a/n- If you don't want to read this long author's note, then I suggest that you just skip down to the story; it won't hurt my feelings.(:
So, this is a four-shot, instead of just an ordinary one-shot; I didn't intend for that to happen, but it, um, did. And this is my first multi-chap. Even if it's small, it still counts!
Ahem. Hannah (in the jungle dances). I've no idea whatsoever where this came from. /facepalm. But happy, bee-lated birthday, gurrl, and you deserve the best, not this piece of arse. And I swear that, really, fifteen is an awesome age, and you're gonna love it. Possibly more than Darren Criss, but no age is that hot, so maybe not. O.o But Happy [Belated] Birthday, anyway, and I hope you like it, Hannah.(: (That goes for everyone else, as well.)
Thank you to Emmy (gossip goat) for beta-ing the first chapter and telling me that this is actually worth publishing. Much love, Em!3
And to everyone else, I shout out a thanks, because I get inspired by all of your wonderful fictions on here.
And to the technical notes:
Pairing- Since I was slightly desperate, I opted for the you-can-never-go-wrong pairing. Yes, this is a Massington. /facepalming for the unoriginality. Thankfully, it's not your typical one.
Structure note- Massie's age is depicted by the bold, centered word. If it's not, then that means it's present time. Derrick is two years older than her.
Prompts- freckles, cream cheese, and ice. (Let me just say now that I inserted the prompts really clumsily, and you probably won't even notice that they're there. Sorry about that.)
And, warnings- This has language, some of the crude, sexual variety; it also has overdone descriptions, too dim settings, and strange circumstances. It's also very, very dramatic. There is something sketchy and definitely disturbing in this fiction; tell me in a review or pm, if I should change this to "M," instead of "T."
Enjoy?
confusion in her bones & fire in his eyes
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Massie likes cigarettes, though considering her almost royal lineage, it should be a towering "nuh-uh," but she's decided that she wants such a bad, defiant habit in her life and that's really just that. Unfortunately, she's not really knowledgeable on how to smoke one, considering she can't get the damned lighter in her hand to actually light. So, here she perches on a ceramic toilet seat in $1000 heels with a Berkin slung over her shoulder, and a dress stretching so damn tight over her hips that she's sure it's going to burst soon enough. But does she really give a shit? No, she doesn't, because she's Massie Block, and she's determined to light the damn thing without blowing the roof off the restaurant. Forgetting to aforemention this detail, she's in a posh place that primarily speaks a cross between French and Belgian and tends to service prim ladies with leathery faces, emerald brooches, and Yves Saint Laurent adornments.
With a huff, she plops relentlessly down, allowing her precious heels to skim the shiny, marble floor; she clicks the lighter, finds a flame at last, and breathes a sigh or relief, the flame extinguishing from this exhale.
She resists a curse, and is glad, because footsteps promptly enter the bathroom door, and a hoarse (maybe he has a cough?) male voice parades through her senses. So much for looking at the male or female diagrams on the door.
"If you had done it right, you wouldn't be in this position with me right now-" she hears shrieking, - "who cares if your mom got home; jerking me-"
Despite her complete and utter un-naivety, she can't help but oof a little gasp, which is clearly audible, signaled by her male counterpart's sharp intake. A beep and a click forewarns the end of his vile conversation with the poor girl.
Shit.
"Who's in here?"
And she just can't help herself, "It's your slut, ready to do your bidding, your Highness."
She hears him breathe in sharply and mutter an expletive.
"Come out now, Massie." She pauses. Who is this?
"I'd rather not," she clicks the lighter, recovering with a shake of her head. Everyone knows her, anyway.
"What do you have in there?"
"Nothing," lowering herself to the ground, she straightens her dress (which is practically impossible, since the peach satin isn't budging), and tucks a ramrod straight strand of hair behind her ear. Pausing, she flicks out any possible eye boogies, and shoves the lighter and cigarette into her orange Berkin. Damn. She'll just have to try it later.
"Trying to smoke a ciggie and trigger the smoke alarm in the men's room isn't really the best idea," he inserts. She can taste his arrogance. God, does she ever hate stupid man whores and their pain-in-the-ass stupidity. Especially this one, this really, kind of, possibly familiar male voice.
She rolls her eyes, but submits. She might be Massie Block, but she's not a dumbass. She takes an annoyed breath, clangs the latch open, and regrets it instantly; before her stands one of the most gorgeous, horrible, terrible, completely and wholly horrendous shitters in the whole damn nation, one she's not even supposed to be around.
"Derrick Harrington," she states, swallowing. He grimaces in surprise, his wide pink mouth turning even more bow-like; his hair is a light brown, not so blond, but rather highlighted with a creamy flaxen that she remembers all to well; his eyes are the same deep chocolate color that turns her to jelly whenever she stares at them too long.
