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munson-blurbs · 1 year

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Summary: Conflict arises with Harris's new teacher, filling Halloween with more tricks than treats. But it's nothing a visit with Ms. Sweetheart can't fix.

Warnings: allusion to Reader and Eddie's one-night stand, panic attack, Reader's grandma has dementia.

WC: 5.6k

Chapter 6/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Guns N’ Roses t-shirt: check. Goodwill jeans with makeshift holes in the knees: check. Bandana tied snugly around his forehead: check. Arms littered with an assortment of temporary tattoos: check.

Eddie grins as he assesses his son’s costume, reaching into the thrift store bag as he pulls out the pièce de résistance: a denim jacket, only two sizes bigger than Harris would usually wear. It was a bit over what he’d been hoping to spend, but he’d reasoned with himself that it could also be worn after Halloween. It was an investment, he’d decided, not a splurge.

His smile falters when Harris indignantly stomps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest. While Eddie had hoped his son would go with more badass tattoo options, perhaps a skull and crossbones or even a snake, he had insisted on a Sesame Street theme. Cookie Monster munches on his signature treat as Harris pouts.

“No, Daddy!” he whines, twisting away when Eddie holds the jacket closer to him. “I can’t wear that!”

“C’mon, Har,” he tries, scouring his brain to come up with a convincing enough lie. “Axl Rose wore jackets all the time!”

Harris doesn’t just shake his head; he swivels his entire body back and forth in protest. “I don’t care! No one’s gonna be able to see my tattoos!” He holds out both arms in front of him; nearly every square inch (besides the section blocked by his cast) is covered. Eddie had spent most of last night diligently applying them precisely where Harris had asked, lest there be a tantrum. There was, unfortunately, a headless Elmo from when Harris had asked–no, demanded–that he try by himself. Still, Eddie figured that only one casualty was a win.

“Those are some sweet ol’ tatties,” Eddie muses, biting back a laugh at the two-dimensional Big Bird on his son’s forearm. “But wouldn’t it be cool if you wore the jacket into school and then–BAM!--took it off and surprised everyone with them?

Harris appears to consider this, mouth tucked into his cheeks. “Can I show Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Sure, bud. We’ll stop by her classroom when I pick you up.” Whatever gets us out of the house in weather-appropriate attire. “But first, show me your most metal pose.”

The boy opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue as far as it extends, scrunching his face dramatically until the corners of his eyes crinkle. His middle and ring fingers press into his palm, thumb crossing over them, with his forefinger and pinky raised in the quintessential rock ‘n roll symbol.

Eddie swoops down and smacks a wet kiss to Harris’s cheek. “That’s my boy!”

Standing among the crowd of parents at pick-up, Eddie opts out of making banal small talk and instead chooses to look at the bulletin board. The previous art project that had been hanging against the faded blue paper–”self-portraits” that the students had made on the first day of school–have been replaced by finger paintings of orange blobs that vaguely resemble pumpkins. There wasn’t one for Harris because he was in Ms. Sweetheart’s classroom then, so it’s his first art project in his new class. He eagerly scans the board for Harris’s, frowning when he can’t find his name.

Maybe it’s still drying, he tries to convince himself, imagining his son over-saturating the paper with globs of paint. It wouldn’t be entirely out of character.

Ms. Marion’s classroom is a sea of costumed children. A boy dressed as one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stands by his mom. A Cinderella, a black cat, and a Thomas the Tank Engine surround Ms. Paula. As soon as Eddie spots Harris, he smiles and waves him over, hurriedly scribbling his signature on the sign-out sheet.

He expects Harris to zoom past the other kids, fueled by the standard Halloween diet of sugar and chocolate, but he just kind of…mopes to the doorway. His shoulders slump dejectedly, and though he keeps his gaze low, Eddie can still see the film of mist staining his innocent eyes.

“Har, what’s wrong?” He waits for an answer, and when he doesn’t receive one–an oddity for his perpetually chatty son–he tries a new tactic. “Wanna show me where your artwork is? I must be gettin’ old, because I couldn’t find it on the board out there.”

“‘S not there,” Harris mumbles, scratching off a flaking piece of the Rosita tattoo on the back of his hand. “I didn’t get to finish.”

Eddie watches as the tears start to slip down his cheeks, and he brings him into the hallway before Ms. Marion or Ms. Paula sees what’s going on. He can’t be certain, but his paternal instincts tell him that they’ve contributed to Harris’s sad state. “Why not?”

“I-I t-tried, but M-Ms. Mar-Marion and Ms. P-Paula got m-mad at me.” The words come out between choked sobs. “‘C-Cuz I c-couldn’t sit d-down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I k-keeped st-standing up, ‘cuz m-my legs wanted to st-stand.” The explanation tumbles out of him so quickly, as though he’s trying to beat the clock. “And they s-said if I did-didn’t sit down, I c-couldn’t do art. But I k-keeped f-f-forgetting, and th-they t-taked away my pay-pay-paper and said, ‘sit in the c-corner!’”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking again. “Did…did that happen in Ms. Sweetheart’s class? The legs thing?”

“Mhm,” Harris manages, “b-but she let me stand and d-do ju-jumps to get the wig-wiggles out. She just t-t-telled me not to do ju-jumps with s-s-scissors, ‘cuz of s-safety.” His breathing increases to a rapid pace, face flushing red as his chest heaves. “B-But Ms. M-Marion ye-ye-yelled at me!”

Eddie’s brows pinch together, and he gently presses his calloused palms against Harris’s narrow shoulders, desperate to prevent him from hyperventilating. “Harris, you gotta calm down. I can’t understand you when you’re crying like this!” Despite his efforts, his frustration bleeds into his tone, and he winces when the latter sentence ends with an unwanted snap. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s just an art project.”

“Harris?”

The sound of your voice draws the attention of both Munsons. You let out a small oof as Harris flings himself against your legs, and though he practically flew the five foot distance between his father and you, now is not the time to remind him about using his walking feet.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You crouch down, taking his hand in yours, and notice his quick, shallow breaths. “We’re gonna breathe together, okay? Eyes on me.” You demonstrate inhaling for three seconds, holding for three seconds, and exhaling for three seconds. “Now let’s do it together.”

He hesitates but ultimately follows your lead, and you guide him until his breathing slows enough for him to sputter, “I t-tried to sit, b-but I c-couldn’t.”

You haven’t the slightest idea what he’s referring to, but Eddie fills you in. You feel the heat of anger creeping through your body, not just for the way your co-worker treated the sweet boy, but for her insolent approach to teaching as a whole.

“We can go to my classroom,” you offer, silently sighing in relief when the boy nods in agreement. “I don’t know if I have the supplies to make the same project as Ms. Marion, but if you have a few minutes, you can draw something now. I bet Mr. Will would love to help you; he’s a super-duper artist.”

Just as you’d predicted, Will jumps at the opportunity to help Harris with his impromptu art project, encouraging him to draw something that makes him happy. While he does that, you comb through the mess left behind from the Halloween party you’d thrown. You’d sooner toss one hundred cupcake wrappers in the trash before attempting a conversation with Eddie Munson. He’s simply too unpredictable; kind and thoughtful one day, harsh and guarded the next.

One of the wrappers in your hand drops to the floor and you reach forward to pick it up, pinching the pleated material between your pointer and middle fingers. You can feel Eddie’s eyes on your form, the way the backs of your thighs are slightly exposed when you bend over, and you stand up quickly.

“Are you the Magic School Bus lady?” He takes in your lavender dress with planets and stars stamped all over it. Oh. He wasn’t checking you out; he was just trying to figure out who you’d dressed up as. Good. Anything else would be inappropriate.

So why does a twinge of disappointment radiate through you?

You glance at your costume; with all of the commotion, you’d forgotten you’d even been wearing one “I mean, would I even be a teacher if I didn’t jump at the chance to be Ms. Frizzle?” You motion over to Will, decked out in green from head to toe with two yellow horns glued to a headband atop his mop of brown hair. “Have you met my trusty sidekick, Liz the Lizard?”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, Byers actually used to play in my D&D club back in high school. Made some pretty sick art pieces to liven up that dingy excuse for a room.”

You look between the two of them, trying to do the mental math. “Will, didn’t you say you’re twenty-four?” And if Eddie is thirty, that means…

“I, uh, had a little trouble graduating,” Eddie sheepishly admits, ruffling the back of his hair and offering a tight grimace. “But I got there eventually. Class of ‘86, baby!”

“Worked out for me,” Will shrugs with a grin, looking up from Harris’s drawing. “You were the best DM Hellfire ever had. Although, rumor has it that Erica Sinclair gave you a run for your money.”

Harris picks up a yellow marker, furiously scribbling a circle in the left-hand corner of his paper. You try peering over to see the whole drawing, but he presses his whole body against the table, successfully thwarting your plans. “No peeking!” he warns, not putting his feet back on the ground until you’ve averted your gaze. “‘S a surprise.”

You put your hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll be surprised.” You raise your eyebrows at Eddie, who shares a similar response in return.

“Dunno when he got so bossy,” he snorts before calling out to his son, “Har-Bear? Five more minutes. We gotta get home to trick-or-treat with Grampa Wayne.”

“Ooh, that sounds like fun!” you echo as Harris grabs a purple marker from the box. “What’s your favorite candy?”

“Hmm.” Harris uses his free hand–the one with the cast–to tap his chin, continuing to color with the other one. “M&Ms. But only the plain ones. Daddy doesn’t let me have the peanut ones ‘cause he says I could choke.”

You shoot a sly, knowing look at Eddie. “I’m sure that’s the only reason. Such a selfless father.” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head innocently. “And what do you do with all of these confiscated peanut M&Ms, Mr. Munson? Donate them?”

Eddie tucks his lips into his mouth to mask his grin. “Listen, the jig is gonna be up at some point,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, loud enough so you can hear but soft enough that Harris can’t. “Let me enjoy my free candy while it lasts.”

“No judgment here,” you say with a small laugh, “they’re one of my favorites, too.”

“TA-DA!” Harris shouts, startling you, Eddie, and Will. He holds up the construction paper and smiles widely. To anyone without kids–or who didn’t teach preschool for a living–it would look like a bunch of colorful scribbles. But you can tell that he’s drawn a group of people standing by a tree (or a really, really tall flower) underneath the sun.

“Wow, Harris! That’s amazing!” you clap your hands together to punctuate your enthusiasm. “Who are all those people?”

Harris’s pointer finger travels left to right across the paper as he names each person: “That’s me, Grampa Wayne, Daddy, you, and Mr. Will!” The stick figure that represents you has a purple scribble on it, which you realize must be the costume you’re wearing. “An’ we’re all smiling because we’re happy!” Sure enough, each person has a curved red line at the bottom of their face. But there’s something else that catches your eye.

All of the people have a small space between them, except for you and Eddie. The circle that Harris drew to represent your left hand overlaps with the circle that is Eddie’s right.

You glance at the real Eddie, and if he notices, he doesn’t give any indication. “I love it, buddy.” He takes the drawing and inspects it closely. “Yup, this one’s definitely going on the fridge when we get home.” He flicks the paper for good measure. “Go clean up the markers so we can head out, Axl Rose.”

Among the noise of markers clattering back in the bins, you lean in to Eddie, inadvertently inhaling the scent of his cigarettes and cologne. For a brief moment, you’re transported back to the night fate had led you to cross paths; the thought of his lips on your neck in the stairwell has you clenching your thighs and swallowing thickly as you murmur, “I can ask him to make a new one with just you, him, and his grandpa.”

Eddie shakes his head. “N-No. I like this one.” He lets one hand drop to his side and it grazes yours. His rings brush your knuckles, and you instinctively draw back at the sensation of the cool metal and the zing of heat that pulses at his light touch. “Sorry,” he mumbles, not making eye contact.

“S’okay.”

He blinks a few times and redirects his attention to his son. “What do you say to Mr. Will and Ms. Sweetheart for letting you do your art project?”

Harris’s little chest swells as he inhales deeply, storing up as much oxygen as he can fit in his lungs before bellowing, “THANK YOUUUUUUU!”

Eddie brings his palm to his ear canal, rotating his forefinger as though trying to repair a punctured eardrum. “Love the enthusiasm,” he says through gritted teeth. “Seriously, though. Thank you both so much.”

“Of course,” Will says warmly, picking up the marker bin and placing it in its space on the shelf.

“Anything for Harris.” You smile, motioning towards the little boy already by his father’s side. “Have fun trick-or-treating tonight, bud! I can’t wait to hear about all the yummy candy you got.”

Harris scrunches his nose in contemplation. “Are you going trick-or-treating, Ms. Sweetheart?”

“Nah,” you laugh, “I’m gonna stay home and give candy to all the kids who come by.” And pray that Grandma doesn’t curse them out, you silently add.

“Oh.” Harris pauses, grabbing his dad’s hand. “Okay, bye!”

Eddie chuckles as his son pulls him towards the door. “That’s my cue. Um, Happy Halloween,” he adds awkwardly, waving once before disappearing down the hallway.

There’s so much more that he wants to say: you’re the best; you saved the day; you should be my son’s teacher instead of that old, bitchy bat. But he didn’t have time. Maybe another day. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Wayne arrives just a few minutes after Eddie and Harris get home. As soon as his gruff voice comes over the intercom, Harris excitedly buzzes him in. “Grampa Wayne’s here!” he yells, even though Eddie’s standing right next to him. He grabs the pillowcase from the couch; it was originally white, but after Eddie accidentally threw in a red sock with the white laundry, it’s tinted light pink.

No sooner does the older man cross the threshold into the apartment, Harris is trying to drag him out again. “Let’s go, before all the good candy is gone!” he whines. His eyebrows pinch together and he drops his grandfather’s hand. “Oh, wait, I gotta show you something.” He scampers off into the kitchen, and Wayne winces when he hears the rattle of magnets falling to the floor.

“I’m okay!” Harris calls out, running back with a piece of paper in his hand. “Look what I drawed at school today!” He gives Wayne the rundown of who’s who.

Wayne analyzes each person in the picture, stopping at the overlapping circles between you and Eddie. “This is great, Har-Bear,” he muses. “Are, um, are Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart holding hands?”

“Mhm,” Harris casually confirms, taking the drawing back. “‘Cause they’re married.”

