#counts my folder god Jesus that’s a lot of art

[fivveweeks]

can I ask how do you visualise Ringo like? Is it spoilers if I ask you to sketch it? You don’t have to sketch anything if you don’t want to, I’m just asking out of curiousity. Okay bye I love ur works

it’s actually kinda funny bc I have so many sketches and concepts of Ringo but I’m just holding them back bc I wanted to release them together with the next chapter so you’ll have to wait for it HAHA

[serenadeonacanoe]

Honestly, I'd piss him off on purpose. (Namjoon x OFC)

Pairing: Namjoon x Original Female Character

Genre/Warnings: Smut, Angst, Fluff, too tired to beta

Tags: Artist!Namjoon, Yoongi and Tae are the best flatmates, Enemies to Lovers I guess... more like brats to making out in the storage unit, OFC is an idiot.

Summary:

"Wow. Is that that grumpy artist behind you? Jesus. He really looks like a bit of a dick. And you are right. He really is hot..." Oh no. Speakerphone. Namjoon was standing behind me and was staring at me. Then at my phone. He let out a little laugh, then raised his hand to wave at Tae and Yoongi outside who were now also staring at him as if frozen, before turning around in unison. As if that would help. As if he couldn't see them. Or better even... couldn't hear them.

[...]

Mister Darcy has nothing on Kim Namjoon - that new and upcoming artist you probably already heard of (You haven't? How dare you? At least have the decency to pretend you have!). He is cold, serious, and rather good at making other people believe he is a prick. Especially Elizabeth Bennet - uh... Charlotte - is about to lose it because of him. Maybe in a good way. Man, I'd literally piss him off on purpose.

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CHAPTER 1

Even the sound of my own nails rhythmically tapping on the top of the counter was annoying me. To be fair, it didn't need much today to blow my fuze that had never been particularly long in the first place. But after a week consisting of being belittled by old white men and endless hours of unpaid overtime I about had it. Welcome to the art world. You know well before you enter that the hours are horrible and the job market is more than frustrating, but you love art and you have good organisational skills, you are resilient, charming when it counts and tend to romanticize things even when you know you shouldn't. It's too late to turn around now.

"That is why I don't use an agenda or notebook. If something is important enough for me to attend I simply won't forget. I know you youngsters are all about the bullet journaling and expressing yourself by mapping out your life but it really is just another way to procrastinate instead of getting to actual work." For a second I considered throwing my damn notebook in the buyer's face, but that probably wouldn't have helped my CV and the new job I would have to look for starting tomorrow. At least I should have screamed at him a little. Mainly, that I didn't care, that I was on my period and my shitty shower in the shitty flat i shared had broken and no dry shampoo in the world had fixed my hair this morning and that god damn it, how the hell was I supposed to remember every phone number, every call my boss had to take, every art handling transport I had organized if I couldn't write it down somewhere. Instead, I smiled. Died a little on the inside and complimented him on the gift of his exceptional memory and asked whether he would like another cup of coffee.

"What a dick." Samantha murmured, more to herself than me, after the guy had finally left, which made me snort under my breath. She usually didn't say much but when she did it was usually pure gold. In the end, it didn't matter that he was. Didn't matter that everyone at the gallery thought the art he had bought from us over the last couple of months had neither been smart nor impressive purchases. Mainly expensive. And flashy.

"Doesn't matter now." I said in a sigh after a quick glance at the clock. It was Friday night and we were about to close. Since it was my birthday on Monday I had taken two days off, about the longest break I had had this year and I was looking forward to being the lazy slob for a few days I was maybe always meant to be. In silence we answered a few last emails, tidied up the desks and counters so that potential buyers that would come in over the weekend wouldn't have to suspect anyone was actually working here. - A white desk. A huge Imac on it. That was all they needed to see, folders and pens and apparently especially agendas to be hidden away in drawers.

At five to eight I threw on my coat and Samantha just gave me a tired smile. Probably happy for me, just exhausted. "Have fun then? Don't get too wasted?" "Oh..." I said with a huge smug grin on my lips. "You have no idea... gonna take a bottle of Moët with me from the bar and drink it in my bathtub after eating a huge pepperoni pizza by myself and dancing to only the finest of 90s Euro Trash." I couldn't help it, apparently, I felt it necessary to give Sam a little demonstration, waving my arms up and down while swaying my hips in a way that I'd probably would not have if it hadn't been for a bit with an audience of a single person. Or maybe two?

A quiet scoff behind me and I quickly turned around, slowly lowering my arms, Sam biting her lower lip at the sight of me standing there like an idiot in front of HIM of all people.

Men didn't have to be old to annoy me. Or white. Yes, those were the ones that pissed me off most usually, but no one had managed to do so as much as Kim Namjoon recently. And now he was standing there, looking me up and down and stopping at my hair. The crazy too-much-dry-shampoo-because-the-shower-broke-hair. "Nice." He just commented and then looked over at Sam. "I'd like to take a last look before Sunday's opening if that is okay?" I stood there, my shoulders dropping, completely ignored.

"Uhm, actually, my babysitter has to leave in about an hour and I will have to be home before that." Samantha replied and I was impressed by how calm she stayed. "Of course." Namjoon said and gave her a slight smile. "Anyone else still around? Chris maybe?" Of course Chris hadn't been in today. It was Friday and unless important guests had announced themselves the owner of the gallery wasn't around on Fridays... "I am afraid not. But maybe Charlotte has a few minutes?" Well. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I felt a little betrayed. "Wouldn't want to keep anyone from their important Moët-Pizza-Dance Party plans." Namjoon replied before I could say a word. His voice once more dropping to a hushed, deep disapproval and his hands buried in the pockets of his rather expensive looking coat. Silence for a few moments and then he just walked off towards the room his exhibition had been set up all week. Showing without a further word that I would have to stay anyways if he wanted it that way.

"Well thank you for pushing me under the bus like that. Really appreciate it." "I am so sorry. But I was serious, I can't lose this babysitter. She got Jamie to eat vegetables. VEGETABLES!" Samantha suddenly seemed in a rush, grabbing her jacket and purse and showering me in promises she would make it up to me. Even though we both knew that wouldn't happen and wasn't necessary. Suddenly having to stay longer was normal. I just hated that it had to be today. And because of him.

I heard the door close behind Sam and I stood there for a second before putting my bag down again. Usually, I would have followed the artist, asking if I could somehow help, but nahhh... my ego was bruised up enough now, especially remembering the little dance. I closed my eyes. Fucking hated the guy. Always had. Well, not quite. I had thought he was cool for about five minutes when he had come in the first time. We had heard about him for quite a few months before, I think I had even seen pictures of him at some point, but those were nothing compared to him in real life. He came in all cheekbones and sharp chin and an all grey outfit, quick pace, observant gaze. Incredibly hot. He had also completely ignored me.

That's how it had started - a bruised ego. He couldn't know that it was my weak spot. Having studied art and its management and now feeling like a better secretary at times, when my colleagues and I were doing all the behind the scenes work while Chris worked very little hours and ended up with all the money and recognition. I was aware this wasn't the only field of work where this was the case, but it still frustrated me... I had imagined my life in the last years of my 20s to be a bit more glamorous than living in a tiny apartment on the outskirts of the city... spending my Friday night waiting for some rude artist dude to leave so I could lock up.

But what I perhaps hated most about him... was that I admired him. - Purely for his art. Really. Even the fact that he kept acting as if I wasn't around every time he came in didn't mean I couldn't admit that. At least to myself. The stories behind his huge colleagues were clever and thought through, but even without context, the pure aesthetics were mesmerizing. It was the kind of art that touched something deep inside of you and standing in front of it I always had a hundred questions. Whenever he brought in a new piece I was the first one to sneak a peek in the back rooms before it was hung.

"I don't get why you have such a problem with him. He is just... quiet. I think he might even be shy... stop being so sensitive and just ask him out already." I had almost strangled Sam for that comment a couple of weeks back. Stop being so sensitive. What did that even mean? Comments like that made me want to cry and scream at the same time, which probably would have been perceived as even more sensitive, but when had insensitivity become something to strive for? I had only kept quiet because I liked Sam and I knew what she had tried to say. At least I thought so. That I might have given less of a shit if I hadn't been rather attracted to Namjoon. Even though I had never mentioned it, she just knew. She knew if I didn't care about something I didn't waste my time on it. But if something made me angry or upset there was usually more to it. I hated that she could read me that easily. But he was still a dick and I still wanted to go home.

He took his sweet time. After an hour I walked up to him, a little speech prepared in my head about how he could come back first thing tomorrow. But when he turned around he just raised a hand between us to keep me from interrupting and turned away again. I hadn't seen that he was on the phone. "No, it's nothing, just one of the gallery employees." I heard him say and okay... if I wasn't about to explode before I was now. I stood there for a minute, fuming, and then simply walked back to the office area, my hand shaking when I started turning off the gallery lights one by one. It wasn't as satisfying as I had hoped but still felt good. Two minutes later the only lights still on were the one above my head and the one in front of the door. I would at least give him a clear direction where to head, he seemed to need it.

When Namjoon appeared out of one of the dark corners he looked even more annoyed than usual. Looking my direction through squinting eyes and his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. "Seriously?" he yelled my way and almost walked into one of the little flyer shelves. Wasn't the first time I had seen that happen to him though so maybe that had nothing to do with the light.

I felt oddly triumphant. By the time I had put on my coat and turned off the remaining lights, ready to finally lock up, Namjoon had almost found his way, standing in the open door, still on his phone. A little groan from my side when he didn't even notice that I was standing behind me went by unnoticed. Or simply ignored. But instead of the appropriate clearing of the throat or the maybe less polite squeezing past him, I just put my hands on his back and gently pushed him forward a bit, until his feet hit the pavement and he turned around. Dropping his hand with the phone in it, for a second he looked like he wanted to push back. Or trample me.

"Okay, what the hell is your problem, Charlotte?" His voice was hoarse. His eyes dark. God, he was hot. I hated him so much. "You." I simply replied and stared at him for a second, then turned around and locked the two locks on the door before stepping over to the alarm system. I couldn't help feeling smug because apparently, he knew my name. I imagined him staring at the back of my head because he was flustered, but couldn't be sure. All I knew was that when I turned around again a minute later he was still standing there, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his lips pressed together forming a straight line and watching me.

"Do you always act like that at work around people who could get you into trouble?" He was right, he could get me into trouble. But I was too fired up now, my heart racing. "Is that a threat?" "An observation." "Only around the ones I don't like." "Cool." "Great." "Enjoy the dance party. Sounds shit."

And with those words he had turned around, coat flying open in the wind, unfortunately making him look really cool as he walked away and I ABSOLUTELY HATED HIM. I kept my mouth shut and just walked off in the other direction, realizing minutes later that my car was parked the other way, but I kept walking for a while before I finally turned around. It took a while to calm down and only cuddling up to my cat on the couch to trash tv finally did the job. But by then I had realized something I wasn't sure I liked too much. Yeah, I thought he was a prick. And yeah I should have just played it cool. Would have been much smarted in many regards. But I also had somewhat enjoyed myself in the most fucked up way.

Seeing that stern look, that intense posture as he was towering over me... man, I'd literally piss him off on purpose.

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[downwiththeficness]

A Need So Great-Chapter 6

Summary: Eva Moore is assigned to work the last year of her contract with the DEA in Colombia. She just wants to get to the end of her tenure, but she keeps getting drawn further into a string of murders in the city. It isn’t long before she’s forced to face the ghosts of her past.

Word Count: ~2,900

Warnings: None

A/N: For the purposes of this story, Carrillo isn’t married--or, if you like, divorced. A/B/O dynamics are prevalent, and they come with their own warning. The overall rating for this story is Explicit, although not every chapter will contain adult themes.

Taglist: @dirtynerdy98 @1zashreena1 @heresathreebee @deliciouslyclassytrash

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8.5, 9, 10, 10.5, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21

True to his word, Carrillo had called her the next day, asked how she was doing.  Eva was barely coherent, but she’d told him that she was okay and he’d let her get back to sleep.  To her surprise, he’d called again on Sunday evening, asking if she felt better and if she had eaten.  She had, but only a little.

Why don’t you take a hot bath, he’d prompted gently. You’ll feel better.

