Fic: That Kind Of Girl (Faculty, Stokely/Delilah, R)
Title: That Kind Of Girl
Fandom: The Faculty
Pairing: Stokely/Delilah
Rating: R
Summary: Appearances are everything.
Her hands were balled into fists to keep them from shaking as she walked down the silent hall, but even that didn't help much when she got closer to the newspaper office. She spent most of the day wondering why she did this, why she kept going back even though everything in her told her to turn around - just turn around and go back, go home or anywhere safe, as long as it wasn’t here.
She had to remind herself to smile at Casey when she passed him coming out of the office; all the time she'd been an outcast she'd never realized how much harder it was to fit in, how much more work it took to care what people thought of you. She fought off the same pang of guilt she always did when she faked it, the same guilt that came along with using Stan just because he made it so easy. And that was another thing about her brand-new, white-washed image; there was a lot of guilt in her life now, for lying to people without even having to say anything and for faking it so flawlessly that everyone fell for it.
Only she wasn't fooling everyone - there was Casey, for instance, who'd known her for so long that they were friends more out of habit than because they had anything in common. She knew he could see right through her new look to the strain in her eyes every time she found herself laying it on really thick for Stan's benefit. She had a feeling sometimes that Casey knew even more than that, but he wasn't talking and for once she was glad he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Another pang of guilt because he knew and he didn't say anything. Maybe it was because he was afraid to lose what he'd wanted for so long, but sometimes…sometimes she wondered if it was because he understood.
She reminded herself how to breathe, uncurled pale fists to smooth out imaginary wrinkles in her cotton summer dress, and stepped inside the room. And she wasn't sure how long this had been going on - days, months, or maybe it had been going on all along, somewhere below the surface just waiting to be coaxed out into the light. She'd gotten used to the smell of ink from the printers and the taptaptap of fingers on keyboards, the soft, crisp authority in Delilah's voice as she issued orders to her newspaper staff. She'd gotten used to the set of Delilah's shoulders, the barely perceptible shift that let Stokely know that Delilah could sense her presence, but she wasn't looking because she liked to make people wait.
It was a control thing; classic psychological bullshit, if you really wanted to get technical, but Stokely didn't spend too much time trying to psychoanalyze Delilah. She tried not to think of her at all, but oh, that was a losing battle. She'd been losing that battle for years now, ever since Delilah grew into all her majesty and descended from her throne every so often to kick Stokely like a disobedient puppy. She'd been losing that battle for so long that the fight had made her hostile, angry and frustrated and so confused that she barely reacted to Delilah's insults for fear that the truth might come out instead.
It wasn't until Delilah finally finished handing out orders and dismissed her minions with a superior, insincere smile that she finally looked up at Stokely. And she had a way of looking at you that you could almost feel; those eyes traveling Stokely's entire body, taking in each minute detail and, without a doubt, cataloguing anything she could use against her later. Because things had changed after the whole school went insane and Casey became a hero, but they hadn't changed that much. Delilah was still Delilah, after all - beautiful and brilliant and dangerous. Especially for a girl like Stokely, who had been stripped bare for so long that even she couldn't recognize the real version of herself anymore.
In a few short strides Delilah was standing in front of her, the air in the room palpably different now that they were standing less than a foot apart. One elegant, carefully manicured hand reached out and Stokely had to fight to keep her eyes open, but she hadn't given up everything for Delilah yet and she wasn't about to offer up her pride.
She felt the press of fingertips through the thin fabric of her dress, heard the words Delilah didn't say as she caught Stokely's collar between her thumb and forefinger. Maybe she'd even say them later, toss them out as a final, parting sting just to remind Stokely that she wasn't good enough, she'd never be good enough to fool someone like Delilah. And she was right; she was a bitch and a shrew and a scared, fatherless little girl, but she was always, always so goddamn right.
They both understood that she put up with the act because it made this easier, kept people from asking too many questions about what the head cheerleader was doing hanging out with the school freak. After all, Stokely was Stan's girlfriend now; even though he wasn't on the team anymore he was still Stan, and that was good enough to explain why Stokely and Delilah suddenly had so much in common.
