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amjustagirl · 3 years

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Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 3k

Summary:

Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dreams. He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears the echo of birdsong in her laughter, her song to the gods in the wind.

(Loosely inspired by Kimi No Nawa)

Masterlist link here

AO3 link here

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

The first time it happens, Akaashi is in his third year of university.

The upside of staying in Tokyo for university (his mother cried when he got into Waseda, her alma mater) is that he sees his family almost every weekend for cosy family dinners. The downside of staying in Tokyo for university is that he really has no excuse when his parents insist on carrying on Hatsumode, the first prayer of the new year, at the crack of dawn at the shrine close to their home. It’s not that he minds the tradition per se, but he did just spend all night rushing his projects just so he could adhere to the unspoken rule that no work should be done during the New Year holidays and spend some time flying kites with his little cousins.

Still, there is something magical about starting the New Year watching dawn break and the world awaken from its slumber just as he reaches the summit of all twenty six steps to the top of the shrine, shrouded in the bare branches of the wisteria trees. He tosses coins into the box, drops into a deep bow twice, chin at waist level, clapping twice before bowing a final time. His mother buys far too many omamori, presses at least half of them into his unwilling hands when the omikuji he draws has a great curse scribbled on it. He’s not superstitious, so it doesn’t bother him, but he knows his mother is, so he does accept the omamori with some grace, though he draws the line at the love charm she tries to sneak into the pile.

‘Mum, I’m too busy at school for a partner’, he tells her firmly. ‘Why don’t you pass it to Yuji-kun, he’s already started work, but hasn’t found a girlfriend from what Oba-chan tells me’. His elder cousin shoots him a particularly malevolent glare that he meets with a placid smile as his mother diverts her attention to him instead.

The faintest shiver runs up his fingers when he deposits the old charm he found in the corner of his closet, grey and faded with time, in the koshinsatsu osamedokoro, the omamori drop off open only during the first day of the New Year. The shiver turns into a ripple of cool water racing up his wrists and roars into an tsunami of dread when the attendant tells him all deposited charms will be burnt in the ritual fire in a fortnight’s time, but he writes it off as a symptom of his lack of sleep and starts to turn away.

There’s a sudden echo of a nightmare of raging flames that prompts him to swivel around to snatch the omamori and stuff it back in his pocket, muttering apologies to the shocked attendant. Later, when he has time to process his impulse, he’d find it strange. In the meantime however, the festivities wait for no one, so he distracts himself by eating far too much dango and mochi in between rounds of tossing kites up to catch the wind. His uncles slip him full cups of sake and sweetened rice wine to his mother’s disapproval, which in hindsight he should have heeded, as he stumbles to bed that night, head heavy with alcohol.

That night he dreams of a girl with curly hair, lying in a field of endless gold - daffodils to mark the dawn of spring.

‘Also known as narcissus’, he hears himself say, hears himself narrate the myth of a man so entranced by his own reflection in the water that he lost his will when he realizes he cannot have his object of desire. A girlish voice lilts teasingly – ‘the flowers are too pretty to be ruined by your obsession of stories written by grumpy old men’. He wakes up with the ghost of laughter on his lips, but there’s a lingering sense of loss budding in barren soil of his heart.

It does prompt him to pop by the florist near his parents’ house to order a bouquet of daffodils for his mom to be delivered on the first day of spring. He’s accustomed to the old couple running the shop, so he pauses just for a second when he walks into the store to find a new girl at the counter. She must not be used to customers yet, dropping the bouquet she’s working on when she notices him.

‘Hi’, she stammers, cheeks pink. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to make an advance order for daffodils please.’

‘For spring?’ she asks, and he nods, writing down his parents’ address when prompted. ‘That’s a good choice!’

She waves him off with a cheerful – ‘please come back again’, and he does not notice that there are stars in her eyes.

His mother drags him back to the shrine on the third day of the holidays, and he obliges her, ever the dutiful only son, even though the frigid temperature makes his breath puff up into clouds and the tip of his nose turns numb. The old omamori is still snug in his jacket pocket, and as his fingers brush against it, he can feel the threads of the charm unravelling, the fabric almost fragile in its worn, threadbare state but he does not attempt to dispose of it again.

‘What are you going to do once you’re done with your degree, Keiji?’ His mother asks, when they stop by an old teahouse for a cup of steaming genmaicha, the aroma of roasted rice tea warm against his cold nose.

‘I intend to apply for a job at a publishing company after I graduate’, he tells her seriously, and she nods, encouraging him to continue. ‘I’m hoping it’s something to do with my major, preferably Japanese literature, better yet if it's poetry, but in this market, I’ll take what I can get’.

His mother nods, smiling at him fondly. ‘I remember you used to be obsessed with Shakespeare and Greek myths when you were younger, all the way through high school, and your father and I thought that you’d end up majoring in that in university. You really surprised us when you chose to major in Japanese literature instead.’

‘I don’t know why, to be honest. Maybe I had a good Japanese literature tutor?’ He laughs, fiddling with his teacup.

‘Mm I don’t think so though. I remember you complaining that Raku-sensei was so dull he caused everyone to fall asleep.’ He shrugs, and though she stares at him curiously, she does not pursue the line of conversation any further.

That night he dreams of waking up in an old wooden house, shivering in a thick futon, the smoldering embers from the irori, mere inches from his face. It’s so very different from his childhood bedroom filled with modern appliances and walls of books neatly shelved in alphabetical order, but he doesn’t notice that in the dark. Instead, he reaches for his phone to check the time, bolting awake because that can’t be, he never misses his alarm, mentally calculating that he must leave the house in exactly fifteen minutes to make it in time for practice when a little boy bursts through the door.

‘Nee-chan’, the little boy whines. ‘I’m hungry. Time for breakfast’.

Did he just say Nee-chan? Scratch that - since when did he have a little brother?

He scrambles out of bed, groping his way in the dark to the washroom. The cold water should wake him up, but when he looks up at the mirror above the sink, the face he’s staring at does not belong to him. No - it belongs to a dark eyed girl with curly hair - but it doesn’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense, because when he reaches a trembling finger to poke at the mirror, he is she or she is him -

The ensuing panic and confusion makes him jerk out of his dream, but when he rushes to the washroom to check that he’s still himself, he is relieved to see that it’s still him - Akaashi Keiji, with dark circles around his eyes, staring back in disbelief.

He chalks his strange dream up to the stress he carries around from trying to clear all his course work so he can audit additional classes over the next term.

Except the dreams don’t stop, not even when he moves back to the university dorms. He keeps waking up drenched in cold sweat, clutching at his arms even though they’re clear of the scratches he sees in his dreams, red and raw and stretching all the way up his elbows.

‘Be kinder to Hana-chan, Keiji-kun’, he hears the call of the same girl in his mind and he shudders, unsure whether the disembodied voice floating through his mind is a memory from his dream. ‘She’s going through an awfully tough time’.

‘It doesn’t give her the right to hurt you like that’, he can hear his faint disapproval.

‘Never mind that, it’s not a big deal. What are we reading today – don’t tell me it’s anything like Hamlet. That was horrendously depressing.’

‘Midsummer’s Night Dream? It’s a romantic comedy at least.’

‘Only a nerd like you would read Shakespeare in high school – and it’s not even in Japanese!’

‘Hush – you don’t get to complain when I’m reading it out to you.’

‘What on earth is going on’, he mutters to himself. The copious amounts of frigid water he splashes onto his face is no antidote to this madness.

‘Sato-san, are you feeling alright?’ he asks his grimacing classmate in concern, lines of pain etched onto her face.

‘I’m fine, Akaashi-kun’, she manages to spit out, clutching her stomach with white-knuckled hands. ‘It’ll pass in a bit, I hope’.

‘Are you sure you’re fine? I could help you to the nurse’s office if that helps’.

His classmate shakes her head, a blush staining her cheeks. ‘It’s just that time of the month. I apologise if that’s too much information to be polite’.

Ah. But somehow even though he has no sisters, and his female classmates in high school were oddly reticent about their periods (strange, considering it is part and parcel of being a mammal for far more than a millenium) the steps to deal with this particular conundrum come to him so naturally it’s almost as if the answers were presented to him previously in a dream.

‘Here’, he passes Sato-san painkillers, chocolate and a hot water bottle he’d managed to talk the university nurse into loaning him, and Sato practically whimpers in gratitude.

‘You’re a lifesaver, Akaashi-kun’, she tells him and he nods, content that he’s solved the problem so efficiently.

That night he wakes up in her body again. The room is dark, save for the sliver of white light between the blinds that allows him to discern the growing crimson stain between her legs.

‘Don’t you know all women have to deal with this nonsense every month? But I’ll tell you a trick - painkillers, chocolate and a hot water bottle will make you feel as right as rain’, he hears her voice declare in his mind, and he startles awake to find himself back in his own bed, blessedly clear of any bloodstains.

It must be a dream borne out of what happened today, he tells himself firmly and shrugs it off. The rest of his slumber is thankfully shorn of dreams.

But then these dreams start to crash into his sleep like a series of never ending waves, and he’s a short hop, skip, jump away from falling off the cliff into a distracted madness, the rate his sleep keeps getting disrupted. He keeps waking up in her body, it makes him feel like a creep, wearing her skin like an ill-fitting glove, and he decided does not think about how strange it feels to have twin lumps of flesh in front of his chest (his mother raised him to be a gentleman, after all).

The contents of these dreams are relatively cyclical. He wakes up at dawn, puts on her school uniform, makes breakfast for the little boy - Toya-chan over the primitive hearth before rushing to school through dirt paths lined with trees. His - or rather her classmates stare at her with a mix of condescension and apathy, and her hours in school are spent in a lonely silence, save when Hana-chan gets up in her face and screams absolute nonsense about staying the fuck away from her, which seems a little dramatic considering she’s the one doing the confronting, but it’s just a dream, so he keeps telling himself. It’s not like he can change anything about it.

‘Does it bother you? That you’re alone?’ he asks her one day.

‘Not really. I have you and Toya-chan, don’t I?’ she responds.

‘I suppose’, he says, voice trailing off.

He catches glimpses of sun drenched afternoons spent in fields of flowers, glances of dusky evenings spent in the forest basking in the light of the setting sun. He agonizes over stacks of homework, digs for mushrooms in the damp earth, climbs through wire fences to scavenge for eggs in neighbouring farms.

‘Aren’t your parents worried about you and Toya-chan?’ he can hear himself question her one night.

‘My mom is dead and my dad can’t be home often, he works on construction projects around Sapporo. He sends cash to me and Toya-chan, and it isn’t always enough, but he tries his best ’, she answers, her voice feather light.

‘I’m sorry’, he tells her a little awkwardly, thinking about his happy family and wondering how it’d feel like to have them torn away from him so early on in life.

‘Don’t be’, she replies, ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to have good parents who’re dead or absent rather than horrible parents who’re still alive’.

He jolts awake again, relieved to find himself back in his bed. It’s barely four in the morning, but he’s not going to be able to sleep after that, so he resigns himself to using the time to get cracking on his college assignments anyway. But he makes sure to call his mother once day breaks and he’s sure she’s returned from the market with groceries in tow, telling her awkwardly that he’s just calling to catch up and hopes she’s been well and ok bye mum I love you very much, heart pounding when he hangs up abruptly.

He has a standing appointment on the first Thursday every month to meet Kenma for coffee at a café a stone’s throw away from Waseda. They both order black coffee, which is strange for Kenma considering his legendary sweet tooth, but he knows Kenma too well to know that the ridiculously successful game streamer is only drinking coffee to stay awake, the shadows under his eyes deeper and darker than those under Akaashi’s own eyes.

‘Doesn’t Kuroo-san nag you go to bed at a decent time?’

Kenma doesn’t even bother to flick his eyes up, busy gulping mouthfuls of the bitter liquid. ‘Speak for yourself. Not sleeping well either?’

Akaashi shrugs his shoulders helplessly, stirring his coffee. ‘Mm. ‘I’ve been having strange recurring dreams and it’s been affecting my sleep’.

Kenma merely hums in reply, and Akaashi finds himself spilling out the entire weird series of events – though to be absolutely accurate, his dreams aren’t real so they can’t be termed as events, but they’ve been haunting him for the past month so they might as well be at this rate. He explains about finding himself in the body of a high school girl with curly hair and a dimple on one cheek, how he’s lived her life enough in the past month that he can map out her days with startling certainty, how he knows it’s not real – it can’t be real, but his dreams glimmer with such vibrancy that they feel real.

‘Am I going crazy?’ he asks.

‘I highly doubt it’, Kenma says, tapping his chin in thought. ‘Maybe it’s like one of those exploration video games where you have to take your time to discover its world to figure out the narrative the game is feeding you.’

Trust Kenma to relate everything to video games.

‘That was singularly unhelpful’, Akaashi says dryly as Kenma chuckles quietly in response.

He is almost afraid to fall asleep again but his eyelids are weighed down by weeks’ worth of sleep deprivation and soon he finds himself again in her body.

It’s a clear winter’s night. He’s huddled under a thick blanket to shield himself from the bitter cold, watching the embers in the hearth glow yellow and gold.

‘It’s late. Can’t sleep?’

‘Mm’ he replies. ‘Wondering what tomorrow will bring.’

‘You’re overthinking again, Keiji’, she chuckles. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be just another day. You’ll wake up back in your warm bed at the crack of dawn for volleyball practice, attend classes in your fancy private school, and play even more volleyball with your beloved Bokuto-san’.

He rolls his eyes heavenwards at her words and her laugh this time is loud, bright.

‘You know I only speak the truth. Now, since you need to wake up ridiculously early tomorrow, why don’t I tell you a bedtime story so you can fall asleep.’

‘I’m not a child’, he replies dryly, but does not object when she starts to narrate the tale of a princess exiled from the moon, who is raised by a humble woodcutter and his wife to become a renowned beauty, with five suitors seeking her hand. ‘That’s mean of her’, he mumbles as she describes how the princess rebuffs her suitors by setting them impossible tasks, drifts to sleep as her voice softens as she describes how the princess falls in love with the Emperor, but breaks both their hearts because she knows she must return to the moon someday. He’s fast asleep when she reaches the ending where the princess leaves all her memories on earth with tears in her eyes, gifting the emperor with an elixir of immortality which he burns, because he declares life isn’t worth living without her.

‘Goodnight Keiji’, she says, her voice shimmering in the still night air.

For the first time in a long while, Akaashi wakes up at peace.

Taglist:

@1tooru @animeflower26 @kageyamakock

#hq #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #hq imagines #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu writing #hq writing #haikyuu angst #haikyuu romance #akaashi keiji #akaashi keji x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x y/n #haikyuucreations #akaashi headcanons #akaashi angst #haikyuu fic rec #haikyuu scenarios

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cyberp-ssy2077 · 3 years

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Cyberparents 2077: A Day in the Life // Part Two: Afternoon (Johnny Silverhand x Female!V)

Part One

Link to AO3!

A/N: Part two is finally here! Google "shopping cart with car" to see tyhe kind of shopping cart V is using. It's a liiiiittle angsty, so I hope I did okay!

“We should have tacos,” Sam opined with great seriousness from her seat in the plastic car that took up the front of the shopping cart.

“Sure, but what kind though? Beef, fish…?” V ventured, scanning the aisles. She was just there to pick up a couple essentials, but her daughter made an extremely compelling suggestion.

“Bleh, no fish!” Sam giggled, tugging on her little steering wheel. “Can we have chicken?”

“Now, that’s an idea,” V smiled, turning the cart towards the back of the store.

As they made their way, collecting items on their list, they inevitably drew attention. To be fair, V was eye-catching enough on her own; with her edgy haircut, riotous hair color, dark lipstick, extensive tattoos, and alluring figure, she was unapologetically alternative and rocking it. When you pair that aesthetic with a child of all things, it’s so seemingly incongruous that it seems nigh-on unnatural, to some.

Of course, when you add Johnny to the mix and all three went out together, it didn’t get any better. Sure, they got fewer comments (likely because Johnny looked like he was ready to cut a bitch at any moment), but the looks they got were still penetrating in their intensity.

V didn’t mind terribly what other people thought, especially the closed-minded people who took issue with how she presented herself. It was beneath her attention. She knew that Johnny definitely didn’t give two shits. What she struggled with, though, was the agony of Sam having to learn how to rise above others’ narrow views and how to react to them. V cast her memory back as they walked through the store, and remembered the first day that there was a real tipping point in Sam’s understanding of the situations they ended up in when they were out as a family.

V and Johnny had been waiting outside Sam’s school, waiting for the bell to ring and for their little girl to run out to them, excited and beaming, as she did every day. They were chatting and joking amongst themselves, Johnny having tucked V into his side with an arm around her waist. As time crept by, it became apparent that the school security guard was shuffling closer in their direction as he stood idly by the school gate that separated the classrooms from the parking lot.

Anyone who knew them knew that V and Johnny were not the type to be intimidated. So, they kept to themselves and ignored the encroaching party, until he was mere feet from them and began clearing his throat noisily. Johnny, in true take-no-shit fashion, raised his chin and looked the man directly in the eye.

“There a problem?”

“I could ask you folks the same thing,” the security guard replied. “There are kids getting out of school soon, so I need you to stop loitering so that parents can pick up their kids.”

Johnny pulled down his aviators and fixed the security guard with a piercing look. “Yeah, and one of those kids is my kid. Once she gets out, we’ll go.”

The guard looked taken aback at this, mentally weighing his options, and he slumped back over to the gate and pulled out his walkie-talkie, glowering at them as he brought the walkie up to his mouth.

“If he causes a fuckin’ scene…” Johnny trailed off. The sharp trilling of the bell rang out not a moment later, and soon enough kids of all ages began pouring out of the gates. V and Johnny scanned the pre-school area, and after a few moments Sam walked out.

The scene played out in slow motion; Sam’s class was led out by her teacher, and the little girl began making her way over to her parents. V glanced back at the security guard. He was no longer sulking at his post, rather walking towards Sam and calling her over once it became apparent where she was headed.

“Are you kidding me?” V asked angrily, pulling away from Johnny and marching over to where her daughter stood with the security guard. As she got closer, she started to hear what he was saying.

“...wait with me until your parents show up, okay? Just want to make sure you’re safe and nothing bad happens to you.”

Johnny had followed her as soon as he connected the dots himself, and he was fuming. “If you don’t get away from my daughter, something bad’s gonna happen to you, pal.”

Hearing her dad’s voice, Sam turned to face him and smiled. She ran over to cling against his leg and he picked her up and held her on his hip; instinctually, he wanted to be closer to her and he knew that if he had her in his hands, there was less chance that this tool would end up with a mouthful of Johnny’s chrome prosthetic in his mouth. For her part, once Sam had digested the expression on Johnny’s face and the tone of his voice, she appeared to be very confused.