Eddie chokes on air as Wayne does a double-take. “Congrats, Ed,” he jokes, clapping a hand to his nephew’s shoulder. “Gotta say, I thought I’d at least get an invite.”

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Harris, why do you think that Ms. Sweetheart and I are married?” He wracks his brain for answers, but he can’t come to a logical conclusion. Did I talk about her in my sleep? Oh, shit, what if it was when I had that dream—

“Because you gived her a present,” Harris says, eyes innocent and wide. “And when grown-ups love each other, they give each other presents.”

“Oh, he gave Ms. Sweetheart a present, huh?” On the surface, Wayne’s words are as innocuous as Harris’s, but Eddie hears the teasing buried just beneath.

Harris nods. “Mhm. He gived her a tape!”

“It was the Toni Braxton one that she came into the shop for…that day that, uh…” Eddie raises his eyebrows at his uncle, who nods in acknowledgment. He brings his focus back to his son. “It doesn’t mean that we’re married. People have to go on dates and fall in love before they get married.”

The young boy absorbs this information. “So you should go on dates and fall in love with Ms. Sweetheart!” His face lights up at the idea of it, and it breaks Eddie’s heart to let him down.

So, he doesn’t.

“Why don’t you hang that back up so we can get outta here and get you some candy, huh?” He forces a smile and watches his son scamper into the kitchen before turning back to Wayne and shaking his head.

Harris peels a magnet off of the fridge, the one Eddie bought him on their Daddy-Son day. It has a sea lion balancing a beach ball on its snout, with HAWKINS ZOO printed in bolded letters along the bottom.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, he speaks directly to his drawing. “When Daddy and Ms. Sweetheart fall in love and get married, I’ll finally have a mommy.” He presses his hand flat against the paper as though he’s sealing in the wish. He stays like that for a moment until his dad calls his name, and he clutches his pillow case as they head out the door.

Eddie assumes that the love and marriage talk is done for the evening, but the feeling of relief doesn’t last long. The trio of Munson men is halfway down the stairwell when Wayne starts instigating. “Hey, Har, is Ms. Sweetheart pretty?”

“WAYNE!” Eddie grits his teeth and shoots a sharp look at his uncle. The last thing he needs is for Harris to get his hopes up about a blossoming romance between his dad and his former teacher.

“Oh, yeah!” Harris gleefully agrees, oblivious to the mounting tension. He grips the railing and jumps from the second to last step onto the tiled landing below. “Super pretty! Like a princess.”

The eldest Munson turns to Eddie. “Didja hear that? Pretty like a princess.”

“I heard him,” Eddie replies tersely.

“Daddy?”

No. Don’t ask me. Harris Wayne Munson, do not ask me what I think you’re going to—

“Do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty?”

Although he anticipated the question, Eddie still freezes. If he disagrees, Harris will inevitably want to know why not. And if he’s being honest with himself, he can’t name a single ugly thing about you.

He does think you’re pretty. He thinks you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning. And even though he’s literally seen you naked, fully on display for him–a memory he revisits more often than he’s willing to admit–it’s the thought of what you did today that solidifies your beauty. The way you’d effortlessly calmed Harris down without Eddie even having to ask. The frown on his face almost instantly became a smile, the flow of his tears ceasing and turning into the giggles that brought sunlight into Eddie’s life. You did that.

Any woman can be sexy, but you? In that moment, you were perfect.

Fuck.

“Daddy? Hello?”

At the sound of Harris’s voice, Eddie realizes that he physically hasn’t moved from his spot on the stairs. His hand is gripping the banister so tightly that it leaves an imprint in his palm. “Yeah, buddy,” he manages through his Sahara Desert throat. “I think Ms. Sweetheart’s pretty.”

“Like a princess?” Wayne’s eyes twinkle mischievously. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to tease his nephew about a crush, and he’s not passing up this limited opportunity.

“Yeah. Like a princess.”

Education outsiders might think that Halloween is one of the worst days to be a teacher. The lethal combination of sugar and excitement barely contained in tiny costumed bodies seems like a recipe for disaster. But any teacher worth their salt will tell you that there is a day far, far worse than Halloween: November 1st.

On Halloween, there is the expectation for fun. There’s a costume parade, classroom trick-or-treating, and even a little party. The kids are out of control, but who cares? It’s Halloween.

But on November 1st, there is work to be done. And you’re expected to teach the months of the year to 10 four-year-olds who are suffering from candy hangovers and won’t stop asking why they can’t go trick-or-treating again today.

You and Will are preparing for battle as students trickle in, excited to show off the candy stashes they acquired the night before. Abby Carver cries because she ate her Reese’s cup and now she’s sad that it’s gone. Joshua Harrington is continuing to “sling webs” at the other kids despite your incessant reminders that he is no longer Spider-Man. A fight over a KitKat bar breaks out not even five minutes into the day, and you confiscate it before someone causes serious bodily harm.

Two fingers lightly tap on your shoulder—too high up to be a kid—and you whirl around with an irritated, “what?”

“Whoa,” Eddie says, concern etched into his otherwise soft features. He takes a small step back, nearly tripping over a rogue Lego that somehow made its way out of the toy area. He stumbles but catches his balance easily. “Everything okay?”

“‘S a warzone out here,” you try and joke, but you feel it fall flat. You’re too tired for humor. Grandma may not have yelled at the trick-or-treaters like you’d feared, but she did get increasingly angrier with each knock on the door. After the fifth time of her snarling at you to “shut the hell up” (like you could simultaneously be on both sides of the door), you’d relented and just put the candy bowl on the welcome mat, scribbling “TAKE ONE” on a yellow sticky note, adhering it to the plastic container.

Two decades earlier, Halloween at Grandma’s house had a completely different connotation. She’d have a little pizza party all set up for you, and she’d buy a big bag of your favorite candy, in case you didn’t get enough during your door-to-door quests. And she’d always let you watch whatever spooky movie your heart desired, regardless of your parents’ rules.

“That’s what grandmas are for,” she’d said with a wink, and the two of you curled up to watch Little Shop of Horrors. Her demeanor matched the hokey magnet on her fridge that read, If I knew how fun my grandkids would be, I would’ve had them first. You’d stay like that until you both fell asleep, only being roused by your parents arriving to pick you up. The good old days, before Grandma waking up involved watching the confusion in her eyes as she tried and failed to place you.

“C-Can I help you with something?” Your guard goes up immediately when you notice that Harris isn’t with him. The time you’d spent together after school yesterday had been nice, fun, even, but you couldn’t trust that today would be the same. Not after what happened a few short weeks ago.

“I, um…I just swung by to give you this.” He reaches into the inner pocket of his denim jacket; it’s the same one that he lent to Harris when he’d forgotten his at home. A flash of yellow paper catches your eye, and he unfurls his palm to reveal a small bag of peanut M&Ms. “You said they were one of your favorites, right?”

You look at the treat, not willing to reach out and grab it. What if it’s a joke? An elaborate ploy to reel you in, just to shout “gotcha” when you finally let your walls come down?

“Are they poisoned or something?” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you spike them with Ex-Lax?”

Eddie’s lips part in surprise before he collects himself. “Guess I deserve that,” he mumbles. “But, no. They’re not. I swear on James Hetfield’s life.” He drags his fingernail over his heart in an X-formation.

You take the bag, inspecting it for any sign of tampering, but you come up short. The edges are sealed, and there are no pinpricks as far as your eyes can see. “Dipped into Harris’s stash for me?”

“Hey, these bad boys are technically mine for the taking until he figures out that he can eat them without dying.” Eddie chuckles lightly, peering at you through impossibly long lashes. “But, yeah, I was hoping you’d accept these as part of my apology. Or apologies, I guess. For, uh, for not calling when I said I would, and all of the awful shi—awful things I said to you.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he steps closer and says, “I am so fucking sorry.”

You make a small tear in the bag, tapping it against your palm until an M&M falls out. Popping the blue candy in your mouth, you allow the shell to start dissolving on your tongue before crunching on the peanut, hoping you can process what he’s said by the time you’re finished chewing.

This is what you’ve been waiting for—an actual heartfelt apology. His brown eyes reflect nothing but shame and remorse, and you can tell by the way that he’s fidgeting with his rings that he’s anxiously awaiting your reply.

His vulnerability softens you slightly, and considering you haven’t keeled over after ingesting the candy, you throw him a bone.

“This fun size bag covers the ‘not calling’ part, but I’m gonna need a lot more candy if you want me to forgive you for what you said at the music store.” You keep your tone light; teasing, even, but there’s a layer of truth to it. He can’t merely waltz into your classroom with a gift and expect you to forget his hurtful words.

Eddie nods, his frizzy curls brushing the tops of his denim-clas shoulders. “I know. I’ve said some pretty terrible things in my life, but that might’ve been the worst. And, um,” he fumbles his words, desperately searching for the right ones. Semantics has never been his forte. “You didn’t deserve that. It’s not true; your grandma didn’t want to forget you. And…neither do I.” When you raise your eyebrows, he starts to backtrack. “Because you’re so great with Harris; like, you understand him and stuff. He’s always talking about you.”

Daddy, do you think Ms. Sweetheart is pretty? The question replays like a song he can’t shake from his head, its melody familiar but the notes still keeping him on edge. Pretty like a princess, only instead of saving her, I’m the one who needs to be rescued. So much for Prince Charming, huh?

The M&M melts in your mouth while you formulate a response to his candid admission. Sweetness seeps into your taste buds as you try to straddle the line between careful consideration and overthinking. Speak too quickly and you might say something you’ll regret. Take too long and you’ll make this even more awkward.

“W-Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Short, simple, to the point. Your words are slightly slurred by the candy obstruction, but what else is there to say? You could add that you forgive him, but you’re truthfully not sure that you do. His words scarred, had taken your already mangled self-worth and snapped it into pieces, and so did his reasoning for hurting you. Despite the love and kindness you’d shown his son, Eddie had fully believed that you were responsible for spreading personal information that would wound him. It was exactly as Jeff had said: Eddie struck below the belt at the first sign of conflict, so determined to protect himself that he didn’t even realize that he was attacking the people on his side.

The sound of books clattering to the floor snatches your attention from him, and you whip your head to your little classroom library to see two kids standing over a pile of fallen books, guilty looks stamped on their faces. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurt out, dashing off to assess the damage. You’ve never been so grateful for your students causing mischief.

The hour hand crawls to the number two; at one point, you swore the clock was moving backwards. The chaos of the morning was only a preview of the rest of the day’s fiascos, but you and Will had navigated as best as you could.

“Jesus,” he murmurs once the kids have all been dismissed, gingerly rubbing his temples, “that was brutal. I can handle the day after Halloween; I can handle Fridays, but when they coincide? Nope, never again.” He slumps into a chair dramatically, letting his arms drape over the sides.

“Gonna have a glass of wine when you get home?” you joke, wiping Play-Doh residue from a tabletop.

Will nods. “Or a whole bottle.” His focus shifts to your desk, and he nods his chin in that direction. “I see you have something to look forward to tonight, too.”

You follow his gaze, widening your eyes when you see the object he’s referring to. A bag of peanut M&Ms–much bigger than the one you’d inhaled this morning–sits on top of your desk calendar; resting next to it is a cassette. You walk over, curiosity getting the better of you. The cassette is Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction; you recognize the iconic cover as soon as it comes into view. It’s not your usual music choice, but you’ll listen to almost anything.

There’s a piece of paper taped to the giant yellow M&M bag, folded in equal triads. Messily scrawled across the front in black ink is Ms. Sweetheart. You gently pull the adhesive loose and open the letter, nervously running your forefinger across the irregular edge where it was obviously torn from a composition notebook.

Fun size mistake=fun size bag of candy

Family size mistake=family size bag of candy

I’m really good at fucking things up, but really bad at fixing them. I wish I could say that I didn’t mean to hurt you, but we both know that I did.

You don’t have to forgive me, but I need you to know how sorry I am.

-Eddie

P.S. Not sure if hard rock is your thing, but I saw this at work and it reminded me of the kindness you showed our favorite little Axl Rose yesterday.

“Who’s it from?” Will asks, breaking into your thoughts. “A secret admirer?” He brings his clasped hands to his cheek in mock dreaminess.

You manage a laugh as you fold the note back up and tuck it under the calendar. “If it is, he’s really bad at it, because he signed his name.” When did he even sneak in here to do this? Kind of scary that someone could walk in and you didn’t even notice.

“Aha! So it is a guy!” Will pumps his fist triumphantly, though you’re not quite sure what he thinks he’s won.

“Just Eddie Munson, thanking us for letting Harris draw here yesterday.”

It’s not a total lie, but Will sees right through it. “Uh-huh. Thanking us? So that note is also for me? Can I read it?” He starts towards your desk, outstretched hand reaching towards where you’d tried to hide it, but you playfully swat them away.

You glance at the clock and frown. “If you leave a little early, I won’t tell anyone.”

Will flips you off; over the last two months, you two had developed a sibling-esque relationship that came out more once the kids had left for the day. He grabs his backpack from the supply closet and slings it over his shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m exhausted, or I’d stick around and keep bothering you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes, knowing full well that he’s itching to leave regardless. “Gotta save up your energy for when Marshall visits.”

Will blushes at the mention of his long-distance boyfriend’s name. He still wasn’t out to many people, but when you’d casually mentioned the date Jess had with a girl named Robin, he’d felt comfortable opening up to you. “I can’t wait!” His grin is so wide you swear it’ll stretch right off of his face. “Thanks again; you’re the best.”

That leaves you alone with your gigantic bag of candy, a Guns N’ Roses cassette, and an apology that you have no idea what to do with.

Once again, Eddie Munson has given you more questions than answers.

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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randombush3 · 2 months

Text

another snippet while I slave away lol

this one hurt a bit to write x

“My mums are lesbian!” he blurts out, excited enough to attract the attention of his teacher. When she appears, he grins at her sweetly; the kind of smile that has melted many hearts, though Nico is unaware of how many people know he exists. “More paper, please.”

“Nico, you haven’t even tried with your first one.”

She isn’t harsh at all, but he has slowly learnt to stop asking follow-up questions. Six months of exasperated ‘I don’t know, Nicolau’s has taught him that.

He shrugs. “Okay.”

He learnt what a shrug was the other day, when Mapi told him off for doing it to her. (“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me, Nicolau Putellas!” she had chided playfully. “All I asked was which of your mamas’ houses we need to go to.”)

