice but she could tell that you were different. And she said it didn't hurt that you were really cute, too.”

He smirks. “She called me cute?

“You ARE cute. Obviously. I look just like you and look how cute I am!”

“You make a very valid point,” he presses a kiss to her cheek. “You ARE very cute.”

“Was mommy cute? When you met her?”

“She’s cute now.”

“But what was she like then?”

“She looked pretty much the same now as she did back then. She had really long hair though. All the down to her bum nearly. Do you remember her long hair? How she cut it all off when we moved to Colorado?”

“I loved her hair. She used to let me brush and braid it and play with it. I was so mad when she cut it off.”

“You and me both.”

“But she’s pretty either way. Is that why you fell in love with her? Because she was cute?”

“That’s one of the reasons, I guess.”

“What were the other ones?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he grins, and then grabs two clean plates and forks and knives from the dishwasher.

“I’m almost six and curious about the world,” she reasons. “I like hearing about this stuff. About how you and mommy met and what you guys were like before I came along.”

“You came along pretty quick,” Tyler admits. “We didn’t know each other that well when we made you.”

“Grandma said it was bad that you guys made me before you got married. That you were going to go to hell for it. Among other things that she wouldn’t tell me. She said it meant I was a ‘bastard child’. What does that mean?”

“It means your grandma is an evil bitch and she’s the one that’s going to hell for ever telling you things like that.”

“Is it bad? That you and mommy made me before you got married?”

He shrugs. “I guess some people might think that way. It wasn’t bad to us. And we’re the ones that got together and made you, so…”

“I was a total surprise.”

“Yeah, you were a bit of a shock. A good one though.”

“Cause you were happy that I was coming. Because Austin died and you were really sad about it, and then mommy told you about me and made your heart happy again, right?”

He places a kiss to her forehead. “That’s exactly it.”

“Did you want me to be a boy?”

“It didn’t matter to me. I just wanted you to be healthy and get here safely. Because you were stubborn and very sneaky and you liked giving your mom a hard time. You didn’t want to stay where you were. You wanted to be sooner, not later. And you were pretty determined about it.”

“But the doctor made me stay in. ‘Cause it would have been bad if I got here too soon.”

“Very bad. You would have been even smaller than Addie. And she’s pretty tiny.”

“But I stayed in and cooked some more and then I was born and you cried because you were so happy. Mommy says you almost fainted.”

“Mommy needs to stop telling you so many of my secrets.”

“Why would you faint? Is it gross?”

“It’s a little...nasty.”

“Why? What’s so nasty about it? Where did I come out of? I don’t understand that part. I know I was in mommy’s tummy, but how did they get me out of there? Did they cut her open to pull me out?”

“Nope. You came out the normal way.”

“Which is what? What’s the normal way?”

“That’s something you’ll find out when you’re older. A lot older. Here…” he grabs the plates of food -one in each hand- and turns his back towards her. “..get on.”

She giggles as she uses the rungs of the chair and tight grip on the neck of his t-shirt to climb up onto his back; legs wrapping around his torso, arms around his neck as he carries her through the kitchen and living room and out onto the back patio. “You’re getting big, daddy. I can’t get my legs as far anymore.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“You’re not fat. You’re big. And strong. Mommy likes all your muscles.”

“Did she tell you that too?”

“She says you’re like a week worth of snacks.”

“Just a week? That’s kind of harsh. I like to think it’s more like a month, but…”

“You’re alright I guess,” she says, as he stands alongside one of the chairs and she slides down his back and into the seat. “Maybe when I’m older I’ll meet a guy like you.”

“Why the hell would you want to do that?”

“You’re not so bad. You have a nice smile and pretty eyes and you’re really tall. Girls like tall guys. Especially tall guys that are ripped.”

He frowns. “You’re starting to sound a little too much like your mother.”

“And you’re funny and you’re really nice and you can be really sweet and cute.”

“What did I tell you about the word?”

“You know, you CAN be cute and bad ass at the same time.”

“Not in my world.”

“Well your world is messed up then. But maybe I will. Meet a guy like you. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

Smirking, he slips into the chair across from her. “Be careful what you wish for.”

***

They spend two hours surfing and then take a walk along the sand; Millie with her plastic pail in hand as she searches for unique rocks and shells and pieces of beach glass. Stopping every feet two toss tennis balls into the water for Mac to retrieve. He naturally loves all his kids and cherishes each moment he gets to spend with them, but there’s something extra special about the time he gets with Millie. Addie is still tiny and she can’t really spend quality time with her older sister, so Millie often takes a back seat to all of her brothers. They’re loud and boisterous and more demanding and needy than she is. She’s independent and remarkably self sufficient for someone so young. But she’s in her glory when it’s just the two of them; she gets all the attention and doesn’t have to fight to get a word in edgewise and gets to be on the receiving end of all the love and affection. And he thrives on being the centre of her universe; the way she trusts him so wholly and completely, without reservation. How she holds no grudges over all the time he’d been absent in her life or when he’s raised his voice and unintentionally hurt her feelings. Always looking at him as if he’s the greatest dad on the planet; with so much love and adoration that it sometimes takes his breath away.

He watches her now as she walks several meters in front of him. Clad in one of her many bathing suits, his baseball hat on her head; constantly falling over her eyes. The way she crouches in the sand and admires every rock and shell she comes across; turning them over in her palms and holding them up to the sun and gazing at them like they’re the most precious gems in the world. So full of curiosity and exuberance. Everything about her so pure and innocent. Perfect. This beautiful little human that he’d helped create during what was quite possibly one of the most chaotic and unpredictable times of his life.

“Look at this one!” Millie excitedly races back to him, holding a large chunk of dark purple beach glass in her palm. “It’s so pretty! We should make something with it.”

“Like what?”

“Something for mommy. Like a necklace or something. Can we? Make her something? I want to surprise her. She’s been sad lately and I don’t like when she’s sad. Mommy deserves to be happy and she deserves pretty things. ALL the pretty things.”

“I don’t deserve pretty things?” he teases.

“You already have something pretty. The prettiest. You have mommy. What more could you want?”

Instead of placing the glass in her pail, she tucks it into one of the pockets on his board shorts and then scampers off again; Mac hot on her heels, using his nose to help her dig through the sand on her valiant search for ‘buried treasure’.

“Haven’t you seen you guys in a while.”

He glances over his shoulder at the sound of Salena’s voice; he hadn’t realized they’d wandered THAT close to her property. He’s been keeping his distance; staying civil when he sees her and trying to give up off a vibe of normalcy. Whatever she’s up to, it’s best to just stay the course and act as if nothing has changed; don’t cause her to be suspicious and question why his behaviour has changed. And he tries not to panic or worry every time his wife spends time with her. Especially with one or all of the kids in tow.

“We’ve been around,” Millie responds, once more crouched in the sand as she and Mac continue their digging; eyes narrow and her brow furrowed as she regards the neighbor.

“We’ve been busy,” Tyler says, and gives a small smile as she steps alongside him, tensing when she wraps him in a hug of greeting. He isn’t the affectionate type; saving both giving and receiving for his wife and kids.

“Don’t touch him” Millie snarls. “That’s my dad. Mommy doesn’t like when other girls touch him. And neither do I.”

“It’s only a hug, kiddo.” Salena assures her. “Lots of friends hug.”

“You’re not looking at him like he’s your friend. I’m not stupid. You look at him like mommy looks at him. And only mommy is allowed to look at him like that. And don’t…” she scowls and moves away when Salena kneels down beside her and attempts to embrace her. “...I don't wanna be touched either.”

“She’s grumpy,” Tyler says, as a way of an apology.

“I’m not grumpy, daddy. I just don’t like her.”

“Wow…” Salena gives a small, uncomfortable laugh. “...she’s nothing if not honest. Definitely her mother’s daughter.”

“Don’t talk about my mom,” Millie retorts. “And I’m not like her. I’m just like my dad. I don’t have time for other peoples’ bullshit.”

“Amelia…” Tyler gives her a look of warning. “...settle.”

“You shouldn’t touch him anyway,” she continues. “He’s not yours to touch. He’s mommy’s. He’s married to her. And he’s staying that way. He doesn’t mess around. He’s one of the nice guys. And if he wasn’t, you’re not his type.”

Salena scoffs. “She’s very…”

“Protective? She’s always been like this with me. Since she was old enough to talk. No one messes with daddy. Not on her watch. She’s a pretty good bodyguard.”

“I keep the sketchy people away,” Millie says. “And you’re big time sketchy. Where’s my uncle Kyle? Is he dead?”

Salena blinks.

“We haven't seen him in like forever. He was supposed to be in Australia to visit us and now he’s visiting you. He knew us before he knew you, you know. He’s mommy’s brother. He’s known us forever. Since I was just a tiny baby. We don’t see him much and now you take him away. Auntie Nik would always take daddy away, but at least she brought him back to us. Uncle Kyle just disappeared. Poof. Gone.”

“I’m sure he’s alive and well,” Tyler assures, and then turns to the neighbor with a smirk, passing it off as a joke. “He is, yeah? Alive? He’s not buried in the yard somewhere? You didn’t weigh him down and toss him into the ocean?”

“She probably poisoned his coffee.” Millie says. “Like mommy always says she’s going to do when you REALLY piss her off.”

“Why don’t you go down to the water and see what you can find down there,” he suggests. “Maybe you’ll find something else really pretty for mommy.”

“Who was the guy that was at your place the other day?” The soon to be six year old asks. “In the black SUV?”

Salena frowns. “Guy in a black SUV? What…?”

“Don’t play dumb. I saw him. Daddy did too. Daddy has good eyes and really good instincts. That’s why the bad guys were so scared of him. And ‘cause they knew he could kick their asses.”

“Amelia,” he tries again. “Go down to the water with Mac and…”

“Daddy knows he was watching us,” she continues. “You’re not very smart if you think daddy wouldn’t notice. He notices everything. And if anyone tries to mess with mommy or any of us kids, he’ll make them suffer. Big time.”

