#at this point he's not even really a skeptic he's just smooth-sharking him

[scarlettaagni]

running gag of Cyclonus refusing to believe in ghosts even post-Starscream's Ghost because he wasn't conscious for that. he's convinced that everyone trying to explain what happened is in on some dumb joke

he also never forgot that time Scourge made him look dumb by reminding him there's no wind in space. They snip at each other where when something gets knocked over by wind, Cyclonus asks Scourge if he thinks that was a ghost too. He flies around in the sky and asks Scourge if ghosts are lifting him up.

Cyclonus won't let the bit die, not even after Ghost in the Machine. Scourge asked if he believed then, and Cyclonus just went "ghosts don't tumble uncontrollably through space, so Starscream is not a ghost". it drives Scourge up the fucking wall.

[chiriwritesstuff]

The New Girl in Tinseltown - Chapter 2 - Devil's Advocate

A Dieter Bravo x Actress! Reader PR Marriage AU

Previous Chapter │ Series Masterlist │ Next Chapter

Chapter Rating: E (18+, MDNI)

Chapter Summary: A look into Dieter's point of view at the night of our fated trip to Vegas. How does America's favorite Bad Boy™ end up married to America's New Sweetheart™?

Chapter Warnings and Tags: (Not So) meet cute, PR Relationships, what happens in Vegas ends up in the headlines, Dieter just does not give a FUCK, Smut, SO MUCH SMUT, a look at the inner workings of Tinseltown and the sleaziness it comes with, Dry Humping, A hell of a lot of dirty banter, is that yearning?, mentions of devious deeds by sleazy people in show business, our loverboy makes a 'Pride and Prejudice reference, SLOW BURN WE DONT KNOW IT, this is unhinged, no use of y/n, No beta we die like men!

Word Count: 8K (whoops!)

A/N: I know, I know, I KNOW. I promised the release of this chapter weeks ago, but I got struck by the not-covid-but-felt-like-covid virus and managed to get myself into the biggest writing slump. I really do apologize for that, and I want to give a big thank you to everyone who stuck around and showed and shared love and support for the first chapter and this series! I can confidently say that the writing slump has finally passed, and we can finally get this crazy show on the road...

An (almost) year before that night in Vegas.

“Dieter, I'm expecting you to be on your best behavior tonight."

Dieter scowls at his publicist while his groomer diligently applies yet another round of pomade in an attempt to tame his unruly curls. "Define best behavior."

"They're about to launch a new girl into the circuit, some unknown that the studio thinks will become the next girl next door," his publicist responds, tapping away at his MacBook. "She's a genuinely sweet thing, all doe-eyed and untouched by the suits. Apparently, she's so sweet that Feldman-"

“Let me guess,” Dieter deadpans, "Feldman wants to fuck her," he rolls his eyes at that, slightly curious at the prospect of fresh blood. "Why am I not surprised?"

"That's not the best part," his publicist quips, his eyes locking with Dieter's over the rim of his laptop. "The studio wants to protect their asset, so much so that they hired-"

"No fucking way, they hired the Shark for this broad? What? Does she have beer-flavored nipples or something?" Dieter exclaims, his curiosity piqued. "Is she really that sweet?"

His publicist's mouth quirks into a small smirk. "The sweetest, most fucking forbidden fruit, my friend. So sweet that the Shark doesn't want you within ten feet of his client."

"Oh yeah?" Dieter replies, his eyes raised.

"Hell yeah. He tried to corner me earlier, warning me to keep my client's - and I quote - Dirty fucking paws off of his Doll-"

"Doll, huh? I bet I could tap that," Dieter challenges, his chest puffed out.

Dieter's publicist chuckles to himself, shaking his head. "Dieter, I know you believe you're God's gift to the masses, but trust me, this Doll? She's a bit out of your league."

Dieter leans back in his chair, a sly grin forming on his face. "Out of my league, huh? That just makes it more interesting. The thrill of the chase, my friend."

His publicist raises an eyebrow, skeptical. "Dieter, I've seen you chase plenty, but this Doll is different. She's not like the others. There's an innocence about her that even your charm might struggle to crack."

Dieter smirks, undeterred. "Well, we'll see about that. The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, doesn't it?"

The publicist lets out a resigned sigh. "Just remember, Dieter, not every fruit is meant to be plucked."

"What is this event even for?" Dieter counters, appraising himself as his stylist smooths the fabric of his suit, a deep emerald green number with a crisp obsidian button-down. He pouts at the mirror, glancing at his publicist and his agent behind him. "It's not the Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards again, is it?"

"Why? So you could be caught doing blow off a toilet bowl seat like last year? I'm still doing damage control for that, you know," his agent deadpans. "You're in luck; it's the MTV Movie Awards-"

"... and this is Doll's debut, huh? Is she up for an award or something?"

