g00d--m0urning

[g00d--m0urning]

Not Another Song About Love (ch.4)

TONY (DATE EVERYTHING!) X READER

(CW: reader drinks, not even enough to get tipsy, but just want to put the warning here just in case)

Sam convinces you to third wheel at a fancy club: The Breaker Box.

You meet the owners, who are nice, and you meet Sam's date, who you swear you know.

You'll never guess who's also there. That son of a bitch.

Sam is totally a multi texter. She can not send one large message for the life of her. I'm pretty sure it's pretty much canon.

There's lots and lots of texting dialogue this chapter, btw

probable inaccuracies for clubbing and drinking as I have done neither 😀👍

(POST REALIZATION SPOILERS FOR EDDIE AND VOLT) I also know that Eddie and Volt ended up being realtors when you realize them, but I wanted to include them in the story and making The Breaker Box being an actual high-end club tickled my fancy.

‘Hey-zees I saw Tony’s statement on his episode. That was nice of him.’ Sam’s text pops onto your phone screen, disrupting your impending doomscroll. 

You don’t even remember why you got on your phone. You scroll through your search history, trying to find the source that sent you on the tangent of ‘which animal has which set of genitals’... Jesus Christ, how’d you end up there? 

You look back up at your sleeping computer screen, rolling your mouse to wake it back up. You skim through the file you were going through. Riiiiight! There was something about baby birds and it made you wonder about how birds lay eggs, then it started you wondering about how long it took to lay them, and it spiraled from there.

You pull your notification string down, going to clear everything before you see the text app logo. Shit, Sam’s text. You scowl at Tony’s name, ‘It was basic decency, babes. And from here on out and talk about Tony is banned.’

The three bubbles pop up once, twice, ‘And basic decency is nice! Tony’s nice, isn’t he? Now that you’ve gotten to know him? You don’t need to punch him again, right??’

‘Basic decency is basic decency, it’s barely considered polite. I’m also not going to punch him because I’m never going to see him again! NOW, any more mentions of Tony and I’m blocking you.’

‘Someone’s snippy.’

‘No, I just don’t want to talk about Tony.’

‘Are you going to block yourself now?’

‘... Funny.’

‘I do try’

 ‘Are you free tonight’

‘Don’t say probably not’

‘Please i need someone to come with me’

‘Pretty please, i’m meeting this guy at The Breaker Box, that fancy club and i want you to come with me!’

‘We can dress up fancy and overpriced martinis’

‘plus i don’t want to be alone meeting a new guy’

‘Pleaseeeeeee???’

‘You need a break from work this week. You’ve had a horrible experience with all those dms and shit’

‘If you’d give me time to respond, I was going to say yes, until you mentioned the dude. I’m not third wheeling you on a date.’

‘YOU WERE GOING TO SAY YES?? WITHOUT ME HAVING TO BEG?’

‘Why didn’t you stop me sooner?’

‘And it’s not a date, we’re just hanging out. It’ll be casual.’

‘You don’t even have to sit with us, you can hang at the bar or something’

‘Please??’

‘Again, if you’d give me two seconds, I was going to say yes.’ 

‘YESSSSSSS. I love you, wear a suit or a dress, just make sure it’s fancy!!!!’

‘Pick me up at seven ;) toodles <3’

‘Toodles.’

You start getting dressed around six, choosing some nice dress slacks, a button up, and the first tie you manage to find. You look nice enough that you won’t look out of place, but not too fancy you’ll stand out. You’re not sure how fancy ‘that fancy club’ is, so you don’t want to risk leaning too much in either direction.

You pull your phone out when it buzzes, expecting to see a text from Sam asking if you’re ready and coming to pick her up. Instead, you find a text from an unsaved number:

‘Hey, it’s Beverly!!’

‘From the party, if you don’t remember!!’

It clicks that she never texted you, so you didn’t get to save her into your phone; you do so before you accidentally forget. ‘I remember, hey! How are you?’ 

‘I’m great!!!!’

‘How are you?’

The way she texts reminds you of Sam; they both have an inability to send one long message, it’s sweet. ‘I’m good, about to go pick up Sam.’

‘Funnn, what’re you guys doing?’

‘Going to some high-end club. The Breaker Box.’

‘NO WAY!!!!!’

‘I’m bartending at the Breaker Box tonight!!’

‘No way!! What a coincidence. I thought you had your own bar, though?’

‘Oh, I do!!’

‘But I’m friends with the club owners and they asked me to bartend tonight for the event tonight.’

Your expression blanches at the word ‘event’. Sam didn’t say anything about an event. What is she dragging you into tonight? ‘What event?’

‘It’s an open mic night!! Nothing super fancy, but it brings in the crowd.’

You sigh in relief, sliding into your car, ‘Oh, okay. Isn’t an open mic night a little…weird for a high-end club?’

‘A little bit, but they did it back when they were a small company, so they wanted to keep doing it when they got big!!’

‘Ahh, that makes sense; it’s cool that they do something to remember their start.’

‘Yeah, totally, plus it brings in a huge crowd, which is why I’m bartending.’

‘That makes sense. I do need to get off, I need to go pick up Sam, but I guess I’ll see you in thirty-ish minutes!’

‘Yayyyy!! Can’t wait to see you guys!’

‘SYS :3’

‘See you soon.”

“Hey, did you know Beverly’s going to be at the club tonight?” you ask when Sam gets into the car, looking over at her. She looks good; she’s wearing a green dress that fits her just right, her makeup’s perfect, she looks perfect. 

“No way, seriously? That’s great, you can hang out with her!” Sam points out, whistling when she looks you over, “You clean up nicely.”

“One, she’s working, so unless I hug the bar all night, no I can’t. Two, thank you, so do you,” you tell her, smoothing a hand over your tie. “I like the green, it sets off your hair.”

“Nothing like green on a redhead,” Sam says, flipping down the mirror to swipe on more lipstick, “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Of course, you know I wouldn’t leave you hanging,” ok, so you totally would and have, but not when she’s going to meet a guy. It’s not like you were actually busy and if the guy gets weird, you’d prefer to be there. “Tell me about the guy that you’re not on a date with, just hanging out. And is this the same guy with the grapefruit biceps?”

“No, no, no!.. I followed Biceps on Instagram and it turns out he’s gay, so a win for the boys,” she waves her hand dismissively, giving you directions afterwards, so you can get on the right street, “I met this guy--Jeremy--at a Fix Ittttt… at a totally random show that isn’t ran by a guy you completely hate, and we hit of, so he invited me here for a party.”

Jeremy… Jeremy…Where have you heard that name? Other than the fact that it’s common, you’re ninety percent certain you’ve talked to a Jeremy recently. What are the odds it’s the same person?

“I’m not going to explode if you mention the show, Sam,” you tell her, opening the center console, pulling out a sachet of crackers, “While I remember, eat these.”

“You might hit me,” she says, taking the pack of crackers from you. “Why am I eating these and why do you have saltines in your center console?”

“I’m not letting you go to a club on an empty stomach, and because I knew I wasn’t going to let you go to the club on an empty stomach,” you answer her, stealing one of the crackers.

Your eyes widen when the Breaker Box comes into view. The first thing you notice is the sign: it’s illuminated, glowing strong even in the evening sun, and it’s ginormous. They really know how to get attention on the place.

You pull into the closest parking spot, following behind Sam (who’s walking incredibly quick for someone in heels) into the building. The club is crowded when you get in there, but someone starts waving at you and Sam--or just Sam--through the crowd.

A tall, muscled blonde makes his way through the throngs of people, catching Sam in a hug, “I’m glad you made it!” he exclaims over the music, lifting her off her foot. He sets her down, turning to face you. His eyes narrow at you slightly, a spark of recognition in his eyes, “You must be Sam’s friend! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’ve heard…” you trail off, opting to shake the hand he has held out instead. Sam laughs at your sudden awkwardness, slapping a hand on your shoulder, “Sam said you were here for a party?”

“Yeah, my boss is hosting an afterparty of sorts here. He knows the owners apparently; they’re cool dudes,” he nods, wrapping an arm around Sam’s waist, guiding her to his table. He leans in to whisper in her ear, making her giggle.

“Casual hangout, my ass,” you mutter under your breath, rolling your eyes at the fact that you’re becoming a third wheel. “I’m going to go get us drinks,” you tell Sam, who barely nods to acknowledge you.

You look at Jeremy one last time, trying to place where you know him from. Beverly waves at you as you approach the bar, a bright smile on her face. 

“Hi! I’m so glad you made it! Do you need a drink?” she yells, trying to be louder than the music, the blenders in the back, and the cocktail shaker full of ice she’s mixing up.

“Hi! It’s great to see you too, and yeah, I need drinks,” you yell back, leaning in closer, so you don’t have to strain your voice as much. “Can I get an espresso martini and aaaaa…uhmmm,” you trail off, unsure what to order for yourself.

“I’d suggest a whiskey sour,” you jump when someone appears beside you, leaning against the counter in a way that would make anyone assume he owned the place. His hair is stark white, and he’s dressed to the nines.

“Uhm… Yeah, sure! A whiskey sour then, thanks..” you nod, turning back to Beverly, whose smile widens further when she sees the man beside you.

“Volt, hi! I see you’ve met my friend! They’re friends with Sam, that’s how we met. They came to one of Babydoll’s house parties with her,” Beverly explains, mixing up your drink order.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the friend of Sam’s that punched Tony would you?” the white-haired man asks, a charming smile gracing his lips, “Kudos to you, if you arm.”

Beverly bursts into laughter, slapping her freehand on the bar, taking the time to multitask, wiping it down at the same time, “They are! I was there when it happened. Or, well, I didn’t see the punch, but I saw the aftermath! It was great.”

You shrink slightly, curling in on yourself; this is your legacy, apparently. You’re going to die the person who punched Tony…Not a horrible legacy. You go to speak again, but Volt raises his hand, calling someone over.

A black-haired bartender waltzes over at Volt’s beckoning, raising an eyebrow in question, “I’m busy, whadda need?”

“You know the person our livewire was telling us about, Miss Samantha’s mysterious friend?” Volt asks, unperturbed by the other man’s grumpy demeanor. “This here,” he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side, “is the lovely person who got the chance to lay one on the toolbox.”

Black-hair looks you up and down, nodding in what you truly hope is approval, “You’re the doctor. Good on you.”

You smile awkwardly, or hope you do, it probably looks more like a grimace, you’re not sure. “Yeah. Good on me.”

“Here you go! I’d love to stay and chat, but I really need to serve other people, sorry!” Beverly rushes off after handing you her drinks. The broody man doesn’t say anything, but does the same.

Volt sighs beside you, pulling his arm off your shoulder, “I fear I must leave as well, I apologize, and don’t worry about your tab. It’s on me.”

“No, no, I couldn’t,” you shake your head; there’s no way you’re letting a stranger pay for your drink tab. “Ask Sam, in her words ‘I’m loaded like a baked potato’.”

“It’s not about money, consider it payment for your,” his hands dart down to your hands, which are currently holding your drinks, “Services.”

“Oh…Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll make sure Sam orders as much top shelf alcohol that’s here,” you quip, trying to loosen yourself up. You take a sip of your drink, grimacing at the burn down your throat, “This is great, great recommendation.”

“You look like you want to spit it back up,” Volt comments, walking alongside you on your way back to your booth. “Not a drinker?”

“Not a drinker,” you confirm, looking over when you hear someone yell for Volt, “I’m assuming that’s your cue.”

He nods, “Sadly. I’ll stop by your table later, find you a drink you like,” he promises, lightly squeezing your arm before heading off.

You sit down on the opposite booth seat that Sam and Jeremy aren’t in, feigning ignorance to the fact you can definitely tell they were just making out. Sam squeals happily, thanking you, and taking her martini from you.

The music cuts off and a spotlight centers on the stage in the middle of the room. Volt takes the stage, microphone in hand, “How is everyone tonight?” he asks, the crowd cheering in response, “Glad to hear, and I hope it’s about to get a lot better because open mic night is officially open.”

Oh, my god. He is the owner! He doesn’t just act like he owns the place, he really does own it. And mister grumpy pants over there must be his partner. 

“Are you going to go up there?” you hear Jeremy ask, who is looking at you and not Sam, like you expected him to be.

“Aha, no. Absolutely not,” you cut your hand through the air twice in a ‘no’ gesture, twirling the straw around in your not-going-to-be-drank drink. “I’m not a performer.”

“Okay, party pooper,” he laughs, giving Sam’s hand a light squeeze.

“Yep. That’s me: Dr. Party Pooper,” you laugh airily, your lips pull into a tight smile. “I’m going to go get a new drink. This one sucks,” you tell them, standing up and walking off without a response.

You hear Jeremy grunt from behind you, looking over to see Sam whisper in his ear with an annoyed expression. You sit down in one of the cush, leather bar stools, not bothering to flag one of the bartenders over. You’re certainly not in a rush to get back.

“Hey, Edward. Do you think you can make me another one of these?”

Your spine goes rigid at the sound of that voice, turning to your left slightly, praying it’s a random guy who happens to have a Jersey accent. Most Jerseyans sound alike, you think- it’s not like you know a bunch of people from New Jersey!

No, it’s Tony. Of course, it is! Why wouldn’t it be?... How is he here? Why is he here?... Your head whips back around to look at Jeremy, narrowing your eyes at him. Jeremy. The fucking security guard that tried to stop you from entering the Fix It Ton studio. That’s why you recognize him, you knew you weren’t crazy.

And he’s here, with Tony, for the afterparty Tony is apparently throwing his crew. What are the odds? The one man Sam could’ve possibly connected with and he is directly connected to your nemesis. Thankfully, he walks off without noticing you.

“You look tense,” Volt’s partner--Edward, you think is what Tony said--appears in front of you, making you jump right out of your skin.

“Christ,” you hiss, setting a hand over your chest, feeling it rapidly thump against your palm, “I’m fine.”

“So you’re trying to break my glass for fun?” he asks, looking down at your other hand that’s holding onto your glass. You’re damn near white knuckling the thing. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, taking a drink before setting the glass onto the bar. You instantly regret taking a drink, gagging after you manage to swallow, “Great drink,” you whisper, rubbing your throat to try and massage the taste out.

“Oh, yeah. I can tell you love it,” he drawls, taking the glass from you, and dumping it down the sink without your asking. “You want something else?”

“Is there anything you can make that tastes absolutely nothing like alcohol? That doesn’t have Pink Whitney in it- college days, don’t ask,” you shudder at the thought of ever having to ingest Pink Whitney again.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he assures, walking off and returning with a bottle, “We don’t have Pink Whitney anyway, we’re not a sorority house.”

“Here, sex on the beach. You shouldn’t taste shit other than the fruit juice,” he tells you, placing a tall glass with a tiny umbrella in front of you. “Try it, and if you don’t like it, call Bev over.”

You take a tentative first sip, pleasantly surprised with this drink. It’s much better than the whiskey sour Volt suggested. Somebody who sounds oddly similar to Lorde takes the stage, singing Royals by Lorde. She knows her strengths, good for her.

“Sweetiepieeee,” Sam leans over your shoulders, ‘ooh’ing when she sees your drink, stealing it with an obnoxious slurp, “Me and Jeremy are going to join their work group, you coming with?”

She doesn’t let you say no, grabbing your wrist and your drink, pulling you along with her. Jeremy strides beside Sam, carrying both her drink and her purse. There’s a group of people near the stage, scattered about in the large, circular booths and a couple of tables.

People cheer when they see Jeremy, wolf whistling at the sight of Sam. You step to the side, hoping nobody notices you. Sam hands you your drink, blending into the group of crew members with ease, falling into quick banter with everyone. 

“Hey, come over here!” Jeremy shouts, waving you over, “Meet everybody!”

There’s way too many sets of eyes on you, so you’d seem like a total jerk if you said no. You shuffle over to the group, forcing a smile through the rounds of introductions.

A, clearly tipsy, blonde comes up to your side, grabbing your shoulders and turning you to face her, “Do I know you? I feel like I do, your face is soooo familiar,” she says, caressing your cheeks, “Are you famous?”

“No, I just have one of those faces,” you say sarcastically, which she doesn’t get, giggling at you. You try to peel her off of you, but she’s surprisingly strong.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she gasps, releasing you to grab her phone. She scrolls through until she finds what she’s looking for, flipping her phone around, so you can see it, “Is this you?”

You’re faced with a screenshot of the article about you and Tony, and the forced smile you’ve been sporting drops entirely. She snickers at your reaction, “It totally is! I knew I recognized you.”

She leans against you, the scent of vodka and too strong perfume filling your nose, “Y’know.. I totally knew the article was bullshit, I mean, no offense, but there’s no way Tony would go for someone like you.”

“Let me guess, he goes for people like you?” you ask, pouting because you’re so disappointed about not being Tony’s type. 

“Damn right I do,” Tony comes up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist, “Surprised to see you here, Doc.” He looks over your shoulder at Jeremy and Sam, “Never mind, you’re third-wheeling, big surprise.”

“You’re a doctor?” the blonde woman asks, “That’s so cool! I’m a nail artist, and a hair stylist. I also wax on the side, so if you ever need any services done, I’m happy to help!”

“I’m good, but thank you” you tell her, slurping down the dredges of your drink.

“Ooooh, is that a sex on the beach? I looove sex on the beach,” she says, giggling quietly, looking over at Tony, clearly hoping he caught the innuendo. 

Tony is staring hard at you, barely acknowledging the girl, giving a short, dry chuckle, and a light pinch to her side, “So do I. Maybe you should go get us a round of them, yeah? For me, you, and the doc. Put it on the tab.”

“Okay! I will go grab those,” she nods, pressing a kiss to Tony’s cheek. He turns his head, finally giving her the attention he seeks, planting a wet kiss to her lip.

She skips off, pleased with the kiss she finally received from him. You watch her big hair bounce behind her, her big heels clacking against the floor. She seems too nice for him, too nice; a little ditzy, sure, but sweet.

“You’ve got…” you point at his cheek that’s currently stained a bright, Barbie pink. “She seems…nice.”

“She’s sweet and flexible,” Tony says, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. “How’s it feel third wheeling your best friend? Or are you used to it?”

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, rolling your eyes at him, “And I’m not third wheeling. I am hanging out at the same place that my friend happens to be on a date because she asked me to come, so I did.”

“So you’re third wheeling?” he laughs, leaning against the table you're standing in front of, invading your personal space. “I don’t see you hanging out with anyone. You’re just standing here, like a lost little puppy dog.”

“Does your date know that you’re a huge douchebag?” you ask, turning to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“You wound me, I treat people I like with respect,” he frowns dramatically, poking a finger into your shoulder. “Especially my special friends.”

You stare at him deadpan, blinking slowly, “I’m walking away now,” you announce, very purposefully bumping your shoulder against his shoulder when you pass him.

“Hey, c’mon! First, you block me, now you’re walking away from our conversation?” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment at you. “I’m talking to you.”

“And I’m avoiding you,” you retort, looking over your shoulder, glaring at Tony, who’s following after you.

The split second you’re not facing forward, you bump into someone. A waitress, specifically, sending the tray of drinks she was holding all over your white shirt. The waitress gasps, apologies spewing from her mouth, pressing a napkin to your front.

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” you tell her, taking the damp napkin from her to try and soak up the drinks staining your shirt. 

You look around for the bathroom, which is back in the other direction, meaning you have to walk through the entirety of Tony’s crew. Sam looks up when you pass her, yelling your name, a concerned look in her eyes. You don’t turn back, bursting into the gender neutral bathroom, so you can lock the door behind you without any interruptions. 

You stare at the red stain on your shirt; there’s no way you can run this under water and get it to go away. Maybe you should leave, Sam will be fine, she’s having a ball with Jeremy. He can drive her home! 

A knock on the door snaps you out of your trance, “You decent?” Tony’s voice comes from behind the door, “I’ve got a shirt for you.”

The doorknob jiggles, like he’s testing it. You realize you forgot to lock it in your haste, so he pops his head in, holding a white shirt in his hand. “Where’d you get that?” you ask, eyeing the shirt suspiciously, there’s no way you’re wearing a shirt from lost and found, you’d rather go topless. 

“My bag, I always bring an extra shirt,” he answers, waving the shirt at you, trying to coax you into taking it, “It’s clean.”

You hesitate for a second, but ultimately decide it won’t kill you to take the shirt from him; it’s better than sitting around in a sangria soaked shirt. You reach for it, but he yanks it back, a smirk on his face. 

“One one condition,” he states. There’s a cost because of course there is!

You suck at your teeth, looking between him and the shirt. Is it really worth it?... Sadly, yes. “What do you want, asshole?”

“Unblock me,” he orders, simple, short, premeditated.

“Why the fuck should I unblock you? Why do you even want me to unblock you?” you ask, scowling at him. There has to be a reason here; he’s going to pull some dumb shit, you know it.

“No reason, Sugar. I just want you to unblock me,” he shrugs, dangling the shirt in front of you, “Deal or no deal?”

You exhale deeply, keeping yourself calm, so you don’t punch him again, “Fine,” you grit out, going for the shirt again, but he pulls it back again.

“Ah-ah-ah, unblock me first and let me see. Then you get the shirt,” he says, waving a hand at your pocket.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you mutter, pulling your phone out, unblocking Tony. You flip your phone around, so he can see it, “There, unblocked. Now give it.”

Tony snatches your phone, making sure you actually unblocked him. He also takes the time to flex for a picture, setting it as his profile picture, “Here, courtesy of Cupid,” he hands you your phone and the shirt, winking at you, and disappearing.

The door clicks closed behind him, and you lock it this time. Your skin is sticky when you take your shirt off; you run your shirt under the sink, hoping the shirt isn’t ruined. Tony’s shirt glares at you from its spot on the bathroom counter. 

You glare back at it, snatching it off the counter, shoving the shirt on. It fits fine, annoyingly. The wood-y, vanilla(?) scent he always sports lingers on the fabric, burning your nose hairs; there’s also an odd undertone of pennies. Your phone lights up when a text comes through.

‘Hey sweetheart’

‘Me and Jeremy are going to head out, is that okay?’

You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. You know exactly what ‘heading out’ means. You’re happy for Sam. ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’

‘Are you sure’

‘You seemed upset’

‘I’m fine, just got wine spilt on me. Someone gave me a shirt to change into.’

‘That’s good, I’m glad you’re good, babe. Get home safe <33’

‘Enjoy your night.’

‘I will ;)’

You wring your shirt out, getting it as dry as you can get it, slinging it over your shoulder. Tony’s date waves you down when you enter the main room again, holding your drink in the air. “Here’s your drink!”

“Thanks…” you trail off, realizing you haven’t caught her name. You pull out your wallet, passing her a twenty, “To pay for the drink. You can keep it, though. I’m leaving.”

“Aw, so soon?” Tony teases, taking your drink from… Barbie, let’s call her Barbie. “Stay a while, c’mon,” he goads, patting the empty spot beside him.

“Haha.. No,” you shake your head, patting Tony’s shoulder firmly.

He catches your wrist, pulling you down onto the seat, setting your drink in front of you, “Stay awhile, hang out with me and Eva.”

Oh, Eva, that’s her name, good to know. “I’m sorry your friend left,” Eva says, reaching over to squeeze your hand. 

“I’m not, Jeremy’s going to have a good night,” Tony snickers, twirling his umbrella around in his glass, “Something you can’t relate too.”

“I’m having a great night, thank you very much,” you tell him, stomping on his foot. His knee jerks up, sending everyone’s drinks rattling.

Eva giggles, brushing a hand through Tony’s slick hair, “So, you said you’re a doctor right?” she asks, leaning in closer to you, “Can I ask you a question?”

“I mean, yes, unless it’s medical. I’m not a medical doctor, so if you’ve got problems, I’d suggest the emergency room or urgent care,” you tell her, smiling awkwardly. You’ve spent much of your career telling people you can’t diagnose their rashes, or weird spots. “I’m a scientist with PhD’s.”

“That is so cool! Do you make good money- wait, that’s rude to ask, she pauses, wincing at the question she asked, “sorry, back to my original question. Can you tell me about it? I’ve always wondered what it’s like doing some fancy job like that. Don’t get me wrong, I love doing cosmetic work, but I always thought it’d be cool doing something like that.”

“It’s fine, I do make good money, it helps that I work for a private company,” you tell her, smiling slightly. “But I really like my job, I just got promoted, so I’ve been working a lot recently.”

------------

Tony’s in shock as you start talking about your job, you and Eva leaning in on either side of him to talk to one another. This is unexpected. He thought you and Eva would despise each other. How’d he end up here?

He watches you as you talk about your job, his brows furrowed slightly. There’s a light in your eyes that he’s never seen before. It’s kind of cute, in a way. You’re so animated, opening up in a way he didn’t know you could manage, and you’re so smart it’s stupid.