She can't believe that she thought he was some Briarwood boy. How had she forgotten the voice of her childhood terror and love, even through a smoky throat-
"Oh, joy," he says coolly, eyes flicking at the ceiling briefly, before promptly training on hers. She bites her gum, hoping to keep down the blush that his smirk and eyes, his eyes, fuck it, and his lips-
"Massie?"
"What?" she replies quickly, hoping, wishing that he hadn't realized her aversion, because that would definitely be horrible, and he would never, ever let her live it down, because he's derrick, and he catches things like that.
"Why are you smoking?"
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are," he attests. He takes a step closer.
"I'm not!" she exclaims, "and if I were, it's not your business anyway."
He grins languorously, "Oh, but it is, Mass; you've always been my business. Ever since we were ten, remember?"
She does remember.
.
ten
Massie's in the yard, running from her Hamptons summerhouse to the beach where no one will make her eat all vegetables for dinner because she looks like she's getting a bit on the chubby side; the beach is friendly. She reaches her destination, quickly regaining her breath from the vitality storage that all youngsters have. She glances at the foam cresting, that whipped cream on a very dense, monstrous wave, the loud, booming, smashing, the almost inky black shade; probably hiding a shark right next to that pointy rock. Or the buoy. It's probable that there's one circling there. She decides that the actual ocean isn't so friendly in a whole and settles for picking up seashells, and resting her feet in the water.
"Don't go in there. A shark'll getcha."
She turns around, rolling her eyes all the way, "I'm not scared of them." Lie.
"Oh, really?" He has blond hair with peculiar brown streaks and a angular face, already beginning to make its way to maturity; she can't see his eyes which makes her glad, because she thinks that they may be pretty. Really, really pretty- she acts dumb when boys have pretty eyes-
"Hellooooo? What's your name, dip wad?"
Offended, she snaps, "It's Massie." He brushes his hair back.
"I bet you can't swim to that buoy." He obviously gets to the point quickly.
She swallows hard through a dry throat, but never takes her eyes from his. If there's one thing that she 's learned about intimidation and not letting someone know that you're scared is by not blinking or turning away. She sees all the adults do it. Especially her mommy when the mailman comes to the door.
"Yes, I can," she states as solidly as her quivering voice will allow.
He raises his eyebrows, but nods approvingly, "Okay, then. Go ahead."
"What will I get for it?" She shivers in the suddenly breezy night air.
"You'll just have to see," he grins, and even in the dark, she can see straight, white teeth. Even her teeth aren't that straight.
Embarrassed and jittery, she shakily shouts, "Turn around!"
"Why?"
"Because I have to get out of some of these clothes!" She can see his smile widen, but he obeys, nevertheless.
Keeping a close eye on him, she removes her slim, beige cardigan (which she regrets instantly), her casual cotton pants, her Madden flats, and her little beret, which leaves her in her fire engine-red panties and a sports bra that has no residence to conceal. She blushes profusely but backs into the chilled water, before submerging everything except her head. She yells, "Okay! I'm in."
"Well, then swim, doofus!"
She dismally examines the extremely far-off buoy bouncing haphazardly around. Probably her shark warming up, so he can eat her when she gets there.
She breathes and soaks into her thoughts; just like her yoga teacher instructs. She needs to be in another place, her swimming pool, maybe. She envisions the invisible fumes of chlorine and icy blue waves; she can hear her mother's laughter when she's reading a magazine by the poolside. Or her screaming, she's not really sure.
"Massie, dammit, get out of there!" Oh. Over her bobbing head and undulating arms, she can see her mother standing at the shoreline, her willowy skirt streaming, her arms flailing in the air. She realizes that the mystery boy is gone, disappeared, and she can't help but feel utterly stupid for even trying to swim this far.
She glances at the buoy; it's a good way out. She decides that relaxing is probably her best option, opposed to panicking or swimming back to her mother's wrath, so she extends her arms, admiring her French manicure, before laying her head back. Sea water sputters over her and threatens to wash over her face, but she ignores it because she's Massie Block, she really is, and she's not gonna let some cute boy make her mad-
Something brushes her leg. "It's just.. leaves ," she murmurs to herself, clenching her eyes. Though she's pretty sure that leaves don't exist in the ocean.
Distraction, distraction. The sky is nice. The stars glitter and wink at her, maybe for luck, but she's not certain of that. She spots Orion, the warrior constellation; her father had taught her a few of them, but that was back when he actually liked her. Now, he pays no attention to her, unless he's warning her to do what her mom instructs. Because everyone knows that William Block is so gonna bring out a belt on his ten year old daughter. Yeah, right. Even she knows that her dad isn't cruel; he just doesn't love her anymore. Her mom gives her the your-father's-just-not-that-into-you-speech almost daily.