“Nico, what’s ‘lesbian’?”

“Mama says football is lesbian. Basketball might be lesbian! That’s why your sister is lesbian.”

“My mum says that lesbians kiss girls.”

“Mama kisses girls! And Mami. And they used to kiss each other but now they don’t speak and me and my sister swap houses.” Nico begins drawing it out for Paula when she peers at him, befuddled. “Here is Mama’s.” A big square, a glamorous-looking woman inside of the blue shape; a stick with a circle on the end of it; the notes he sees in his piano music floating in the air. “And…” he says, tongue sticking out as he concentrates on the opposite half of the page, “here is Mami’s.”

He draws a football. He picks up the red crayon too, and uses both the blau and the grana simultaneously. “Mami plays football for Barça.” He draws two lines on Alexia’s t-shirt. 11. “Mami made me get 11 at football.” Nico had originally worn the 10, but then the affair had come to light and Alexia was suddenly deep in conversation with his coach and apologising to the boy Nico then had to swap shirts with.

Then, he drops the crayons in his hand and searches for the stack near Paula. He selects the purple one, gripping it tightly, his friend still listening to him with intrigue.

“This is me and Lela.” Two stick figures are drawn in the middle of the page; the middle ground between each of the squares.

Nico sometimes feels stuck between it all.

When Mami got very sad, he and Elena went to stay with Mapi and Ingrid for a few nights. He held his little sister’s hand as much as he could. He always tries to remind her that he is right there with her.

Mami once told him that it was his turn to protect Elena. Nico hasn’t forgotten that.

“I keep Lela safe.” He has encouraged her, slightly selfishly, to call him ‘skipper’, which he has picked up from the Lionesses. Luckily, Alexia has not told him off for it because she doesn’t know what it means. “Lela is my little sister. She is a baby. She doesn’t remember what it was like when Mama and Mami loved each other, but I do.”

The purple crayon scrapes on the page as he presses it into the white, colour rubbing out in the shape of a heart. “Lela and I are together. Mami tries to take me from her sometimes, but I don’t let her.”

His story – and ability to make Paula pay attention for longer than ten seconds – has already garnered the quiet attention of his teacher, but she moves closer as Nico continues. The four-year-old leaves out how Alexia usually is inviting him to training with her. With Elena yet to show any interest in football, it remains her and Nico’s special thing, and, of course, she misses him when it is not her turn.

You usually give your permission if you have no other plans. Alexia is upset that the only hindrance is the little boy who once worshipped her like a god.

“Nico, why did you want two pages?” asks Paula curiously, assuming he is finished now that his whole family is displayed on the piece of paper.

He frowns. “Because now I have to do this.” And with that, he tears the sheet in half.

Paula’s mouth drops open in surprise, as does his teacher’s.

“What’s wrong?” comes a mature voice, a hand placed on his shoulder just like it is when the other children in his class cry. Nico doesn’t cry. He is strong and brave, like a little soldier. “Did you not like your drawing?”

“No,” he replies neutrally, “half can live with Mama, and half can live with Mami.”

“But now you are ripped down the middle.”

He traces the jagged edges of the halves of his life. One leg is on your side, the other on Alexia’s.

“I know, but it’s okay. I don’t cry.”

#randombush3 #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagines #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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marisatomay · 4 months

Note

i am cautiously extending my empty cup in hopes for some spilt tea. what's happening?

Today it was announced that Tom Cruise would be moving his production company to Warner Bros.

Now, Tom Cruise has had a long relationship with Paramount, starting in 1986 with Top Gun, so when he set up his production company in 1993 (31 years ago) they gave him a first-look deal and offices on their lot and—except for a brief stint in the late 00s, when he and his producing partner Paula Wagner had a falling out with former Paramount head Sumner Redstone and were kicked off the lot (it was said by Redstone to be because of Cruise’s public breakdown but everyone knew it was because Paramount was looking to cut costs and decided to slash and burn), which led to a brief stint where Cruise/Wagner co-ran United Artists with MGM for about 3 years before Redstone and co. got over themselves and brought Cruise back to Paramount—he has been until now.

His deal with Paramount was never exclusive and neither is his new deal with WB. He’s still working on MI8 and, as far as I know, plans to shoot that movie in space with Universal/NASA. He's worked with every studio (barring Disney and their subsidiaries since 1988) consistently over his career. It's just extremely notable that he would move his production company out of Paramount when he never has done so of his own volition before. The only comp I can think of (albeit on a smaller scale) is if Steven Spielberg suddenly moved Amblin out of Universal.

There are really fascinating business and creative implications here—What is the current state of Paramount? What are Shari Redstone et al doing that their biggest star has up and left? What does it say for Cruise’s late career that the press release seemed to really emphasize original theatrical releases?—BUT (!!) I love gossip. I want to know, blow by blow, exactly what, when, and how it happened that Tom Cruise decided to move his production company out of Paramount for the first time of his own volition.

I need to know. Is Cruise doing this as part of a larger effort to save WB from itself? Did Paramount know that Cruise was being courted by WB and so they intentionally fumbled the release of Dead Reckoning in hopes that it would flop in order to make a deal with Cruise look less desirable? Had Cruise noticed that almost all of his non-franchise work over the last 20 years had been with studios other than Paramount and, after one too many original ideas were shot down, he decided to start looking around? Did he fall out with Paramount leadership over something immensely stupid and catty? Did they fallout over his support for his agent who was being blacklisted for supporting Palestine? Is he being brought in to bring Zaslav to heel? I need to know everything. This is the juiciest thing to happen in Hollywood in a minute.

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sprout-fics · 9 months

Text

Falling Down to Earth (Part Two)

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Four of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 7.3k Tags: Slow Burn, Heavy Angst, Trauma, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator, Self Esteem Issues, Referenced Familial abuse, Mom Laswell, Domesticity Warnings: Discussions of childhood verbal abuse A/N: Fix was originally written as a reader insert, and has since graduated into something more of an OC. Her series with Ghost is written in second person POV, but many aspects of her character remain complex and dependent on the lore I've created for her. This chapter details her past, and in doing so details childhood trauma and verbal abuse. Please mind the tags and read at your own discretion.

In the weeks that follow, the wind carries you in your descent down to Earth.

There's a peace, a tranquility to Laswell's home that feels wholly unfamiliar to you. Nestled in a quiet, unassuming suburb, you wake just after dawn to the sounds of birdsong and leaf blowers, of dog walkers and parents hustling children into cars on their way to school. The scent of arabica coffee wafts from downstairs in the kitchen, and with it comes the memory of Ethiopia, of the moss green and sandy highlands that peeked beyond the flap of your medical tent. You journey back there behind fluttering eyelashes, remember the aching loneliness that even now sits hollow inside your heart, and once more recall the dusty wind as your only friend.

You keep Paula and Kate's company, but even there it feels like a piece of you is missing. You've long since stopped trying to recall the voices of the 141, feeling the healing wound in your side ache fiercely every time the memory of their faces flashes in your thoughts. You press it down just like you do with all things, compress it down into your marrow no matter how much it hurts, and think perhaps the fractures it gives you will heal into something stronger. You hide the ache behind your vain attempts at a smile, and you feel a flutter of alarm in the cast of concern behind the gazes of Kate and Paula as if they know.

Nobody can know. If they see, if they know...

You shove away the thought before you can finish. Each time it is summoned you try desperately to revoke it, to keep your hands busy so as to distract you from the tumult of your thoughts.

The first week at Kate's is spent memorizing the routines of the two women, of trying to find ways to make yourself useful. Paula chases you from the kitchen more than once when you offer to cook, relegating you instead to chop vegetables or wash dishes. So you try other ways to earn your keep. You take Whiskey on long winding walks until he tugs in the direction of home. You repair the ice maker, you find the issue with the vacuum chord, you fix the flickering light in the basement.

"I see why they call you 'Fix'." Paula remarks to you, and you offer a faint smile, unsure how to say the thing that weighs heavy on your heart. That you need to do this, you need to do this so you can stay.

By the end of the second week you have exhausted all available opportunities within the house and take it upon yourself to busy your mind with the studies you neglected during your off-days with your team. Old lessons of Arabic and Russian are refreshed in your brain, and Kate finds herself a welcome conversation partner at dinner, much to the mild annoyance of Paula, who fails to discern the language between you two. Kate smiles in offering small corrections to your syntax and pronunciation, supplying the words that make your brow furrow in concentration.

"No Russian." Paula chastises her wife, pointedly gesturing at her with a salad fork, and Kate relents with a chuckle.

Yet when you ask Kate for materials, for reports in Russian that you can read and decode in helping with intelligence for the Taskforce, Kate only levies a grimace with a distant, sad concern underneath.

"Not yet Fix." She tells you softly, and you don't stop falling, trying to navigate this dimension in which you aren't useful to them, in which you can’t prove yourself so they’ll keep you a little longer.

Yet it seems the more you pre-occupy yourself, the more worry festers behind the eyes of the two women who have taken you in. You can't understand it, fail to comprehend the anxiety you see when they look at you.

"Have you ever considered allowing yourself to take a break?" Your therapist asks you, in his cluttered office filled with plants and sunshine.

You stiffen in your chair, shoulders taut with energy you can't conceal, a gale brewing in your thoughts as your mind reels under the scrutiny.

You don't answer, but your silence speaks volumes.

"I have to prove myself." You write in your journal that night, lit by the dim glow of the desk light in the guest room. "I need to be better, to do better. I need to prove I can do it. If I fail here too, where else is there to go?"

Yet even as you write the words in rushed, slanted handwriting, you already know.

"I can't go back to them. To him. Not after what he did to me."

Memories of a different kind. Shiny black shoes and perfectly styled hair ribbons, mahogany desks and lace white napkins. Your crumpled school uniform and bandaged knuckles that sting almost as much as the sound of your father's infuriated, booming voice. It's wordless, the things he said to you long since carried away by the wind, but the imprint of them lays imprinted on your skin, upon the tremble of your hands as you grip the pen in your hand like a scalpel with which to dissect yourself.

It hurts.

You think, somewhere deep inside, it's always hurt.

Yet you've long since de-sensitized yourself to the pain, feeling it shred inside you like a cyclone ripping branches from the elm of your heartbeat and ignoring it so you hike up the mountain of expectations where you'll never see the zenith. You don't know how else to live, don't know a way to find the childhood of yourself before you changed into what you are now. You think you glimpse the figure of your younger self as you fall, see her pass through the clouds just as you do, hurtling down into an unknown future neither of you can predict. Just like the ever-changing tides of the ocean below, you can't find the wavering headwind to catch under your melting wings.

She reaches for you in your dreams, your younger self, a tiny outstretched hand as if she can save you from your rapid descent. You don't know what it means, but you can't resist the urge to reach back, try and embrace her as you so desperately wanted when you were both the same. There's a distant part of you that thinks perhaps if you hold her long enough, you can undo the scars that have never healed inside you. You think maybe you can save her.

The reminder of your own failure lays heavy against your side, stitches that crisscross over purpled flesh where the last of your infection fades away. You know the scar of it will keep just like all the others- a blemished history of failures that effaces your flesh.

It's the threat of being one more failure away from cataclysmic impact that drives you to wake early, to read Russian news over breakfast, to skim the news from the Middle East in the afternoon, to spend long hours at the Red Cross doing every manner of task they request of your honed medic skills. It's the same force that has you trying to run to the edges of the Earth and back just to say you can.

You wonder sometimes if it's enough, if it will ever be enough.

No matter how hard you try, to prove to Kate that there isn't a looming maw of despair and regret inside you, that she seems to see past your efforts anyways. She tries to tell you to rest, that you don't need to try as hard as you do. Yet all it does is make you panic, knowing her gray eyes can peer past your forced smiles and laughter, your achievements and your vain efforts to prove that you're fine. That everything is fine. It always has been. Why would it not be?

You tell your therapist just as much, from where he sits across from you. You web your fingers together on your lap, hide the tremble there with an easy, practiced smile, force your shoulders to relax as you maintain a poised air of perfect composure. You convey to him your achievements as of late, boast about your ability to understand the Russian newscasters and the Arabic of the woman at the Red Cross who delights in your knowledge of a familiar language. You tell him how you're valued by the other volunteers, that you are getting back down to your regular time on a 5k run, that you're doing fine. Better than fine. You're making the most of your time on your forced leave, you're ready to go back.

Your therapist looks unconvinced. He listens serenely, nods to what you are saying. Yet he doesn't speak. He lets the silence between you two weigh down, and it feels so much like the calm before the storm, the one where a thick veil of ocean thunderclouds rolls in your thoughts.

"How is this different from what brought you here?"

You blink, and all at once the air in the room seems to suck into nothingness, an abstract absence of noise and movement in which the only thing you feel is the pressing weight of his eyes upon you. Even so you smile carefully, ignore the way your breath catches in your chest and try to ask him what he means.

When he sighs, pulls his glasses to rub at his brow, you feel the familiar sensation of sinking pull you downwards. Down, and the chasm of the dark churning ocean yawns below, beneath the grey blanket of storm clouds you hurtle towards in an imminent doom.

"You were injured, and you started trying to rush your healing process, and in doing so injured yourself further." He elaborates, nodding to your almost healed injury at your side. "How is this different?"

You swallow, try not to taste the distant scent of sea salt on your tongue. The wind rushes in your ears along with the thrum of your heartbeat. It feels unstoppable, and once more you find yourself helpless to the sensation of freefall, trying to claw back up towards the sun.

"I'm not injured." You supply, careful to keep your voice composed, even, to not give a single indication of the doubt you harbor inside yourself. You know this routine. You’ve had to pass psych evaluations before. To stay composed, to not let the cracks inside you show, to not allow them a single modicum of doubt is how you’ll survive, how you’ve always survived, how you’ll continue to survive even as something inside you howls into the gale in a desperate bid for mercy.

He only shrugs. "I'm not talking about your injury." He tells you plainly. "I'm talking about the reason why you're here."

Your hands are shaking. He can see it. "I'm here because I was caught trying to hide an injury from my CO." You force yourself to say carefully, measuring your words.

"Why were you hiding it?" He presses, and you feel like you’ve been caught in wolf jaws, a sudden snap of teeth against your flesh. It makes panic flare inside you like a sunburst, and you try vainly to push it down as you always have, deep into those dark tidewaters that beckon to you. You’ll never rise out of it if you fall, you know that. You’ll sink, sink further still, weighed down by the burden of your failures, unable to see the sky you’ve fought so hard to reach.