“Could you get any nerdier?” he asks, flicking your ear.

You shoot upright, rubbing the spot he flicked. The light in your eyes disappears almost immediately, hardening into a glare that he almost worries is going to burn holes into his perfect face.

“You asshole,” you smack his shoulder, your lips pursed in anger, “Flick me again and I’m going to hit you- again!”

“You wouldn’t,” he challenges, leaning in closer, blowing a stream of air into your face, “You could get kicked out of the club.”

“I would and I’d get a standing ovation for it. I’m already getting free drinks for the night,” you inform him, poking a finger onto her forehead, pushing his head away from you. “Goodnight, Eva. It was great meeting you.”

Tony stands up when you get up, grabbing your arm, “I’ll walk you to your car, Sugar” he says, unruffled when you shove his hand off. “So, Sam and Jeremy, huh?”

“Yep, Sam and Jeremy,” you nod, rolling your eyes at him, “You really ditched your date just to annoy me?”

“And to rub it in your face that your friend left you to get laid,” he adds, ruffling your hair, taking pleasure in how easily you’re ticked off. “Something you can’t relate to.”

“Something I don’t want to relate to,” you remind him, and part of him cringes. 

Right, you’re asexual, something he has no clue about. He wants to ask about it, but he has a feeling you won’t appreciate the question, if your reaction to Sam telling him about it that first time meeting you was any indication. 

“Nice car,” he comments, running his hand over the smooth, black hood of your car. It looks vintage; you really do make good money. “Vintage?”

“Mhm. sixty-nine Chevy Impala,” you answer, smacking the top of his hand, “Don’t touch. You see the clean, squeaky, spotless-ness of my hood? Yeah! Keep it that way and keep your greasy paws off my car.”

Tony laughs, raising his hands in surrender, “I won’t touch, Sugar. Just admiring.”

“Admire from afar,” you order with a scoff, getting into your car. 

Tony comes around, leaning into your open window, looking around the interior of your car. It’s plain, aside from the tiny, crocheted opossum that hangs from your rearview mirror. He reaches in, tapping the small stuffed animal:

“Cute,” he comments, watching it swing, “What’s the deal with it?”

“Sam got it for me as a stocking stuffer one year and hung it up there,” you tell him, wrapping your hand around it to stop it from swinging, “Same thing I told you about my car applies to Mr. O-possum-tive. Look, don’t touch.”

“‘Mr. O-Possum-tive’?” he questions, tapping it again, purely to get on your nerves, “You name your stuffed animals.”

“Yes, Mr. O-Possum-tive. It’s a play on words, it sounds like O-positive, the blood type,” you mutter, smacking his hand again, harder this time.

“Would you quit that?” Tony hisses, shaking his hand, looking at his reddened knuckles, “And I got the pun, I’m not dumb. It’s funny.”

“I know, I’m hilarious,” you retort shortly, blinking at him. “Would you get out of my window, so I can leave?”

“I don’t know, I might stand here for a little longer,” he muses, running his finger over your steering wheel. “Keep you around longer.”

“I will run you over, I’m not kidding,” you say, starting the car, “You have a date anyway, I bet she’s lonely. Go annoy her, Cupid.”

“I think you’re lonelier, Sugar. You’ve got a stick up your ass,” he says, twirling a lock of your hair around his finger. “I can help with that.”

For a second, in the club, he almost thought you yanked that stick out. You were drinking, and it nearly seemed like you were having fun. He wonders how many more drinks it would take you to fully let go.

“I’d rather watch paint dry,” you tell him, slowly pulling out of the parking spot. 

Tony finally steps back, setting his hands on his hips, “Suit yourself, I have a beautiful lady waiting for me inside. She’ll appreciate my company and a little more.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” you point out, rolling your eyes at him like he’s stupid, “Enjoy your night, Cupid.”

“Will do, Sugar,” he flutters his fingers in a wave, standing outside the club until your car disappears down the street.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the spot you used to bed in, a smile spreading across his face. He’ll break you open one day, if it’s the last thing he does.

[g00d--m0urning]

Not Another Song About Love (ch.4)

TONY (DATE EVERYTHING!) X READER

(CW: reader drinks, not even enough to get tipsy, but just want to put the warning here just in case)

Sam convinces you to third wheel at a fancy club: The Breaker Box.

You meet the owners, who are nice, and you meet Sam's date, who you swear you know.

You'll never guess who's also there. That son of a bitch.

Sam is totally a multi texter. She can not send one large message for the life of her. I'm pretty sure it's pretty much canon.

There's lots and lots of texting dialogue this chapter, btw

probable inaccuracies for clubbing and drinking as I have done neither 😀👍

(POST REALIZATION SPOILERS FOR EDDIE AND VOLT) I also know that Eddie and Volt ended up being realtors when you realize them, but I wanted to include them in the story and making The Breaker Box being an actual high-end club tickled my fancy.

(credits to my moot @k1w1th3s1r3n for the penny smell headcanon)

‘Hey-zees I saw Tony’s statement on his episode. That was nice of him.’ Sam’s text pops onto your phone screen, disrupting your impending doomscroll. 

You don’t even remember why you got on your phone. You scroll through your search history, trying to find the source that sent you on the tangent of ‘which animal has which set of genitals’... Jesus Christ, how’d you end up there? 

You look back up at your sleeping computer screen, rolling your mouse to wake it back up. You skim through the file you were going through. Riiiiight! There was something about baby birds and it made you wonder about how birds lay eggs, then it started you wondering about how long it took to lay them, and it spiraled from there.

You pull your notification string down, going to clear everything before you see the text app logo. Shit, Sam’s text. You scowl at Tony’s name, ‘It was basic decency, babes. And from here on out and talk about Tony is banned.’

The three bubbles pop up once, twice, ‘And basic decency is nice! Tony’s nice, isn’t he? Now that you’ve gotten to know him? You don’t need to punch him again, right??’

‘Basic decency is basic decency, it’s barely considered polite. I’m also not going to punch him because I’m never going to see him again! NOW, any more mentions of Tony and I’m blocking you.’

‘Someone’s snippy.’

‘No, I just don’t want to talk about Tony.’

‘Are you going to block yourself now?’

‘... Funny.’

‘I do try’

 ‘Are you free tonight’

‘Don’t say probably not’

‘Please i need someone to come with me’

‘Pretty please, i’m meeting this guy at The Breaker Box, that fancy club and i want you to come with me!’

‘We can dress up fancy and overpriced martinis’

‘plus i don’t want to be alone meeting a new guy’

‘Pleaseeeeeee???’

‘You need a break from work this week. You’ve had a horrible experience with all those dms and shit’

‘If you’d give me time to respond, I was going to say yes, until you mentioned the dude. I’m not third wheeling you on a date.’

‘YOU WERE GOING TO SAY YES?? WITHOUT ME HAVING TO BEG?’

‘Why didn’t you stop me sooner?’

‘And it’s not a date, we’re just hanging out. It’ll be casual.’

‘You don’t even have to sit with us, you can hang at the bar or something’

‘Please??’

‘Again, if you’d give me two seconds, I was going to say yes.’ 

‘YESSSSSSS. I love you, wear a suit or a dress, just make sure it’s fancy!!!!’

‘Pick me up at seven ;) toodles <3’

‘Toodles.’

You start getting dressed around six, choosing some nice dress slacks, a button up, and the first tie you manage to find. You look nice enough that you won’t look out of place, but not too fancy you’ll stand out. You’re not sure how fancy ‘that fancy club’ is, so you don’t want to risk leaning too much in either direction.

You pull your phone out when it buzzes, expecting to see a text from Sam asking if you’re ready and coming to pick her up. Instead, you find a text from an unsaved number:

‘Hey, it’s Beverly!!’

‘From the party, if you don’t remember!!’

It clicks that she never texted you, so you didn’t get to save her into your phone; you do so before you accidentally forget. ‘I remember, hey! How are you?’ 

‘I’m great!!!!’

‘How are you?’

The way she texts reminds you of Sam; they both have an inability to send one long message, it’s sweet. ‘I’m good, about to go pick up Sam.’

‘Funnn, what’re you guys doing?’

‘Going to some high-end club. The Breaker Box.’

‘NO WAY!!!!!’

‘I’m bartending at the Breaker Box tonight!!’

‘No way!! What a coincidence. I thought you had your own bar, though?’

‘Oh, I do!!’

‘But I’m friends with the club owners and they asked me to bartend tonight for the event tonight.’

Your expression blanches at the word ‘event’. Sam didn’t say anything about an event. What is she dragging you into tonight? ‘What event?’

‘It’s an open mic night!! Nothing super fancy, but it brings in the crowd.’

You sigh in relief, sliding into your car, ‘Oh, okay. Isn’t an open mic night a little…weird for a high-end club?’

‘A little bit, but they did it back when they were a small company, so they wanted to keep doing it when they got big!!’

‘Ahh, that makes sense; it’s cool that they do something to remember their start.’

‘Yeah, totally, plus it brings in a huge crowd, which is why I’m bartending.’

‘That makes sense. I do need to get off, I need to go pick up Sam, but I guess I’ll see you in thirty-ish minutes!’

‘Yayyyy!! Can’t wait to see you guys!’

‘SYS :3’

‘See you soon.”

“Hey, did you know Beverly’s going to be at the club tonight?” you ask when Sam gets into the car, looking over at her. She looks good; she’s wearing a green dress that fits her just right, her makeup’s perfect, she looks perfect. 

“No way, seriously? That’s great, you can hang out with her!” Sam points out, whistling when she looks you over, “You clean up nicely.”

“One, she’s working, so unless I hug the bar all night, no I can’t. Two, thank you, so do you,” you tell her, smoothing a hand over your tie. “I like the green, it sets off your hair.”

“Nothing like green on a redhead,” Sam says, flipping down the mirror to swipe on more lipstick, “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Of course, you know I wouldn’t leave you hanging,” ok, so you totally would and have, but not when she’s going to meet a guy. It’s not like you were actually busy and if the guy gets weird, you’d prefer to be there. “Tell me about the guy that you’re not on a date with, just hanging out. And is this the same guy with the grapefruit biceps?”

“No, no, no!.. I followed Biceps on Instagram and it turns out he’s gay, so a win for the boys,” she waves her hand dismissively, giving you directions afterwards, so you can get on the right street, “I met this guy--Jeremy--at a Fix Ittttt… at a totally random show that isn’t ran by a guy you completely hate, and we hit of, so he invited me here for a party.”

Jeremy… Jeremy…Where have you heard that name? Other than the fact that it’s common, you’re ninety percent certain you’ve talked to a Jeremy recently. What are the odds it’s the same person?

“I’m not going to explode if you mention the show, Sam,” you tell her, opening the center console, pulling out a sachet of crackers, “While I remember, eat these.”

“You might hit me,” she says, taking the pack of crackers from you. “Why am I eating these and why do you have saltines in your center console?”

“I’m not letting you go to a club on an empty stomach, and because I knew I wasn’t going to let you go to the club on an empty stomach,” you answer her, stealing one of the crackers.

Your eyes widen when the Breaker Box comes into view. The first thing you notice is the sign: it’s illuminated, glowing strong even in the evening sun, and it’s ginormous. They really know how to get attention on the place.

You pull into the closest parking spot, following behind Sam (who’s walking incredibly quick for someone in heels) into the building. The club is crowded when you get in there, but someone starts waving at you and Sam--or just Sam--through the crowd.

A tall, muscled blonde makes his way through the throngs of people, catching Sam in a hug, “I’m glad you made it!” he exclaims over the music, lifting her off her foot. He sets her down, turning to face you. His eyes narrow at you slightly, a spark of recognition in his eyes, “You must be Sam’s friend! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’ve heard…” you trail off, opting to shake the hand he has held out instead. Sam laughs at your sudden awkwardness, slapping a hand on your shoulder, “Sam said you were here for a party?”

“Yeah, my boss is hosting an afterparty of sorts here. He knows the owners apparently; they’re cool dudes,” he nods, wrapping an arm around Sam’s waist, guiding her to his table. He leans in to whisper in her ear, making her giggle.

“Casual hangout, my ass,” you mutter under your breath, rolling your eyes at the fact that you’re becoming a third wheel. “I’m going to go get us drinks,” you tell Sam, who barely nods to acknowledge you.

You look at Jeremy one last time, trying to place where you know him from. Beverly waves at you as you approach the bar, a bright smile on her face. 

“Hi! I’m so glad you made it! Do you need a drink?” she yells, trying to be louder than the music, the blenders in the back, and the cocktail shaker full of ice she’s mixing up.

“Hi! It’s great to see you too, and yeah, I need drinks,” you yell back, leaning in closer, so you don’t have to strain your voice as much. “Can I get an espresso martini and aaaaa…uhmmm,” you trail off, unsure what to order for yourself.

“I’d suggest a whiskey sour,” you jump when someone appears beside you, leaning against the counter in a way that would make anyone assume he owned the place. His hair is stark white, and he’s dressed to the nines.

“Uhm… Yeah, sure! A whiskey sour then, thanks..” you nod, turning back to Beverly, whose smile widens further when she sees the man beside you.

“Volt, hi! I see you’ve met my friend! They’re friends with Sam, that’s how we met. They came to one of Babydoll’s house parties with her,” Beverly explains, mixing up your drink order.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the friend of Sam’s that punched Tony would you?” the white-haired man asks, a charming smile gracing his lips, “Kudos to you, if you arm.”

Beverly bursts into laughter, slapping her freehand on the bar, taking the time to multitask, wiping it down at the same time, “They are! I was there when it happened. Or, well, I didn’t see the punch, but I saw the aftermath! It was great.”

You shrink slightly, curling in on yourself; this is your legacy, apparently. You’re going to die the person who punched Tony…Not a horrible legacy. You go to speak again, but Volt raises his hand, calling someone over.

A black-haired bartender waltzes over at Volt’s beckoning, raising an eyebrow in question, “I’m busy, whadda need?”

“You know the person our livewire was telling us about, Miss Samantha’s mysterious friend?” Volt asks, unperturbed by the other man’s grumpy demeanor. “This here,” he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side, “is the lovely person who got the chance to lay one on the toolbox.”

Black-hair looks you up and down, nodding in what you truly hope is approval, “You’re the doctor. Good on you.”

You smile awkwardly, or hope you do, it probably looks more like a grimace, you’re not sure. “Yeah. Good on me.”

“Here you go! I’d love to stay and chat, but I really need to serve other people, sorry!” Beverly rushes off after handing you her drinks. The broody man doesn’t say anything, but does the same.

Volt sighs beside you, pulling his arm off your shoulder, “I fear I must leave as well, I apologize, and don’t worry about your tab. It’s on me.”

“No, no, I couldn’t,” you shake your head; there’s no way you’re letting a stranger pay for your drink tab. “Ask Sam, in her words ‘I’m loaded like a baked potato’.”

“It’s not about money, consider it payment for your,” his hands dart down to your hands, which are currently holding your drinks, “Services.”

“Oh…Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll make sure Sam orders as much top shelf alcohol that’s here,” you quip, trying to loosen yourself up. You take a sip of your drink, grimacing at the burn down your throat, “This is great, great recommendation.”

“You look like you want to spit it back up,” Volt comments, walking alongside you on your way back to your booth. “Not a drinker?”

“Not a drinker,” you confirm, looking over when you hear someone yell for Volt, “I’m assuming that’s your cue.”

He nods, “Sadly. I’ll stop by your table later, find you a drink you like,” he promises, lightly squeezing your arm before heading off.

You sit down on the opposite booth seat that Sam and Jeremy aren’t in, feigning ignorance to the fact you can definitely tell they were just making out. Sam squeals happily, thanking you, and taking her martini from you.

The music cuts off and a spotlight centers on the stage in the middle of the room. Volt takes the stage, microphone in hand, “How is everyone tonight?” he asks, the crowd cheering in response, “Glad to hear, and I hope it’s about to get a lot better because open mic night is officially open.”

Oh, my god. He is the owner! He doesn’t just act like he owns the place, he really does own it. And mister grumpy pants over there must be his partner. 

“Are you going to go up there?” you hear Jeremy ask, who is looking at you and not Sam, like you expected him to be.

“Aha, no. Absolutely not,” you cut your hand through the air twice in a ‘no’ gesture, twirling the straw around in your not-going-to-be-drank drink. “I’m not a performer.”

“Okay, party pooper,” he laughs, giving Sam’s hand a light squeeze.

“Yep. That’s me: Dr. Party Pooper,” you laugh airily, your lips pull into a tight smile. “I’m going to go get a new drink. This one sucks,” you tell them, standing up and walking off without a response.

You hear Jeremy grunt from behind you, looking over to see Sam whisper in his ear with an annoyed expression. You sit down in one of the cush, leather bar stools, not bothering to flag one of the bartenders over. You’re certainly not in a rush to get back.

“Hey, Edward. Do you think you can make me another one of these?”

Your spine goes rigid at the sound of that voice, turning to your left slightly, praying it’s a random guy who happens to have a Jersey accent. Most Jerseyans sound alike, you think- it’s not like you know a bunch of people from New Jersey!

No, it’s Tony. Of course, it is! Why wouldn’t it be?... How is he here? Why is he here?... Your head whips back around to look at Jeremy, narrowing your eyes at him. Jeremy. The fucking security guard that tried to stop you from entering the Fix It Ton studio. That’s why you recognize him, you knew you weren’t crazy.

And he’s here, with Tony, for the afterparty Tony is apparently throwing his crew. What are the odds? The one man Sam could’ve possibly connected with and he is directly connected to your nemesis. Thankfully, he walks off without noticing you.

“You look tense,” Volt’s partner--Edward, you think is what Tony said--appears in front of you, making you jump right out of your skin.

“Christ,” you hiss, setting a hand over your chest, feeling it rapidly thump against your palm, “I’m fine.”

“So you’re trying to break my glass for fun?” he asks, looking down at your other hand that’s holding onto your glass. You’re damn near white knuckling the thing. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, taking a drink before setting the glass onto the bar. You instantly regret taking a drink, gagging after you manage to swallow, “Great drink,” you whisper, rubbing your throat to try and massage the taste out.

“Oh, yeah. I can tell you love it,” he drawls, taking the glass from you, and dumping it down the sink without your asking. “You want something else?”

“Is there anything you can make that tastes absolutely nothing like alcohol? That doesn’t have Pink Whitney in it- college days, don’t ask,” you shudder at the thought of ever having to ingest Pink Whitney again.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he assures, walking off and returning with a bottle, “We don’t have Pink Whitney anyway, we’re not a sorority house.”

“Here, sex on the beach. You shouldn’t taste shit other than the fruit juice,” he tells you, placing a tall glass with a tiny umbrella in front of you. “Try it, and if you don’t like it, call Bev over.”

You take a tentative first sip, pleasantly surprised with this drink. It’s much better than the whiskey sour Volt suggested. Somebody who sounds oddly similar to Lorde takes the stage, singing Royals by Lorde. She knows her strengths, good for her.

“Sweetiepieeee,” Sam leans over your shoulders, ‘ooh’ing when she sees your drink, stealing it with an obnoxious slurp, “Me and Jeremy are going to join their work group, you coming with?”

She doesn’t let you say no, grabbing your wrist and your drink, pulling you along with her. Jeremy strides beside Sam, carrying both her drink and her purse. There’s a group of people near the stage, scattered about in the large, circular booths and a couple of tables.

People cheer when they see Jeremy, wolf whistling at the sight of Sam. You step to the side, hoping nobody notices you. Sam hands you your drink, blending into the group of crew members with ease, falling into quick banter with everyone. 

“Hey, come over here!” Jeremy shouts, waving you over, “Meet everybody!”

There’s way too many sets of eyes on you, so you’d seem like a total jerk if you said no. You shuffle over to the group, forcing a smile through the rounds of introductions.

A, clearly tipsy, blonde comes up to your side, grabbing your shoulders and turning you to face her, “Do I know you? I feel like I do, your face is soooo familiar,” she says, caressing your cheeks, “Are you famous?”

“No, I just have one of those faces,” you say sarcastically, which she doesn’t get, giggling at you. You try to peel her off of you, but she’s surprisingly strong.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she gasps, releasing you to grab her phone. She scrolls through until she finds what she’s looking for, flipping her phone around, so you can see it, “Is this you?”

You’re faced with a screenshot of the article about you and Tony, and the forced smile you’ve been sporting drops entirely. She snickers at your reaction, “It totally is! I knew I recognized you.”

She leans against you, the scent of vodka and too strong perfume filling your nose, “Y’know.. I totally knew the article was bullshit, I mean, no offense, but there’s no way Tony would go for someone like you.”

“Let me guess, he goes for people like you?” you ask, pouting because you’re so disappointed about not being Tony’s type. 

“Damn right I do,” Tony comes up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist, “Surprised to see you here, Doc.” He looks over your shoulder at Jeremy and Sam, “Never mind, you’re third-wheeling, big surprise.”

“You’re a doctor?” the blonde woman asks, “That’s so cool! I’m a nail artist, and a hair stylist. I also wax on the side, so if you ever need any services done, I’m happy to help!”

“I’m good, but thank you” you tell her, slurping down the dredges of your drink.

“Ooooh, is that a sex on the beach? I looove sex on the beach,” she says, giggling quietly, looking over at Tony, clearly hoping he caught the innuendo. 

Tony is staring hard at you, barely acknowledging the girl, giving a short, dry chuckle, and a light pinch to her side, “So do I. Maybe you should go get us a round of them, yeah? For me, you, and the doc. Put it on the tab.”

“Okay! I will go grab those,” she nods, pressing a kiss to Tony’s cheek. He turns his head, finally giving her the attention he seeks, planting a wet kiss to her lip.

She skips off, pleased with the kiss she finally received from him. You watch her big hair bounce behind her, her big heels clacking against the floor. She seems too nice for him, too nice; a little ditzy, sure, but sweet.

“You’ve got…” you point at his cheek that’s currently stained a bright, Barbie pink. “She seems…nice.”

“She’s sweet and flexible,” Tony says, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. “How’s it feel third wheeling your best friend? Or are you used to it?”

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, rolling your eyes at him, “And I’m not third wheeling. I am hanging out at the same place that my friend happens to be on a date because she asked me to come, so I did.”

“So you’re third wheeling?” he laughs, leaning against the table you're standing in front of, invading your personal space. “I don’t see you hanging out with anyone. You’re just standing here, like a lost little puppy dog.”

“Does your date know that you’re a huge douchebag?” you ask, turning to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“You wound me, I treat people I like with respect,” he frowns dramatically, poking a finger into your shoulder. “Especially my special friends.”

You stare at him deadpan, blinking slowly, “I’m walking away now,” you announce, very purposefully bumping your shoulder against his shoulder when you pass him.

“Hey, c’mon! First, you block me, now you’re walking away from our conversation?” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment at you. “I’m talking to you.”

“And I’m avoiding you,” you retort, looking over your shoulder, glaring at Tony, who’s following after you.

The split second you’re not facing forward, you bump into someone. A waitress, specifically, sending the tray of drinks she was holding all over your white shirt. The waitress gasps, apologies spewing from her mouth, pressing a napkin to your front.

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” you tell her, taking the damp napkin from her to try and soak up the drinks staining your shirt. 

You look around for the bathroom, which is back in the other direction, meaning you have to walk through the entirety of Tony’s crew. Sam looks up when you pass her, yelling your name, a concerned look in her eyes. You don’t turn back, bursting into the gender neutral bathroom, so you can lock the door behind you without any interruptions. 

You stare at the red stain on your shirt; there’s no way you can run this under water and get it to go away. Maybe you should leave, Sam will be fine, she’s having a ball with Jeremy. He can drive her home! 

A knock on the door snaps you out of your trance, “You decent?” Tony’s voice comes from behind the door, “I’ve got a shirt for you.”

The doorknob jiggles, like he’s testing it. You realize you forgot to lock it in your haste, so he pops his head in, holding a white shirt in his hand. “Where’d you get that?” you ask, eyeing the shirt suspiciously, there’s no way you’re wearing a shirt from lost and found, you’d rather go topless. 

“My bag, I always bring an extra shirt,” he answers, waving the shirt at you, trying to coax you into taking it, “It’s clean.”

You hesitate for a second, but ultimately decide it won’t kill you to take the shirt from him; it’s better than sitting around in a sangria soaked shirt. You reach for it, but he yanks it back, a smirk on his face. 

“One one condition,” he states. There’s a cost because of course there is!

You suck at your teeth, looking between him and the shirt. Is it really worth it?... Sadly, yes. “What do you want, asshole?”

“Unblock me,” he orders, simple, short, premeditated.