“Amelia…” his tone is more forceful now. “...enough. Take Mac and go down the water. Give me a few minutes, yeah? Then we’ll go home.”

“Fine,” she huffs, then stands up and angrily brushes sand off her butt and the backs of her legs. “...but she’s lying, daddy. About the guy. I saw him. And I know you did too.”

He watches her as she stomps off, the dog hurrying alongside her. He knew he should be shocked that she’d been that aware of the incident the other morning; he’d thought he’d done a pretty good job of hiding the suspicion and the concern. But is it really that much of a surprise that she’d be that observant at even that young of an age? After all, both her parents had been in a job where keen observation skills weren’t just handy. They were a necessity. Often the first thing responsible for keeping you alive. It isn’t the way he’d wanted things to go; he’d wanted solid proof of wrongdoing before confronting Salena. But it’s too late now.

“So,” he asks as he turns to the neighbor. “Who was it? The guy watching us.”

“He wasn’t…”

“Don’t try to bullshit me. I know when someone is watching me. I spent years in a job where I had to have eyes in the back of my head. Where staying alive depended on it. And don’t tell me it was just some friend that happened to stop by. I saw you get out of the Jeep with folders in your hand. And I know he was wearing an earpiece.”

“You ARE observant.”

“Why was he watching me? More importantly, why was he watching my kids? The last guy who fucked with my family? I cut off two of his fingers with a hunting knife and yanked out a few out of his teeth with pliers. Then I handed him over to guys who did even worse things to him before killing him. So you tell your friend that if he comes near my wife and my kids, it won’t end well for him either.”

“He’s a colleague,” she says.

“What kind of colleague? What do you actually do for a living? And don’t lie. I already know you aren’t who you say you are.”

“How much DO you know?” she counters.

“I know there’s no record of you ever attending any school in Australia. And there’s nothing on you at the bureau of transportation or with any other branch of the government. You think I don’t do my research?”

“I didn’t expect things to go this way. To get caught so soon. Or at all.”

“Your guy’s a rookie. I made him in thirty seconds. Tell him I said he won't live very long being that wet behind the ears. And caught doing what? Just what ARE you doing?”

She sighs. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“Yeah no shit.”

“This isn’t the time to talk about this. Not with little ears around. If I can get Kyle to watch the kids later, would you come over? You and Esme?”

“I want her kept out of this. Whatever it is.”

“It involves both of you. ALL of you.”

“Are you a threat?” To her or my kids? Are we going to walk in there and find out you have a bunch of guys waiting to ambush us? Because if that's what you're planning…”

“I’m not a threat to anyone.” she assures him. “I’m not here to hurt you. Or Esme. Or the kids. I’m here to help. Or at the very least, keep things from escalating.”

Tyler frowns. “Things? What things?”

“I work for Neysa Rav.”

“Saju’s wife?”

“I know everything. I know you are and what you did and I know about Dhaka. All of it. This wasn’t supposed to get out. It was supposed to stay quiet. It’s the way she wanted it. On the down low unless things became bigger and more problematic than they currently are.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Neysa is in hiding. With her son. She’s been receiving threats. Legitimate, serious threats. From people associated with Ovi Mahajan Senior.”

Tyler shakes his head incredulously. “What the fuck…?”

“Your name was brought up. Along with your wife and your kids. Neysa asked me to come here and watch out for all of you. Me and my people.”

“Are you a merc?”

“Far from it. We’re a private security company. Nowhere near along the lines of being mercs. But we sometimes work hand in hand with them and hire them to do our dirty work.”

“Daddy!” Millie calls from the edge of the water. “Can we go now? I’m hungry. And I gotta pee!”

“Go in the water,” he instructs.

“That’s gross. I wanna go home. I wanna see mommy.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Salena says. “But I promise I’m not a threat. I can prove that later when you come over. I just ask that you trust me long enough to give me the chance to show you; who I am and what I do. Can you do that?”

Tyler nods.

She gives an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry it had to come out this way. But it will all make sense. I promise.”

He watches her as she heads through the sand; never looking back over her shoulder as she heads for her house. And he realizes nothing makes sense.

It hasn’t in a long time.

****

“None of this makes any sense,” Esme declares, as she tends to making lunch; grilled cheese sandwiches, soup, and fresh veggies for the kids, leftover chicken cashew stir fry for them. “She’s a spy?”

“I guess if you want to put it that way…” He stands at the patio door; Addie lying along a forearm as he feeds her, keeping an eye on Millie and the twins as they play in the sand. Ovi sits at the patio table, smiling and laughing as Declan crawls and climbs all over him.

He’s tense. It’s been almost seven years since Dhaka; since so many good people had lost their lives...since he’d nearly lost his own...attempting to kid to safety. Yet it still refuses to let them rest; no such thing as true closure. As time went on and no revenge had been sought, Tyler had been optimistic that nothing more would come of that job. And now that there's been threats against him and his family and there’s targets on their backs; he’s on edge. The rage simmering inside of him. Fingers itching for a trigger to pull.

“Well what did she say?” Esme asks. “She called herself that? A spy?”

“She called it private security.”

“So she’s a merc.”

“I didn’t say that,”

She scoffs. “Private security. Does that sound familiar? It’s what I used to call it when my family asked what you did for a living. And you were a merc. Or still are. I don’t even know anymore. And she’s somehow connected to Neysa and Aarav?”

“Neysa hired her. Or Salena’s company at least.”

“Oh she’s so a merc,” Esme concludes. “That’s merc talk and you can’t deny it. And why would Neysa need to hire people like that in the first place?”

“I told you. Mahajan holds a lot of grudges. He has some scores to settle.”

“Scores to settle against who? A dead man? Saju did what he was supposed to do. He got Ovi out alive. Or helped at least. Ovi’s alive because of him. And you. You think that would be enough to appease the old man. But no. He has to be a total dick bag about things. Can’t he just be happy that his kid is alive and has had a good life.? That he’s grown up to be an amazing young man? Like fuck…” she huffs, and grabs a stack of plates -plastic and regular- from the cupboard. “...what a tool. And to think I question my parenting skills when there’s people like that out there.”

“Makes you realize we’re not doing as bad of a job as we think we are.”

“And the fact he did that to Saju!” She angrily continues. “Threatening his wife and his little boy like that. At first I hated him for doing what he did. He killed the whole team and could have easily have killed me, wanted to kill you…”

“He had his reasons,” Tyler says. “Two very valid ones.”

“...and then I realize he wasn’t evil. He was just trying to save his family. Either one of us would do the same thing.”

He nods.

“The guy was a bad ass and a hero until the bitter end and he should be remembered that way. So fuck Mahajan. Fuck him straight to hell. He makes me rage, I swear.”

Tyler grins. “I can tell.”

“So what’s the issue? It’s been seven years and he’s looking for revenge now? Why?”

“Who knows. He probably couldn’t find her or the kid. Where was she hiding? You talk to her. Did she ever tell you?”

“A year ago she mentioned being in Nepal. It never got brought up again and I never thought to ask. I didn’t need an address; we always just communicated through email.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Couple weeks ago, I guess. Maybe a bit longer. Shortly before Addie made her appearance. Neysa wanted to know where she could send something for the baby and I gave her the address for the post office box. Just in case...I don’t know...just in case, I guess. She’d sent a picture of Aarav. A graduation photo. Because he’s going into high school.”

“Fuck...already?”

“He’s fourteen now. Same age Ovi was in Dhaka. It’s been seven years. Well almost, anyway. If there was something wrong...if someone was threatening her or threatening us...or both...why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Maybe she didn’t trust email either. Did you check the post office box?”

“Two days ago. There was nothing there. Why? You think she could have slipped a note into whatever she sent? No one would be none the wiser if she did. She could have been giving us a heads up without whoever is after her knowing.”

“I don't know what to think,” Tyler admits.

“Do you believe her? Salena?”

He nods. “There’s no reason anyone would lie about all of that.”

“Well for what it’s worth, I haven’t seen anything weird. And the kids and I are out front all the time and when they’re in school, I always take Declan and Addie for walks down the road. I definitely would have seen something like a sketchy guy with an ear piece, sitting in a Jeep with a busted headlight.”

“I know what I saw. And your daughter saw it too. I wasn’t seeing things and I wasn’t imagining it.” His tone is more hostile and irritable than he’d intended.

“Okay...baby…” she begins. “...you need to take it down a notch. I am not the enemy here. I didn’t say you were seeing things or that you imagined it. All I was saying is that whoever this guy is? He hasn’t been around any of the times I’ve gone out there. I’d tell you if I saw something like that.”

“Would you? Or would just keep it to yourself because I’d ‘freak out’ and I’d be ‘overprotective’?”

“You are projecting all of your worry and all of your hostility towards Mahajan onto me. And I usually can take it, but I’ve had just about enough with peoples’ crap. I’ve got Nik emailing me and leaving me text messages and voicemails and I’ve got Yaz calling. And now I’ve got a potential merc for a neighbor and…”

“She is NOT a merc. I'd be able to tell if she was.”

“....and now I have Mahajan bringing his bullshit. After everything we’ve done to care for his kid; raising him like he’s one of our own, giving him a family and a normal life. And now he wants revenge? For what? What have you done to him?”

“Got in Saju’s way. He was supposed to eliminate me. He didn’t.”

“He ended up helping Ovi out in the end so that reason is just pure and utter shit. He fucked you. Right from the beginning. And you could have easily left his kid in the street...to die...when you found out there was no money. But you didn’t. So he can go fuck himself.”

Tyler grins as he turns away from the window. “You’re in a mood.”

“I hope he knows you’re getting back into things. That you’re getting back into the job. Maybe that will make him think twice about trying anything. If he knows you’re still on your game and knows not to fuck with you, maybe he’ll back off.”

“Or maybe it’ll make things worse.”

“Tyler…” she sighs heavily. “...what ever happened to your whole ‘I’m going to try and be more optimistic’?”