“I was hiding it because I didn’t want them to see something that was my fault, something I could have taken care of myself.” You reply evenly, but it’s too late. He sees you, he sees you like they all do, is slowly peeling away the hardened shell of you to see the rotten interior you’re trying so desperately to hide.

“If you could have taken care of it yourself you wouldn’t be here.” He states, and you flinch. His voice has taken on a flinty sharpness, seizing upon your weaknesses and sending you into a doomed tailspin ever downwards.

“You needed help from your teammates, but you didn’t want to accept it because you wanted to prove you could do it on your own, even though it nearly cost you your life.”

“No-“ You try vainly, feeling your muscles tighten, begin to tremble. Caught in a sniper’s scope of your own design. It’s too late, you didn’t realize it was your own finger on the trigger.

“You did it because you don’t think you are enough despite them telling you so. They’ve already accepted you, and yet it isn’t enough, so you’re still trying to prove yourself even now, and in doing so only hurting yourself further.”

“T-that’s not-“ You can’t breathe. The wind has stolen the oxygen from your lungs. You can’t see the sky.

He pauses, looks at you. You’re shaking, ramrod straight in your chair, eyes wide and unseeing of anything except your inevitable descent. You can’t stop it, and the mere thought of the cataclysmic collision to come drops the floor out from under you, makes the walls close in, shifts the axis of the world so you no longer know where you are.

In the midst of it, you see them. It’s in the vision of the four men who have accepted you as one of their own that the man before you murmurs a final, devastating mystery you refuse to speak the heart of.

"Fix, who hurt you to make you this way?"

You’re on your feet before you can think twice about it, heart hammering and eyes unseeing. Adrenaline slinks sharply through your veins, alighting your nerve endings with a panic you forgot you knew how to feel. Your jacket is in your hand and you turn, breathing heavily and all but stumbling from the office before he can stop you.

He calls for you, but it’s lost to the gale.

“I see you. Just you.”

You can’t be seen. You can’t stand the feeling of being flayed open, of having your ribcage cracked just so someone can dig their hands into the blooming bouquet of chlorosis in which lays your still tender heart. To see you is to peer inside while you’re helpless, prone, unable to stop the discovery of the putrid thing that’s been festering inside of you for years. A hate so dark and deep it spans the globe in a watery grave. Your ocean is filled with misery, a tempest of failure you’ve tried desperately to avoid and yet seem to plummet through the clouds towards as the debris of your wax wings hangs suspended in the air around you.

They’re going to see. They’re all going to see, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

They’re going to see how much you hate yourself.

You stagger from the office and out of the building and into the eye of the hurricane. It’s mindless, the way your feet carry you, searching aimlessly for a destination you don’t know. You think somehow if you walk far enough you’ll arrive back to them, and manage to convince them through trembling shoulders and half-hearted smiles that you aren’t broken, that you can stay, that they don’t need to leave you behind yet.

Through the streets, even as the lampposts flicker on and the afternoon rush hour fades into a low hum of passing cars. People seem to dodge you, and even they seem to see the haunted look in your eyes, the way you’re walking to the end of the earth as if it will save you.

Eventually you find yourself amongst a small throng of people, and as you try to weave through them you instead find yourself pulled by the current. They tug you in the direction of somewhere inside, of music and the smell of cigarettes and clinking glasses. It feels familiar, like the pubs off-base you used to frequent with them, and yet it’s not there, too different. If you close your eyes, however, you think maybe you’re back there, that you’ll be beckoned over to the corner booth that seems to be exclusively for you and them.

Instead you find yourself perched on a bar, rasping your order for a heavy scotch that you finish under the eyes of the bartender before you order another just as quickly. It’s on your third that you force yourself to slow, see the perfectly cut ice cubes swirl amidst a cloud of amber as your senses fuzz to a distant din.

When was the last time you went drinking with them? It was before the campaign to Latin America, perhaps during that period of blissful late September in the Staffordshire countryside. You can still remember the taste of your outraged laughter when Soap hauled you into the air while sparring, with brawny arms fringed with coarse hair that tickled against your skin. You’d scuffled with him in the dirt, had felt the golden glow of camaraderie as Gaz and Price watched on with broad grins.

Then Ghost, who had lingered in the shade of the building you four were beside, had stared into your soul in that cursed way where you almost wanted him to see. Like a dark sorcerer, it’s always been Ghost who has been able to peer past your gaze and discern the things inside you desperately try to conceal. Yet he’s never once said anything on it, has simply observed in silence, as if waiting for you to stop yourself as you descend into the unfathomable depths.

You’re still thinking of him when there’s a figure out of the corner of your eyes that draws your attention. He saunters over towards the bar, catches your eyes and smiles but sits with a barstool between you both. Watching, waiting, curious.

He’s tall. Brown haired, a smattering of freckles across his nose that pinches just a bit when he smiles at your blatant staring. His hair is short at the sides, longer and curly on top in a way that drapes across his forehead. He looks like he’s come from work, a blue collared shirt tucked neatly into jeans, nice shoes perching on the rail of the barstool.

He has brown eyes. Almost rust colored. Almost like him.

He looks at you, and you realize he doesn’t see. He doesn’t see who you are, sees instead the pretty, lonely girl at the bar on her third scotch that’s quickly becoming watered down. He doesn’t see you the way Ghost does.

You smile then, tilt your head at him a little coyly, blinking slowly like a cat. Come closer.

He does. He’s drawn in, scoots over one seat and introduces himself as James. You almost tell him your call sign, and then you almost tell him your real name, before settling at last on an alias that makes him raise his eyebrows in consideration.

“It suits you.” He says, and you smile at that, at the idea that somehow you’re so invisible to him, that he has no idea of who you really are. He doesn’t know the things you’ve done, the people you’ve killed, the person you’re hiding inside. It’s a heady rush of power that leaves you grinning, drunk on scotch and this strange covertness you drape yourself in.

“So, what do you do?” He asks in classic D.C. fashion, in a city full of social climbers with keen eyes looking for allies.

“I work for the government.” You tell him, and fail to supply which secretive three letter agency that entails.

“…Doing what?” He inquires as you sip at watered down scotch. You shoot him a sly grin, a flutter of eyelashes that makes his eyes widen imperceptibly.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

He laughs at that, thinking it’s some sort of joke when it’s not, and presses no further.

He tells you he’s a political consultant, one of those sharply dressed men who wander Washington in search of esteemed politicians they can sell their services to. You wonder if he knows your brother, of the same breed of self-proclaimed big thinkers self-righteously destined for greatness. Maybe there’s a cabinet position in his distant future. You’re not sure if you’ll live to see it should you continue to be a soldier.

You offer fleeting conversation, but mostly you just listen to James regale you of his accolades, more than happy to ramble your ear off. He orders you a fourth scotch which you barely touch, not fond of the idea of being more inebriated than you already are. You watch him with a smile summoned only by the pleasant haze of liquor. It seems to encourage him. When he tells you a joke you laugh only because you know you should, watch the brightness of his eyes dance under the dim lights of the bar.

“You’re very mysterious.” He tells you, leaning closer.

“I’ve been told I’m very good at that.” You reply enigmatically.

He seems entranced by that, somehow, finds the vague apparition of you riveting. You relish it, the way he doesn’t really see you, in the way you want to be seen. Mystic, confident, beautiful, a thing to be lusted after and desired even though he knows he’ll never unravel the secrets inside you.

“I actually don’t live far from here.” James tells you a low, conspiratorial whisper, and you tilt your head in consideration. You shouldn’t. You’re tipsy and off balance, internally reeling from the things you can’t control. Yet the thought of not being alone, of forgetting everything just for an evening, is too tempting to refuse.

“Alone?” You ask silkily, and James’ eyes flick down to your lips before they dart back up to your piercing gaze.

“Yes.” He whispers breathlessly, caught in your spell. His hand bridges the gap between you, spreads across your thigh in a way that sends a sudden current of doubt through you. It burns brightly in the back of your thoughts, the way this suddenly seems to feel wrong. You push it down and instead force a little shiver at the touch, grinning coyly at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Want me to buy you dinner first?” He asks, and it’s strangely boyish, that. Almost endearing.

“I think scotch counts.” You supply, quick to imply your readiness to leave, to get on with this before you have second thoughts.

James seems to catch your meaning, and escorts you from the bar after you settle your tabs, a hand on the small of your back in a gesture that makes your shoulders tighten uncomfortably. It doesn’t take long to hail a taxi, and soon you’re in the back of a dark car with him leaning over towards you. You only half return his kiss when he offers it, feigning a pleased little noise that seems to encourage him as his tongue slips clumsily against yours.

“You like that?” He husks, and you don’t bother to answer, hand sliding up to his shoulder in a loose grip. He tastes like the bitter bite of tequila, tinted with lime, and again your mind floats back to Venezuela and the half open bottles of home brew that shattered under bullet fire. You remember the smell of the spider infested hideout in the jungle, of the thick humidity that blanketed over your senses like a sheen of warm sweat under the weight of your tactical gear.

You remember the trap door, the bullet lodged against your ribs, not being able to breathe, the fear on Gaz and Price’s face, the skeletal gloves that offered you onto the med-evac like handing a lamb to the altar.

You remember him. You remember his voice.

"You're only seeing me."

You pull back like you've been burned, nearly bite his lips in the process, feeling your eyes widen in horror as the truth of what you're doing pierces through you. This is wrong. It’s all terribly wrong. You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be drowning yourself like you’ve already fallen from the heavens.

“Stop the car.” You rasp hoarsely, your hand still on his collar in a vice-like grip, trying to anchor yourself futilely.

James looks at you, the shock on his face apparent for just a moment as the car passes under a streetlamp.

“Wait- what’s wrong?” He asks, caught off guard, and you don’t answer, mind running too fast, circling down into a tailspin. It’s too much, you’re drowning, you’re gasping-

“I can’t.” You try, voice cracking, unable to clarify any more. “I-I have to get home.”

James’ face flickers between confusion and disappointment. Yet his voice is gentle as he asks: “Are you okay? Was it something I did?”

You shake your head. No, no it wasn’t him. It’s you, it’s always been you. The taxi driver pulls over to the curb, and again James tries to press for answers you don’t have.

"I’m sorry, I can't do this." You tell him hurriedly as the taxi comes to a halt, gathering your jacket and things and swiftly reaching for the door.

“Wait-“ He tries, grabbing your wrist, and you’re ready to snarl at him like a defensive animal when you see the concern in his eyes. There’s a pause as he regards you, seems at last to see you for what you are.

“Take the taxi.” He tells you softly. “I’ll catch another one. Just…get home safe.”

You swallow, still tasting scotch in your mouth.

“Thank you.” You whisper, unsure of what else to say.

James nods, releases you, reaches for his door. He’s halfway out of the taxi when he turns back to you.

“Can I have your number?” He asks in a last-ditch attempt, and when you shake your head he looks down at his fancy business shoes and closes the door.

There’s silence for a few minutes before you murmur Laswell’s address to the taxi driver, who gives you a look of pity before he pulls away into the night.

The glow of streetlamps pass above. You somehow find it in yourself not to cry.

It’s shortly before 2am that the taxi pulls up on the quiet street where Laswell lives. The lights in the house are dark. You wonder if either of them called you when you weren’t home for dinner. Your phone is still turned off in your pocket, the messages unread.

You quietly thank the taxi driver, sidle up the steps and unlock the door as quietly as you can. The house is silent, and you’re sure both women are in bed as you turn towards the stairs-

“Fix.”

You flinch hard, not expecting to be caught, feeling so much like a teenager sneaking back in after breaking curfew. It would be comical if it weren’t for the even, passive inflection of Kate’s voice that sounds like disapproval.

You turn towards the sound, notice for the first time that the kitchen light is on over the barstools. Gently, you pad over to the doorway, and find Kate sitting upon one of them. Her hair is tied back, she’s wearing comfortable night clothes, and the sight itself is so strangely at war with the common image you recognize from her. Buttoned shirts and fitted slacks, utilitarian jackets and boots to match those of the team she oversees. There’s a glass of water beside her hand, and as you glance at the stool across from her you see an empty one just for you.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She shrugs at your questioning gaze, and you both know it’s a lie you won’t call her on. “Come sit.”

You shouldn’t. You should go to bed, wake up in the morning and pretend this evening never happened, try to salvage the image of the person you try to be.

Yet Laswell’s gaze is not to be questioned, and you slide into the seat with averted eyes even as she pours you a glass. You fidget uncomfortably, trying to summon a myriad of explanations to excuse your midnight arrival. You wait for Kate to begin questioning you, to interrogate you as to your movements, but instead she stares passively down into her own glass, twirling the water for a few moments before speaking.

“They ask about you.”

You blink, excuses abruptly forgotten as your eyes dart up towards her. “What?”

“The boys, they ask about you.” She repeats quietly. “Every time I talk to them, they ask how you’re doing. They want to know how you’re doing.”

You’re stunned into silence, and when you don’t speak, Kate continues. “I tell them what I can, but I tell them they should really be asking you themselves.”

You frown, eyes softening with dismay. It’s been weeks since you left, and you’ve not heard a single message from them. You check every day, have nearly deleted your conversations with them in a mixture of despair and heartache. It weighs heavy inside you, their absence, and you yourself can’t find the courage to talk to them first, thinking perhaps they’d only reject you if you did.

“They…haven’t talked to me.” You whisper faintly, chest achingly hollow.

Kate meets your eyes then. The normal flinty sharpness of her gaze has softened into a soft, dove-grey stare. There’s sadness there, a touch of regret, and it festers in your still healing wound.

“I know.” She replies, and her shoulders drop. The gesture has a murmur of apprehension bubble inside you, muscles stiffening as you mentally bastion yourself against whatever terrible news she’s about to deliver. “I talked to Price today. I asked him why they haven’t reached out.”

They’re going to leave me. You think in growing panic, air growing short in your chest as Kate frowns into her glass. This is it. She’s telling me I’m off the taskforce.

“He said…he didn’t know if he had the right, after what happened.”

The wind changes direction once again. You look at Kate, stare at her in clear confusion. For once it’s her who avoids your gaze- Kate, the prophet, the soothsayer of your team, the one who divines the wind now refuses to look at you, and her face speaks of guilt.