"Several, actually. Surprisingly, her last film gained quite the following-"

"... let me guess, it's some rom-com," Dieter interjects, a hint of disinterest in his tone. "What are the categories?"

"Three, to be exact." His agent smirks into his cognac. "Best Female Lead, Female Breakout Star, and Best Kiss-"

"Best Kiss? Seriously?" Dieter retorts incredulously, his eyes widening. "What's the name of her movie? I might need to see it for myself-"

"Dieter, level with me. Are you gonna keep your dirty fucking paws off of the Shark's asset?" his publicist sighs, giving him a stern look. "As much as I want to shove my foot up his fucking ass, I don't have the energy to have him breathing down my back the entire fucking night-" he looks off into Dieter's direction, who is currently on your Wikipedia page. He frowns. "Dieter, do you hear me?"

"What?" Dieter snaps, slamming his phone onto his seat.

"Can you manage to be on your best behavior tonight? Stay clear of-"

"No. I mean, sure, fine, whatever-" Dieter interrupts, his tone dismissive.

"Dieter-"

"I heard you! I promise to stay away from her, but the real question is, are you able to keep her away from me?" He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

The (not-so meet cute) at the MTV Movie Awards.

"Dieter!" you shout, hastily making your way toward him, clearly a few drinks in. "Surprised to see you here!" you shout excitedly, a little wobble in your step as you approach him. 

You adorn a sleek silver gown, your hair elegantly swept to one side, and your radiant face contrasting vividly with the venue's intense lights. Dieter finds himself momentarily breathless as he gazes at you, captivated by your ethereal presence, akin to an angel descending into the depths of hell. "Fuck me," he murmurs under his breath as you draw near, the collar around his neck suddenly feeling constrictive as he nervously swallows. "What the hell? I never get nervous around women," he mutters to himself, his eyes tracing the entirety of your figure. His pants grow notably tighter, his attention fixated on the hypnotic sway of your hips.

He greets you with a nervous smile as you come face to face, tenderly planting a kiss on your cheek. His eyes close momentarily as he savors your delicate scent, a sensation that electrifies his chest and courses through his veins, prompting his hands to instinctively caress the back of your head as he subtly tries to capture another whiff. A subtle sense of pride swells within him as he notices the blush unexpectedly blooming across your skin, its warmth cascading down your cleavage.

Forbidden fucking fruit indeed. 

"Doll," he attempts to say smoothly, a hint of nervousness lacing his voice. "I've heard so much about you. Congrats on your wins tonight; they're truly well-deserved!"

"Really?" you suddenly squeal, and Dieter feels like he could get lost in your energy. It's pure, sweet, and so inherently innocent—the childlike wonder of being thrust into the limelight, untarnished by the sleazy underbelly of Hollywood. He can't help but internally frown, foreseeing the inevitable vultures in suits trying to get a piece of you. Their insatiable hunger for new, sweet flesh is something he knows all too well.

"Well, yeah, Doll, you killed it, as expected. Winning tonight and sweeping all your nominations was a given," he muses, casually leaning against his chair. As he leans towards you, a subconscious desire prompts him to take another whiff of your perfume, desperately trying to commit its essence to memory amid the haze of his coke-induced high. He can't resist burying his nose in your hair, eyes closing as he takes you in once more. 

"Dieter-" you question his sudden boldness, a nervous chuckle escaping you. 

"I'm sorry, baby-" he moans into your neck, his hands traveling down the length of your back. "You must tell me what the name of your perfume is, its divine-"

"Oh," you laugh as Dieter pulls you into him tighter, groaning as his hands travel dangerously close down your hips. "It's 'Missing Person' by-"

"Doll," a voice emerges from behind the two of you, accompanied by a stern clearing of someone's throat. Dieter's expression darkens as he recognizes the owner of the voice, but not before planting one final teasing kiss against your throat. With a smirk playing on his lips, he straightens up and turns to confront the perpetually annoyed yet annoyingly handsome face of the man Hollywood dubs 'The Shark'- also known as the most ruthless of publicists in all of Tinseltown, protecting his clients with an iron fist so strong no one ever thinks of crossing him.

Unless they wanted a cease and desist letter shoved so far up their assholes... without any fucking lube.   

Dieter gets it, though. If he were in his shoes and he had a client like you? All sweet and pure with the face of an angel but a body curated by the Devil himself?

Well, he would fuck your brains out and make you forget your name first, but that's beside the point. The point is, he gets it, he really fucking does.  

"Well well well," Dieter croons as he holds his hand up towards your publicist. "It's been a long time, Shark. Tell me, did you have to call ahead to make sure that some poor bloke's mangled testicles made it onto your plate for tonight, or did you rip someone's balls off fresh on-site?" he snarks with the raise of his eyebrow, shaking his head as your publicist stares at his outstretched hand in greeting. Dieter scoffs as he retreats his hand, placing it on his hip.  