“Why the fuck should I unblock you? Why do you even want me to unblock you?” you ask, scowling at him. There has to be a reason here; he’s going to pull some dumb shit, you know it.

“No reason, Sugar. I just want you to unblock me,” he shrugs, dangling the shirt in front of you, “Deal or no deal?”

You exhale deeply, keeping yourself calm, so you don’t punch him again, “Fine,” you grit out, going for the shirt again, but he pulls it back again.

“Ah-ah-ah, unblock me first and let me see. Then you get the shirt,” he says, waving a hand at your pocket.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you mutter, pulling your phone out, unblocking Tony. You flip your phone around, so he can see it, “There, unblocked. Now give it.”

Tony snatches your phone, making sure you actually unblocked him. He also takes the time to flex for a picture, setting it as his profile picture, “Here, courtesy of Cupid,” he hands you your phone and the shirt, winking at you, and disappearing.

The door clicks closed behind him, and you lock it this time. Your skin is sticky when you take your shirt off; you run your shirt under the sink, hoping the shirt isn’t ruined. Tony’s shirt glares at you from its spot on the bathroom counter. 

You glare back at it, snatching it off the counter, shoving the shirt on. It fits fine, annoyingly. The wood-y, vanilla(?) scent he always sports lingers on the fabric, burning your nose hairs; there’s also an odd undertone of pennies. Your phone lights up when a text comes through.

‘Hey sweetheart’

‘Me and Jeremy are going to head out, is that okay?’

You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. You know exactly what ‘heading out’ means. You’re happy for Sam. ‘Yeah, that’s fine.’

‘Are you sure’

‘You seemed upset’

‘I’m fine, just got wine spilt on me. Someone gave me a shirt to change into.’

‘That’s good, I’m glad you’re good, babe. Get home safe <33’

‘Enjoy your night.’

‘I will ;)’

You wring your shirt out, getting it as dry as you can get it, slinging it over your shoulder. Tony’s date waves you down when you enter the main room again, holding your drink in the air. “Here’s your drink!”

“Thanks…” you trail off, realizing you haven’t caught her name. You pull out your wallet, passing her a twenty, “To pay for the drink. You can keep it, though. I’m leaving.”

“Aw, so soon?” Tony teases, taking your drink from… Barbie, let’s call her Barbie. “Stay a while, c’mon,” he goads, patting the empty spot beside him.

“Haha.. No,” you shake your head, patting Tony’s shoulder firmly.

He catches your wrist, pulling you down onto the seat, setting your drink in front of you, “Stay awhile, hang out with me and Eva.”

Oh, Eva, that’s her name, good to know. “I’m sorry your friend left,” Eva says, reaching over to squeeze your hand. 

“I’m not, Jeremy’s going to have a good night,” Tony snickers, twirling his umbrella around in his glass, “Something you can’t relate too.”

“I’m having a great night, thank you very much,” you tell him, stomping on his foot. His knee jerks up, sending everyone’s drinks rattling.

Eva giggles, brushing a hand through Tony’s slick hair, “So, you said you’re a doctor right?” she asks, leaning in closer to you, “Can I ask you a question?”

“I mean, yes, unless it’s medical. I’m not a medical doctor, so if you’ve got problems, I’d suggest the emergency room or urgent care,” you tell her, smiling awkwardly. You’ve spent much of your career telling people you can’t diagnose their rashes, or weird spots. “I’m a scientist with PhD’s.”

“That is so cool! Do you make good money- wait, that’s rude to ask, she pauses, wincing at the question she asked, “sorry, back to my original question. Can you tell me about it? I’ve always wondered what it’s like doing some fancy job like that. Don’t get me wrong, I love doing cosmetic work, but I always thought it’d be cool doing something like that.”

“It’s fine, I do make good money, it helps that I work for a private company,” you tell her, smiling slightly. “But I really like my job, I just got promoted, so I’ve been working a lot recently.”

------------

Tony’s in shock as you start talking about your job, you and Eva leaning in on either side of him to talk to one another. This is unexpected. He thought you and Eva would despise each other. How’d he end up here?

He watches you as you talk about your job, his brows furrowed slightly. There’s a light in your eyes that he’s never seen before. It’s kind of cute, in a way. You’re so animated, opening up in a way he didn’t know you could manage, and you’re so smart it’s stupid.

“Could you get any nerdier?” he asks, flicking your ear.

You shoot upright, rubbing the spot he flicked. The light in your eyes disappears almost immediately, hardening into a glare that he almost worries is going to burn holes into his perfect face.

“You asshole,” you smack his shoulder, your lips pursed in anger, “Flick me again and I’m going to hit you- again!”

“You wouldn’t,” he challenges, leaning in closer, blowing a stream of air into your face, “You could get kicked out of the club.”

“I would and I’d get a standing ovation for it. I’m already getting free drinks for the night,” you inform him, poking a finger onto her forehead, pushing his head away from you. “Goodnight, Eva. It was great meeting you.”

Tony stands up when you get up, grabbing your arm, “I’ll walk you to your car, Sugar” he says, unruffled when you shove his hand off. “So, Sam and Jeremy, huh?”

“Yep, Sam and Jeremy,” you nod, rolling your eyes at him, “You really ditched your date just to annoy me?”

“And to rub it in your face that your friend left you to get laid,” he adds, ruffling your hair, taking pleasure in how easily you’re ticked off. “Something you can’t relate to.”

“Something I don’t want to relate to,” you remind him, and part of him cringes. 

Right, you’re asexual, something he has no clue about. He wants to ask about it, but he has a feeling you won’t appreciate the question, if your reaction to Sam telling him about it that first time meeting you was any indication. 

“Nice car,” he comments, running his hand over the smooth, black hood of your car. It looks vintage; you really do make good money. “Vintage?”

“Mhm. sixty-nine Chevy Impala,” you answer, smacking the top of his hand, “Don’t touch. You see the clean, squeaky, spotless-ness of my hood? Yeah! Keep it that way and keep your greasy paws off my car.”

Tony laughs, raising his hands in surrender, “I won’t touch, Sugar. Just admiring.”

“Admire from afar,” you order with a scoff, getting into your car. 

Tony comes around, leaning into your open window, looking around the interior of your car. It’s plain, aside from the tiny, crocheted opossum that hangs from your rearview mirror. He reaches in, tapping the small stuffed animal:

“Cute,” he comments, watching it swing, “What’s the deal with it?”

“Sam got it for me as a stocking stuffer one year and hung it up there,” you tell him, wrapping your hand around it to stop it from swinging, “Same thing I told you about my car applies to Mr. O-possum-tive. Look, don’t touch.”

“‘Mr. O-Possum-tive’?” he questions, tapping it again, purely to get on your nerves, “You name your stuffed animals.”

“Yes, Mr. O-Possum-tive. It’s a play on words, it sounds like O-positive, the blood type,” you mutter, smacking his hand again, harder this time.

“Would you quit that?” Tony hisses, shaking his hand, looking at his reddened knuckles, “And I got the pun, I’m not dumb. It’s funny.”

“I know, I’m hilarious,” you retort shortly, blinking at him. “Would you get out of my window, so I can leave?”

“I don’t know, I might stand here for a little longer,” he muses, running his finger over your steering wheel. “Keep you around longer.”

“I will run you over, I’m not kidding,” you say, starting the car, “You have a date anyway, I bet she’s lonely. Go annoy her, Cupid.”

“I think you’re lonelier, Sugar. You’ve got a stick up your ass,” he says, twirling a lock of your hair around his finger. “I can help with that.”

For a second, in the club, he almost thought you yanked that stick out. You were drinking, and it nearly seemed like you were having fun. He wonders how many more drinks it would take you to fully let go.

“I’d rather watch paint dry,” you tell him, slowly pulling out of the parking spot. 

Tony finally steps back, setting his hands on his hips, “Suit yourself, I have a beautiful lady waiting for me inside. She’ll appreciate my company and a little more.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” you point out, rolling your eyes at him like he’s stupid, “Enjoy your night, Cupid.”

“Will do, Sugar,” he flutters his fingers in a wave, standing outside the club until your car disappears down the street.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the spot you used to bed in, a smile spreading across his face. He’ll break you open one day, if it’s the last thing he does.

[g00d--m0urning]

What do you think Tony (Date Everything) smells like?

I was thinking woody (like actual wood and not like the woods) and something citrusy or something vanilla-ish.

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? (pt.10 Celia and Florence)

(Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? guide)

MAYORAL YURI!!!!!

Celia is the head of the house (pun intended), she's the mayor, she keeps everyone in check. In light of recent events, she's been as busy as ever, running around to make sure the house doesn't burn itself to the ground.

In the process, she's been stressed and neglecting herself. She's got the pimple to prove it.

Sorry about the lack of updates recently, I have family in town for my stepdad's retirement 😔

Celia leans towards her mirror, running her fingers over the red dot on her forehead: a pimple. She’s… an older gal, she can’t recall the last time she had a pimple, she always makes sure to clean her face- Or Florence always does, dragging her into the bathroom each night to rub creams and oils into her face. 

She gasps quietly, lightly pressing her finger over the pimple; she knows from her teenage years the thing isn’t ready to pop, but she still wants to pick at it until it goes away. She’s the mayor, she has to keep herself picture perfect and a pimple the size of a raspberry smack dab in the middle of her forehead is certainly not picture perfect. 

Celia opens the mini refrigerator on the bathroom counter, searching through the many skincare bottles Florence has organized to perfection for her. “My dearest, what should I use to rid myself of a pimple?” she asks Florence, who’s in their shared bedroom, all comfy in her pajamas

“Mmm.. Is it ready? If not, use one of the pimple- I’ll come grab them for you,” Florence says, joining Celia in the bathroom. Florence goes through the drawers, pulling out a packet of pimple patches. 

“Sit, sit,” she urges, gesturing at the edge of their jacuzzi tub, so she can actually reach Celia’s face, “You know how this works.”

“Yes, my love,” Celia complies, sitting down where Florence told her to, tilting her chin up the way Florence likes her face to be angled.

“It’s been a while since you’ve gotten an actual pimple,” Florence comments, carefully placing the pimple patch onto Celia’s forehead, following that with a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Are you ok? I know you get pimples when you get super stressed.”

“I’m perfectly okay, my love,” Celia assures, taking Florence’s hand as she stands up, bringing them into the bedroom. “I suppose it’s what I get for skipping our skincare nights.” 

Florence giggles, but isn’t fully convinced Celia is ‘perfectly okay’. She knows that Celia has been under a lot of stress recently, with the whole documentary-that-wasn’t-really-a-documentary-and-everyone-freaked-out situation. 

“It is, we’ll have to get back into doing those now that everything has calmed back down,” Florence muses, cuddling in close with Celia. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” 

Celia kisses the top of Florence’s head, “Goodnight, dearest,” she whispers, leaning over to switch off the lamp, then pulling the blanket further over the pair of them. 

------------

“Heyyyyy, Florence,” you greet your lover, leaning over her desk to peck her cheek, “How are youuuuu?”

“I’m good,” she answers with a giggle, returning your kiss by planting one onto your cheek, “You seem to be in a good mood,” she comments, walking around her desk to start the kettle. “Tea?”

“Sure!” you nod, stealing her seat the moment she stands up, spinning the chair around, “And I am in a good mood! Like an actual good mood and not an ‘I’m about three seconds from breaking down, but I’m covering it up by acting like I shit rainbows and cupcakes’ good mood!”

“That’s good,” she hands you a mug of tea, warm and steamy, “Careful it’s hot,” she warns, face palming as she watches you immediately take a drink anyway.

“Ow!” you yelp, sticking your tongue out, waving a hand to create wind towards your tongue, “That’s hot…which is what you just said. You’re so smart.”

“I have common sense,” she corrects you, coming over to you to smooth a hand over your head.

“Hey! I have common sense too. I was just thirsty,” you grumble, playfully glaring at her, all while leaning up into her hand.

“Whatever you say,” she snickers, tilting your head up to kiss you properly.

Celia comes into Florence’s office, her face alarmingly tight, “Do you think the two of you could be a bit more quiet? I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

Both you and Florence tense at her biting tone, nodding robotically, watching storm back into her office the moment she gets confirmation. You and Florence look at each other, then at the closed door of Celia’s office, then back at each other.

“Is she alright?” you ask, being mindful to keep your tone low, not wanting to disrupt Celia anymore than you have.

“I don’t know,” Florence admits, frowning at the closed door. Her eyes seem almost glassy, whether because she’s concerned or upset that Celia was unnecessarily terse with you, you’re unsure. “She’s been stressed lately. She had a pimple last night.”

You gasp, setting a hand over your chest, “She hasn't had a pimple since…” your voice lowers, looking around before continuing, “The Great Incident of Rodents.”

A couple months ago, there was a big storm and rats decided to find shelter in your home. Nobody could find them, and Celia was stressed trying to keep the house in order. She ended up with a fat pimple right on her chin.

“I know! That’s why I’m worried,” Florence nods, shooing you out of the way to go through her desk drawers. She sighs deeply, pulling out a thin file, “I think we need to implement Shutdown 3.”

“Not Shutdown 3…” you mumble, staring at the file in awe, brushing a hand over the manila folder, “How do we…”

“We’ll figure it out,” Florence whispers, gingerly opening the file.

------------

Florence bursts into her and Celia’s room, approaching the bed with urgency, “Celia, Dante and Abel are fighting again!” she exclaims, waving her hand at the door for Celia to get going.

Celia shoots off of the bed, pinching the bridge of her nose--which has acquired a zit or two--following Florence out of the bedroom, “Why are they fighting again? I thought they made up!”

“Apparently, Dante said something that set Abel off, I don’t know!” Florence shrugs, smirking when Celia’s eyes aren’t on her. The acting lessons she’s been getting from Chairemi are really paying off. 

They enter the living room where Abel and Dante are ‘fighting’ with you stuck in the middle of the heated argument. Fingers are being pointed and words are being thrown. “I think cheese is the best!” Abel states, narrowing his eyes at Dante.

“No way, pepperoni is the best. It gives it that bit of spice, that bit of kick,” Dante presses the tips of his fingers together, bringing them to his lips, and dispersing them in a chef’s kiss.

Both of them whip around at the sound of footsteps, lighting up when they see the mayor, “Madam Mayor, will you please tell this hot-headed idiot that cheese is the best pizza topping?” Abel requests, gesturing to the box of pizza on the coffee table.

“Will you tell the wooden-skulled dummy that pepperoni is obviously superior?” Dante retorts, giving Abel’s shoulder a light shove.

Celia looks between all of you, casting a suspicious glare over the room, “I was brought down here to settle a pizza topping debate?” she inquires, raising one of her perfectly shaped brows.

“Yeah,” both of the men nod, stepping aside to make room for you.

“I personally think that thin crust pizza with white sauce, olives, mushrooms, and italian sausage from Mom and Pop’s pizzeria is the best type of pizza,” you add in, opening the box of pizza and turning it around, so she can see the mouthwatering contents inside.

Everything clicks into place and Celia realizes what exactly is going on here. She’s getting sucked into Shutdown 3: the small file Florence thinks she doesn’t know about. It’s protocol on how to get her to destress if she’s been busy, and uncaring to herself and others. Sadly, the pizza is drawing her in.

“Florence,” she groans under her breath, turning to face her lover, who’s grinning like an idiot, “You planned this, didn’t you?”

Florence shrugs, skipping over to the empty spot beside you, now that Abel and Dante have suddenly disappeared. “Nooooo, we planned this,” she corrects Celia, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into her side.

“C’mon, we can’t let this pizza go to waste. You’re the only one that eats you,” you tell her, nudging the pizza box again, opening the other one that’s half cheese, half pepperoni. “C’monnnn, Celia, you know you want to,” you goad, grabbing a slice of her pizza and waving it through the air.

Celia tries hard not to break, but the sight of you and Florence cuddled on the couch is too tempting to resist, “One piece, that’s it,” she concedes, grabbing a plate and taking the pizza slice from you.

She goes to sit next to you, but you quickly scoot over, making sure she’s sandwiched between you and Florence. She huffs, but doesn’t argue further. Florence pulls a pre-prepped basket from underneath the couch, tossing sheet mask packets at you to open.

“These should help with your pimples and it'll help clear any clogged pores, so you don’t get anymore,” Florence tells her, opening one of her own (one of those cute ones that make it look like you’re wearing an animal face).

You help Celia get her mask on, then get yours one, shivering at the initial touch of the almost slimy mask. Telly turns on, finding one of the cop shows that Celia loves to binge watch in secret, winking at you before heading out of the room.

“I’d like to apologize to the two of you,” Celia breaks the silence as she peels off the mask that’s now mostly dry on her face, setting it on her empty place, “I was short with you this afternoon and I’ve been a bit…grumpy these past few days.

“Noooo, really? I didn’t notice,” your voice has heightened by a few octaves, waving a hand dismissively. “Okay, I totally did.”

“Would you let me finish?” Celia asks, playfully tapping your wrist. She continues when you nod, “I’ve been stressed over a lot of things and I haven’t had time to slow down since…well, you know.”

You and Florence both nod, leaning in to listen to her, “In result, I’ve been short and rude to those I love--you two--and I apologize for that,” she whispers, taking one of your hands and one of Florence’s.

“We’re sorry too, we should’ve noticed how heavy of a load you were taking on with this whole thing,” Florence apologizes back, kissing Celia’s cheek.

“Yeah. You're important and we don’t thank you enough for all that you do, Madam Mayor,” you add, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Florence chimes in, fluffing a blanket over all of your laps.

“I love both of you,” Celia whispers, kissing the top of your head and Florence’s forehead, “Now, can you hand me another slice of pizza?”

Both you and Florence share a victorious look, high fiving in celebration. She’s locked in for the night and not going anywhere until she’s stress free. 

“Ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath, but the soft look in her eyes negates any ounce of annoyance her words might be carrying. She loves the two of you dearly, even if you scheme behind her back.

[g00d--m0urning]

Hii mootie!!! Just wanted to drop in and say I love your writing, hope you're taking care of yourself!! Mwah 💕

AHHH, hi mootie 🫶🫶 I am, I just have family in town because my stepdad has officially retired from the Army, so we've been super busy 🥹✌️

And thank yewww, I hope you're taking care of yourself too 🫰

(p.s. I just want to say, i fucking love your commentary on all of your reblogs on my work and I appreciate them A LOT 🫶🫶)

[g00d--m0urning]

Not Another Song About Love (ch.3)

TONY X READER

ch.1 ch.2

Tony walks into your favorite cafe with a shiner, and lies to a fan about how he got it.

He's worried you'll rat him out on his lie, so he joins you for breakfast.

You make it to work and are suddenly bombarded by texts from Sam about you and Tony dating- DATING???

(CW: reader gets online threats)

No fake dating, I fear 😔 I totally thought about taking the fake dating route, but that felt cliche.

And fret not, they're going back to hating each other next episode

Sam nudges you awake around three in the morning, looking utterly pathetic with her messed up dress and her braid all undone. “I’m stealing your sweatpants and a t-shirt and then we’re cuddling,” she mutters, looting your closet.

She crawls into bed with you, latching onto you koala-style, her hair draping all over your face. She mumbles in her sleep, talking something about aliens that are way too drab to be probing her. 

When the sun starts peeking through the slit in your blackout curtains, you peel yourself away from Sam. You search through the cabinets for something that will produce a semi-decent hangover breakfast; it doesn’t take wrong to realize that you are in a dire need of a grocery shopping trip.

------------

You watch Sam peek around the hallway corner, sneaking into the kitchen, looking around for the source of the heavenly smell blessing her nose. You snort, smiling at your drowsy friend. 

“Morning. You want breakfast?” you ask, holding up a container of birthday cake pancakes with extra whipped cream and sides of bacon.

“Yessss,” she whispers, snatching the container and the fork you’re holding up for her, “My head is killing me,” she whines through a mouthful of whipped cream, sending a small spray out of her mouth.

“Way ahead of you,” you tell her, walking back into the kitchen to grab an assorted mix of painkillers and a bottle of orange juice. “There. Take those, drink the orange juice, I’ll make coffee.”

“Okay,” she nods slightly, taking the items from you and happily complying with your orders, “I love you so much. You’d be a great partner, y’know?” she asks, watching you move about the kitchen. “I mean, you’re attentive, sweet, kind, smart, and rich.”

“I’m not rich,” you scoff lightly, shaking your head and joining her at the island, sliding her a mug of coffee. “I also work long hours, so unless you manage to find someone who thinks bunsen burner lit dinners of whatever assorted takeout I choose that day is romantic, then I’m shit out of luck.”

“You work long hours because you choose to work long hours,” Sam points out, eyeing you over the edge of her coffee cup. “And you are rich, have you looked around your apartment? Your penthouse apartment?”

“Good point,” you concede, walking behind her to undo her braid (that’s already half undone anyway). “Are you planning on staying long?”

“Why: are you trying to kick me out already?” she questions teasingly, tilting her head down so you can work through her hair, “But no, I’ll probably head out once the pain meds kick in. I need to do laundry before work tomorrow.”

“You know you’re welcome here as long as you want to stay,” you say, brushing your fingers through the tangles of her hair, “As long as you promise not to climb into bed with me three AM after stealing my clothes.”

Sam giggles, looking up at you, “You know I can’t promise that,” she tells you, reaching up to caress your cheek. “You’re comfy and so is your bed. Your clothes too, you’re not getting this shirt back.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, “You’re lucky I completely forgot that shirt existed.”

You sit back down and finish your breakfast with Sam, moving to the couch once you’re both done. It takes an episode of The Vampire Diaries for Sam’s headache to wane; you walk her down to her car, making sure she makes it out of the parking garage safely before heading back up.

You get some at-home work done the rest of Sunday, busying yourself with chores (which are minimal, considering you spend most of your time at work nowadays). You text Sam around midday, wearing her dress over your hoodie, posing ridiculously in the mirror, in retaliation for her stealing your shirt. 

------------

You stand in line at your favorite cafe on Monday morning, having decided to treat yourself before work (also because you’re out of coffee pods and all possible breakfast items). You hear someone squeal behind you, looking over your shoulder to find a teenage girl fawning over somebody that just entered.

“Oh, my god, what happened?” her pitchy voice asks, laden with concern as she caresses the unseen person’s cheek, “That looks like it hurts.”

“Ah, this? It was nothing, got into a fight trying to prevent a mugging. Normal stuff, y’know?”

Your jaw drops a little, leaning over as much as you can, without losing your spot in line, to spot the owner of the voice. Tony. Of course, he’s here! At your favorite cafe, lying to teenage girls about the bruise on his face. Seeing his face bruised sends a jolt of satisfaction down your spine, your bruised knuckles aching a little. 

Tony must’ve sensed another pair of eyes on him because he turns to look, locking eyes with you. He tenses, imperceptible to the girl, but you notice. You smirk at him, knowing he knows that you know he’s lying about the origin of the bruise. You flutter your fingers at him in a wave, turning back around just in time for it to be your turn to order. 

You order, nabbing a seat in the booth tucked away in the back, as you always do. It’s the perfect spot: a good view out of the windows and you have privacy, but you can still people-watch. The employee calls your name; you go to get up, but you see Tony grab your stuff, storming over to your booth.

He slides in, opposite to you, without a word, slamming your drink and cinnamon roll down in front of you. He clasps his hands, setting them down on the table, looking at you deadpan. You smirk at him in response; it’s weird being the one all smug and him being the glare-y one.

“Thanks,” you nod, digging into your cinnamon roll and drink without a care, watching him watch you. “I heard you… uh, talking to a fan earlier. It was pretty heroic of you to step in and prevent a mugging, and you were so humble about it: ‘normal stuff, y’know?’.” 

“Shut up,” he hisses, looking around to make sure nobody is listening, “You’re enjoying this too much.”

You laugh, not even trying to deny it, “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have better things to do than call out a TV show host for lying about why he has a black eye,” you assure, shrugging a little bit.

His body deflates slightly, his expression softening ever-so-slightly, “I’m not worried about that,” he scoffs, turning his nose up at you.

“Uh-huh, sure, totally,” you shrug again, amused by his denial. He has a reputation to maintain, you get it, sort of. “And you came over here for…shits and giggles?”

“Can’t a guy be a gentleman and bring the person who punched him their order?” he asks sarcastically, sneering at you. He sighs, scratching his chin. “So you’re not going to tell anybody?”

“I’m not going to tell anybody,” you confirm, obnoxiously slurping your straw. That doesn’t mean you feel immense satisfaction over the fact that you have this dirty little secret over him. “Thanks for bringing my drink over.”

You shove the last bite of cinnamon roll into your mouth, standing up to toss your trash away and head out. Tony stands up with you, following closely behind you like he’s expecting you to suddenly blurt out his secret. 