Before anything serious happened, Sam’s teacher stepped in and apologized profusely to V and Johnny for the security guard’s over-zealousness. On the way home, Johnny and V had to explain to Sam why someone might assume that she doesn’t belong with them, and it broke V’s heart to see Sam’s eyes so sad. Later that night, Johnny and V sat together, both emotionally drained and contemplative over the events of the day… That wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time that Sam had noticed and asked about it. They were in for a long road ahead of them.

Today in the grocery store, everything seemed to be going well enough until it was time to check out. As V and Sam went through the line, Sam decided to bring up one of her favorite topics of conversation: dyeing her hair. She wanted badly to have “pretty hair” like her mom, but so far Johnny and V had held off on doing that for her due to the dark color of her locks; in order to achieve any notable change, her raven-black hair would have to be bleached. Despite their own views on self-expression and rebellion, both Johnny and V were holding off a bit when it comes to going that far with their child. In the meantime, they had the secret agreement that they would get her some hair chalk for her next birthday so that she could still join in the fun.

“I wish my hair had pretty colors,” Sam sulked, looking up at her mom with big eyes. “Me and Estrella both want pretty colors.”

Estrella was Jackie and Misty’s little girl, and Sam’s partner in crime. The two of them were thick as thieves and twice as mischievous, and of course they were universally adored by their parents and their parents’ friends. They went to the same school, despite being separated into different classes, and they both took martial arts classes together.

“What are you talking about? Your hair is a pretty color,” V said, tickling Sam’s sides as she climbed out of the cart. She noticed that the woman behind them in line was giving them a curious look, but it wasn’t outright hostile yet so V put it out of her mind. She began checking out, going through the motions of swiping her card and loading bags back into the cart.

“I want my hair to be purple!” Sam declared, smiling big. “I want it to be purple all over, like in my room!” Purple was Sam’s current color obsession, so it was not news to V that it was also the choice for her future hair color.

“That sounds pretty cool, I bet you’ll look awesome,” V replied, brimming with affection.

An intrusive voice piped up from behind them.

“You look rather young, so I’ll give you this advice: parents shouldn’t encourage such things. You never know what she’ll be asking for next.”

V pasted on her fakest smile. “Thanks, but I didn’t ask for your advice.” Ready to leave, V quickly sat Sam in the traditional shopping cart seat, facing her, and looked to make her escape. Before she got too far, Sam’s little voice piped up.

“I think you would look very nice with pink hair, ma’am,” Sam chirped, grinning toothily. The woman blustered, clearly not having a response. V couldn’t help herself, laughing out loud as they left the store. She’d have to tell Johnny about that one later, he’d get a kick out of it.

The drive to drop Sam off was rather uneventful, and Sam was bouncing in her seat by the time V put the car in park. As soon as she was let out of the car, she shot off like a rocket to the front door, with V trailing behind. By the time V got up to the porch, her perceptive (or precognitive?) friend had already let Sam in with a smile and was offering a greeting to V.

“How’s it going? You’re glowing, having a good day?” Misty asked dreamily, examining V as she handed over Sam’s dojo/overnight bag.

“Yeah, something like that,” V laughed. “We’ve had a good day so far. How are you doing?”

Misty shrugged. “Can’t complain. Star’s been bouncing off the walls all day, you’d think she didn’t just see Sam yesterday,” she said, a light smile playing on her lips.

“All right, well mine and Johnny’s cells should be on if anything comes up. I’ve got groceries in the car so I’ve gotta run, but see you tonight!”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Misty replied, glancing over her friend once more with a knowing smile. “You gonna tell him tonight?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” V replied, a massive grin betraying her words. As she hopped in the car and started to drive home, she started to feel a tingling excitement grow within her. Now, just to get through the rest of the afternoon and the evening would come soon enough.

Part Three

#cyberpunk 2077 #johnny silverhand #johnny silverhand x v #johnny silverhand x female!v #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #fluff #family #domestic #modern!au

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 4 years

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Imagine: Erik teaching his daughter to love her dark skin.

Imagine:

[ Short, fluffy. ]

“Daddy,”

Erik was in the middle of talking with a group of his guy friends from his youth before they stepped out for more protesting and solidarity. All of the men are wearing black from head to toe, poster boards with various quotes such as:

Unapologetically BLACK

The new racism is to deny that racism EXISTS

Skin color is not reasonable suspicion

I CAN’T BREATHE

Justice for Breonna Taylor

Erik was in the middle of writing on another poster board when he heard his ten year old daughter, True, call for him. Her voice was shaky and small, the sound of it causing his chest to tighten. Erik recapped the permanent marker before turning to his beautiful daughter with sepia skin, her cheeks wet from her fresh hot tears.

“What’s going on, True? why are you crying?” Erik pulled out one of his dining room chairs, grasping True’s tiny hands in his, bringing her closer to him with urgent eyes.

“I was gonna tell mama but she’s sleeping and she might go over there,” True looked down at her pink converse.

“Listen, whatever you were gonna tell your mama you can tell me,” Erik squeezes both of his daughters shoulders, “Talk to me, baby, what happened?”

“Kimberly, across the street,” True timidly pointed towards the open window that was sending a warm draft throughout the dining room, “She said I was ugly.”

Erik could feel his friends movements behind him still. True averted her eyes to look at the wall, trying her hardest not to break down and cry.

“Okay...why did Kimberly call you ugly?” Erik spoke calmly.

“She said my skin looks like tar...it reminds her of an apes skin.”

Erik’s eyes flickered with rage as he watched his daughter cry before him. How dare this little white girl say that about his beautiful black daughter? How dare she make a joke that her ancestors before her would have made about his daughter? He wanted to charge over there and bang down Kimberly’s door. That all sounded perfect but all it will lead to is the police being called; the pigs.

“True...I want to tell you something,” Erik cleared his throat; raspy voice strong and abrasive because of his anger towards what Kimberly said, “there is this quote from Marcus Garvey...it says the black skin is not a badge of shame but rather a glorious symbol of natural greatness,” Erik gently takes True’s face into his hands, his thumbs wiping away her overflowing tears.

“Your skin is a glorious masterpiece, the sun kisses your skin like no other, hey,” Erik soothes True, “black women, black girls; there are different shades of beauty. Beauty is about being comfortable in your own skin. Kimberly’s words shouldn’t matter, you know why? Because Kimberly isn’t my baby girl. Kimberly could never be you because no matter what shade of melanin you are, know that your skin tone is brilliant. You, my princess are phenomenally made!”

“You’re a gift, baby girl!” One of Erik’s friends says, the others following suit with more compliments and encouraging words.

“That melanin tho!” Another one shouted, causing everyone to chuckle and True to blush.

“Black girl magic PERIOD,” Erik says pulling his daughter in for a hug, “I want you to repeat after me, True...I love my dark skin.”

“...I love my dark skin,” She says while keeping eye contact with her father.

“I am a strong melanin princess,” Erik playfully squeezes True’s Afro puffs.

True giggles, “I am a strong melanin princess.”

“I am impressively dripping in black beauty, and can’t NOBODY tell me otherwise, say it.”

“I am impressively drippin’ in black beauty and can’t NOBODY tell me otherwise!!!” True shouts, Erik’s friends wolf whistling and clapping in the background.

“SEE, that’s what I’m taking about. You are my beautiful, chocolate, princess. Kimberly ain’t got nothing on you, she envies you.”

“Thanks daddy,” True gave him a wide braces filled smile before wrapping her arms around Erik’s broad shoulders, “I love you daddy.”

“I love you too, True,” Erik kisses her kinky hairline, “Now, remember what I say. You gotta love yourself, baby girl.”

Erik stood up from his seat, grabbing his permanent marker and handing it over to True, “Before I go, I want you to write something powerful on this poster board that represents all the black girls in the world, okay?”

True uncaps the marker, walking up to the poster board. She stood there, staring at the black canvas, unsure of exactly what to say. She gasps, leaning over to write something out. Erik watches his daughter write big letters across the white poster board with a wide dimpled smile.

“Black girl MAGIC!!!” She shouted before holding up the poster board for the others to see, “Daddy! I wanna go protest with you!”

“Okay,” Erik simply says, “We’re meeting for a rally, call on the spirts of the fallen and our ancestors to be with us. Remember, Asé?”

“That means amen, right?” True says.

“Yes. It is an African philosophical concept through which the Yoruba of Nigeria conceive the power to make things happen and produce change. It is given by Olodumare to everything - gods, ancestors, spirits,” Erik stands fully, “I am root of your root, soil of your soil, bone of your bone, and blood of your blood. Love, love, love, asé.”

“Will we say asé for Breonna Taylor?” True says with wide hopeful eyes, “She still didn’t get justice.”

Erik smiles proudly at his daughter for knowing her name, “Of course. For all those who deserve justice and who didn’t deserve to be taken away from us. All of our people.”

A knock came to the door, a hard knock like the police. Erik shared a look with his friends before walking to the door. Before he opened it Erik peeked out of the living room curtains, holding a hand up to his friends to let them know that everything was okay. Erik had to watch his back, he was a strong voice for the Oakland community. Opening the door, Kimberly and her mother, Suzanne are standing there. Suzanne looked startled for a second but she gathered herself, turning a blazing eye on Kimberly.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Erik, but I overheard my daughter say something very, very cruel to True while they were writing with chalk on the pavement,” Suzanne looked embarrassed, her eyes avoiding Erik’s, “Is there something you have to say to True!”

Kimberly twisted her foot on the steps, her face solem and her long, black hair shieldjng her eyes, “I’m sorry True for calling you a monkey.”

“And I am terribly sorry for this,” Suzanne has a hand clutched to her chest, “I don’t know where Kimberly heard this from but we did not teach her to talk like that. You should be ashamed of yourself-

“Kimberly is a child, children absorb everything around them. Not to cause problems but...maybe Kimberly heard it from her other white friends? Maybe they don’t like True so they told her to call my daughter a monkey.” Erik gave Suzanne a stern look as if he were watching her suspiciously.

Suzanne blinked at Erik with confusion, “I think I would know if my daughters friends said anything like that, Kimberly, did Rebecca and Sabrina say anything to you today about True?”

Kimberly looked like she wanted to hide. True didn’t take her eyes off of her so-called-friend. She knew the truth but she wanted to hear Kimberly say it. True grasps Erik’s hand tighter. Erik looked down at her, her silence enough to let him know that there was more to the story.

“Kimberly!” Suzanne shouts.

“Rebecca doesn’t like that I play with True. She says that her father thinks all black people are infectious and corrupt.”

“WHAT!!!” Suzanne’s voice boomed like she was holding a megaphone to her mouth, “Kimberly, why would you allow your friend to say those things about True? Why would you say things like that? I am so embarrassed right now,” Suzanne points a stern finger at Kimberly, “apologize again!”

Kimberly angrily wipes away her tears with the back of her hand, “I’m sorry True! I’m sorry I said that!”

“I accept your apology,” True leaned into Erik’s solid body, “But I can’t be friends with you anymore.”

Suzanne felt True’s words as if she were the girls friend. Kimberly angrily storms off across the street, running up her porch and into the house.

“True, I know what Kimberly said was very mean but...you don’t want to be friends with her?” Suzanne looked offended.

“No, she doesn’t. I’m sure those girls have picked on my daughter and the fact that Kimberly knows that shows that she will do it again. My daughter doesn’t feel comfortable with your child,” Erik wrapped a comforting hand around True’s shoulder, protecting her guarding her.

“Well,” Suzanne turns to leave, “I’m sorry again, True.” She looked like she wanted to say more on her daughters behalf but instead she walked back to her home.

“Did I do the right thing, daddy?” True asks, looking up at her fathers with sad eyes.

“You did what was best for you, that’s the right thing, baby girl,” Erik kisses True on top of her head, “Let’s not tell your mom about this just yet, you know she will raise hell about it.”

“Yeah, let’s just go protest,” True pulls her fathers hand back inside, “Let’s go, daddy, we have to get out there!”

“Haha, okay, Princess.”

#nahimjustfeelingit-writes #erik killmonger #black panther killmonger #killmonger #blacklivesmatter #blackgirlmagic

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sexycraisinthanos · 4 years

Text

Therapy in the Netherworld

Just a little fic I wrote because I wanted Lydia to seriously get some therapy. Put it under a readmore because I don’t want it taking up dashboard space.

Words: 2,936

Warnings: mention of suicide

Rating: T, for mention of suicide and death, but other than that no graphic depictions of violence or stuff like that. Just a girl talking about her trauma

They sat in a circle, reading the Handbook. Adam and Barbara sat next to each other, reading silently while Delia, Charles, and Lydia sat across from them.

“Well I’ll be darned. They do have an undead therapist.” Adam said with a chuckle, turning the book to show Barbara.

“That could have been helpful a long time ago.”

“What could there possibly be a therapist for?” Lydia asked skeptically.

“It says,” Adam looked back at the page, adjusting his glasses, “that therapy services are offered for those struggling to cope with their deaths...not exactly the kind of therapist we need.”

“We don’t need a therapist.” Lydia crossed her arms. “Dad’s just freaking out because I had a nightmare.”

“The same nightmare for the last three months, Lydia. And it’s not just a nightmare, it’s a night terror.”

“Same thing.”

“Actually, night terrors are more extreme and mostly for children.” Delia corrected proudly.

“...Well yes. But Lydia you were sleepwalking. You almost walked off the roof.”

“...Well a regular therapist would be a better idea.”

“We just think it’d be best if you had a therapist you could talk to about...stuff without judgment.”

“And the Netherworld is your choice? Delia is a better choice.”

“Aw, thank you.”

Adam sighed and stood, still holding the book. “It doesn’t hurt to try. They’re the only ones who can understand what’s happened. Just try one session.”

Lydia scowled, but didn’t protest.

Adam pulled out a piece of chalk. “Okay, it says to draw a door and knock to the rhythm of...shave and a haircut. Huh, you don’t often hear people refer to it that way.” He drew on the wall and knocked.

A doorway appeared and the door cracked open, emitting pink smoke and glitter. They coughed, backing up.

Adam looked at the book, confused. “Did I do it right?”

Barbara slowly opened the door and more smoke wafted through the air and then dissipated.

When it cleared, they saw a messy office with papers strewn about and an empty old-fashioned chair with holes in the upholstery.

“...Well it’s certainly the Netherworld.” Adam covered his nose. “Smells like it.”

Barbara carefully stepped inside and looked around. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

“There’s probably no one here. No one would want to go to therapy after they die.” Lydia said.

A pile of garbage sat up, making indiscernible noises. The noises turned into yawning and pieces fell off, revealing a demon underneath. She stood up, dusting herself off. She straightened her coat and messed up her hair and looked at the open door. “Oh shit. Hi.”

“...Are you the therapist?” Adam asked, almost regretfully.

She looked around and clicked her tongue. “Well I’m the only one here, aren’t I?”

“We were expecting someone more...different I guess.”

“Why were you sleeping under garbage?” Lydia asked.

“You’re looking at a demon and you’re asking about using garbage as a blanket?”

Lydia blinked and shrugged. The demon cleared her throat. “Okay, so what can I do for you?”

“Well, we were hoping you could help Lydia.” Adam answered, motioning to Lydia.

“The vampire?”

“I’m a human.”

“I usually only deal with dead people. And the occasional undead.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Undead people suck. I should know, I am one.”

“Can you just try talking to Lydia?”

The demon sat at her desk, throwing stuff off of it. “Well sit down and tell me what’s going on.”

“There aren’t any-” The trio was pushed onto a set of magically appearing chairs and pulled close to the desk.

Charles and Delia went to go in, but the door shut in front of them and the demon crossed her hands over each other, trying to appear more professional, but only came off as slightly more unsettling than before. It did not help when she gave a smile. “So, tell me what’s going on.”

Adam and Barbara looked at Lydia, putting their hands on her shoulders. Lydia sighed. “I’ve been having trouble adjusting to...something that happened a few months ago. A demon showed up and caused a lot of trouble and they’re just worried about all these nightmares I’ve been having.”

Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, demons. This’ll be fun.”

“...They say I should get some professional help. So here we are. In the Netherworld, talking to a demon about my problems. Cause by another demon.”

“Well good news is I can help.”

“You can? That’s great!” Barbara smiled.

The demon nodded. “Now, you two are dead and since I’m sure you want to not be trapped in the Netherworld, I would suggest you two leave back through the door to your house. Lydia will be safe here while we talk.”

They stood hesitantly, looking at Lydia. “I’ll be fine.” She assured. Accepting that, they sighed and walked through the door.

Lydia yelped as the chair changed into a therapy couch and she was lying on her back. The demon sat across from her, sitting in a large loveseat, holding a notepad and pen with pink unicorn on it. “Okay, so my name is Gem and I’m the unofficial therapist of the Netherworld.”

“Gem?”

“Short for Geminorum.”

“Does every demon have a stupid name?”

“It’s a nickname. My real name’s Ashley, but I go by Gem because I’m both a treasure and a Gemini.”

“...I guess that tracks.”

“So, Lydia, tell me how it all started.”

Lydia took a breath. “Well it started when my mom died. She and I were really close. I went into a really bad depression and my dad moved to get away from our house because...well she died in our house and it was just a lot for him to handle. So we moved into this house that Adam and Barbara died in, so they haunt it. It sucked, but they’re nice. And then I found out that Dad was engaged to Delia, who was/is my life coach. So I tried to kill myself. It obviously didn’t go as planned.”

“How were you gonna kill yourself?”

“What?”

“How?”

“Uh, I was gonna jump off the roof.”

“Classic. Keep going. What happened next?”

“Well, then I met Beetlejuice.”

“Oh, I know him.”

“You do?”

“Yup. Tacky outfit, always singing, cute butt?”

“What?”

“So he was trying to get you to say his name, I’m assuming?”

“...Yeah. Saying he could help me get revenge on my dad. Of course I didn’t listen to him. At first. Then I had to. He scared my dad away and then I was trapped in my house because if I left there’d be a giant monster who’d kill me because I was an ‘honorary ghost’ or whatever. It was fun at first. No one around to tell us what to do. And then I tried to bring my mom back to life and then he turned into a grade A asshole! He tricked me into almost exorcising Barbara and forced me to agree to marry him.”

“Green card thing?”

“...Yeah.”

Gem snorted. “Classic.”

“Of course, I agreed to save Barbara. And then I stabbed him in the chest with Delia’s art.”

“Nice. Always kill creepy old men.” She held her fist up for a fist bump, but Lydia shook her head no. Gem pursed her lips and put her hand down.

“And then his mom tried to kill me because I had escaped into the Netherworld to go find my mom, but then I left before she could catch me. And then he fed her to a sand worm. That all happened months ago.”

“So what are your problems?”