She did. And, she had felt better.  By Monday morning, she was able to pull herself out of bed and head into the office.  Although still sleepy, she felt more rested than she had in possibly years.  Thinking back, Eva could not remember the last time a nesting period had been so fulfilling, or helpful.  Though she was on the upswing, Eva had left the pillows and blankets in place. She could snuggle in them a little longer that night, before the need left her completely.

As her desk, she gathered a new stack of files, flipping through the one on top. It was the death of the informant she’d taken a look at. Eva paused, wondering if she should even read the file. She decided it would look worse if she didn’t. With a sigh, she began reading the first page. And then, the next page. And then she was moving back and forth between reports.

There was a page missing. She thumbed through it, looking to see if it had been collated incorrectly.  It hadn’t. Javier had told her about a tattoo on the victim—it wasn’t included on the pages in front of her. Humming, she stood and went to the records room to see if it had slipped out in transit. It was there that Steve found her.

“Good, you’re here.”

Eva lifted her brows in question, refiling the folder in her hand.

“Javier asked me to find you and send you to help him at the church.”

She laughed, “I’m not religious.”

He put his hands on his hips, “Good, you’ll be objective.”

“Objective about what?”

“The case,” he answered, “Now, come on.  I’ll take you there.”

Before she could argue, he was guiding her out of the building to the parking lot and they were on their way. It took until she was walking up the steps for her to pause and actually think about what she was doing.

“I can’t,” she nearly yelled, both hands coming up in front of her.

Steve rolled his eyes, “You can, let’s go. Javi’s waiting.”

“No,” Eva countered, lowering her voice, “I can’t do field work. I’m not allowed.”

He sucked a breath through his teeth in frustration, “You’re not.  You’re going to mass. Now, in.”

Dragging her feet, Eva followed him in, folding her hands in front of her. It was a really nice church. Lots of stained glass, lots of wood. A confessional off to one side. Big cross with a Jesus on it. She walked up the aisle for what would be the second time in her life. Eva felt out of place the first time, too.

God, she’d been fourteen and so stupid, so trusting of her parents and of—of Joshua. He was smart and handsome and a fucking doctor. So stupid. So trusting. Eva could still remember that she was excited to be a wife, that she had thanked God for making happen so fast for her. She’d prayed that she would be a good partner for him, that she would learn fast. Eva had stopped believing in God the day after she got married.

Javi was standing with a priest at the back—or was it the front—of the church. They were talking animatedly, smiles all around. Eva followed Steve, waiting to be introduced.

“Eva, this is Father Martin.”

She gave a little half wave, “Hello.”

“He’s got a youth baseball league running this summer, they just got new uniforms.”

“That’s great,” she said, wondering where this was going.

“They even bought all the players new cleats.  Isn’t that great?”

His expression told her that what he was saying was meaningful, and Eva was a little embarrassed that it took her a few moments to catch on. She cleared her throat and smiled congenially at the group.

“Um, could I use your restroom?”

Father Martin gestured to a hall tucked behind the confessional, “Yes, of course.”

Eva thanked him and tried not to walk too fast. She located the bathroom pretty quickly and ran the faucet while she peeked further down the hall.  Couple of rooms, nothing out of the ordinary.  Still, she could get a little lost. Turning off the faucet, she slipped out of the bathroom and made her way to the first room—broom closet.  Crossing the hall, she opened the next door.  This was where they taught whatever the Catholic equivalent was of Sunday School.

Eva had grown up like any other good Louisiana girl, a Southern Baptist. Where they gathered, there was food and Southern judgment. Her marriage had broken her of most of the things she’d once believed, but it hadn’t broken her of the good memories she had.  

Reverently, she traced one of the little desks, smiling at the hand made art on the walls, little names scrawled in shaky writing.  At the front was a chalk board, a bible verse carefully written in one corner, a psalm. Eva leaned on the desk and stared at it a moment, thinking that she probably could have done with a little more memorization at vacation Bible school.

Next to the chalkboard, Eva noticed that the wall was cracked.  Odd. The rest of the church was in immaculate condition.  Rising, she went over and touched the cracked, gasping when it cracked more. Spinning around, she looked towards the door, as if God would stroll in and strike her down for damaging His house.

Using both hands, she tried to set it straight, which only made things worse.  It cracked all the way up to nearly the ceiling.  With a deep sigh, she looked at it, using a nail to scratch along the edge. It lifted away easily, and she discovered the it was...on a hinge.

“What the fu—hell. Hell? Is hell better?”

Knowing she was already in it, Eva opened the makeshift door and found the back of the confessional.  Brows together, she leaned in. It looked pretty normal, not that she’d ever been inside one. Well, there was a first time for everything. Primly, she turned and sat on the cushion, wiggling a bit. It wiggled with her.

Standing, Eva reached beneath the seat and lifted it.  She smiled, set the cushion down and closed the door. Quickly, she scuttled out into the hall and back into the sanctuary.

The boys were still talking with the priest, thought Steve was taking the occasional photo. She gave Javier a wink, thanked the priest for the use of his facilities, and headed back outside.  Javier followed her.

“What’d you find?”

“You know, I’m not supposed to be doing this. I’m supposed to be at a desk.”

“I know-”

“Then, you also know that by asking me to crime scenes you are risking my freedom.”

He looked at her for a bit, chewing on his lip, “Listen, you’re good at this. I know that, and you’re only here to visit a potential church, recommended by me.”

“You can’t just make up stories to suit your needs.”

“Why not?” he shot back, “DEA does it all the time.”

Eva looked away, “I can’t go back to prison, Javi.”

He took her by the shoulders, “You won’t. Steve and me, we’ll make sure of it.”

She nodded, crossing her arms.

“Now, what’d you find?”

“The church,” she answered, “Is hiding drugs under the seat of the confessional, probably in other places, too.”

He snapped his tongue over the back of his teeth, “You saw it.”

“I saw it.”

Dropping his hands, Javier pursed his lips, “I’m gonna call Carrillo. You sit tight out here in case it gets ugly.”

Eva shrugged, “You get the bad guys, I’m gonna go get a popscicle.”

And that’s what she did. Eva crossed the street to a tiny one stop shop and bought a cherry popscicle.  Then, she found a bench where she had a good view of the front of the church and sat. As she pulled the paper apart, a couple Jeeps drove up to the church stairs and about ten or so policemen hauled ass inside, each of them wearing kevlar. Javier must have had them on stand by.  Clearly, he thought he was working off good information. Perhaps, he’d snagged a nun as informant.

Separating the two pieces, Eva took the top off one and held it in her mouth, letting the sugary syrup melt over her tongue. She hadn’t had one of these in a long time, couldn’t remember the last one. Carefully, she tipped it over, slurping up one side.

Even from across the street, she could hear raised voices. They’d told the priest what she’d found, no doubt.

Eva sat there watching the police bring out load after load of cocaine, an astonishing amount, really. When she’d finished the popscicle, she got up and threw the wrapper and wooden sticks in the trash. On her way back, she saw Carrillo crossing the street towards her. Like his men, he was also kitted up. Eva was surprised that they’d found a bulletproof vest that could fit his broad shoulders. In any case, it was good look for him.

She sat, leaving enough room for him, a wordless invitation that he took.

“Having fun storming the castle?”

He huffed a short laugh, “I don’t know that ‘fun’ is how I would describe it.”

Eva hummed, knowing what he meant, then, “Guess its better than sitting at a desk.”

“On that, we agree. Javi tells me that you were the one who found the drugs.”

She shrugged, “Stumbled upon them, really.”

Carrillo looked at her, sidelong, “You have good eyes for this. I should put you on my payroll.”

Pleased by the complement, she allowed herself to feel a little bit of pride despite the fact that she really had simply stumbled upon the drugs.

Leaning back, Eva let her voice come out in a slow drawl, “I don’t know that you want to do that.”

He assessed her expression, asking, “Why?”

“Because,” she explained, matter of fact, “I don’t kiss the men who sign my paychecks.”

One side of his mouth lifted, a kind of playful light in his eyes, “I can get someone else to sign the paycheck.”

Feeling a blush rise to her cheeks, Eva looked away, saw that the priest was being cuffed in the doorway.

“What will happen to him?”

Carrillo’s face hardened a bit, “We’ll book him and he will make bail.  He’ll be back before Sunday services.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Is that how it worked in this country? She supposed that was how it worked everywhere—plenty of Josh’s boys got off without charges, plenty made bail, plenty went right back to what they were doing.

“What a load of bullshit.”

Carrillo laughed outright, “That is how it is.”

She opened her mouth and closed it, looking at her hands.

He lifted one hand and tapped the outside of her thigh once, “Inside thought?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Tell me—is it insulting?” He looked intrigued.

She shook her head, “More sad, I think.”

“Tell me.”

Sighing deeply, she simply said, “I was just thinking that whoever leaked the information to Javier is going to be crucified.  I was also thinking that saying this out loud would be in poor taste.”

Carrillo made a sound of agreement, and then there was a few minutes where they both watched the priest being walked from the church to one of the Jeeps.

“How are you feeling?”

Eva was a little startled by the question, but she recovered quickly, “I’m better. Thank you for your help last week. It...made a difference.”

He acknowledged her thanks with a bob if his head, “You are welcome, and I am glad. When was the last time you nested?”

Her shock must have shown on her face because he went on, “When we met, the first thing I noticed was that you looked like you needed to take some time to nest.”

“The first thing?” Her? Sarcastic? No...

He gave a little shrug, abashed, “Okay, the second thing.”

God, but she wanted to needle him just a little bit, to volley back the unbalanced feeling he so often stirred in her. It took half a second to agree with herself that she should—just a little.

Eva turned, resting her elbow on the back of the bench and laying her head on her hand, “What was the first?”

She could tell he was regretting saying it, but Eva was curious, and she had a hard time not being curious about things. She did, however, keep the satisfied look off her face when his cheeks tinged with pink.

“Tell me,” she urged, echoing his tone from not a few minutes before.

Carrillo’s shoulders pulled down and she got the feeling that he was trying to make himself less threatening, an unconscious movement that told her he’d always been a little too large among his peers. She could see in that small movement that he’d learned early on that he was intimidating.  She could also see that he probably knew when to use that to his advantage and when to pull back.

“You know the answer to that question, Eva,” he said eventually.

She held up a finger, “I might know.”

After a deep inhale followed by a controlled exhale, he said, “I cannot believe I am saying this...Your scent. You know that it was your scent. I couldn’t fucking breathe in that conference room. I thought my blood was going to boil in my veins.”

The words tumbled out quickly, but his tone was so reticent that there were little unusual pauses in his sentences. He definitely did not want to be saying it, but he clearly couldn’t help it, and it looked like that frustrated him. Eva bit her lip, touched by how ridiculously honest he was being with her at that moment. She should reward him for that honesty.

“Do you want to know a secret?”

He looked at her and nodded sharply, just once.

Eva moved a little closer and pitched her voice low, “I knew what you smelled like a month before we were introduced. I even saw you first, like a few weeks before. It was the only way I got through that meeting with any dignity.”

There. She’d given him a fair trade. Eva did not need to add that she’d masturbated to that scent over and over for the month prior (and since). She didn’t think she would ever really have the courage to tell him that much. Just the thought made heat rise in her chest and cheeks.

He shifted to face her, “How?”

She tilted her head to the side in a low arc, “You would come in to talk with one of the agents, we’d just miss each other and I could scent you a few times.”

His eyes narrowed and she could see the wheels turning in his head, “You said you saw me.”

“Yes, I did. Not for long, and from across the room.  But, I knew.”

Strong fingers brushed down the forearm holding her head aloft, “How did you stand it? After—I think I lasted less than twenty four hours before I was coming up with ways to see you again.”

Eva smiled, “I was just happy that I could feel that intensely. I think I wanted to savor it.”

He cocked his head to the side, eyes running over her face and downwards, catching on the way her skirt had hitched up a bit, “You never…”

She shook her head, “Josh was a beta. After we got married, I was on a tight leash. And after, there wasn’t much opportunity.”

There went that jagged fury that billowed through his scent when she mentioned her marriage. She made a mental note to steer away from the subject, if she could. His mouth opened and closed, and her mouth widened in a smile.

“You just had an inside thought.”

He laughed, “I did.”

“Well, out with it.”

Carrillo, still smiling, said, “I think I’ve revealed enough for one day.”