“I have to go to work now, soooo.. Buh-bye, Cupid,” you pat his shoulder with a particular firmness, blowing him a kiss and walking off.

------------

You’re busy staring at a computer screen, emailing a coworker a PDF she requested when your phone dings.  You ignore it, not wanting to break focus. It dings again and again, so you finally pick it up, finding a litany of texts from Sam.

The first one is a screenshot of an Instagram post of you and Tony at the cafe this morning, captioned ‘I met Tony from Fix It Ton this morning, seems he was meeting someone else ;)’. The next is a link to a news article; you click on it to be assaulted by a picture of you blowing a kiss at Tony, the article titled ‘Famous love connoisseur and host of Fix It Ton has a lover himself?’ 

Your phone rings, a facetime request from Sam popping up on your screen. You accept, grimacing at her expression, “Why is there an article about you and Tony dating!?”

You hold a hand up, stopping her in her tracks, “He walked into the cafe I was at! I heard him lie about how he got a black eye and he came over to make sure I wasn’t going to snitch on him!” you explain, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Somebody must’ve taken a picture.”

“Obviously,” Sam rolls her eyes, staring at you like you’re an idiot, “What are you going to do about it? You guys hate each other, so what the fuck are you going to say?”

“I’ll email the publishers or something? I don’t know! Sam, I’m busy right now and I really can’t deal with this. People will forget about it in two days; it’s not like me and Tony spend much time together,” you point out, chewing on your fingernail. You hope it’ll be forgotten about, you don’t need the buzz that comes with being a famous person’s ‘partner’. 

An unknown call pops up on the header and you hang up, figuring it’s a spam caller. It calls again immediately after, so it’s not a spam, or they’re a very persistent spam caller, either way, you should answer.

“Sam, I need to let you go, someone else is calling,” you tell him, frowning slightly, “Toodles,” you blow her a kiss, hanging up before she can yell at you for avoiding the topic.

You call back the unknown number, holding your phone up to your ear, “Hello? Who is this?”

“Your local cupid speaking,” an annoyed voice speaks, and you recognize that voice in seconds, “It’s me, sugar.”

“Yeah, no, I got that,” you scoff, shifting in your chair, “How the hell did you get my number?” you question, pulling up the article of you and Tony’s supposed romance to skim through it and see what bullshit it’s spewing.

“Beverly gave it to me, it doesn’t matter,” he answers, sighing deeply, “You seem that stupid article?”

“Sam sent it to me, I’m reading it right now,” you tell him, glowering at the computer screen. How some reporters manage to grasp at straws to spin nothing into something is magical, “It’s a bunch of crap.”

“Yeah, I know,” he groans; the sound of leather squeaking and a bunch of background chatter can be heard through the phone. 

“Are you at your studio?” you ask, your brows furrowing deeply, clicking out of the article a little too firmly.

“Yeah, I work too,” he mutters, yelling at someone off-phone, making sure they’re okay. “Sorry,” he apologizes to you when he hears you wince.

“That’s great, actually!” you say, standing up to pace around your lab. 

“And how exactly is that great?” Tony questions, clearly doubting the magnificence of your brain.

“Because! You’re going on air, so you can make an announcement shutting down the rumors,” you explain to him, tucking your phone between your shoulder and your cheek, so you can multitask.

“...ahhhh, that’s not a good idea,” he hisses, making you stop in your tracks, grabbing your phone to bring it forward, glaring at the black screen.

“And why not?” you ask, setting the phone down to put it on speaker, rolling your chair over to your monitor.

“You don’t know very much about pop media, do you?” he asks, sounding infuriatingly condescending. He must be so proud of himself, being smarter than you at something. “If I acknowledge the rumors, even to shut them down, it’ll toss fuel onto the fire. If I ignore them, pretend they never exist, they’ll die down. It’s not like we spend time together.”

Admittedly, what he’s saying makes sense. You run your tongue over your teeth, your knee bouncing, “That makes sense,” you admit, running a hand through your hair. “We’ll let it die out.”

“Don’t sound so impressed, I’ll start to think you like me,” he teases, and you want to reach through the screen and strangle him. “We’ll let it die out,” he parrots. Someone off screen yells at him and he yells back, “I need to go.”

The phone clicks off before you can respond, and you flip off your phone. It’ll be fine! This will go away and you will never have to see Tony again--minus when you drive past those fuckass billboards, and when you see his merchandise in the store, and when his show- You’ll never have to see him in person again.

You turn your phone off completely and toss it into your bag, so you can avoid any more distractions! If it’s dire, then they can reach you via your work phone. You wrap up around ten PM, after you knock out reading every email you needed, sorting through files that an intern messed up, and getting a case closed up. 

You stumble through your apartment door, collapsing face-first onto the couch, snuggling into the blanket you landed on. You drop your bag onto the floor, fishing your phone out. The moment you’ve unlocked it, you're hit with a million and two notifications from assorted social media apps. 

You skim through a few of the messages and you quickly determine that, somehow, Tony’s fans have managed to find not one, not two, but all of your social media accounts. There’s threats,  requests from news stations for an interview, and your follower count has also rocketed.

“It’ll die out,” you repeat to yourself, deleting all of the messages. Tony said not to acknowledge it, so you won’t. It’ll die out.

------------

It’s been a week, it hasn’t died out. You’ve blocked ten times the amount of people in the past week than you ever have. You’ve set your accounts to private and removed most of the new, random followers you’ve acquired.

Your phone buzzes on your desk, and for once, there’s a lull in your work, so you’re hoping that it’s Sam. It’s not, it’s an unknown number with a vaguely threatening message telling you to break up with Tony. Who you aren’t dating. You were fine with your social media being leaked, but your phone number is a whole different thing.

You block the number, grabbing your bag and storming out of your work building. You get to Tony’s studio, hoping very hard that he’s actually here. Security at the front door stops you, telling you that you’re unauthorized.

“It’s fine, Jeremy. They’re with me,” Tony appears behind you, setting a hand on your shoulder, guiding you inside and through the halls, stopping at a door that has his name labeled in a star. 

He shoves you inside, slamming the door behind him. You whip around to face him, crossing your arms over your chest, “I thought you said it would die down! I don’t think getting threats on my personal cellphone is ‘dying down’!”

“I know,” he grits out, pacing in front of you, snatching a water bottle off of his vanity, tossing it between his hands. “I’ll make a statement. You can even watch from the wings to make sure that it’s up to your liking.”

“Fuck no! I mean, yes, make a statement, but I’m not watching from the wings. If someone sees me, it’d make it worse,” you scoff, looking around his dressing room. God, he has more makeup than Sam does.

He nods in agreement, tilting his head to the side to crack his neck. Someone knocks on his door, cracking the door to peek their head in, “Time to get in there and fix it Ton!”

Tony nods again, looking over at you one last time before heading off to the stage. You leave the room, getting close enough that you can hear everything, but far enough not to be noticed. You lean against the wall, rolling your eyes as he goes through his intro. It’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard, but the live audience eats it up. 

There’s a slight change in it when he announces that he has a statement to make; a hush falls over the crowd, everyone listening intently. 

“As a lot of you might’ve seen, there’s a few articles goin’ around about me and a person, who I will keep anonymous, dating. That rumor is false, matter’o’fact we hate each other!” the crowd gasps when he says that, murmurs breaking across them, “Some of you might remember the bruise I had on my face, that was from them! That’s how much we hate each other.”

He pauses, letting them soak in the information, clearing his throat then continuing, “I’ve also heard that some of you have been sending them threats, that ends now. I might not like them, but sending people death threats over a rumor… not my style and you can’t call yourself a true Tony fan if it’s your style. Alright?”

There’s a chorus of alrights from the crowd, and Tony cheers, going right back to his normal program. You don’t stick around, not wanting to sit through the torture of a live Fix It Ton episode. 

You pause on your way back to your car, pulling out your phone, scrolling through your phone call record until you find, what you remember to be, Tony’s number. 

‘Thanks, Cupid.’ Short and blunt, gets the point across. It’s also the only time you’ll ever say ‘thank you’ to Tony, but it’s the least you can do, especially since he didn’t say your name. He also admitted that you punched him, which makes you a little too happy.

Three bubbles appear and a text pops up shortly after, ‘No problem, sugar ;)’.

‘I’m blocking you.’ and you do! Now, he’s finally out of your life.

[g00d--m0urning]

Not Another Song About Love (ch.2)

Sam manages to convince you to go to a house party (and wear orange?). She knows everybody, including the home owner, who you've heard a lot about. You know nobody except for Sam and Koa... And Tony...

You do manage to make some friends, though, so small wins!

(CW: drinking mentions. Sam and Beverly get drunk, reader doesn't drink, though)

I totally gave reader a penthouse because they've got a nice job with nice pay, bro. Reader deserves it.

Again, Player Character and Reader are two separate people in this fic! Sooooo, yerrrrr 🫰

If anybody noticed, I've decided to make a teensy changed and Sam is no longer a new friend, but an old one (it wasn't mentioned that she was a new friend aside from in the summary, but still).

You enter your penthouse with a sigh, kicking your shoes off and shedding your jacket. The work day is finally done and you can finally relax. You trudge your way to the kitchen, raiding your cabinets for something that seems even mildly appetizing. Part of you is tempted to go back to Two Fusions.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, Sam’s ringtone of ‘Daddy Cop’ (don’t ask) starting to play from your phone. You smile a little, pulling your phone from your pocket and accepting the phone call.

“Oh, oh, god! Breach in lab 5! The unit is out of containment!” you screech in faux horror, setting the call to speaker phone and setting it down on the counter.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” she snarks, you can almost hear her eyes roll, “I take it that means you managed to make it home?”

“Yes, I made it home. Only after a death defying car chase,” you inform her, finally deciding on alfredo pasta for dinner. “And a brief encounter with Godzilla.”

Sam snorts, playing along with you, “Oh, shit, I saw that on the news, that was you?”

“Yeppp,” you confirm, nodding at the phone screen even though she can’t see you.

“Are you making dinner?” Sam asks and you shake the box of noodles in response, “I’m facetiming you to make sure that isn’t a box of candy.”

“Like you need an excuse to facetime me,” you quip, accepting the facetime request, showing her the box of noodles, “See: pasta. Not candy.”

“Good,” she nods in approval, “Making anything fancy?”

“Pshhh, absolutely not,” you laugh, waggling a finger side-to-side. It’s not that you don’t know how to cook, it’s just the fact that you don’t need to make anything fancy to have a good meal. “Okay, we’ve established I’ve gotten home and that I’m in the process of making dinner, your turn. How’s nurse school been?”

“Oh, don’t. get. me. started,” she groans, thunking her head against her desk. Sam finally decided to join a nursing program, and you couldn’t be prouder of her, and you know it’s been stressing her out, so you’re always happy to provide a place for her to vent.

She was right, you should not have got her started (of course, you don’t actually mind). Sam rants through you making dinner and while you eat. You chime in occasionally, denouncing her rude teachers alongside her. You remember how high-and-mighty some university professors could be; how they act like they’re god’s gift to the school, when in reality they’re just jerks on a powertrip who get off on degrading poor college students.

Her venting comes to a finish, ending with a big sigh, catching her breath, “Oh, yeah! Before I forget, there’s a party at one of my friend’s houses this Saturday and I was wondering if you wanted to come?”

“Uhmmm…” you hesitate, squinting your eyes in thought, “I’m probably busy this Saturday.”

“Noooo, c’mon, pleaseeee?” she pleads, jutting her bottom lip out and widening her eyes puppy-dog style, “You’re always busy, you never have time for me anymore!”

“You make me sound like a neglectful boyfriend,” you remark with a snicker, “And I know I’m always busy, yell at Vortex, not me.”

“You are neglectful,” she whines, flopping around in her spinny desk chair, “I’ll beg! Just come with me! I don’t want to be lonelyyyy.”

You side-eye her, baffled by her audacity, “You’re going to a party at your friend’s house and you want me to come so you won’t be lonely?”

“Uh-huh,” she smiles innocently, clasping her hands together in front of the camera pleadingly, “You’ll like them! They’re nice and I know most everyone else, so I can introduce you to everybody!”

You give her a flat look, shaking your head in disappointment at her, “You want me,” you poke a finger to your chest, “to come with you,” you point at her through the phone, narrowing your eyes slightly, “to a party where you know ‘most everybody’, so you aren’t ‘lonely’?”

“Pretty much! Besides-uh, it’ll be a good opportunity for you to meet people!” she tells you, shrugging her shoulder up to her ears, “We haven’t partied together in forever!”

You puff your cheeks up, blowing out the air slowly, “I guess you’re right. We haven’t partied together in a while,” you admit, twiddling your thumbs. You have been accidentally flakey recently and you suppose that it is time for you to make it up to her. “I’ll come..”

“Yay! Oh, yeah! The dynamic duo is back again,” she sing-songs, air-pumping her first in celebration, “I will pick you at six, capiche?”

“Capiche,” you approve, raising a thumbs-up, “Any specific dress code?”

“Nope,” Sam shakes her head, popping the ‘p’. “I mean, don’t show up looking like a bum, obviously. I’m planning on wearing that orange dress I showed you the other day, so if you wanna match, then orange and sexy.”

“I love you, but not enough to wear orange. I don’t even think I have any orange clothes,” you tell her, drawing your lips back in a thin line, “And anything I wear is sexy.”

“Hey! Let’s not insult orange, it’s an underrated color,” she raises a finger, wiggling it back and forth with a look of disapproval, “And obviously, that’s a given, you beast, rawr,” she meows, waving a clawed hand.

“I like orange. On you! You pull orange off; I don’t,” you tell her, tapping your fingertips together.

“Thank yewww,” she flips her hair, wavy from her braid she’s taken out, over her shoulder, “I’m still partially offended, but I forgive you, since you're coming with me to the party.”

Her computer chimes and you see her face fall, scowling at it like it just personally insulted her mother, “Sigh, I need to go, my professor just graded my paper and I can guarantee she gave me some bullshit grade I’ll need to debate with her over.”

“Okie dokie. If you need backup, I’m a dial away,” you assure her, blowing her a kiss, “Toodles.”

Sam catches the kiss, blowing you one back, “Thank you Dr. Smarty-Pants, you’ll be my first call if Ms. Feinberg acts like a total bitch. Toodles! Mwah-mwah.”

The facetime ends, leaving you staring at your text messages, face reflected in the app’s dark mode. You sigh, running a hand down your face, leaning back in your chair. You’re already regretting agreeing to go. It’s not that you’re anti-social, you’re just not as much of an extrovert as Sam is.

It also feels different going to a party where everybody knows everybody compared to going out to the club where nobody knows anybody. You’ve heard some stuff about Sam’s friend, apparently they’re super popular, especially in the love department. Something you can’t relate too. You’re not exactly sure how true Sam’s statement about ‘you guys are super similar’ is going to be.

You hear a text chime, checking your phone to find Sam’s classic ‘I know where you live’ text, signaling that she’s here. You adjust your sweater--a rusty orange thing you found tucked in the back of your closet--in your bathroom mirror, trying to smooth out the few wrinkles that are in it and spritzing a bit of body spray all along your body to mask the any sort of lingering ‘closet’ smell there might be.

You head down to the parking garage, finding Sam in the parking spot that she’s always in when she comes to visit (it technically belongs to your downstairs neighbor, but he’s never home because he travels overseas for work a lot).

“Hey,” you open the passenger door, setting the books that occupy the spot into the back before sliding into the car. “Right on time.”

“Of course, I’m punctual, baby,” she grins, pulling out of the spot once you’ve got the door closed, “I thought you said you weren’t going to wear orange, hmm?”

“Hush, I found it in the back of my closet and figured it was time to break it out,” you tell her, lightly punching her arm, carefully not to jolt her arm out of place. “You look good, that dress looks even better in person.”

“I knowwww, I feel so hot right now,” she agrees, running a hand down her front, “And the dress is so soft, I love it.”

You pinch some of the fabric of her dress between two fingers, humming in agreement, “It is! That’s nice!”

“Right!? The only thing that could make it better is pockets, but alas…” she sighs wistfully, shaking her head lightly.

“But luckily, you have purse,” you point out, playing with the strap of her purse.

“Luckily, I have purse,” she repeats with a giggle, passing over her purse, “Can you get my phone out and text ‘Bachelor’, tell them we’re almost there?” she requests.

“‘Bachelor’?” you question, unlocking her phone with face ID, “Please tell me that’s not their actual name.”

You type out a quick message, once, then twice, settling for a short ‘almost there.’ Short and basic, yet it still feels sort of wrong, texting someone you don’t know, even if it’s coming from Sam’s phone.

“No, no, don’t worry. It’s an inside joke. They have a bachelors in customer service, plus y’know, all their romantic endeavors. They’re a bachelor,” she explains with a soft laugh.

“Ahh, alright. That makes sense,” you murmur, watching the three bubbles appear on the grey bubble side. “They said ‘kk, see you soon! Mwah’.”

Sam pulls up to a house with cars already packed in the driveway and onto the street, people pour out of the open door, music flowing through the air. Sam gets out quickly, smoothing her dress back down; she turns around to look at you, raising her brows. “You coming?”

You hesitate for a moment, until you see Koa on the porch, chatting with a white-haired man wearing a comfy looking puffy jacket. If nothing else, Koa seemed nice enough when you met him, “Yeah, coming,” you nod, getting out of the car and coming around to her side.

She grabs your hand, yanking you up to the house, through the throngs of people already here. Sam greets various people, hugging them, stopping to introduce you, proudly flaunting you like a prized pony.

She spots someone in the kitchen, and immediately decides she needs to get to them. You’re pretty sure she’s going to rip your arm off if she pulls on it any harder. The person she’s going for squeals when they see her, pulling her away from you and wrapping her into a big hug.

“Sam! I’m so glad you made it, and you brought your friend,” they cheer, releasing Sam from their grip, turning to face you, holding their hand out, “Hi! I’ve heard a lot about you!”

“Hey, same here, Sam’s talked about you a lot,” you don’t go into specifics about what Sam’s told you, you don’t know if you’re supposed to know what you know. You grab their hand, expecting a handshake, but instead, they pull you into a hug too.

You tense up, not having expected the hug. You awkwardly pat their back once before worming your way out of the hug, a tight-lipped smile on your face. They don’t seem to register your discomfort, or they don’t comment at the very least, going right back to a conversation with Sam.

You migrate your way over to the makeshift bar, where a chatty orange-haired woman and a tall brunet is listening, “Uhm… Pardon me, I don’t mean to intrude, but,” you gesture to the assortment of drinks behind them, trying to find a way around them.

“Oh! So sorry!” the woman exclaims, jumping out of the way and motioning for you to grab away, “I’m Beverly and this hunk of a man, is Dorian!”

You nod in thanks, looking over the counter, picking out the first can of nonalcoholic beverage you lay eyes on, knowing Sam, she’ll need a driver, and you’d rather not drink around a bunch of strangers, “All good,” you murmur, cracking the can open.

It takes a second for you to realize that she introduced herself and technically the bodyguard dude, so you mumble your name over the lip of your can, swirling it around to get a vortex going, chugging it down. The can crinkles under your grip, indents left where your grip tightens around it when someone bumps into you.

“You seem nervous,” Beverly points out, a bright smile on her lips. The smile of someone who’s comfortable in large social groups, the smile of someone who knows everybody, “First time around? There’s no need to be nervous, everyone is really nice! Who’d you come with?”

You’re a little taken aback by the quick questions. You’d assume she was drunk, but there’s not even a whiff of alcohol on her breath. She’s just that peppy!

“Don’t mind her, love. She’s nosy,” Dorian speaks up for the first time, setting a hand on Beverly’s shoulder, getting her to calm down.

“Oh, yeah, sorryyyy. I’m a bartender, it’s in my blood,” she apologizes, scratching the back of her neck sheepishly, “But you don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to!”

“No, it’s fine. You’re right, it’s my first time around here. I came with Sam,” you answer, pointing in the vague direction over your shoulder where you left Sam.

“Cool! I love Sam, she’s super sweet,” Beverly bops her head in time with the music, shuffling slightly, “WAAAIT- Are you the doctor? I’ve totally heard her talking about you with Babydoll and the other weekend!” she says, eyes widening when it hits her.

Your cheeks flush slightly, mentally cursing Sam. You know she likes telling people about you, she’s told you as such. “Yeah, that’s me,” you confirm, biting the inside of your cheek, “I’m assuming ‘Babydoll’ is the home owner?”

“Righttt, you’re new here, oops, but yeah! We all have our own nicknames for them!” she nods, bouncing on her feet.

Right, the harem you’ve heard so much about. You don’t actually say that, it’d be rude! You’re definitely thinking it, though. “It’s cool, I figured. But anyway, enough about me, you said you’re a bartender?”

“Yep! I’m the bartender and owner of the Tipsy Tumbler!” she tells you, clearly proud of herself, “Dorian here is actually the bouncer some days! He’s good at his job.”

“I’ve heard of that place!” you say, happy to have something you actually know about. It’s the place you had to pick Sam up last weekend. “I haven’t been--been busy with work--but Sam says it’s good.”

“You were the one that picked her up,” Dorian points up, snapping his finger and pointing a finger at you, “Knew I recognized you. Good deed, that was, picking her up.”

“Nothing new to me. I’ve been Sam’s designated driver since I was fourteen,” you shrug, tucking your arms over your chest casually.

Someone laughs from behind you, and Tony of all people comes forward, slapping a hand onto Dorian’s shoulder, all buddy-buddy with him, “So what I’m hearing is you’ve been a buzzkill since you were a teenager?” he mocks, bumping you out of his way to grab a bag of chips, a beer already in his other hand.

“There’s nothing buzzkill-ish about being a designated driver,” you huff, popping your knuckles, “It’s called being responsible, something I highly doubt you know anything about.”

“Every designated driver I’ve met is lame, ergo, buzzkill,” he states, sucking his teeth, “and I know plenty about being responsible, sugar.”

You scowl at him, digging your nails into your palms, “Uh-huh, sure. Your idea of being responsible is probably making sure you always have a condom on you,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“What’s wrong with that? I’ve always gotta be prepared,” he shrugs, smirking so casually it makes your blood boil.

“I take it that you two know each other,” Beverly comments, standing closer to Dorian now, eyebrows furrowed as she tries to figure the two of you out.

“We’ve met,” you verify, moving away from Tony, side-eyeing him.

“Yeah, we have. They think my show is stupid,” Tony tells them, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and drawing you into his side, “Dont’cha?”

“I do!” you concur, sneering at him, pushing his arm off of you, “Don’t touch me.”

He raises his full hands in mock surrender, “Won’t touch ya, sugar,” he promises, taking a half-step back. “I’ve got someone to talk to anyway. I’ll see you,” he winks at you, slowly backing away from you.

You watch him turn away, walking a few feet away to join Sam and her friend (who you realize you still haven’t learned their name, just weird nicknames). Tony wraps them into a hug; it lingers long, their hands slide just low enough for it to read romantically. It doesn’t surprise you that he’s a part of the harem.

“Don’t let Tony get into your head, he’s… an acquired taste,” Dorian says, yanking your attention back to the pair.

“An acquired taste is putting it nicely,” you scoff, tossing your crushed can into the trash, “He’s a tool… Sorry, I probably shouldn’t be saying that to his friends.”

They share a look that sets off alarms in your brain, but you ignore them, “Don’t worry, he’s definitely a tool,” Dorian chuckles, deep and monotonous, like he’s not entirely used to laughing.

“A huge one,” Beverly agrees with a giggle, sipping from a straw connected to a drink you’ve only just realized she has, “He’s sweet once you get to know him, though.”

“Ha! Right, well, I am going to try not and be around him enough that I get to know him,” you snort, fixing your sweater across your shoulders. You watch her lean against Dorian, who doesn’t flinch at the added weight against his side, “I have to ask, are you guys…together?”

Beverly busts into laughter, slapping her knee like you’ve just told the world’s funniest jokes, her ponytail bobbing, “No, no, me and Dory are friends,” she says, straightening back up, slinging an arm around Dorian’s shoulder. “Dorian here is actually demiromantic- that means he only forms romantic relationships with people he has a deep connection with.”

Dorian nods, patting Beverly’s hand that’s busy twirling around his necklaces, “Aye, me and Bev are friends and I am demiromantic,” he reiterates. “Not that you asked or wanted to know.”

Something in you churns at the way he admits that so easily, so uncaring, not the least bit ashamed of who he is or how he identifies. He’s proud of it, well-worn into his identity.

“It’s fine. I get it, I have an oversharer too,” you assure, looking over your shoulder at Sam, who’s leaning in close to her friend, whispering in their ear, blushing at whatever they say back. “Sorry, but I’m gonna be super rude and cut this short, I need air.”