“Night terrors, triggers, angry outbursts, abandonment issues...you know. The typical stuff.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“Humor me. Let’s start with the night terrors.”

“Well it just started out with me waking up screaming. I was having bad dreams about...well, him. Him and his stupid outfit. It’s always the wedding. I’m in the wedding dress, dancing to some distorted music. He’s smiling like this is the best thing in the world. I’m crying. Before I stab him, I wake up with everyone around me. Last week I started sleepwalking. I woke up, standing on the roof.”

“Do you think it’s him? Trying to get you to kill yourself so you’ll be stuck with him?”

She shook her head. “No. Not really. I don’t think he’s making me do it. It doesn’t feel like someone’s forcing me. It’s like a...natural reflex. Like a muscle memory. Like it’s telling me to meet him there.”

“Why would it tell you to meet him there?”

“Well, we met on the roof before I was going to kill myself.”

Gem hummed to herself, taking more notes.

“I just gotta say that you’re very professional and probably the only demon I’ve met who didn’t immediately make me want to vomit.”

“Aw, thank you. I take my job very seriously. I know I look like a hot mess, but that’s only because I choose to. Not many jobs let you have pink hair.”

“Do all demons have weird colored hair?”

“Yeah. It’s part of the gimmick. So tell me about the triggers and angry outbursts you mentioned.”

Lydia sucked her teeth and sighed, curling up slightly. “I don’t know...it’s kind of stupid.”

“You know what’s stupid? I was considered one of the most feared women’s gang leaders in the 80′s. I got drunk, fell off a bridge, and now I’m a therapist. What’s not stupid is your trauma.”

She smiled a little. “Thanks...Okay...” Lydia took a breath. “My dad and step-mom were planning all the details for their wedding. I was in the living room, kind of listening and then I just...started crying and ran into my room. They decided to hold off on it until I was better.”

“Poor thing.” Gem said sympathetically.

“I joined a stargazing club at school because in New York I never got to see stars that much. Of course, the first constellation we talked about was Orion.”

Gem nodded understandingly. “Second brightest star in the constellation is Betelgeuse.”

Lydia winced at the mention of the name and Gem tensed up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I was saying...How about whenever we need to bring him up, we can just call him something else.”

“Like what?”

“Buttmunch?”

Lydia snorted. “That works.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, Bertha said...Buttmunch and I just froze up. She told her parents that I tackled her, telling her not to say it, but I don’t remember that.”

Gem hummed to herself. “It sounds like you have a case of PTSD.”

“PTSD?”

“Well from what you’ve told me, whatever he did traumatized you. Even if you don’t think it was that serious. You were depressed and suicidal, he showed up and made your life a living hell, you were forced to kill him, and what 12 year old needs to stab someone for forcing them to marry him, trapping her in her own house, scaring her dad away, and feeling like you’re obligated to hang out with him because he saved your life?”

“First off, I’m not 12. Second of all, he didn’t save my life.”

Gem looked at her clipboard. “Well, actually he did. You said he saved you from his mom.”

“Which she wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for him.”

“And you wouldn’t have been alive up to that point if it wasn’t for him.”

Lydia scoffed, crossing her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You said you met him on the roof, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were about to jump, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So what happened between you wanting to die and him scaring your dad away?”

“Well...he saw me about to jump and when he realized I could see him, he tried to get me to say his name. But he can’t say his name, which is dumb. Why can’t he say his name? Every other demon can say their name just fine.”

“It’s a thing that happens. If he could say his name, he’d always be saying it to give himself power and he’d never shut up. It really depends on the source material you’re working with.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Anyway, so what happened after that?”

“Well he told me that killing myself is stupid and I should try to get revenge on my dad. I told him to piss off and then I took his advice but had Barbara and Adam help me instead.”

“Poor choice, they look like they think ‘revenge’ is a fancy French dish. Now, from what you just told me, if he hadn’t shown up, you would have jumped, your life would have been over, and you would have been stuck doing civil work. Ergo, he saved your life.”

Lydia scowled, trying to think of a snarky response.

“So?”

“You just have a lot of confusing feelings. You want to be mad at him, which you have a right to be. But he did technically save your life. And you know you wouldn’t be here without him. So you’re also partially grateful for him.”

“What does this have to do with my nightmares?”

“Well you said yourself that your brain wanted you to meet him there.”

“That’s dumb. You’re not even a real therapist. Telling you all this won’t help. You won’t understand. None of them do! They just want me to get better, but they don’t know what it’s like! To not be able to sleep because you’re afraid that when you wake up, it’ll all be a dream and you’re still trapped in the house with him. Or that he came and killed my dad in the middle of the night as an act of revenge. Or hate yourself for trusting him in the first place. And I can’t even talk to them about it. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to them about it. They just wouldn’t get it...I guess that’s why they sent me here. Because you’re the only one who would get it.” Lydia wiped her eyes and sniffled.

Gem sighed, setting the clipboard down. “Lydia.” She summoned a box of tissues and handed them to her. “You’re stressed, restless, you’re scared, you’re angry, you’re a kid who dealt with stuff no grown adult should have dealt with. You have too many thoughts going on now. So what’s going to help?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay...When was the last time you slept? Like actually slept.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Couple weeks ago...”

“Tell you what, you can stay here and sleep. It’s perfectly safe in here. Buttmunch won’t get you. You can sleep as long as you want since no one ever needs me. And we can talk whenever you want. That way you have someone who understands what you’re going through. Does that sound good?”

Lydia shrugged again, but this time with a smile. “I guess.”

“It’s not a permanent fix, but it’s a start. And if you have a night terror, I’ll be right here for you. I promise.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Demons have questionable morals, but we never break a promise. And if you ever do get stuck with him again and someone happened to have said his name three times, just say it three times again. That takes all his power away.”

“It does?”

“Well, it varies by which one you’re working with, but yeah. If you say his name three times, it gives him power, if you say it three more, it takes his power away. It’s like that shitty book series says. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. Or whatever. The less you say his name the more scared you are. So the more you say it, the less scary he becomes and the less power he has over you.”

“That actually makes sense.”

“I’m a pro at handling demon shit. Now, lie down and get some rest.”

Lydia nodded and adjusted herself, lying on her back. “I actually was wondering...what happened to him and his mom?”

“Hm?”

“Well, his mom got eaten by a sand worm and...well, I stabbed him. He went to the Netherworld.”

“Well, since Juno died, Miss Argentina is in charge. I’d let her boss me around...”

Lydia raised an eyebrow.

“I mean Juno is technically still a demon, but sand worms take about 1,000 years to digest their food so she’s probably gonna be there for a while, so she’s listed as dead.”

“Whoa...I feel sorry for her...even if she did deserve it. What about him?”

Gem shrugged. “I haven’t really seen him around. He’s probably hiding from his responsibilities like normal.”

Lydia laughed a little. “Well, you seem relatively normal for a demon. What’s the deal?”

“I just talk to people daily. There are actually a LOT of people who don’t read the Handbook, and thank God/Satan for that. Do you know how many people die a day? 55 million. Only about 2% actually read the Handbook in its entirety, which is still over 1 million people, but holy shit is it hard to see 1 million people a year.”

Gem snapped her fingers and a blanket and pillow landed on Lydia.

Lydia grunted, grabbing the pillow off her face and scowling. “Hey!”

“Now get some sleep, kiddo. You need it.”

Lydia tucked the pillow under her head and wrapped herself in the blanket.

It was surprisingly comfortable and devoid of any terrible smells. She smiled, pulling it close. “Thanks, Gem...”

“One step at a time.”

Lydia nodded and closed her eyes, dreaming about much nicer demons with stupid hair.

#beetlejuice

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someonefantastic · 4 years

Text

I Think I need a Doctor

Fun fact, I started this whole month out with a mini bucket list and this fic was one of two things on there. I really wanted to do some Karen whump since she is so underrated and this idea spawned during a convo about Deez Nups with the psych discord. It's a little different from my usual but I hope y'all enjoy it nonetheless! Summary: Fun fact, I started this whole month out with a mini bucket list and this fic was one of two things on there. I really wanted to do some Karen whump since she is so underrated and this idea spawned during a convo about Deez Nups with the psych discord. It's a little different from my usual but I hope y'all enjoy it nonetheless! Warnings: hospitals, miscarriage, nausea, blood also on ao3 (recommended cause this gets long) ___ Karen sighed. The women’s restroom in the police department wasn’t the most ideal place but it had been an extremely long day and she needed answers. All week she had been feeling tired and nauseous- frankly, she would have chalked it up to sickness but then she remembered that she had also missed her period which caused her thoughts to go elsewhere.

That was at 8 am and since then, she had been called down to a murder scene, the victim turned out to be an old police chief, had to deal with two ex-cops butting heads with her consultants, and comfort her detective after some sexist remarks. So she shoved the thought to the back of her head- or at least tried to. But the curiosity remained growing bit by bit. Eventually, the anticipation became too great and she had used much of her break running to the drug store and waiting in the women’s restroom.

Glancing at her watch for what felt like the millionth time, she took a deep breath noting that the three minutes were finally up. Her hands shook as she picked up the small piece of plastic, stilling herself for what answers it might hold. Her eyes widened as she saw the results.

Two clear pink lines.

She was pregnant.

Naturally, she’d have to confirm it with a doctor first but judging by all of her other symptoms, she was pretty sure it was true.

Leaning heavily against the stall door, reality started to sink in. A smile began to spread across her face, her breath coming out in huffy laughter.

“Holy crap, I’m pregnant.” She breathed, staring at the results, her heart beating rapidly. Her smile had turned into a full out grin, joy rising in her chest. She and Richard hadn’t exactly been trying but they weren’t being safe either. They had always wanted another kid but due to both of their ages, had never really thought it would happen. But now…

She resisted the urge to jump up and down. She couldn’t wait to tell Richard. ___ Walking through the front door, she barely paused to throw her keys in the bowl and shed her heels before seeking out her husband. She found him tucking Iris into bed and paused in the doorway to watch them. He was reading the four-year-old a story- If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, her favorite- but the peaceful atmosphere was short-lived as her daughter saw her.

“Mommy!” She yelled, reaching out with grabby hands and Karen smiled, pushing off of the doorway to sit on her bed beside her.

“Hello sweetheart, I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Isokay.” Iris shrugged before giving her a gap-tooth smile. “Did you catch any bad guys?”

“Tons of them.” She leaned forward, placing a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “Did you have fun with daddy?”

“Mhmm,” She nodded vigorously, “We went to the park and had hot dogs and I fell off the swings!”

Karen raised an eyebrow at her husband who smiled sheepishly, “It was just a small fall, she’s okay.”

“I got a Wonder Woman bandaid, wanna see?” Karen didn’t have time to blink before the covers were pushed back and her pajama pants leg was rolled up, revealing a red bandaid on her knee. “Can you kiss it better?”

After exchanging amused looks with Richard, she bent down, pressing her lips against the wound. “There… all better.”

“Thank you,” Iris beamed, settling back into bed. “You can read more daddy.”

Richard laughed, “Sure thing pumpkin.”

After two more books- because of course, Iris needed her mom to read also- she and Richard gave their daughter one last kiss. Bidding their goodnights, they shut the door a little behind them, finally alone. Karen was suddenly very aware of just how nervous she was. It was big, life-changing news and while she was excited, it still made her stomach clench with anticipation and anxiety.

They made their way into the bedroom, out of earshot of their little one, before Richard turned around, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the bed. “So, how was work, really? I mean, obviously, you had to work late.”

“Yeah,” She sighed, shedding her suit coat and tossing it in the hamper. “An ex-police chief got murdered and now he’s suspected of laundering drugs. You can imagine the kind of PR nightmare this is gonna be.”

He frowned nose wrinkling, “That does not sound fun. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, “Well hopefully our detectives and consultants come up with something.” She shook her head, giving a little wave. “But enough with work, I have something I need to tell you.” Shifting a little, she bit her lip.

Sitting up straighter, he raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on her mood. “Yeah? What?”

“Well…” She started, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the pregnancy test that had weighed heavily there for most of the afternoon. “I’m pregnant.”

His jaw dropped, eyes going wide and she thought for a brief second that he may have been upset. But his face quickly broke out into a smile, leaping off the bed and pulling her into his arms.

“Holy crap, we’re gonna have another kid.” He gasped, burying his nose into her hair.

“Yeah…” The tears of joy that had been threatening to fall all afternoon finally did fall, slipping down her cheeks to land on his shirt.

They were going to be parents again, their family was going to grow. It was amazing and wonderful and she just couldn’t wait. ___ The next few weeks were a whirlwind of babies and cases. An appointment with her doctor confirmed that yes indeed she was pregnant, putting her at about four weeks along. She half-listened to his warnings about overexerting herself since miscarriage at her age was so common but she waved away those doubts. There was no use worrying over something that hopefully wouldn’t happen.

Shortly after that, they sat Iris down and told her the news. She was elated at the idea that she was going to be a big sister almost instantly berating her parents with an onslaught of questions about the baby. For the next two weeks straight, all her drawings were of her and her brother or sister.

As for her and Richard, they were thriving. They both decided to not tell any of their coworkers or extended family until the second trimester, not wanting to get any of their hopes up in the off chance that something went wrong. But they didn’t have any fear. Keeping the knowledge just to their little family made the whole experience feel more intimate. Sure they did have a few slips ups- especially since Iris couldn’t keep a secret- and she noticed her detectives giving her a few odd looks every now and again, particularly when she left early for a doctor’s appointment- but for the most part, the knowledge stayed between the three of them.

Between pulling Iris’ old baby stuff out of the attic, taking vitamins, working, and getting morning sickness, it felt like Karen’s life had gone to a new level of crazy. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t love it. The idea of having another baby was exciting and fun and caused her to seek Richard out and steal a kiss or two on several occasions. Of course, some days weren’t as great, like when she’d feel sick all day or wouldn’t get home until late or Richard had to travel for work, but regardless, she was still happy.

Truth be told though, she barely had enough time to focus on the baby or any preparations due to her job. It seemed like lately the crazies were just getting crazier. Not only did she have to deal with a hostage situation- on a boat of all things- two convicts wound up escaping, launching a manhunt. Then after that, there was a serial killer who was picking off people from a liver donation list, her consultants started acting weird, and somehow they wound up implicated in aiding an enemy agent. Of course, the Feds had to be called in which was a nightmare in of itself, and then her detective asked for two weeks off- which she was more than happy to give to her considering everything O’Hara had been through as of late- which was shortly followed by a retraction and a request to aid her partner in extraditing a convinced criminal back to the states.

So to say life was crazy may have been an understatement. It was downright insane.

On top of all of that, she had started feeling worse and worse and she worried for her unborn baby, fearing that getting sick could cause problems. But, luckily, she had a rare Saturday off and she was insistent on using it to relax and spend time with her daughter and husband.

And she did exactly that.

Sitting outside in the warm fall Santa Barbara air, she smiled, watching Iris run around the yard. Her daughter was playing her new favorite game, doggy princess, which basically was her running around and doing dog-like things. Laughing, Karen sent a content smile at her husband who exchanged the look and reached out a hand to cover hers.

“I can’t wait for Iris to have a sibling.” He squeezed her hand and her smile grew.

She glanced down, her hand rested on her stomach, fingers brushing the very small bump. “Me too, it’ll be good for her to have a playmate.”

He hummed in agreement, picking up her hand to press his lips against it. “I love you, dear.”

“I love you too.”

Turning back to their daughter, she frowned as her stomach clenched for what felt like the hundredth time that day. She had felt crampy pretty much all morning and well into the afternoon but had shaken it off. She worried that it would turn into morning sickness- after all, it had been a few days since she last got sick and she wasn’t looking forward to that again. She was never one to feed into her worries though and figured that if it continued into the next day, then she would call her doctor.

She turned her head, looking at her husband through tired eyes and he frowned. “Still feeling bad?”

She nodded lazily, “I guess I forgot how much being pregnant can suck sometimes.”

He gave a short laugh, leaning forward to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’ll all be worth it though.”

“You bet your butt it will.”

She closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her. She wasn’t planning on taking a nap- after all a four-year-old made that particularly difficult- but resting her eyes seemed like a good idea. With a sigh, she relaxed, letting her stress and worry ease away.

She didn’t get very far into her quiet time before she felt a warm wetness between her legs. Groaning, she stood up and started walking towards the house.

“Where are you going?” Richard asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I think I wet myself.” When his eyes widened, she rolled hers. “Remember? It happened all the time when I was pregnant with Iris. It’s just my luck that it’d happen with this one too.”

He frowned, “I’m sorry darling.”

“It’s fine,” She shrugged, “I’ll meet you inside for snack time?”

“Of course.”

She sighed again as she headed into the living room and snagged a clean pair of underwear from the laundry basket- thankful for once that she put off doing chores. Wandering into the downstairs bathroom, she stripped out of her pants and peeled back her panties, blood running cold. They were stained with a dark red.

She quickly changed, hands moving of their own accord as her mind raced. Exiting the bathroom, she made wide-eyed contact with her husband who paused his trek into the kitchen, picking up on her distress.

“What’s wrong?”

Swallowing heavily, her hands gripped the doorframe, knuckles turning white. “I think I need a doctor.” ___ The wait in the ER had been quick- only lasting about ten minutes- but to Karen, time crawled by. Waiting for the test results was even worse, the nurse had hastily taken blood, asked a few questions, then rushed off. Iris had been dropped off at her nephew’s house with little explanation which left the two of them to their thoughts and worries.

She wrung her hands, a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. It felt weird sitting on a hospital bed, after all the last time she had been in the hospital was when Iris was born and those memories did little to quell her nerves. Richard stood behind her, hands working her shoulders and she was grateful for his presence. If he had been on a business trip… she shook her head, now wasn’t the time for what-ifs.

“It’ll be okay.” She heard him say, though she wasn’t sure if it was to her or himself.

She didn’t have the heart to reply nor did she need to as a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Richard called and a doctor walked in, holding a clipboard close to his chest.

“Chief Vick, Mr. Vick,” He greeted with a nod of his head. “My name is Dr. Phillips, I’m sorry for the wait.”

“It’s okay,” She replied, “Thank you for seeing us so quickly.”

“Well with something so-” He waved his free hand, “Serious, we wanted to get you in fast.”

Her stomach clenched. “Serious?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes. I’m terribly sorry for this news but your blood work- and symptoms described- indicated that you’re having a miscarriage.”

Even though she had her suspicions, the words still hit her hard, knocking the air from her lungs. Her blood ran cold and she felt like she might throw up. Their child- the kid that they had been so excited about- was gone.

“In addition to your miscarriage,” He continued and she glanced up, barely registering his words, “Due to your age, I’m afraid you won’t be able to have any more children without serious complications. I’m very sorry.”

