Title: in this castle
Summary: And eventually, after years and years and years, we all live happily ever after.
Warning/Spoiler: Cursing and suggestive themes. Takes place during and after the movie.
Rating: T/R [not bad enough to constitute a M rating]
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ray/Jules, Scott/Jules, Ray/Stella, Scott/Mo

Author's Note: I really need to stop posting crappy work. :/

This one is dedicated to the Jules roleplayer on Tumblr, who requested a Ray/Jules. The only thing is… when I started writing this I knew it was going to be angsty. But then I got to the middle and realized that I couldn't end this how I originally wanted to. So sorry about the ending, aha.

in this castle

[and while i sit so high up on a throne, i wonder how i can feel this low]

So once upon a time there was this girl.

Let's call her Jules.

She lived with her mom and dad and little brother – a complete nerd and disgusting pig who was annoying as hell – but they were too immersed in their careers and mistresses to may much attention to her. So she lived her life, grew up, and turned into a bitchy high school cheerleader.

Cool story, huh?

Seriously, though, I'm a bitch. That's probably the first word anyone would use to describe me, no matter what – my parents, my brother, anyone from school – including my teachers. Everyone at school hates me.

Well, except Ray. But he doesn't count because he's a douchebag himself. Hot as fuck, but a douchebag nonetheless.

Not that I'd ever tell that to his face, obviously.

Besides, I'm supposedly all in love with Scott Pickett, say the latest rumors. Despite the fact that he's dating the exotic Mohini Banjsomethingoranother. Bitch.

So if Ray's the King of Douchebaggery, then Scott is his Prime Minister. The two of them are adjoined at the hip – it's actually really disgusting most of the time, especially when you start questioning their sexuality. But I can't complain – two fucking hot guys all over each other? A wet dream on a stick; perfection.

So by now you're probably convinced that not only am I a bitch, but I'm also very horny. You may in fact think I'm a slut. But no, I am in fact quite pure – I've given a blowjob here and there, but I've kept my knees closed. For the most part. But for the purposes of my esteemed storytelling, just know that I like my men hot, built, and jock – if they happen to have hordes of cash and can tell a joke here and there, just an added bonus.

(See, bitchy!)

So it's the morning the world ended – okay, yes, I am being incredibly dramatic, it's what I do – and I'm just hanging out with the usuals: Patty (who is annoying as fuck and follows me around like a puppy, but her house is killer and she has an amazing fashion sense), Michael Gibson, Drew Richardson, Dean Eagler, their "girlfriends" (read: fuck buddies) and Scott and Ray. So basically, Mudslide Crush and their groupies. (No, it's no big deal that people think I flash my boobs at random strangers to try to get into the band's pants even though I knew them before they knew what pants were. Nope, not at all.)

And that's when it happens. The new kid – Stella fucking Yamada, the biggest hippie slash gothic chick slash pain in my ass – walks up the stairs and Ray is suddenly star struck. He passes if off as his usual I'm a jerk and I'm going to make fun of the new girl but there's a twinkle in his eye and amusement in his steps and inside me, I'm seething. It's hot and boiling, and it's definitely October so it's actually very cold. But Stella rolls her eyes and walks away and Ray immediately starts discussing her awful fashion sense to Scott.

I ignore the nagging sensation of fire in my stomach and continue the rest of the day. By lunchtime, I finally realize that no one is at school except Scott. I eventually learn that he got caught trying to sneak out with Mo – stupid fucking bitch, getting caught, even I knew better – to join Ray and the others for a Mudslide Crush rehearsal. When I smile back at him, it's obviously fake and heavily bitter – no, I'm not pissed off that no one told me. Why should I be?

Ray and the others return for the assembly and when Stella fucking Yamada refuses to get up, he kindly shoves some other losers away. How sweet. But then the Goth Bitch starts preaching some revolutionary bullshit and I tune her out (and forget about her) until I see her heading to the Underground after school with a bright detention slip between her fingers.

Revenge is sweet.

(It's much later that I learn that the loser went off and found herself a band. Freaks.)

The day Lemonade Mouth get their name, I overhear Scott complaining to Ray about how Mo's a part of the loser band and how she's better than that and Ray's calling her names left and right and Scott says nothing. I kinda want to slap both of them – Scott for being a pussy and Ray for being… Ray – but I stay in the shadows. I run into Ray a little later, and that's when the whole spitting debacle goes down – needless to say, my new Mark Jacobs bag is safe.

But a couple of days later – before Halloween – Ray pulls me aside and tells me, and I quote, "I want you to flirt with Scott. Twirl your hair, bat your eyelashes, I don't care. Just… flirt." I'm imagining it, I'm sure, but there's a strain in his voice when he says it, so I don't argue. I shrug nonchalantly and I do it. Mo's face – hurt, disgusted, panicked – is so worth it: Scott's too good for a nobody, lest of all her. Scott and Ray are my boys, I decide that day, and no one's taking them from me.

Halloween night is when I realize that Lemonade Mouth isn't really that bad. They're actually pretty… good. I slap Patty when she starts dancing, but frankly, it is pretty hard to stop my feet from tapping along to that Delgado kid's drums. And when Gifford starts rapping – Patty didn't get it when I kept singing Pretty Fly (for a White Guy) the entire next week.

This whole band thing – replacing Mudslide Crush, really? – gets out of hand fairly quickly and I can't blame Ray for being so pissed off about it. Scott, ever the gentleman, tries to calm him down for the most part, but Ray will have nothing of it, trashing the losers in the band like yesterday's garbage. It's actually really amusing.