“I’d go out back, people don’t go out there,” Dorian suggests, jutting his chin at the back door, not slightly offended that you need space.

“You can come and find us when you’re ready!” Beverly tells you, opening her arms like she wants to hug you, but freezing for a moment, “I’m going to not hug you.”

“I appreciate that,” you nod, setting a hand on her arm, lightly squeezing it. You appreciate that she holds back on hugging you and that you can join back in on the conversation if you come back in.

Dorian is right, the backyard is completely empty once you manage to get outside, not a soul in sight. The grass is slightly overgrown, a little dead, crunching beneath your boots. You sit against the tree grown in the corner, pressing your palms against your eyes, trying to ward off the headache you feel incoming.

It feels nice outside, at the very least. The sun is setting, there’s a light breeze, by all means, it’s nice. You take a couple deep breaths, fisting your hands in the grass. You must’ve missed the sound of the backdoor opening because there’s suddenly a shadow blocking the last rays of sun.

“And you claim to not be lame,” an increasingly familiar voice comments, opening your eyes to reveal the owner of the voice. Tony. Of course, he’s here, disrupting your peace.

“I’ve never claimed to not be lame,” you tell him, looking up at him, shooting daggers at the man, “Did you seriously come out here just to call me lame?”

“No, I came out here looking for Sam and the human,” he corrects, twisting his heel in the grass, making it squeak under his boot. “You being out here for me to call lame was a happy accident.”

Your brows furrow slightly when he calls someone ‘the human’. It’s a weirdass nickname for somebody. Maybe he’s secretly an alien that was put on Earth to see how humans would react to the world’s most annoyingly smug jerk ever.

“You’re an asshole, y’know that?” you ask rhetorically, pushing yourself off the ground, knocking your shoulder against his when you pass him.

“I do, actually,” he tells you, turning around and walking alongside you, “You’re no fun, y’know that?” he asks back, his foot landing on your shoe’s heel, “Oops, flat tire.”

You rear around to face him, nostrils flared slightly, “What are you: twelve?” you ask, pushing his shoulder a little bit.

“There’s definitely something twelve about me,” he retorts, undeterred by your push, leaning in closer to you, a sleazy look on his face. He clicks his tongue, his head tilting slightly, “Though, I guess you’ll never find out what I’m talking about.”

“I get the gist,” you tell him through gritted teeth. You’re almost worried that if your jaw gets any tighter, your teeth are going to crack, “You can go fuck yourself with those twelve inches.”

He laughs, laughs at you, like he’s so amused that you don’t like him, “I’ll do that…or maybe I’ll find someone else to fuck, I’d ask Sam, but she’s already busy.”

You hear it before you realize what’s happened, a thud then a slew of curses. Tony is on the ground, a hand cradling the side of his face, and your fist is throbbing. You just punched him. Oh, shit.

“What the fuck!?” he shouts, scrambling back to his feet, shoving two fingers into your chest, “Why the hell did you punch me?”

“Your face is really punchable,” you shrug, rubbing your bruised knuckles. If anything, you’re pretty sure the punch hurt you more than it hurt him. “I doubt that was the first time someone’s punched you.”

He gets up in your face, alcohol and Funyun scented breath warm against your face, “I’m gonna be the first one to punch you,” he tells you, grabbing the collar of your shirt, wrenching you closer.

He’s suddenly ripped away from you; Dorian grabbing him by the scruff and pushing him towards the door, “Go get a drink,” he orders, turning to face you, “You alright?”

“Yeahhh…” you nod, watching Tony glare at you before going inside, muttering under his breath, “He didn’t do anything. ”

“Looks like you did,” he looks down at your knuckles, grabbing your wrist, “Doubt he didn’t deserve it.” He presses down on each of your knuckles, testing your reaction to the pressure on each of them, “Doesn’t seem like you broke anything, but you should get ice on this hand. C’mon.”

You follow him inside, avoiding anybody's eyes. Dorian wraps an icepack in a paper towel, passing it to you. Beverly appears out of thin air, much more drunk than she was when you left, leaning against the fridge to stay steady.

“I can’t believe you punched Tony,” she says in what you assume is supposed to be a whisper, “I think I might love you.” She goes to hug you again, stopping midreach again, “Can I hug you?”

“I suppose,” you nod, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, letting her lean against you.

Someone else latches onto your other side and you find your drunken redhead there--looking suspiciously disheveled. Her lipstick is smeared and her dress is wrinkled--leaning almost all her weight onto you, “I lurveee you too… I heard you punched Tony, is that true?”

“Maybe,” you nod again, trying to balance the weight of the two women giggling and leaning on you, “He deserved it.”

You don’t admit that you might’ve been overreacting and you really didn’t need to punch him. You don’t regret it, though. It felt way too good to punch him to feel guilty about it.

Sam somehow manages to stumble standing still, nearly taking you and Bev down with her. You catch her, hoisting her arm around her shoulder. “I think that means it’s time for us to leave,” you say aloud, to no one specific.

“Noooo,” Sam and Beverly whine in unison, pulling on your arms, “I don’t wanna leave,” Sam says, petting your head.

Dorian peels Beverly off of you, taking her weight, “I think that’s a good idea,” he nods, huffing when Bev starts playing with his slicked hair. “I’m probably going to get this one home too.”

“Wait, wait, wait, lemme get your number,” Beverly shouts, blissfully unaware of her tone. She fumbles with her phone, holding it out to you. You save her number into her phone, handing it back, “I need a picture of you,” she insists, coming back over to you. “Say cheese!”

Both her and Sam press their lips to your cheeks as the camera goes off, leaving lipstick marks, in their respective shade, behind. “Perfect,” Beverly giggles, saving the photo before you can argue.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Dorian’s tone is softer when he grabs Beverly, starting her towards the door.

You do the same with Sam, wrangling her into the passenger side, stealing her keys from her purse. Sam cuddles into her heated seat, shifting around to look at you, “Can I stay at your place?” she pleads, pouting at you.

“Yeah,” you murmur; it’s a good idea, you’ll be able to help her with the hangover tomorrow morning, “That’s a good idea.”

“I know, I have those sometimes, crazy right?” she giggles, caressing your arm, feeling the soft fabric of your sweater under her fingertips.

You snort, putting her hand back into her lap. She doesn’t argue, humming along with the radio. She’s asleep by the time you make it to your complex, drool running down her chin. You roll your eyes fondly, gathering her into your arms.

She doesn’t stir all the way up the elevator, or when you set her down on your couch, tucking a blanket around her. You find makeup remover under your sink, rubbing off as much of her makeup as you can at the moment before getting yourself ready for bed.

You stare at the ceiling for a while, thinking about today. You went to a party for the first time in forever, you made friends, and you got to punch Tony. Your fist throbs when you think about it, aching in a good way.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face.

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? (pt. 9 Mitchell Linn)

(Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? guide)

OH GOD, THERE'S BEEN A BREACH! PUT THEM IN THE CONTAINMENT ROOM, THEY NEED TO BE OBSERVED AND TREATED!!!!! -Mitchell Linn to reader who just accidentally ate food two dates past it's best by date.

Mitchell has been driving himself insane. Food is his life, he is food. Literally. How is he supposed to deal with the fact that he could so easily get you sick. Mold, food poisoning, salmonella, allergies, the list goes on!

Little do you know, Mitchell Linn has been freaking out in a completely out of character way for the poised man. He’s food incarnate! He is one of the most important beings in your life! He could also kill you, not even on purpose!

You could choke, or get food poisoning, or discover that you’re allergic to something, or god forbid you get salmonella! Now he knows how Freddy felt when he accidentally let something go moldy. He can’t even bear to look at you.

He suddenly remembers every time you’ve ever gotten food poisoning and that really doesn’t help his spiral. 

“Dude, chilllll,” Freddy suggests, watching the blonde man rummage through the cabinets like a crazy man, checking every expiration date.

“You freaked out when you let something get moldy! How am I supposed to ‘chilllll’ when I’m food itself?” Mitchell asks, glaring at the large man and tossing a can of ravioli that he doesn’t even remember you buying. 

“Score!” he hears Cam from behind him cheer, the sound of the can popping open soon after. 

“Okayyy, I think you’re a little paranoid,” Freddy mutters, backing away from Mitchell slightly. He’s got crazy eyes going on, it’s kind of freaky. 

Freddy backs out of the kitchen, searching the house for you. He finds you up in the attic, getting yelled at by some other crazy dude. 

------------

You and Parker’s heads whip up when a floorboard creaks, more than surprised to see Freddy standing there. You’ve almost never seen him outside the kitchen, let alone upstairs. 

“Hey, Freddy! What’s up?” you ask, standing up to hug him. Parker scoffs at you, demanding you sit back down. You ignore him.

Freddy wraps you in a tight hug, lifting you off the floor with ease, “Hey, cool kid; not much. Except…” he trails off, scratching his bearded chin and setting you back down.

“Except…?” you prompt, gesturing for him to continue. Oh, god is he leaking? Is there moldy food in him again? There can’t be, you just cleaned him out.

“Mitchell Linn is kind of…spiraling. You know how back when you found moldy food in me and I beasted out? Yeah, like that, but ten times worse,” he finishes, pursing his lips, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“Why is Mitchell Linn freaking out?” you question, already leaving the attic to rush downstairs.

“The movie,” Freddy answers, coming down with you, “He’s scared because of how many ways food could kill you.”

“Oh,” you pause on the stairs, nodding at that. Yeah, you should’ve expected that. “Has this been going on long?”

“Kind of, it’s gotten worse,” he tells you, setting a hand on your shoulder and starting you down the stairs again.

It is a shit show when you make it to the kitchen; there’s assorted foods scattered on the floor and cabinets, snacks tossed at Cam, even a couple of bursted bags that Hoove is going to have to clean up. 

Mitchell is in the middle of the mess, sitting on the floor, picking up a box and putting it down after finding what he wanted, sometimes tossing the box, others just setting it aside. You step over a half-crushed box of cheerios, looming over Mitchell.

“Mitch, you good?” you ask, looking down at him. You lower yourself onto the ground with him, trying to look him in the eye.

“You shouldn’t be here, I’m busy,” he tells you, nearly smacking you in the face with a bag of cheetos when he tosses them to Cam. 

“I noticed,” you nod, grabbing the box he was reaching before he can grab it, holding it out of reach, “Is there a reason you’re raiding my cabinets?”

“I’m getting rid of old food, the last thing you need is to be sick,” he mutters, snatching the box from you. 

“Okay, but my stale cheetos? I like those, they're good when they’re a little stale,” you tell him, making him gasp, clutching his nonexistent pearls.

“That is a food crime! ‘Stale cheetos’,” he rolls his eyes, flicking your forehead like you’re a misbehaving dog. “And dangerous.”

“I don’t think I’m going to get sick from eating stale cheetos,” you point out, rubbing the spot on your forehead, pouting at the flick.

“You can get sick from anything,” he insists, pausing when he sees you rubbing your forehead where he flicked, “There’s over 3,000 food sickness related deaths annually. And approximately 5,000 choking related ones.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. Is that actually accurate? Where’d he find that out? Does he just automatically know since he’s the cause of said deaths? So many questions, not enough time. 

“You do know I used to eat dirt, right?” you blurt, watching as it sends Mitchell freezing mid-action. His head turns towards you in owlish fashion, eyes wide.

“You what?”

“Ate dirt. By the fistful. And I liked it,” you inform him, smirking. Granted, you were six and dumb, but that doesn’t change anything! “I also ate a scab once, didn’t get sick.”

Mitchell Linn is staring at you like he wants to burn holes into your forehead, “What?”

“I’m just saying, I’m probably not going to get sick from food, Mitchell and I’m definitely not going to die from it,” you tell him, scooting forward until your knees are pressed against his. “You’re being dramatic.”

“...I am not,” he insists, huffing like a child, “I’m being safe.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you state, taking his hands in yours, “Like totally ridonkulous. Though, I do have to thank you for cleaning out the cabinets. It was high time I finally did that.”

That gets you a small laugh from him. He sighs deeply, squeezing his eyes shut, thinking back to all the times you haven’t gotten sick from food. Those heavily outweigh the times you have gotten sick.

“Maybe I am being ridiculous--”

“‘Maybe’?” you interject, raising a brow at him.

“I am being ridiculous,” he corrects himself, flicking your forehead again.

“Mhmm,” you nod, swatting his hand away, “I do appreciate your concern, but I swear, if you throw away my stale cheetos again, me and you are going to have problems.”

“I’m not letting you eat stale cheetos,” he tells you, standing up from the ground, helping you up too. “And not because it’ll get you sick, because they’re an absolute crime to the food world.”

“Rude,” you grumble, punching his shoulder.

You look around the room, at all the food strewn on the floor. “You wanna go visit Koa at Two Fusions.. We can pick this up later.”

“Please,” Mitchell nods, kissing your cheek.

“Who made this mess?” Hoove shouts, looking around the kitchen.

You and Mitchell look at each other, taking his hand and pulling him out of the kitchen. You’ll make it up to Hoove with a drink. For now, you have a dinner date (that isn’t going to get you sick).

[g00d--m0urning]

Not Another Song About Love (Ch.1)

TONY (DATE EVERYTHING) X READER

What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force?

What happens when you (a raging demisexual, asexual?, you’re not quite sure) meet Tony (a raging sexual)?

------------

Your friend Sam brings you out to a lunch date to this new outdoor restaurant 'Two Fusions' and she notices the host from this new, cheesy romance show she watches and knows him…apparently.

She introduces the two of you and both of you come to the quick realization that you are polar opposites and are never going to get along.

And yet the two of you can't seem to get away from each other

(What's that thing they say about magnets?)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Okay, so reader (you) and player character are NOT the same person. This is post Player Character (NOT YOU) realizing everyone and reader (you) has no clue that the people you've been talking to used to be household items (yet).

Does that make sense? It should, hopefully. And yes this is plot relevant.)

Your car rumbles beneath you as you pull into the parking lot of the food truck/outdoor restaurant thing: ‘Two Fusions’ the sign reads. It’s a new place, or new-ish; Sam says it’s good, but you haven’t had the time to check it out until now.

You look around when you get out of your car, trying to find Sam’s bright, ladybug-themed VW Beetle, smiling when you find it. You walk up to the car, testing the door to see if it’s unlocked, rolling your eyes when it is. You snatch a rubber ducky off her dash, pocketing it.

You find Sam already at the front window of the food truck, chatting away with the cashier, an animated smile on her face, braid bobbing back and forth. You sneak up behind her, listening in on her conversation.

“Yeah, you’ll totally like my friend. They’re a little grumpy, but they’re totally a big softie underneath all of it.”

You scowl at her back, coming up behind her, draping your arms over her shoulders, rubber ducky in hand, “You, Samantha, really need to learn how to lock your vehicle.”

Sam jumps, whipping around to face you. She laughs, shoving your shoulder, “You broke into my car?” she asks, snatching the duck back from you.

“It’s not breaking in if your car was unlocked,” you tell her, a faint smile on your lips, “Also, I refute your previous statement.”

“You were listening? Ugh, you need a cow bell,” she scoffs, shoving your shoulder again, then wrapping her arm around your shoulder. 

“Okay, Koa, this is my absolutely lovely friend I was telling you about,” she gestures to you, fluttering her fingers at you, “And sweetheart, this is Koa. He makes bomb food.”

The large man, Koa, laughs, setting a hand over his chest. “Thank you, Sam. It’s great to meet another one of Sam’s friends and any friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine,” he reaches his hand through the window, assumingly for you to shake.

“Thanks, man. It’s great to meet you too; I’ve heard great things about this place,” you tell him, leaning forward and shaking his hand. “I’m glad to finally get to try it.”

“Well, buddy, I’ll make sure you enjoy your first time with us,” he promises, giving your hand a firm squeeze before releasing it. “What can I get for the two of you? I assume your normal, Sam?”

“Yep, two of my normals!” she confirms, not giving you the time to look over the menu yourself.

You pull your wallet out, ready to pay, but Sam beats you to the punch, tapping her phone against the reader, “Apple pay, get with the times, loser,” she goads, knocking her hip against yours.

It’s a competition between the two of you every time you go out, both wanting to pay, unwilling to let the other. You guys have had to pull stunts to get a hand up over the other:

 “I’m paying for the next one,” you tell her, pulling cash from your wallet instead and dropping it into the tip jar.

“I’m sure you will,” she comments, the smirk on her face screaming mischief, “Let’s go sit!”

She pulls you over to one of the tables (very park-esque tables, it’s definitely a family-friend establishment) forcing you onto one of the benches, sitting across from you. She rests her elbows on the table, clasping her hands together.

“Soooo, how’ve you been?” she asks, leaning forward, “You’ve been so busy, maybe with a special somebody?”

You can hear the excitement in her tone, the wiggling in her shoulders when she asks. You roll your eyes at her, shaking your head. No, there isn’t a special somebody in your life, never has been. Unless you count the marriage you have to your job.

“No, I got a promotion,” you inform, grimacing when she squeals like a tied up hog.

“That’s amazing, you finally made head scientist?” she asks, taking your hands in hers. 

“Yeah,” you nod, a proud smile on your face.

You work at this private company called Vortex Labs. You interned there during your college days and they hired you immediately after you graduated! So after several years of hard work and way too many 24-hour shifts spent in the lab, you made head scientist on your team! 

“Maybe I should’ve let you pay, damn. You’re gonna be rich-rich now,” Sam comments playfully, scrunching her brows at you, “God, I would kill for a promotion - I should talk to my boss, he seems to be in a better mood these days now that he and his ‘partner’ have made up,”  she makes air quotes when she says partners, a knowing look on her face.

“‘Partners’?” you repeat, making the air quotes back at her, “What’s that mean?”

She looks around before leaning in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Between us, I totally think they’re partners and not just partners, cha’know?”

“I actually don’t ‘cha’know’,” you whisper back, raising a brow in confusion, “But I’m assuming  you mean that they’re sleeping together.”

She snickers, rubbing her hands together like an evil fly. Sam’s always been into the whole romance stuff; which includes trying to set you up when you really don’t want to be set up. “Oh, totally and not just sleeping together, like they’re together. I’m pretty sure they’re married on the DL.”

“Ahh, interesting,” you nod slowly, very obviously being sarcastic.

There’s food set in front of the two of you, Koa appearing at the head of the table. Thank god, saved by the incredibly delicious smelling food. Every time Sam gets into one of her relationship moods, she always insists about talking about your nonexistent love life.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love, it’s just that between getting into a prestigious college right out of high school and working towards your doctorates and the internship and then the job that required a ton of time and effort, you haven’t had time for relationships. 

Plus the last one you were in ended horribly and the one before and the one before that. You just don’t have relationship luck! Which, you’re fine with.

“Thanks, Koa,” you say, taking the container, bringing it up your nose, “Smells great.”

“If you end up not liking it, you can come up and tell me. I have a full refund policy for first time visitors and we can find something you like.” His smile is warm and inviting, so is the hand he sets on your shoulder.

“If you don’t like it, I’ll take it,” Sam tells you through a mouthful of rice, pointing her fork in your direction.

Koa laughs, slapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder, ruffling her hair before heading off. You unwrap your fork from its napkin, taking your first bite. “Oh, my god,” you moan, bobbing your head up and down, “This is great.”

“Right!?” Sam exclaims, guzzling down some sort of fruit drink, “It’s literally one of the best things I’ve put in my mouth.”

You choke on your food, pursing your lips and dropping your head to keep yourself from laughing. 

Sam’s jaw drops, reaching across the table to punch your shoulder, “Ew! Don’t be dirty minded at the dinner table!” she chides, glaring at you, “For someone who doesn’t feel sexual attraction, you are the dirtiest minded person I know.”

Your heart stutters when Sam brings up the fact that you don’t feel sexual attraction, but you ignore it. There’s nothing wrong with being asexual, you know plenty of people who are on that spectrum.

“God forbid, I have the same sense of humor as a teenage boy,” you drawl, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Don’t act like you’re so innocent, missy, need I remind you about the texts you sent me last weekend.” “I…was drunk,” she stammers, her face going about as red as her hair.

“Ooooh, yeah you were,” you nod, overly amused by her embarrassment. Last weekend she got completely sloshed and sent you a play-by-play about what she wanted to do to this man she met at the club. “‘Ugh, he’s so hot, I just want to chew on his biceps.’”

“Okay, but did you see his biceps? They were hugeeee, like a grapefruit,” she points out, jabbing her fork into a piece of pork, “I’d kill to be crushed between them or his thighs.”

“Let me guess, those were like tree trunks?” you ask, more rhetorically than not, grabbing her drink and taking a sip. “Hmm, that’s refreshing.”

“A.) Yes, it is, it’s delicious. B.) Yes! They were,” she confirms, unabashed by anything about admitting this. “I know there’s another trunk he has that I’d like to see.”

“Who’s nasty at the dinner table now?” you quip, balling up a napkin and tossing it at her, “Do you even know his name?”

“I think he told me…I don’t remember it..” she admits, chucking the napkin back at you, bouncing it off your forehead and into your empty food container. “That’s the thing, though: I don’t need to remember his name, just his pretty face and a good night with him.”

“That’s disgusting, actually,” you grimace, shaking your head in disappointment at her, “You should know his name, you need something to moan!” you point out, dropping the disappointed scowl for a small smirk.

“You whore!” she gasps, beaming at you. She so loves it when you play into it with her, which is why you indulge her.

Part of you is almost jealous of the way she can do that: have meaningless sex with a nameless stranger just because it gets her gears turning. “What? I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” she shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eyes, “Some people are just as into the anonymity thing.”

“Oh--”

“Oh. my. god,” Sam slaps a hand on the table, leaning forward with her jaw dropped. For a moment you're almost worried she’s choking, until she points over your shoulder at somebody, “That’s Tony.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know the guy's name?” you ask, brows furrowing slightly. This is literally the conversation you just had.

“No, no, Tony. From Fix it Ton’,” she clarifies, waving her hand in the air to really drive in her statement.

“Oooooh, that stupid romance show you watch?” you ask, scowling at the mention of the show she made you binge watch over a weekend long sleepover. 

Someone scoffs from beside you, “It’s not a romance show, sugar. It’s a love show; there’s a difference.”

Your head slowly turns to find Tony standing there and it dawns on you that Sam’s hand waving wasn’t just gesticulating. She was waving at him. To come over here. And for him to hear you insult his show. 

“Yeah, what’s the difference?” you ask, an unamused look on your face, pushing right past the initial embarrassment.  

“A romance show is shallow, scripted; like Love Triangle Island,” he rolls his eyes when he brings up the show, personally offended by it, “A love show, like mine, isn’t. I fix relationships, help people actually fall in love. No script.”

“Ahhh, okay, sure,” you nod slowly, smiling so fakely, “That makes total sense because people totally fall in love within a thirty minute episode that ‘isn’t’ scripted.”

“My episodes are forty-five minutes, actually,” he corrects you, crossing his muscled arms over his even stronger chest. “What? You one of those love sceptics?”

“No, I believe in love. I just don’t think it happens in the span of thirty--forty-five, sorry--minutes,” you tell him, clasping your hands in front of you, “Especially not when the show makes tacky merchandise.”

Sam slaps your shoulder, giving you a look that’s telling you to cut it out. You glare back, communicating silently with her. Thankfully, the action got Tony’s attention on Sam instead.

“Sammy, how’ve you been, doll?” he asks with a disarming amount of charm, sliding onto her bench, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “And what’re you doing with buzzkill over there?”

That last bit is stage-whispered, pretending like you’re not meant to hear it, but he meant for you to hear it. If the entirely unsubtle-subtle nod he gives in your direction is any indication. Sam giggles, playfully swatting his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his sharp, stubbled jaw.

“I’ve been greaaaat, and that there is my friend, so be nice,” she stage-whispers back, glancing at you, who’s sporting an incredibly annoyed look at the moment.

“You’re friends with,” he looks over at you, looking you up and down. He smirks, almost pleased with what he finds, “that love-hating buzzkill?”

“I don’t hate love!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. You told him that less than a minute ago, “I just think your show is stupid!”

“Okay, girls, simmer down,” Sam butts in, raising her hands placatingly, “Let’s put the kitty cat claws away.”

You glare at Sam, then Tony before rolling your eyes and turning away slightly, “He started it,” you mutter childishly.

“You’re the one that insulted my show,” Tony retorts, sneering at you, “I’m sorry you hate fun, sugar.”

“I have a name,” you snap, resisting the urge to lunge across the table and strangle the insufferable jerk.

“I wouldn’t know, considering you haven’t told me, sugar,” Tony points out, enjoy the way your jaw tics at the extra emphasis on the nickname. “‘Sides, I think I’ll sugar, since you're so sweet.”