Eva looked down, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He touched underneath her chin, “Don’t apologize for wanting to know my thoughts, hmm? I want to know yours constantly.”

“I pretty much say whatever I’m thinking, Big Guy.”

His name sounded from across the street and he straightened, listening.

“I need to go,” he said after a moment. “We’ll talk later.”

Eva watched him go, a warm feeling coming over her.  She liked him a little too much, she knew that. She also knew that she was going to do absolutely nothing about it.  

[owlish-peacock36]

Alla Prima: Chapter 13

This isn’t the end, but we are quickly closing in on the finish line of this story. Thanks to everyone for your support!

The night wore on slowly as feet began to swell in uncomfortable dress shoes. Jamie’s mind wandered, counting down the moments until he could be home. He was forever grateful for the opportunity the gallery afforded him, of course, but the sheer number of people was exhausting and he was ready to be alone.

A small squeeze on his elbow reminded him of his companion.

Well, hopefully not completely alone.

Claire had yet to leave his side since he showed her the painting, and, quite honestly, he wouldn’t want it any other way. She was a natural: charismatic and charming. She spoke with such grace and clarity that caused a bit a jealousy to burn in Jamie’s stomach. If only he could be so unreserved…

As if sensing his jitters, Claire whispered quiet support in his ear. “Ten minutes, love. Ten minutes, and it’ll be over.”

She understood him in ways no one else ever had.

People began filing out of the gallery, and the patrons became sparse. Jamie’s fingers itched toward the keys in his pocket. Dear God, why wouldn’t these people leave?

“Mr. Fraser?”

The voice was unfamiliar, and undoubtedly American. Jamie pivoted with Claire, facing the sound. The man was tall and handsome, dressed smartly in a navy blue suit.

“Aye? That’s me. It’s nice to meet ye Mr.…” He held out his hand for the stranger to shake.

“Grey. John Grey.” The man took the proffered hand firmly within his own.

Wait. John Grey?

“The John Grey? Lord John?”

The blonde man chuckled. “That is what they call me, isn’t it?” Jamie couldn’t help but notice the slight Southern accent that peeked through his words.

“Aye…” A bit starstruck, Jamie was breathless. John Grey was a prolific art manager based in New York City. And he was here, standing before Jamie. He had looked at Jamie’s art. He was talking to Jamie. He thought he might scream. “W--what brings ye to Scotland, Mr. Grey?”

“John, please. A bit of a getaway with my husband, to tell you true. But I heard about a gallery showing this evening, and, well… I can’t stay away from art for too long. But I’m sure you understand, Mr. Fraser.”

“Aye, I do.”

“And who is this lovely woman?” John motioned toward Claire.

Christ, he forgot to introduce Claire.

“Oh, this is Claire. My girlfriend.”

She smiled that smile that could charm a man to his grave. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grey.”

“You as well, Claire. But please, you may call me John as well.”

“Alright, John. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What is it that you do? I must be honest, I am not invested in the art world like Jamie is.”

“Oh! I’m a manager. I used to be an artist myself, but I find a great joy in managing other artists.”

“And you want to manage Jamie?”

John looked taken aback, but he smiled nonetheless. “Well, you don’t hold anything back, do you?”

“Not usually.”

“Well, to be honest, I’m not sure yet. But I would like to give him a chance. If you would like that?” That last sentence was aimed toward Jamie.

“Oh, I, umm…”

“You don’t have to decide tonight. Here.” Reaching into his coat pocket, John procured a small business card and handing to Jamie. “Take this. Give me a call. It was nice to meet you, Jamie. Claire.”

The man disappeared, and Jamie was able to expel all the air from his lungs.

“Jesus Christ…” He leaned on Claire’s shoulder, eyes wide.

“I’m guessing he’s famous?” She asked.

“They didna nickname him Lord for nothing.”

“Well, that’s exciting!”

“I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“Brathair! Jamie!” William Fraser’s crimson head bobbed between bodies, his height giving him an advantage. He stopped before the couple, eyes wide. “Was that… John Grey?”

“Nice to see ye too, Willie…”

“Yes, yes. Verra nice to see ye, too. Hello, Claire.” His words came out in a rush. “Now, answer my question.”

“Ye already ken the answer…”

“Jesus Christ, Jamie! What did he want?”

“He gave me his business card…”

“That’s incredible!”

“Aye, I’m a bit in shock.”

“Well, go home. Get some rest. Call me tomorrow, aye?”

“Of course.”

His older brother wrapped him in a quick hug. “I am really proud of ye, Sawny.”

And with a pat on the back, he was gone.

***

The ride home was spent with Claire bursting out facts about John Grey from his Wikipedia page.

“He has been with his husband--Hector Dalrymple-Grey--since they were sixteen years old. How romantic!”

“Aye, verra sweet.” Jamie had been humouring her with such small comments like: Oh, really? And I didna ken that. She didn’t need much encouragement from him, though, to continue her research.

“And, he has an older brother, who’s a lawyer.”

“Ye know, ye could probably write his biography at this point.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Jamie inched the car up the drive of his small house. Home, he sighed in relief.

“Alright, Sassenach. We’re here.” Claire had yet to see his house. He wasn’t embarrassed of the tiny lot; he lived too far out of town for visits to be considered practical. At least that’s what he told himself. “Shall we?”

“Of course.”

***

Jamie wished he had to foresight to clean up a little bit. Sketch paper was strewn about the coffee table and sofa, a broken pencil had taken up residence on the carpet, and a red paint stain (his own handprint, he noticed) decorated the wall.

“Christ. I’m sorry, Claire.” He began picking the litter from the floor and tables. “I didna think to clean. I was sae nervous about the gallery, and--”

“Oh, hush.” Claire had approached him, stilling his movements with her hand. “You don’t have to tidy up for me. I love you, mess and all.” A grin pulled at the corner of her lips. “Besides, this house is entirely you.”

“Aye?”

“Mmhmm. A little hidden, a little frazzled, and completely charming.”

Jamie glanced at the exposed brick walls, at the natural wood furnishings… Yeah, he supposed his house was objectively ‘charming.”

“Now, where is the bathroom? I’d like to slip into something more comfortable… And I mean that totally literally.”

He chuckled, and extended his hand toward the hallway. “First door on the left.”

Hiking her large tote on her shoulder, she disappeared down the corridor.

Jamie flopped on the sofa, his muscles relaxing for the first time in hours. His mind flicked through the images of the evening:

Swarms of people.

Claire’s portrait.

John Grey’s business card.

Christ, had it only been one night? Surely, not…

“Ahem…” Jamie looked up, finding Claire resting her shoulder against the doorframe. She was clad in flannel pants and a loose fitting t-shirt that was so faded, the words on it were illegible. She popped a hip out, striking a pose. “What do you think?”

“Ye’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Her eyes rolled at his response. “Oh, stop,” she teased good-naturedly. She entered the room, and flung herself on the sofa next to him.

“It’s true.” Jamie placed a tiny peck on the tip of her nose.

“Whatever you say.” Distracted, she picked up the large black folder lying on the coffee table. “What’s this?”

“An old sketchbook. They’re no very good.”

“Not good?” Her fingers flicked through the pages. “Well, you’re right about that. Jamie, these are incredible.”

“Ye think so? God, those were from three...four years ago.”

“So, you’ve always been talented? Unfair.”

“Oh, hush. Besides, ye’re the brains of this relationship.”

“That’s why my hair is so big… To hide my large head.”

The couple descended into giggles. Comfortable giggles. They kind with deeps gasps and intermittent snorts.

“Yer head is perfectly proportioned, my love. Everything about ye is perfect.”

A scoff. And then: “You’re biased.”

“Perhaps. Ye do have everything I like: a regular-sized head--” That earned him a smack on the arm. “Let me finish! A regular-sized head; untamed curls; big toffee eyes, a sweet, kind smile; a big arse--”

“Hey!”

“--And, that brain of yours--”

“Not the brain, again…”

“--Full of so much knowledge, and humor, and kindness, and love. No, ye’re exactly my type.”

“Jamie…” He could hear the catch in her throat, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes shone, like sunlight, as a single tear ventured down her cheek. “You’re making me cry.”

“Happy tears, I hope?”

“Yes, very happy. You saying those things to me… You better be in it for the long haul, because I’m never letting you go.”

She was teasing, a small joke to deflect from the feelings she was displaying. But Jamie knew the truth in her statement, and knew his own truth as well:

“Don’t worry. I am.”

[redgillan]

Missed Chances - part 3

Steve Rogers x Reader [// Bucky Barnes x Reader for now]

Summary: 13 Going on 30!AU - Steve Rogers is crazy about you, but he’s afraid his feelings are only one sided and being one of your best friends, he doesn’t want to ruin your friendship… On his 13th birthday, he makes a wish and wakes up in the body of his 30 year old self. The problem is, you’re no longer a part of his life.

Word Count: 2,725

Warnings: None I think?

A/N: Okay, here we go! I’ll reblog with the tags when I’m home. This chapter is mostly from Reader’s point of view. I hope you like this part :’)

Missed Chances - Masterpage

Bucky woke up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, a smile on his lips and his eyes still closed. He listened to you move around the room while you were getting ready for work.

Your studio apartment was small and not ideally situated, but it was home. You had turned the open kitchen into an eat-in kitchen thanks to a simple breakfast bar. To save space, you had bought a Murphy bed and used the decorative fireplace as a mini library.

Bucky let out a content sigh and stretched out starfish style. He grinned lazily at you, the sheet tangled around his waist.  

You rounded the counter and crossed the living room. He greeted you with a soft ‘hey you’ and watched you take a seat on the edge of the bed, your hands wrapped around a cup of coffee.

“I hope this wasn’t the last K-cup,” he slurred, then groaned when you made an apologetic grimace. “I need coffee.”

You rolled your eyes while brushing his hair back from his forehead. He pouted for a second before he pushed himself into a sitting position and kissed you. He tried to pull you down onto the mattress with him, but you were already late for work.

“I gotta go,” you mumbled against his lips. He made a sound of protest. “Seriously, if I’m late again, Natasha’s gonna fire me.”

You had barely had enough time to place the mug of coffee down on the floor before Bucky wrapped his arms around you and flipped you both over until he was on top. You let out a giggling shriek and tried to push him off.

He kissed you again, slowly, tenderly. You really wanted to call in sick and stay in bed with him, but that was a luxury you couldn’t afford. Bucky pulled back enough to playfully rub his nose against yours.

“You know,” you spoke, “it’s amazing how you just don’t care about morning breath when you’ve been with someone for ages.”

He dropped his head and sighed, a hint of a smile curling his lips. “We were having a moment.”

“I know, sorry, I really have to go.”

You gave him a quick kiss and climbed over him to get out of bed. You put your coat and your shoes on and turned to him.

“Tell you what, you can keep the last cup of coffee. I’ll grab something on the way to the office.”

“Yesss!” he beamed, pumping his fist in the air in a victory gesture.

You grabbed your bags and keys from the counter and blew him a kiss before you left.

It took you over half an hour to reach Hearst Tower, which housed some of the world’s most famous magazine publishing companies. After receiving your master’s degree in journalism, you had applied to work as an editorial assistant for a fairly new magazine called Honeysuckle.

The competition was tough and your numbers were not good. Your editor-in-chief even used the word redesign, which, in this industry, was a death sentence.

This meant that you had to work longer hours to get the results the company needed. You didn’t mind since Bucky never came home until well after eleven.

Meeting deadlines was always challenging and you thrived on that adrenaline rush like a junkie.

You barged into the tower and passed through security before you took the elevator up to the offices.  As you exited the elevator, the usual office noises greeted you and you tried to make yourself as small as possible while you walked to your desk.

The cubicles stretched all the way down the open-plan office with no pillars or walls to isolate you. There were offices on each side of the room; one for the editor-in-chief, an art room, a fashion closet and a few others for the senior editors.

You had just draped your coat over your chair when someone sneaked up behind you and whispered in your ear.

“Romanoff’s looking for you,” your cubicle mate said, startling you in the process.

“Jesus, Scott, you’re gonna give me a heart attack!” you replied, placing a hand over your racing heart.

You leaned back in your chair and watched him take a few folders from his desk before he walked away. He turned and walked backward for a moment, meeting your eyes when he said, “FYI she looked pissed.”