“We failed you, Fix.” She whispers, voice faint. It’s the loudest sound you’ve ever heard.

“We all saw how you were struggling, we saw that you were fighting something we couldn’t see. We wanted to help, but you were so determined to do things on your own that we didn’t see how much it was hurting you.”

Kate sounds lost. She’s staring at a map she can’t conjure, trying to trace the paths between her grief and your own distant pain, feeling it flare inside her in turn. You’re unsteadied by it, by this sudden exposed vulnerability of a woman so unshakeable in her foundations you’ve stared at her with stars in your eyes since the moment you’d met.

“We should have been here for you, Fix. You shouldn’t have to do this by yourself.” She confesses at last, voice fragile in a way that you can’t understand. “I’m sorry.”

“No one fights alone.”

His words, from that time. When he has clasped you to him and prevented you from falling into frost. You’d clung to him in your rawness, burrowing into his warmth under the guise of hypothermia. He was doing it to keep you alive, or so you thought. An obligation as your comrade, as your superior to ensure you didn’t die. Now you see it was so much more than that.

He did it because he cared.

He cares. They all do. In your grief it wasn’t clear before, but now you feel the dark clouds you descend through part way to allow the glimmer of sunlight to show through. You grasp at it blindly, remember the sounds of their laughter, their smiles, the firm touches and playful jabs that fill the emptiness of your chest in which the dark wind howls. You’d felt it filled, in that moment where you’d burrowed yourself into Ghost’s chest, wondering if perhaps it was empty too. You’d fallen asleep in his embrace and had remembered at the edge of deliquium that all you’d ever wanted in your whole life was to just be held.

"Kate,” You breathe at last in a rapid whoosh of air that changes the headwind that howls in the emptiness inside you. “…there's something I need to tell you."

Kate sits before you silently, expectantly, and you don’t lift your head to look at her. Your hands rest on the glass tumbler, the warming ice water inside.

“My name…isn’t my real name.” You confess quietly, and despite how small your voice is it feels loud- louder than gunfire, than grenades, explosions, RPGs. “I changed it.”

Your hands grip tighter to the glass, brow scrunching in a distant ache as you go on. “I changed it because I didn’t want people to know who I was, who my family was. I didn’t want to bring them with me.”

A pause.

“…but it seems like they came with me anyways.”

You look up then, slowly, into the knotted brow and thinly pressed lips of Laswell. Her eyes are soft, sad in a way that feels foreign and yet so welcome.

“My father. He’s a senator. He has been ever since I was in high school. He’s on the Armed Services committee. You might have even met him.” You don’t say his name, still afraid to even admit that small truth- the fact that you once called that man father.

Laswell is quiet for a long time, as if processing the information you’ve given her. She seems to be weighing it heavily inside her, finding the thing that needs to be said. Her fingers tap every few beats against her glass before she finally speaks.

“I knew.” She sighs at last.

You blink, look up at her once more, confusion coloring your eyes. She returns your stare, a little guilty, before she elaborates.

"I knew, Fix.” She admits and reaches for the pitcher to refill her glass and yours. “I had a feeling. I've met the senator before, I remember faces. The first time I met you, it rang a bell. He said something about having a daughter in the armed forces. You...look similar."

You wince at that, a small gesture of vague displeasure that you can’t rid yourself of his resemblance. Yet then you look back to Kate, to her steely grey eyes watching you, waiting for you to speak. You’re not entirely surprised she knew. Laswell’s intelligence background means she likely knows more about you than you know about yourself at times. It’s her job to know. Yet it doesn’t explain…

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You ask in scarcely a whisper, trying to contain the small feeling of hurt inside you.

At this, the guilt in Kate’s expression deepens. "Maybe I should have.” She offers regretfully. “-but you never once mentioned your family and when I looked up your file, saw you had changed your name...it didn't take much to connect the dots. I had my suspicions about you...becoming estranged from them. It's no use to bleed a healing wound."

"A wound." You laugh mirthlessly. "Yeah, seems like I've been getting plenty of those recently."

Your side aches.

"Fix." Kate’s hand stretches between you two, comes to rest over your tightly webbed fingers with a featherlight touch that settles into something firm. "Tell me what happened."

It’s not a demand. It’s a request, almost a plea on her part, wanting desperately for you to reach out in turn, grasp her hand as you fall. You instinctively want to pull back, to shield yourself from her keen eyed stare, but after today, after tonight, after a lifetime of wearing yourself down to brittle bone to hide who you are…you’re tired.

So you unclasp your palms, turn them up so her hand settles in them, keeps you there so you don’t descend further.

"I don't even know where to start.” You confess, and your voice suddenly sounds so much younger than who you are now, like the child inside your soul has finally reached you in your freefall. “I was the youngest daughter, an accident my dad told me once. The extra."

You breathe out a shuddering exhale, as if releasing the ache that howls in the hollow of your chest.

"He always hated me. I'll never know why. Maybe it's because I'm a girl. Maybe it's because I was a tomboy, or hated dresses, or that didn't fit the mold of being the perfect obedient little doll he wanted me to be for the cameras…” You pause, feel a splinter of pain flare at the center of your healed bullet wound. “Maybe it's because I...was too much like him."

"I was always second best. The wrong child."

"He loved my brother, still does. Sees him as his successor. Wants him to run for office.” You pause with another humorless little laugh. “Hell, he might even be in office right now. I haven’t exactly been in contact with them.”

Yet then you swallow, your face pinching in dismay once more. “All my father ever needed of me, all he wanted was for me to be like my mom. Docile, subservient, cowed, perfectly poised even when he cursed her for having me."

White, pristine white, the color of lace and freshly pressed dinner napkins. The color of the pearls resting against your mother's throat. When she swallows your eyes dart up to her face. She's looking past the gauzy pale curtains of the banquet hall, outside to the hazy, dimming streetlights beyond. Her eyes are distant, sad.

"I don't think...abuse is the right term.” You go on, and your voice wobbles now, your resilience fading as the memories pile in. Polished wood floors, carefully maintained picturesque bedrooms, furniture you weren’t allowed to sit on, the mahogany desk in your father’s office. “I was provided for, some would say I was spoiled. Part of why I changed my name was I didn't want anyone to figure out they were shipping out with the spoiled rich girl from Chevy Chase."

You pause then, feeling the silence of the kitchen press down on you. You remember the loneliness of your first assignment of distancing yourself from your squad, of trying to conceal yourself and aching for it. You’d whittled yourself down to your marrow, forcing down every ounce of hurt and pain because you had to, because you only ever had yourself. If you reached out, if you asked them for aid, if they saw…

“I didn’t want them to see.” You whisper, barely audible, wide eyes staring in horror at the dark churning ocean below. “I didn’t want them to see what he made me.”

It’s silent then, in the aftermath of what you’ve spoken. The truth of it hangs in the silence between you both. Like the lingering air after a typhoon, the atmosphere presses heavily on your shoulders, threatens to weigh you down so much that it loosens your grip from Laswell’s hand.

She only clings closer.

"Fix.” She says, and her voice is suddenly so soft, aching with emotion. “What you went through was abuse. It wasn't physical unless you haven't shared something with me-“

"No.” You interject. “No he never- he never did anything like that, I swear. Not even to my mom. I think...I think he knew how much it could hurt his career- his...reputation."

"All he did was just..."

"He told me I was worthless, Kate.” You whisper, and your throat seizes with a sob so sudden and fierce it threatens to shatter you at the seams. “He said that I was a waste of space, and no matter how I tried to get good grades or honors or be good at athletics or make friends or anything. It didn't matter. That even if I tried to tell anyone what he said to me that they wouldn’t care because I was useless."

Salty, briny tears flood your eyes. The words that have haunted you this entire time, the words you’ve tried so desperately to fight against, to prove aren’t true are the ones that he told you. That your purpose of being alive was futile, that your mere presence was a burden.

"I...I was never good enough Laswell.” You choke out, shoulders heaving with the effort to contain your sobs. “I-I'm not sure I'll ever be good enough."

Kate moves then, and it’s so quick that you think for a moment she’s letting you go. Instead, Kate stands from her chair and comes over to your side, uses her hands to press you against her in an embrace so fierce it forces the scarcely contain sob from your throat.

"You are enough, Fix.” She tells you, her voice suddenly sharp, severe in a way that isn’t meant for you. “You've always been enough. I wouldn't have chosen you otherwise. I wouldn't have given you to them if I didn't think you were enough. Understand?"

You shudder, another hiccupping sob you can’t contain bubbles up your throat. Your hands raise gently to her, afraid that if you touch her further maybe she’ll pull away.

"Laswell...I..." You try, absent of words. She seems to understand.

"If I could go back and change it, I would.” She tells you, and holds you tighter, arms wrapped around you protectively as if they can provide you shelter, as if she can cure you from the sins of the past. “You didn't deserve what happened to you, Fix, and you don't deserve to feel this way about yourself with all you've accomplished."

Yes, the things you’ve done. Your medic skills, your military training, the languages you’ve learned, the missions you’ve fought in, all of them in a desperate bid to prove a better version of yourself than you truly are.

"B-but I failed, Kate.” You sob, chest finally loosing itself of all the ache there as you cry freely. “I got myself injured and then nearly killed myself trying to push too hard, and I-" Your voice chokes off as another sob wracks your shoulders.

Laswell pulls back from you then, holds you at arm’s length so she can peer past your watery eyes. Her hands clench on your shoulders, and you see she might be crying too, eyes shining with unshed emotion.

"What matters now is that you're here.” She declares, voice hoarse with choked tears. “You have a family, Fix. With us. You never have to speak to your father or mother or brother ever again if you don't want to. We will always be here. No amount of failure on your part will ever change that."

You still yourself, look at Laswell like you want to believe her, and you do. Laswell would never lie to you unless it was to keep you safe, and this…this…

Your quivering inhale releases as a chest-cracking sob, and then another, and as you raise your hands to try and scrub away the tears from your eyes you finally let go. You allow yourself to cry, like you’ve wanted to for so many years, like the way you thought you’ve forgotten. You cry like the child you still are inside, the little girl looking up at a world too large for her and wondering how she’ll ever grow to fit it. It spins dizzyingly underneath you, an abstract of blue and green where you descend through white clouds. Sunshine warms your skin, and the air whooshing past your ears stills into a gentle, cradling breeze.

You stop falling.

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#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley #mw2 #cod mw22 #Simon ghost riley x oc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix

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dreamwritesimagines · 1 year

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Garden of Secrets [11] - Tuberoses

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and support my loves, it made my whole week, you’re amazing!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Thanks so much to @theskytraveler for helping me with the chapter!

Summary: A gift always has a meaning.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms.

Word Count: 4100

Series Masterlist

After a sleepless night, as you watched the first rays of sunlight spill into your room, you were sure of one thing;

Tonight was going to be absolute chaos.

You hadn’t liked attending balls even before all this but now that you and your betrothed had to pretend to be in love for the whole ton to see at the first ball you would attend?

You were more than ready to pretend to faint again just to avoid it.

Of course, you were the only person to feel that way. Between you and Benedict, you were the one who always found it hard to be or even sound friendly, Benedict on the other hand didn’t even have to try for the people to be drawn to him. You were beginning to feel like he could charm the whole room without so much as showing a little effort, so of course everyone was going to believe everything he said, including how in love he was.

Whereas you were going to have to show a lot of effort.

At least the wedding negotiations had been over in a day. Your uncle and Anthony -as the head of two families- had been quick with them and now all you and Benedict had to do was wait until the wedding which your aunt was very excited for.

“Y/N my dearest?”

You stopped dead in your tracks and peeked your head around the doorframe of the drawing room to look at your aunt who was writing a letter.

“Auntie?”

“Where are you going?”

“I told Lottie I would go to the florist with her,” you said. “She wants to buy flowers for her stepmother and the little ones, and for her own room.”

“Ah,” she said. “Did you decide what you will wear tonight at the ball?”

You leaned sideways to the doorframe. “Yes and it’s all ready. Paula laid them over.”

She smiled at you. “And are you very excited?” she asked. “It’ll be your first outing as a couple.”

You took in a breath and nodded. “Uh huh.”

“Everyone keeps asking me questions about you two but they really want to hear the details from you.”

You made a face. “I am aware.”

She shot you a knowing look.

“I know you’re not exactly fond of all that…attention,” she said softly. “And that you’d rather have your privacy until the wedding and afterwards.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Oh painfully so,” she said with a small laugh, making you smile as well. “You do not have to tell them anything you do not wish to.”

You bit inside your cheek. “What if I wish to tell them nothing at all?”

“Then tell them nothing.”

You let out a bitter chuckle. “Oh of course. And I’m sure they will not insist.”

“Since when what people say to you affect your actions?” she asked and you shrugged your shoulders, biting at your nail.

“I don’t know anymore.”

“You’re in love and you’re getting married,” she said. “Tell them that. And if that’s not enough for them, they can just do what they’ve always done.”

“Which is?”

“Stay curious,” she said, winking at you and you scoffed a laugh.

“I shall make sure to tell them that,” you said as you pushed yourself off the doorframe. “I should go. I’ll bring you flowers though!”

“Oh you’re the sweetest,” she said, pressing a hand on her shoulder. “I’d like that a lot. Now go, you shouldn’t keep Miss Harlowe waiting.”

You nodded and made your way downstairs, then walked out of the house to get into the carriage.

The florist wasn’t very far so when you and Charlotte walked into it, she was still telling you about her latest suitor.

“And Mr. Greenway wanted to know what made Benedict break our courtship, can you believe it? He did not seem convinced when I told him there was no courtship.”

You ran your palm over the lavenders. “Your suitors make me want to stab them, honestly.”

“You and my papa seem to have that in common,” she said. “He keeps saying he does not wish to see me married and leave home.”

“And your stepmother?”

“Mama says I should only marry the one I love,” she said. “Like you and Benedict!”

You dragged your tongue over your teeth, keeping your gaze on the flowers.

“Are you very excited about the wedding, Y/N?”

“Uh huh,” you said before leaning in to smell the lavenders better. “Sure.”

She nibbled on her lip, rocking on the balls of her feet but remained silent, making you turn to her.

“Lottie?”

She bit down a smile. “Yes?”

“What is it?”

“I was just wondering,” she said. “If I could be your bridesmaid perhaps?”