"Bravo," Your publicist grits through clenched teeth as he tries to appear as unbothered as possible. "Aren't you a little old to be here tonight? The rumors aren't true, you know. Fucking girls close to half your age doesn't keep you young, but I suppose it makes sense, considering a woman your age would know better-"

"Shark, I won't tolerate you talking like that in the presence of an actual earth-bound angel. Just because she's young doesn't mean she doesn't know right from wrong-" Dieter retorts, flashing you a smoldering smile. "... you know how to handle yourself, don't you, Doll? You don't need some uptight prick telling you what you can and cannot do, right?" he winks, a slight puff to his chest.

You visibly shiver at his cheeky insinuation, nodding. "Right," you breathe, taking a hasty gulp of your champagne. "I'm 29 years old, I don't need you defending my 'honor' like I'm some virginal maiden-"

"Well, when my client has far too many drinks in her and doesn't understand the kind of man she's in the presence of-"

"The Devil, right?" Dieter exclaims, pointing to himself. "A no-good washed-up actor who fucks anything with two legs while high off my rocker, who just so happens to be good at what I do with the Oscar in my shitter to prove it? Don't you think she knows all of this? My bare ass isn't on the front page of TMZ weekly because I'm a nobody, baby."

"Oh my god, Dieter," you gush, clapping your hands together. "I loved you in-"

"Doll," your publicist interrupts, a firm hand on your shoulder. "You have that meeting with Favreau at the Beverley Hills in 30 minutes. As much as we would love to stay and chat... we have our jobs to get to, right Doll?" your publicist says to you sweetly, his hand grazing your arm. He clears his throat, nodding at Dieter. "Bravo, it was stimulating, as always," he deadpans with a hint of finality, pulling on your elbow like a lost puppy on a leash. Dieter swallows as he witnesses your light dimming from your face, a small frown on your face as you try to remain cordial, a fake smile etched on your face.  

"It was nice meeting you, Dieter," you almost whisper, pulling him into one last hug. "... maybe we'll just run into each other again soon?" You quickly whisper in his ear, and the thought of the two of you meeting up in secret thrills him to no end. His dick certainly twitches at the prospect. 

Dieter takes one last whiff of your scent, his eyes closing as he wills the time to stand still, not wanting to lose the warmth radiating from your aura. He presses one last kiss on your cheek, his fingers caressing the spot as he gives you a genuine smile.  

"... it wouldn't be soon enough, baby."

He gives The Shark one last salute, flipping him off once his back is toward him. “Fucking asshole cockblock,” he mutters to himself, patting his suit pocket for his little baggie of E. He pinches the baggie between his fingers, looking at its contents in silent contemplation.  I guess if I can't get the girl, at least I can get the high, right?

The morning after.

Dieter is face down on his sofa in his boxers and his robe, groaning from the after-effects of his debauchery just a few hours before. As if his skull is splitting into two, he winces as he turns himself onto his back, staring aimlessly into his ceiling as his iPhone suddenly starts to go off from under him.

Sighing, he blindly reaches for his phone, one eye open as he squints into the tiny, shattered screen.

TMZ NEWS FLASH! Up-and-coming Actress who swept MTV awards show last night being groped by Resident Playboy Dieter Bravo? Her publicist sweeps in to save our New "It" Girl in Tinseltown from the grasp of the Devil himself-

Dieter scoffs as he swipes the notification away, his eyes scanning the next headline.

AP NEWS ALERT: Dieter Bravo seen kissing Rising Actress at MTV Movie Awards last night, is a new romance brewing between the Fresh-Faced Actress and Playboy Lothario Dieter Bravo?

"Dieter," his publicist groans as he walks into the room, picking up a crumpled pair of boxer briefs off the sofa, and throws himself on it, pinching the space between his eyebrows as he shakes his head. "What the hell did I tell you? Stay away from The Shark's client, don't grope her in front of him! Can't you just listen to me for once?"

"It was innocent! I kept my hands at a respectable distance from her ass," Dieter retorts, throwing his phone across the room. "I didn't even make a move—"

"That's not the point, Dieter!" his publicist spits back, pulling out his phone. "Do you realize how much this guy despises you? I'm good at my job, but The Shark? I can't go against a god—"

"You're making him out to be some untouchable—"

"...because he is untouchable, Dieter! Do you even know he's buddies with Feldman? After learning about your stunt last night, he's considering pulling you from the project."

"Please," Dieter scoffs, rolling his eyes. "They need me more than I need them! I'm practically doing them a favor, signing on to this fucking movie. They're not going to pull Dieter Bravo from a sinking ship! It's just scare tactics!"