The thought almost always made her laugh, a bitter, hateful sound that she had to work hard to keep at bay when there were people around to hear her, because that laugh didn't go along with the girl who wore pastel dresses and smiled until her face ached and sat next to Stan at every football game. That girl was the model girlfriend and the perfect daughter and everything Stokely had always assumed people wanted her to be, but it wasn't her. It would never be her, and sometimes when Delilah looked at her she could almost believe that there was no reason to keep pretending.
Delilah's touch still burned against her collar although her fingers had long since returned to their owner, and Stokely knew she was staring back at the other girl with what probably amounted to terrified defiance. This was when it was hardest to pretend, to keep the feelings below the surface where they belonged, where Delilah had showed her by example that they couldn't be used against you. Only she had a feeling sometimes that Delilah could see right inside her, under her skin to the truth that no one else had ever even come close to. And still her skin burned where Delilah's fingers had been, her hands balled into fists again to keep herself from reaching out for something that she knew she couldn't have until it was offered.
Because Delilah was all about propriety, and there was no way in hell she was going to get caught making out in the newspaper office with a girl. Even if Stokely was socially acceptable enough to breathe the same air as Delilah now, there were certain things the head cheerleader just didn't do, and being gay was right at the top of the list. No one would ever suspect that Stokely knew how dark those eyes could really get, or how sweet Delilah's mouth tasted when she was coming, or how good the most popular girl in school really was with her hands.
Her gaze wandered down to Delilah's hands unconsciously, imagining them on her shoulders, her face, her breasts. Countless afternoons like this one had taught her how all those things felt, but blood still rushed to her cheeks to give her away. And then Delilah laughed, hard and mean but edged with something softer that Stokely knew better than to try and hold on to. She knew Delilah wouldn't touch her again until they were really alone, knew that she'd probably endure more of that mocking laughter before the day was over, and that she'd let Delilah push her far enough to drop the image she'd worked so hard to build.
Thought for the millionth time about turning around and walking away, but she was too afraid that Delilah would let her go.
Fandom: The Faculty
Pairing: Stokely/Delilah
Rating: R
Summary: Appearances are everything.
Her hands were balled into fists to keep them from shaking as she walked down the silent hall, but even that didn't help much when she got closer to the newspaper office. She spent most of the day wondering why she did this, why she kept going back even though everything in her told her to turn around - just turn around and go back, go home or anywhere safe, as long as it wasn’t here.
She had to remind herself to smile at Casey when she passed him coming out of the office; all the time she'd been an outcast she'd never realized how much harder it was to fit in, how much more work it took to care what people thought of you. She fought off the same pang of guilt she always did when she faked it, the same guilt that came along with using Stan just because he made it so easy. And that was another thing about her brand-new, white-washed image; there was a lot of guilt in her life now, for lying to people without even having to say anything and for faking it so flawlessly that everyone fell for it.
Only she wasn't fooling everyone - there was Casey, for instance, who'd known her for so long that they were friends more out of habit than because they had anything in common. She knew he could see right through her new look to the strain in her eyes every time she found herself laying it on really thick for Stan's benefit. She had a feeling sometimes that Casey knew even more than that, but he wasn't talking and for once she was glad he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Another pang of guilt because he knew and he didn't say anything. Maybe it was because he was afraid to lose what he'd wanted for so long, but sometimes…sometimes she wondered if it was because he understood.
She reminded herself how to breathe, uncurled pale fists to smooth out imaginary wrinkles in her cotton summer dress, and stepped inside the room. And she wasn't sure how long this had been going on - days, months, or maybe it had been going on all along, somewhere below the surface just waiting to be coaxed out into the light. She'd gotten used to the smell of ink from the printers and the taptaptap of fingers on keyboards, the soft, crisp authority in Delilah's voice as she issued orders to her newspaper staff. She'd gotten used to the set of Delilah's shoulders, the barely perceptible shift that let Stokely know that Delilah could sense her presence, but she wasn't looking because she liked to make people wait.