“Pretty hard to be optimistic when this kind of shit is being dropped into your lap all at once.”

“It just makes me so mad,” she says through gritted teeth. “Why can’t it just leave us alone? Dhaka. It’s been seven years almost and it keeps hanging in there and causing all kinds of grief. This should have been over and done with all those years ago. And yet here is. The big, black fucking cloud over our heads.”

He shrugs. “It’s our cross to bare, I guess.”

“Well I’m tired of baring it. I just…” she slams the knife she’s been using to cut the kids’ sandwiches done onto the counter. “...you know what? Go to Mumbai. Go to Mumbai and go to the prison and kill him. Boom. Done.”

He can’t help but chuckle. “Baby, it’s not that easy. I can’t just walk into the place and shoot him in the head.”

“You’ve done sniper work. You’re an amazing shot. Take him out from a hundred yards away.”

“Because that would be easier? Do you know the security they have around that place? I wouldn’t even get within a hundred yards. And I’m not going all the way there to assassinate a drug lord. Do you want me to get killed? Because that’s how I’ll get killed.”

“You’ve handled bigger and better,” Esme argues.

“”I am NOT going to Mumbai.”

“So what then? He sends people here instead?”

“Wait a second…” his eyes narrow. “...you’re not joking about this, are you. You’re actually being serious about this? You want me to go to Mumbai, walk into a prison, and kill Ovi’s old man?”

“Would you rather him come here and kill you? Or me? Or our kids?”

“He can’t do shit. He’s in prison.”

“You know what I mean, Tyler. His people. They’ll come here and they’ll kill you. But first they’ll kill me. And your kids. And probably even the dog.”

“Okay, no one is going to get killed,” he calmly reasons. “You’re overreacting. We don’t know for sure that there were any threats made against me or you or the kids. All we DO know is that our names got brought up. Can we at least see what Salena has to say before you start making plans for me to assassinate a drug lord?

“I’m just...I’m on edge,” she says, as she returns to preparing the kids’ lunch. “And why didn’t you tell me about this sketchy Jeep driver before? Or that you knew Salena was bad news? I’ve been going over there. With the kids!”

“You wanted a friend.”

“I didn’t want a friend like that! You knew she was lying and that she wasn’t who she says she is and yet you still said nothing. Of all the things I thought you’d tell me, that’s it. What if she’s dangerous?”

“She’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s working for Neysa. Who had to go into hiding because of Mahajan. We’re on the same side.”

“You better get these people of yours...the ones who want to work for you...on board sooner rather than later. Because if shit hits the fan, it would be nice to have them around, don’t you think? This is such crap. Why can’t we have a normal life? Why can’t we just be happy? Why does the universe keep shitting on us?”

“Bet right about now you’re wishing Dhaka ended differently,” he wryly comments.

“Okay...first…” she turns to face him, gesturing in his direction with the knife in her hand. “...let’s not even go there. What happened in Dhaka,, happened. And you’re alive and that’s a good thing. A very good thing. Because I kind of like having you around and so do your kids. Who wouldn’t even be here had you’d died that day. So don’t say stupid like that.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “So what’s the second thing you’re going to say?”

“Now is not the time to be a smart ass, Tyler. I’m just about ready to lose my fucking mind. None of this makes sense and it’s all screwed up and you’re going to wind up back in that shit hole. I just know it. You’re going to end up back in Dhaka and…”

With Addie still along one arm, he stands behind his wife and lays the other along her collarbone; pressing kiss to the top of her head. “I am not going back to Dhaka. If anything, I’d end up in Mumbai.”

“Which is just as bad!”

“It’s paradise compared to Dhaka.”

“I swear to God, if you end up back there, on that bridge…”

“”That’s not going to happen,” he assures her. “That is NEVER going to happen.”

“You don’t know that. Because this is so fucked up and twisted that in some weird it would all make sense. Like it all coming full circle.”

He can feel her body shaking against him; hear the tremor in her voice. “Calm down…” he presses his lips to her temple. “Just take it easy, okay? No one is going back to Dhaka. Or that bridge. That’s just your brain trying to freak you out. There’s no chance of that happening. There’s no reason for me to be in Dhaka. It’d be Mumbai, if anywhere.”

“I hope you’re right. Because if it happens and you do go back there…”

“Stop,” Tyler tightens his hold on her, his lips against her ear. “It’s not going to happen. You need to trust me when I say that. I’m never going back to Dhaka.”

“You might not have a say in it.”

“I always have a say in it. I choose where I go. Especially now. And I’m going back there. Ever. Okay? I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, as she sniffles noisily and kisses his forearm, body relaxing back against his. “Because Dhaka didn’t take you the first time. And I refuse to let it try again.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction #best part of me #Chris hemsworth character

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wolfpawn · 4 years

Text

Life is a Game of Risks, Chapter 53

Chapter Summary - Lily starts her new school and Tom realises there are steps in a child's life he is not 100% ready for.

TRIGGERS - Past domestic abuse, Past emotional abuse, Past sexual abuse.

Previous Chapter

Tags: @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @theoneanna

Request if you wish to be tagged

“Now, you have a great day and remember, if you have any issues, tell your new teacher,” Alexianna hugged Lily close to her, trying to steady her breathing so she would not scare her daughter, Tom beside her, his hand on her shoulder, attempting to settle her nervousness while masking his own.

“I promise Mommy,” Lily smiled brightly, looking around at all the other girls as they said their farewells for the day to their parents, some of whom were looking at her, some of the parents looking to Tom and Alexianna. “Will you collect me?”

“I will be working, Sweetheart but Tom is collecting you today.”

Lily looked to Tom who winked, causing her to smile excitedly. “Yah!” She declared, grabbing onto him for a hug.

“You’re to tell me everything, do you hear?” Tom insisted as he pulled her into him, kissing her forehead as he did so. “We love you and we know you are going to have a great time with your new friends.”

“And no Shawn!” Lily declared happily.

“And no Shawn.” Her mother confirmed.

“Actually…” Lily looked around. “There are no boys here.”

“No, it’s an all-girls school, Lils.” Her mother pointed out.

“Was your school an all-girls one?”

“Both of them were, primary and secondary.”

“So...where are the boys?”

“The girls here who have brothers are more than likely at a boy’s school close by.” Alexianna guessed. “I am not sure, what is the nearest boy’s one?”

“I think George’s Academy,” Tom tried to recall, he was basing that on Ben and Sophie placing Kit and Hal’s names there.

“Sounds about right.” Alexianna looked at Lily’s uniform, pristine and tidy. “Now, stop dallying and into class with everyone else.” She ushered, giving Lily one last cuddle before she went.

“I love you.”

“We love you too, Lil’s.”

“Daddy, if I am good today, can I have the last chocolate bar when I get home?”

Alexianna frowned before looking at Tom to see the guilty look on his face and noting that he was not looking at her. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. “You are too honest for your own good, Lils.”

“But can I?” Lily refused to be deferred from her target.

“We’ll see.”

“That’s a yes,” She cheered before turning and rushing into the building without so much as a second look at her mother or Tom.

“Bye, I guess,” Alexianna stated plainly.

“Evidently,” Tom chuckled, putting his arm around her and urging her to the gate. “Are you okay?”

“My daughter just walked into a school filled with new faces without so much as a backwards glance. I am just shocked.”

“You have raised her to be confident and outgoing, she will take this in her stride, as she always does.” She smiled back at him. “Now, we better get to our day’s work.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with getting her later?”

“I just need to do a thing or two in town now and I am free after lunch, so don’t you fret.”

“Thank you, Tom. Having you there after her first day...it is the only reason I did not call in sick today.”

“That is not to be recommended,” He chastised. “I don’t think you ever tried to skive anything in your life, and we are not letting you start now.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Behave.” He growled quietly into her ear, both of them smiling as he did so.

“Tom?” Due to an issue with a Brexit announcement, there was an emergency meeting in work and Alexianna was delayed as a result, leading to her being home after Lily went to bed for the night. Upon her return, Tom seemed upset. “Did…what happened?”

“Lily.”

“What happened, did she have a bad day? Were they nasty to her?” She asked fearfully.

“No, she had the day to remember, the best day ever, apparently.”

“So...what happened?”

“She is growing up.” Tom seemed forlorn at the comment

“She’s five, Tom.”

“She said today that she doesn’t like the Paw Patrol anymore, Spirit is the best.”

“She has liked that for a while.” Alexianna pointed out since Lily watched the horse movie more times than she could count.

“It has a TV show now, and she is not interested in Paw Patrol, it’s for babies apparently. She is growing out of it.”

Alexianna gave a knowing smile. “It’s weird the first time you see it.” She acknowledged. “Yes, she is getting bigger and it is scary to see but that’s great, we can introduce her to new things now.”

“I don’t want her to grow up.”

“But as she grows, we get to do more with her.” She sat beside him. “Besides, no matter how big she gets, I don’t think she’ll ever be too big to be your little girl.”

“No, she won’t. She will become a teenager, and wait and see, I’ll get the whole ‘You’re not my real dad’ treatment.”

Alexianna looked at him sadly, knowing that there would come a day when they were dealing with a hormonal and angered teenager that more than likely, that statement would be used when Tom would correct Lily if he was still around then. “I wish I could say it won’t happen but let’s face it, it probably will, and I will get the whole ‘You’re the reason my dad left, I would have him if you weren’t such a cow/bitch’ or whatever other words she can think of for me.” Tom looked at her horrified at such a thought. “And afterwards, after she realises she has been silly or unnecessarily nasty, she will know that we love her more than is possible to explain and that she is everything to us and she will see that come whatever, we are there for her and she will still call you ‘Dad’.”

“You see us still together then?” Tom asked curiously, having never thought so far properly ahead before.

“I do, I hope we are, at least.”

He sighed. “I just...I love how adorable she is, to think of her getting bigger...I am not ready to think of teenagers yet.”

“No, it’s terrifying,” Alexianna agreed.

“She won’t be like that though.” She looked at him curiously. “She won’t be nasty and call you a bitch.”