"Yeah, well, you know what they say. The pussy is stronger than god, right?" his publicist replies, scrolling through his phone. "Feldman didn't appreciate your hands on his girl, and now he's out for blood. I warned you about this, D. Is some girl worth losing a multi-million dollar contract? Do you want to go back to doing 'surprise guest star' roles on cable TV? I heard they're thinking of rebooting 'Suits', it might be a good fit for you-"

"So what do I need to do then?" Dieter fires back, a joint between his lips. "I assume I'll be needing to make a public statement or some shit? Keep the old bastard happy?"

"It's funny you mention that D. I have an email from The Shark himself, with a list of what he wants you to say in your statement, promising he'll back the fuck off if you promise to not go within ten feet of his asset-"

"Have you ever heard of 'Missing People' perfume?" Dieter suddenly asks, taking a hit off his joint, his eyes following the thick plume of smoke as he leans back into the sofa. "Missing... Woman?" he mumbles to himself absentmindedly, licking his lips. "Fuck, what did she say it was? I need to stop going to these things blitzed out of my fucking mind-"

"Dieter, focus. Are we releasing the statement or not?"

"MARCUS!" Dieter calls out for his PA suddenly, ignoring his publicist as he grabs the phone out of his hands. "MARCUS! I NEED YOU!"

"Yes D?" Marcus responds as he rushes into the living room, pulling a fresh pack of Kitkat out of his back pocket. "Did you need a snack?"

"Have you ever heard of 'Missing Someone' perfume?" he asks once more as he pulls up the Safari app on his publicist's phone.  

"You mean 'Missing Person' by Phlur?" Marcus quips, picking up the stray pieces of discarded clothing strewn randomly around the room. “One of my favorite actresses just became the spokesperson for that perfume, swears by it-“ 

“Missing PERSON, that’s what it was!” Dieter shouts, tossing his publicist's phone back at him. “Marcus, you’re a fucking godsend! I knew there was a reason why I kept you around! Could you do me a small favor?”

"What do you need, D?" Marcus asks eagerly, his hand perched on his hip. 

"I need you to buy me 'Missing People'. A couple of bottles, at least."

"How many is a couple?" Marcus asks with a nervous chuckle. "Five? Are you giving these out as gifts or something?"

"Maybe I could call Chriselle, and tell her you're interested in the company, there are more scents suitable for men, D," his publicist says casually, pulling out his laptop from his messenger bag. "I ran into her at Erewhon the other day, she's a big fan of your work, and couldn't stop talking about Cliff Beasts... Now, about that statement-"

"Fuck asking, just go to Neimans or Sephora or something and buy out their entire stock. Lotions and body wash and candles if it comes in that scent, too, Marcus. Go to all of the fucking Sephoras if you need to."

"... the entire stock? D, what is this for?"

"Do I pay you to ask all of these fucking questions? Don't worry about what I'm going to do with it. Just get it in my hands by the end of the day, do you think you could swing that?"

"... yes?"

Dieter takes another drag out of his joint, nodding aimlessly. "Great. Also, stop by Blicks on your way back. I need an entire arsenal and the biggest canvas they have. New brushes, too! Set up my studio and put the 'Missing People' in my bathroom, and I'll want my usual In n Out order, too."

Flustered, Marcus pulls out his phone and starts typing Dieter's requests on his notes app. Running a nervous hand through his hair, he looks at his boss once more. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Get the fuck out of my face and get to work, Marcus. Chop Chop!"

His assistant nods and scrambles out of the living room, tripping on the corner of the area rug on his way out. Dieter's publicist raises his eyebrow at the display, shaking his head as he types away on his laptop. "You know, you could be nicer to him, D. He tries hard to cater to your every fucking whim and fancy... now, are we gonna release that fucking statement or not?"

"What statement?" Dieter asks absentmindedly as he pulls out a small baggie from his robe pocket.  

"The one where you say that you had a little too much to drink and that you didn't mean anything by groping Doll at the Movie Awards, and that you're really sorry and will be donating a couple thousand to a women's shelter-"

"... and this will make The Shark happy? and Feldman off my ass?" he replies, rubbing his gums as he smiles to himself. "I'll be able to stay on the project?"

"You can start packing your bags, yes. Filming starts in a week for the next few months in Europe. It'll give this whole Movie Awards nonsense some time to blow over."

Dieter considers this for a moment. He sticks his tongue out in contemplation, coming to the unsettling realization that he hasn't been in a major studio project in the last few years. He needs this job more than they need him, and deep down, he knows this. He takes one last drag out of his joint, flicking the roach away as he turns towards his publicist.

"Release the fucking statement."