She lets a tear slip out, because it's so dark, and she doesn't really want to care, anyway; her mom is bellowing now, threatening her, pacing the shoreline. She reasons to herself that she's going nowhere until her father swims to her. That's it. She's not getting out til' then-
Something tickles her ankle. She gasps, slapping a wet hand over her mouth, which is a mistake considering the waves are becoming larger and rougher, and her head is beginning to sink underwater from the force. She remembers hearing that sharks nibble on their victims before really biting them. Oh, God. She's gonna die, she's gonna die, she's gonna die. Daddy- she's never going to see him again; she won't be able to tell him goodbye and that she loves him, and that she's so sorry for whatever she's done to make him hate her-
Someone's laughing next to her ear. "I scared you good, didn't I?"
She jumps back in the water; his head bobs, his hair plastered to his head. And then she sees his eyes close up. They're not blue, the opposite, actually, but the most beautiful chocolate; she's never seen a color so rich, so deep that can actually take her breath away. But considering that the shark is probably circling them, that her mom is going to kill her, that they might just drown, and that she's so angry right now, she's not sure if it's his pretty eyes or not that's causing palpitations.
In a split decision, she decidedly slaps him as hard as she can with the back of her hand, flat-out across his pale cheekbone. The plat echoes. When he lifts his head, his cheek a glowing scarlet, his eyes are a combination of tears and fire; she feels scared suddenly, and begins to paddle to the shore as quickly as she can, because she hasn't see such genuine hurt and anger like that before.
His hand grabs her roughly around the wrist, and she can't help but scream. His eyes are fiery, but determined, "We made a bet, Massie Block." How does he know her last name? She didn't tell him her last name- she's sure of it.
"Keep it."
He disappears under a crest. The buoy bounces high. Her mom's scream are closer.
She dives under the cool water, her hair sticking to her neck; she swims and swims and swims, until she can't breath anymore and surfaces. The buoy is just in front of her. She trembles, but elongates her hand out anyway to touch it. A pale, bony hand emerges out of the horror, twisting her finger, and bringing her under. She kicks out until she feels her feet clash with bony flesh, warm even underwater. They come above, her trying to slap him again, and him just trying to make her be still.
"Your prize, m'lady," he holds up a string of seaweed, appearing bruised but unaffected.
"This is what you give me for all this? That's not fair!" She screams, wiping the seawater from her burning eyes.
He shrugs, one arm strung around the orange buoy, "Life's not fair."
"And how would you know? You're only ten."
"I'm twelve, actually."
She sputters, "But I thought-"
He laughs, splashing her face with salty water. She's temporarily blinded. During this, she feels something brushing her lips; something soft and moist, but considering she's in the ocean, it could be anything.
"Your prize," warm breath hits her mouth.
She gasps, blinking rapidly, only to find nothing but a much calmer ocean, a swaying buoy, and a malicious mom tramping the beach. And not a sign of her dad, of course.
.
"I remember you being a creeper," she shakes her head.
He chuckles a bit, before extending his hand. She freezes, breathing in abruptly.
"Give me the cigarette, Mass."
She's disappointed in him and herself, "No, Derrick."
"Give it to me," he commands, voice deep and low.
"Why do you care?" She hates being so damned confused all the time. With her dad being permanently MIA in China, and her mom flaunting herself around Westchester with her Chihuahua, she's been having a lot of that emotion lately. Actually, she's had it all her life.
He jabs at a finger at his chest, "Because I work here, dumbass."
"How was I supposed to know, Derrie?" she fumes, but pushes down any serious offense, because she wouldn't feel right calling him nasty names, even after everything that's happened.
He freezes for a moment, his eyes unintelligible.
"Derrie, huh?"
"Yeah," she says quietly, flushing.
.
Twelve
"You can kiss my derriere, Derrie!" She teases, leaping across the trampoline. His hands are braced on the opposite side, his eyes promising diabolic things that she doesn't yet understand. The concealing ways of life have yet to come to her, though she knows, she really does, that there's a secret she has yet to discover.
"Maybe, I will, Mass."
"Ew. Why would you do that?" She wrinkles her nose at his half-serious tone.
"Because you have a nice ass!"
She gasps, a blush swallowing her cheeks at his audacity, "Don't curse, Derrie! My mom might hear you."
She's not the most innocent of creatures, no, she's not. But she's blatantly unaware of anything dealing with the human anatomy, due to her mother's withdrawing her from school at ten years old because she "couldn't trust her." Something's wrong with it, though she has a hard time figuring exactly what.
"Your mom doesn't hear anything, Massie," he says gravely.
"No, she doesn't," she agrees, smiling sickly, feeling bad and depressed suddenly, as if a hole has been ripped into her chest, and a carton of lead has been dropped to fill the empty place.