“What if she asks?”

“About him?” Alexianna nodded. “Then we tell her that he was not a good husband and was not the sort of man fit to be in someone as special as her life. That he left, you did not push him. Bar having the audacity to not have a son, of course.”

“Well, I mean, I practically forced him out the door for that.” Alexianna scoffed, causing them both to laugh slightly.

“You have come so far,” Tom commended. “Before, even reference to him would make you clam up.”

“Mr Burrows has made me realise a lot.”

“You realised a lot, even before him. Remember you are the one that refused to bow to his demand for the divorce papers.” Tom pointed out. “Don’t shirk any of the credit onto others, that was you.”

Alexianna smiled slightly and leant against him. “Thank you.”

“Anything more on Oliver?” One look at her face answered. “What are you going to do?”

“Ignore him, he did it to me for over twenty years, I am just extending the same courtesy back.” She rose from the chair. “Is there food in the fridge?”

“Yes, though I thought you said they ordered food at work because of the meeting?”

“Finger food.”

“Then let’s get you fed some actual food.” He rose from his seat and walked over to the kitchen. He prepared some food for her before realising she was looking at him curiously. “Lexi?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing much?” She smiled dismissively.

“Darling?” The tone he used told Alexianna he would not desist. “Tell me.”

“I was just thinking of how much time you spend here.” She smiled. “You’re very at home.”

“Of course, my girls are here.”

“Your girls, you say?”

“Yes,” He put the pot on the hob to cook before walking over and putting his arms around her. “You are mine, Lexi, and I am not letting you go. I missed my opportunity with you when we were younger. I have lost sleep since we started dating on how different it would all have been, if I had been braver that day and continued to you in the water. How sooner or later, I would have braved telling you how I felt, how I would have kissed you, and…” He swallowed. “You would not have been so low after your crash, I would have shown you that you are still beautiful and she would be my little girl biologically.” His voice was tight.

“DNA is not everything, Tom, she adores you, you love her.”

“But she would have a biological father to be proud of, she would have a father who…”

“She has a father to be proud of, who loves her more than the sun, moon and stars.” She leant forward and pressed her lips to his. Tom, for his part, kissed her back, passionately. “You have witchcraft on your lips.”

“That was my line.”

“I know. I saw it.”

“Hearing you quote Shakespeare only makes me more irked at myself.”

“The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.”

“That’s not Shakespeare.” Alexianna shook her head. “I think I know it.”

“Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss.”

“I think I read that.” Tom tried to recall.

“You did.”

“And pray tell, how would you know?” He asked curiously.

“Because I stole it from your ‘read’ pile one day and read it.”

“Naughty Lexi.” He leant down and kissed her again. “I wish I had been brave.”

“I wish I had not been stupid and let someone convince me I was not as I am, but I did, and I refuse to regret it, because the reality is, without what happened, Lily-pad would not be the little monster we know her to be and therefore, she would not be as loveable.”

“Very true.”

“Thank you for today, Tom. For being there for her.”

“I always plan to be, no matter what. For both of you.” He kissed her head again, not saying anything of the turmoil he felt of regretting the past.

#Life is a Game of Risks #chapter 53 #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic

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xxx-theartofsuicide-xxx · 5 years

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She’s not even a teenager in the cartoon so you can’t even hide behind ephebophilia at this point, babes. (Also why are you defending your ship with ephebophilia like it’s a good thing? ephebophilia is wrong too you know)

That was @ouijaboardemo, not me, but it's important that you use the correct terms because misappropriating and misusing words like "pedophilia" is FUCKING EVIL. Especially when you take into consideration that you're just using it to get your way in a ship war. The vast majority of us are mesophiles, and what you're trying to accuse us of is sexual attraction to teenagers, not small children.

Lydia Deetz is fake. She's as old as I want her to be. That's how fake people work, you impossibly dumb bitch.

Not a single goddamn one of us wants to fuck kids. Not one. We all wanna fuck the mossman.

I don't have to "justify my ships" lol, and neither does anyone else. Becaus it's fake. But you DO have to justify why you're on anon like a dickless fucking coward. We don't send death threats, suicide baiting anons, or general anon nastiness. That's something angry 12 year olds do. We're better than that.

So yeah, it's hysterical that you think I'm "hiding" behind the correct term that you ignorant children refuse to use while simultaneously refusing to attach your name to this dumbass ask. If you're not willing to attach your name to it, it's probably because you know it's dumb as shit and you shouldn't be saying it.

Ugh I feel so sorry for you. You must be so ugly and lonely irl to spend your time worrying about fictional shipping. It's so petty. I mean, I have a sexy man to fuck, three beautiful dogs, a big ass house, lots of friends, and I'm gorgeous and talented on top of all that. My life is awesome. I only ever reblog the nastiness I see show up on my feed, or answer dumbass asks like this. You? You go out of your way to send these asks. You're sad. Fingers crossed that the popular kids don't fuck with you too much whenever you refurn to school.

#dumbass ask

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hoxtilicioustf2 · 4 years

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Antis make me, a minor csa and abuse survivor with pure ocd, feel threatened and scared at every turn

I’m sorry you are forced to feel this way by them.

I really just hope you are not part of their circles, and if so, find a way to escape.

That’s the thing - I know there are people out there with pure ocd, and its subset pedophile ocd, just like you, and I know antis can really harm these types of people. (Click for info on Pedophile OCD - intended for others to be kept in the picture)

This is why I would love to find a way to prove them, what they are doing is wrong, incorrect, pointless, and just hurts people, and I keep winning arguments, but they just don’t listen, and instead block me! So I just gave up and started blocking them.

I have very high standards on what pedophilia entails. But I work with realistic things, not fictional. Though, I suppose I should say this - friendly reminder, I’m an adult. If you have POCD, other type of Pure-OCD, have dated a minor in the past and regret it, you can follow me. The only reason why I put that up is because I’ve met a pedophile before and I’ve developed these standards to protect others. And if you are unsure - shoot an ask off-anon. I don’t slander folk and I will answer privately. Fiction does not directly correlate to reality is the thing. I know I sometimes say “doesn’t affect at all” but that was me being pissed and salty, it has some effect, but in a completely different manner.In my opinion, thinking ‘if you watch/ship x you turn into a nasty pedophile’ is either a symptom of a type of Pure-O, or just foolish to think. It is not correct, and exposing yourself to small doses of that can actually help with healing, I’ve seen antis believe that fictional character feelings are equal to real life people feelings, which is a horribly delusional thing to think. Fictional characters are fictional characters. They are not real. They were one day created by a artist, or a team of producers, just like a OC. They weren’t suddenly born, in some far away world, that day. They are generally fragments of an artist’s mind. They can represent their personality, their friend’s personality, a mixture, they can represent intrusive thoughts, some are just personified plot elements, their fantasies, etc. You as a writer or artist work with your extension of that. You add your ideas, your plot, your fun. And then you write/draw something wonderful, it might be dark, it might be rough, but maybe deep down, it helps you free some of the intrusive thoughts. It helps you alleviate fears. It helps you become a better person.So what about the cases where “fiction DOES affect reality” ? One word: “Romanticization”. This generally only applies to fiction targetted at masses, such as Hollywood movies, bestseller books, etc. If rape/abuse/pedophilia is romanticized, aka made appear as good while it really isn’t, a small portion of the audience, generally younger audience, can now think “huh, maybe something like this is ok” And someone can abuse that.* But what is the best course of action? “Don’t watch said movie” is actually not. Giving critique toward the movie, saying it romanticizes elements it shouldn’t, is good, it also lowers the movie/book’s rating. Informing people who have watched that movie that this isn’t actually a good thing but a bad thing to do in real life can help. There are many ways. I will return to this later.But what if you enjoy a wicked fetish, want to write for adult audience but some of them might just be dumb bitches? Add a disclaimer on start! And that’s that. You know, on dangerous videos it’s that “don’t try this at home”. Exactly that. Generally I only see romanticization of bad things done in fanfiction by younger writers, like 13yos who should have no business in NSFW areas by US law. Everyone older generally understood what they were writing about, sadly still got backlash for it by people who only read the tags. Their work was always good, and they were great people, they just quickly jumped to conclusions.*Now let me return to the starred area.Fanfiction is a thing. An item. It’s a tool used to express the writer. It harms no one as a stand alone. Imagine a knife. Good utility, can cut vegetables, can help you with survival in wild areas. As a stand alone, a great asset.Now imagine a malicious person coming along and using said knife to murder someone, hurt someone.Now you have 1 case in a billion where a knife has been used to harm. And Antis want to ban knifes, and say everyone manufacturing and using knives is a bad person. Even if they used it to cut vegetables for chicken noodle soup for their loved ones.Even if they used it to not freeze in the forest overnight. Even if they used it harmlessly.This is exactly what fanfiction is. And this applies to ALL fanfiction, regardless if morally “good” or “bad”. If a teenage girl dreams of a tall muscular 20yo hot boyfriend, as a stand alone, nothing wrong. If someone 20yo comes along, and knows how to twist words very well, starts dating said teenage girl because she’s “easy to get” and then starts abusing her, is it really the teenage girl’s fault for dreaming? Is it really the fiction’s fault for grooming her? No! It’s the man’s fault. And we should never forget that, otherwise we engage in victim blaming, or blaming-a-person-that-has-nothing-to-do-with-this instead of the perpetrator, who should by all means be blamed.Another sample, a 25yo on forums. He can take the safest fanfiction out there, of a 16 and 17 yo, send it to a 13yo, equate the characters to their personality (the characters being general enough to match) and then saying yeah, we would make a nice couple.There was nothing wrong with this fanfiction, but still we have a poor 13yo groomed to a gross bastard? Really makes you think.Now, actually, if a groomer like this just were to read the tags like antis do, and sends fanfic to a young’un and it’s not romanticized, like really not romanticized, and the young’un can understand this is bad, this can actually soil his plans. Which is why a lot of this “bad fanfiction” could turn out actually excellent, although this is theory as I don’t know of any case to confirm of deny this. Sorry I just wanted to say what was on my mind. I really just wanted to clarify to you that you’re never wrong for liking anything “fucked up” and if you have POCD, I know you might have intrusive thoughts so I just wanted to help you a bit. Again I’m an adult, you can write to me off-anon, say you want this private, I won’t publish. I’ll try my best to help you, as much as my time allows me to.I hope none of this was triggering to you. Apologies if it was. I too have some trauma, not csa per-se but there were some nasty elements to it, so I kinda understand.