You grit your teeth, using the power of force to blow up his mind. Sadly, it doesn’t work. You open your mouth to respond, but Sam interrupts, blurting your name out.

Tony looks at her, confused by the drop, “What?”

“That’s their name,” she explains, looking between you and Tony, hoping neither of you continue arguing, “And yes, they’re my friend,” she finally confirms, smiling at you. “They’re just a little grumpy.”

“Why, you needa get laid or something?” Tony questions, raising a thick brow at you, “I can help with that.”

You glower at him, raising a hand and flipping him the bird, “As if I’d ever sleep with you.”

Tony is shocked for a moment, realizing how his words must’ve come across. He doesn’t backtrack, only leaning forward slightly, an infuriating smirk on his face, “I didn’t mean it like that, but…” he trails off, looking you up and down again.

Sam cuts in before you manage to, “Actually, they’re asexual, so they don’t feel sexual attraction.”

Your skin crawls when she tells Tony that, hating the way you want to shrink in on yourself. It’s not that you don’t feel sexual attraction or… It’s hard to explain, you just don’t feel it in a normal way! You never found a label that resonated with you, so you stuck with asexual. It’s common enough that people get the gist and you don’t have to overexplain why your body doesn’t work normally. 

“Oh,” for once the tool doesn’t seem to know what to say and that makes it feel infinitely worse, “That’s cool. I mean, hey, I’m a-sexual too.”

The line makes a shiver go up your spine; you understand it’s supposed to be a joke, but if you had a dime for every time you’ve heard it, you’d be rich. “Funny,” you deadpan.

“I try,” and now he’s right back to his charming self, “It was great seeing you, Sammy, but I have an appointment. With a client,” that comes with a pointed glance at you.

“Ditto, have fun, and ‘fix it Ton,’” she says, giving his hand a squeeze as he stands up, “I’ll see you soon?”

“You know you it, doll,” he confirms, winking at her, which makes her blush. “Maybe I’ll see you too, sugar.”

“In your dreams, cupid,” you quip, smiling in an overtly sweet fashion that could only ever be read as sarcastic. 

You sigh as he finally walks away, pinching the bridge of your nose, “You could’ve told me that you know him,” you tell Sam, gathering the trash off the table.

“You could’ve not insulted his show,” she counters, standing up with you to toss her trash into the can. “... I am sorry about outing you like that, though. I know you like keeping that to yourself. I shouldn’t have told him.”

You sigh softly, bumping your shoulder against hers, “You’re good, I know you were trying to help out,” you assure her, lacing your hand with hers as the two of you walk to the parking lot.

“I had fun, thank you for dragging me away from my work,” you tell her, opening her car door with a bow, “My queen.”

“I had fun too, thank you for remembering that I existed,” she says, kissing your check before getting into her car, “Are you heading back to work?” she asks, leaning through the rolled down window.

“Yep, you know me, work, work, work,” you confirm, running a hand through your hair, “I don’t have much left to do today, so I’ll get home at a decent hour…hopefully.”

“I’ll call you tonight, make sure you actually get home and eat,” she promises, pulling the rubber duck you gave to her earlier back on the dash. “Toodles,” she blows you a kiss, starting her car.

“Toodles,” you echo, mimicking the action of kissing the air kiss, watching her peel onto the street. She’s going to break that Beetle one day, you swear. 

You follow suit, getting into your car and onto the street. You pull up to a redlight, looking out of your passenger side window, only for your eyes to be assaulted by an obnoxious sign, with an even more obnoxious face on it.

“‘Fix it ton’,’” you mock, with a cheery tone, under your breath, flipping off the billboard.

The person beside you honks, redrawing your attention, finding them flipping you right back off; clearly having thought you were flipping them off. Idiot. God, today is just getting longer and longer. 

You can’t wait for Sam’s call tonight.

[g00d--m0urning]

New fic alert 🫡🫡

the first chapter of my new fic is coming out tonight! I'm super excited. It's a tony x reader fic (because that tool needs more love). It's slow burn, so yayyy! I need someone to geek out with over this 😔

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? (pt.8 Amir)

Amir has always found you beautiful. Not just on the outside, but within. Reflecting you is an honor, being able to peer into soul is an honor.

(the 5 times you find yourself avoiding the mirror and the 1 time Amir manages to get you to stay.)

(trigger warning for low self image on reader's behalf and reader is injured in the 1st one and 5th one)

Another 5+1 😔😔 I've rediscovered my love for them and I had a lot of fun writing the last one, so you get another one and you'll like !! 😾😾

If you haven't noticed, my posting on this work is getting a little slower and I do apologize for that and I'm sorry I haven't been able to get to most requests, but I do believe I'm going to slow down even more. I'm not going to stop posting on this work, I just want to work on my upcoming fic a little more (I literally only have the first sentence done 😔😔). If you have someone you'd like to see prioritized, I'd be happy to as I have no current lay out/schedule on which characters I'm posting. I do know the next in line is Mitchell Linn (per request).

#1:

You stand in front of the mirror, tracing over the bruising cut on your forehead. Farya just finished stitching it up and you took the dateviators off shortly after. You couldn’t stand the pitying stare of everybody, or worse, the indifference avoidance. 

Especially not from Amir. You know if he was around, he’d be spewing platitudes at you, telling you that despite the bloody nose and stitches in your forehead, you’re still beautiful to him. You love him, you do, but it’s exhausting sometimes.

You just want to wallow in self-pity for a while, is that so wrong? (According to the Valdi-Soft search you made on Mac, it kind of is, but you can’t trust everything you read on the internet!) Before you realize it, there’s tears rolling down your cheeks, dripping into the small puddle of blood you have yet to wipe up.

------------

Amir is forced to watch as you start crying, unable to do anything about it. He reaches out, brushing a hand over your cheek, even if you can’t feel it.

“Oh, Azizam, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, circling around you. 

He can feel your pain, the sorrow reflected in your gaze. It hurts him, more than words could ever describe.

“They’ll be okay,” Farya assures him, watching you intently for any signs she might’ve missed, “Their nose isn’t broken and I don’t think their forehead will scar.”

“I know, thank you. You did a beautiful job with the stitches, my dear,” he nods, smiling at the medic, “I’m not worried about that, though.”

“Thank you!” Farya preens under the praise, shaking the tension out of her shoulders. “What are you worried about?”

“Them,” he answers with a tired sigh, sitting down on the counter, “Just them. They can’t seem to look within and see the beauty.”

“We all are,” she whispers, smiling softly at him, “They’ll be okay.”

“I hope so.”

#2:

“Good morning, Azizam!” Amir twirls you around when you come into the bathroom, presumably for your morning routine.

“How are you?” he asks, pulling the ends of your hair over your shoulders.

Admittedly, you don’t look the best. Your hair is tangled, your forehead is still coated in blood, and there’s bags heavy enough beneath your eyes to carry his entire purse collection. He should talk to Barry about having a self-love day sometime soon.

“Ready for our routine?” he asks after he doesn’t get a response to the first question. He always helps with your morning routine: making sure you don't miss anything in your teeth, or miss a swooped up cowlick after brushing your hair.

“Yeah,” you nod lamely, moving almost robotically as you start the morning. “And I’m okay,” you finally answer, half-muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth.

“Mhm, sure,” he’s unconvinced, but doesn’t press the matter for now, deciding to take a hairbrush to your hair, starting at the ends of your hair, carefully undoing the tangles.

You don’t look okay, not at all, but he’s not entirely sure pointing that out would be healthy for you, maybe he can start slowly: “Monday morning blues?”

“I guess,” you shrug, wiping the frothy toothpaste mess off of your mouth, “Just tired. Those stupid birds keep waking me up earlier than I want to be up.”

“Ahh, a feud with birds, are you sure you didn’t get replaced with Garfield overnight?” he asks playfully, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“I don’t think Garfield feuds with birds,” you point out, splashing water onto your face.

“Well, you’re still a grumpy little kitty cat,” he teases, frowning slightly at your indifference. 

------------

You know what he’s trying to do and it kind of surprises you. Normally, his mood would reflect yours, but it seems he’s decided to stray from his normal act. Which totally doesn’t put you on edge. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you nod, taking the hairbrush from him and finishing up with your hair, “Thanks for brushing my hair.”

“Of course, Azizam. I love helping you,” he tells you, taking a step back from you to allow you space. “Anything to help you feel better.”

“Right…because I’m not the most stunning right now, am I?” you ask, unable to keep the bitterness out of your tone. 

You know that’s not how Amir feels. He’s not shallow that that, like most would assume about their mirror would be, but it still stings. You know you look like crap, but he doesn’t have to rub it in. 

The untired, rational part of your brain realizes that he didn’t mean it that way and he just wants you to feel your best, uncaring if you look your best. You sigh, exiting the bathroom before he can say anything.

------------

He freezes, momentarily stunned by your abrupt departure. Barry gasps from behind him, a hand over his mouth, “Well, mighty me, that was odd, wasn’t it? Right?”

“Yes, it was,” Amir confirms, his perfectly styled brows furrowing, “They are quite sensitive, it seems. I should’ve seen it.”

Amir sighs, massaging the pinched skin, “I’ll figure it out. I can see them inside and out.”

#3:

You pop into the bathroom with the perfect outfit, all happy and perky and in a fantastic mood. You haven’t really talked to Amir in the past few days and it’s time to change that. It’s time to completely change your attitude with all your lovers.

They deserve it, your love, not your selfishness. “Hey, Amir,” you chirp, doing a quick spin to present him with your outfit, “What do you think?”

“You look perfect,” he tells you. You look too perfect, a wide smile that’s just a bit too wide, an outfit that’s performative and not at all for you, “Anything special coming up that calls for such an outfit?”

“Nope! I’m just in a good mood,” you say, hesitating in the mirror,your smile flickering at the sight of the scar on your forehead. You should cover that. “I beat the birds.”

“Good job, Azizam. You showed those birds,” he smooths a hand over your shirt, brushing nonexistent dirt off of it. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly, leaning in closely.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask back, feigning total obliviousness.   

It feels like he’s looking right through you, reaching into the deepest, darkest part of you that is screaming that you’re not okay and you don’t want to be okay. 

“Because, you don’t have wrinkles,” he comments, cupping your face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over your temples.

“Isn’t that…a good thing?” you ask, pursing your lips and raising your brows, “You’re all about looks. Wrinkles are bad.”

------------

Amir bites down on his lip, holding in the scoff that he wants to release. You make him sound incredibly vain, which he can be, but that’s not all he is. He sees you from the inside, reflects every part of you, even the bad parts. The parts he still loves.

“Having no wrinkles when you're smiling is bad. Every time you smile, you get little wrinkles here,” he brushes his thumbs over your forehead, “and here,” now near the corners of your eyes, “And here,” finally your cheeks.

“Just because you’re smiling doesn’t mean you’re happy, Azizam,” he points out, staring at you in a way that could make glass shatter.

“I’m fine, Amir, I promise! Now, I need to go get coffee from Kopi before it’s too late and I regret having it,” you tell him, kissing his cheek and leaving him in the dust once more.

You are really getting into a habit of doing that and it is really beginning to grate on his nerves. He turns around to stare at himself, looking himself up and down.

“I’m not vain,” he tells himself, pouting.

He sincerely hopes that you don’t actually think he’s truly that shallow. He hopes it has to do with your oddness this morning.

#4:

It’s been a couple weeks since everything has finally been revealed and that you were, in fact, being weird that day. You’ve visited him since then, falling back into normal routine with him. However, you seem to be avoiding the topic of what happened that day, he can sense it.

He’s decided that he wants to perform on open mic night in the Breaker Box and surprise, surprise, you’re there! What are the odds of that working out for him perfectly? He doesn’t care, he’s just glad you’re here.

“Azizam, may you come up here and be my lovely assistant?” he requests, holding his hand out for you to take.

“I’d rather not,” you say, shrinking into your booth, flushing at the sudden attention and spotlight.

“Ah, nonsense, you’ll be perfect,” he grabs your hand, pulling you onto the stage with him, “Stand here and look pretty,” he orders, moving you to stand against a thick board.

He raises a stained glass knife, showing it to the crowd, “These are very real and very sharp. Today, I shall be throwing these at my lovely assistant,” he announces, now showing the knife to you.

“This is perfectly safe, fret not. I don’t miss,” he assures you. It doesn’t do much to quell the nervous churning of your gut.

“Okay,” you nod, letting out a slow, deep breath, trusting him. You trust him, you do.

The first knife lands at your right side, several inches from your still body. The crowd ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and the next knife lands by your other side. Your breath catches at the sound of it thunking into the wood.

“You’re doing so well, Azizam,” he praises, landing the next on between your legs and in succession, one right above your head.

You swear your heart is in your throat, chest heaving while trying to keep calm. “Thanks, I’m totally not freaking out.”

That gains a few laughs around the room, but most of them are sympathetic. A knife whooshes past your face, the knife lands barely an inch away from your ear.

“Okay, I’m freaking out a little now,” you admit with a nervous chuckle, refusing to open your eyes to look at the knife, even though you want to.

“This is the last knife, Azizam,” he tells you and the knot in your chest loosens just a bit. You nod, swallowing your heart back down.

A breeze flutters your hair when the knife rushes past, closer than last time, a lot closer. You exhale, happy that it’s finally over. You hear gasps around the room, assuming they’re all just shocked by the daringness of that last throw.

Until something warm drips down your cheek. You raise a hand to your cheek, pulling it away to find your fingertips painted red. You look back at the knife, the blade’s edge a matching red.

“Azizam,” Amir breathes out, dragging your attention, “I’m--”

“Please don’t,” you hold your hands up when he steps towards you, your jaw tense, “You said you wouldn’t miss.”

------------

You don’t allow him to respond, again. This time he knows he deserves it. 

#5:

Amir is surprised that you haven’t tossed towels over him with the way you’ve been avoiding him. You haven’t made eye contact with him in two days. He swears he’s beginning to forget the color of your eyes. 

Farya had thankfully told him that you didn’t end up needing stitches, nor should you end up with a scar. You’d be beautiful with one, but it soothed him to know you wouldn’t end up permanently scarred due to him.

He’s also heard that you’ve been using reflections to get through the day: using Wyndolyn to check your teeth, Freddy to admire your outfit, and even River to help change your bandages. All things he should be doing!

------------

Johnny has somehow managed to convince you to talk to Amir, pointing out that it was an accident and you should give him some leeway. At least, talk to him, so you can yell at him. 

“Hey,” you say coldly, shuffling your feet awkwardly, waiting for Amir to say something.

“Azizam, oh my goodness, hello,” he whispers, reaching out to touch you, but drawing back at the last second. “I heard Johnny managed to convince you to come, I’ll have to thank him.”

“Yeah, he did,” you nod, looking at Amir. He looks surprisingly disheveled (even if disheveled for him means a button on his jacket not being done all the way and his hair slightly out of place), it almost reflects how you’re feeling in the moment. “He pointed out that you didn’t mean to cut me, obviously.”

“Yes, yes, but I told you I wouldn’t miss and I did,” he points out, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I broke your trust.”

Your heart feels like it’s twisting into knots when he puts into words the exact thing you’ve been thinking since the incident, scratching the back of your neck nervously, “I guess so…I still know it was an accident.”

“I know you do, I know that too,” he whispers, brushing a hand over the bandage on your cheek.

You wince, pulling your face away from him, “Sorry,” you quickly apologize, backing away from him.

“No, I should apologize. I shouldn’t have touched you without permission,” he counters, smiling tightly at you. “I think you should go, Azizam.”

“Me too,” you agree, gingerly reaching out to squeeze his hand before leaving him alone in the bathroom one more.

The one:

The tension between you and Amir has been thick. You still speak, but it’s short small talk. No extravagant compliments, no fun teasing, nothing. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him. You just have no clue how to reach out.

You enter the bathroom, wrapped in a ridiculously fluffy robes with rainbows and kitties printed on it, prepared for selfcare night with Barry. 

“Hello, hello, my kitten,” your makeup greets, kissing both of your cheeks, “Oh, I am so excited to do this! I have,” he pulls out his notebook, a new one you helped decorate the other day, after he filled up his first one, “eyebrow tweezing, an extravagant skincare routine, face masks, and a bath on today’s schedule. The bath also includes a scalp massage because.. Well, obviously!”

“Obviously, I mean, what’s a bath without a scalp massage?” you ask rhetorically with a playful scoff, “Sounds perfect, Bare, thank you.”

“Of courseee. Now, sit,” he pulls a chair out for you, pushing you to sit down in it, so he can start plucking at your eyebrows.

You and Barry go through his meticulously planned care night; slathering on serums and moisturizers and a face mask before finally sliding into the bath, which is the perfect temperature. 

------------

Amir has been silently watching (in a non-creepy way) you and Barry do your self-care date. A date he could be included in, but he doesn’t want to intrude. He watches Barry grab a shampoo bottle and he cannot resist the urge to jump in.

“No, no, you can’t use this one,” he insists, taking the bottle away from Barry, “This one makes their hair frizzy, remember?” he points out.

 He’s not really sure why you haven’t thrown the bottle away, but thank goodness he caught Barry’s mistake. He still shivers at the hair day you had after deciding to use the shampoo. Amir tosses the bottle in the trash without hesitation: never again shall it touch your luscious hair.

“If you don’t mind?” Amir gestures for Barry to move aside, which he does, allowing Amir to take him place. Amir grabs the correct bottle and slowly begins massaging it into your hair.

“I’ll just go then…” Barry frowns slightly, shuffling away. He turns back momentarily, winking at you over his shoulder.

If there’s one thing Barry never forgets, it’s the effect of a beauty product on you. Of course, he knew the shampoo makes your hair frizzy, but he also knew that Amir wouldn’t be able to resist stepping in if he tried to use it. He’s a genius!

“That was almost a disaster, wasn’t it?” Amir asks quietly, rinsing the first layer of shampoo out, working in the second.

“Yeah, it was. I still remember what happened,” you nod, and Amir watches the tension bleed out of you as he works his fingers across your scalp. “I looked like I got zapped by lightning.”

“You did… I also remember you complaining about the way it made your hair feel,” he adds, pouring water over your head to rinse the shampoo, “Are we conditioning today?”

------------

You’re shocked that Amir remembers you complaining about the way your hair felt after using the shampoo; you remember too, it made your hair feel too clean, all squeaky and almost brittle, “You remember that?.. And, no, no conditioner, I did that in the shower this morning.”

“Of course I do,” Amir says softly, kneeling down beside the bath tub, resting his arm on the ledge, “I’m not all about looks, you know? I remember the inside stuff too.”

You can’t help but wince; you know he isn’t that shallow and you never should’ve implied he was, “I know, I’m sorry that I implied you were.”

“It’s quite alright. I could’ve been more sensitive,” he sets a hand on your cheek, lightly brushing over the scab, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you wrap your hand around his wrist, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm, “Too bad it isn’t going to scar. I would’ve looked badass.”

Amir laughs, kissing your forehead, over the small scar that’s there, “You would’ve, but you look plenty badass already.”

“Thank you,” you snort, shivering a little at the, now, cool water.

“Let’s get you out of there, hmm?” Amir suggests, lifting you out of the tub with ease, wrapping you into a towel, taking the time to meticulously dry you off.

He wraps you up in your robe after he’s got you dry, scooping you up in his arms. You squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck, “Jeez, do you store all your compliments in your muscles?” you ask playfully, sprawling out on the bed when he lowers you onto it.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” he muses mysteriously, shedding his jacket and laying down with you. “I haven’t complimented you in days, so that must be making me stronger.”

You giggle, shaking your head at him before pulling him into a hug, “Maybe you can make it to me?” you suggest, leaning in to kiss him softly.

“Maybe I should,” he agrees, wrapping his arms around you securely.

He spends the night whispering sweet nothings into your ear and for once in forever, neither of you leave. 

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That (pt.7 Tina)

Tina is brash, a little rude, but she loves you, she does!

She just has a reallyyyy hard time showing that and she keeps fucking it up.

(the 5 times Tina messes up trying to apologize to you and the 1 time she finally manages to get the words right)

Another new format for this series; I couldn't resist doing a 5+1

We're also going to pretend that Tina is romanceable without trapping Tony in a threesome, ok?

“Hey, loser,” Tina pops up, looking as angular as ever, “I was wondering when you’d finally come visit me again.”

“Hi, yeah…sorry. It’s been hectic,” you apologize, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly. In the midst of everything, Tina did kind of get neglected.

“Uh-huh, yeah, ‘hectic,’” she air quotes hectic, rolling her eyes, “If by hectic you mean that everybody was a little dramatic over a movie and you decided to steal my drama queen crown and break down, then sure, it’s been ‘hectic.’”

Tina regrets the words the second they fall out of her mouth, spine straightening to an angle you know was possible. She watches your reaction, wanting to smack herself when she sees the way your smile falters. 

“That’s not what I--”

You interrupt her, not wanting to hear her excuse, “It’s fine, you’re right, I’ve been super dramatic.”

“No--” she doesn’t get to finish because you’re walking off.

“Son of a bitch,” she swears, stomping her foot and running a hand down her face.

She didn’t mean to call you dramatic, or she did, she just worded it wrong. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was a little butt hurt over the fact that you forgot about her during all the drama. But that doesn’t give her the right to call you dramatic when your reaction was completely rational. 

She’ll make it up to you.

#2:

Tina’s always been fine with being in the closet, less people to bug her, but it’s also harder to interact with you. And it’s so easy for you to avoid her, which she’s pretty sure you’re doing, considering she hasn’t seen you in three days. 

She’s been stuck venting in her diary, writing about that stupid face you made and how you made her cold heart crack like tempered glass getting smacked with a hammer. Stupid you with your stupid wide eyes and stupidly heartbreaking pout.

A hand lands on her shoulder, making her toss her diary up, whipping around to chew out whoever dares interrupt her sexy brooding (pouting). Then she sees it’s you and her entire demeanor melts.

“Oh! Hey, sexy! What have I told you about sneaking up on me like that?” Her tone is sickly sweet, trying not to sound like a total bitch.

She sets a hand on your arm, taking the time to fondle your bicep, “Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood, so I’ll forgive you as long as you stick around to watch Love Triangle Island with me.”

------------

“Oh…yeah, lucky me,” you nod, chewing on your bottom lip, picking at the dry skin.

You weren't necessarily looking for an apology, but it stings that she doesn’t even acknowledge what happened last time. In fact, she wants an apology because you scared her. Maybe if she was a little more observant… 

You sit down on her couch, your whole body stiff as the intro to L.T.I starts. You’re not a huge fan of the show; it’s toxic and gross and not a single one of these couples ever makes it out of the villa, but Tina likes it, so you put up with it.

Tina’s shoulder presses into yours, leaning closer to you, so she can fill you in on what’s happened the past few episodes you missed:

 “Ok, so Samantha and Jeremy broke up last episode because Samantha kissed Elladine- Elladine, is a bombshell who replaced Cora--who got voted off because she was a total biatch and deserved it--in the Zack and Jack triangle. Zack and Jack aren’t mad at Elladine because they’re lowkey into the whole foursome thing. Which is totally get, the more the merrier, y’know?”

She pauses, looking over to make sure you’re listening, which you are…Kind of, ish. “Or, I guess you don’t know, since you couldn’t find a third for us. Which I don’t get, considering there’s like a hundred of us in the house.”

------------

Tina smirks, obviously teasing you. She’s perfectly fine without having a third in your relationship. She wasn’t, at first, but she’s come to love you all the same, and it’s not like she doesn’t have other relationships! She got her threesome with that little ginger freak and that absolute bombshell Reggie. 

“I mean seriously, there was one thing I wanted and you couldn't do that,” she clicks her tongue, shaking her head, her earrings jingling quietly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, bottom lip trembling, “I just…I don’t know.”

Her head whips away from the TV when she hears the strain in your voice, stunned by your wobbling lip. Oh, god, what’d she say wrong this time!? She was teasing! She was!

“No, no, no, it’s okay! I swear, I like our relationship. Honestly, having multiple lovers at once is tiring, you’re a breath of fresh air,” she insists, grabbing your wrists when you stand up, not wanting you to leave without allowing her to correct herself.

“I mean, god, that hanger freak is exhausting, I didn’t realize I could be out-flirted,” she groans, pulling you between her legs, “And don’t even get me started on Reggie, I can’t stand being out bitched.”

Your hand smooths over her bangs and she barely resists the urge to smack your hand away from her perfect style. “I was just teasing, I promise.”

“Okay, I’m sorry for overreacting,” you squeak and she wants to smack all the apologies right from your lips. 