His publicist nods, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Good," he murmurs, genuine relief softening his features. "I can't handle you out of work for another month, not after the fucking pandemic... What's the deal with all that perfume, anyway?"

"What?" Dieter replies absentmindedly, scratching his beard.

"The stuff you made Marcus buy in bulk," his publicist clarifies.

"Forget the perfume. Do you still have those photos I sent you?"

"I've got them, but I haven't checked them out yet. Why?"

Dieter gestures toward the laptop. "Why don't you take a look?"

His publicist eyes him warily, opening the email. His expression shifts to shock as he glimpses the contents. "Is this—"

Dieter nods, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Yep."

"This is huge, Dieter. How did you even get these? They're screwed if this ever goes public—"

"That's why it's payback time. A little warning shot," Dieter interrupts, leaning forward eagerly. "We leak the photos. Anonymously, of course."

"Dieter," his publicist warns, "If they trace it back to you—"

"I'll take the risk. They messed with the wrong guy," Dieter scoffs, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "These amateurs think they can get away with it?" he mutters to himself, then clears his throat. "Remember our motto?"

"Nobody fucks with Dieter Bravo."

Dieter leans back on the sofa, nodding. "That's right. Nobody fucks with Dieter Bravo."

Six Months later.

"Hi, I'm Carol Cobb!"

"... and I'm Dieter Bravo!"

"And we are doing a Wired Autocomplete Interview!"

"Alright! Is Dieter Bravo..." Carol energetically rips the first sheet of paper off her card, a playful smile spreading across her face as Dieter looks attentively at the camera. "Is Dieter Bravo dead?!" She bursts into laughter, smacking Dieter with the card, who simply shrugs. "Wow! Why would they hit us with that right out of the gate?"

"Not dead yet!" Dieter exclaims, pushing his signature glasses off his face while gazing into the camera. "Got close... several times," he adds with a pointed smirk.

"...and we are very much thankful for that!" Carol shouts. "Shall we move on to the next one?" She tears the next slip of paper, her eyes widening as she reads, “Is Dieter Bravo secretly married?!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a secret if I spilled the beans now, would it?” Dieter smiles conspiratorially, rubbing his chin in contemplation.

“I can't imagine you ever settling down,” Carol muses with a smirk. "It seems unnatural, like going against the natural order of things, like sea animals on land. Dieter Bravo, settled down with one girl? Hell would have to freeze over before that ever happens," she teases.

"I think it could happen," Dieter says matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest as he settles back into his seat.

"What could happen?" Carol asks, her curiosity piqued.

"Settling down. Getting married, perhaps... even starting a family," Dieter replies thoughtfully.

"It would take quite the woman to make 'The Great Lothario' change his ways. Seems like an impossible feat," Carol interrupts, chuckling. "A woman who can stop the great Dieter Bravo from his manwhoring ways? Maybe someone who lives under a rock and doesn't know about your reputation."

"Actually," Dieter interjects, a hint of excitement in his voice. "I think I've met someone recently who's made quite an impression on me."

Carol's eyes widen in surprise. "What do you mean, you think you've met someone? Who is this mysterious girl that's captured your attention, D?"

"Well, she's an actress-"

"Of course," Carol quips with a knowing smirk.

"... she's new. I had the pleasure of meeting her at the MTV Movie-"

"You're not talking about Doll, are you? The woman you groped after meeting her for the first time? Someone even said that they caught you sniffing her! Who does that, Dieter?!"

"I am a connoisseur of all things exquisite and beautiful, ma chérie. She smelled absolutely divine, and I swear her scent lingered on me for days after, I swear, just let me nuzzle my face in between the valley of those luscious tits-"

"God, D. I think they're gonna have to edit this shit out!" Carol mutters, looking embarrassed by Dieter's boldness. She leans towards Dieter. "I thought you signed some embargo with The Shark promising you wouldn't mention her," she whispers in his ears. "Even I wouldn't think to fuck with him-"

"Well, Feldman was my main concern, and now he's facing jail time for all of those underage claims and those leaked photos, so fuck it!" Dieter counters, knowing damn well he worked behind the scenes for it to happen, leaking a few photos he had stored away on his iCloud, kissing himself on the mouth knowing it would come in handy sooner or later.  

AP NEWS ALERT: Hollywood bigshot arrested for leaked inappropriate images from an anonymous source of various actresses, denies all allegations of misconduct.

One asshole down, one Shark to bury next, he thinks to himself, chuckling at the thought. "Besides, I can't get her out of my fucking mind! I've never felt this way about a woman before, Carol, I mean it this time!"

"I mean, she's undeniably beautiful," Carol agrees, "but she's still new to the industry. They've been typecasting her in those romcoms with whatshisname, but I've heard she's pushing for more challenging roles—"

"Cut!" The director's voice slices through the air, his eyes narrowed at them both. "This interview is about promoting Cliff Beasts, not discussing Dieter's love life with some woman."