“Yeah, what else is new?” you mumbled to yourself.

At this moment, the features editor, Natasha Romanoff, exited her office and looked over the sea of cubicles until she saw you. Her high heels made no sound on the carpeted floor as she approached your desk. Without slowing down, she asked you to follow her.

“Ms Romanoff, I-”

“You’re not in trouble,” she cut you off, casting you a sideways glance. “Nick wants to see you.”

You managed a weak smile and tried to look nonchalant. An impromptu meeting with the editor-in-chief wasn’t a great way to start your day.

Natasha opened the door and motioned you inside. Nick Fury was enjoying the view of the New York City skyline while lounging in his leather desk chair. He swivelled his chair in your direction and greeted you by name.

He waved you to a chair in front of his desk while Natasha stood next to his desk, looking as stoic as ever.

“Do you remember last week’s meeting,” he said, resting his forearms on his desk.

Of course you remembered that meeting. He basically spent two hours telling everyone that unless someone came up with a brilliant idea to bring up the numbers, you’d all lose your jobs.

He gave you a small smile when you replied in the affirmative.

“Here at Honeysuckle, we want our reader to feel like they matter. We want them to close the magazine with a smile on their faces, we want them to feel good about themselves.”

He took a moment before continuing, his expression thoughtful.  “I’ve read your proposition and you’re right, this magazine has lost its true identity.”

Before you worked for them, Honeysuckle was one of your favourite magazines. You didn’t particularly enjoy reading fashion magazines because they all had the same articles: a new diet each month and strange relationship advice.

But Honeysuckle was different. They were more inclusive than any other magazines, choosing models for their talent rather than their gender, age, body type, skin colour or religious preference.

Somehow, it changed over time. They continued to promote diversity, but their models became more sombre and less joyful. The colour scheme changed, too; it went from soft greens, whites and yellows to bold colours.

You knew they were selling you a fantasy, but it wasn’t important as long as they encouraged women to focus on their inner beauty. You had cancelled your subscription after the senior editors gave you your first diet story.

“Now,” Nick said with a hopeful smile, “it’s time for Honeysuckle to change. I want us to get back to the roots of our business. Will you help me?”

You sat up straight. “Of course, sir!”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said with a nod. “I want to hear your ideas.”

Emboldened by his response, you sat on the edge of your seat. You were also relieved that he wasn’t going to fire you for being late.

“I think we should put life back into the magazine!” you exclaimed, gripping the edge of the desk. “We should talk about real women. Women who are smart and pretty and happy to be who they are.”

Nick studied you while he rested his chin on his fist. “You’re saying we should focus on the so-called ‘normal’ women, uh.”

“It’s not an insult,” you quickly replied. “Women are complex and beautiful; we all have different passions, different interests, but a lot of us have a job, we go on dates, we hang out with friends, and all that. We should talk about these women. We should talk about us.”

“I agree,” Nick replied after throwing a quick glance at Natasha. “I have a question for you. Are you a normal woman?”

You shrugged. “Yes, I think I am.”

Nick leaned forward on the desk and laced his fingers in front of him. “So if we wanted to talk about you,” he paused, “you wouldn’t have a problem with that, would you?”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that. Did he just say he wanted to write an article about you?

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

He stared at you with a strange expression before he reached sideways and opened a drawer of his desk. His hand fumbled for something in it, then he slammed it on the table.

It was a gossip magazine with Steve Rogers on the cover. You were standing in front of him, and even though Bucky wasn’t on the photo, you could see his arm around your waist. Paparazzi must have followed Steve when he ran into you and Bucky in front of the restaurant.

“Oh, god,” you whispered as you picked up the magazine.

“You never mentioned you were friends with Rogers,” Natasha said, her arms crossed over her chest. “He isn’t a random celebrity. He’s one of the most influential people in the world and he happens to be a fashion designer.”

“I don’t really know him,” you sighed, throwing the magazine back on the table. “We used to be friends when we were kids, but we grew apart. I ran into him the other night when I was out with my fiancé.”

“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” Nick said, straightening his posture. “Rogers is the kind of celebrity we need to bring up our numbers.”

“We also need an emotional story to attract more readers,” Natasha chimed in.

You sank into your seat, suddenly nervous. She sat cross-legged on Nick’s desk, ready to present her new idea.

“We want you to share your wedding journey with our readers.”

You looked at her with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”

Unfazed, Natasha continued, “Wedding TV shows are extremely popular, it sells. This might be the boost we need. Our readers will follow you through every step of the way. Including, and that will be the climax of the series, how your former childhood friend created your own wedding dress.”

You held back a laugh. “Steve Rogers will never agree to do that.”

“He will,” Natasha replied in a tone that made it sound like she had already thought this through. “The dress’ a way for us to get noticed, to join the big league. Imagine this: superstar Steve Rogers designs a glamorous wedding dress for his long-lost friend. And this long-lost friend is you, a normal girl.”

They gave you a minute to let that sink in, but it wasn’t enough. You had no idea what to say. It was insane. Organising a wedding was complicated enough and you didn’t want to share everything with potentially millions of people.

Sensing your hesitancy, Nick tried to soften the blow. “If you accept, we’ll help you financially with your wedding. In addition, if our numbers improve, I’ll promote Natasha to associate editor. This means, you’ll be our new features editor.”

“And if I refuse?”

Nick let out a small sigh. “You’re allowed to say no, and if you do, we won’t hold it against you. But quite frankly, this is the deal of a lifetime. People would kill for that.”

He was right, but it didn’t change the fact that you had to talk to Bucky. It wasn’t just your wedding, it was his, too.

You were also iffy about working with Steve, should he accept their offer. Seeing him again after all this time brought back bittersweet memories.

The last time you had seen him before that, Steve had kissed you passionately one night and disappeared the next day.

“It’s a generous offer,” you agreed, choosing your words carefully. “I think I should talk to my fiancé first.”

“Absolutely!” Nick beamed, shooting Natasha a wide smile. “You and your guy should do some thinking over the weekend.”

You were visibly shaken when you returned to your desk after that bizarre meeting with your boss. You sat there for a moment just staring into space.

“So?” Scott rolled his chair closer to you. “Did you get fired?”

You shook your head. “They want to pay for my wedding and give me a promotion.”

Scott stared at you, his eyes blinking in shock. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then thought better of it and rolled back to his desk. For the first time since you’d started working with him, Scott Lang was speechless...

*

Steve called in sick for the second time that week. To his relief, Brock texted back that he’d take care of everything.

He opened every cupboard, every cabinet door searching for something other than fruits and vegetables.

After a few minutes, he found a cupboard full of sugary snacks; including boxes of Lucky Charms and Cap'n Crunch, Hersey bars and cookies, Twizzlers, Starburst Jelly Beans and a huge box of Cracker Jacks.

He carried everything into the living room and settled down on the white sofa, ready to drown his sorrows in sweets.

Steve was famous, rich, talented, loved by everyone and he lived in an incredible apartment, but there was something missing. He was a womanizer, an addict, a liar. He lived a frivolous, pointless life and he wanted to know how he ended up so messed up.

He called at home to talk to his mom, but the number had been disconnected. He figured that she’d changed her number in the last seventeen years.

He couldn’t even talk to you or Bucky because he didn’t have your numbers and because you were no longer friends. It hurt to know that he had cut all ties with his best friends –or maybe his friends cut ties with him... he honestly had no idea.

The people he loved the most were gone and Steve might have looked like an adult, but he was just a kid.

“Ma’am,” he asked the A.I. “Is SpongeBob still a thing?”

It was an odd request and it took F.R.I.D.A.Y. a few seconds to react. He only watched the sports channels, but nonetheless the A.I. turned on the television and Steve relaxed into the cushions when the familiar pirate appeared.

“Steve,” F.R.I.D.A.Y interrupted him after an hour. “Ms Carter is in the lobby.”

Steve let out a grunt. “I don’t know her. Tell her to leave, I want to be alone.”

“She’s already in the elevator.”

Annoyed, he left the blanket on the sofa and padded to the front door. He didn’t want to see anyone, he wanted to be left alone with his junk food and forget everything.

When he swung the door open, he found a woman in a dark blue suit standing there. She was tall, had dark curly hair and wide, expressive eyes.

She glanced at him, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow when she saw his dirty pyjamas, and Steve shuffled his feet as he began to feel self-conscious. She was sophisticated and he clearly wasn’t.

“Goodness, Steve, it’s past two, what are you doing in your pyjamas?” she asked, but before he could say anything she raised her hand to stop him. “You know what, I don’t want to know. I’m late, you were supposed to pick her up this morning.”

Upon seeing the confused look on his face, she began to tap her foot impatiently.

“You fought me for joint custody, now you stick to our schedule,” she continued. “I'm not at your beck and call.”

The sound of someone repeatedly hitting the elevator button caught her attention. She turned around and asked the little girl standing by the elevator to stop fiddling with the button.

Panic rose in Steve’s chest. He steadied himself against the door frame as he locked eyes with a little girl with messy dark blonde curls. Her face lit up when she saw him, a toothy grin spread across her face.

She was halfway across the corridor, tottering towards him on unsteady legs, her arms outstretched. She crashed into his legs and wrapped her small arms around him before she glanced up at him, her big hazel eyes beaming.

“Dada!”

Part 4

Forever tags:

@reginaphlanageadams @imboredsueme @coley0823 @nobody-worth-mentioning @milkywaybarnes @honey-bee-holly @ballerinafairyprincess @waywardpumpkin @jordanlahey @valhalla-ally @fabicchi @vashanatasha @berjhawn @kjs-s @breezy1415 @theblueinyour-eyes @i-ship-it-ironically @vvienersoldier  @odinhson @abovethesmokestacks @chewie-danvers @aslavicshadcw @catlingcatsthatcantcat @lostinspace33 @maefisher2003 @pineapplebooboo @thisismysecrethappyplace @racheltheclumsy@marvelellie @queenoftrash97 @wantyoubackpeter @moonstar86 @fairytalepincess8314 @freightcarcap @buckyswinterchildren @ldyhawkeye

Steve tags:

@lostinthoughtsandfeelings  @teamcap4bucky

[loverontheleft]

Ready to Leap (Chapter 14)

AU with B as a band teacher and reader as an English teacher. Fluff and smut. Chapters 1-13 can be found on my Masterlist.

Brendon x reader. Warnings: language, sexual references, some triggerish abuse stuff at the end.

Word count: 2.7k

-||-

Still a little sore but feeling much better, you slip out of his bed and make your way downstairs to make him breakfast. You’ve stolen one of his tees and are dancing to your “Good Mood” playlist as you scramble the eggs when he comes downstairs silently, watching you from the doorway.

He sneaks up behind you and puts his hands on your hips and you yelp. He laughs and grinds against you playfully and sings in your ear, “you know I love it when the music's loud, but c'mon, strip that down for me, baby. Now there's a lot of people in the crowd, but only you can dance with me, so put your hands on my body and swing that round for me, baby.”

You giggle, setting the pan back on the stove and grab his neck, working back against him before gyrating down the length of his body, hand trailing down his chest. “Jesus Milton,” he laughs when you roll back up, flipping your hair and pressing into him. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You grin back at him. “You’re one to talk. You know all the words to Strip That Down?”

He shrugs. “I know music.” He leans past you to turn off the stove and you twist to grab a plate for the eggs. “You didn’t have to make breakfast,” he remarks and you turn to kiss him.

“You took such good care of me last night, it’s the least I could do.”

He shakes his head, lifting you onto the counter and feeding you a bite of egg. “You keep talking like I did you some favor. You’re my girlfriend and I love you. Taking care of you is basically the bare minimum.”

You smile, wrap your legs around him, and pull him in for a kiss. “Disclaimer,” you whisper, “I think my pussy is still sore from last night, so I’m gonna take a rain check on morning sex.”

He laughs, tugging your hair lightly. “No worries, honey. Hell, it’s early enough that we can go back to bed and just cuddle for a bit before we have to get up.”

You nod, hopping off the counter. “Yeah, that. Let’s do that.” He puts the plate in the sink and sweeps you off your feet to carry you upstairs and back to his bed. You’re curled against him and the hand that isn’t holding you to him tightly is running through your hair, gently scratching your scalp, and you’re working hard at not falling back asleep.