You stared at her before a smile warmed your face, then you took a deep breath, narrowing your eyes in an attempt to look to be in deep thought.

“Hmm…” you said, “I may need to think of it.”

“Y/N!”

You scoffed a laugh and reached out to squeeze her hand.

“Lottie of course you will be my bridesmaid!” you said. “I would like to ask you to be my maid of honor, in fact.”

She let out a squeal and wrapped her arms around you to hug you, then pulled back.

“Of course!” she said. “I already have so many ideas about my gown, can it be pale blue do you think? I really like pale blue!”

“It’s your decision, I really will not mind whichever color you choose.”

“And your wedding gown?”

“I’m not certain yet,” you said after a beat. “There’s still time to think about it—you can buy these by the way. They’re good.”

She made her way to the counter to pay for the bunch, and you grabbed a bouquet of crocuses to do the same. The florist put them into a paper bag and gave it to you, and you both started walking towards the exit.

“You at least must have an idea about what your bridal bouquet,” she insisted. “Do you not?”

“Well I—” you started but then stopped in your tracks to approach the bouquets by the window.

“Aw they’re beautiful!” Lottie said. “What are those?”

“Tuberoses,” you said with a small smile, then leaned in to inhale the scent. “I like tuberoses.”

“Perhaps they can be your bridal bouquet!” she said and you pulled back from the flowers, then looked around.

“Perhaps— excuse me,” you said to the florist who approached you upon hearing you. “How much for a bouquet of these?”

The man stole a look at the flowers, then raised his brows.

“Those are tuberoses my lady.”

“Yes I know. How much?”

He shifted his weight and glanced at your hand. “My lady, I’m afraid I cannot sell them to you.”

You pulled your brows together and Lottie tilted her head to the left like a confused puppy.

“…Why not?”

“You’re unmarried, my lady.”

“She will be married soon!” Lottie chirped happily and your frown deepened.

“How is that relevant?”

“Tuberoses, my lady,” he said. “Unmarried ladies aren’t allowed to smell them or purchase them for that matter.”

Lottie’s hands flew to her face to cover her nose and mouth and you blinked a couple of times.

“But it will be my pleasure to sell them to you once you’re married—”

“I don’t understand,” you cut him off. “Why can’t I buy them now?”

“Tuberoses can awaken certain…urges my lady,” he said. “Urges that are not appropriate for unmarried ladies such as yourself.”

A small, muffled whine escaped from Lottie and you arched a brow, then batted your eyelashes, feigning complete innocence.

“What sort of urges?”

“My lady, they’re not—” he paused. “Not appropriate to think of.”

“Why not?” you asked but Lottie reached out to grab your arm with her free hand, then tugged at it.

“Thank you,” she said from behind her palm and pulled you to the other side of the shop near the door.

“Oh dear God I accidentally smelled it I think!”

“Lottie.”

“So did you!”

“Yes and nothing is going to happen—”

“Charlotte?” you heard a voice and you looked over your shoulder to see Anthony and Benedict by the door before they both stepped in. Anthony went straight to Charlotte and Benedict smiled at you, making your heart skip a beat before you nodded in his direction.

“What are you doing here?” you asked and Benedict motioned outside.

“We were just—Charlie, what are you doing?”

“We smelled a flower we weren’t supposed to.”

Anthony frowned. “What?”

“And now it’ll awaken certain urges.”

Benedict stared at her. “Charlie, what are you talking about?”

“The florist says unmarried ladies aren’t supposed to smell tuberoses and I accidentally smelled them,” she said, making you heave a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. “And so did Y/N!”

“Mine wasn’t accidental,” you deadpanned with a shrug of your shoulders and Benedict repressed a laugh.

“Really?”

“I’m still waiting for the explanation of what urges it will awaken,” you stated, looking around for the florist. “He was not done explaining, where is he?”

“Y/N,” Benedict said, his voice a playful warning and you grinned at him.

“What?” you asked. “I’m in terrible need of explanations.”

“You are in terrible need of taunting someone, more likely.”

“How dare you?” you asked, trying to adapt a solemn expression. “You’re trying to get in the way of true knowledge here, what would your beloved philosophers say—”

“I do not feel any different,” Lottie said, worry still etched in her tone as she lowered her hand and Anthony looked around, then grabbed a flower.

“There you go Charlotte,” he said. “Peonies. Your favorite.”

Charlotte took the red peony from him, a smile warming her face before she bit at her lip.

“You remembered!”

…Ah.

This was interesting.

The realization hit you so hard that it made your head snap up and you stared at them. Now it made sense why Anthony was so furious when he had approached you concerned about Charlotte after your engagement to Benedict. It made sense why he was so gentle around her, it made sense why Charlotte insisted he was the sweetest, it made sense—

He loved her, and she loved him, and you couldn’t tell if either of them was aware of it.

Everyone kept asking how Benedict hadn’t proposed to Charlotte in two years, what you wanted to know was how this idiot hadn’t proposed to her in those same two years.

You forced yourself to avert your gaze and cleared your throat.

“I cannot believe I’m not allowed to buy flowers because the florist is an idiot.”

“You don’t think it’s dangerous?”

“No,” you and Benedict said at the same time and Charlotte turned to you.

“And you’re not worried at all?”

“There’s nothing to worry about except for the lack of logic here,” you stated. “But then again, that’s not exactly uncommon in the ton, I’m getting used to it slowly like a frog in the hot water.”

Benedict’s smile was soft as a fond look crossed his eyes and you shifted your weight, then looked around.

“I’d better go,” you said. “Lottie?”

“Oh I’m coming of course,” she said. “I’ll see you both later.”

You and she walked out of the florist to make your way down the street and Lottie twirled the single peony between her fingers with a smile.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“What do peonies symbolize?”

You stole a look at her. “Love and honor.”

“Oh,” she said quietly before inhaling the scent of the flower and you repressed a smile, then pulled her to the next shop.

By the time you returned to the house, you and Charlotte had spent at least three hours outside, first checking out the bookshop, then sitting at the teahouse. Spending time with her had put you in a better mood as usual, and you had almost forgotten about tonight’s ball until you passed through the door to your house and saw one of the maids carrying your coat for the night. You shook your head, making your way upstairs as you took the flowers into your hand and entered the drawing room.

“Pretty flowers for a pretty lady,” you said, making your aunt turn and her whole face lit up.

“Aw, Clover!” she said, taking them from you before kissing your cheek. “They are absolutely gorgeous my dear!”

You smiled back at her as she gave them to a maid for her to put them into a vase, then turned to you.

“I sent yours to your room.”

Your head shot up. “Hm?”

She winked at you. “Just go there and see.”

You pulled your brows together and walked out of the drawing room to make your way to your room, then opened the door to step inside but as soon as you saw what was on your desk, you stopped dead in your tracks.

Tuberoses.

You gawked at it before slowly approaching the bouquet in the vase, then leaned forward to take in the scent, your eyes fluttering close. A smile curled your lips as you opened your eyes, then tilted your head when the tiny envelope next to the vase caught your eye, so you reached out to open it and took out the small card.

I’d hate to get in the way of true knowledge.

Benedict.

A scoff of laughter escaped from you and you shook your head, then walked to fling yourself into your bed, painfully aware of the smile warming your face.

The night hadn’t even started yet but you were more than ready to get back in the carriage and go home already. Nervousness was rushing through you and you desperately needed some fresh air before going into that chaos, so you took a look at the couple of people in the garden making their way to the big house, then turned to your aunt.

“Auntie, I uh…” you said. “Can I wait for Lottie first?”

“We can wait for her inside?”

“Well yes, but—” you cleared your throat. “After Whistledown’s article, people will ask me some questions about the betrothal, so I fear I won’t have the time to talk to her.”

She looked around. “Y/N, I’m not sure…”

“It’s a garden.”

“You’d still be alone.”

“Barely,” you said. “There are people here.”

“My dear, it’s night time and—”

“Lady Thorne,” Benedict’s voice reached you and you turned your head to see him, an inexplicable rush of relief washing over you for some reason. “Miss Y/N.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” your aunt greeted him with a smile and glanced at you, heaving a sigh. “I suppose you can wait for Miss Harlowe here if Mr. Bridgerton is staying.”

You turned to look up at Benedict expectantly and he raised his brows.

“Yeah I can—I’m staying, definitely.”

You held your breath and motioned at him. “See, auntie? He’s staying.”

She thought for a moment, then clicked her tongue.

“Alright but,” she said, pointing at you two. “No going anywhere by yourselves.”

Benedict held up his hands, gesturing surrender and you shook your head fervently.

“Of course not.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Lady Thorne.”

“You’re staying right here in the garden, you hear me?”

“Yes, of course. Right here.”

“We’ll follow this road to the ballroom,” Benedict motioned at the stone road. “Won’t even step anywhere else.”

Your aunt narrowed her eyes at you two as if trying to see whether you two were lying, then shook her head.

“I will not be able to rest until you two are married,” she murmured and turned around, then made her way to the house.

“Thank you,” you said, watching her enter the house and Benedict waved a hand in the air.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I needed some fresh air before throwing myself into that gladiator pit,” you grumbled but before Benedict could even answer, Lady Anna -one of the ladies you had met when you were presented to the queen- approached you with her mama.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” her mama said. “Miss Y/N! Congratulations on your betrothal.”

Benedict shot her that irresistible crooked grin of his and bowed while Lady Anna glared at you, and turned to smile at him.

“What a hasty engagement though,” she said. “Barely anyone knew you two were in courtship.”

“Oh I was under the impression that everyone did, my lady,” Benedict said. “Thanks to Lady Whistledown.”

She let out a giddy giggle and her mother turned to you.

“Any idea when the wedding will be?” she asked you and you reminded yourself to smile.

“In a month,” you said. “Approximately.”

“I cannot wait to hear the full story from you!” she said. “We will see you inside of course?”

“Of course,” Benedict said and Lady Anna dropped a curtsy, then followed her mama to the house while you let out a breath and looked up at him.

“Get me out of here right now.”

“Way ahead of you,” he muttered, looking around. “Do you see that corner? Far end of the garden?”

“It’s such a lovely garden by the way,” you pointed out as you glanced at the flowers. “Now that you mentioned it. That being said, I feel like their gardener should take a look at the—”

“Y/N, focus.”

“Right,” you said and cleared your throat. “Yes I can see that corner.”

“There’s a bench there, we can go there when that carriage passes by here. You first—”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes I am serious— go now!” he whispered as he pushed you gently, making you repress the laughter bubbling up in your chest. You moved in the same direction as the carriage, using it to shield yourself from anyone else’s gaze before you rushed to the far end of the garden. Just as Benedict said, there was a bench in the dark half covered by the tree over it and you sat down, running a hand over your eyes.

It took a couple of minutes but soon enough you heard the footsteps and Benedict entered your sight, shooting you that mischievous grin and your heart skipped a beat but you frowned at yourself, sitting up straighter.

“May I?” he motioned at the bench and you scooted over to the side.

“Sure.”

He sat beside you and you heaved a sigh, leaning back on your palms, keeping your gaze on the sky before stealing a look at him.

“Do you think we’re actually pushing our luck?”

Benedict raised his brows and shrugged his shoulders.

“Luck pushed us first,” he said. “And honestly what are they going to do? Marry us twice?”

A laugh climbed up your throat but you covered your mouth to muffle to sound, making him smile. You lowered your hand and took a deep breath, your stomach doing a pleasant flip.

“Thank you by the way,” you said. “For the flowers.”

“Of course,” he said, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim moonlight. “Let me guess, you were overtaken by uh… what was it? Desires—”

“Inappropriate urges.”

“Yeah those, you were overtaken by inappropriate urges the moment you smelled them?”

A giggle managed to escape from you this time and you nodded.

“Certainly,” you said. “Still couldn’t get myself out of this ball though.”

“It won’t be that bad.”

You shot him a look. “Yes it will. Didn’t you see them just now?”

“It’s just until another scandal breaks out,” he said. “It’s the social season, I doubt we’ll have to wait that long.”

You pressed your palms into your eyes until you saw shiny dots in the darkness, then lowered them again.

“They’ll keep asking questions and I don’t like…” you trailed off and rubbed at your wrist. “I don’t like telling people things. Lies or not.”

Benedict nodded his head. “Send them my way.”

You scoffed. “Benedict—”

“No I’m serious,” he said. “You don’t owe anyone anything, much less an explanation. If they want to hear about it that much, they can come ask me.”

You tried to ignore the small smile threatening to pull at your lips and turned your gaze to look up at the moon again, still rubbing at your wrist absentmindedly. A peaceful silence fell upon you, the soft night breeze caressing your face and you heaved a sigh.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?”

Benedict cleared his throat. “I um…I got you something.”

You turned your head to look at him and he offered you a soft smile before reaching inside his jacket to pull out a rectangular box. Your eyebrows furrowed as you pulled back slightly.

“What’s that?”

“A gift.”

You eyed the sleek box, your frown deepening before you shook your head.

“No you can keep it, I don’t have anything to give you back.”

Benedict blinked a couple of times.

“I didn’t get it for – that would make it a trade,” he said helpfully. “It’s a gift.”

Your question was nearly a demand. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to?” he said like he was asking you back. “I saw it and thought of you.”

You looked up from the box at him. “What do you want in return?”

“To repeat, that’s not how it—” he paused. “Has no one given you a gift before?”

You nibbled on your lip and shrugged your shoulders.

“Family,” you murmured and scoffed. “Some of them, that is.”

It’s a trick, a small voice in your said. He’ll want it back once you like it, as soon as he—

“I don’t want anything in return,” his voice cut through your thoughts and you tilted your head, your lips pulled into a pout.

“If you’re going to pull it back when I reach for it, I’ll leave.”

He stared at you for a moment as if he couldn’t tell whether you were jesting or not and he looked like he had a million of questions he wanted to ask, but in the end he decided otherwise.

“How about this?” he said. “I’ll just put it here. If you want you can open it, if not we can leave it here and go back to the ballroom.”

He placed the box between you and leaned back on the bench, crossing his arms as if he wanted to prove he wouldn’t make any sudden moves like pulling the box out of your reach. You hesitated for a second, then slowly reached out to take the box into your lap, then pulled at the ribbon and lifted the cover.

A breath left your lips as soon as you saw what was inside.