You leave with glassy eyes for the second time in the past week and Tina almost feels like crying herself. 

#3:

Tina is going to apologize and she’s going to do it properly. Granted that’s what she thought last time and look where that got her. Whatever, she’s good at this. She’ll totally get you to accept her apology- No! This is about apologizing to you, not getting you to accept it.

“You’re going to make me sick with your pacing, beautiful,” Amir tells Tina, who’s been pacing in front of the mirror, rehearsing her apology for the past thirty minutes.

“Not sorry,” she mutters, blowing on her freshly filed nails, “Does it sound good?”

“It sounds like an apology,” Amir says, eyes flitting back and forth while she continues pacing, “It also sounds like you’ve practiced it.”

“That’s good,” she beams, reading over her prewritten apology again.

“Ehhh,” Amir frowns, rotating his hand in a so-so gesture. “I said it sounds practiced. Practiced isn’t always the best… Apologies should be from the heart.”

“This is from the heart!” Tina scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest, scowling at the mirror (which is not something she does often), “I’m just practicing, so I don’t make a fool of myself…again.”

“Is it from the heart?” Amir asks with a sympathetic look, setting a hand on Tina’s arm, “Because, and take no offense to this, please, it sounds like something taken from Love Triangle Island.”

“It.. Does not!” she exclaims, huffing and looking away from Amir. 

She looks down at the paper, muttering the words under her breath:

‘My darling, you’re the one of the only ones for me.’

‘I’ve made some dumb mistakes, but I hope you can find it in you to forgive me.’

Even an ‘I know we can win this.’

Son of a bitch, it doesn’t sound like a Love Triangle Island speech, it is a L.T.I script. She subconsciously copied Jonathon’s (only one of the most iconic contenders on L.T.I) speech to Rebbeca (the hottest bombshell to date).

“I assume you agree?” Amir asks, noticing the way Tina is huffing and rolling her eyes.

“Shut it!” Tina hisses, smacking Amir’s arm, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

Tina stomps off without allowing him to respond, not wanting to be corrected. Tina flops onto her bed, knocking her head into the mattress a couple of times. 

“I smell drama,” Reggie says in a sing-song voice, sitting down on the edge of Tina’s bed, setting a hand on her back, “Spill, angle girl.”

“I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to apologize,” Tina answers, her voice muffled by the mattress. 

“You’re apologizing?” Reggie scoffs in amusement, laying down on his side next to Tina, “To who?”

“The human,” she looks up at Reggie, scowling at the look of amusement on his face.

“Ah, I suppose if there’s anyone you should be apologizing to, it’s them,” Reggie nods, pulling Tina’s beater from her hair, watching it cascade over her shoulders. “What’d you do this time?”

“I was a bitch,” Tina rolls her eyes when Reggie pulls her hair out of the bun, brushing it over her shoulder, “Like a real bitch and not just my…y’know, normal bitch.”

“Mmm, makes sense,” he hums, pulling Tina’s hair back over her shoulder, brushing his fingers through it. “Now, why can’t you apologize?”

“I tried, once. Ended up making them cry and then I decided to write an apology and turns out, I can’t even do that. I plagiarized Jonathon’s speech to Rebecca,” she admits, letting Reggie play with her hair.

“Oof, I remember that speech,” Reggie groans, twirling braids into Tina’s hair, “Back when Love Triangle Island was actually entertaining.”

“I’m choosing to ignore that,” Tina scoffs, swatting Reggie’s hands away, “Can you leave, I’d like to brood in peace.”

“Fine,” Reggie raises his hands in mock surrender, standing up from the bed, “Hope you can figure it out. Or don’t, either way, I’m in for a treat.”

Tina flips him off, making Reggie laugh, waving as he leaves the room. Tina sighs, rubbing his hands down her face.

How is she supposed to apologize to you if she can’t have an original thought?

#4:

You approach Tina, making sure to knock on the door before coming in, “Hey.”

Tina spins around, her face going from shocked to happy to almost disappointed in two seconds, “Heyyy!”

“Hi,” you nod, awkwardly shuffling in your spot. You’re not quite sure why you came, or if she’s even happy you did.

“Hi!” she echoes, just more cheerfully than you, “Okay, soooo, fill me in.”

“Fill you in?” your brows furrow, confused on what she needs filling into.

“Yeah, the tea? C’mon, we haven’t had one of our drama seshes in foreverrrr,” she groans, taking your hands and leading you onto the bed, pulling you down next to her.

“So, spill,” she orders, setting your hands into her lap, grabbing a random bottle of nail polish off of her sidetable. “Oof, when was the last time you cut your cuticles?”

------------

Tina begins brushing the silver polish onto your nails, making sure to get the perfect angle against your cuticles for the perfect manicure. She decided that instead of a worded apology, she’d show you how sorry she is.

You guys have little ‘tea’ parties every now and then, filling in Tina on the drama around the house that she can’t reach. She enjoys doing them with you; it’s bonding time with you!

“I guess…uhm, nothing’s really happened recently,” you shrug, making her gasp when the nail brush draws to the side, getting nail polish all over your finger.

“C’mon, nothing? Not even a little mishap?” she inquires, cleaning up the nail polish with a bit of acetone. “C’monnnn, you mysterious little thing. Don’t be shy,” she goads.

“I’m being serious, it’s been tame around the house!” you insist, pulling your hand back when the acetone hits a hangnail.

“Hey!” Tina yanks your hand back, rolling her eyes at the messed up polish. “There’s seriously nothing to tell?”

------------

“Tina!” you gasp when she yanks your hand back, pulling it away from her. You wipe the wet nail polish onto your sweatpants, only slightly regretting the action. “Stop!”

“What? Why? You love our little drama seshes,” she frowns, confused by your outburst.

“I do, but not right now!” you throw your hands up, running a hand through your hair, biting down on your bottom lip, “You didn’t even try to ask me what I want to do. Because, honestly, all I wanted to do today was hang out with you without any drama, which I don’t know why, considering all you are is drama, drama, drama.”

She stammers, standing up off the bed. Well, yeah, she likes drama, but she isn’t all drama. “Way to be a bitch!” She sounds almost proud, if she wasn’t so hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you shout, unable to reign in your tone.

------------

You’ve apologized to her twice now and she hasn’t managed to get one apology out. She really does suck at this and you’re right, anyway. She didn’t ask what you wanted to do and she totally deserved that.

“Stop apologizing!” she shouts back, stepping forward to grab you, but you back away from her.

“I’m gonna go,” you mumble, leaving the room before she can stop you.

She gapes, staring at your back, then the empty spot you once stood in. Jesus H. Christ, how does she keep fucking up!? She grabs one of her pillows, screaming into the fluffy material.

#5:

Tina is genuinely on the verge of giving up. She’s over being a total fool and failing at apologizing. She has several other lovers who have absolutely nothing wrong with her drama obsession, so why would she need you?

Stupidly cute, sweet, perfect you. You don’t understand her in the way Reggie does, or the way Hank…3, she thinks, does. You’re not huge on drama or catfights or Love Triangle Island.

Maybe that’s her problem, she settled for someone who doesn’t like anything she does. She pulls out her diary, flipping to an empty page, scribbling out her thoughts.

‘Dear diary, I’m tired of trying to apologize to them.’

‘I can’t do it right.’

‘Not that they make it easy, god they’re infuriating.’

‘Last time we spoke they said I was all ‘drama, drama, drama.’’

‘Which, like, no duh. I made that clear from the beginning, didn’t I?’

‘I’m mad at them now, kinda thinking about breaking up.’

She sighs when she writes the last line, hurriedly erasing it. She doesn’t want to break up with you, not ever. She focuses on doodling your face, making sure to get every angle of it correct. She sighs again, dreamily this time.

She sets her diary down, deciding that she should go visit her drama king and freak prince. Maybe they can help take her mind off of you.

------------

You knock on Tina’s door, ready to apologize for being a jerk yesterday. When she doesn’t answer after a moment, you peek into the room, finding it empty. You sigh softly, entering anyway. 

You spy her diary on the top of her comforter and you can’t help yourself. You decide to take a sneaky-peek, just for old times sake. You skin through the pages, occasionally giggling at her ridiculous anecdotes. 

You finally reach the most recent entry, tracing your fingers over the pencil doodle of yourself. You smile slightly, going to read the entry. Your eyes catch on the last sentence, trying to read the erased part of the sentence. 

Your heart drops when you finally manage to figure out what it says: ‘kinda thinking about breaking up.’ You didn’t realize that you were that bad. Sure, you were a jerk the other day, but you didn’t think it was bad enough that she would want to break up.

You slam her diary shut, tossing it back onto the bed haphazardly, leaving her room before you burst into tears. 

------------

Tina returns from her dalliance slightly less satisfied than she hoped to be. She kicks her shoes off, letting her hair down, wholly prepared to settle in bed with a good snack and Love Triangle Island playing.

When she flops down on the bed, she realizes that her diary isn’t in the same place she left it. She assumes that someone just got nosy because she’s majorly interesting, then it hits her: what if you got nosy? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve snooped.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, flipping through to her last writings, tracing her fingers over the half-erased statement. It’s visible enough you could’ve read it. Shit.

The one:

You definitely read the entry; you haven’t visited since that day. Tina is freaking out a little bit and she never freaks out. She swears she’s going obtuse. 

“What’s so wrong with having people hate you? I loveee it,” Reggie drawls, watching Tina pace like a caged tiger, an amused smirk on his lips.

“They don’t hate you, do they?” Tina snaps, shooting daggers at Reggie, “You, the concept of rejection, love somebody.”

“Well…Yeah,” Reggie shrugs, pursing his lips. Yeah, he loves you. You’re you. “Listen, just talk to them.”

“I can’t exactly talk to them if they’re avoiding me,” Tina points out, her jaw tense, “I need help,” she admits quietly, letting out a deep sigh.

“I think I can help!” a cheerful voice comes from behind them, Holly coming around the corner. “I’ve totally been eavesdropping, so sorry about that, but I kind of have a plan!”

Both Tina and Reggie look at the bustling girl with suspicion, looking at each other, then back at her. “Okay, spill decor girl,” Tina waves her hand, looking at Holly expectantly. 

“Okay, here goes.”

------------

Betty had come to grab you, telling that Holly has been throwing herself into her self-destructive work tendencies and your help was needed. You hurry upstairs, bursting into the room, ready to drag Holly into bed, kicking and screaming. 

You freeze when you see Tina standing there, looking all prim and proper, hands clasped in front of her. You look around the room at the few others that are out: Reggie, Betty, The Hanks, and Holly, actually.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyeing Betty suspiciously, “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” she whispers with a giggle, pressing a kiss to your forehead before gesturing for everyone to follow her, leaving you and Tina alone.

“Please don’t leave,” are the first words out of her mouth, stepping forward towards you. 

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re the one that wants to break up,” you remind, tucking your arms across your chest defensively.

------------

She groans quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose, “I don’t want to break up, I was being dramatic. As always.” 

“Y-you don’t?” you ask quietly, looking at her in surprise, “But you--”

“Wrote it down? Yeah, I know. I was butthurt and was being stupid,” she tells you, coming forward, hesitating for a second before grabbing your hands.

“I really, really don’t want to break up,” she admits, squeezing your hands, “And I have been a total bitch recently. And I’m sorry about that.”

Holy shit, she finally apologized. She actually got the words out! Oh, yeah, score Tina!

“I just missed you, okay?” she tells you, wrapping your arms around her shoulders in a hug, “You’re nothing like me and I really, really like that. It’s so sexy, opposites attract, y’know? We’re like Roxxanne and Alex from season two of Love Triangle Island.”

You can’t help but snort at the reference. You remember fawning over the couple when she forced you to watch the season. It’s the one and only time you’ve ever seen her root for a monogamous pair in the show.

“Well who’s Roxxanne and who’s Alex?” you ask, seemingly dropping the defensive tension in your body.

“Seriously? I’m obviously Roxxanne,” she scoffs, side-eyeing you like you’ve personally offended her with that question, “I mean, god, have you seen her jawline? Absolutely angular.”

“Right, right, my apologies,” you murmur, an amused smile on your face.

“Hey! No apologies, even if they’re not serious. I’m doing the apologizing,” she states, pulling back from the hug to look you in the eyes.

“I have been a total jerk and I know that’s kind of my thing, but I’ve been…excessive and I hurt you. I don’t want to do that,” she tells you, sighing softly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“I know,” you nod and her entire body seems to sag in relief, dropping her perfect posture for once in her life.

“Y’know, I have been trying to apologize to you for two weeks now,” she admits, head tilting slightly, a relieved smile on her face.

“You did good,” you assure her, kissing the top of her head, letting your lips linger, “You wanna watch Love Triangle Island?” you mumble against her hair.

Goodness gracious, she loves you so hard right now, “You know I do,” she nods, pecking your lips. “Race you to bed.”

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? (pt.6 Skylar)

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? guide

Skylar's app isn't working and you can't really dateviate your dateviators, so your forced to get help from the others.

or

Skylar worked herself sick and can't answer her app summoning, so you to her instead.

(CW: Sickness, obviously. Emetophobia warning)

(If anyone has a request on who they'd like to see next, feel free to ask, just pick someone off the list :3)

I'm also probably going to start writing a new fic. It'll be a Tony x male (or nonbinary, I haven't decided) reader 😌

“Skylar, Skylar, Skylar…” you repeat to an empty room, spinning around in circles, wobbling slightly.

You’re kind of hoping that saying her name enough will summon her like Beetlejuice, but so far, your efforts have been for naught. Her app hasn’t been working and you can’t exactly dateviate the dateviators. 

You’re not sure if she’s purposefully doing it or if Phoenicia is in need of another update. You groan, pulling your phone out; she’s not warm, so that’s a good sign.. You think. You click on Phonecia’s app, backing up slightly when she pops up.

“Good morningggg, my love,” Phoenicia beams, wrapping you in a tight hug, “What hot goss can I fill you in on?”

“Morning, Phoenicia, I actually need help with something,” you tell her, hugging her back, “Are you ok, Sky’s app isn’t working and I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“Oh, yeah, honey! I’m peachy,” she assures you, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, “I don’t know why Sky’s app isn’t working. I can go check on her, give me two minutes and I’ll be right back with that pretty, little lady!”

You nod, shuffling your weight nervously, waiting for Phoenicia to return. You pop your lips, rocking between the balls of your feet and your heels. She returns with a grim look on her face, and you internally start freaking out… Maybe a little externally too.

“Oh, my god. Where is she? Is she okay? Did her suspension of disbelief break again?” you try to peak over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of a certain pink haired woman. 

“Sweetheart, calm down. She’s resting. Her suspension of disbelief is fine, but--”

“But?” you ask a little too loudly, interrupting Phoenicia, which gains you a smack on the back of the head, “Sorry. Continue.”

“Mhm.. Anyway, as I was saying she’s sick--”

“Sick!?” you exclaim, staring at Phoenicia like she might’ve personally inflicted Skylar with the plague. You get smacked again, a little harder this time.

“Quit interrupting me!” she orders, glaring at you, “Again, as I was saying. She’s sick. I think she’s been overworking herself.”

Your mouth opens to interrupt her again, but she pins you with a stern look and you think otherwise, allowing her to continue.

“As you’re aware, she was the one who initially suggested avoiding you and I know we apologized, but she still feels guilty, so she’s been working overtime to make sure everything is working in pristine condition,” she explains, rubbing her thumbs in soothing circles on your arms, “You can speak now.”

You release the breath you were holding, your entire chest deflating, “Can I see her?” is all you ask, deciding to spare your lovely phone your barrage of questions.

“I think she’d like that,” Phoenicia nods, taking your hand and leading you to Skylar’s room/apartment thing. 

You know that all of the dateables have their own place, but you’ve only ever actually been to Eddie and Volt’s place, since it’s right above the bar. Phoenicia releases your hand, gesturing towards the door, which you can hear coughing and sniffling coming from inside the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Always happy to help,” she smiles, kissing the corner of your mouth before taking her leave. 

You knock on Skylar’s door, slowly opening it, “Sky, honey bee, you in here?” you peek into the room, frowning slightly at the pile of blankets on the bed, the only sight of life being tufts of pink hair poking out.

“Noooo, go away, I’m sick,” she groans, her voice stuffy and nasally. 

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you’d be able to get sick from her, but you push forward. Even if you can, it’d be worth it. You shut the door behind you, sitting down on the edge of her bed, taking the time to look around her room.

“Hey, Sky.. Heard you were feeling under the weather,” you murmur, setting a hand on the lump of blankets, hoping that she can feel it. “Your white knight is here to nurse you back to health.”

She finally pops her head out, looking all sorts of pathetic: red and runny nose, bag under her glassy eyes, the works. She pouts at you, seemingly trying to glare at you in disapproval, “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“Can you even get me sick? I mean, how would that work?” you wonder, laying down in bed with her. You set a hand on her forehead, wincing at the warmth coming off of her, “Oh, honey bee, you’re burning up.”

“I know, I’ve been trying to sweat it out,” she mumbles, grabbing your hand, pressing it to her chest to cuddle with it.

“Do you need anything?” you ask quietly, brushing your free hand through her slightly damp hair, lightly scratching her scalp.

“No…I just want you,” she admits, reaching out for, pulling you into her chest like her own personal stuffed animal. She blearily nuzzles against your chest, squishing her cheek into your skin.

“That works,” you chuckle, curling up with her. You rest your head on top of her head, sighing softly.

“Night-night,” she slurs, eyes fluttering shut, quiet snores leaving her.

You fall asleep shortly after her, surprisingly lulled by her little snores. You don’t know how long you're asleep before you're jostled awake by Skylar rushing out of bed, the sound of heaving following shortly after.

You toss the covers off of you, following her into the bathroom, watching her lean over the toilet. You come up behind her, gathering her hair in your hands, holding it back for her. It’s over as quickly as it started, leaving Skylar resting her forehead against the rim of the bowl. It takes you a second to realize that she’s crying.

“Oh, Sky… Hey, it’s okay,” you whisper, sitting down on the floor next to you, rubbing circles onto her back. You get it, you cry every time you get sick too.

“No, it’s not okay,” she argues weakly, watching her tears hit the bathroom tile.

------------

“It is. It’ll be okay, it’s probably just a twenty-four hour stomach bug,” you tell her, still rubbing her back.

The genuine care in your tone makes her sick to her stomach- again. You’ve always been so good to her, to everybody, even after all they did to you. She reaches behind herself, weakly pushing your hand away. She doesn’t deserve your comfort.

“It’s not okay!” she exclaims, sobbing into her arm, “How can you still look at me after everything that’s happened?”

If she hadn’t been such an idiot with an idiot-er idea, then you never would’ve gotten hurt. Everybody would still be happy.

“Sky--”

“No, no, no! Don’t you ‘Sky’ me,” she scoffs, swatting your outreaching arm, “what I did was horrible. I’d hate me. I’m pretty sure some of the dateables hate me, I get it.”

She sniffles, growing more annoyed at herself and her stupid clogged nostrils and the way the lights are making her head spin and you. Stupidly perfect you, with your concerned puppy dog eyes and caring smile and sweet tone. If you were even slightly less lovely, life would be so much easier because she wouldn’t feel like major shit!

“I-I-I.. I’m horrible!” she mumbles, knocking her forehead back against the porcelain. 

------------

“Skylar, you’re not horrible,” you tell her, setting a hand on her thigh, brushing your thumb over the fabric of her fuzzy pajama pants, “And nobody hates you: not me, not the dateables, and I really hope not yourself.”

When she doesn’t immediately reject the hand on her thigh, you slowly pull her into your lap, cradling her like a treasure. You brush your hands through her hair, resting your chin on her shoulder.

“It’s just the sickness talking, okay? You’re being dramatic,” you add, carefully rocking the two of you back and forth.

“It’s not,” she denies, shaking her head, accidentally bumping your heads together. You wince, but don’t move, not wanting to spook her.

“It is,” you insist, lightly kissing her shoulder before moving her out of your lap and standing up. You help her up, letting her lean against the counter. “You are going to brush your teeth and lay back down and I am going to go see if I can get Stefan to whip up some soup.”

Skylar wants to argue, she really does, but she doesn’t have the energy. It’s probably for the best anyway and soup does sound really good, “Okay.”

“Okay,” you parrot, kissing her hot forehead before leaving her alone in the bathroom. 

You return a little over twenty minutes later, finding Skylar asleep in bed again. You peel some of the blankets back, pressing a hand to her forehead; she feels less warm than she did earlier, so that’s good.

“Mmm, your back,” she mumbles sleepily, cracking one of her eyes open. She perks up when she sees the bowls of soup, “Chicken noodle, no celery?”

“Ahh, no. It’s actually split pea and celery soup, Stefan said he wanted to try something new,” you tell her apologetically, a solemn look on your face. It cracks when she stares at you like you’ve grown three heads, “Kidding, it’s chicken noodle.”

“You’re so mean,” she huffs, sitting up in bed, “I could be dying and you’re teasing me.”

“Does it help if I said that I brought rolls?” you ask, sitting down on the bed in front of her, setting a tray down between the two of you, placing the food down.

“A little,” she nods, taking the spoon you hold out for her, “Thank you.”

“Mhm, happy to help,” you tell her, ripping one of your rolls in half, dipping it into your bowl of soup, “You feel any better? You didn’t feel as warm as you were.”

“Yeah, I think puking actually helped,” Skylar whispers, more focused on slurping up the soup like a heathen, “Mm-mm-mm, this is really good.”

“Yeah, Stefan always delivers. I’ll have to get him to give me his recipe one day,” you agree, following Skylar’s example and ditching the spoon.

“Ha! I don’t think he loves you enough for that,” she giggles, tearing a chunk of her roll off and tossing it at you, bouncing it off your forehead.

You scoff indignantly, tossing it back at her with a snort, “Yeahhh, I know. He may love me, but he’ll take those recipes to the grave,” you sigh wistfully, setting your bowl down. “As long as he keeps making them for me, that’s fine.”

“Exactlyyyy, I rue the day he stops cooking for us,” she nods slowly, eyes shut in bliss as she finishes up the last dredges of her soup, setting the empty bowl on her bedside table.

“Let’s hope nobody pisses him off enough that he cuts us off.” You finish shortly after her, moving the tray to the floor.

You scoot forward a little, taking her hands in yours, brushing your thumbs over her knuckles, “Do you want to talk about earlier?”

Skylar tilts her head away from you, refusing to meet your gaze, “Not really.” She chews on her bottom lip, sighing, “But we should.”

“Yeah, we should, do you want to start or should I?” you ask, grabbing a blanket to drape over your laps.

------------

“I’ll start,” she tells you, fiddling with a fraying string on the blanket, pulling at it until it snaps. “You obviously know how I feel about…everything and the role I played in it..”

She sighs, finally looking at you again. She reaches over, setting a hand on your cheek, caressing your skin. You’re so sweet it makes her teeth ache, “I made a stupid decision out of selfishness and that hurt you and I’m so, so sorry.”

Her voice cracks, tears welling up in her eyes, but she pushes forward, “I know that I’ve apologized, probably a million times by now, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough- it’s not enough. You said it yourself, apologies aren’t just a fast track to making everything right.”

Her breathing shudders, wiping her tears off with her sleeve, “That’s why I’ve been working so hard, y’know? To make sure everything is perfect for you, making sure everyone is running at their peak.”

“Sky, honey bee, that’s not your responsibility,” you murmur, leaning into her palm, mirroring the gesture and putting a hand on her cheek, swiping away a stray tear she missed. 

“I know, but I feel like it is. I’m trying to prove to you that I still deserve your love,” she presses her face into your palm, nuzzling against it, “I’ve been trying to prove to myself that I still deserve your love.”

There, she said it and she didn’t spontaneously combust. That’s a good sign. She finally takes a breath, focusing on the feeling of your hand on her face.

------------

You just want to squeeze Skylar so tight right now, wrap her up in a hug and only let her go once she realizes that she’s always worthy of your love. You scoot over to her, pulling her into the tightest hug you can manage.

“Honey bee, of course you’re deserving of my love,” you promise, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “I love you, okay?”

“But--... nevermind, okay,” she nods, burying her face into your shoulder.

The two of you lay back down, limbs entangled with each other. Your hand runs through Skylar’s hair, scratching her scalp.

“I still can’t believe that you’re not mad at me,” she mumbles into your skin.

“Uh oh,” you gasp, pulling her away from you, looking at her with a grime expression.

“What?” she looks worried now, pink brows pinching together.

“I think your suspension of disbelief is broken again,” you tell her, pursing your lips and shaking your head like a doctor who just delivered a horrible prognosis. 

Her worried expression drops, now looking annoyed at you, “Seriously? I thought there was something wrong!”