“We gotta talk to Frank today,” he mumbles, burying his face in your hair and you nod slowly. “It’s gonna be okay. He’s just gonna be happy we came to him and he’s not finding out from a parent or something. I promise.”

You sigh, turning in his arms and breathing in the scent of his skin. “I’m just scared it’s not gonna be our thing anymore. It’s gonna be everyone’s. They’re all gonna have so many feelings and opinions.”

“Hey.” He cups your chin and brings your lips to his. “It’s always going to be our thing. It’s always gonna be just us, just the two of us. Yeah, they’ll have feelings and opinions, but they don’t get a vote. What they think doesn’t matter. All I care about is you and what you think.”

You blink back tears and snuggle closer. “Thank you. I love you.”

He presses his lips to the top of your head. “I love you too.” You both fall silent, clinging to each other, savoring the moment. His voice breaks the silence regretfully. “You ready to get up?”

“Not really,” you say with a laugh and you reluctantly scoot back and stand up. “But skipping isn’t a choice so…” you shrug, and hold out your hand to him. He takes it and crawls out of bed after you, joining you in the closet to get dressed.

The car drive is a comfortable quiet, his hand protectively on your thigh, your fingers curved over his. He looks over at you as he parks. “If we talk to him before lunch, we can probably go out for lunch together.” He meets your eyes. “If you want to get lunch together.”

You squeeze his hand. “I want to get lunch. Let’s talk to him as soon as we can.” He squeezes back and nods. As he opens your door and takes your hand, you relax. This is going to be fine. Everything with him just feels right and now you won’t have to hide it. You’re leaving the band room hand in hand and you can feel yourself shaking. “I’m really not nervous,” you promise him. “I’m just...I haven’t been openly in a relationship since...and I know I’m just in my head and I’m fine, we’re fine, it’s fine, I swear but -“

He stops, pulling you against him. “You don’t need to explain anything. We don’t need to talk to him today if you want to wait. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shake your head, taking a deep breath. “No, I’m tired of hiding how I feel. We’ll tell him.” He kisses you softly and you melt into his arms, whimpering slightly when he pulls your hips flush to his.

There’s a clearing of a throat and you both jerk apart, eyes wide. “Why do I have a feeling I’m the ‘him’ in this situation?” Your principal looks amused and you curse under your breath.

“Well.” Brendon shifts slightly and you pull back from his embrace, embarrassed. He turns you so you’re tucked into him, his arm around your waist. “Your feeling is accurate and you can probably guess what we have to tell you.”

Frank’s eyes shift between the two of you for a moment, clearly considering. “Well, as long as this isn’t interrupting your job or affecting your productivity, I’m fine with it. Do your students know?”

The two of you exchange glances and shrug. Brendon answers for both of you. “They claim to suspect and think we should be if we’re not.”

Frank looks pleased. “Well, they’re intuitive. Here’s hoping their test scores show this too.” He grins at the two of you and punches Brendon lightly on the shoulder. “Take care of her. She’s a real asset to the English department.” He points at you. “And don’t you lose me my 6th state placement.” You both nod and he smiles. “Now go be productive in your respective rooms.”

“I’m just gonna walk her to her room,” Brendon clarifies, taking your hand and Frank nods. The two of you set off and he squeezes your hand tightly. Once you round the door frame into your room, you both let out a sigh of relief. He lifts you up onto the desk closest to the door, resting his forehead against yours. “Well, not how I planned to tell him, but I can’t complain about the outcome.” You nod, agreeing. “All in all, I’m counting it as a win.”

You kiss him, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in roughly. “I’m sorry I doubted that telling him was the right choice. You were right. I feel a lot better already.” He smiles, running a finger down your cheek.

“You don’t need to apologize, honey. What are you working on today and what time do you want to go to lunch?”

You think for a moment, reviewing your mental checklist. “I have to redo the Macbeth anticipation escape room folders, make copies of Act 1, check my notes for Act 1, and file their papers on their sonnets. I can do lunch whenever. You?”

“Mostly music appreciation stuff. It’ll be a lot of notes and writing responses. Why don’t you come down here once you’ve finished what you want to get done before lunch and I’ll be ready to go whenever?”

“Sounds good. Is it dumb to say I’m going to miss you?” You look up at him wistfully and he looks at you with soft eyes, kissing you lightly.

“Not dumb at all, honey. I’m going to miss you. Come find me when you’re ready.” He cups your face affectionately and kisses you one last time before walking backwards out the door, eyes on you.

You are sure to work efficiently; your principal said over the intercom that if you felt good about your progress for the day, you could leave at 1pm, and Brendon texted you the name of a Chinese restaurant downtown and the two thoughts have warped into eating Chinese food naked in bed together in the middle of the afternoon. It’s fairly tame as far as your fantasies tend to go, but still very appealing. You’ve sent this thought to him and receive a thumbs up and a heart eyes emoji, so you’re pretty sure he’s working just as quickly to be in your bed.

You save your notes on Macbeth and put the finished folders to one side, standing and straightening your skirt. Time to go fetch your boyfriend. As you’re leaving, Gina calls out, asking if you want to get lunch with her. You make your apologies and promise to explain later as you head to the arts hall. His door is hanging open and you creep in, sneaking up on him. He turns before you can scare him and you both fall apart laughing when you jump in surprise.

“That was adorable,” he gasps, bent double, forearms on his knees. You try to catch your breath and end up sitting down on the floor, wiping at your eyes. He sits down next to you, arm slung over your shoulders. “God, I love you.”

You murmur it back to him, cocking your head to catch the strain of music. “What are you listening to?”

He stands, pulling you to your feet. “Adele. This week is Modern Masters, and she’s certainly a master of her voice.” You step into his embrace, the soft guitar soothing your senses. He gathers you in his arms, dipping his head down to your ear. “Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again.”

You take the next line, swaying against him. “Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again.”

His eyes are heavy lidded and he is holding you so tightly; you’re dizzy with want. The music plays in the background and you focus on his eyes as he sings softly to you. “However far away, I will always love you. However long I stay, I will always love you.” He pauses, kissing your forehead. “We need to go get lunch and get in your bed.” You nod a little breathlessly and he takes your hand, turning the music off with a remote he lifts off the floor.

The two of you pick up the food and rush back to your apartment, laughing as you strip down to nothing and pile into your bed, opening boxes of takeout. He feeds you bites of sesame chicken and you pass him delicate scoops of fried rice until you’re both full and slumped against the pillows, your head on his chest and his arms around you.

“Bren?” You look up at him cautiously. “Can I ask you a rude question?” He nods, stroking your arm. “And you can tell me to fuck off if you want. But, I’ve been wondering. And since the hot tub, I have to ask - how do you live like you do? How do you afford it?”

He laughs awkwardly, closing his eyes. “My parents owned a vineyard in Napa. They were pretty successful. They died when I was in college, in a freak accident. They were always worried about me being a teacher; didn’t think I’d make any money. When they died, turns out they left the vineyard to me, despite me not wanting to go into wine, as well as a good sum of money. I couldn’t stay, I just couldn’t be there without them. My best friend who has a business degree does day to day operations and I just work mainly to make sure my parents’ legacy, as it were, is preserved. I try to make the decisions they’d make and just make them proud. Any income from that goes to a food bank in their name; I took the money they left and set myself up to live comfortably doing what I love and put aside the rest of it for the future.” You squeeze his hand, eyes brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Your voice is thick with regret and he shakes his head, kissing you.

“It’s okay, honey. It would have come up eventually. And it’s been 8 years, so.” His lips tighten and you hug him tightly. “I’m glad I told you though. I think you’re the only one here who knows. And you deserve to know. I just wish they could have met you. That was their other fear. They knew my personality; I throw myself into my work. They didn’t think I’d meet anyone worth sharing my life with. I hope they can see I’m good, I’m happy. Fuck, I’m just so happy with you.” He’s tearing up and you choke back a sob of your own. “I really do love you so much,” he whispers and you nod.

“I love you too. I hope our parents have met up there. I know my mom and dad would love you. Just because you love me, they’d love you.” You swipe at your tears, sniffling. He runs a hand over your hair, pulling you into his lap so you’re facing him. You kiss him hard and he clutches you to him. One of his hands moves to your head, deepening the kiss and you moan into mouth.

The embrace lasts for a minute before you both pull away. He grins sheepishly, brushing a finger over your lips. “I feel weird doing…” he pauses, gesturing between your bodies, “this, after talking about our parents.”

You laugh, nodding. “Yeah, my dad might not love this part of our relationship.” He groans, burying his face in your neck and offering an apology to your father. “I kinda just want to cuddle and take a nap,” you admit, closing your eyes.

“We can do that, honey.” He scoots down so he’s on his back and you’re curled over him. “Go to sleep darlin, I’m right behind you,” he says with a yawn, running a hand over your back in soft circles.

The rapid knocking on your door jolts you both awake hours later and you look around blearily. “Should I get that?” You wipe at your eyes and he nods, equally drowsy.

“Sounds urgent.”

You roll off of him and scoop his shirt off the shrugging into it. In hindsight, not your best move. You wriggle into a pair of shorts you’ve left on the floor and head for the door.

“Hell-“ you freeze and he smiles.

“Hey Y/n.” His eyes scan over you, taking in your messy hair, smudged makeup, the man’s dress shirt and wrinkled shorts and his jaw tightens and his eyes go cold.

You slam the door just as Brendon comes up behind you. “No no no no no,” you gasp, eyes wide. Brendon is in his dress pants and nothing else, and you’re guessing he rushed after you because they’re unzipped and unbuttoned just like the other morning.

“Y/n, who the fuck was that?” His voice on the other side of the door is sharp. He’s banging on your door and Brendon kneels silently beside you, worry shining in his eyes. “Y/n, open the fucking door.” He’s yelling now and you’re rocking on the floor.

“No, no no no no. Please no.” You’re almost wailing now, clutching at Brendon frantically, eyes wild. You’re trapped. The room is closing in and you’re trapped and you can’t breathe and how did he even find you?

“Open the fucking door, I swear to god.” He’s not yelling anymore and that might be worse. “Y/n, don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”

[mikeshanlon]

he’s all that: chapter one

fandom: it

pairing: reddie (richie tozier/eddie kaspbrak)

word count: 3.8k

on ao3

summary: 

Richie smiled smugly, “You’ve got spunk Kaspbrak. I like that.”

“Why don’t you try shutting the fuck up Tozier,” Eddie retorted as the line moved forward, “So what is this, if not some ploy to get me to tutor you? Some sort of dork outreach program? Because I’m not interested.”

---

Or: The one where Richie Tozier has six weeks to get into a relationship and make someone fall for him. Only problem? That someone is the anxiety ridden, goody two shoes Eddie Kaspbrak, and he can't even stand to be in the same room as Richie.

warnings: there is drug use in that bev/mike/richie are HUGE stoners. 

a/n: hello!!! hope you enjoy this fic, i will try to update it at least every other sunday (i'll figure out the exact number of chapters before i post chapter two, but it probably won't be more than 10). you don't need to have watched she's all that to get this, although there will be some small easter eggs/quotes from the movie. but the movie has not aged well and is very Heteronormative so like.... no need to watch it lmao. 

Senior year— it was what just about any kid in the public schooling system looked forward to. You were high school royalty, enjoying the last hurrah with booze and dancing before being sent off to make your mark on the world. Lanky limbs that weren’t yet grown into became muscled and toned, hips were wider and swayed. Brains were wiser, skin was touched more, and smiles were brighter. It was a time of transformation and change.

Except, senior year was almost over, and Richie Tozier felt like he hadn’t really changed at all. Sure, in the last four years he shot up to 6’2, his voice was deeper, and he wasn’t such a fucking outcast; but really nothing else felt different. He still only passed his classes on genius alone, had a problem respecting authority figures (partially due to the fact that his parents were still pieces of shit), and never knew when to shut the fuck up.

Derry, Maine itself stayed the same too, like a town in a snow globe encased with mom-and-pop businesses and ignorance. Other than iPhones, the small Starbucks on the corner of Main and Belmont, and the fact that the townspeople were slightly less homophobic and racist (slightly being the operative word); Derry was pretty much a time capsule for banana bikes, bullies, and double features with popcorn that had too much salt and not enough butter.