It was a pocket knife unlike any other you had seen so far. It was light, lighter than your current one and small figures of flowers were engraved on the handle, tiny rubies glimmering on silver. You flicked the knife, the blade coming out of its place instantly, and even in the dim light you could see just how sharp it looked before you pushed it back into its place, then turned to Benedict who was watching you with a soft look on his face.

“Thank you,” you said, unable to stop the smile on your face. “It’s very beautiful.”

He grinned at you. “I’m glad you like it.”

You pulled your pocket knife out of your cleavage before putting it beside you on the bench, then pushed your new knife into your cleavage, causing Benedict to instantly look up at the sky. You pursed your lips in order not to laugh, then slipped the silk skirt of your gown up your leg to tuck the old knife into your garter, painfully aware of Benedict stealing a look at you out of the corner of his eye. You fixed your skirts and turned to him to see him taking a deep breath, closing his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm hm,” he said, sounding a bit breathless for some reason and opened his eyes, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Absolutely. Totally alright.”

A small spark ran down your spine and you arched a brow, tilting your head.

“Any inappropriate urges?”

“So many,” he said, his voice coming out like he was tormented and motioned around in a vague manner. “Tuberoses here somewhere.”

You bit down a smile, then got up from the bench and fixed your gown.

“Come on,” you said. “We should go back to the ballroom, I don’t want to be a part of yet another scandal.”

You stood on your tiptoes to take a look at the garden to see whether anyone would see you together when you walked in there but by some miracle it seemed empty enough. Judging by the music reaching even there, dancing had started already and probably everyone who was invited was already inside, dancing and socializing.

“Right,” Benedict said and stood up as well, then threw his shoulders back and offered you his arm. “To the gladiator’s pit we go then.”

“Should be interesting,” you murmured and placed your hand over his arm, that familiar warmth spreading through you and you took a shaky breath, then you both started walking to the house.

Chapter 12

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #regency fic

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mrs-snape5984 · 2 months

Text

“As long as I'm with you, I've got a smile on my face…”

“Save your tears, it'll be okay. All I know is you're here with me…” (“Here with me” by D4vd)

Suffering from ME/CFS makes me feel like my whole world is falling apart in front of my eyes. Since I’ve already lost so much joy and so many abilities due to this devastating disease, my continuing loss seems to increase even further.

As some of you might know, do I love to write my own stories about Severus and Julia just as much as I enjoy using my tumblr blog as some kind of journal, whenever I’ve commissioned another artwork. It’s my way of rolling out a red carpet for the artists of Snapedom…it’s my way of honouring them for their talent in their profession. Commissioning those amazing people and letting them make my ideas and fantasies come to life, is my very own manner of coping with my physical and emotional pain.

And now, this coping mechanism seems to crumble into pieces as well as everything else, that I’ve already lost! It hurts me to admit, that my brain fog takes advantage of my capability to create vivid images with my words. My thoughts are getting blurry and chaotic. I’m struggling to find the right words to express my emotions (it’s even worse in my native language German than in English!!)…and this scares me to hell!

My mind was the only place, where I could find some shelter from my infuriating and terrifying reality of losing myself to ME/CFS. What if I forfeit my only - just barely existing- talent now?? How should I flee this nightmare of existence if writing wouldn’t be an option anymore?! How should I express my gratitude towards all those marvellous artists of Snapedom, who are all weaving my emotional comfort blanket with each piece of their art?!?

I don’t want to give up on my writing…and I won’t…even though my pride would probably fade away with each badly written chapter of my fictions…and with each unworthy post on my blog. I must admit, that I’m already acknowledging the loss of quality. 🥺

I found an inspiring poem about the importance of staying resilient, no matter how difficult the hardships of life might become, and I want to share it with you:

"KEEP GOING" (Better known as "DON'T QUIT") by Edgar A. Guest

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, When the road you're trudging seems all uphill, When the funds are low and debts are high, And you want to smile but have to sigh.

When care is pressing you down a bit, Rest, if you must, but DON'T YOU QUIT!

Life is queer with its twists and turns, As everyone of us sometimes learns, And many a failure turns about,

When he might have won if he'd stuck it out, Don't give up though the pace seems slow, You might succeed with another blow.

Often the struggler has given up, When he might captured the victor's cup.

And he learned too late, when the night slipped down, How close he was to the golden crown,

Success is failure turned inside out, The silver tint on clouds of doubt, And you never can tell how close you are, It may be near when it seems afar,

So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit, It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit.

My dear @mmad-lover, I can’t stress enough how grateful I am for your dedication to this stunning piece of art and believe me, it was worth every single second of waiting! Paula, I was incredibly touched to hear, that my request seemed to be something special, something personal to you. I can assure you, that, indeed, all of my ideas have a profound meaning to me and I’m glad that you’re such an empathetic person, who sensed that particular importance of your art to me. Your devotion to this drawing is palpable in every single detail, every line of your brushes. You created exactly the mood, that I wished for Severus and Julia. It doesn’t matter that the world is burning to the ground around them, they will always have each other’s backs! Just like I’m relying on Severus for more than 21 years now. Thank you for everything, you precious soul! I’m glad that I met you and I hope, we’ll stay in touch. 🥹

🖤Severus & Julia🖤

🖤Sevy & Jules🖤

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julieverne · 5 days

Text

Jane was late, and the hour was already very late. Maura was a little nervous about being at a bar alone, but even as she fidgeted another woman approached her, taking in her outfit with the kind of admiration it truly deserved.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" she asked coquettishly, and Maura chuckled.

"I could ask the same of you," Maura demurred. The other woman's outfit was stylish, classic and fashionable. She was tall and gorgeous, a soft smile and strong cheekbones. The dress for her perfectly; it was a Verger which Maura had regretfully decided not to purchase since she wasn't the right height to do it justice. It looked perfect on her. Maura looked her over with approval.

"Doctor Paula Rubenstein," the other woman introduced herself. Maura took the offered hand, realising she'd been looking too long, but Paula merely looked amused.

"Doctor Maura Isles," she countered, seeing the other woman's eyebrows raise.

"I thought you looked familiar."

"Have we met before?" Maura asked, worrying that she'd accidentally snubbed someone she'd already met.

"Trust me, I'd have remembered." Her voice was low and husky, but not as deep as Jane's. The hand that remained in hers was warm and friendly, and there was a pleasant thumb running over her knuckles. "No, I mean from the news. There was that serial killer." She shuddered. "You must be very brave to do that kind of work."

"She doesn't need to be brave, she has me," Jane snarled from somewhere over Maura's shoulders. Maura leaned back a little and felt the reassuring press of Jane's chest against her back, Jane's hand finding her waist and pulling Maura back into the safety of Jane's arms.

"Ah, Detective Rizzoli. Who could forget." Paula released Maura's hand and offered her own to Jane, who eyed it like she'd been offered a fish left in the sun for days.

"We've met?" Jane eyed the other woman warily, and Maura was confused by Jane's hostility to someone she didn't even know. Jane's gaze was focused on Paula's face, and the warmth of Jane against Maura's back almost made her forget to care how rude Jane was being.

"Briefly. You arrested one of my patients."

"One of your patients killed a bunch of people," Jane countered, and Maura was confused as well as dismayed. She'd been getting along so well with another woman, which was rare for her. Why was Jane acting like this?

"Perhaps I'll see you later," Paula said, directing that only to Maura, returning the rudeness Jane had offered. The event started and Jane sighed near Maura's ear.

Maura wanted to ask what was wrong, but the fundraiser had started so she just leaned against Jane, enjoying the solid warmth of her.

---

Jane ducked out to the washroom after the speeches were over and Paula came over, full of compliments and approving eyes over Maura's outfit. Maura had chosen to wear the Yalas she'd had for a while because Jane liked Maura in that shade of green, and she'd worn kitten heels in the same shade with a purse to match.

"Would you like to come home with me?" Paula asked with a smirk when Jane came back, and Maura smiled pleasantly at her.

"Oh! No, thank you. I have a perfectly good home of my own."

Having understood completely, Maura beamed at Paula until she finally walked away, looking eminently confused

"Maura, she was flirting with you," Jane groaned.

"Oh really? Oh. She wanted to take me home with her for sex? Sex with me? Of course. Do you think she's gone far?"

"She's gone too far," Jane snarled. When Maura peered at the doorway Jane growled and held her. "Besides, you're coming home with me."

"For sex?" Maura asked hopefully, enjoying the frustrated little whine Jane gave her.

"No, for - ugh, Maura. For... you know. A beer. Walk the dog. Dinner, since they're only handing out candy corn."

"It's for a good cause," Maura said with a straight face. "Okay, take me home with you, even though I have a perfectly good home of my own."

She saw Jane roll her eyes, but she also saw Jane blush, and she chuckled lowly to herself.

(Five times Maura didn't notice women flirting with her, and one time she did - stay tuned)

#rizzoli and isles #rizzoli & isles #maura isles #rizzles #jane rizzoli #rizzles fanfic

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faghubby · 4 months

Text

giving in to desire part 2

Mom and I talked everyday. She asked about very personal things now. Things we never spoke about. She asked about sex. Who I had been with. She somehow managed to get me to confess things to her. She seemed surprised that I was a virgin. And then asked if there was someone I liked. She encouraged me to shave not only my legs but all my body hair. We talked about clothes and styles, maybe letting my hair grow out. After a few weeks she started openly talking about boys. I came to admit that I found not only woman but men attractive as well. I figured we talked as a grown mother and daughter would talk. I became much closer to her then I had ever been with my dad, or anyone else for that matter.

I found myself becoming more and more risqué. Often wearing panties to bed. Or even a nightie wondering if I would get caught by my roommate. Who's bed was just 10 feet away. I also started using the purple vibrator my mom had stuck in with all those beauty supplies. At first rubbing it against my dick but then soon shoving in my ass. Mon sent me a care package. It was full of girlie clothes. Alot that no one would notice unless they looked close but also a satin nightie. And pantyhose. Most exciting was a pair of high heels in my size. Mom encouraged me to wear the clothes in public. The modest things like the jeans or the tee shirt. That the sleeves seemed short.

"Paul you look so lovely" mom said as I sent her picks of me dressed in jeans and a simple tee shirt. "I guess I should start calling you Paula?" She giggled.

"Mom!" I said embarrassed

"What?, tell me you don't want to be my daughter" she said. I blushed she was right I loved being girlie.

"How about Pauly for now" I said

"Okay Pauly it is" she said.

That night Kevin (my roommate) came in late I was already in bed. He seemed very high trying to be quiet he of course woke half the dorm up. Before he crashed on his bed. He had left the light on. So I got up to turn it off after I was sure he was asleep. I got up I was wearing a satin pink pj's. Covered in little hearts. I noticed he had not even managed to remove his shoes. So in the dark I took off his shoes. Then instead of tucking him in. I pulled off his sweat pants. Only to discover he wore no underwear. I looked at his soft dick and couldn't help myself I leaned in close and kissed it. He didn't move. So I took it in my mouth. He grew some. As I started to suck his cock. I knew I shouldn't I just had to, soon I was sucking his hard cock. He wasn't very big probably just about 5 inches but I did t care I tried to suck every bit of his cock. Kevin just moaned and let me I figured he was just to fucked up to remember. Having him cum in my mouth. I felt so naughty as I slipped back into my bed.

When I woke Kevin was still asleep so I quickly changed. Only now worried that he might remember. I went and hid in the library as not to be confronted if he did. A few hours later as I was in class I started to get dozens of texts. From guys in my dorm.

"You can suck my cock!" And "will you wear a dress for me?" Along with dic pics of several guys. But the most upsetting one was from my roommate who had gone thru my trunk and posted pics of my girlie things. Finally out of class I found that they had posted across all my social media. Where members of my family had even commented.

I called my mother in tears.

"Paula don't cry, you wanted this maybe you weren't ready yet bit you did" she assured me. She convinced me to return to my dorm. I found wverything pulled out but nothing destroyed. It was the middle of the day and the dorm was mostly empty. Just as I started putting things away. One of the guys who lived across the hall burst in and closed the door.

"I talked Kevin out of pressing assault charges" he said his name was John. "He admitted you where really good at sucking cock" he smiled. And approached me. He grabbed my ass I still had not said a word.

"I love me some sissy bitch ass" he told me.

"John, I just" I started he didn't seem to care as his hand slid down the back of my jeans.

"You want to give it to me don't you?" John said. I was so confused and excited. "Get dressed up. Wear something sexy" he told me. Then took my hand and held it against his bulge. I just nodded.

John left me alone. I showered and shaved before I called mo. Again who once again encouraged me to go on a date with John. A date I wasn't even thinking about a date. I got all dressed did my hair and makeup. I was going to let someone see me. Just as I was about done my door opened and John walked in.he was dressed kinda like a bum.

"You look great" he told me, then took my hand. His idea of a date was to take me to the cafeteria. He showed me off to everyone. Lot of them having a good laugh. Others telling me I looked amazing. After he took me back to his room. As soon as the door closed his pants and boxers where off. I was in a whirlwind as he was naked in seconds. His cock fully hard. It was big I thought. Probably close to 7 maybe 8 inches long. He grabbed me and tore my shirt off. Not even trying to undress me he was rough and savage. He payed and bit me as he forcefully removed my clothes. I now stood ashamed and naked before him. He pushed me on to the bed and climbed on top of me he placed his cock in my mouth as he looked down at me. I sucked his cock best I could. He repeatedly gagged me with it. Not caring only pulling back when he thought I might pass out.

"You know your ass is next cunt" he cursed. When I thought I would dir he pulled out. Only to forcefully flip me over. He squirted something on my ass and then shoved his fingers in.

"So tight" he smacked my ass removing his fingers. He forced his cock into my ass. I screamed crying out. As he fucked me hard.

"Yeah, your going to get fucked so much" he moaned. I think I passed out because the next thing I know he was shooting his load on my ass.

"You belong to me now" he told me. I laid there in pain as he left me in his room.

I called my mom.

"Mommy" I sniffled. "It hurt so much. He was so rough" I wimpered

"You're a woman now Paula. Men will use you for their own pleasure. You will learn it is your place to please them" she told me. "It hurt but you liked it didn't you?" My mother said. Then she said something that I had not thought about.

"Baby did he make you cum?" I had, I hadn't even realized it. I got up and cleaned myself up after I hung up with my mother. My clothes where in shreds. Then John returned. He pushed me back on the bed.