"Hey, that 'woman'? She's my future wife, so watch your damn mouth," Dieter snaps back, his tone defensive.

"Whoa, D, hold on. Future wife? You barely know her!" Carol interjects, her hand pressed against her chest in disbelief. "Take it easy, baby. Get to know her first, at least."

"It's gonna happen, Carol. I can feel it in my damn bones. I was drawn to her the moment I laid eyes on her," Dieter insists, his confidence unwavering.

"Listen, Casanova, I don't care who you think you're gonna marry, but we're on a tight schedule here!" the director interrupts, frustration evident in his voice. "Stick to the damn questions, and no more talk about your little 'girlfriend.'"

"Fine," Dieter mutters, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of water. "But do me a favor—don't cut out the part about her assets. It'll bring in views like crazy. I did you a favor there."

The director waves him off as he storms away. "Remind me why I took this job knowing this idiot would be here," he mutters to himself, heading back behind the camera.

The day of the (not so thought out) wedding.

Dieter is anxiously bouncing his leg, biting his pinky nail as his groomer meticulously applies another layer of concealer under his darkened eyes. "Jeez D, have you been sleeping at all lately?"

"What?" Dieter asks absentmindedly, running a shaky hand through his curls. "Yeah- I've been sleeping, why?"

“Your under-eyes, D. They’re darker than my fucking soul, man. Didn’t I tell you to lay off on the sauce? I’m on my fourth layer of concealer-“

“It’s nothing,” Dieter says dismissively. “Just… have you ever been in love?” 

"Sure I have," his groomer replies, a small smile on their face. "That's why I'm married, silly. Why?"

"Say you like a girl, and you think that this girl might be interested but then TMZ posts leaked photos of said girl and some beefed up Hollywood hunk "canoodling" with each other while filming their movie together in Canada-"

"This is Doll that we're talking about, correct? The one you groped at the MTV Movie-"

"I DIDN'T GROPE HER!" Dieter exclaims, groaning as he sinks further into his seat. "Why does everyone keep saying that? I was simply giving her a friendly, yet casual hug when she APPROACHED ME-"  He huffs like a petulant child, his arms crossed around his chest in defiance. "Anyway, I thought, after I desperately tried to shoot my shot, let my intentions known in that 'Wired' Interview with Carol, that she would contact me, you know? Maybe slide into my DMs-" 

“Slide into your DMs?” His groomer scoffs, plucking a stray eyebrow hair with their tweezers from his face as he dramatically flinches, narrowing his eyes at them. “You flat out said you wanted to smother your face in the ‘valley of her luscious tits’, I would be surprised if she hasn't filed a restraining order against you yet... Let me give you a bit of advice: Girls want to be romanced, not objectified! ... have you ever had a 'real' girlfriend before, D?"

"Hey! I've had girlfriends, alright?" Dieter groans, frustration evident in his voice as he clenches his fists. "Just because they didn't stick around afterward doesn't mean it was all my fault, okay?"

"The girls you hook up with during your benders and then discard once the high wears off don't exactly qualify as 'real' girlfriends, D! Let's be serious here!"

"That's what I'm trying to be," he whines, "I'm trying SO HARD to be serious for once! I can't get this girl out of my head, and it's been what? Almost a year since I've met her? I can't get my dick hard when I'm with anyone else anymore, I don't want to take drugs, it's like I'm fucking broken or something! ... and now she's off fucking Joe Hollywood over here like I'm not bleeding my fucking heart out for her-"

"Wait, you mean to tell me that you're actually sober right now?"

"Well, yeah. The last time I took something was before filming Cliff Beasts, I thought you knew that. Anyway, it doesn't fucking matter. All of that and she doesn't even notice me."

"Well, I would tell you that if you had bothered to read TMZ this morning instead of sulking, you would know that there are split rumors between this girl and Hollywood neanderthal," His groomer retorts, a shit-eating grin on their face. "It was over before it even began. I mean, I've heard for such a massive man, he has quite the tiny di-"

Dieter perks up at that. "Say that again."

"They've broken up. She's back on the market, silly goose."

"So that means-"

"That means that I'm going to groom the shit out of you and help you out by making her realize just what she's missing out on, D." His groomer replies, massaging his scalp as they make eye contact through the mirror in front of them. "You're lucky that I consider myself a hopeless romantic. If you promise not to break her heart, I'll help you get the girl, ok?"

"Shit, do you think she'll like me?" Dieter says nervously, fidgeting in his seat.  

"Obviously," his groomer replies cryptically, a smirk forming on the corner of their mouth. "I may or may not have some intel from another groomer friend of mine about their supposed breakup."