Take the cliques and social hierarchy-- a staple in any American high school, especially one in a small town. Despite it being the 21st century, the cafeteria still had tables for jocks, geeks, nerds, and preps, straight from some 80’s or 90’s teen flick.

Richie, like most things in his life, didn’t necessarily fit into one group or the other, toeing the line between social pariah and popular party dude. He supposed it was the side effects of being the class clown with too-big-for-his-face glasses, a diagnosis for ADHD, and his tendency blazing at any given moment. Funny and wild enough to show up to any party, but not exactly cool enough to hang out with for anything else.

Honestly, it didn’t matter either way, because instead of worrying about what table to eat the cafeteria’s barely edible food at, Richie usually spent his lunch smoking with his friends. It was time to catch up and unwind before the last few classes of the day— and there was no way he could get through chemistry without being high.

As soon as the shrill bell rang, Richie hopped out of his seat, grabbing his shit before placing his (probably failed) history quiz on the teacher’s desk on his way out into the halls.

He weaved through the couples sucking face and the worried AP students, his unruly black curls bouncing like a hyperactive halo around his head as he walked towards his locker.

“‘Sup Tozier!” someone called out to him, a familiar face at the weekend ragers, although he never learned his actual name.

Richie nodded, “Hey, what’s up Keg King?”

“Not much. Hey, you coming to see me defend my title this weekend?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Richie smiled lazily, patting the other boy on the back before strolling along.

It wasn’t a coincidence that his smile faltered as he passed what was left of the Bower’s gang. He and Hockstetter had graduated the year prior, although like most bumfuck racists hellbent on beating up ‘dorks and queers’, they stayed in Derry. The remaining two, Belch and Victor Criss, weren’t nearly as powerful or psychotic as their elders, but they had a reputation to uphold. They weren’t exactly slamming him down on the asphalt in front of the arcade like they did in middle school, but they weren’t friendly either. Mutual respect was even a stretch. He’d enjoy seeing them get their asses handed to them, and he was sure they felt the same.

Richie popped open his locker, catching the loose papers and pencils that inevitably fell out. A small mirror hung on the blue metal door, rendered practically useless because of all the smudges covering it. The remaining space was littered with stickers of indie bands, and post-its with doodles and notes to himself or from his friends.

Have a great day trashmouth <3- bevs

Sparknotes ‘Pygmalion’

Come to the quarry after school!-mike

It’s a good day to be gay

Next time u get drunk enough 2 facetime us reading the entire bee movie script pls invite us so we dont have 2 deal w/ that sober- b+m

Buy more cigs and weed

U lewk hott big sexxxi ;) - xoxo

Richie was unashamed to say he wrote the last one to himself one day when he looked particularly good.

He struggled to stuff his history folder into the looming mess, but eventually crammed it in there, slamming the door shut before anything else could fall out.

After checking that he did indeed have his lighter, bag of weed, and papers in his denim jacket, Richie made his way to their usual spot. They liked to smoke at the stairs behind the art room, which was tucked away in the back of the school, overlooking the field that separated them and the middle schoolers.

Throwing open the orange door to the stairs in his usual dramatic fashion, he found his two closest friends, “Ms. Marsh, Lord Michael, how fare thee chaps today?” Richie greeted in his (awful) british accent.

Beverly Marsh rolled her eyes as she lit her joint, “Fine, until I heard that horrible voice.”

Richie threw a hand on his chest, a pained expression painted on his face, “Oh, how you hurt me so.”

“Hey, I mean it is his best impression,” Mike Hanlon commented from the steps, fist bumping Richie as he sat down across from Beverly on the top of the stairs, back to the railing. The sweet boy lit up the bowl in his pipe, inhaling deeply.

“Aw, thank you Mikey, you sure know how to make a girl swoon,” he cooed, mimicking a southern belle.

“Well, you don’t really have any good one’s in the first place,” Mike smirked, blowing out the smoke in his mouth while Beverly snorted, taking another drag.

Richie rolled his eyes, taking out his bag of weed, “Fuck off Hanlon.”

Mike extended an olive branch in the form of paper lunch bag filled with a sandwich, chips, and a can of coke. It was a daily occurrence for them— the Tozier’s rarely had any food, and even if Richie wanted to eat from the cafeteria, he didn’t exactly get a lot of money from them.

“My upcoming munchies thank you dear friend.”

He opened his bag of weed, attempting to balance the paper on his knees so he could roll his own joint. This failed miserably as the weed fell out, getting all over his Radiohead t-shirt.

“Shit.”

Beverly sighed, holding out her hand, “Let me roll it Tozier, you and I both know I’m better at it anyways.”

“What?! I’m perfectly capable of doing it by myself. I roll a damn good joint Marsh,” he shot back incredulously.

She plucked a stray piece of weed and gave him a pointed look. Richie groaned before handing his stuff over, Beverly handing him her own joint to smoke on in the meantime.

“How’s your day been Rich?” Mike asked from his spot on the steps. Typical farm boy, concerned with his friends. Richie often wondered how such an angelic person hung out with him and Bev, but Mike had his fair share of rebellious traits.

“Ah, well, you can tell it’s been just dandy. I can’t wait till we get out of this fucking hell hole,” Richie scoffed before taking a hit.

“Only seven more weeks,” Beverly reminded, eyes and hands focused on rolling.

Mike nodded, “Crazy. Can’t believe we’re finally graduating.”

“Thank fucking god, Derry is a suffocating shithole,” he said, “I know I’m an idiot, but Jesus, everyone here is a fucking bigot.”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, not saying much else. They understood. It was hard being one of the only black kids in school, let alone pansexual (although most people didn’t know this about him). The prejudice he faced wasn’t something he often spoke about, trying to be as positive as possible.

“This kid in english was saying bisexuals are sluts today,” Richie successfully blew a few smoke rings, “Like, I am one, but not because of my sexuality, asswipe.”

Bev laughed humorlessly, handing Richie the freshly rolled joint and taking back her own, “No need to tell me what that’s like.”

No, the redhead had been getting called a slut over nothing since the seventh grade; the rumors and shaming only getting worse when she too came out as bi.

A comfortable and reflective silence fell over the three, occupied with their thoughts and getting high. Richie placed the joint in between his chapped lips; struggling to light the tip as his white lighter sputtered, on it’s last moments of life. Mumbled expletives fell out of his mouth before he was successful, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in before letting it all escape.

His dark brown eyes scanned the poorly maintained sports field, filled mostly with middle schoolers running around and yelling. Part of him envied the carefree nature of it all, but the other remembered how fucking shitty middle school was and any jealousy washed away.

Not too far from them was what was dubbed as ‘the kissing tree’. The old trunk was littered with carvings, initials surrounded by hearts claiming that their love was ‘forever’. It was juvenile, small town as fuck, and heteronormative— though most things surrounding romance in Derry were.

Of course, Richie had been obsessed with it as a preteen, and knew his own name was on there (a few times).

What caught his eye now were the couple under it, making out passionately, flush against one another, like if they stopped they’d die.

Honestly, that would be preferable, as one of them was Gretta Keene, one of Richie’s biggest mistakes.

Gretta was one of the most popular girls in school, and she was also a grade A bitch. Her green eyes sent glares akin to daggers, and her lipgloss covered lips provided insults that went too far. Including frequently calling Beverly a slut.

It wasn’t like Richie had a huge crush on her or anything. Their relationship was merely born from constantly being at the same parties, cross faded and wanting a quick hook up to distract themselves. Mike had commented that it was only a matter of time, except one became many more, despite the fact that Gretta only got with jocks.

Their arrangement caused Bev to freeze Richie out for two months last semester, breaking their four year streak for best couples costume at Betty Ripsom’s annual Halloween Party. Bev was more important to him by a long shot, but per usual, he kept fucking everything up.

Most of their ‘moments’ were shared in some stranger's bed, or dancing in a kitschy living room to pop music, sharing a blunt or swigs from a bottle of whiskey. None of it was on purpose, but rather a byproduct of being intoxicated and having a high sex drive.

In fact, they had only been on two actual dates when they were together. The first was at the drive-in a town over, the pair sat in Richie’s beat up station wagon, some shitty b-movie playing on the large projector. Gretta shared a pack of cigarettes with him, and it was probably the only kind thing she had ever done. Richie tried to make conversation, so that their relationship actually had some sort of substance other than weed and alcohol; but Gretta quickly shut him up, sticking her cherry coke flavored tongue down his throat.

He took her out to his favorite diner for their other date, figuring that they might have a chance to actually get to know one another without an acceptable place to make out. They sat on opposite sides of a booth outlooking Main street, an old-timey song playing on the jukebox.

This plan proved to be a grave mistake, because Richie finally understood why Bev often said, “Satan himself thinks Gretta Keene is too cruel.”

He repressed the memory, if he remembered it he’d get too pissed off. Instead, Richie thought of their break-up, how she had beat him to the punch.

He had been waiting at her locker, leaning against #405 and picking at his nails, humming a song by The Smiths under his breath. Gretta approached, clad in a pink mini-skirt and a tight crop top, smacking her half-priced bubblegum.

Richie cleared his throat, standing upright, ready to chew her the fuck out for being such a horrible person, “Gretta, let’s talk—“

“We’re through Tozier.”

“What the fuck?!” He had gaped at her, “No, I was going to breakup with you!”

Gretta shooed him away with her manicured hands, “Please, you’re a fucking nobody. Irrelevant. You should be glad we even fucked around this long.”

A small crowd had formed around the two, “You’re the one who kept coming back for more.”

“And you’re the one who actually thought this could be something. So cute. But I don’t date losers and I don’t date attention-whores like you.”

Like he said, grade A bitch.

“Jealous?” Mike snapped Richie from his thoughts.

His cheeks reddened, embarrassed that he was caught staring, “What? No. I pity the poor bastard that’s with her. Fucking breath smells like a fucking dog ate a pack of Winston’s. Straight up ass.”

Beverly chuckled, but her eyes held a little bit of resentment, “You used to smoke those Winston’s with her.”

“I thought we had an agreement that we would never speak of the Great Gretta Keene Mistake again?”

“Sure, but you’re the one watching her,” Mike pointed out, packing a new bowl, “Missing the one that got away?”

The other boy’s tone was joking but Richie sent him a glare, “She’s fucking irrelevant to me okay?”

They hummed in agreement, but he could see the slight doubt on their faces.

Richie ripped open his bag of chips and threw one in his mouth, “She thinks she’s such hot fucking shit, but she’s so replaceable.”

“Richie, it’s rude to speak with your mouth full,” Mike admonished his bad manners.

“That’s not what your ol’ pops said last night when I was suck-“

“Beep beep, Richie,” Mike warned.

Bev shook her head, “Really Rich? His grandpa?”

“When opportunity strikes,” he flashed a shit eating grin before taking another hit.

“Anyways, while I second the sentiment that Gretta isn’t all that, you haven’t exactly had a relationship since her,” Bev accused.

“Okay, what the fuck is this, ‘pick on Richie day’?” he said, readjusting his position, “Besides, I’ve been with plenty of other people.”

“Please, this isn’t middle school, and I’m still not buying the whole ‘my bedpost is covered in notches’ bit,” Bev inspected the joint between her fingers, now just a stub.

“Well, obviously it’s not. I’ve had sex in many different beds. Yours included,” Richie smirked.

“Beep beep. You know you aren’t allowed over after you almost burned down my aunt’s apartment.”

“The apartment was fine. Everyone knows if you put the temperature up super high food cooks faster. Those tater-tots would’ve been delicious. Bon-appetit,” Richie spoke in a poor french accent, and his eyes widened, “Bon-appetot. Bon-appetatertot.”

He fell into a fit of giggles and Mike chuckled across from him.

“You are a walking disaster Richie Tozier,” Bev said, though an amused smile sat on her lips.

“Richie’s poor life choices aside… One night stands and drunken make out sessions don’t count,” Mike returned to their previous topic, “I mean something sort of serious. Something you put effort into.”

“I don’t put effort into anything Michael dear,” Richie countered.

“Not true. You put effort into a lot of dumb shit,” Bev put out her joint, “Like when you tried to climb the water tower at 3 am naked. Or the time you tried to get the principal to grind with you at homecoming.”

“You can’t blame me for that. Mrs. Marton is a vixen. Can’t believe she resisted my charms.”

Mike laughed, shaking his head, “Point is, it kinda seems like you’re stuck in a rut.”