It felt like a punch to the gut, except she had experienced those before and this was so much worse. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. The world was falling apart around her, crashing to pieces. Her fingers found Richard’s, holding his hand as if her life depended on it- right now it felt like it did.

“Do- do you know the gender?” Richard spoke up, his voice sounding distant and shaky.

Dr. Phillips nodded, “While it’s not one-hundred percent accurate, the results of some blood tests indicate that the baby would have been a boy.”

“A boy.” He whispered, and her heart twisted again. They could have had a boy.

“I’ll give you two a few minutes.” The doctor said, though she barely registered his words.

Once he left the room, Richard climbed onto the bed, legs on either side of her, and wrapped his arms around her stomach, burning her face into her neck. She couldn’t even relax into his touch though, her body too stiff, too shocked to even move. Numbness felt all-consuming aside from the constant ache in her abdomen, stomach cramping with broken dreams- a signal that what they had longed for had officially come to an end.

She didn’t even realize she was crying until he wiped at her tears with his thumb and suddenly, all her emotions couldn’t get out fast enough. Her face crashed into her palms as sobs wracked her body. Behind her, she felt Richard tremble, his own tears beginning to fall. Her chest ached, lungs heaving as she grieved- because that’s what this really was, it was grieving. Grieving the loss of their unborn son, grieving the opportunity to have another child, grieving the joy that would have come with it.

They sobbed for what felt like hours until tears no longer fell and her cries turned to dry heaving. Her sleeves and back were wet, soaked by their combined tears but she didn’t care, too focused on the ache inside her chest. Leaning against him, she took a shuddered breath and he wrapped his arms across her chest, her hands coming up to grip his forearms.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. “I lost our baby.”

She could feel him shake his head. “Absolutely not Karen.” His voice was scratchy from unuse. “You didn’t lose anything. It happens.”

“It happened to us.” She took another shaking breath. “We were going to have a son.”

He sniffled. “I know.”

The pain increased as a thought crossed her mind, “How do we tell Iris?”

His breath hitched, “I don’t know… oh gosh this sucks so much.”

Nodding mutely, she closed her eyes, letting stray tears slip down her cheeks. “How are we going to get through this?” She mumbled.

“I don’t know,” He repeated, “but we’ll get through this together. We always do.”

Swallowing roughly, she nodded. “Thank you for being here… I love you.”

“I love you too. For better or for worse remember?”

“For better or for worse.” She echoed. ___ Two years later and the pain had faded, though not completely. Some days seeing mothers with new babies or families with lots of kids brought her back to that hospital- to pouring her emotions out on that bed and feeling that pain. But time had gone by, Iris was 6 now having recently started first grade, she was still chief and loving it. Life was still moving forward, and definitely for the better.

Her head detective was getting married and she sat in a dressing room, watching his bride-to-be get ready for her big day. She talked about how excited she was to be marrying him and Karen smiled, reflecting on her own wedding day all those years ago. She knew first hand that marriage had its ups and downs and she didn’t hesitate to tell the woman exactly that- about her occasional dreams of running away to the South of France, about Richard’s failed attempts to make eggs florentine or how he knew exactly what she needed on a stressful day. Her heart twisted and she yearned to tell them all about her miscarriage, that even in the hard times, it would all be worth it but she stopped, knowing that now wasn’t the time.

Instead, she began talking about what might have been. About her dreams of Richard being there for the birth of their child- about their son. “Oh, or that day when he walks into your hospital room holding your newborn son, and he will lay him gently on your chest, and he tells you that you look beautiful, even though you know you look like hell frozen over…” They chuckled and she smiled fondly, “And it all will be worth it.”

The moment was cut short as the maid of honor began complaining about her parole officer but she didn’t mind, jumping on the opportunity to help out- and thankful for the distraction. And later, when her detective cornered her, asking about why she said son when Iris exists, she didn’t hesitate to share what happened, reminding her that all relationships had pain but often the pain was worth it.

Watching her detectives dance and party, she smiled. Yes, she didn’t get to have more kids but her family wasn’t small. While the pain was still there, there was also hope. She had found her family and while it was unconventional, she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

#whumptober2020 #no. 29 #i think i need a doctor #emergency room #psych #karen vick #chief vick #richard vick #iris vick #hospitals tw #miscarriage tw #blood tw #nausea tw #fanfic #psych fanfic #skipps writes

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patrocool · 4 years

Text

It was early morning in Financial District. Commuters bustled around the siblings as they exited the subway station onto William Street. The pair stopped abruptly in front of the shop just outside of the station, much to the dismay of a woman behind them, who nearly ran into them with a curse.

Sarah Jacobs had worked hard to get to this point. And damn it, she was proud of herself. Sure, it didnt look like a lot right now- a tiny little hole in the wall right next to the entrance to the A and C train that was probably about the size of her bedroom in her tiny Manhattan apartment- but it was hers and she was proud to own the place.

Davey held up the key with a soft smile. "Planning on going in any time soon?" He asked lightly. She grinned as she took the key from his fingers and unlocked the door, stepping in. It was musty, dusty, dirty, and a bit stuffy, but none of that mattered. What mattered was what it was going to look tomorrow, and then the next day, and the day after that.

She clapped her hands together and set down her bag of cleaning supplies. "We've got a lot of work to do, Davey!"

ii.

Davey carefully placed the finishing touches on the flowers in stock, making them look nice in their holders. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and smiled. He turned to watch his sister as she carefully wrote the last few things on her chalkboard behind the counter.

The store looked perfect. Picturesque, to the point where Davey wouldnt be surprised if photographers came in looking for the perfect picture. Sarah set down her chalk and brushed her fingers off on her apron. She turned, nervously brushing stray hairs behind her ears, and straightening her light blue blouse. "Hows it look, David?"

He gave her two thumbs up. "It looks like a hipster's wet dream," he promised her teasingly.

She laughed and threw a rag at him. "You're such an ass, get out of my store with your gross face! You're gonna be late for class."

He snickered and leaned over the counter to grab his bag. "I'll turn on the open sign and unlock the door on my way out. If I dont, you probably never will."

As he left, he saw a young woman hesitating outside, looking curious. He held the door open. "Going in?" He asked.

She shook her head and hurried away down the street. He shrugged and headed to class. Sarah would have customers soon enough.

iii.

After the fourth day of trying to peek in the flower shop to and from class, Katherine Plumber finally gave in and slipped inside. A soft ring of the bell alerted the quiet shop, and she looked around in awe. Exposed brick on one wall, plants in baskets hung from the ceiling, fairy lights strung across the walls. Beautiful displays of potted plants and cut flowers alike. A chalkboard hung behind the counter listed prices and deals and specials, and then the most beautiful woman Katherine had ever laid eyes on came out of the back room, smiling brightly at the sight of a customer.

Dark hair in loose curls that reached her ribs, brown eyes that seemed to sparkle in the light, circle frame glasses perched on her nose. She wore a yellow turtleneck and high waisted mom jeans with scuffed converse, and a well worn apron. On her apron, someone stitched in the name "Sarah" with blue thread.

"Can I help you with anything?" The shopkeeper asked her cheerfully, and Katherine never felt more out of place.

"Just- just looking," she stammered awkwardly. She tugged at the sleeves of her leather jacket, glancing down at the pins and patches adorning it and hoping there wasnt anything that the sweet shopkeeper would take the wrong way. Usually, she didnt care if other people didnt like her opinions, but damn it, the girl was pretty as all get out, and her big ass "punch nazis in the face" patch on her back didnt really fit with the whole soft flower shop vibe.

She bit her lip, looking at the plants and trying not to stare at the girl. She focused on the many different colors of roses instead.

"'Fuck Cops'- now that's a sentiment I can get behind," the girl said, but she was so much closer this time, and Katherine jumped at the sudden noise.

Katherine blinked slowly. "Oh, uh. Yeah," she said, and laughed a little, internally cringing. God, she sounded like an idiot.

She giggled. "Sorry, I'm just excited to see a customer. I havent had a lot so far, I just opened a couple days ago."

"I know," Katherine said quickly, and quickly winced when the girl cocked a brow. "Sorry, no, I meant, I know you opened a couple days ago, I take the A train to school every day, so."

She snorted and nodded. "I see, a bit less creepy when you put it like that," she said teasingly. She held out a hand to shake. "I'm Sarah. Welcome to Newspaper Row Flowers."

"Katherine," she replied, shaking her hand. She smiled a bit. "You know Newspaper Row was actually over on Park Row, right? Next to City Hall?"

Sarah laughed, cheeks pink. "Oh, I know. It's because my great grandmother used to own a flower shop over next to the old Tribune building on Park Row, and that's what she called it. She lost her shop in the Depression though, and died when I was young, and it was my mom's dream to open a flower shop in her honor. She never managed to, and uh. Well, she died too, a couple years ago, so I did it."

Katherine's heart felt like it was melting in her chest. God, how could she already have so much affection for this girl she only just met? "I'm sorry for your loss. But you've really created something wonderful here, and I'm sure they would both be proud."

Sarah beamed, and Katherine would do anything to make her smile like that again.

iv.

"And so Davey's like 'what the fuck', and Les is like 'who is this guy' and Jack is straddling the windowsill, looking at us like he expects my dad to get a gun, and finally, Dad is like 'hes not Catholic, is he?' And poor Davey is like 'no, pa', and for some godforsaken reason, Mom assumes that means hes Jewish. And knowing he doesnt have a family, immediately invites- and by invites, I mean loosely intimidated- Jack to come celebrate all holidays with us. And so now, instead of breaking it to Mom that Jack isnt religious, Davey just let's them believe it. Cause I mean, they're pretty fine with the whole gay thing, but god forbid we be romantically involved with someone who isnt Jewish." Sarah finished explaining with a laugh and roll of her eyes. "So yeah, that's why Jack is here fucking around with a dreidel even though Hanukkah has passed. Hes convinced that theres a secret trick to it that he has to master by next year."

Jack looked up and pouted sourly in her direction. "We all know Davey cant be that good based on luck alone!" He said for the thousandth time.

Katherine laughed, elbows on the counter. Her red curls were pulled back in a ponytail and she had her signature leather jacket on. "Sounds like your family is a real fun bunch. Ironically, my dad is the exact opposite, he doesn't care if I dont marry into a Jewish family, but he very much cares if I marry a girl."

Sarah made a face. "Gross. He sounds like such an ass whenever you talk about him."

Katherine nodded. "Probably because he is," she said very seriously. And then the two erupted into giggles.

"Ew, go get a room," Jack complained.

"You're in my shop, Kelly!"

"Sarah, I need your help with something." Katherine came in looking nervous, an expression Sarah rarely saw on her friend.

"Of course, anything, what do you need?" Sarah said immediately, abandoning the flowers she was making out of newspapers.

Katherine swallowed, pausing. Her fingers fidgeted with the necklace around her neck. "Um. Well. There's uh... there's this girl I really like. And she... she's just amazing, and I want to tell her that I really like her. And she loves flowers, so..."

Sarah smiled and cooed, even though her chest hurt an awful lot. "That's so-" heartbreaking? Disappointing? Sad? "-cute! Flowers are such a good way to express feelings. Do you want to do it through flower language or do you have specific flowers you want to do it with?"

Katherine bit her lip. "Well, I was hoping a bit of both, but I'm not sure what kind of flowers she likes, so I was hoping you'd help with that."

Sarah nodded. "Of course! Let's get to work, hm?"

In the end, the bouquet consisted of red carnations (admiration), gardenias ("you're lovely"), mistletoe ("kiss me"), and white violets ("let's take a chance on happiness"). Sarah very gently wrapped the stems in newspaper and tied it with some twine while Katherine wrote something on a card.

Katherine paid and took the bouquet from Sarah, carefully fixing the card in it. She stayed after the transaction, simply standing there and staring at the flowers in her arms.

"What are you waiting for? Go get your girl!" Sarah chastized with a laugh. She needed Katherine to leave so she could take an early lunch and cry a little.

"You're right," Katherine said. She took in a big breath and let it out slowly before jutting her arms out, offering the bouquet. "Here."

"What?" Sarah asked, eyebrows furrowed. "Did you change your mind or-"

"They're for you," Katherine said, staring at the wall. "Just- read the card?"

Sarah blinked slowly and took the bouquet carefully, and opened the card.

In it was written simply:

"I like you, Sarah. Have since I first came into your shop. And I'd like you even more if you went to dinner with me?"

Sarah very gently put the bouquet down on the counter. And then she kissed Katherine.

A year and a half later, Sarah come home to find a bundle of myrtle at her place on the table. Instead of a string, there was a ring. Myrtle, the Hebrew emblem of marriage.

Katherine cleared her throat, smiling softly. "Your parents will have at least one kid who marries into a Jewish family. If-if you say yes, that is."

Sarah's eyes filled with tears. "How could I not?"

#newsies #newsbians #sarah jacobs #katherine plumber #katherine pulitzer #5 plus 1 #flower language #flower shop au #aesthetics #newsies fanfic

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biillyhargroves · 5 years

Note

A harringrove fluff prompt with a combo of: “I know it smells bad, but you’ll feel better, trust me” and “I’m not going to yell at you”

hot to the touch(fic requests open)

Steve Harrington does not get sick.

Sure, there was a bought of ear infections in the second grade, but who didn’t go through that? And in the third grade there was the chicken pox so bad he still has little pockmarked scars speckling his sides. And, yeah, okay, there was the Great Strep Throat Fiasco of 1976, three weeks that will live in infamy. But outside of his pre-adolescent pink eye and the week of relentless bronchitis in freshman year, Steve Harrington does. not. get. sick.

Except, of course, when he does.

It starts as a tickle in his throat. He chalks it up to hay fever, pops an allergy pill from his mother’s medicine cabinet, and heads to school. By the end of first period, the tickle has become a cough that reaches deeper and deeper into his chest as the day goes on. He wears his letterman jacket to third period to ward off the chill he swears is coming from the draft, even if Carol swears she can’t feel a thing and Nicole points out he’s not even near a vent. By lunch, Tommy has to catch him before he face-plants into his meatloaf. The resulting clamor catches Billy’s attention, as Steve shoves Tommy away from him and Carol starts to berate him for refusing Tommy’s help.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Billy asks, one brow raised as Steve stumbles toward the door.

“Nothing,” Steve says a bit too aggressively. Billy holds up a hand in mock-defense.

“Shit,” he says. “Fine. Sorry I fucking asked.”

“It’s not,” Steve starts, then says, “I didn’t mean-” and then, “I’m fine.”

“Keep lying,” Billy shrugs. “Fuck if I care.”

But he can’t keep his eyes off of Steve as Steve retreats down the hall, slipping into the boy’s room where he will take up a stall for the remainder of the day. Billy thinks about going after him, but they’ve set rules for a reason: at school, it’s business as usual. No public displays, no cause for suspicion. They avoid each other when they can, and when they can’t, it’s the same old song and dance. So far, it seems to be working, and Billy’s not about to fuck it up for them both.

Max, though, is an observant kid. She knows that something’s wrong when she slams the car door shut and the Camaro is still in park. They’r not speeding away. Billy has an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers and his drumming his fingers to a beat that isn’t there because he hasn’t switched the radio on.

“Dustin said Steve looked sick yesterday,” she says casually.

“Why would I care?” Billy snaps.

“Was he at school?” Max asks.

“Yeah,” Billy says. He doesn’t look at Max at all, and Max cranes her neck to see over the dashboard. She points to the red Beemer idling by itself in the high school parking lot.

“Isn’t that Steve’s car?” she asks.

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Because he’s driven you home in it, dumbass.”

“The fuck did you just call me?”

“He’s in the car,” Max says. “I think. It looks like he is.”

“You obsessed with Harrington now?”

“You are.”

“You’re a real shit, Max, you know that?”

“Just go check on your boyfriend.”

“Max!” Billy slams his palm hard against the steering wheel, hard enough to shake the dash and loud enough to get Max to jump back in her seat. She shrinks back for a moment, her eyes wide, as Billy rounds on her- nostrils flared and eyes hot. She swallows thickly, then juts her chin out towards him.

“No one’s even here,” she says. “No one’s gonna see you.”

Billy half-sighs, half-growls as he sags back against his seat. He scans the parking lot- which is, as Max pointed out, empty. Then he glares back at Max.

“You say anything about this to anyone, you’re dead.”

“Who am I gonna tell?”

“Just shut up and stay in the car.”

Before Max can answer him, Billy flings open his door. He strides across the boundary between Hawkins Middle School and Hawkins High School and makes his way to Steve’s car, which has been parked but running since fifteen minutes after the final bell. Billy ducks down as he approaches, squinting into the car. Steve is in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, eyes half-closed. Billy hovers, waiting to be noticed, and when Steve doesn’t look at him he raps his knuckles against the window.

Steve jolts awake, scrambling frantically to roll down the window and looking dazed as his wide eyes met Billy’s. “I don’t-” he starts, then stammers, “I can-”, and then he starts to say something else but Billy holds up a hand to stop him.

“Easy,” he says. Steve blinks rapidly, and his flushed cheeks turn redder as he registers who he’s look at it. As Steve is connecting dots, Billy is opening his car door and reaching down to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Woah, woah, woah, I thought we said-”

“Do you know what time it is?” Billy asks. “Everyone’s gone. Let’s go.”

“I don’t-”

“Out of the car, Harrington.”

“I have to-”

“-not fucking drive, is what you have to do.”

“Billy, I-” But Billy has slipped a hand beneath Steve’s arm and is hauling him to his feet. Steve stumbles out of the car, falling hard against Billy as he tries to find his footing. His blush deepens further and he tries to push himself off, mumbling apologies.

“Relax,” Billy tells him, already beginning to guide him back to the Camaro. “I’m not gonna yell at you.” He opens the back door of the Camaro, giving Max a pointed look as he helps Steve into the back seat. “Lay down, Harrington. You look like shit.”

“S’not nice,” Steve grumbles, but he does fall against the back bench of the car. Billy falls heavily into the driver’s seat and tells Max to turn around. She rolls her eyes, but does as he says, and she says nothing as Billy drives right past Cherry Lane and makes the sharp left turn onto Steve’s street. His parents are out for the week- Max knows this because Billy had spending nights at Steve’s, something that Dustin asked her about when he stopped by to borrow something and saw Billy’s car parked around the corner.

With no parents home, Billy parks in the driveway. He secures Steve’s arm around his shoulders and instructs Max to take Steve’s keys. She uses the house key to open the front door, and then Billy tells her not to break anything.

“I’m not five, asshole.”

“Shut up and sit down, shitbird.”

Max settles herself in the living room as Billy hauls Steve up the stairs, Steve protesting the whole way up, swearing up and down that he can walk on his own and he doesn’t need help and he’s not sick, Billy, stop saying that because Steve Harrington does not get sick.