It was a control thing; classic psychological bullshit, if you really wanted to get technical, but Stokely didn't spend too much time trying to psychoanalyze Delilah. She tried not to think of her at all, but oh, that was a losing battle. She'd been losing that battle for years now, ever since Delilah grew into all her majesty and descended from her throne every so often to kick Stokely like a disobedient puppy. She'd been losing that battle for so long that the fight had made her hostile, angry and frustrated and so confused that she barely reacted to Delilah's insults for fear that the truth might come out instead.
It wasn't until Delilah finally finished handing out orders and dismissed her minions with a superior, insincere smile that she finally looked up at Stokely. And she had a way of looking at you that you could almost feel; those eyes traveling Stokely's entire body, taking in each minute detail and, without a doubt, cataloguing anything she could use against her later. Because things had changed after the whole school went insane and Casey became a hero, but they hadn't changed that much. Delilah was still Delilah, after all - beautiful and brilliant and dangerous. Especially for a girl like Stokely, who had been stripped bare for so long that even she couldn't recognize the real version of herself anymore.
In a few short strides Delilah was standing in front of her, the air in the room palpably different now that they were standing less than a foot apart. One elegant, carefully manicured hand reached out and Stokely had to fight to keep her eyes open, but she hadn't given up everything for Delilah yet and she wasn't about to offer up her pride.
She felt the press of fingertips through the thin fabric of her dress, heard the words Delilah didn't say as she caught Stokely's collar between her thumb and forefinger. Maybe she'd even say them later, toss them out as a final, parting sting just to remind Stokely that she wasn't good enough, she'd never be good enough to fool someone like Delilah. And she was right; she was a bitch and a shrew and a scared, fatherless little girl, but she was always, always so goddamn right.
They both understood that she put up with the act because it made this easier, kept people from asking too many questions about what the head cheerleader was doing hanging out with the school freak. After all, Stokely was Stan's girlfriend now; even though he wasn't on the team anymore he was still Stan, and that was good enough to explain why Stokely and Delilah suddenly had so much in common.
The thought almost always made her laugh, a bitter, hateful sound that she had to work hard to keep at bay when there were people around to hear her, because that laugh didn't go along with the girl who wore pastel dresses and smiled until her face ached and sat next to Stan at every football game. That girl was the model girlfriend and the perfect daughter and everything Stokely had always assumed people wanted her to be, but it wasn't her. It would never be her, and sometimes when Delilah looked at her she could almost believe that there was no reason to keep pretending.
Delilah's touch still burned against her collar although her fingers had long since returned to their owner, and Stokely knew she was staring back at the other girl with what probably amounted to terrified defiance. This was when it was hardest to pretend, to keep the feelings below the surface where they belonged, where Delilah had showed her by example that they couldn't be used against you. Only she had a feeling sometimes that Delilah could see right inside her, under her skin to the truth that no one else had ever even come close to. And still her skin burned where Delilah's fingers had been, her hands balled into fists again to keep herself from reaching out for something that she knew she couldn't have until it was offered.
Because Delilah was all about propriety, and there was no way in hell she was going to get caught making out in the newspaper office with a girl. Even if Stokely was socially acceptable enough to breathe the same air as Delilah now, there were certain things the head cheerleader just didn't do, and being gay was right at the top of the list. No one would ever suspect that Stokely knew how dark those eyes could really get, or how sweet Delilah's mouth tasted when she was coming, or how good the most popular girl in school really was with her hands.
Her gaze wandered down to Delilah's hands unconsciously, imagining them on her shoulders, her face, her breasts. Countless afternoons like this one had taught her how all those things felt, but blood still rushed to her cheeks to give her away. And then Delilah laughed, hard and mean but edged with something softer that Stokely knew better than to try and hold on to. She knew Delilah wouldn't touch her again until they were really alone, knew that she'd probably endure more of that mocking laughter before the day was over, and that she'd let Delilah push her far enough to drop the image she'd worked so hard to build.
Thought for the millionth time about turning around and walking away, but she was too afraid that Delilah would let her go.