“There is! It’s broken!” you exclaim, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her lightly.

“It’s not!” she retorts, smacking your shoulder.

“Then take your disbelief and suspend it!” you quip, pursing your lips to try and keep your serious facade up, “Because I’m not mad at you.” You finally break, a smile replacing the thin line your lips were in, booping her nose, “I promise.”

“You’re an idiot,” she scoffs, booping your nose back.

“You’re a bigger idiot, considering you think that I should be mad at you,” you point out, flicking her nose. 

“Hey!” she rubs the tip of her nose, pouting at you.

“Is your disbelief suspended?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, holding your hands up in a clawed position, ready to tickle if necessary.

Skylar’s eyes widen when she realizes what that threatening motion is, “It’s suspended!” she promises.

You sic the claws on her anyway, tickling her sides while she squirms and squeals, “I didn’t hear you! What’s been suspended?”

“My disbelief!” she squeaks, trying to wiggle her way away from the torture.

“Your disbelief of what?” you question, hooking a leg over her hip to keep her in place.

“That you're not mad at me and still love me,” she answers quickly, face turning red, “I deserve your love and you're not mad at me.”

The tickling stops once she finally admits it, a pleased smile on your face. You squeeze her tightly, kissing her forehead, “That’s right. You deserve love and I’m not mad at you.”

She pants, pushing you away, “You’re mean,” she huffs, sticking her tongue out at you like a child.

“I know, I’m so evil,” you giggle, pulling her back into a hug.

“The evil-ist.”

She cuddles into your chest, finally catching her breath, letting her eyes fall shut. You can’t tell if she’s tired from the sickness or if you wore her out. Either way, it’s probably a good idea for her to get some rest.

“I love you,” you whisper, pulling the blankets over the two of you.

She doesn’t hesitate this time or argue that you shouldn’t, “I love you too.”

[g00d--m0urning]

Request: Can we add Washford and Drysdale to the forgiveness list please ,

requests are closed until I write more chapters, but once they open back up, I can give them a shot :)

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? (pt.5 Captain Jacque Pierrot)

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? guide

While Jacque may not be able to hurt you as an inanimate object, he fears he may be the death of you.

Or

The short little shit won't sword fight you anymore!!!

I love Jacques soooo much, this chapter was actually really fun to write. Also, does AO3 have a tagging system, like can I @ someone on their request or am I just going to hope that they see it? 😔

Also, I love his last name, I highly doubt it's intentional, but Pierrot separated is pier rot, like a pier rotting and ships dock in piers. It's funny to me (somebody save me 🥀🥀)

Captain Jacques Pierrot: a fearsome pirate that makes men shudder at the mere mention of his name, a gruesome (speculative) killer, and the lover of many. Though, there is only one that truly holds the key to his heart. 

That’d be you. His darling, his partner in adventure, his most favorite victim to endow stabbings upon. 

“Oh, Captain Jaaaacques, where art thou?” your voice breaks through the bustling noise of the deck, his cockroach army busy at work. 

Jacques comes down the stairs, joining you on the lower deck, “I didn’t realize you were visiting today,” he comments, taking your hands and bringing it to his lips. 

“But it’s Friday?” you point out, brows furrowing slightly. Every Friday, you come visit him on his ship and the two of you have a sword duel (that you may or may not let him win, occasionally).

“Ah, is it? I didn’t realize,” he mumbles, looking away from you to bark an order at one of his cockroaches. 

You don’t believe him, not for a minute. Normally, he’s counting down the minutes until battle time, hiding around the ship to ambush you, “Oh…Well, shall we?” You wave your toothpick sword through the air. You guys created it together, using spare craft supplies to make it pretty.

“Sorry, I’m busy, my heart, captain-ly duties,” he states, shouting at one of his crewmates for not swabbing his deck to his liking, “We can reschedule.”

“I guess so,” you shrug, narrowing your eyes at the captain. You sheathe the toothpick sword, frowning, “I won’t keep you then, goodbye, my love,” you hum, leaning down to kiss his cheek, hoping to fluster the pirate.

He barely reacts, waving a hand through the air, “Uh-huh, bye,” then he’s hobbling off to go chew somebody--somebuggy--out.

------------

Jacques watches over his shoulder as you leave, feeling annoyingly guilty at the sight of your pouty expression. He loves dueling with you, it’s the highlight of his week (even if he has to let you win sometimes).

However, sword fighting puts your life in danger, even if he goes easy on you, or if he were to use a foam sword. You’ve gone through the efforts to win his heart, he refuses to drive a sword through yours.

He turns his attention back to his crew, who are all watching you, “Oye, back to work, you bugs!”

------------

You come back the next day, pouncing on the captain when his back is turned, muttering to himself while he charts out maps, “Fight me,” you order playfully, wrapping your arms around his neck in a loose headlock.

Jacques laughs, remaining unperturbed despite the headlock, “Nice try, firstmate, I heard you come in,” he tells you, patting your arm.

“Son of a bitch!” you whine, stomping your foot like a child, “I was quiet.”

“You were quiet, but you can’t one up the master,” Jacques assures you, almost condescendingly. He peels your arms off him, reaching up to pat your cheek in consolation.

He sets a hand on your lower back, leading you out of the room, “Try again another day, my heart.”

You scoff, throwing your hands up, entirely appalled that he just kicked you off his ship. Rude! You look over to the invisible camera, The Office style, raising your brows.

 It hits you what exactly is going on: that tater tot is avoiding fighting you because he’s scared of hurting you. Which is really surprising because you didn’t realize he was afraid of anything. You tap your fingertips together, eyes narrowing.

“Captain Jacques Pierrot, you will fight me again,” you declare to no one specific, but you notice Dante standing behind you. “Don’t ask,” you snort, kissing the hottie’s cheek, “Love you!”

You skip off before he can answer, pushing the dateviators higher up your nose. You need to create a plan. Normally, you’d go to Jacques to help, but considering he’s the one you’re plotting against, it’s probably not the smartest thing to do. 

You set off, visiting a couple of your battle-worn lovers: Kristof, Chance (who isn’t violent himself, but his sessions can be surprisingly ferocious), and Tydus. They all have one suggestion: anger. Jacques is a tiny man with a lot of anger, if you push him hard enough, he’s sure to crack.

You feel bad about it, but it has to be done! You sneak onto the ship, sword held low by your hip. Most of the crew is off deck by now, probably off for lunch. You slip into the messhall, finding Jacques standing at the front of the room, rambling on about their future endeavors. 

It’s cute, watching him being so passionate about his sailing. It’s one of the many things you love about him. You can’t get distracted by that, though. You slink through the shadows, tiptoeing closer to him.

Then, you pounce. You jump onto him, tackling him to the ground, sword pointed at him, “Fight me or die, Captain,” you demand, using an admittedly slightly ridiculous accent!

Jacques growls, taken off guard by the sneak attack. He goes to shove whoever dares to attack him before he realizes it’s you, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“One upping the master,” you inform him, smirking at the captain. ‘Can’t sneak up on the master,’ bullshit. “You are going to fight me.”

“I think not,” he flips your position, taking over on top, flicking the brim of his hat out of his face, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Exactly!” you groan in annoyance, smacking his forehead with the hand not holding onto your sword, “You’re not going to hurt me. You never do,” you whisper, hoping to Rongomaiwhenua he gets the hint.

The gears in his head seem to start churning, a lightbulb going off over his head, “Ah… You’re right,” he nods, rolling off of you, standing up and offering you a hand.

You take it, helping yourself up, “Soooo…” your brows raise, looking at him expectantly.

“Soooo…” he echoes, narrowing his eyes at you, a smirk spreading across his lips, “En garde,” he pulls his sword, raising it up.

“En garde,” you parrot, raising your toothpick and clashing it against his cocktail sword.

The crew cheers as the two of you maneuver around the room, moving out of the way when you jump onto tables. They whoop as you start to back out of the room, still dueling…just taking the fight somewhere else.

------------

“I let you win,” Jacques announces, his hair spread across the pillows.

You gasp, utterly offended at that, “You did not! I won fair and square,” you retort, swatting his chest. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he drawls, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. He brushes his hand over his cheek, “Consider it an apology for being a bad captain to my first mate.”

You lean into his hand, still scowling at him, “Ok, apology accepted, but I still beat you- Fairly!” you giggle, flicking his nose.

“Mhm, maybe we should have a rematch,” he suggests, wrapping an arm around you and bringing you in closer

“Maybe we should,” you agree, scooting closer to him, “Round two?”

“Round two,” he nods, leaning in.

He snatches your sword from the bedside table, pushing you off the bed to get the upper hand. You yelp, recuperating as quickly as you can, tossing a pillow at him in retaliation. 

Round two begins.

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? (pt.4 Dorian)

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? guide

(CW: nonsexual nudity) Dorian's always had a complicated relationship with love. That's why he friend-zoned you; you still managed to break down that door and win over his heart.

He's worried history might be repeating itself.

Maybe it's his turn to break your doors down.

This is actually written kind of different from the other chapters, it's pretty much Dorian's POV for the events following after the end of Ch.7 Final Destination: Your House.

Also the '------------'s in this chapter indicate time skips instead of the normal POV switching because there is no POV switching in this chapter

Dorian watches from the front row as you beg Skylar for an answer, watching as you break down in front of everybody. You’re crying and yelling, unravelling at the seams. He doesn’t know what to do; he’s thought he was the strong one, but he never realized that there was someone ten times stronger beside him the whole time and they were cracking. Crumbling apart until you shattered. 

He stands up, skipping the three steps up the stage, trying to cut down any distance. He needs to get to you. “You’re right,” Dorian says, keeping a blank expression, “We were scared and it made us selfish. All we thought about was ourselves.”

You deserve the truth. You deserve to know how selfish they all are. How selfish he is. 

You can’t seem to find the words, only nodding at him in response. Dorian begins approaching, keeping his steps slow and light, like coming up to a skittish animal. You’re looking at him like you don’t recognize him.

He pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his wide frame. You protest weakly, smacking against his chest until you’re too tired to continue fighting, “Fuck you.”

He doesn’t apologize, nor does his grip on you falter. He holds you the way he always does, like he’s scared he might lose you if he lets go. For once, he’s worried that might be the case. 

“Don’t leave again, please. I can't do this.”

He’s almost worried you might hear the way his heart shatters. He holds you tighter, letting you exhaust yourself. Dorian can feel your weight slump against him, adjusting you to scoop you up, carrying you to bed.

He watches over you while you sleep, ignoring the way his heart twists with every whimper that leaves you. He can only hope you aren’t having a nightmare again. He’s had a chat or two himself with the shadowy entity that is nightmares; she’s entirely unpleasant.

------------

Dorian finds himself struggling over the weeks. He’s everywhere, literally. Every time you enter a room, you have to pass him. Most of the time, you simply compress, bringing your shoulders in and shuffling through the doorway awkwardly, like you’d rather die than touch him.

He keeps up with his jokes, even letting out the occasional ‘whee’ when you open him, trying to draw out that laugh of yours. Sometimes it works, gaining him a pity laugh.

Dorian has been waiting for somebody to crack. For anybody to acknowledge the elephant in the room. It’s been four weeks since you’ve asked them for space. Four weeks! And while he’s more than happy to comply with your boundaries, as you had his, he can’t deny the way his skin crawls.

The first to crack is Skylar. There’s a handful of the dateables gathered in the kitchen, watching Skylar pace like a caged tiger, biting at the ends of her hair. She’s suggesting that everyone starts doing small gestures, helping around the house in small, but meaningful ways.

Nobody steps forward, looking around the room hesitantly like they're looking for someone to be the brave one. Dorian steps forward, running a hand through his hair. It’s not a horrible idea and he feels bad for the glasses.

“I suppose I’m in.”

He doesn’t have time to dodge before Skylar jumps into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss to his cheek that leaves lipstick behind, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she cheers, releasing him and stepping back.

Dorian’s agreement caused a chain reaction, others coming forward to agree to help. The plan is set into motion. Dorian, the gentleman he is, doesn’t have to change anything; he continues to open himself for you, making small talk in a tone an octave softer than the one he uses for anyone else. 

------------

He’s at the foot of your bed with Skylar, Phoenicia, and Betty, watching you sleep. It’s only slightly creepy. Skylar is, once more, fretting over something. He’s not too focused on her right now, more so paying attention to you.

Dorian sits down next to you on the bed, setting a hand on your head, then your forehead, and cheeks, and neck. His thumb brushes over the pulse point in your neck, feeling the strong pumping of your blood thrum under the skin. It’s soothing, feeling it beat under his fingers. A pulse means you're alive.

“Should we make the gestures bigger?” he hears Skylar ask, momentarily stealing his attention from your sleeping form. 

He stands up, walking back over to the door. He’s had his share of being near you, lest he be greedy. “I thought the point of the gestures was to make their day better, not to be noticed,” he comments, holding his clasped hands in front of him.

If the house were to start making bigger gestures, ones bound to disrupt your day, their whole purpose would come undone, pointing back to one thing: selfishness. The one thing that got them into this whole thing to begin with.

Dorian steps aside to allow Betty to escort Skylar out of the room. He doesn’t fall asleep, he can’t. He spends the whole night watching over you, never moving from his post.

------------

“Heyyyyy, Dorian,” he’s snapped out of his reverie by a pattering of hands against his chest, blinking the film from his eyes to find you standing in front of him.

“Morning, love,” he greets you with a smile, catching both of your wrists, putting a stop to your chest-bongo session, “You’re peppy.”

“Thank you for noticing, I’m in a fantabulous mood,” you inform him, doing a little spin to show off your outfit. “I even got dressed.”

“I can see that,” he nods, taking in the outfit. It’s a smart outfit: a dashing red shirt and actual pants instead of your normal lounging around pants. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you again, I feel lovely,” you smile at him, but he notices it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. There’s a pinch in your brows too. He notices, he always does when it’s you.

“I promised I’d help Lady Memoria with something today, so I will see you in approximately thirty seconds when I get up to the attic,” you’re kissing him before he can even question it, scratching his beard like he’s a cat and skipping off without another word. 

You kissed him today, the first time in over four weeks. He thought he’d be happier about it, but he’s not. All he can feel is a pit in his stomach and a you-shaped hole in his heart. The others notice it too.

It’s like there’s a switch that’s been flipped; you’ve gone from roommate to lover overnight. In the back of Dorian’s mind, he can’t help but wonder if this is what it felt like for you, to have the one you love change 180 in a matter of days.

Dorian listens as Mayor Celia and Skylar talk about what possibly could’ve happened overnight that made you decide to start your affections back up again and none of it is good. He pushes himself up straight, clearing his throat, “Might I suggest we talk to them this time, instead of dancing around it like a bunch of idiots?”

Mayor Celia looks over at him and nods, a passive smile on her lips, “I believe that’d be for the best, Dorian.”

He’s silent as you get coaxed into the living room, the dateables surrounding you like this is some sort of intervention. Skylar is the one who speaks to you, using a soft tone and kind words. 

 “I just… I don’t know, I figured I’ve been avoiding all of you long enough,” you say and something in him snaps. He wants to shake you until you get it through that thick, lovely skull of yours that you’re not doing anything wrong.

 He settles for using his words instead, speaking through a clenched jaw, “You haven’t been ignoring us, though, love,” Dorian points out, staring at you scrutinizingly, “You asked for space and we were all happy to provide it.”

You argue with him anyway, but others jump in before he can say anything else. It wears you down because you finally admit what’s wrong: Doug. When he gets his hands on that slimy ball, he’s going to strangle him. With his bare hands. And enjoy it a little bit (a lot).

He blinks and you’re being hugged by people. He hovers in the back of the crowd, but ultimately decides to join in, sitting down on the couch next to you, setting a hand on the small of your back, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

You curl up with him when you start the movie for Movie Night™, resting your head on his chest. Your weight is soothing, even if his arm starts to prickle with sleep halfway through. After several ridiculous animated movies (including The Lego Movie, The Lego Movie 2, The Lego Batman Movie, some show called Ninjago?, and KPop Demon Hunters) everyone decided it’s time to turn in.

Dorian looks down at you, only to find you already looking at him, a tired smile on your lips, “I missed you,” you whisper to him, snaking your arms around his middle.

“I missed you too, love,” more than you could ever know. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “Do you want me to strangle Doug? I’d do it.”

That makes you laugh, a real laugh, burying your face in his chest, “As tempted as I am to say yes, I don’t think you’re allowed to kill existential dread.”

“I could try,” he states, shifting his arm from out behind you with a groan, flexing his tingly fingers, “Let’s get you in bed, yeah?”

“Mmm, I suppose,” you nod, rolling off of the couch with a dramatic groan. He holds his hand out for you to take, feeling his chest loosen when you take it.

Dorian leads you upstairs, pausing in the doorway, “G’night, love,” he kisses your forehead, going to leave, but a hand around his wrist stops him.

“Stay?”

It’s such a simple request, one word, but it breaks him down. Your words echo in his mind: Don’t leave again, please. I can't do this. You sounded so heartbroken, so tired, so betrayed. He promised to stay, so stay he shall.

“Of course,” he nods, entering the room with you.

It’s hushed as the two of you enter the room, Dorian guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed. His hands slip under your shirt, slowly pulling it off of you. You do the same for him, unbuttoning his shirt with care.

You’re bare in front of him, moonlight filtering through Curt and Rod, illuminating your features. He stands between your legs, feeling stripped in more than one way, as raw as he was when he was a strong oak in the forest.  For once, he doesn't mind it, doesn't mind being vulnerable if it means being with you. He wants you to see him like this.

Dorian can feel your thumbs brushing over his sides, your forehead pressed against his stomach. He wants to stay like this forever, he thinks. It’s selfish, but he can’t help it. Not when it’s you. Your hands slide up his sides, fingers dancing over the tattoos that paint his skin.

“Did these hurt?” you whisper, resting your chin on his stomach, looking up at him.

“A little bit,” Dorian admits, setting a hand on your cheek, tenderly caressing your skin, “Why, thinking about getting one?”

You snort, rolling your eyes at him, “Maybe, you never know,” you shrug slightly, pulling down onto the bed. 

He climbs into bed with you, settling in on the right side. He pulls you to his chest, resting his head atop yours. Your arms curl around him, your breath fanning across his chest. Crickets chirp somewhere outside the window, leaves rustle. 

Silence falls over the two of you again and your breathing has evened out, so he’s assumed you’ve fallen asleep. He’s proven wrong when your voice breaks:

“You promise to stay?”

“Always, love. Always.”

[g00d--m0urning]

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? (pt.3 Daisuke)

Forgiveness. Can You Imagine That? guide

(CW: talk about reader being cut by glass- not self inflicted. talks about reader being hurt, also not self-inflicted, unless you count being clumsy self-inflicted)

You and Daisuke have a talk. A straight up talk, no bullshit for once.

He also gets to learn the origin of every scar that comes with the life of being an absolute klutz. Turns out he likes taking inventory of more than just dishes.

This chapter is shorter than the other's because I really wanted to write a chapter where there's absolutely no bullshit, no big gestures, nada. Just two grown adults having a grown adult conversation and I felt like Daisuke was one of the best options for that (Dorian was runner up, but I already have his chapter partially plotted in my mind). Also, about my posting schedule (if anyone is interested/cares), I'm probably going to post once a day, and late at night because that's when I seem to write best.

You’re pretty sure Daisuke has been ignoring you, at the very least avoiding you as much as possible. He’s always busy, which isn’t uncommon for him, but he’s always made time for you and you’re pretty sure if you don’t spend time with that poetry loving, busybody dummy, you’re going to explode.

He’s busy working when you come into the kitchen and you’ve learned from your mistake--that you’ve made multiple times--knocking on the wall to announce your presence, instead of sneaking up behind him, “Hey, do you think you spare just a second- or more than a second, like a handful of seconds, maybe even a minute or two?”

“Yes teacup, I have a few seconds to spare for you,” Daisuke assures, setting down his clipboard and closing the cabinet he was inventorying. “Maybe even a minute. If you play your cards right.”

“Epic, c’mon,” you grab his hands, pulling him over to sit down, “Let’s talk.”

He doesn’t let go of your hands, flipping them over, brushing his thumbs over your palms. He’s staring so hard at them, you’re almost worried he’s going to burn holes into your skin. “Talk about what?”

“About why you, my precious little poet, have been avoiding me,” you tell him, staring him directly in the eyes.

You’re so over dancing around everybody and you’ve learned that, especially with Daisuke, straight up communication to get to the root of the problem is easiest. It might hurt a little to get the truth out, but it’s like waxing: it hurts, but it gets the root out. 

“I…Have been,” he admits, only after heavily debating denying it. There’s no point, you’ve learned to read him easier than you do his poetry. “I apologize, Teacup.”

“Apology accepted,” you promise, smiling softly, taking one of your hands back to set it on his cheek, tracing your fingers over the smattering of freckles that paint his skin.

He wraps a hand around your wrist, holding it to his cheek. His head tilts, pressing his lips to your palm. His lips are soft, like porcelain, against your skin, and warm, like a cup of tea. 

“You haven’t been avoiding me because you’ve been mad at me right?” you ask, unable to resist the urge. You want all the feelings out right now.

“Why in the world would I be mad at you?” he asks right back, sounding almost offended at the prospect of him being mad at you. How could he ever be upset with his muse?

“...Because I dropped a cup?” you remind, pouting at his offense. He can’t be offended! You broke a cup, he should be mad. God, you remember the look he gave you the day you chipped him; it still haunts you.

“Oh. Oh, no, I’m not mad at you for that,” he promises, pulling you into his lap. He holds you like you’re fragile, a treasure to be treated with care. “That was an accident, how could I be mad at you for that?”

He rests his chin on your chest, looking up at you with the widest, sweetest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen. “I did think about making you use paperware, however. Or perhaps some of the children’s plates; the ones with suction bottoms.”

You laugh, kissing the top of his head, “That’s fair,” you agree, pulling the teacup from his hair, ruffling his hair into place. “That still doesn’t explain why you’ve been avoiding me,” you point out, brushing your fingers through the ends of his hair.

“I feel guilty. About that night,” he murmurs, his eyes glassing over as he thinks back to that night.

 He feels like throwing up every time he remembers the way the cup had sliced through the delicate skin of your palms. The way the clearness of the glass became red with your blood. He was--is--angry about the broken cup. Though, at himself and not you, like you’d assumed.

“You were hurt because of me,” he brushes his thumbs over your palms, feeling every callous, ridge, and line.

“I was hurt because I freaked out and made the dumb decision to try and pick up glass with my bare hands in the midst of a panic attack,” you tell him, a slightly self-deprecating chuckle leaving your lips, “Look, not even a scar.”

You flip your hands over, presenting him with your unscarred palms. Daisuke traces his fingertips over each line of your palms, sending tingles through your veins. He pauses, pressing his thumb against a specific spot.

“Where’d this one come from?” he asks, dragging his fingernail over the rough spot of tissue.

“A scrap from when I was a kid, wiped out at the pool, took a chunk from my palm and busted my chin, see?” you tilt your head up to show him the scar that remains from the result of your childhood clumsiness.

“Ah, so not my fault?” he whispers, lightly pressing his lips to your chin.

“Not your fault,” you confirm, scrunching your nose up at the kiss. The scar is still tender, making the kiss ticklish.

He pulls your sleeve up, tapping a grey spot on your arm, silently requesting an explanation, “Oh, yeah.. That one,” you roll your eyes, annoyed at the memory, “Some jerk in middle school stabbed me with a pencil.”

His eyes darken slightly, but he doesn’t comment further on that, pinching the scar just above your elbow, “Another fall. I tried skateboarding, once upon a time. Did not end well.”

He hums in response, moving to your other arm, twisting it around carefully. Daisuke caresses a mark on your inner arms, looking up at you briefly, “A burn mark; I accidentally bumped my arm against the top of the oven while I was trying to pull out cookies.”

“You’re quite chipped, teacup,” he remarks, setting his hands atop your thighs, pulling you closer to him, “And strong. You’re so strong.”

“That’s because the chips make me stronger,” you say, resting your head on top of his, nuzzling your nose into his hair, “Is that cliché to say?”

“Slightly, mayhap, but it’s true,” Daisuke concurs, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, his breath fanning across your skin, “Every chip has a story, the very story that creates you. I’m glad to be a part of that story.”

“I’m glad you’re a part of my story too,” you whisper, letting your eyes fall shut, “Just promise me you’re not going to make me use silicone dishware. I hate the feeling of them.”

He laughs airily, lightly pressing a kiss to your neck, “I won’t make you use silicone dishware,” he promises, giving you a slight squeeze. “No promises about paper, though,” he adds under his breath. 

You bark a laugh, shoving his shoulder, “Daisuke!”