“Get in the fucking bed,” says Billy once they make it to Steve’s room.

“Oh, that’s how this is gonna go?” Steve hums with a sly grin, but his charm is hindered by the hacking cough that breaks up his words. Billy takes a pair of sweatpants from Steve’s drawer, then a t-shirt from another.

“No way in hell,” Billy says. “I’m not catching that shit.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Steve says. “I don’t get sick.”

“Whatever, Harrington,” Billy says. He tosses the clothes at Steve. “You look like road kill.”

“You’re a real dick, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Billy says. “I’ve heard. Get changed. I’ll be right back.”

Billy leaves Steve in a bundle of blankets and gym clothes and retreats down the stairs. Max, who had been in the living room flipping through channels on a television she thinks is probably bigger than Mike’s and Dustin’s combined, abandons her search when she hears Billy start to rummage through the kitchen. She watches from the doorway as he pulls a bottle of apple cider vinegar from Mrs. Harrington’s cupboard. He pulls little spice bottles from a rack on the counter and starts to shake them all into a cup: onion powder, garlic, ginger. He even cuts a lemon in half and squeezes the juice in. Just the thought of that combination makes Max wrinkle her nose.

“Are you gonna poison him or something?”

“What did I tell you?” Billy snaps.

“I mean, that shit is rank.”

“Max,” Billy warns.

“Whatever,” Max sighs. “Just try not to kill him with that shit. I like Steve.”

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Billy says. He uses a spoon to mix the possibly-not-poison, then grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and pushes past Max to get back upstairs. He stops off in the bathroom and raids the medicine cabinet, shaking some Tylenol from its bottle before returning to Steve, who is half-dozing and half-dressed when Billy arrives. “Oh, yeah,” Billy says. “You’re not sick at all.”

“Shut up,” Steve mumbles. Billy sets his haul on the nightstand. He reaches for Steve, who squirms and ducks away from him until Billy’s palm lands against his forehead.

“Shit, Harrington,” Billy says. His tone softens and he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. He moves his hand from Steve’s forehead and gentle brushes Steve’s hair out of his face. “C’mere,” he says. “Sit up.” He piles pillows behind Steve’s head as Steve pushes himself upright.

“It’s nothing,” Steve says. “I’m fine,”

“Uh-huh,” Billy says. He grabs the concoction he’d made downstairs and offers the cup to Steve. “Drink this.”

“What the fuck is that?” Steve asks, turning his head away from the cup and raising one hand to push it away.

“Yeah, I know,” Billy says. “It smells like shit. But you’ll feel better, trust me.” Steve looks warily at Billy and reluctantly takes his offering. He takes one sip, then coughs and tries to hand it back to Billy, but Billy opens his palm so he can’t take it back. “Nope,” he says. “Whole thing. Come on. Chug it.”

Steve groans, but he tips his head back and downs the rest of the offending drink. Billy takes the empty glass, then offers Steve the Tylenol and water, which he downs like a chaser.

“What the hell kind of poison was that?” Steve asks.

“Something my mom used to give me,” Billy says, “when I was a kid. I got these really nasty colds, and she was all into natural remedies. Most of it sounded like bullshit, but this shit works.”

“You swear?” Steve asks. “Because I think it made everything on my inside want to be on my outside.”

“It’ll settle down,” Billy says. As they talk, Steve slips further down on the pillows and seems to move closer and closer to Billy. Billy sets the water bottle on the nightstand and settles his now-freed hand against Steve’s back as Steve drops his head onto Billy’s lap.

“Hey, Billy?” Steve mumbles sleepily. Billy rubs his thumb against the back of the Steve’s neck, and Steve’s breathing begins to slowly even out, every few breaths punctuated with a tiny cough.

“Yeah?” Billy says.“I think I’m sick,” Steve says.

“No shit,” Billy says. “How’re you feeling now?”

“Um,” Steve says. “Okay. I think. Your mom’s weird poison thing is kind of working.”

“You want me to go?” Billy asks. “You should get some sleep.”

“I can sleep with you here,” Steve says.

Billy listens to the muffled sound of the television downstairs, thinks of the distance between himself and Max and Neil, feels the comforting weight and Steve settled sleepily in his lap and says, “Then I guess I’m staying.”

#harringrove #harringrove fic #stranger things fic #st fanfic #billy hargrove #steve harrington #lex writes fics #anon #answered #sorry this took so long!!

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

trainwreck (Branjie) chapter 1 - PinkGrapefruit

Chapter 1. she knows she’s got me wrapped around her fingers with a glance

A/N - Hey! So I’ve written a lesbian multi-chapter whats up. This is a fake dating AU and should have about 3 chapters. Special thanks to @freykitten for being the best beta and finally learning how to use google docs and also to @artificialcherubi for being my UK pal and fourth eye. I use terrible Spanish at one point, I’ve been learning it five years and i’d still like to apologise, aside from that - As usual, all characters are my own interpretation and therefore completely fictional, Enjoy!

Brooke dances like a fish in the ocean. Like the salt spray is coating her as she dives through the surface and back onto the stage. She is lithe and lean and feels the music as if she is conducting it herself. Every turn she makes, every rise is calculated perfectly in time to the melodic hum of classical music that flows through the auditorium. It is a Saturday in June and the air is warm like barbecues yet the powerful air conditioning lets a cool undercurrent flow around the dancers’ feet as she jumps and jetěs.

Vanessa wonders how she got so lucky as to be watching Brooke perform. Standing on the sidelines, just close enough to the stage that she can still see the judges react whilst being safely hidden in the wings. She is utterly in awe. It is competition season and it flows through her veins hot, like liquid courage as she absorbs the confidence Brooke has and hopes to throw it back out onto the floor in six numbers time. It is her first nationals. She is unsure of how she can compete with what she’s watching.

As soon as it began, the show is over and Brooke steps off the stage with a sigh of relief and a smile. She unties her pointe shoes with languid arm motions, letting the muscles relax after two-and-a-half minutes of stress. The silk falls away from her easily and soon she is barefoot, nursing a large blister that her toe pads neglected to prevent and catching the gaze of a short, dark-haired girl five feet away. Despite her staring, the girl has not yet noticed Brookes’ attention focused on her, hands rubbing each other in a frenzied panic as she shifts from foot to foot. She turns as she shifts, allowing Brooke to read the paper tacked to the back of her leotard, ‘115, Vanessa Mateo’. She decides this is a sign from the universe that she should be more sociable.

“Vanessa,” calls Brooke from her position on the floor. As she hears her voice echo in the wings she notices how Canadian she sounds among the bevvy of American accents she’s been surrounded with. Since moving to Florida a little over 3 years ago her accent had weakened significantly, but every competition she attends always brings it back with a vengeance. Seemingly reacquainted with reality, the girl’s head snaps up at the sound of her name. Her features are small but bright and Brooke imagines that in any other scenario, they would radiate confidence - it just appears to be lost under the competition lipstick and false eyelashes.

As Brooke changes into more comfortable shoes, worn out black pumps covered in ballet chalk - Vanessa makes her way over, body shaking a little either from nerves or redbull. She supposes it could be both. “Hi, I just wanted to say you were great and I’m almost nervous to compete against-” She trails off as she reaches her, Brooke watching her like a predator watches its prey, like she’s the one holding the cards. Vanessa looks at her, studying the minutia of her face before taking a deep breath and trying to regain the composure she ruled her everyday life with. “I’m Vanessa,” she states, confidence flowing through her movements effortlessly as she holds out her hand. Brooke, being the Canadian stereotype she is, takes it with a tilt of the head. It’s not that she’d never met a polite Floridian before, but she’d never met a Floridian so willing to shake hands. “I know. I’m Brooke,” she replies heartily, chuckling as she does so. “You were great, Brooke” the girl repeats, with less bravado this time, testing the name out on her tongue. “Fucking beautiful to watch.”

Brooke blushes, focuses on the way her shoelaces fall on her ankles in perfect curves, the colour combination of the black on her pink tights. She notices the way Vanessa’s toenails are painted red, which she imagines to be the colour of her soul, and decides she must be a contemporary dancer because her feet aren’t nearly damaged enough for ballet and all the jazz dancers she knows wear shoes. She lets that train of thought take her as far as it will go, carrying her back to the conversation at hand. “Thank you,” she whispers like a prayer because a gorgeous stranger has told her that her dancing was beautiful, that maybe she is beautiful, and she doesn’t know what else to do. She believes that it’s gay panic, she should know by now.

She is snapped out of this by an angry Latina waving a pair of matte black dance shoes in the air and cursing in Spanish.

“VANESSA ISABELLA VANJIE MATEO,” she shouts, voice as loud as thunder but about as threatening as a stuffed animal. “¿GILIPUERTAS, NO TE CRIÉ BIEN?”. Accompanied by some thorough hand gestures and angry furrowing of eyebrows, the whole situation had Vanessa looking like she wanted to cry as, what she assumes to be her mother, hands off her shoes with quiet words. She sits beside Brooke as she slips them on, hands back to shaking as she struggles with the thin laces. With a sudden rush of care for the girl, Brooke gently nudges her hands out of the way and ties them for her, searching for the words to address the situation. She comes up blank.

As she finishes, she notices that Vanessa and her mom have started talking in hushed voices. From her knowledge of French, Brooke can pick out some words, although she is unsure of whether she is intruding in a private conversation. She is about to get up and leave when Vanessa grabs her arm and, as boldly as she can muster, declares “I can’t ‘cause I’m dating Brooke.”

The look she gets before she can even reply is both grateful and apologetic as the shorter girl moves in front of her. From behind, Brooke can really appreciate the height difference. When she’d been sat down, she assumed she’d be a little taller, maybe two or three inches at most, but standing up, she realises it’s at least a head. She finds herself unsure of what she should do with her arms as one is commandeered by the Latina who is again talking in angry Spanish to an equally emotional older woman. She laces their fingers, allows the smaller palm to fit neatly within her own curling around the soft skin. The speaking becomes softer, turns back into English and as she looks up, she meets the mothers’ eyes. “How would you feel about Sunday dinner, Brooke?” asks the woman, all calm words and easy smiles now. Brooke is startled, confused and, to be fair, a little scared by the question. It is all she can do to nod along and when Vanessa’s number gets called, she is kissed on the cheek and left to her own devices as her mother follows her step in the direction of the stage.

Once they are both far away enough, she grazes a hand over her cheek to feel the greasy lipstick mark that was left behind. Her cheeks are warm and she imagines the rest of her body is in a similar state because she is so unreasonably confused by the whole affair, the last ten minutes feel like a blur of sandalwood perfume and Spanish.

She leaves her bag in the wings and moves to the auditorium to watch Vanessa dance; the movements are fluid and fiery and she is certainly a jazz dancer because Brooke doubts that her body could move slow enough to convey all the hidden meanings of a lyrical piece. She finds that she is fine with sitting there and watching the dark-haired dancer lay it all out on the floor - ballet may be beautiful, but this is heart racing, head spinning gorgeous.

It is hours later, when Brooke is still confused and Vanessa still a little flustered, that the two find each other again. Vanessa placed third in the senior solos with Brooke finishing a happy first place, ecstatic about her win but perhaps a little regretful that she beat out the Latina for the top spot. Vanessa seeks her out in the changing rooms, hurries a small card into her hand and a chaste kiss onto her cheek, for the sake of her mother watching them, before she leaves. As she thumbs the card over in her hand, Brooke notices the graphic words on the other side:

(813)-445-1988

text me beautiful, V xx

She can feel the confidence burnt into the card, imagines a smirk, similar to the one she held watching Brooke win. With the little self-control she still has, she promises herself to wait and text Vanessa when she gets home. Unaware, her mom just smiles at her daughters’ smile when she clambers into the back of the car.

Brooke: hey, its brooke

Brooke: from dance

Vanessa: hey beautiful

Brooke: i’m confused

Vanessa: of course u are

Vanessa: look, im sorry but i panicked. i told my mom we’re dating to stop her from tryin to set me up with this ballet dude

Vanessa: just play along and come to sunday dinner

Brooke: fine, but it’s not that easy

Vanessa: thank you

Vanessa: wdum

Brooke: we’ve got to have a plan, for questions

Vanessa: we’ve been dating for three months, met at the firefly comp a few months back cos u were watching, first kiss on the first date, amusement park blah blah u get it

Vanessa: wear something hot (but not too hot bc grandparents)

Brooke: just text me your address

Vanessa: googlemaps.png

Vanessa: thanks again, ur a life saver

Brooke: it’s fine, you better make it up to me though.

Vanessa: see you sunday babe :)

Brooke smiles into her sweater, allows her feelings to bubble in her like a hot air balloon. She thinks she’d like to watch the sunrise accompanied by those red-painted lips whose owner she can’t seem to get out of her head - wonders if that could happen one day. Sunday better come quickly.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #lesbian au #fake dating au #trainwreck #pinkgrapefruit #concrit welcome #submission

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hexalene · 6 years

Note

So i uh. Was scrolling through, and found the florist stories? And was wondering if there were any more? Cause they're great, and i love them.

There are always more, my dear anon (・ω・)ノ

So this story is about three particular interactions I had with one of the regular shoppers at our store! I want to clarify that these three interactions weren’t sequential, but over the course of about eight months, which will hopefully make sense by the end :)

—

A tiny old lady comes up to me and asks if any of the plants we have are good for coughs, like natural cough drops?

Well, as far as I knew, no. But! We did have tea, locally produced honey, and ginger root. As I’m walking her over to the shelf, I notice she’s not looking me in the eye, but at my hair.

My hair is fairly long, and dyed bright ass purple. I love it. Most older people do not. So I keep talking, hoping to get through this interaction without a lecture about jobstobbers.

Unfortunately, it was not meant to be. Tea, ginger, and honey in hand, this tiny old lady smiles and thanks me, and says,

“But sweetheart, whatever did your poor mother say when she saw what you did to your lovely hair?”

Truthfully, I respond: “She started buying me purple clothes that match the color of my hair.”

—

Around thanksgiving, we’re looking for fresh basil to season her tomato soup with.

About this time, she’s gotten used to my dyed hair, sort of (we’ve had many many many conversations about “my poor mother” who she genuinely cannot believe likes my hair).

“But don’t you worry what the boys your age must think of you?”

I’m holding two potted basil in my hands, and we’d just been talking about how this plant will keep growing if she cares for it, which she was very excited about. This foray back into The State Of My Hair is a little out of nowhere, although I could tell she was distressed over the new pink tips that had faded in.

My first impulse is to tell her that the girls I’m into have way crazier hair than me, but while she’s never said anything homophobic, I wasn’t up to that battle. Besides, I do like this woman. “Well, ma’am, I don’t think I’d want to date someone who couldn’t love me over something as shallow as my hair color…”

That seems to give her some thought, because she nods. She also sighs and says, “Jennifer wants to color her hair.”

Jennifer is her eleven year old great-granddaughter. Jennifer has also recently discovered the pop-punk scene and thinks I am some sort of pop-punk god. This is an adorable misconception that I AM going to go on a tangent about, so buckle up:

—

Jennifer usually accompanies her great grandma to the grocery store, so we’ve met a few times. This time, I’m wearing a Panic! At The Disco shirt, and we get to chatting about Fall Out Boy, when I happen to mention going to see them in concert back in 2007.

Jennifer’s eyes go HUGE and she whispers, “You got to see them in concert in 2007?? I wasn’t even alive back then!”

…the story ends here because I promptly crumbled into ash and died, leaving my florist station unmanned, my shop abandoned, and my youth draining into the gutters with the fragile remains of my ego.

“I wasn’t even alive back then!” Christ I’m getting old. This is only going to get worse as I get older too, god I remember when you could only watch anime by pirating it off of old VHS tapes and all of the cool anime merch had to be bought in a shady ass adult video store with curtains separating the kids from the dildos. My mom came in with me exactly once, and saw Inuyasha playing in shitty quality on a tiny TV and would you BE-LIEVE it had to be one of those bathing scenes. Took me years of swearing up and down that anime wasn’t synonymous with porn before she would let me buy Spirited Away on DVD, much less deign to watch—

Wait, too much tangent, back to grandma.

—

Jennifer is tip-toeing around Granny’s conservative sensibilities by gingerly applying small streaks of chalk color to her hair. Easing grandma into the idea of colored hair. I suspect I’m also being used to desensitize granny somewhat, as I’m CLEARLY employable, healthy, and sane. It’s a process.

At this moment, Jennifer is sporting one (1) streak of pink in her bangs. So rebellious. I tell them honestly that I think it looks cute, and besides, the schools around here allow it now, so it can’t be that bad, right?

Grandma purses her lips, and takes the basil plants from my hands. “Well, I suppose this chalk stuff is okay, since it washes out. But could you imagine such a thing on a woman my age?”

“Hey, why not?” I tell her. “You’ve got pure white hair so it would take the color really well, you’re married, you’ve got two generations of grandkids…why not have some fun?”

She looks absolutely gobsmacked. “Me! With colored hair! Oh, that’s ridiculous, dear.”

—

You can probably guess where this is heading.

As much as I would LOVE to say that this nice grandma went whole hog and dyed her hair bright neon pink or something, this customer isn’t that wild lmao.

Instead, around last Christmas, this happened:

The poinsettias are in, which is both blessing and curse. They come in a MASSIVE variety of boxes, with traditional poinsettia arrangements and the endless string of strange novelty poinsettia ornament vases. They’re TINY, half of them are BROKEN, and the Christmas trees will be arriving in like, ten minutes, and the early birds and prudent customers are all swarming us like VULTURES.

Among these vultures is grandma, Jennifer, and Jennifer’s father (?). They catch my eye, and break out of the kettle to speak to me. I’ve never met the man, but he just stands there on his phone looking vaguely annoyed, so for our purposes, he’s not there.

Jennifer points to her grandma’s head and whispers, “Look!”

Two locks—barely a fourth of an inch each—have been colored red and green. A strand between them is still white. All three have been tied into a red, white, and green braid. The braid is carefully clipped into a bun with a tiny gold icon of the manger scene.

As I’m gasping and congratulating grandma for her rebellion, she’s giggling with excitement and tells me, “I made sure to talk to Father Ben about it first, and he promised me that the Lord would see this as a lovely way to celebrate His son’s birth.”

She paused, then said, “It’s temporary, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” I tell her. “You can’t go too crazy right out the gate.”

And she nods, “Exactly. That’s what I told Jennifer. You know, I’ve never done anything like this in my life? Can you believe that? My husband was so surprised!”

(Last I heard, grandma has not dyed her hair again, although she is still very very proud of herself for doing so. I haven’t seen her lately, but I’m hoping she comes around this Christmas with more dyed braids)

#anecdotes #florist stories #asks!