“I get plenty of action,” Richie boasted, taking a drag from his joint, “Plus, I could make any girl or guy in this piece of shit school fall in love with me.”

“That a bet?” Bev grinned mischievously.

“You know what, why the fuck not?” Richie shrugged. He was bored, and he wanted his friends off his fucking back, “Terms and conditions?”

“Mike and I get to choose the sorry fuck who you’ll be pursuing—“

“No, I don’t wanna be a part of this. Isn’t it kinda fucked up? Getting with someone for a bet? Why don’t you just try to date someone without an ulterior motive?” Mike suggested.

Richie rolled his eyes, adopting an Australian accent, “Now where’s the fun in that mate?”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You get till prom to sweep this person off their feet. A committed relationship, not just a hookup. If you win I’ll get you a shit ton of the finest weed the county can offer,” Bev continued, “If you lose—“

“No need to tell me, because I won’t fail,” Richie smirked, “I’m a total knockout.”

Bev’s face mirrored his own, “Fine, it’s your funeral.”

Both of them spit into their palms before shaking their hands, bonding the bet.

“C’mon, let’s go find them— you only have six weeks.”

The three of them packed up their shit, passing around the rest of Richie’s joint so it wouldn’t go to waste before they headed inside. Bev spritzed some perfume on them in an attempt to mask the smell of weed, making Richie smell fruity and floral. He popped a stick of spearmint gum in his mouth, deciding to save his sandwich for AP Calc next block.

It was a rare occurrence for them to roam the halls before the lunch bell rang, so a few of the students stared at them as they went on their search. Mike smiled at just about everyone they passed, a fucking angel per usual.

“What about him, he’s kinda cute,” Bev suggested, nodding her head to a blonde boy holding a skateboard.

Richie shook his head, “We made out at that beach bonfire over the summer. He almost vommed in my fucking mouth. The money maker! These beautiful lips are fuckin sacred— how could I smooch and tell amazing jokes if he fucked em up? These babies ooze charisma and sex appeal.”

“More like ooze bullshit,” Mike quipped.

“I think you’re just jealous that you won’t be the one I’m wooing Mike n Ike.”

Bev snorted, “I pity the poor fuck who you’ll be annoying till prom,” her eyes lit up, and she turned to Mike, “Hey, we might be able to enjoy some peace and quiet for a while!”

“The minute we became best friends with Richie I gave up all hope for tranquility.”

“Hey!” He protested, although Mike was right.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” the other boy finished sweetly.

Richie planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek, “Oh Mikey, you are the most wholesome-est boy I ever did meet,” he slipped into his southern belle persona, “What about you Bevvy darlin’, got any words to butter up my biscuit? To milk my udder?”

She rolled her eyes and continued walking ahead of them, turning into another hallway.

“Fine, I know you love me Marsh,” Richie used his long lanky legs to his advantage, catching up to stroll alongside her quickly, “What about Betty Ripsom?”

Bev scoffed, “Please, too easy.”

“What?! She’s like, a good ol’ Christian girl. I’m a deviant! My skype username used to be tozier666! Or wait, it was tozier42069… I can’t remember.”

“C’mon Richie, we all know she had a massive crush on you freshman year,” Bev replied.

Mike nodded in agreement, “You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Like most things,” Bev said, “Anyways, you’d just use that to your advantage. Although, I am liking the whole ‘polar opposite’ approach.”

Richie groaned, of course he had a hand in his own misfortune.

They continued to travel the halls, Beverly’s baby blue eyes scouring for a victim.

“You sure are digging your own grave today Rich,” Mike commented.

Richie nodded, “R.I.P. Richard Tozier. Big Mouth and even Bigger Wan—“

“Found ‘em,” Bev interrupted, a grin on her face.

She pointed down the hallway in front of them, where two boys conversated as everyone walked around them. The taller one had auburn hair, and was lanky like Richie, although the other boy seemed a little more muscular. The other looked like a fucking middle schooler, and Richie wasn’t sure how the little brat even got in there.

It took a minute, but Richie realized that he did actually recognize them. They didn’t interact much, not being in the same circles, but the two boys had been going to school with him since the days of recess. And they had been bullied since then too.  

So, correction, she pointed to where two of the biggest losers in school were talking about what was presumably some nerdy shit. Great.

“What, Big Bill?” Richie raised an eyebrow, “He’s not too bad. Ignore the stutter and the fact that he’s best friends with total dorks and you have a shy lil cutie. Nice handiwork Marsh.”

“You know, you’re a total dork and we’re still friends with you,” Mike quipped, his own way of chastising Richie.

Bev shook her head ‘no’, “Not Denbrough, the other one.”

Richie’s eyes settled on the smaller boy, and the realization that he was totally and utterly fucked set in.

Eddie Kaspbrak. The kid peaked at 5’6, and his lack of muscles along with the fact that he wore an honest to fucking god fanny pack didn’t help his 12 year old boy appearance. Of course, the fanny pack got worse— it was full of pills, eye drops, hand sanitizer, lotion, chapstick, and most importantly, his inhaler. Yes, Eddie was a fucking asthmatic hypochondriac and germaphobe, with an equally insane mother. Richie didn’t doubt that the asshole spent more time perusing WebMD than texting or checking social media.

He wore chunky turtlenecks in the winter, and in the hotter months, his tanned legs adorned tube socks and short-shorts (they were awful, although Richie had to admit they made his ass look great). His small hands gripped onto his stuffed backpack (kid already had a fanny pack full of shit, what else did he have to bring to school?). Eddie’s brown hair was always found in a overly gelled comb over, not a hair out of place. He reminded Richie of an off-brand Fred Savage with severe anxiety.

Mostly, Richie knew Eddie Kaspbrak would hate just about every little thing he did. There was no way they’d even be friends, let alone anything more.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me Bev.”

a/n: thanks for reading!!! richie and eddie will actually talk next chapter, don't worry. also for any concerned about the gretta/richie thing it's not Too Big of a Deal as it is in the movie, i just need it for some plot points (but overall richie is like 100% over gretta and it was just something stupid he did).

[mellicose]

That Woman Over There - Chapter 23

A You Me and Him Fix-it Fic

Rating: Teen, for some mature themes

Word count: 3832

Warnings: none

Summary: ~ Set after the birth of Monty, Olivia’s baby ~ A dear friend of Olivia comes to visit for a week, and she disturbs the fragile peace between her, Alex, and John.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 |

Alex slammed into the gallery, cursing. She forgot to bring a damn umbrella, of all things. She shook herself off and threw down her bag. Rainwater dripped off it, to the parquet floor. The place was eerily dark. She wondered whether it was on purpose. She sniffed at the air. It smelled a bit like John’s house.

Her chest burned. “Fuck,” she said out loud. She wondered whether he hated her, and whether she’d ever smell his house again. She looked around and noticed pieces of art in pools of light. She walked to the closest one.

A painting. Fleshtones. Abstract, but the image began to take form in her brain almost immediately. Bodies. There was something about the sumptuous curves of the negative spaces … but she felt like she was missing something. The paint had a matte quality, a texture that fascinated her.

“It looks like living, breathing flesh, no?”

“Goddamnit!” she said, jumping aside. A lithe man in a striped t-shirt and a pair of jeans stood behind her.

He stood beside her and smiled a cheshire cat grin that was oddly nostalgic. He hugged his slim arms.

“Flesh, no?” he repeated.

“Yes, but there’s something off. I can’t tell where one body ends and the other begins,” she said. Her heart was only slowing now. He drifted the scent of cedar to her. Cedar and … violet? Her eyes drifted to him again. He wore a neat goatee and mustache, and his eyes were the color of his hair - golden brown.

He nodded, and stretched. His shirt rode nearly to the bottom of his ribcage. His smooth belly flexed. His jeans rode low on his hips, and she saw so much happy trail it made her blush.

“You can look away at any time,” he said, giving her a half grin. She didn’t know she was staring. “Not that I mind. You’re cute.”

Her cheeks were hot. Whether it was embarrassment or something else, she didn’t care to figure out.

“You are Alex?” he said, turning to her.

“How’d they get the paint to look like that?” she said, looking back at the painting.

“I don’t know how she does it. That’s why it’s here,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “Yeah. I’m Alex.” She held out her hand. Again, he smiled as they shook hands.

“How professional,” he said. “You’ve got a firm handshake.”

She shrugged. “Want to see my work?”

“Of course. No more flirting. Straight to business.”

“I’m not flirting,” she said, walking to her bag and digging in it for her laptop. “I’m-” she stopped. She was going to say she was gay. But it wasn’t true. At least, not all the way true. But she could still say it. She gave him a sidelong glance. She decided against it.

“You’re what?” he said. “Taken? If so, I’m sorry.”

She frowned. “No. Not taken.” She coughed.

He nodded. “Come, let’s go upstairs. There’s more light in my flat.” He walked to the far corner. He opened a door to an elevator.

“It’s one of those fancy personal ones,” she said as she entered behind him.

“Yeah. I don’t want a nosy visitor finding their way to my personal space,” he said. He punched in a code. It moved up smoothly. She caught another whiff of cedar.

“Again, you’re sniffing,” he said, smiling.

“Oh. Yeah. You smell a lot like a friend of mine,” she said, smiling bashfully.

“You close?” he said, opening the door. Beyond, was open space with islands of tasteful furniture.

“He’s my best mate,” she said. She hoped it was still true.

“He has good taste, then.”

“It’s not a perfume. It’s, uh, he works with wood, so the smell sticks to him.”

“Carpenter?” he said as he guided her to what looked like an office.

“Artist,” she said confidently. “He makes beautiful things. Precious things. You know, keepsakes.”

“Ouiai,” Alphonse said, and offered her a seat in front of his computer.

“The screen big enough for ye?” she said, and chuckled. It was at least 45 inches.

“I use this to view art,” he said.

“Sure, mate. Art.” she said, and handed him her USB with a sardonic grin she couldn’t wipe off.

His lips trembled with mirth. “You’re not terribly formal, are you?” he said.

“Should I be? This isn’t like, a proper interview, is it?” she said, and slung a leg over the arm of the office chair. “This chair’s rad, by the way. It’s ergonomic, right?”

“Maybe not how you’re using it,” he said. The screen came on and she lost her balance and fell back.

“Holy fuck! I can see colors I didn’t even know existed,” she said, crawling back up to the desk and standing up. “Sorry about the language.”

“Speak however you like. This isn’t the Vatican,” he said.

She looked over his shoulder.”There’s the folder with my work.”

She swore when he clicked on the first photo. “That’s bloody gorgeous,” she said. “Okay, you’re absolutely right. This screen is a requirement. All I’ve got is my mam’s grotty little 200 quid laptop. I can see every single brush stroke with this thing.” She leaned forward. “It’s brilliant.”

“Now you see the method to my madness,” he said.

“Yah, I do. It’s definitely not just for porn,” she said. She nodded.

He burst out laughing. “You have absolutely no filter, do you?” he said.

“Why? Should I? I have a feeling the posh art buyers might cringe at me, eh?” she said.

“Maybe you’re not the affected art school type, but it honestly doesn’t matter. Most of them don’t even know what they’re looking at anyway. They just buy to say they did. It’s very rare to find collectors with an actual eye for talent. That’s where I come in.”

“You’re an art dealer,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “You make the good shit available to ‘em.”

“Exactly,” he said. 

“You scare your fancy customers down there?”

“You were in my space,” he said.

“You could’ve made noise walking up, like normal people.”

He crossed his legs, and she noticed that he was barefoot. “Again, my space.”

She smiled. “Sorry. But I almost wee’d myself.” She squirmed.

“You need the loo?” he said.

“I think so,” she said. He pointed to a frosted glass cube in a corner of the apartment. She sighed. “Seriously?”

He winked. He watched her walk away. She was a bit rough around the edges, but her honesty was refreshing. Perhaps he had been around posh art students for too long. Even her shape was more inviting – curvy in places where so many others had on-trend angles.

“This is ridiculous,” she yelled as she closed the glass door behind her. “There’s no privacy whatsoever.”

“I live alone,” he said. He felt strange yelling in his own apartment.

“And when you have … guests?” she said.

“I don’t really hold parties in this space – any guests here are usually beyond that kind of embarrassment.”