#ask hoxy #discourse #rant #i hope i helped #Anonymous

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thecreativeangel · 6 years

Text

Hijacked Suit (Peter Parker x Reader)

Peter Parker x Fem!Reader

*Please don’t plagiarize my work, thank you :3*

Summary: Everything was fine until Peter felt the need to be noble.

Warnings: Swearing. Otherwise just bad vine references. This is an entry for @spectacular-spiderboy and @yourtomwritings, author’s note to them is at the bottom. Prompt: “I don’t want to call you stupid, but...”

Word Count: 1,442

That day had been a nice day. A calm day. Your mind was in a serene, floaty place and your shoulders bore no weight of anxiety. Classes had been stress-free, your projects were all finished and Mr. Bittner agreed to give no more tests for the remaining two weeks of class. And hell- if school was easy, life was easy. That's just a basic principle of high school. It was a good Friday to finish off a good week…

Until Peter “I Can't Lie For Shit” Parker decided to open his mouth.

Your first indication of danger? Shuri. The only warning you got was her distant shrieks of laughter, getting louder and louder as she got closer. You stopped in the middle of the Avengers Facility hallway, ears perked, confused. Shuri turned the corner and almost toppled you over in her hurry, a string of quick apologies leaving her.

“Fucking run!” she yelled over her shoulder, sprinting towards the main exit. You blinked twice and stared after her, feet stuck to the ground.

A hand latched onto your arm and you lurched forward with the force of the pull. Well I guess we're fucking running now, you thought angrily. Peter ran like he was about to be jinxed by the Dark Lord, panting and tugging you along with him.

“I'm sorry!” he yelped, taking a sharp detour from the main lobby into the laboratory wing. Agents and construction workers alike gawked at the three teenagers running for their lives. Your arm felt ready to pop out of its socket as you struggled to keep up with him, but Peter was still rambling breathlessly. “-and it wasn't my fault! I mean- kinda? I should've kept my mouth shut, I know! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you yelled over the screams of “You little assholes!” and “Shuri come back here!”. Stress crept into your system, a nasty contrast to the previous state of calm. Peter’s hand gripped your arm harder. “R-remember when you pranked T-Tony and T’challa a-and Rhodey and-”

Your felt your soul bleed out of your body. “Oh no.”

Peter thrust open a random door and threw you inside, pushing you past rows of DNA samples, beakers of steaming chemicals and a caged mouse. You started to duck under a table when he pulled you up and pushed you into a particularly large lab coat closet. Darkness enveloped both of you, but at least you were safe from whatever Peter was to terrified of. You rounded on him. Well, probably him. It was almost pitch black and you could only sense him by his heavy breathing.

“Peter. Benjamin. Parker,” you seethed quietly, feeling him wince at the use of his full name. “Did you rat me out?”

“N-no?”

A low growl rumbled in your throat.

“Maybe?”

You batted away lab coat that kept swinging into your face. “Peter I swear to God-”

Peter clamped his hand on your mouth and turned to look for Rhodey and T’challa through a crack in the closet doors. He spoke in a rapid, hushed voice. “Yes! I accidentally told Tony, okay? Now please, please be quiet.”

You pried his hand from your mouth. “You jerk! Tony had no idea about that! What did he do to get the information- torture you?”

With what little shred of light the crack between doors provided, you saw Peter look down sheepishly, his cheeks darkening. You huffed as the annoying lab coat swung again on its hanger and hit you in the eye with a button.

“Tony didn't actually ask,” you concluded, tone dripping malice. “Did he?”

“W-well he kind of did,” Peter's voice cracked a bit too much. You raised an eyebrow at him.

“Peter, I don’t want to call you stupid, but…” you poked him in the chest. “-wait, yes I do! That was so stupid of you! What happened that you couldn’t keep your mouth shut?”

“Alright, alright- stop poking me! Just listen! We were talking about Queens and school and stuff, right?” Peter explained, rubbing the spot where you poked him. “And Tony asked ‘do kids still play pranks?’ and I said no. And then he said: ‘funny, because I think you're lying.’”

“You're a terrible liar, by the way,” you added spitefully, crossing your arms.

Peter sputtered indignantly, running both hands through his messed up hair before resting them on the back of his neck. “Well if someone programs a prototype suit to throw random shit and yell ‘this bitch empty’, I think Tony would figure it out! Of course he thought it was you and Shuri!”

“It's ‘this bitch empty’, and then ‘yeet’,” you corrected him snidely.

Peter blanked. “What?”

You licked your dry lips. “We programmed it to scream ‘this bitch empty- yeet’. It’s a joke.”

“Who cares?” Peter cried softly, still painfully aware that you were hiding.

“Okay, okay-” you said calmly, trying your best to appease him. “If Tony didn't want us to do that, would he have added a new A.I. to the suit? No, he'd have stuck with FRIDAY.”

Peter blinked at you, put his head in his hands and let out a long groan. You grinned in the dark, knowing full well your logic was bullshit. But a frustrated Peter was a cute Peter. “I- How- You're going to give me a heart attack, y’know? Oh fuck.”

“Such dirty cursing for such an innocent snitch,” you said passively, craning your neck to see through the crack. No one had entered the lab yet.

“I'm not innocent!” Peter all but squeaked, making you laugh under your breath. “Y-you're just dirty minded and dirty mouthed-”

“Ooh, Itsy Bitsy Spidey’s afraid to talk dirty?” It was slipped out before you had the sensibility to bite your tongue. You slapped your hand over your own mouth as soon as the words left. Peter’s eyes widened comically as your ears and neck grew hot. All of a sudden, you were the one who was stuttering.

“I didn't- I uh, that…” you ran out of excuses. “That came out wrong.”

Peter was deep in thought for a moment and you could see the mental gears turning just by looking him in the eyes (they were dark like fireplace ashes, only because everything was dark because y’know...dark closet). He finally moved, leaned closer until his mouth was right next to your ear- but he wasn't touching you at all. And yet you shivered, grasping the hem of your own t-shirt for support as his warm, panting breath heated your skin.

“I can handle dirty talk,” he whispered, the tip of his nose brushing your neck. “Can you?”

The way your throat hitched was pathetic, to you at least. Maybe the momentary distraction was good; the hand that you'd places lightly against the (not locked) closet door searched for a stable surface that wasn't there. You yelped as the door opened, making you fall out of the tiny damned closet and land on your ass. Peter still stood in the closet, still leaning slightly, now with a terribly smug grin.

Shuri burst into the lab and ran to your side, pulling you up. “There you are! My brother has not seen me yet but he was putting on his suit I think, so we should really go-”

She spoke fast, almost too fast for your dazed mind couldn't comprehend the words. You glanced back at Peter, who looked like the purest image of filth. His curls were disheveled, cheeks pink, jacket and shirt wrinkled, breathlessly gasping for air; the perfect image of “suddenly interrupted”. Shuri, bless her, was too busy shoving you out the lab’s back door to notice.

“Come on, come on!” she urged, pulling you out until the crisp October air pleasantly cooled your overheating body. “We're out of options, if you want to know. Tony is guarding our lab and rooms.”

You squished your cheeks in both hands, wishing for them to stop burning and managed to speak without sounding winded. “The invisibility cloak I made?”

Shuri giggled at your obsessive love of Harry Potter. “Couldn't get it. And T’challa took my sneakers! He's being overdramatic- it was funny!”

Your turn to laugh at her pout. You crouched behind a decorative bush and motioned for her to follow. Sitting on dirt and mulch was less than fitting, especially with an aching tailbone. Not the best place for hiding, but it would do.

“Peter was ve-ery red when you came out,” she said slyly. You shot her a halfhearted glare. “Care to explain?”

“We ran from Rhodey,” you said flatly.

Shuri only snickered. “Sure.”

Author’s Note: Sorry to the lovely spectacular-spiderboy for taking so long. Hope this follows all the rules...Love ya.

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truthofherdreams · 6 years

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do it for the views (2)

also on ao3

If Lara Jean really, truly is being honest with herself, she enjoys being part of a squad. Content making has been only Kitty and her for so long, starting when they were barely more than teenagers, that Lara Jean never managed to make long-lasting friendships. She was always envious of those Youtube squads, despite the nasty rumours going around about some of them, especially in moment when she was feeling lonely.

She couldn’t live in the mansion with them all, and not just because Gabe eats her cookie dough raw every time he’s around, but she’s come to really love having a tight group of friends. People who help her and support her, people who believe in what she does to the point of promoting her content to their followers too.

Which, of course, means drama comes slapping her in the face when she least expects it.

Peter drags her along to a party, because he claims nobody will believe they’re actually dating if they never show themselves together outside of the vlog house. As far as arguments go, it’s a fairly weak one but Lara Jean is feeling adventurous, and Chris and Lucas promised they would be there too. If anything else, she can beg them to bring her home while Peter is busy partying somewhere else.

He shows up at her house with his flashy car, not the family van he usually drives, so Lara Jean’s suspicions switch on immediately. She waits until they’re on the main before she asks, “She’ll be there tonight, right?”

She doesn’t have to clarify who she is – they’ve kept her name unsaid for months now, but people keep mentioning her in the comments, comparing her to Lara Jean, commenting on how much more relaxed everyone, and especially Chris, is now that she’s gone. She’s like a ghost following them all around the mansion, her presence known but ignored until tonight.

Peter sighs, loudly. “Yeah, she will.”