"Oh?" Dieter perks up, his eyebrow raised in curiosity. "... and what would that intel be?"

"Oh, you know. Someone might have asked their stylist if they think you'll be attending tonight, how she kept trying to be sly about it."

"Doll asked about me?! Are you serious?" Dieter's excitement is palpable.

"Well, according to my friend, the reason why they broke up was that someone might have moaned your name while being eaten out by 'Joe Hollywood' the other day-"

"No fucking way!"

"She's into you, D! I would say that your little ploy during the 'Wired' interview worked more than you think, bud."

Dieter nods, taking the biggest sigh of relief as he settles in his chair. "One last thing, do you groom just the top half of me, or are you open to grooming other places?"

"What do you mean?" his groomer cocks their head to the side.  

"Shit, well... are you open to grooming my nether regions? It's been a while since I've been with a woman, I'm almost full caveman down there-"

His groomer tsks, pulling out their phone. "Dieter, as much as I love you, I don't love you that much. Let me call someone for that, ok?"

A few hours later, on the red carpet.

"Dieter," his publicist says under his breath as they walk down the red carpet. "The cameras are this way, why are you so distracted?"

"I'm looking for someone," Dieter replies as he winks at the sea of paparazzi, flashing them a peace sign as he walks toward the venue's entrance.

"Well, who are you looking for?" His publicist replies impatiently, looking down the red carpet.

"Doll, obviously. Do you know if she's arrived yet?"

His publicist rolls his eyes, sighing. "She arrived about five minutes ago, don't you see her?"

Dieter inhales deeply, his gaze scanning past the vibrant red carpet until it locks onto yours. His breath catches in his chest, surprised by the unexpected connection. You appear taken aback at first, but swiftly compose yourself, subtly angling your body towards him with a seductive smile playing on your lips.

"Holy Shit..." Dieter's mind races with excitement. "She really does want me."

Filled with newfound confidence, he playfully purses his lips in your direction, sending a cheeky kiss your way as his eyebrows wiggle in amusement. A flush of color blooms across your cheeks in response, catching his eye. But as he revels in the moment, he notices The Shark's gaze narrowing in his direction, a whisper passing between him and you.

That's fucking right Shark.  I'm coming for my girl, and there is nothing you can fucking do about it.  

Later, Dieter observes you from across the room as you sit at your table, alone, nursing another glass of champagne. He notices how you try to avoid meeting his gaze, despite catching you stealing glances at him throughout the night when you think he isn't looking. It surprises him to see you being so reserved, so quiet, especially without The Shark hovering around you like a protective dragon guarding its treasure.

What's gotten you so down, babydoll?  he muses, leaning back into his chair. As if you could read his thoughts, your eyes meet from across the room once more, and you quickly look away, smiling to yourself at getting caught looking.

Dieter senses the moment's significance, his heart racing with anticipation. He knows he must seize this opportunity, the perfect moment to step forward and break the barrier between the two of you. With a determined smile, he decides it's time to make his move.

As he rises from his chair, Dieter's confidence swells, fueled by the intensity of the moment. With purposeful strides, he crosses the room, his gaze fixed on you, the anticipation building with each step. This is his chance to bridge the gap, to finally reveal the feelings he's kept hidden for so long.

He draws in another deep breath as he approaches you from behind, mustering his most seductive gaze as he leans in towards your exposed ear, his warm breath grazing your skin.

"I can't help but notice that you've been eye-fucking me the entire night."

He groans softly as he takes a seat in the chair beside yours, hoping to conceal any nerves as he attempts to exude charm. "I guess my little ploy of trying to get your attention with that 'Wired' interview worked out in my favor-"

You respond with a subtle smile, your fingers gracefully tracing the edge of your champagne glass. How does something as simple as that manage to rile me up? he wonders inwardly, returning your smile.

"You know," you say softly, a chuckle escaping you as you shake your head in disbelief, "There are more normal ways to get a girl's attention-"

The longer Dieter spends in your presence, the more he feels himself on edge, the tension mounting with every passing moment. His pulse quickens, and he can't ignore the growing semi in his suit pants. It's astonishing how much you affect him, like a siren calling out for him while lost at sea, lying in wait, ready to bring him to absolute ruin. 

Fuck. Keep it cool, Bravo.

"Ah, but you're America's Sweetheart, and your pitbull of a publicist won't let me near you, I had to let my-" he gulps at the sight of your ample bust, licking his lips in anticipation, "... intentions very clearly known."

"Well," you breathe, chest heaving. "I don't know if it's 'clearly' known," your voice drops to a whisper, like a secret that is shared only between the both of you, two lonely souls amongst a sea of chaos. "I think you're just going to have to spell it out for me."