“Oh. Yeah,” she said, and flushed. She looked around. There was a large shower in front of her, also glass. It was fancy in a way that made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t imagine washing her body in a place like that. And it was a place, not just a shower. The chrome fixtures gleamed, and the bottles on the shelf were not in English. She wondered whether they smelled like wood. She washed her hands, saw no towel, and dried them on her shorts. She felt weird letting the water dry on the sink. It would get spots.

“Hey, do you wipe down the sink?” she said as she walked back up.

“Shhhhhhh,” he said. He leaned forward, looking intently at one of her blue period pieces. At least, that’s what she called it. It was not naturalistic, but also not as abstract as some of the pieces she saw downstairs. “Viens-ici,” he said, and beckoned to her. “Tell me about this.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s the last piece I painted before I stopped for a while. I just sort of … sat in front of a canvas and let the brush do the talking.”

“Yes, it speaks volumes,” he said. He hugged himself again. “What’s most striking is that although the composition hints at desolation, you did not use the stereotypical washed out palette. It’s searingly bright.”

“I couldn’t stand using muted colors.” She echoed his action, hugging herself. “She deserves better than shades of gray.” She shivered.

“She?” he said.

“Jo,” she said softly.

“An ex?” he said.

“My daughter, who died last year right before being born.”

He gasped.”Ah, petite. J'en suis désolé,” he said. He patted her hand, and for some reason, she burst into tears again. He stood and hugged her. She wrapped her arms around his narrow frame and wept into his chest.

“I’m a mess. I’ve had the worst day ever. I think I just lost everything.”

“How do you mean?” he said.

It surprised her that he even cared. She didn’t know where to start. He was a stranger, so lying wasn’t worth the effort.

“My fiancee just broke up with me. She was right to do it. And I just fucked up my relationship with my best mate. At least, if he’s got any sense.”

“Eh,” he said. He didn’t expect the full truth. She was extraordinary.

“When you say “just”, do you mean in the last month or something?” he said. He rubbed her back. Her hair smelled like cigarette smoke and satsuma.

“I mean, today. Earlier.”

He pulled her away to look at her. “Putain. And you’re here?”

“I’ve got nothing left … what’s your name again?” She wiped her face with her arm.

“Alphonse. You can call me Alfie if you like.”

“Alfie. Sounds posh,” she said. “You don’t like Alphonse?”

“I’m named after my dad. He’s as asshole,” he said.

“‘Least you know ‘im,” she said, and sniffed.” I’ll call you Alfie, then. Don’t wanna be bringing back any bad memories. I don’t usually get like this.” She finished wiping her eyes, but her lips still quivered.

“You want a beer?” he said.

“God yes,” she said. He ran to the kitchen space and opened a giant fridge built into a brick wall “Jesus, man, got enough space in there?” she said. There was actual food in it. Like John, he liked to cook.

“You peckish? I’ve got some leftover cold sesame noodles,” he said, putting two bottles of beer on the counter. She shrugged, but approached the counter, curious. He pulled out a plastic tub and opened it.

“It’s not takeaway,” she said. The noodles were glossy with oil, and dotted with toasted sesame seed and green onion. “Smells amazing.”

“I made them for dinner. As ever, I made too much. I suppose some habits die hard,” he said, and handed her a fork.

“Cooking a lot?” she said around a mouthful of noodles.

“Adjusting to cooking for one again,” he said, and sat on a stool opposite her. “Tell me more about that piece. I noticed that it’s unfinished. Or am I wrong?”

She took a sip of her beer. “That’s perceptive,” she said. “This is delicious, by the way. Better than from a restaurant.”

“Merci,” he said. “I have a mild obsession with asian cuisine.”

“Was your ex girlfriend from there?” she said, taking another generous mouthful.

“Perceptive,” he said. She winked. “No, she isn’t. She’s Portuguese. But she’s a chef who specializes in pan-asian cuisine. She got me hooked.”

“She’s a chef? If I dated a chef I’d gain two stone in a year,” she said. “I’d wear it as a point of pride.”

He laughed. “I wish, but I can’t. Genetics won’t really let me gain much of anything. Some might consider it a blessing. I guess it is.” He shrugged.

“Uhuh,” she said. “I was like that until I hit 25. After that, things started happening in this area,” she said, gesturing to her middle.

“I’m quite a few years over that, and nothing’s happened yet,” he said.

“How old are you?”

“39,” he said.

“Really? You look amazin’, bruv,” she said. She blushed at the ease with which she gave him the compliment, but she didn’t regret it. He beamed.

“I avoid sunlight whenever possible,” he said.

“Okay, Nosferatu,” she said. She looked at the sweating bottle of beer in front of her. She liked him. He seemed like a good bloke, and he hadn’t acted funny when she burst into tears. She didn’t know what she expected when she came, but definitely not him. She looked at him. His eyes were gold, with flecks of green near the iris. It was one of her favorite color combinations.

“You’re staring again,” he said. She was so zoned in she didn’t see his smile.

“Your eyes. The green is nice,” she said, then stuffed her hands in her pockets.

“Thanks. My maman has Persian blood. I get my eyes from her,” he said. “And in more ways than one. She’s the artist. My father thinks art is a hobby.”

She snorted. “My mam’s the same. She thinks I should go to school to become a nurse’s assistant. But I can’t stand the sight of blood. I’m working on being a teacher, maybe.”

“Maybe?” he said, opening another beer for her. She took it gratefully.

“Liv, my fi-my ex-fiancee, suggested it. She had a baby too, Monty. He’s the sweetest little guy you’ll ever meet. He’s gonna be one year old in a month and a half.” She took a deep swig of beer. Her eyes started to swim again. He walked beside her.

“He’s going to be one. And you said you lost Jo last year…” he said.

“It’s a hella long story, mate,” she said. “And you’re a stranger.”

“I’ve got an empty dance card and a case of beer,” he said, walking to a nearby sofa. “Let’s get acquainted.”

She stared out one of his large windows. The night was setting in, and it was pouring rain.

“I think we should wrap up the art stuff. It’s pissing outside and I’ve got to take a train back to Bristol...” her voice failed. She didn’t know where she was gonna go once she got there. She would have to speak to Olivia, then her mam. She dreaded the latter far more than the former.

“I can give you a ride to the station, if you like,” he said.

“Ah,” she said. “You that bored that you wanna listen to my long list of fuck ups?” she said. She sat on the other side of the sofa. She wished she could kick off her boots.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said.

“You just wait till I get into it, boyo,” she said.

“So that means you’ll stay for a bit,” he said. “I will open my ears and refrain from any possible censure until you’re done.”

“Century what?” she said, making a face.

“Censure. It means a strong or vehement expression of disapproval.”

“Huh. Whatever.” She looked down at her lap. She looked so lost. It made him want to stroke her rain-frizzy blond hair. She broke up with her fiancee just today, yet here she was, braving wind and rain to show him her worth. It was beyond his capacity to understand. He had not gotten out of bed for three weeks after Lorena left him, and it had been over two months until he was able to face the world. It was still difficult to adjust. She had been his life for six years.

“Where are you?” he said.

“I couldn’t finish it,” she said, tracing the shapes printed on her tights. She took a deep breath. He waited patiently. “At the time. It was, like…”

He moved a little closer, but made sure to give her plenty of space.

“It was like admitting she was finished. That her story was over,” she said. “I couldn’t bear it.” She hiccuped, but kept her composure. “I don’t even know why that’s in there. It’s a mess.”

“You keep saying that,” he said.

“Because it’s true. My life’s a mess. My work. My brain. They’re all one great big horrible mess.”

“You also said it’s unfinished,” he said softly.

“The painting? Yeah.”

“You don’t get me,” he said. He used his hands to speak, and it was beautiful to see. “I mean, it’s unfinished. Your life. Your brain. You. You’re young, no?”

“Old enough to know better about things, though,” she said, crossing her arms.

“You haven’t told me your unforgivable trespasses, but obviously not,” he said.

Her mouth dropped open.

He smiled. “I know you can’t see it from the inside looking out, but I have faith in you. You’ll right the wrongs of which you speak.”

“You don’t know me, bruv,” she said, taking a sip of beer. “I’m, like, the queen of fuckups.”

“That’s why it’s faith. If 2.2 billion Christians can believe in an invisible God, I can believe you’re not an incorrigible fuck up.”

She scratched her head. This bloke was something else. She rolled her eyes and gave him a half-grin.

“Alright. But you haven’t heard what I did yet,” she said.

“Will it explain the mystery of you and your ex being with child at the same time at some point? I am very rudely curious about that. Did you do it on purpose?”

“No,” she said loudly. “I didn’t.”

“Okay,” he said, and stretched his legs out. “We’re getting to the meat of the story.”

“I’ll bore you with my stupidity, but what does this have to do with my art?”

“We’ll figure it out along the way,” he said. “Talk to me.”

“Whatever. So my girlfriend got pregnant without telling me. I was really angry, and I got blind drunk and got off with our next door neighbor, John…”

“Wait. You’re gay?” he said.

She bit her lip. This was the first time she was going to say it out loud to someone she didn’t really know. But considering the stuff she was sharing, it couldn’t be that bad.

“I’m bi. I go both ways,” she said. She paused, as if waiting for peals of thunder and lightning, but the rain continued, silent and dark. “I didn’t know it at the time. But that comes later.”

“I see,” he said. “Take your time. I’m here all night.”

“Yeah. So, all it took was one night, and I was well preggers.”

“By the neighbor? Fuck,” he said. “And he was okay with it?”

“John? We became best mates during the pregnancy. He was in love with me or whatever, but we dealt with it. Now he’s in love with Connie.”

“What?” he said up. “So your ex girlfriend got pregnant without telling you. Then, you got off with your neighbor John, got pregnant after one night, and you’re still living by each other?”

“Yep,” she said.

“And now Encarnacion is with John, the father of Jo, and in love? Wasn’t she with Ella?

“Her and Ella went kaput last year. Big drama – at least, the bits I heard. Super messy.”

“I believe you now,” he said, eyes wide. He had to call Encarnacion. Her and Ella had once felt as immutable as a mountain. But Vesuvius most probably felt the same to the Pompeiians. “You remained friends?”

“Of course. Even after Jo. Like I said, he’s my absolute best mate. Or, possibly, was.”

“If you could endure that triangle, what happened to break it?”

She looked out the window again. She wondered what he was doing. Connie, most probably. He deserved happiness. She couldn’t get the indignant look on his face when she confessed. She never wanted to see that look on his face again.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oui.”

“What?” she said, snapping out of her train of thought.

“You developed feelings for him. That’s why you broke up with your fiancee.”

She kicked off her books and started pacing the open space in front of the window.

“I’ll have you know she broke up with me,” she said. “He’s the father of my girl,” she said. “Jo was ours.”

“You said he was in love with you. What happened to change that?”

She snorted. “I’m a fool. A damn fool.” His brows rose. “He moved on. I suppose to keep his sanity, but he did. Fully.”

“With Encarnacion,” he said.

“Who is Olivia’s best friend,” she said.

He brightened up. “How is Olivia? She was a hell of a drinking buddy, back in the day.”

“Drinking buddy, huh? Of course,” she said, but she didn’t ask. It was just another story Liv hadn’t bother to tell her. “She’s fine, I hope.”

“You’ve given me only the blurb, but it already sounds like a hell of a story,” he said.

She sat on the windowsill, which was lined with silk pillows. “I think I’ll need something stronger than lager to really get into it,” she said. She held out the half-empty beer bottle.

“I’ve got vodka in a freezer,” he said, taking it.

“That’s good. Pour a drop of juice in. I’m still nursing a hangover.”

“As one does,” he said with a smile, and handed her a glass. He sat against the wall, at her feet. “So, start at the beginning.”

“At the actual beginning, or when everything got fucked?”

“At the very beginning,” he said, nursing his beer. He was a believer that you could tell a lot by a person by the kind of conversation they had. There are people who could talk your ear off for hours, but in the end, you didn’t know them any better. And there were people like Alex – open to a beautiful fault. He already knew he would be crazy about her. Whether it was romantically or not, he couldn’t ascertain now. But he’d know soon enough.

“I met Olivia online, on a dating site. I’d joined as a gag, but in less that 24 hours, I had over 30 messages…”

They talked until dawn, and in the interim, he figured it out.

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