Lara Jean looks at the car she’s sitting in, at Peter’s hair combed back, at her own outfit. She should have seen this coming, and yet she can’t stop the knot from forming inside her stomach as realisation dawns on her. “Are you trying to make her jealous?”

“What?! How? What? No!” A pregnant pause. “A little?”

He cringes as he says it, which is way cuter than it ought to be. She wants to be upset at him for so very obviously using her like that, but then again. Their entire relationship is based on using each other to get something out of their couple.

“Not jealous in a ‘fight to get me back’ way,” he clarifies. “More ‘look what you gave up on and how much better off I am without you,’ if that makes sense?”

“Are you?” she asks. “Happier?”

“I mean, I get fresh cookies every day so…” His sentence finishes in a bark of laughter when she punches his shoulder as hard as she can. He rubs it with one hand, the other still on the wheel. “Yeah, I am. I loved her but she was… We weren’t good for each other. It wasn’t healthy.”

“Good on you to admit it.”

“Only admitting it after she cheated on me and blamed me for it, so not sure how good it is but you know…” He sighs. “At least Chris isn’t so cranky all the time anymore.”

Lara Jean knows deflection when she hears it, so she takes the bait and starts talking about Chris’ latest videos and how well received her collab with Gabe was. Their conversation gets a little less tense from there, and they even have fun brainstorming ideas for the vlog by the time Peter parks in front of a mansion even bigger than his.

The party is already in full swing, but Peter stops her in the entrance hall, pulling on her hand for her to turn toward him.

“No baking tonight,” he tells her as he reaches for the crunchie holding her hair up into a ponytail. “I like you better with your hair down anyway.”

“Well if you like me better with my hair down…”

“Damn, Covey! Only a few weeks with us and you’re already so full of snark. Definitely not a good influence on you.”

She pokes her tongue out at him, and Peter chuckles even as he runs his fingers through her hair to tame it and make it pretty. He’s so much closer than she’s used to – close enough for her to admire the gold speckles in his eyes and the light freckles on his nose. She wonders how many people get to be so intimate with him, instead of just looking at him through the lens of a camera.

“There. Perfect.”

She doesn’t wonder why her heart beats faster.

“Peter?” she asks, just when he’s taking her hand again, ready to pull her toward the party. He pauses and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. “No PDA rule tonight.”

He grins, and pulls on her hand.

This isn’t so different from any other party she’s attended with Peter. Gabe has already set a beer pong table and is convincing a pair of girls to play against Chris and him. Lucas is flirting with a white boy on the couch. John Ambrose has half a dozen girls around him, giggling at everything he says.

Lara Jean naturally gravitates toward Chris once Peter has disappeared to get them some drinks. Chris hugs her in greeting, before she starts throwing the ping pong ball and catching it with one hand.

“The Wicked Bitch of the West is here,” she says with a nod to the other side of the room. “Hide your man.”

Lara Jean tries not to be too obvious about it when she walks around the table to sit on a couch’s armrest, which gives her a good view of both the game and Gen. She stands in a corner talking to a brunette, all sparkly dress and perfect hair. Lara Jean can’t help but notice her face looks very different in person, though, a tell that she uses a little too much Facetune on her pictures. But then again, which Instagram mode doesn’t?

Gen must feel her stare, for she turns her head and stares right back at Lara Jean, just in time to see Peter sliding next to her. He bumps Lara Jean’s shoulder with an easy grin before he hands her a red solo cup.

“Missed me?”

“Terribly,” she replies with a grin of her own. He was right earlier; she definitely got more sarcastic from spending time with the squad.

She takes a sip of her beer, only to immediately spit it back in the cup with a grimace of disgust. “That beer is stale!”

“Oh no, that’s mine,” he corrects before switching their cups. “It’s kombucha.”

“Why?!”

“It’s good for digestion. And I’m your ride tonight, remember?”

The admission that he’s not drinking takes her by surprise and, let’s be honest, charms her a little. They’ve all been drinking into torpor at least once a week since she joined the squad, either at the vlog house or a local bar. But they would always Uber to the bar and forth, so nobody had to drink. For him to go dry means more than Lara Jean would have believe at first.

“You could at least get something tasty,” she points out.

“Didn’t we establish I have bad taste?” he jokes back.

She wrinkles her nose at him, just to make him laugh. Peter has a great laugh; she loves to hear it, to see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. It’s such a good look on him.

“Vlog house’s gonna be busy,” Chris announces as she joins them on the couch. She points to Lucas, still heavily flirting with the white guy from before, his hand high on the guy’s thigh. Then to Gabe, deep in conversation with one of the beer pong girls. Then John Ambrose, still surrounded by a small army of girls. Chris makes a face. “Can I crash at yours, LJ?”

“Guest room is yours,” she replies easily.

“What if I want to crash at your place?” Peter pouts, adding puppy eyes for emphasis.

She knows that in all logic he would be sleeping in her bed. They’ve been dating long enough that everyone believes they’re intimate, which makes sense. She’s been watching his older videos, and he and Gen never were shy about the physical aspect of their relationship.

Still, she runs her tongue before she can think better of it. “You can have the couch.”

Peter and Chris offer her equally baffled looks, albeit for very different reasons. Chris whistles under her breath, as if to react to some massive drama just about to happen. If only she knew that, no, it’s just Lara Jean who messed up without meaning to.

“You still made about yesterday?” Peter asks, innocent enough.

Bless his heart for giving her an out, though, bringing back the prank that turned bad yesterday, when he’d tried to scare John Ambrose. John has slipped and fell down the swimming pool, his head missing the edge by only a few inches. Lara Jean’s shriek had been so deafening it had scared them all even more, and then she’d lectured Peter for five minutes straight. Even Gabe had looked guilty after that.

“Depends,” she replies, before she nods toward one girl across the room. “Find me a slice of that pizza and I’ll reconsider.”

His grin is a little dopey as he shoves his solo cup in her hand to stand up. It’s a good thing only Chris sees that happen, because the guys would never let him live it down.

(He was hugging her from behind last week, one arm against her collarbones, as she was standing at the kitchen island to check her emails on her laptop. Whispering nonsense in her ear just to distract her and to make her laugh. She knew at least one of the guys was filming somewhere, and that they might be caught on camera.

But she didn’t expect Gabe to barge into the kitchen, camera in hand, and to open the fridge to grab something. He held a can next to Peter’s head, already chuckling at his own joke.

“Pete, hey, Pete! What’s the difference between you and that can of cream?” Peter only replied with a deadpan stare. “None, cause y’all so WHIPPED!”

And then Gabe ran for his life. Peter whispered a simple “Be right back,” in Lara Jean’s ear, before dashing after his best friend. Ten seconds were all he needed before Gabe’s scream of horror filled the house.)

She follows him with her eyes as he makes his way to the kitchen in search of a fresh, untouched slice of pizza, and so she doesn’t miss how Gen corners him the moment he’s left alone. He’s got one pizza box opened, paper plate in hand, and he looks like a deer in the highlights when he sees his ex by his side.

“You should do something,” Chris comments.

“Nah, he’s fine.”

She trusts him, and not just because of the contract. From the way he was talking in the car, he needs to confront Gen one more time, to do this for himself.

Lucas plops on the couch next to them just when Gen engages Peter in a tense and awkward conversation, and Lara Jean’s attention is redirected toward her friend. It’s not as if she can hear anything that is said from across the room anyway.

“Abandoned pretty boy so soon?” Chris teases him.

Lucas shrugs, before he grabs the solo cup from Lara Jean’s hand. “Turns out he has a boyfriend. Disappointing.” He takes a sniff of his newly-acquired drink and makes a face. “That smells nasty.”

“It’s kombucha,” Lara Jean says. “Fermented tea.”

“Sounds as nasty as it smells,” Lucas replies, still looking down the cup.

“I’ll give you $500 to drink all of it,” Chris chimes in, getting her camera out of the pocket of her hoodie. It’s exactly why she fits in perfectly with the squad, despite being the only girl before Lara Jean arrived. She has the same sick mentality about it.

And truth is – Lara Jean is starting to develop a bit of that mentality too. “Come on, do it,” she goads him with a sweet smile.

He makes a face and sniffs the drink again. “I really need the money,” he comments.

“Lara Jean!” Her head immediately turns at the sound of her name, if only to find Peter standing in front of her. No pizza but a frazzled look on his features. “Let’s get out of there.”

Lucas is looking at them above the rim of the solo cup, half-hopefully about being saved from the situation. Lara Jean is barely aware of Chris teasing him as she stands up and walks toward Peter.

He wraps a solid arm around her waist, pulling her right against his chest. And then he’s kissing her. Hard and fast, too quick for her to react or even think about enjoying it. It’s over before it even started, and then he’s pulling on her hand and dragging her toward the exit.

She follows without question, all too aware of the way he purposely doesn’t look back. Or doesn’t say anything, the silence between them tense and awkward as he drives away from the house and down the empty streets of LA.

She has no idea where they are going, but soon the streets around them are a little less rich suburbia, a little more hipsterish mess, until he parks next to what appears to be an old dinner.

It’s empty – too late for a coffee date, too early for a post-party refuel – and Peter chooses the booth just next to the vintage jukebox. She slides next to him instead of opposite him, and nods at the old machine with a nudge to his shoulder.

“Seven What’s New, Pussycat and one It’s Not Unusual?” she asks innocently.

Peter snorts a laugh despite his lips pressed into a thin line, some of the tension in his shoulders disappearing at her reference. By the time the waitress shows up at their table to take their order, he’s almost back to his usual self again.

Lara Jean doesn’t mention the insta elephant in the room. If he wants to talk about it he will, but she will not force him into a conversation before he’s ready. Instead she decides on another topic altogether.

“Kitty wants to go to film school.”

It’s something she’s been discussing for a little while now. She jumped straight from high school into this job, but she’s yearning for more now, for something else and different. Lara Jean can’t really blame her – her sister is so talented and has so much potential for greatness – but she can’t help but be a little bit selfish about it.

“I can’t do the videos without her,” she admits. “I have never edited anything in my life.”