"Let's go watch a movie, beautiful." She giggles in her adolescent persona, leaving her past thoughts in the trampled grass. Ever since that night at the beach, she's learned that her mystery boy's name is Derrick Harrington and that he had just moved to Westchester at the time. As many Westchester residents did, he migrated to the Hamptons during the summer. It was pure coincidence that he had climbed the fence to their private section of the beach and ran into her. (That was what he told her mother.) But to Massie, he explained that he had seen her in her yard playing with the dog (she doesn't really remember that actually), and that he had wanted to see her closer, so he sneaked onto their beach and found her sitting there. Completely coincidence.
She's realized of late that Derrick is much more mature than her. The way he moves, looks, and talks seems much older than her. He gets this small, mysterious smile when he looks at her sometimes; when they curl up closely for longer than an hour, he usually excuses himself, a flush in his cheeks, and a fluster about his countenance, and heads to the bathroom for a while.
"Massie, come oon!"
She smiles, and makes her way to the guesthouse, their main dwelling of choice for tv, games, and the like. He's seated on the slick leather couch, a bowl of low-calorie popcorn glued to his lap, and a Sprite in his hand; he pats the vacancy next to him.
"Turn the light off, dummy."
She takes a moment to skim over his bedraggled blond hair, becoming more brown as autumn comes upon them, his concentrated shade of molten cocoa eyes, and his protruding cheekbones.
"What?" he takes his eyes of the tv.
"Nothing," she whispers, flicking off the light switch.
His eyes glow as she sits down, grabbing a handful of dull, puffy popcorn.
"What were you thinking, Mass?" He murmurs in her ear. His breath is hot and tickly, and she pushes against his chest to stop the admittedly pleasant feeling.
"Nothing, I said." She's not even sure what she was thinking about. Up close, with the tv flickering fluorescent lighting upon them, she can see his brown freckles sprinkling a trail of realism across his nose and cheeks.
"You have the cutest freckles," she says, immediately regretting it. He smiles and kisses her on the nose, his arm wrapping around her. She thinks she should feel uncomfortable, but the warmth and weight on her shoulders isn't so bad; she lays her head on his neck, finding that he smells of musk, chlorine, and a light spray of her Chanel, which should be weird, she guesses, but since they spend so much time together, it only makes sense. She thinks.
She freezes, feeling his lips on her forehead.
And then the phone rings, and the strange moment shatters. She lets out a shaky sigh, not even noticing his intense, penetrating look.
"Massie? Massie? Where are you?" She rolls her eyes at Derrick.
"I'm in the guesthouse, mom, with Derrick."
"I don't want you to hang around him so much anymore, hon. Please come up to the house," her mom requests softly.
She's confused again.
"I-"
"What does she want?" Derrick whispers loudly.
She covers the mouthpiece, "She wants me to go to the house."
"Why?"
She hesitates.
"Mass?" His eyes flick across her face and to the phone; he crosses his arms and cocks a brow.
"Because she wants me away from you."
The look in his eyes transports her back to that day when she slapped him. He looks just as angry, thunderous, almost.
"Let me talk to her," he demands, eyes bright and roiling.
"I-I- don't think so, Derrick." His look scares her. "Maybe I should go."
"Don't do it, Mass; don't leave me," he commands. His breathing is labored; he grabs her quickly, kissing her cheeks, his hands flying to her face, stroking her cheekbones; her breath is swept away, "Don't go up there."
"Why not?" She mumbles, uncomfortable, fumbling with his eerie grip on her.
"Because she doesn't deserve you." She pulls away, despite him, and heads to the door, disbelief coursing through her when she hears him behind her.
"Just let me go see what she wants-"
"She wants you away from me, Massie! Dammit, how can't you see that?"
She sighs, "I'm sorry, Derrick, but she's my mother."
"She's a bitch and a whore. If you walk out, you're-"
She slams the door in his face, tears rushing down her face; her heart punches an excruciating cavern into her chest.
.
She glances at him. He shakes his head, hair flying around.
"How do you work here with your hair that long? Isn't that against policy?"
He grins wanly, "The old ladies love it, so it's good for the business."
"Those old women must have Alzheimer's then."
"So, you don't like it?" A puppy-dog look, almost, is cast her way.
"No." Lie.
There's an awkward silence where the only sound is a toilet running; their eyes study each other, but there's not much that they haven't seen of the other.
She attempts to move out; he grabs her wrist, "The cigarette."
She blinks away some tears, disappointed yet again with his lackluster attitude, "I'm leaving,"; she glances backwards, "I guess you never planned on coming back, did you?"
His eyes contain a strange glitter that she doesn't dwell on, "I-"
She rips her arm away and rushes out of the restaurant and into a harsh downpour of rain.
.
a/n- Dah, dah, dah, dumm. I want to go ahead and insert that this four-shot is already completed, and I will update about every week, but I would really love some feedback along the way. So. Um, yeah. Review?