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glitterandsummerdaze · 6 years

Text

My Paradise

Pairing: Ashton x Reader

Word Count: 3,485

A/N: Hi! So I started writing this as sort of a celebration for hitting 3.5k (which is crazy to me), and now I’m about to my next hundred! So thanks for that. S/O to DJ @singledadharrington for being my beautiful beta and for your encouraging words♥♥ This is the first serious thing I’ve ever written and I hope you enjoy it!

Based On: This Girl by Hunter Hayes (x)

I love this girl, watching that throwback movie with a glass of wine

Thunder crashed over Ashton as he pulled into your driveway, his studio session not going quite as planned. The band had been reluctant to call it a day, but they also weren’t being productive. A streak of lightning flashed in the horizon, but he was almost to your apartment now. The rain had started suddenly about halfway through his drive back from the studio. He’d been annoyed beforehand, but didn’t mind the rain. The rain meant you being wrapped in his arms, legs intertwined with one another. His favorite kind of day.

Sure enough, when he walked into your apartment, there you were: wrapped in a blanket, one hand cradling a glass of wine and the other keeping the blanket wrapped tight around you, eyes affixed to the television playing Pretty Woman. A soft smile spread across Ashton’s face as he watched your lips move in time with the lines. Shedding his jacket and his shoes, he places his keys in the key dish, and plods over to the couch.

“Mind if I join you?” He asks, already sliding in beside you. You shoot him a glance, place your wine glass down, and hold your finger to your lips, “Shhh babe, this is my favorite part!” Ash rolls his eyes, wraps his arm around your shoulders and places a kiss to your temple. A grin the size of the Cheshire Cat begins to spread across his face as you emphatically recite Vivian’s speech to Edward, never missing a beat. This moment made him glad that he’d come home early, otherwise he wouldn’t have realized that he was overwhelmingly head over heels for you.

I’m falling more and more every minute, and I don't think I can live without her

You were curled up reading by the light of the bedside table lamp, when you got the text from Ash.

Ashhole: Stay w u 2nite?

You knew he was out with the boys, it was Thursday night after all. They’d probably been drinking for a couple hours. Ashton liked to think he could hold his liquor, but really it just took longer to hit him.

Y/N: Sure babe, be safe. Make sure you’re drinking water my love xx

Your lip perks up a bit, you hadn’t been expecting to see Ashton until at least Saturday. You wondered what drunk Ashton would make an appearance today: philosophical Ashton or energetic Ashton. Half an hour passed before you found out.

The front door unlocked and you could hear several sets of feet enter, walking towards the bedroom. You set your book on the night table, as the bedroom door opened and in stumbled Ashton being partially carried by both Cal and Michael.

“Y/N! Light of my life, muse for my soul, fire of my loins!” Ashton called out, the boys dumping him on his side of the bed.

Calum giggled as Michael made a disgusted face, “Dude! I don’t wanna hear about your loins!” Calum wraps his arm around Michael’s shoulders, “Hey, Ash can’t help it. The loins want what the loins want,” earning him a punch to his arm from his friend. You laugh at their stupid antics and gave Ash a once-over to see if you could handle him on your own.

“Alright boys, I’ll take it from here.” You get up from the bed, much to Ashton’s chagrin.

“Baaaabe,” he whined, “they know how to leeeeave.”

You roll your eyes, “yeah but I gotta lock the door you bum.”

The three of you leave him pouting, as you walk Calum and Michael to the door.

“He wouldn’t shut up about you y’know. The whole night.” Calum says, as he hugs you.

“Yeah, he was like that annoying song that gets stuck in your head. We only put up with it because it was about you.” Michael says, giving you a tired smile.

You beam back at them, letting them out only after they ensure you that they’ll get home safe. You lock the door, shut off the lights and head back to your room, shutting the door.

You look at Ashton, who’d gotten his shoes and shirt off, working on his pants. He was looked back at you, with the dopiest smile. You take in Ash’s appearance: his hair messy and falling, his hazel eyes were glassy, and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. His chest was out, boasting his dark chest hair, shirt hanging on by a single button. You raise an eyebrow as you meet his eyes.

“You good there?” You question, walking towards the bed.

“Oh I’m beautiful, y/n,” finally undoing the button, taking off his pants before sliding into the bed, “Of course I’m nowhere near as beautiful as you.” You scoff as you lay down in bed next to him. Ash pulls you close, wrapping his arms around your waist, placing your head on his chest.

“Did you have fun tonight bub?” You ask, playing with the hair on his chest.

“Yeah...missed you though.” He candidly answers, kissing the top of your head. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing exciting really. Spoke to my sister, FaceTimed my mom. They both say hello. Mom wants to know when you wanna…” you trailed off, noticing how slow his breaths had gotten.

You reach over to turn off the light on the beside table. You lay back on Ash’s chest, and you’ve almost drifted to sleep yourself when Ash pipes up, “I like this,” his voice laced with fatigue, “coming home to you. Going to bed with you. Almost like it’s meant to be easy,” he yawns, “just like this.”

You look up at him, his eyes are closed, lips slightly raised in a content smile, dimples shadowing on his cheeks.

“Night, Ash” you whispered, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

“Night y/n, I love you.” He replies, causing your breath to stop. You two had been seeing each other for a couple months, dating exclusively for a while but hadn’t said the L word yet. Neither one of you wanted to put expectations on the other by saying it too early, knowing you had both been hurt by previous lovers. You’d wanted to say it a few times, but didn’t want him to not say it back. With a sad smile, you chalked it up to him being drunk, and soon found yourself in slumber.

How lucky am I that I get to love this girl?

I get to see that side of her that no one knows but me

When you were upset, the number one rule was to not let people see you be anything but poised. They didn’t get to see you in your moments of weakness because you felt that damaged the strong, independent woman image that you’d constructed around yourself. When Ashton found you, you were sitting in the bathtub. He could see the tension in your shoulders, smell the lavender bath salts in the air as you were attempting to cool down. You looked like you were a ball of stress, and Ash felt bad that he couldn’t do anything about it. You had seen him walk in, yet hadn’t said a word to him, which was uncommon for you. So, he left you to your bath and waited until you were ready. You found him on the couch, waiting for you. Taking a seat in the armchair, you wrapped your arms around your legs, and stared aimlessly at whatever Ashton was watching, not really caring or understanding what it was going on.

“Y/N, honey, you need to eat something.” Ashton urges as he set spaghetti down on the coffee table in front of you. You had no idea when the movie had ended or when Ashton had started cooking, but you knew he was right. Ash himself sat down across from you with his own plate, face etched in worry. You pick up your fork, and twirl the spaghetti on the fork. “Okay, that’s step one.” He jokes. “Step two is lifting it up and getting it in your mouth. Like this,” Ash says, demonstrating by putting his fork in his mouth as if you were a child. “Step three is to chew like this.” He began to chew emphatically, loudly smacking. This garnered him an eye roll, which made him feel like a kid in a candy store because at least you were reacting. You put the spaghetti in your mouth with a sarcastic smile, “Happy?”

“Not if you’re not.” He replies, shocking you thoroughly. It’s been a couple of weeks since his late night confession. He didn’t seem to remember it, and so you’d been acting like he never said anything. You look down, playing with the noodles on your plate, pushing them around. “Hey,” he says tenderly, “we don’t have to talk about it. It might help you but I’m not gonna push you. Okay?” You look up at him, gratitude and anger and sorrow all swirling in your eyes.

“Yeah, okay.” You gave him a sad smile, and tried to eat because he wanted you to. He chatted nonchalantly about his next tech-free vacation in a cabin in the Nevada mountains, complete with fishing and bonfires. You’d finished what you were going to eat, satisfying Ashton who whisked the plates into the kitchen.

When he returned you were feeling a little better, so you joined him on the couch. On a commercial, you begin to speak. “Thanks Ashton. I’m not used to this...the whole ‘someone cares when I get into a funk’ thing?” His hand intertwined with yours as you continued, “I really,” your voice began to wobble as tears threaten your eyes, “a-appreciate you being here for me, but also giving me my space. So thank you. And thank you for not making me talk about it.” You gave his hand a squeeze and tried to fight the tears in your eyes, but a few fell anyway.

“Hey,” Ash said wiping the tears, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me, or to anyone else for that matter. It’s my job to be here for you, it’s what people do when they’re in lo…” he took half a hair of a pause, “relationships.” Your eyes widened slightly, wondering if you had imagined him almost saying the L word again. You wanted him to say it again, consciously, so you could say it back. He tinged a bit pink before continuing, “It’s okay to cry Y/N, you get to withdraw. You get to be sad, you don’t have to be so damn strong all the time. And when you need someone to tell you that, I’ll be here. No matter what.” Ash pulled you into his side, wrapping his arms around your frame, kissing your temple. Internally, he was cursing himself for almost saying he was in love with you. What if you weren’t ready for that yet? He didn’t want to ruin what the two of you had. You pulled back and placed kisses on his forehead, his nose, and finally placed a soft kiss on his lips.

“Thanks Ashton, I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

He tinged a deeper pink as his cheeks, “I ask myself that all the time Y/N.”

My paradise is that bedhead beauty with the sleepy eyes

My best night is any one that ends with her

You had spent the day at Ashton’s, you’d come over the night before and it had been too late to drive home. When you awoke, you were facing Ash with his arm wrapped around your waist. You took this moment to look at your boyfriend. Ashton’s eyes were closed, his eyelashes splayed a crossed his cheeks, his lips slightly parted as he breathed. His hair was a curled bird’s nest atop his head, making you smile as you remembered running your hands through it last night during a heavy makeout session. Even with the bedhead, he was still one of the most beautiful people you’d ever seen. It was more than his appearance though, it was who he was as a person. Ashton was patient and kind, he didn’t push you when you were upset. He was optimistic, trying to see the good in everything, even when the chips were down. You knew this was something he’d had to adapt and it could be hard sometimes, but that didn’t stop him. Ashton was open minded and took all facts into consideration before making decisions, a quality that is rare in a person, never mind a 24 year old rockstar. That rockstar passion of his carried over to more than just his drumming. Ashton would no questions bury a body for his friends and family. He was exactly the kind of person everyone needed in their life.

And as a boyfriend? You couldn’t ask for much more. He was attentive to you without being overbearing, listening intently to you talk about things he had no clue about or interest in. He made sure to send at least a good morning and good night text everyday. Whenever he saw something that made him think of you, whether that be flowers on the side of the road or a new notebook, he made sure to get it for you. Everything between the two of you was mutual, and talked about. You were still getting used to having a boyfriend who wasn’t just in the relationship because of the sex or the fact that you didn’t ask their every move; one who didn’t try to control you. Ashton was a breath of fresh air. The calm after many storms had hit you, and you knew a couple of weeks in, you loved him. Point blank. It scared you how much you wanted, no, needed him around; how much he constantly took up your thoughts, wondering what he was doing and he was remembering to eat and sleep properly. You’d wanted to tell him a couple of times, but didn’t know how to slip it in. Everytime you thought about saying it, you chickened out. You wished you could just say it, but you didn’t want to scare him with these big feelings you were having. But you wanted to shout that you loved Ashton from the rooftops. As he stirred awake, his eyes opening slowly, a smile when he saw you beside him, you knew you had to tell him and you had to tell him soon.

My real deal girl with her hair up, guard down, telling me what's on her mind

Ashton turned the key to unlock the door to your apartment, feeling like he’d been using your key more than his own lately. But as long as you weren’t turning him away, he’d keep coming back. You were sitting up against the headboard on your bed, reading something on your phone when he came in. You’d changed from your work clothes and were chilling in sweats, glass of wine on your bedside table. Ashton took off his shoes and jacket and joined you on the bed. You finished the article, locked your phone and turned your body to give him your attention. He took your hand in his and intertwined your fingers. He looked a bit off, not his usual happy self.

“Ashton, what’s wrong bub?” Worry laced your question, he had been fine when he’d left a couple hours ago to go shower and grab some clothes from his place. He shrugged in response, fiddling with your fingers in his hand. You were confused, had you said something? Was he regretting this?

He sighed and turned to look at you, his eyes dulled. Ash was not one to hold back, so he took a breath, before speaking.

“It’s just...what are we...what is this that we’re doing?” He was making direct eye contact, making you squirm a bit.

“Um…” you hesitated, “Where is this coming from?”

“It’s just I can’t tell if we’re on the same page. If we’re in this together. What is this to you? Is this short term? Is it long term? Because if it’s short term...let me know now. I can’t risk it again.”

Your heart began to break in your chest, you cleared your throat, and move from the bed. Pacing the room as you begin to answer his question. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in this for however long you are. I go to sleep thinking about you, I wake up wondering if you’re up. I miss you all the time when you’re in the studio for days on end. I worry about if you’re getting enough sleep and if you remembered to schedule your appointment for the optometrist like you’ve been saying you would for months.” “I…” Ashton tries to interrupt, but you hold your hand up to stop him because if you don’t, you were never gonna get this out. “I feel safe with you, unguarded. Like I could say anything in the world and you wouldn’t question it. I love how open you are with your fans, and how affectionate you are with your family. I love how passionate you are with your beliefs, but not so passionate that you’re dogmatic. I love the way you listen no matter what, and you know when to back off. I love that you call me out when I’m being outrageous. I love that you pull me closer when we sleep. That you cuddle after we have sex, and you don’t just turn over. You ask if I’m okay with plans all the time. You kill the spiders that I will not touch,” this elicited a giggle from Ashton. You give him a smile and go back to intertwine your hand with his, “Ashton, I love your mind and how thoughtful you are. And apparently it’s taken way too long for me to say it when I’ve felt this since the beginning,” you rushed, “but I love you, I am in love with you and I am falling for you more and more every day.” You finished, heart pumping rapidly. The room was silent, you were sure Ashton could hear your heart’s rhythm. You nervously began to fidget with the comforter, waiting for Ashton to say something.

“Ash, can you say something? It’s fine if you don’t feel the same way, I’ll be fine...I just. I can’t lose—“ it was his time to silence you, with a soft finger to your lips.

“Wait...why didn’t you say anything when I told you I loved you that night I stayed over? After the night with the boys?” Ashton inquired honestly.

“I didn’t know if you would remember and I didn’t want to tie you to something you said when you were drunk. What if you were just saying it y’know? I couldn’t do that to myself, not again…” you were rambling again and Ashton stopped you again.

“Would you hold on a second so I can tell you officially that I love you too? I love that you go on long winded rants and that you pick out all the orange and yellow skittles to eat first so that the rest of the pack is only the good flavors.” He smiles at you, making your heart warm. “I love that you fight me on things all the time and that I can come to you at any point and you’ll drop everything. I love that you let your guard down, you let me see the real you. The strong and beautiful, caring and sarcastic version of you that you try to hide. I love that you don’t start driving until you pick the perfect song, and that you sing off key to my music when you’re in the shower and you don’t know I’m here.” Ashton gets closer, stroking your cheek and making sure you were listening. He leaned in a little bit, before dropping to just above a whisper, his eyes searching yours as if looking for answers, “I’m in it for as long as you want to be, because I love you too.” You leaned the rest of the way in and met Ashton’s lips with your own. You wound your hands in his hair, as he pressed his to your back, pulling you in, trying to get your bodies as close as possible. This kiss was full of all the love that you guys had been negligent of admitting, it was hard and soft. You pulled back for air, and placed your foreheads together, giggling,

“I love you” you said.

Ashton placed kisses all over your face, eliciting giggles from you. He beamed at you, “I love you too. God am I gonna love hearing that all the time.”

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redditnosleep · 6 years

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There Was A Series Of Unexplained Deaths In My Town In 1988

by crystakat

In the winter of 1988, bodies began appearing on the border between my town and the surrounding woods. A group of campers had stumbled upon a man in his early thirties, completely nude and almost perfectly preserved by the cold weather. By the end of the day, two more had been found within a quarter-mile radius. All three were naked, found lying on open ground as if there’d been no attempt to hide them. One woman and two men. None bore any visible wounds.

The news exploded. It was a little backwoods town where not much happened, so when three strangers turned up dead hardly a mile off of Revell Street, it became all anyone could talk about. I was just a kid then, a few months into sixth grade, and the rumors that spread around school were ridiculous.

Family breakfast that morning was quieter than usual. Mom was horrified, poring over the newspaper as she wondered aloud if it was safe to send my eight-year-old sister and me to school by ourselves.

“Jesus,” she said, gesturing at the paper. “Look at this, Michael. They put their photos in. That’s just not decent.”

Dad glanced over. “I’ll bet you it’s drugs, and this whole fuss is for nothing.”

“Can I see?” I asked, reaching out to take the paper from mom.

She pursed her lips. “Fine, but don’t show Mandy.” I grabbed it and looked it over: three grainy pictures of nondescript faces. It was kind of disappointing, though I didn’t dare say that out loud. While mom was washing the dishes, I let my sister have a peek.

Mandy stuck her tongue out as she looked them over. “That one looks like William,” she giggled, pointing at the leftmost photo, a man with dark hair and a rasp of stubble. “He’s a boy in my class.” It was so innocently morbid that I couldn’t help but laugh. I got up to help mom with the dishes, though even as I occupied myself with chores, I couldn’t help but linger on the strange deaths.

My dad insisted there was a logical explanation for it all. Three young people, drunk and stumbling lost in the woods on a below-zero night… well, he said, you can imagine what happens next.

In the following week, he was proven wrong. The autopsy was published: no trace of drugs, medicinal or otherwise, in their blood. No alcohol either. The cause of death couldn’t be ascertained; there had been no physical trauma, no blood loss, no pre-existing medical conditions. The article in the newspaper declared it most closely resembled death by shock: a sudden, massive rush of adrenaline essentially stunning the heart into inaction. That only seemed to open up more questions. One person might have been explainable, but three? What’s enough to shock three people like that?

A chunk of the woods had already been put under police patrol when a new body turned up, nude yet unharmed like the others. It’d been snowing pretty heavily that winter, blanketing the woods in a thick white layer, and at night I’d lay awake and think of how awful it was to die like that, freezing and alone with only the shadows of trees stretching over you.

Before the week was over, there was a fifth body, sprawled in almost the exact same spot. Somehow, nobody had seen where it’d come from. One police officer interviewed by the press said he’d been passing through the area just minutes prior, and in the time that he was gone, it was like it'd just “blinked into existence”.

A fresh wave of rumors emerged at school, though now they were less nervously excited, more tinged with fear. Though the evidence was frustratingly nonexistent, the unspoken consensus was that they had to be murders.