“You could be outsourcing.”

She shakes her head, an outright refusal. “I don’t trust anyone to do it beside her.”

“Because you haven’t worked with anyone else,” Peter points out. “Hire an intern and have Kitty teach them everything she knows. The exact way she edits your videos. So you start with the same skills, but a new point of view. Can’t be all that bad.”

She nibbles on her bottom lip. She’s never thought about it that way, but it doesn’t sound too bad. And Kitty would love to have someone to boss around, someone to brag to about her skills. And then Lara Jean would have a whole new person on her payroll, which is terrifying. She’s been pushing back getting an assistant for so long because she’s afraid of having someone who is not Kitty rely on her for a paycheck.

“What about once Kitty is done?”

“You, me, Chris, Lucas, Gabe, John,” Peter counts on his fingers. “That’s six Youtubers in our group who could do with some editing help. We’ll manage.”

She can’t help but grin, even before she spell out the underlying meaning behind his idea. “Am I officially part of the Kazinsquad?” she teases.

Peter’s gaze is too deep, too intense, when their eyes meet. It says things she doesn’t want to hear, to acknowledge. “You’re not getting rid of us so easily, Covey. Fake dating or not, you’re part of the family now. You’re here to stay.”

She looks down at her hands in her lap, so her hair will fall in front of her face and hide her blush. She didn’t expect him to be so candid about it, or herself to get so emotional over it. He talks about family like they’ve been friends forever, instead of only a few weeks. Like he will stick by her side even once the contract is over. She doesn’t quite know what to think of it.

Thankfully the waitress chooses that moment to come back with their orders, and Lara Jean distracts herself with her pile of pancakes long enough to forget about her own awkwardness.

Once she’s ready to face Peter again, his phone is lighting up like a Christmas tree when it lays on the table. He sighs, deep and loud, and flips the phone over to hide the screen.

“She’s blowing up my notifications.”

“I guess it wasn’t a clean goodbye then?” He only gives her A Look, with capital letters and a trademark. “You could block her.”

Peter’s laugh is humourless. “Yeah, I’m not doing that. It’s going to end in a five-minute rant in her Insta stories about how much of an asshole I am to her. Again. I’m done with this shit.”

Lara Jean offers him a tight-lipped smile, her hand finding his under the table. Their fingers link together as Peter raises both their hands above the table to lie there between them. The ring Margot gave her for her birthday shines softly in the neon lights of the dinner. Lara Jean makes up her mind faster than she would have expected of herself, given the circumstances.

“Open Instagram,” she tells him. When Peter only reacts with a confused look, she adds, “We’ll give her a taste of her own medicine.”

Which is petty and low, maybe, but Lara Jean is tired of it. Tired of Peter’s kicked puppy look and the hold Gen still has on him. Tired of this fake dating business working on everyone else but her, tired, and tired and tired.

So she snaps a picture of her own, of their hands, with Peter’s milkshake in the background. It takes a few flirters to make it look nice despite the aggressive lights, and then she posts it to her stories, no tag, no comments. Just the simplicity of an intimate moment caught on camera, a snapshot of a cute late-night date.

Peter is smiling now, finally catching up with her act. He raises his own phone to snap a selfie, the cutest thing ever – their shoulders pressed against each other as she kisses his cheek and he makes a proud-yet-amused face to the camera. It looks so incredibly realistic that it takes Lara Jean’s breath away, just a little.

That is, until she reads the caption he’s writing down. “‘Bae’? You’re such a dork!”

He blows a kiss her way, before bursting into laughter.

…

Peter becomes a fixture in her life soon enough.

Even if the contract only stipulates one vlog appearance per week, Lara Jean finds herself at the vlog house on most filming days, if only because it’s fun. She doesn’t always participate in the more elaborate jokes and pranks, but she likes to witness it all happen in front of her eyes. The difference between real life and what actually makes it to the vlog fascinates her more than she can put into words.

Any other day, she works on her own channel, testing and prepping recipes when she not actually filming, workshopping new ideas with Kitty, talking brand deals and sponsor agreements with Trina. It’s long, hard work, always has been. But she loves it, loves to spend most of her time in the kitchen to experiment on new recipes to make them perfect, to try stuff she finds on Pinterest, or just to improve some of her classics.

Peter has an habit of showing up to her house when she’s working now. He doesn’t really bother her in the kitchen – always first in line to taste anything, though – and for the most part he’s happy just chilling and editing in a corner, or napping in her living room. She’s gotten used to his mop of curly hair popping from the side of the sofa, or his long legs stretching in front of him when he sits on the kitchen floor. More than one time he ends up with flour in his hair, too busy working on his vlog to notice. Those make for amazing Insta stories.

It is one such day, Kitty sitting on the kitchen island to edit, Peter napping in another room, and Lara Jean practicing a mirror cake for a Halloween recipe. Those are far from her favourite, but they’re damn clickbaity and popular on the internet. Everything for the views, or something.

“I’m just saying, Gabe is totally down to take care of it when we go to Korea.”

It’s an old argument – Kitty has wanted a puppy since she was about six. Arguments against were fairly easy when they were still living in the family house, what with both dad and Margot allergic to dogs. But times has past and they have their own house now, in a whole different state. It’s getting harder and harder to find arguments against having a dog, to the point where Lara Jean doesn’t even know why she still fight her sister about it. Good habits, and all that.

“Gabe? Gabe Rivera? The guy who can’t even remember to feed himself most days? That Gabe?”

“You’re so mean!” Kitty grabs a chocolate chip and throws it at her, but Lara Jean dodges easily. “And okay, maybe not Gabe. But we can afford to put it in a puppy hotel now. I heard they have some great ones in Downtown LA. Come on, Lara Jean!”

Kitty gives her the face, with the teary eyes and pouty lip. It used to work as a child, and Kitty knows it. As a twenty-something girl, though, it has lost some of its childish charm and is not as effective as it used to be.

“What is she saying no to?” Peter asks as he slides his way into the kitchen.

His hair is all over the place and his eyes still heavy with sleep, which is a very powerful combo. Lara Jean’s heart does a weird flip-floppy thing, before it stops beating altogether as Peter comes behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and hide his face in her neck. She swears he presses a kiss against her skin there, but it might as well be her mind make things up – hard to know, when she’s forgotten how to breath.

“She doesn’t want me to get a puppy,” Kitty replies immediately, all awkwardness ignored in the face of getting what she wants. “Which isn’t fair at all!”

Peter looks at Kitty from above Lara Jean’s shoulder, refusing to let got of her. He’s warm and solid against her back, so she leans herself lean into him, just a little bit. Might as well take advantage of a human pillow while she can; she’s spent hours on her feet today, she deserves it.

“What kind of a dog?”

“A Japanese Akita!”

“It’s like, a big Shiba,” Lara Jean adds for clarity.

She doesn’t need to look at Peter to literally hear the wheels turning in his head. He doesn’t stand up straighter or anything, doesn’t even really show interest in that little fact but. She knows how he’s wired. She can even read the clickbait vlog title from there.

SURPRISING MY GIRLFRIEND’S SISTER WITH A SHIBA PUPPY!!

Two million views in the first week, and the very least. A bit more if he picks the right thumbnail or if Kitty starts crying. Which might actually happen, because she’s wanted a puppy for so long, has begged for it for most of her life. And, yes, her baby sister deserves something nice, a little companion to follow her everywhere and all adorably distract her from editing videos until 4am every night. She deserves the world, really.

Peter keeps trading questions and answers with Kitty, obviously to gather more information – would she like a girl puppy or a boy puppy, does she have an idea for a name, which cool tricks she would teach it. Kitty answers happily, glad that someone is actually interested in her puppy story for once.

She does have a weird look on her face when Lara Jean feeds Peter a big chocolate chip, though, and he hums happily before snuggling a little tighter against her. At least her cake is in the oven for half an hour, so he doesn’t distract her from delicate piping work or something of the like.

He does distract her a lot in general, though.

It’s another hour before he decides to go back to his own place – no doubt to look up Shiba breeders in California. Kitty follows him to the door and waves her goodbye at him while Lara Jean finishes cleaning up the kitchen.

When Kitty comes back, it’s with her phone in her hand, already dialing Margot. It’s the middle of the night in London, but who even cares when your name is Catherine Song-Covey.

“Kitty, what the hell?” comes Margot’s sleepy voice.

“Lara Jean’s fake boyfriend wants to be her real boyfriend.”

Suddenly, Margot is awake.

Suddenly, Lara Jean wants to die.

…

Of all the people in the house, John Ambrose is the one Lara Jean spends the less time with. Which might not be fair on him, since he’s always so nice and gentle in everything he does and say, since he’s welcomed her without second thought when she first joined the group, since he’s one of the best people she knows.

But every time she looks at him, she remembers Vidcon, and being drunk and kissing him just because. Lara Jean knows, on an intellectual level, that it’s okay. People kiss other people all the time at parties, and that’s the end of it. But it’s not who she is, and she feels uncomfortable with herself every time John Ambrose is around, the the point of almost avoiding him sometimes.

Which makes him coming to her in the vlog house’s kitchen all the more awkward.

“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he tells her.

Chris is teaching her how to play Horizon: Zero Dawn today, and Lara Jean took a break to fix them twin bowls of ice cream, with extra chocolate sauce and whipped cream. She’s in the middle of adding sprinkles – god knows why they have that in the kitchen – and thus startles a little at John Ambrose’s surprise appearance.

She closes the tube of sprinkles and turns around, one hand rising to tug a strand of hair behind her ear. “Really?”

He hands out what appears to be a book at first look, but is so much more when she takes it between her hands. It’s an ancient notebook, with a hard cover and pages yellowed by time, so fragile-looking she’s careful when she opens it. Each page is a recipe written by hand in beautiful cursive letters, or cut from a book and taped to a page. From the illustrations alone, it looks at least from the 60s, if not older.