But as Lemonade Mouth explodes – apparently there are a lot of freaks at our school – Ray gets angrier and angrier, and Scott starts pining after Mo. It sickens me; Ray almost hits him when the Crush rehearses one afternoon and Scott's complaining every second about how Mo rejected him and something about a "packaged deal."

They're hopeless. Which I guess is why they have me.

I'm in the middle of making out with Scott – it's a couple of days before Rizing Star and rumor has it that the Loser Mouth might take it all – when Ray texts me. Scott's obviously not into it because although I try chucking the phone away, he opens it for me and insists I text back. I roll my eyes at him but comply; boys are so needy.

Ray tells me he wants me to do another favor for him and wants to tell me about it the next day. I agree and turn back to Scott, only to find him reflecting upon himself in disgust. About fucking time.

"I love Mo," he blurts out. My stomach boils, but I sigh deeply. Sometimes you just have to let go, and hope the puppy finds its way back home eventually.

"Then leave my fucking house and find her," I tell him wryly. "And don't tell Ray."

He does and he doesn't; I'm the only one in the audience on the day of Rizing Star who doesn't melt when Scott walks out to help out, but I'm the only one who knows for certain that he's completely and utterly sincere. When Patty asks me why I'm crying, I tell her it's because it's beautiful – it is – but it's really because my heart splits in half and I'm suddenly a little bit lonelier.

We were never officially the Three Musketeers, but it always felt that way. Ray, Scott, and Jules – the Power Trio, owning your ass since 1994. But now it's just Ray and Jules, the odd not-couple. Doesn't sound as nice, does it?

Lemonade Mouth takes to success like Ray takes to beer pong. The now six member band plays at Madison Garden, selling out almost immediately. And meanwhile, that bitchy girl named Jules hangs out with Ray Beech, dragging his ass home when he gets drunk at a party every day that summer. (It's during one of these incidents that he admits that he did in fact have a thing for Stella fucking Yamada. It sickens me.)

I don't know why I do it. Ray's not my boyfriend – far from it, and not on a lack of my part. I've thrown myself at him plenty of times: the oh-I-dropped-my-pencil-let-me-lean-over-you-in-my-low-cut-shirt-to-get-it, the oh-no-I-can't-reach-this-shelf-why-don't-you-feel-my-ass-and-get-it, and the ever so popular oh-this-scary-movie-is-so-scary-hold-me. He even rejected a blowjob – a fucking perfected blowjob – because apparently I repulse Ray Beech.

We're about to graduate a year later and I'm still following Ray around like a lost puppy – because frankly, I am lost. Scott's befriended Lemonade Mouth and has taken to the freaks like a long-lost twin. He nods to me in hallways, but whenever he's stuck to Banjaree's side, he barely even looks at me. Ray summons me and for some damn reason, I answer to his every beck and call.

But then Graduation rolls around; cords are adorned, gowns are recycled, and caps are thrown. I graduate that June after an awful high school experience, just aching to leave Arizona and get myself to the East Coast.

Ray runs into me at on my way to a Grad party. "Jules!" he exclaims excitedly with that half-grin that sends my blood boiling and fists clenching.

"Ray," I respond calmly. "We've done it, huh, finally."

"Finally," he agrees, "and we're finally free of those Lemonade Losers."

I always hesitate whenever he brings up his – or our, I guess – rival band. Nervously I smile. "Yeah, I guess."

Ray raises an eyebrow. "You guess?"

I don't know what it is about this moment – it's just me and him on an empty sidewalk, by the park. There's a few stragglers roaming the park and it's almost sunset; dusky slivers of sunlight color the sky. I blink once, twice – then I frown, take a step forward, and almost bitch slap him.

"Ray Beech, I fucking hate you," I answer calmly, my voice somehow steady despite my twitching fingers and my steaming gut. "You treat me like shit, always dragging me around with you as you fuck yourself over, and you just expect me to be there for you. And yet, I throw myself at you and reject me – you're repulsed by me, Ray, so why keep me around?" My voice is bitter and he's visibly shocked as my voice heightens in volume and pitch. "Why even fucking bother?"

He finally speaks again, and for once, the light in his eyes is darkened and his voice cracks. "I – I love you, Jules," he croaks.

I laugh – I laugh loudly and bitterly, startling him and cutting his already sensitive ego into tiny pieces that shatter in the air. The fucking nerve – "You love me, do you?" I repeat, shaking my head with a sour smile. "You fucking love me."

"Yes," he whispers hesitantly. For a moment I feel sympathy; but then I pity him – his only moment of weakness arrives four years too late.

"I'm sorry, Ray," I tell him sincerely. "But I'm through with you. I'm leaving in a couple of months and frankly I never want to see you again. I wish you the best of luck in life – whether it's with your failing band or your almost-failing grades – and please, don't fuck yourself too hard."

I start walking backwards before I spin around. He opens his mouth like a dying fish and the only word that leaves his lips is – "what?"

I shake my head, sadly in disappointment. "Fuck you, Ray Beech. Have a nice life." I spin around sharply, not caring if he tries to speak, if he tries to run, if he tries to grab. I walk away, my heels clicking against the concrete sidewalk, the sunset reflecting against my golden – fucking shiny – hair.

I make sure to throw in my signature move – the effortless hair flip – before turning the corner. I am a bitch, after all.

And eventually, after years and years and years, we all live happily ever after. Including, for once, the former prissy, golden-haired, bitchy cheerleader. (But that's a story for another day.)

The End.

(Except not, not at all and not really: does any story ever really end? But now I'm being philosophical and that's boring. I'll save it for the autobiography. Tentative title? Memiors of a Teenaged Bitch.)