When a sixth body popped up, a 10 pm curfew was imposed on adults and children alike. If I remember correctly, that was around the time the FBI caught wind of the case. The whole stretch of forest had already been cordoned off with police tape, the perimeter constantly surveilled by a flock of solemn-looking officers who made sure no one got in or out. I’d used to play in that forest all the time with my friends, and seeing it suddenly made into the site of six bloodless deaths was surreal, to say the least. That was what the media started calling it: the Bloodless Murders. Sometimes the bodies came in pairs, sometimes alone. By the tenth or eleventh, there was a definite pattern: while they varied in ethnicity and sex, they were all relatively young, twenties to forties, and all found nude. Some even looked as if they’d had clothes on minutes before, with the indentation of a watch or waistband still etched into their skin at the time of discovery.

Have you ever been in a room where everyone’s holding their breath? Every person just waiting for the ball to drop, the silence so bad that you could almost drown in it? Now imagine a whole town.

You want to know the strangest part about all this? Weeks dragged on, and none of the bodies were ever identified. Their fingerprints were intact, but there were no known matches. DNA testing came up empty. A public campaign to find the identities of the Bloodless victims turned up nothing. It was like these people had emerged from nowhere. Deprived of their names and backstories, the victims went unmourned, blurred into one murky entity.

Shit really hit the fan about a month into the case. Some up-and-coming journalist—a guy by the name of Walton, I think—claimed to have uncovered the truth behind it all, and wrote a tell-all article divulging the details that hadn’t been released by police or FBI. Apparently, the Bloodless Murders weren’t so bloodless after all. It was true that most were found untouched, but four of the dead practically had had bites taken out of them, whole sections of their bodies just gone. One guy was missing almost half his right side, and one of the women was short an arm. “Bites” might be a little misleading, though. The missing pieces had been removed cleanly—almost too cleanly. In Walton’s words, they looked as if they’d been “scooped” out, or simply magicked away.

Walton claimed he had the records to prove the area was under even more intense surveillance than most would’ve guessed. Besides hundreds of cameras that had been covertly installed in trees and rocks throughout the forest, there were also loads of temperature data loggers and state-of-the-art recording equipment, along with a whole host of other devices that I couldn’t even wrap my head around. Stuff that measured radiation and minute changes in the composition of the air. If he was right, it must’ve cost a ton. Supposedly the data showed “climatological deviations”—basically weird spikes and dips in temperature corresponding to the times that the bodies were found.

If Walton was right, there was a good chance that the FBI was in possession of video and audio recordings showing the origin of the bodies. It sounded like a crazy conspiracy, even though Walton hadn’t been able to come up with a solid theory for the reason behind the cover-ups. That was the part that drove me crazy. I must’ve re-read that article a hundred times.

What happened next was total lockdown. The newspaper was pulled from publication in the blink of an eye. Walton publicly apologized for having made fabricated claims and trying to make a spectacle out of the deaths. Not much was heard from him after that. The case was under the full jurisdiction of the FBI, according to my parents, and local police were all but shut out of it. I don’t know what happened, exactly, but suddenly the media coverage dropped to zero.

At school, the teachers gave a talk about it, how we were all safe and there was to be no further spreading of rumors. I remember thinking about the weirdness of that whole day. While Mr. Russell was going on and on about the importance of following the curfew, there’d been a team of adults who quietly escorted kid after kid out of the room, ushering each one back in about ten minutes later. One of them was my friend, Sophia. After the assembly, I quizzed her about what had happened over a lunch of stale pizza.

“It was really weird,” she said, picking halfheartedly at her food. “They took a sample of my spit, and some of my hair and nails too. You think they’re checking for diseases?”

I didn’t know how to answer her. The whole thing left a sour taste in mouth, and I felt helpless and scared. The parents must’ve been encouraged not to talk about it either, because whenever I brought it up to my mom and dad after the whole Walton fiasco had gone down, they shut me down fast.

In hindsight, I probably never should have attempted the plan. On a Friday night, I snuck out after curfew, armed with only a handful of granola bars and a flashlight. I biked down to the woods. It didn’t take long; it was one of those childhood routes that you know by heart. I wasn’t even sure about what I was hoping to find. Chalk it up to mix of curiosity and senselessness.

There were patrols standing around, but I managed to make my way to a dense copse of trees and snuck in from there, feeling my heart racing a hundred miles an hour as I ducked under the yellow police tape. The sheer stupidity of my idea hadn’t quite settled in yet. If what Walton had written about the surveillance had been true, there wasn’t a chance in hell that I wasn’t going to get spotted, but being a kid and all, I hoped I’d get off with a slap on the wrist. I turned my flashlight on to the dimmest setting and began my trek, praying that I knew the path through the woods as well as I thought.

Time passed differently that night. Maybe I was walking around for thirty minutes; maybe it was three hours. The sky was inky black, and in the darkness, the trees distorted themselves into more and more monstrous forms with each step I took. All I know is, when I stumbled across the body, the world came to a shuddering halt.

Under the cone of artificial light, the body looked fresh, the skin still pink. I remembered thinking if I’d touched him, he might still have been warm. His eyes were wide open, glassy as a river, face set in an expression of determination. There was a tattoo on his bare chest, a sentence written in a shaky scrawl:

IT COMES ON 07.11.2036

#creepy #horror story #author: crystakat #unexplained murders

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chants-de-lune · 6 years

Text

I wrote a 1.8k ficlet based on ALYSSA @stargirlclarke telling me that she’s working retail with her hot neighbor this month. This is just absurdly fluffy and it’ll go on AO3 when I get around to it.

Happy Belated Birthday @beachfckerblake!!!

@jingle-bellamy @christmasleia @scottmcblake @grumpybell @boob-morley @jingle-ladybells @ravenbellclarke @festivebellamy @starboybellamy @bellesolo

The Neighbors Might Think

To say that Clarke hated December retail was an understatement.

With the hours on her feet, constant drone of Christmas carols, and too many incidents of irritable customers, she was ready to scream into a stocking at the end of a double shift.

But Vera Kane’s little ornament store was quaint and homely, a cozy niche in Arkadia’s only mall.

Clarke left the back room with a sigh, looking over to the most handsome perk of working at Vera’s Decor.

“I like how you hung snowflakes from the fairy lights in the display window,” Bellamy said with a smile as he unpacked a box of garlands. Clarke smiled back, feeling her heart skip a beat.

“Thanks. I’m going to put Vera’s menorah underneath them once I finish inventory.“

She had known him since she was old enough to remember running to the end of her driveway with chalk in hand, sketching pink and purple clouds while he rode his scooter around the cup de sac.

She had gone to kindergarten with his sister Octavia, but they had not clicked as friends. Octavia was prone to throwing tantrums and hitting when she did not get her way.

Clarke drifted away from her and closer to Bellamy, who liked fiddling with the gears on her bike whenever they were jammed.

Two Months Ago

“So you have it bad for this guy, huh?” asked Wells, looking over the edge of his Political Theory textbook. Clarke nodded, running a hand through the short ends of her hair.

“Yeah, he was my first crush,” she said, smiling.

“A crush that hasn’t ended,” Wells said with a smirk. Clarke shook her head, sighing.

“No, apparently not.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“Yeah,” Clarke pulled her phone from her pocket. “One of him playing baseball in high school. He’s done it since he was a kid.“

“Ah,” Wells turned a page. “So seeing him in his Little League uniform was an awakening for you.”

“Oh shush,” said Clarke, cheeks reddening. “Here’s him.”

Wells took her phone and looked at the picture of Bellamy at bat.

“Damn,” he whistled. “This guy’s gorgeous.”

Clarke was pulled from her thoughts as an electronic bell chimed the first customer. She spent the first hour on shift methodically scanning, swiping, and wrapping ornaments in little blue gift bags.

She would look over to Bellamy every so often as he moved around the store, helping customers and rearranging items left out of place.

“He’s good with people,” she thought to herself, smiling as he bent down to show a stuffed bear to a toddler.

A loud ding startled her; Clarke’s eyes snapped back to the customer in front of the counter, an older lady with beady eyes and thinning hair.

“Sorry ma’am,” she said quietly, scanning her item. “That’ll be $2.18.”

The woman gave her two dollar bills and two dimes. Clarke handed her the pennies with one hand while fishing for wrapping paper.

“Happy holidays,” she said with a plastered smile, handing over the wrapped gift. The woman scowled.

“You work at a Christmas store, can’t you say ‘Merry Christmas’?”

Clarke faltered, stammering and shrugging. “It’s just-“

“Don’t give me that ‘don’t know what you celebrate’ nonsense. You saw me buy a tree topper, you know I celebrate Christmas.”

Clarke sighed. “It’s just store policy, ma’am. Have a merry Christmas.”

The older woman left in a huff. Clarke took a deep breath, turning to find Bellamy looking at her. He gave her an apologetic smile.

“Hey, she was just in a bad mood, you were fine.” He patted her back as he crossed sides behind her. Clarke sighed.

“Gina’s a lucky gal,” she mumbled, recalling the selfie of them she had seen online ages ago.

It was ten minutes to closing time when Clarke looked up from the register again. Bellamy was near the nativity sets, chatting with one of the few customers left in the store.

Clarke furrowed her brows. Bellamy’s expression was not his usual retail smile; there was tightness, a hesitation in his posture, whereas the girl was overly cheerful.

She put two and two together as she watched the girl playfully bat at Bellamy’s arm, her hand lingering despite him trying to pull away.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she said to the next customer in line, making her way over to Bellamy.

‘Hey, the-uh, lady at the counter says she’s returning an item too sold to her, and there’s -uh, something funny with the receipt?” she said, standing partly between them.

Bellamy nodded, shoulders sagging in relief as he walked back to the counter. Clarke, warm from where Bellamy brushed past her again, turned to the girl who was talking to him.

“Can I help you?” She asked, retail smile not reaching her eyes. The girl scowled, much taller and slimmer, but Clarke did not falter.

“No, I think I’m good,” the girl finally said, then proceeded to take one more sweep of the room before leaving empty-handed.

Clarke busied herself with rearranging a display until the store was empty again.

“Clarke,” Bellamy came over to stand next to her. “Thank you so much for what you did.”

“No problem,” she said, leaning into his side. “Who is she anyway?”

He shook his head. “Some chick named Echo, she’s been trying to give me her number these past couple closing shifts.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know it-it’s weird, and not all that bad, but-“

“Hey, I’m happy I could get her to stop.” Clarke said, putting her hand atop his. “Besides, picture it the other way. A guy could come in tomorrow, and keep touching me until I gave him my number.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to think about that,” Bellamy said gravelly as he moved back to the counter.

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Cause,” Bellamy opened the register. “I’d have to scare him off, and that’s never good for business.”

Clarke laughed to herself, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

The bell chimed again, and she looked up with a smile.

“Madi! What are you doing here?” The little girl bounded over and gave her a hug.

“My mom’s returning a dress, she said I could come over.”

“We’re technically closed, so don’t touch anything,” Bellamy said good-naturedly. Madi giggled, poking one of the ornaments.

Before he could sass her, Bellamy’s phone dinged, and he unlocked it.

“Oh brother,” he said, showing the phone to Clarke. “Raven’s challenged me to a lip-sync.”

“The Raven dating Luna?”

“Yeah, they both go to my college.”

Charle chuckled, watching Raven pretending to croon “Santa Baby” to Luna, who was wearing a Santa hat over her curls.

“@BB_Blake WISHES he was this cute,” she read, shaking her head.

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “She’ll never let this go if I don’t respond.”

“But what could be as cute as that?”

Bellamy thought for a moment, then chuckled to himself.

“Madi, will you take a video with my phone?”

“Yeah!” He handed over his phone, then turned to Clarke. “Put ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ on.”

“Oh really? We’re still in the store!” Clarke said, shaking her head and face palming.

“Humor me,” teased Bellamy.

Clarke rolled her eyes, pressing play and setting the phone down.

I really can't stay (but baby, it's cold outside) I've got to go away (but baby, it's cold outside) This evening has been (been hoping that you'd drop in) So very nice (I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice)

Madi started giggling over the music as Bellamy pretended to waltz around Clarke, miming a serenade. Clarke felt her cheeks warm as she matched him, line for line.

My mother will start to worry (beautiful what's your hurry?) My father will be pacing the floor (listen to the fireplace roar) So really I'd better scurry (beautiful please don't hurry) But maybe just a half a drink more (put some records on while I pour)

When they harmonized on the first chorus, Madi pressed the end button. Clarke let her head fall against Bellamy’s chest, laughing as he held her close.

“Here you go!” Madi trotted over to give Bellamy his phone, then looked up and grinned. “Look!” She pointed over their heads. “You’re under Vera’s mistletoe!” Clarke looked up at the tiny sprig, heart pounding as she remembered how Vera insisted on a few branches in the store. Her gaze fell level with Bellamy’s neck, and she suddenly felt very nervous.

Madi put Bellamy’s phone on the counter. “You have to kiss! It’s the Christmas rule!”

Bellamy shifted, looking at Clarke with a question in his eyes. Clarke blushed, shying away from his gaze.

“Not… Not if you don’t want to.” She mumbled. Bellamy chuckled, then he cupped her face in his hands and pressed a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth.

Madi cheered, then turned her head quickly as she heard her mother’s call. She scampered out of the store, waving a quick goodbye to both of them.

Bellamy waved back, stepping away to close the register. Clarke shook off her racing thoughts, sweeping a broom across the floor and resisting the urge to touch the tingling spot above her lip.

When they were standing in front of the closed up shop, Clarke fought back the fear in her chest and spoke.

“Uh…that…I’m sorry about her.”

“Madi? Why?” Bellamy’s brows furrowed. Clarke clenched her hands to keep them from shaking.

“She… uh… she teases me about you, and this isn’t fair to you because you have Gina, and I should probably just go now—” Bellamy reached out and grasped her hand before Clarke could turn.

“Clarke.. uh.. Gina and I broke up two months ago.”

Clarke’s heart thudded hard. “Y-you did?”

Bellamy nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She had to move for her job, it wasn’t too bad a split. And we never put it online, I just—” he sighed. “I didn’t tell you because it was around the time you were killing yourself over those classes.”

Clarke stepped closer, tentatively putting her hand on his chest. “You could’ve still told me if you needed to,” she looked down, then back up at his eyes. “You’re really important to me, Bellamy.”

Bellamy smiled, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “And you are to me. I’ve liked you for a while, Clarke.” His eyes were brimming with fondness. “That’s why I kissed you.”

Clarke’s heart nearly burst out of her chest. “Are you saying you want to go on a date with me?”

Bellamy nodded. “Hopefully more than one.” He pulled her in for another hug.

“Can I re-do that kiss? I know there’s more mistletoe around here somewhere.” he whispered in ear. Clarke laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Let’s go on this date first.”

BB_Blake: @ItsRavenFuckingReyes Challenge Accepted [video link]

ItsRavenFuckingReyes: @BB_Blake Damn you out-Christmas’d me

Private Message

Raven: WHO IS SHE??? CAUSE SHE’S HOT

Bellamy: The girl I work with, also my next door neighbor.

Raven: Am I hearing new girlfriend??

Bellamy: Hopefully. Don’t jinx me.

#bellarke #bellarke fanfiction #my fics #I'll accept any Christmas fic prompts in my ask but they won't be this long and I can't promise them before Christmas

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kpopsinarios · 7 years

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Seventeen greaser/prep!au

buCKLE UP KIDDOS

there were two major groups in school: the preps and the greasers

Seungcheol, or Coups, as he was dubbed affectionately by his little gang, was the leader of a group of greasers

he could almost always be seen with his guys in tow

Vernon, Soonyoung, Mingyu, Jun, and Minghao were all a part of his gang, getting into all sorts of trouble at all hours of the day

on the opposite end of the spectrum were the preps

the only really close-knit group was Jihoon’s

he just kind of walked around and eventually somehow collected a little “posse of nerds” as he called them

despite the name, Jihoon loved them

and Jeonghan, Joshua, Seungkwan, Seokmin, Wonwoo, and Chan loved him right back

but while the two groups had plenty in common, they didn’t interact

not at first, at least

rule number one of school: stay with your group

rule number two: if you value your morals, stay away from the greasers

the whole school abided by those two rules, even the freshman had it drilled into their brains

but sometimes, you just have to ignore the rules…

Seungcheol was walking to his bike after class ended he got out a bit late cuz the teacher wanted to talk to him about being a troublemaker when he saw this kid getting picked on by some wannabe greasers

the poor thing looked like he was in distress, so Coups decided he should step in

all it took was him getting close and the guys instantly backed off

“What do you punks think you’re doing?”

the leader groaned and walked up to Seungcheol, putting his hands up in defense

“Aw, c'mon Coups, don’t be such a party pooper! We’re just messing around, ain’t we kid?”

the kid shot him a look of disgust before shaking his head no, and that was all the confirmation Seungcheol needed

just as he raised his fist, the guys all scattered, leaving their leader behind

“You’re gonna regret makin me look dumb Coups. I guarantee it.”

Seungcheol just crossed his arms and smiled. “How bout you put an egg in your shoe and beat it, punk.” DAMN

and just like that, the guy ran off, leaving Coups to deal with the kid

“Hey thanks! I’m Chan by the way and-”

“Forget it kid, just try to stay away from those guys. They ain’t nothin but trouble. Also, what’s with those threads? No wonder you’re gettin shoved around, with a loud sweater like that. Pink ain’t your color.”

“Actually it is, along with every other color.” GET IT BBY

Coups gives him the side eye before grinning and taking off his leather jacket

“Here, take this for a while. Wear it tomorrow and nobody will bother you again.”

“Gee thanks-” Chan started, but Coups just shook his head and walked away. After all, he had to keep at least a bit of his bad boy image, right?

lmao wrong

the next day, Chan came bouncing up to the gang, a big smile on his face and Seungcheol’s jacket bouncing along with him

Soonyoung and the others immediately stood up

“Who the hell are you?” “What do you think you’re doin?” “Hey, how’d you get that jacket?!”

Chan simply ignored them and walked up to Seungcheol

“Hey, ice cream scoops!”

jaws were dropped, everyone was in a frenzy. did the kid just try to go after coups?????

but Seungcheol just laughed and clapped him on the back, complimenting him on how he looked in the jacket and fussing over his hair

still smiling, he introduced Chan to the gang, and while some were suspicious, they figured if Coups liked him, he had to be okay

from then on, Chan would meet up with the greasers regularly after school, and sometimes even before, if he wasn’t busy with the preps

ah, the preps

see, Chan was kind of the link between the two groups at first

he would wear the leather jacket he got from Seungcheol with his school sweater though he often got weird looks

when he showed up with that jacket on his back, Jeonghan was immediately concerned

“What happened? Why were you with Coups? Did you get in a fight? Do I need to go sort some people out because you know I will-”

“Nah, me and Coups are pals!”

cue gasps from everyone and an immediate interrogation

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE PALS?????”