“I told my grandma about you. Her name is Stormy and she’s the most badass person I know. She loves to hear about the gang, and she wanted to know more about you so I showed her some of your videos. I didn’t even know she even cared about cooking before she gave that to me. She said you could put it to good use.”

“Oh my god, it’s amazing.”

Recipes upon recipes of things to put in jello, and old-timey cakes, questionable casseroles and salads. Better than anything she could find on Pinterest, or even Mary Berry’s recent cookbooks. That’s the real stuff, coming at her from a different time, where cooking was a woman’s duty first instead of a little pleasure in life.

A simple hot milk sponge cake catches her eye, and it’s enough to get her mind running. She’s already coming up with so many ideas, and decorated settings for her kitchen, and recipes to try. It’s overwhelming.

“Do you want to collab?” she asks John Ambrose before she can second-guess herself. “I’d really like to meet her, and maybe try a recipe together? We could even play dress up, it could be fun.”

John Ambrose’s mouth stays opened for a few seconds, caught off-guard by her proposition. But then he’s shaking his head a bit and smiling, a little laugh at the corner of his lips. “Sure, why not? Could be fun.”

“Thought we had something, Covey?”

She turns her head to find Peter at the kitchen’s entrance. His eyes are unreadable as they move from her to John Ambrose, to the book in her hands, to her face again. It’s not cold or closed-off, which would be easier to deal with. No, he’s putting on a front, but she can see he’s hurt. Jealous, even.

So she smiles at him, to reassure him. Placate him even, just a little. “We’ll always have fruitcake cookies.”

When he smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

…

Christmas creeps up around the corner before Lara Jean is ready for it. It goes the same way every year – all three Song girls fly back to spend Christmas with dad, baking more cookies than they can eat and opening their gifts by the tree with hot cups of cocoa on the coffee table. Dad will try (and mostly fail) to cook some Korean meals their mother loved so much, and everyone will pretend not to be sad at the seat that has been empty for longer than not.

This year, though, something different happens. Not with the whole Christmas thing, no, that never changes. But once Lara Jean and Kitty are back to LA, Chris comes over and tells them to pack their things and be ready in an hour, tops. She won’t give them anymore details, so Lara Jean texts Lucas to spills the beans.

“Gabe’s parents own a cabin near Alta Sierra,” she reads out loud to Kitty. “We’re spending New Year’s Eve there.”

“Are you kidding?” Her sister turns around from her wardrobe, a handful of puppy in her hands – yes, a Christmas gift from Peter, surprise, surprise – and a look of wonder on her face. “I’ve always wanted a white New Year!”

“Well, pack warm sweaters, it’s going to be rustic,” Lara Jean comments as Lucas sends her a couple of pictures of said cabins. “And wool socks.”

“Are you going to be kissing Peter at midnight?”

“I want you ready in 20 minutes,” she goes on as she moves to her own bedroom.

Truth is, she doesn’t have that many warm clothes. LA doesn’t require that kind of a wardrobe, especially with the AC they have going on in the house. But Lara Jean manages to dig a few sweaters from the back of her wardrobe, as well as warm leggins she usually wears under dresses when she visits her family in Korean. She even finds a cute hat and matching mittens, and her Hufflepuff scarf from when they went to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

Exactly one hour later, cars are honking in front of their house. Two of them, the gang split between the vehicles, with Chris behind a wheel and Peter behind the other. He jumps out of his van and helps them carry their bags and puppy supplies.

“I’ll go with Chris,” Lara Jean says, hoping her voice doesn’t shows that she’s still peeved by Kitty’s comment from earlier. If the look Peter gives her is anything to go by, she failed miserably. Not that she lets herself think about it too much, climbing inside the car while Kitty walks toward Peter’s van.

Lucas looks at her through the rearview mirror, one eyebrow raised, but doesn’t say anything. Neither does Chris, once she’s slammed the trunk closed and is back behind the wheel, now blasting a playlist through the speakers.

“Alta Sierra, here we come!”

It takes them four hours to drive to the cabin, and then some for everyone to unload, unpack and unwind. Chris won’t stop complaining about the crick in her neck from driving too long, so much so that she doesn’t even comment or complain at Lara Jean bunking with her in one of the many bedrooms.

Gabe starts a fire in the living room and convinces Kitty to help him make S’Mores, and soon they are all gathered there, sitting straight on the floor with sticky fingers and easy laughs. Everyone but Peter, Lara Jean can’t help but notice, who’s disappeared the moment he parks the car in front of the cabin.

Lucas must notice her look of confusion, because he nudges her with his elbow and nods for her to follow him. She does, silent until they lock themselves in a bedroom, sitting side by side on the bed. They don’t say anything, not for a very long while, but then she starts speaking and finds that she is unable to stop. She tells him about the contract and the fake relationship, about Gen and the party, about Peter’s lack of boundaries, his weird behaviour these past few weeks, and how confused this all is and how lost she feels.

“Wait, you guys have been faking it all this time?” Lucas asks, dumbfounded. When she only nods, looking down at her hand, he lets out a little laugh. “Yeah, no.”

She looks up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been in the gang for five years now, LJ. I’ve seen some shit happening, and Peter isn’t as good an actor as he thinks he is. Sometimes it’s better that he is behind the camera, actually. So let me tell you, this? This ain’t acting.”

“You can’t know that.” She bites on her bottom lip, before she adds, “If anything else, I’m the one pining like an idiot.”

“Oh, believe me, I can. Because let me resume. You came up with the no PDA rule. You asked John to do something that was entirely Peter-and-you until now. You decided not to drive with him, and not to keep your little collabs exclusive and you very much aren’t the one mopping in a corner right now. So if anyone is pining like an idiot, it’s not you. It’s Kavinsky.”

She opens her mouth, but no word comes out at first. And then, “He’s really mopping in a corner?”

Lucas only nods.

…

She finds him in the hot tube, just outside the cabin. He is indeed mopping, like Lucas said, looking down with a frown and looking all around miserable. His head shoots up when she says a little ‘hey’ but he doesn’t reply, instead silently following her with his eyes as she makes her way around the hot tube to climb the few steps and sit on the edge.

The contrast of the cold of winter against her skin with the warmth of the water is a weird one, but it doesn’t compared to his heated eyes when they find hers across the water. He swallows, and she sighs. It is harder than she would have believe, for something so simple. Tell your fake boyfriend you like him. Tell him you’ve been stupid, your insecurities have been playing tricks on you, you’re so terrified of making it real. Tell him you don’t remember who you were before him, and you don’t want to go back to being this person. Tell him he matters so much, you can’t even put it into words.

When he still refuses to talk, she asks, “Now you’re ignoring me?”

“Oh I’m the one ignoring you?” he replies with a bitter smile and a snort of humourless laughter. “Funny.”

“Shouldn’t we be easing out of this relationship, since the contract is over anyway?”

Which, all things considered, is the worst thing to say. Peter knows it too, if the look he sends her, halfway between hurt and offended, is anything to go by. And then he’s laughing again, under his breath, and looking down again. Ignoring her. Dismissing her.

She has none of it. Because if those past few months taught her anything, it’s to be braver than she feels, to get out of her comfort zone, to push herself. So she shrugs off her coat, lets it falls on the ground, before she slips her legs inside the hot tube and softly falls in. Peter looks back at her, confused frown on his brows.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming in.”

“In your pyjamas,” he points out, glancing down at the Hello Kitty combo she’s wearing.

She shrugs a little, even as she moves closer to him until she can put her hands on his knees. “I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” she explains. He’s close enough that she can see the red high on his cheeks, can focus on the way he bites down on his bottom lip as his eyes travel down her body, to the light fabric now sticking to her skin.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, so low she’s afraid he might not hear it.

But he does, of course, leaning forward until his face is only a breath away from hers. “What for?”

“Being scared. Of this. Of us.” She looks away, can’t deal with the intensity of his gaze. “I’m not good at letting people in. It’s not easy for me.”

“You’re doing great so far,” he replies, his voice lighter already, almost smiling. “You suck, though. I’d bought so many snacks for the drive here, even those Japanese drinks you like so much and like, five different types of Pocky. Which means…”

“You like Asian snacks?”

He shakes his head with a chuckle, and splashes some water her way. “Why are you so dense, oh my god.”

She isn’t, of course. So she uses his knees to rise up a little, to lean closer to him. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting stupid lately,” she whispers.

“That’s alright,” he replies in an equally low voice.

And then he finally takes it all in, her body so close to his, her clothes like a second skin, the tension between them like an elastic ready to snap. He notices it all, his eyes darkening even as he offers her a smile, and a tiny shrug, even as he softens in front of her.

“The contract was only until Christmas,” she reminds him.

“I’m aware,” he replies.

His smile is taking over his entire face now, the meaning behind the statement obvious to the both of them – they no longer have to pretend anything. They’re doing this not because they have to, but because they want to. Nothing to bind them professionally, nobody to check in the fine print. Just two people, in front of each other, wearing their feelings on their sleeve.

Peter’s hand grab her thigh in the water as he grins at her, a simple “There’s no one like you, Covey,” on his lip as he hauls her up to sit in his lap. And then he’s kissing her. Or maybe she’s kissing her. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, when all she can focus on is the softness of his lips against hers, the warm of his tongue, the strength of his arms around her. He presses her against his chest, and she loses herself in their kiss, forgets about anything that isn’t Peter and Peter’s mouth and Peter’s love for her.

She breaks away when it becomes too much, only to swoon at the sight of him – lips swollen and eyes pitch black, his hair sticking in every direction, his cheeks burning. He’s so beautiful it takes her breath away, and she has to kiss him again. And again. And again, until he’s giggling against her lips and it makes it all messy.

“Hey, Covey,” he asks, forehead against hers, hand in her hair. “I’ve got a collab idea.”

She laughs, soft, fond. “Let’s make it a series of videos.”

“An ongoing partnership.”

“A second channel.”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

She does.

#covinsky #covinsky ff #covinsky fanfic #to all the boys I've loved before #fanfic #ff: tatbilb #ff: do it for the views

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