"I have a friend who wants to take you for a ride" he told me. And opened the door. I had seen this guy around campus. John left and this new guy. Took out his cock and drove it deep in my ass.

"OH god" I moaned as he fucked me fast and furiously. He finished inside my ass. John returned.

"You're my whore now,, you are going to help me pay for my tuition" he informed me. I told my mom about John but not that he maid me his whore and pimped out my ass and mouth. To dozens of guys including one of his professors. Kevin moved out of my room and it was now a single. I wore only woman's clothes (sluttier the better as far as John was concerned) because they had posted everything to social media my whole family knew I was a sissy. Although my dad didn't like it mom protected me. Considering me her long awaited daughter. I continued with school but didn't learn anything other then how to please a man. Sometimes two at a time. John kept any money he charged people spending money only on buying me sexy clothes. But he graduated debt free.

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spacesurfing · 2 years

Note

*sprints in* HAPPY 300 FOLLOWERSSSSS!! YOU DESERVE EVERY SINGLE ONE PAULA AND I'M SO GLAD I FOLLOWED YOU <3

As for the request thing...

Song: Fallin' by Why Don't We

Character: Dewdrop

Listening to the song right now... it will be presented!

•--•

Don't Let Me Wish Like This

Dewdrop Ghoul x Reader Fluff/Angst

Summary: What's more entertaining to a crowd than two lovers in the same bad? Flirting was more cheered upon, scandalous gestures made videos go viral and you even got a good laugh back at the ministry. But - wait, who lit the candles and who set you heart ablaze like that?

Warnings: faked relationship, ghoul!reader, angry boy Dewdrop

GIF NOT MINE!!

•--•

What was better than a bit of flirting on stage with costumes on and other band members with the same flirtatious attitudes? It was normal for the ghouls to all flirt - they'd always been that way, only protective if their partner was the one being flirted with.

But on stage, it didn't matter. Because the flirting was for show. And the show was excellent in the fan's eyes, so you continued. But one time in the tour bus, human glamour on in full, you turned to Sodo with a mischievous smirk spread across your face.

"Do you wanna pretend to date? The crowd would go nuts," you said to the fiery ghoul. He smiled widely, moving his hair back after it had fallen into his face at the turn of his head. He was gorgeous in that moment, the first time you'd seen him in a completely different light than just a fellow ghoul.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you into him, "Of course, I mean, they'd be going crazy over that!" he nudged you in the shoulder with his free fist, "You've got good ideas."

And ever since then, you'd pretended to kiss, lips so close to touching yours that it would send streaks of cold through your body. It felt like the ceiling and all its lights would fall when he walked away from you.

You would hug him between songs and give him kisses on the cheek of his mask. You sung to him during Mary On A Cross, like you were in love.

You even appeased one fan that would scream whenever you came near the fire ghoul by sinking to your knees in front of him, pressing your tongue to his clothed thigh. But it was all fake, right? It was all fake because the way he laughed at you when you flirted with him made it fake. The way that he only took it as jokes made it fake. But when he would voluntarily lean into you, get close to your face, so close you could see the glow of his eyes. That made you wish it weren't.

You regretted that day. The day where you suggested your "brilliant idea." Because you realized that there was a thin line between fake and real. And you wanted to shove him over that line and kiss him once he realized which side he was on. But the play you put on was all fake, like when he'd pull you into his arms after shedding his guitar, just trying to get a rise out of the fans.

That wasn't fake to you. The way he made you freeze in time. On a stage in a room full of noise - the only thing you could hear was his breath.

This certain conecert broke you though.

You remember the beginning of the show, the lead guitarist following you like a lost puppy around the stage, kissing you on the top of your mask repetitively. He still interacted with most of the the other ghouls, including his boys in the mix. But, he always came back to you. You were his best friend next to Aether, why wouldn't he? Best friend. You were his best friend.

You felt throat swell with jealousy at him fooling around with the other ghouls, but that was what they did. Why would you be jealous? Dewdrop wasn't even your mate, nor would be ever be. Because you were only his best friend.

During Mary On A Cross, he reached out to your face, caressing your face with one hand, you damn-near cried right there beneath your mask, hands fumbling with your guitar, an instrument you had taken the privilege of playing from Swiss.

"I thought you said you were good at guitar," Dewdrop teased, loud enough for you to hear over all the instruments. You scoffed at his comment and he only laughed, waltzing away to go give a performance for everybody in the center.

Your cheeks reddened in embarrassment. No, it wasn't because he noticed the change in guitar - well, maybe that too - but because he he had been so close to your face. Once again. You were embarrassed to be attracted to him. Not in love. You weren't in love with him. Cause that would just be completely silly to love someone when they don't love you back.

You had zoned for that show, staying near the right side of the stage, near Aether. And you were lucky that he was so distracting that nobody noticed the way your body held itself up and your guitar barely created music. And your ears had shut off as well, eyes staring blankly into the crowd while your foot slapped the stage in rhythm.

That was till Dewdrop animated you, snuck up behind you and leaned in near your ear. His chest kept space between your back so his hands could move, but his head nudged yours. You titled yours to the side, making room for him to rest against you.

"What's wrong, not feeling the crowd tonight?" he asked, pressing his clothed lips to your shoulder. This wasn't what you wanted at all. You wanted to go home. You wanted to beg Papa to let you go back to hell. Cause whatever this torture was, it's worse than what Satan could have in mind.

You paused for a moment, strumming your guitar, though it was like no noise came out at all. "Yeah," you mumbled, loud enough for his ears to hear. At least you knew he was also deadpanning into everything you did - though with how quiet you were you didn't blame him for doing so.

"That's alright, I wasn't really feeling them either," he purred, nuzzling against your neck for show. For show. Only for show.

You faked a laugh, "You're always feeling the crowd Dew, you don't have to say that."

The fire ghoul stepped away from you and you panned your eyes across the crowd. They were all coming down from cheering at how close you were to Dewdrop. They were just like your heart in a way, jumping the moment he stepped inside of your personal bubble.

Dewdrop hummed, playing next to you with an upbeat happiness that you didn't have. You felt your heart choke you. This was your fault that he was so out of reach but so fucking close to you. As the final notes played, ones that it didn't even seem like you knew, you beat down your guitar, pretending to be happy like Dewdrop was.

He loved the eyes on him, not something you hated. But you hated that he had thousands on him, because he couldn't see that one pair begged him louder than the others.

Though he couldn't see your eyes, couldn't see the way you watched his fingers strum his guitar, the veins in his hands pronounced with every movement he made. It was like you were a ghost in the mix of ghouls. You were see-through.

It was like he stood there radiating light. He was the only thing that stood out to you. He was a pronounced figure, basking in the light of his gorgeousness. You wanted to reach out and touch him, but he wasn't yours to touch.

And the time dragged on, with you watching Dewdrop like you were one in the crowd. And I guess it's hard to feel eyes on you when everyone's eyes are truly on you. Maybe he couldn't feel yours cause he didn't wish you looked at him in that way.

You could feel his when he was coming to approach you. You always felt his eyes in you. But they never were on you for no reason at all. Yours however, you always had little to no reason to be watching the ghoul.

The show had finally finished, the time at the end of a ritual to smile and wave at fans, your guitar set aside. Dewdrop snuggled you under his arm as he threw his picks into the crowd. You wrapped you arms around his waist tight. But it didn't matter if it felt like you were clinging onto him like he'd ditch you. Because it was for show so you might as well hug him hard.

You released him, collecting some of the flowers littered across the stage and looking back up to see that most of the guys were filing off of it. You offered a tiny wave to the crowd and ran over to the rest of them, trailing behind the girls.

Sunshine was holding a rat plush and Cirrus had bouquet of red roses, Cumulus having plucked one out of the set was was now picking at the petals, trailing them across the stage and into the backstage. Their movements were so gentle and soft compared to the hard and confident walks of the guys, it sent a calming relief over you, allowing your bones to settle.

Though, someone must have sensed your stress all drifting off cause Cirrus turned her head, not all the way back, but to the side enough for you to see her bright blue, glowing eyes through the lenses of her mask.

"Why don't you talk to him about it?" Cirrus asked, making Cumulus perk up, Sunshine listening in from the front of you all.

You shot a look right, over to the wind ghoulette that had spoken, "What?"

She stopped, making you almost bump into her. Her sudden halt made the other ghoulettes stop and turn. The guys had fully made their ways back to the dressing room, leaving the four of you alone in the empty hallway.

"Cirrus means you being in love with Dewdrop! She pointed it out and I also see it! In your eyes and posture," the excited Cumulus spoke, clutching the stem of her rose though she had forgotten about plucking at the petals all together.

You widened your eyes, backing your footing in surprise, "I'm not in love- if- if anything it's a stupid crush. How do you even-"

"You can see it all over you. You get tense when he is near you, and when he's not, you don't relax, you slump."

Sunshine nudged the air ghoulette, who was currently getting heated, "Lay off Cirr, it's not her fault."

"Well, watching it is a bit painful. Especially when he's just as oblivious as you are," she spoke, condescending as ever. It was hard for to think of a time where she wasn't.

You looked away from her before quickly returning your eyes. You were at a loss for words; so you did was you do best and you scrambled for something that would help your point. Or at least keep your mouth running enough to distract her.

"Well- It's uh- it's a good think he doesn't know then, because I would probably be back serving Lucy down below," you cracked a smiled at the nickname you gave the devil. Cirrus always hated how disrespectful it was, you thought it might break some tension if she shifted to that.

Her clenched jaw relaxed, making her close her eyes and inhale deeply. Opening them, you saw the faint light of her original blue, "If only you knew that Satan isn't your nightmare in this; it is yourself."

And she turned, walking away with long strides.

Cumulus and Sunshine stood there, frozen. They never liked Cirrus' attitude, it kept them tense, wondering if this would be the day that one of the ghouls finally killed another. But, I guess being able to put riddle and rhyme into her words made her calmer, because when she turned around to beckon the girls over to her, she flashed a smile at you.

They walked with her and you just let them go, following with small steps behind them, head kept leaning down.

"It is yourself."

Her words vibrated through your mind with the same venom as when she spoke them. What did she mean yourself? How could you possibly be in the wrong in this situation? Did she mean you lov- liking Dewdrop? - because maybe that was wrong of you, but how could you really fix that?

You'd tried staying away, but he always found you, hugging you against him so tight you smelled of him till you showered that night. You couldn't tell him straight out that you didn't wanna speak to him cause you liked him, then he'd get mad for you pushing him away and for liking him.

"...yourself."

You shook off those thoughts, but you wouldn't have been thinking them for long anyways, not when you felt something collide with your head. You fell back on your ass in a dazed haze, mask now crooked on your face. And as you looked up, you saw the exact person you wanted to get away from.

He laughed out loud, shoulders shaking, "I thought that you saw me and that's why you didn't stop."

You offered up a smile and a false laugh, "Yeah, I'm sorry- I- don't know where my head is right now."

His laughter faded, seeing you sitting there, hardly raising your lips to attempt at convincing him you were happy. He let a frown take over his face, and you felt a pang of guilt run through your blood.

Dewdrop held out his hand, watching you with a softened gaze, one you'd never seen from him. His human glamour hid his emotions more than his ghoul form, but seeing him show a pinch of a meaningful look settled something inside of you.

You took his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Brushing off the back of your pants, you then looked up, seeing him watch you closely. You tilted your head to the side, "What? Is there something on my mask?"

Dewdrop shook his head, hands reaching up and holding the sides of your mask before pulling it off of you. You reached up, taking your hair out of it's pony and shuffling it around. Dewdrop shifted the helmet to rest in the crook of his left arm.

"You know, you're prettier without all that human facade," he mentioned, curling a hair behind your ear.

As much as Dewdrop could hide under his disguise, your expressions bled through. Your lips parted, looking at him like he was the only thing that existed. And he saw it. He saw the way your face seemed to fall in adoration, the way you looked at him with all the love in the world.

And he smiled.

It was fake. It was a faked smile. Dewdrop would hate you, he would hate you for your thoughts, for the way you truly looked at him, for the aching in your hands to reach out and touch him.

"Is there a reason why you knocked me over?" you asked, trying to find something that would keep you from the way that you blushed profusely.

Dewdrop opened his mouth, thinking for a moment before speaking, "Ah, yes, I came here to see if you wanted to go out to dinner with all of us? Papa's getting hotel rooms, he said we need a break."

You nodded, letting a genuine smile creep onto your face, "Yeah, I just need to, ya'know, get ready."

Dew moved to the side, letting you past. He waited for you before walking behind you, steps heavy to your ears. He was behind you, and you felt your spine tingle with the knowledge that, for what you knew, you were the only thing he could keep his eyes on.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked. You slowed to a stop, waiting for him to catch up next to you. You really didn't wanna look him in the eyes, not after the possibility that he saw how in lo- how much you liked him.

He flicked his hair over his shoulder, as if it blocked him from hearing you. It uncovered his face, sculpted in pure beauty. Don't look at him.

You hummed in affirmation, but that wasn't enough for him. Dewdrop grabbed your arm with a tight grip and pulled you back to look at him. He was angry, very angry. You felt the air around you heat, and you could see the color of his humanoid form starting to turn into splotches of his normal color. He was losing too much energy from his anger, it was was showing through his glamour. The air around his horns shifted in the light, glimpses of short, dark horns showing through.

And his eyes. They were bright as a star, begging you to look into them. And you complied, watching his anger spoil his disguise slowly.

"Tell me what is wrong," he hissed through gritted teeth, sharp fangs flicking in and out of reality.

You felt your resolve fall, and you let your heart stand proud, words flying out of your mouth;

"Can you stop pretending you love me for one minute!?"

Dewdrop stared down at you with a snarl. But his lip relaxed and dropped to the other, and his skin started to settle into it's pale, fake color. His hold on your arm loosened.

"What do you mean pretending? I don't have to pretend," he spoke, voice hurt in a way, "Can you stop pushing me away?"

He took your face in his hands, holding you a soft as possible. There was a moment he gave you, one where you were free to pull away, to stomp back to your dressing room.

But you didn't, you stayed there, face in his hands. And you let your core go, tears rushing out of your eyes in mere seconds. And Sodo watched the whole time, letting you cry into his touch.

He knew he loved you truly in that moment. The moment where you broke yourself, all against the battle handed to you by your own self-consciousness.

His lips touched your forehead, and you cried even harder.

•--•

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