“He’s a nice guy, honest! He helped me out when some jerks were messing with me!”

oh… well if he was nice then….

and that was the day Coups lost his bad boy image, at least with that group

when Chan started bringing his friends with him to meet the greasers after school, Seungcheol was alarmed

more and more of them came, and surprisingly, the preps and the greasers got along amazingly and there wasn’t a single issue

at least until Jeonghan came

Chan had brought everyone that day, and Scoops was a bit overwhelmed

“Hey, when did I sign up to take care of 6 more children, huh?!”

*offended gasps from the greasers*

Jeonghan was having none of it lol “and when did I sign up to deal with you?”

they stared each other down before Seungcheol reached out to shake hands

“You, I like you.”

“Yeah I get that a lot.”

“Are you sure you’re a prep and not just a greaser pretending to be one?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

and with the mom of the preps satisfied, the groups finally mingled

wow if you thought the greasers were trouble before, you’d be amazed how much more trouble they could cause with 7 extra guys around

it was a mess

Soonyoung and Jun were the class clowns, and often would pull pranks on others in science class (like making their chemicals blow up or something)

and just as the teacher would get ready to yell, sweet, perfect angel Wonwoo would step up and ask a question and distract the teacher until they forgot

Jun and Soonyoung were confused at first, until they saw Wonwoo turn around and give them a sly wink, and they shot back devilish smiles

Jihoon often slept during class, but he could always count on Mingyu to wake him up just as the teacher was walking by

Coups loved his bike, and quickly found that Joshua loved it too

seeing Joshua, the most gentle boy on campus, riding around on a black motorcycle? half of the school died then and there

Seungkwan and Vernon became partners in crime

Seungkwan would smile and talk to the teacher about her day while Vernon would go take something completely random off the teacher’s desk

it was never anything major, just something important enough that it would get on their teacher’s nerves, like her favorite pen or the only piece of chalk she had

though one time, Vernon accidentally hit her coffee mug and spilt it all over the pile of turned in homework

that one took a lot of sweet talking to get out of, but Seungkwan somehow managed to convince her that she bumped the desk and caused it to spill

as soon as she turned her back, Vernon and Seungkwan high-fived

Seokmin, Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Minghao all had physical education together

they would often skip class to go sit under the bleachers and goof off

all it took was a few of Jeonghan’s words and Seokmin’s smile and the coach would be distracted enough for Minghao and Mingyu to sneak off

after that, Jeonghan and Seokmin would just claim to be going to the bathroom, and then join them under the bleachers, and that was that

and then there was Chan. everyone wondered how the hell he managed to become friends with the hottest most popular preps and greasers in school

honestly he had no idea, it just kind of happened

but the more the groups mingled, the more blurred the lines got between them

the preps taught the greasers self control and the greasers taught the preps how to loosen up

they were always together, even if it looked odd to see boys in leather with preps at the library to study or to see the sweaters of the preps with the greasers in back alleys at night

one day in particular, Jeonghan, Joshua, Seungkwan, and Seokmin were trying to convince everyone to go to the pep rally after school

the only issue was that they would all have to wear school sweaters

and give up the leather jackets?? please

one by one, they managed to convince everyone, minus Seungcheol

until he groaned and said “I guess I could try to show my face”

and that’s how this giant mis-matched (yet oddly compatible) group of boys ended up wearing their school sweaters while relaxing in front of a fire with fireworks shooting off overhead

but that was only the beginning

because you were there too, somewhere in the giant crowd of people only a small distance away, just waiting to be found, wishing you had someone with you

and little did you know, it wouldn’t take long until your wish would come true

A/N: Heeeyyy so that was fun!! Feel free to request a lil bullet point scenario for any of the boys in this au, I have reader inserts mapped out for all 13 of them :) just specify that it’s for this au if/when you ask! Thanks!!! wasn’t that end utter crap lmao

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fakesurprise · 7 years

Text

Stepping Into Truth

I gulp two fingers of scotch, shoving the plastic bottle back into the backseat of my car, my hair still wet from a shower an hour ago that did something to counter the cigarettes I had this morning. I turned twenty one last week; most people would guess me for thirty. Helps that I don’t need to lie for the booze, doesn’t help the contents of my fridge at home. The drink helps with the cold, and stops my hands from shaking a little.

I hate my job. It’s the only thing I’m good at. I pull the old doctor’s handbag out of the passenger seat of my car, close the door carefully. Wouldn’t do for the door to fall off. Bad image. The client is waiting at the door to the home. Two storey house, basement, brown picket fence. Looks like the rest of a cookie-cutter street except the for sale sign is worn almost to nothing in contrast to sold signs down the street. Windows shuttered, lawn overgrown, and the client’s car is parked half a block away.

Moria Larsen is thin and stern, with eyes like scraped chalkboards and an expression to match But she paid the retainer fee up front and judging by her clothing can afford a bonus as well. Pretty much why I showered, that. From the look on her face, my effort doesn’t make much of an impact.

“You’re late, Mr. Dover.”

“Vance.”

“I have been waiting outside for four minutes. You will go inside, do the deed, and that will be that.” She walks past me, giving me a berth. I probably should have shaved as well. Or not slept in my clothing. Moria moves swiftly, the haste perhaps overkill. She doesn’t want to be here, and definitely didn’t want to wait outside. Fair enough, given what happened here. Sometimes all ghosts do is make a wound that never closes.

I walk to the front door, take the key I was given yesterday. It turns in the door, and I push it open. The air smells stale. No lights, but I have a flashlight in my bag and flick it on. I have three others in my bag, some chalk, a few candles. Also a gun I’ve never used. The gun is pretty much for show: I’ve yet to run into a ghost that could be shot. But you never know.

The flashlight is cheap, but the beam is decent. I walk across carpet, scan the living room. The house is mostly furnished; finding a removal company to take everything away is hard after the press has poured over your life with combs meant only for gouging flesh. The gist had been that Moria’s husband left her a week before she had a business trip to attend. She left her son with a sitter. The baby sitter left with his boyfriend for a few hours and got in an accident so never made it back. And her son, at some point, fell down the basement stairs and died. Broken legs, desperate attempts to get out. Windows closed tightly and no one hearing him.

It doesn’t take much to make a ghost. Sometimes the rumour alone can do it. But it doesn’t take much to get rid of them as well: a strong will can do it, and that Moria hadn’t was interesting. I was the third exorcist she’d tried. Also the most expensive; dealing with the dead isn’t fun, and neither is putting them to rest. But the flashlight works, I don’t sense cold spots: not that I would, given my clothing is better suited to the summer and I don’t have much of it.

I shake myself free of the mundane. “Jamel? Jamel Larsen?” I wait. Sometimes they come to their names. Nothing moves, nothing flies toward me. Expensive living room furniture, the kitchen beyond is as sterile as a magazine photo. I head into the basement from the kitchen. One freezer, a pantry, the rest cement floors and unfinished wood walls. My flashlight doesn’t flicker. There are stains on the wooden stairs and the cement floor. The stars aren’t in good condition, the pantry door double-padlocked and the freezer the same. Odd, but I let it go and head back upstairs. The second floor has two bedrooms, bathroom, master bedroom with its own bathroom. I check the spare bedroom and master bedroom first, and then head to the room that belonged to Jamel.

The door opens. The room is plain, like the other bedrooms. White walls, beige carpet, no paintings. The bed covers have rocket ships on them, the only sign the room was used by a child at all.

“Jamel?”

There is an intake of breath, the closest thing to a cold spot yet. I move to the bed, look under it. The ghost is crowded against the wall, pale eyes and skin glowing faintly as he wheezed for air. He looks too scared to haunt anyone, but fear can be a strange master. He moves back against the wood, eyes wide. I move the flashlight slowly. Eight, the same age as when he died. I saw no pictures. Didn’t want to.

But this Jamel is still eight. Chubby, pale, scared. His legs look whole. I flick the flashlight off and stand.

“You want to talk?”

It is almost five minutes before the ghost crawls out from under the bed. I move back to avoid stepping through the ghost as he stands. He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s almost too small, jeans whose button can’t close and covers his belly. His cheeks flare red with a ghostly blush.

I sit down on the bed. After a bit, he sits beside me, not looking over.

“What happened to the other exorcists?” I ask.

“They tried to hurt me,” he whispers. “I scared them away. In the b-b-bbasement, I scared them.”

“You didn’t try and scare me?”

“I don’t like it. Being down there. It scares me.” I glance over. Jamel hugs himself, lets go quickly, refusing to look at me. “And you feel different,” he adds. “Like I couldn’t scare you.”

“Perhaps not. I had a few drinks earlier. That helps.”

“Moria sent you.”

“She was outside. Briefly. Was that why you were hiding?”

“Partly,” the ghost says. The bed creaks as he shifts position. Most ghosts that can move things tend to use it to harm others. I’m not sure he’s even aware of doing it.

“I am good at exorcising ghosts, but I don’t know what happens after that. No one does. I try not to, if I can avoid it. Knowing what happened here could help, if you can tell me.”

The ghost says nothing, his breath a thin wheezing.

“Your mother took to locking up the freezer and the pantry because she had a fat son. That much I can guess,” I say softly, and the ghost turns his head and nods once. “I don’t know when you fell. Or who caused it.”

“The baby sitter. Austin. Mom told him I wasn’t to – to get more fat. Everything would be better when she got home. Like a command. He – the fridge, I... was hungry, and I hate, and he thought mom would – mom would...”

“Hurt him?”

“Maybe? I don’t –.” Jamel is quiet for a bit, hands tight against his belly. He moves them apart when he realizes I’m looking at him. I just wait. “Austin pushed me. He didn’t mean to. I fell, my legs broke. He said it was because I was so fat, said he’d get help. He called his boyfriend. They were going to – to get a doctor they knew. A vet, maybe? Someone to help, and they never came back.”

“They had a car accident. And have left the city, as far as I know. Austin was in a coma for three days; I don’t know about his boyfriend. They were speeding, the police followed, they crashed. Some people think your mom killed you.”

“She – she – she –.” His voice cracks. The floor shakes a little bit.

“She did, without touching you. Shame is a weapon used against children.”

“She wanted me thin, Handsome, like my name. A p – a proper son.” The ghost stands. Swift, angry, though not at me. He pulls his t-shirt off.

The headline of ‘exorcist involved in ghost porn’ goes through my head. I don’t move; most ghosts can’t remove what they wear, in my experience, and I have no idea what might happen if I interrupt. Jamel has another shirt under it, a spandex affair that makes me wince at how tight it is. That his clothing is tied so deeply to his image says too many things.

“Mom wanted to make sure people don’t know I was this fat,” the ghost whispers unsteadily. “I have spandex pants, too, under my pants –.”

“I don’t need to see that,” I say quickly.

The ghost stares at me, and lets out a sound. “I... I didn’t...” He pulls the shirt back on, faster. His face is red, and the rest of him is pink as well.

“I’ve never been subjected to a ghost stripping before. That’s probably scarier than what I’d see in the basement,” I add dryly.

Jamel stares, then lets out a surprised giggle. “Your face was.... I think I surprised you?”

“Yes. I’d rather not be surprised like that again.” I stand. “I can help you, if you let me.”

He stands as well, not moving. I step through the ghost. Being possessed is painful; possessing a ghost even more so. But it takes a moment, and another, and I’m back onto the bed and shaking from the cold.

Jamel stares at me in confusion.

“Shirt,” I get out from between my teeth.

The ghost lets out a small gasp.

“You couldn’t access what you were; I jogged a few things loose.”

Jamel blinks. His shirt fits perfectly now, with no other shirt under it. His pants do as well, and his breathing is less of a wheeze as the ghost moves slowly about the room.

“You can alter your appearance better. Move things, if you need to. And you’re no longer tied to this place.”

“What do I do?” he asks in a small voice.

“What you wish, but nothing that will lead to an exorcist being called. That’s our arrangement.”

He nods. “I could talk to mom. I could explain, if that would – wouldn’t lead to –.” The ghost boy looks away from me. “It would.”

“Probably. Moria has demons enough of her own, I imagine.”

I have no idea if she does, but it helps him a little. He nods. “There is this shop I liked, a candy one....”

And the ghost vanishes a moment later. I let out a breath, take a few more minutes to gather myself, and walk outside. I tell Moria Larsen that it’s done and that she can go inside.

I walk away without waiting for payment, or to find out if she does.

#writing #prose #abstractprompts #poeticstories #stepping through the ghost #haunted

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anitabyars · 4 years

Text

“A Secret for a Secret was such a refreshing read. Kingston is all good and saintlike . . . until he's so not! A big recommendation from me”

-- Tijan New York Times Bestselling Author

A Secret for a Secret, an all-new not-to-be-missed sports romance guaranteed to bring all-the-feels by New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting, is out now!

From New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting comes a new romance about trading secrets, breaking the rules, and playing for keeps.

My name is Ryan Kingston, and I’m a rule follower. I’ve never been in a fistfight. I always obey the speed limit. I don’t get drunk, and I definitely don’t pick up random women at bars.

Except the night I found out that my whole existence has been a lie.

I got drunk. And picked up a stranger.

Her name was Queenie, and she was everything I’m not: reckless, impulsive, and chaotic. We did shots and traded secrets. And ended up naked at my place.

She left me a thank-you note in the morning and her panties as a parting gift. But no way to contact her.

Six weeks later I’m sitting in the first official team meeting of the season, and there she is. I neglected to mention that I’m the goalie for Seattle’s NHL team.

And Queenie? Turns out she’s the general manager’s daughter.

Download your copy today or read for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

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Add to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2Q3mzDU

Excerpt:

“You think our GM got himself an assistant?”

I follow his gaze to the front of the room. Standing at the desk with her back to us, arranging papers, is a woman with wavy chestnut hair that nearly reaches her waist. “Maybe an intern?”

She’s wearing a navy dress that conforms to her very feminine form. I trace the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip, skimming down to where the hem of her dress hits the bend in her knee. Her calves are bare, athletic, and toned, and her heels boast a little bow on the back. Classy, yet sexy. “Possibly.”

“I hope the eye candy is gonna be permanent,” someone at the table behind us says, loud enough for everyone close by to hear.

“I wouldn’t mind if she helped me with my jockstrap,” one of the other guys chimes in, eliciting a loud chuckle from the rest of the table.

I glance over my shoulder and pin them with an unimpressed glare. I recognize Foley from Tampa, and Dickerson is an LA trade. They’re notorious womanizers. “Watch your mouth and have some respect. That’s someone’s daughter.”

“Take it easy, King. It’s not like we’d actually say that to her face,” Foley says.

I don’t have an opportunity to reprimand him further because the GM, Jake Masterson, and our head coach, Alex Waters, enter the room through the side door. The GM crosses over to the woman, whose back is still turned to us, and he gives her a smile that seems . . . overly warm. He leans in and squeezes her shoulder as he says something with his mouth close to her ear.

“Maybe she’s not his assistant. Maybe she’s his new girlfriend, ’cause that looks pretty damn friendly to me.” Bishop jams a sausage link into his mouth.

“Maybe,” I agree.

She turns slightly, giving me a glimpse of her profile. Her cheeks are flushed pink. I blink a couple of times, because she seems incredibly familiar.

“I think I know her,” I mumble, more to myself than to Bishop.

“Not as well as our GM does, by the look of things.”

It hits me like a puck in the chest without pads on. I do know her. Queenie. My one-night stand who bailed the next morning and left a Post-it and panties hanging from my doorknob. Destroyed panties. “Oh God.”

Did I sleep with the GM’s girlfriend? Memories come barreling into my brain, and I want to sink into the floor. My behavior that night was highly atypical. Everything about that night was. I chalked it up to the alcohol, the family drama, and the fact that she seemed to be a very eager and willing participant in our adventures. Do not think about the things you did to her.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about Queenie and our night together. I’ve even considered driving by the bar where we met, but I don’t know if she’s likely to show up there. And it’s not as if I can ask the bartender about her without looking like a creep. Besides, if she wanted me to have her number, she would’ve left it.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re about to hurl,” Bishop asks.

I cover my mouth with my palm, not because I’m going to be ill but to hide the fact that it’s hanging open and I can’t seem to close it. Although my stomach is starting to do those awful somersaults that will soon turn into full-on nausea. The kind I used to get when I’d first hit the ice for a game.

This is bad. Really bad. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I’ve always been in committed relationships, and I prefer to get to know my bed partners before they actually get into bed with me. Teen pregnancy was pretty common where I grew up in Tennessee, because there wasn’t much else to do apart from playing sports or getting into trouble with drugs and alcohol—my brother, Gerald, went the latter route. I obviously fit into the sports category. By the time I became a teenager, my parents had finally learned their lesson. It was drilled into me to never become that kind of statistic, or to turn my girlfriend into a mom before she was ready to take on more than senior-level algebra.

Ironic how my actual mother would’ve been one of those girls had my grandparents not made the choices they had.

“King?” Bishop nudges me. “You’re staring, man.”

Jake whistles with his fingers, causing the woman beside him to cringe but then quickly school her expression into an uncertain smile. “Who’s ready for a new season?”

He’s rewarded with a chorus of cheers from the players. Waters stands off to the side, clapping enthusiastically. He generally runs all team meetings, but Jake is a hands-on GM, so he always manages first meeting intros before he hands it over to our coach.

Jake waits for everyone to settle down and take their seats before he continues. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to my personal assistant, Queenie.” He throws his arm over her shoulder and pulls her into his side.

A hot spike of anger rushes down my spine—it’s a foreign feeling. I’m usually very level headed. But not right now. It’s obvious by the way Jake and Queenie interact that there’s a relationship there. Is she a cheater? Did she make me one? There’s a definite age gap. He’s young for a GM, but he’s in his forties, and I’m pretty sure she’s in her mid twenties.

“She also happens to be my daughter, so don’t get any ideas, boys.” He somehow manages to wink and glare at the same time.

And it just went from bad to worse.

My one-night stand isn’t my GM’s girlfriend; she’s his daughter.

About Helena Hunting

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She's writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.

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Website: http://www.helenahunting.com/

Website link: https://helenahunting.com/books/a-secret-for-a-secret/

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My Review

5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Wow! The dynamics of these two! This was everything I love in a read. The characters just took my heart on a amazing ride. I loved the chemistry between these characters and the storyline was just so touching I couldn’t put it down! The ending gave me tears and All The Feels! Another must read.

These opposites attract in all the right ways when a wild child falls for a milk drinking, door opening, extra-polite Boy Scout who unleashes a very dirty man when he takes his clothes off. And although the chemistry is sizzling between them, there is more than their heat that burns between them.

But will the secrets they are keeping, tear them apart or bind them forever? We have a new King and Queen in the romance world and you do not want to miss their story!

Received a complimentary copy in exchange for a honest review.

#socialbutterflypr #netgalley #helenahunting #asecretforasecret

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