Dieter, sensing victory, leans back triumphantly, spreading his legs as he subtly encloses you within his space. His dark, smoldering gaze meets your thinly veiled attempt at your best innocent doe eyes... but Dieter sees right through it. He grins widely, reveling in the knowledge that he's the cat about to get all of the cream—your cream.  That's right, babydoll, I've finally caught you, and I'm never going to let you go.

He laughs at the sight of you, his chin motioning to your breasts.  "Do you want to have sex with me, Dollface?"

Your eyes widen, and a small gasp escapes your lips, as you search his gaze, trying to decipher if he's just bullshitting or if he's actually fucking serious.  I'm serious, alright, he chuckles to himself. "If I miscalculated this fucking thing that's going on between us, tell me and I'll fuck off, leave you alone-"

"What if I don't want you to fuck off, and want to tell you that I'm this close to being plastered and that all I kept thinking about tonight is you railing me with that huge cock we both know is aching for me in some deserted hallway-" you challenge, picking your champagne glass for good measure, downing its contents in one swig.  For courage, he thinks. "I would beg to ask you... what's taking you so damn long, Bravo?"

WhatsApp chat between Dieter & Marcus: Dieter: Hey Marcus, are you still in the venue? Marcus: Yes! With your publicist. Did you need something? Dieter: This party blows. Can I borrow your car? Marcus: Oh, did you want me to drive you home? The party just started, Dieter. Dieter: I can drive myself back, stay for the party! Catch a ride with the suits afterward! Get shitfaced, you're officially off the clock! Marcus: Seriously? Do you know how to drive a stick? It's my baby, I don't know if I feel comfortable with you driving it, are you high right now? 🤦‍♂️ Dieter: No, for the last time, I'm fucking clean, man. Just do me a solid and let me borrow your car, I swear I'll give you a fucking raise! What do you want for one night with your baby? Tell me, I'll give you anything! Marcus: Fine. Just tell me what you did with all of that fucking perfume, there"s a bet going on and I would like to shove it in your publicist's face that I know! Dieter: Seriously man? That's all you want? Marcus: Do you want my keys or not, D? Dieter: Fine. I took the fucking perfume, doused my entire bedroom in it, and fucked myself smelling it thinking about Doll. Dieter: Is that enough of an explanation for you? Come the fuck on, man, I need your car! Please! 🙏 Marcus: 🙌 Meet me at the lobby in five. 

"So tell me," Dieter shouts as he peels out of the parking lot, laughing at the delighted squeal that escapes your lips as you throw your head back, your arms raised upward as he turns quickly into the streets of Los Angeles. "How often did you think about me, babydoll?"

You boldly reach over to cup his erection, your small hand wrapping around the tip of it. "As much as I reckon you thought of me, Bravo. Tell me, how often did you come, alone in that massive bed of yours, to the thought of your cock thrusting into my tight pussy?"

"Fuck baby, do you want me to crash this car? It's not mine, you know?"

"Answer the fucking question, Bravo."

"Baby, if you only knew how much I fucking came just thinking about your tits... I don't think you know just what exactly you got yourself into, little girl... but I'll show you just how I thought of you coming on my fat cock, giving me absolutely everything-"

I've been hungry for you, baby, and I'm going to feast on every inch of your body, just you fucking wait-

He cackles like a madman as he peels into the dwindling streets of LA. "Are you hungry, Dollface?" he yells, almost running a red light, his eyes fixed on the glowing In n Out sign in the distance.

"I shouldn't, I have that screen test next week-"

"Fuck the screen test!" he shouts. "The night is young, and you are gorgeous. Let Dieter take care of you, baby... while I still have you in my grasp. I ain't gonna waste a moment I have you in my orbit!"

He pulls into the In n Out parking lot, cutting the engine, and pulls you into his lap, his face immediately diving into the valley between your breasts. "You can suffocate me with these tits and I would die a happy man," he mumbles against your skin, his growl reverberating throughout your entire body like wildfire. "What do you say, Doll? Would you do me the honors?"

"Fuck Dieter," you moan, tipping your head back in pleasure as his tongue teases the edge of your dress covering your breasts. "Grab my tits," you beg, grabbing his hands for good measure. Dieter wastes no time as he grabs the back of your head, pulling you into a kiss, his tongue licking along the seam of your mouth, begging for entrance.  

"Open up for me, baby girl. Let Dieter taste you-" he pleads, and you pull away with him, your hair wrecked and lipstick smeared. Dieter imagines he looks as wrecked as you do, his pupils blown and chest heaving. You pull him into another kiss, sighing into it, your mouth opening slightly. Dieter takes this as a sign to devour you completely, your tongues fighting for dominance as you begin to rock your hot pussy against his thick cock.

"I want to ride you into the sunset, D," you whisper, pulling at his curls harshly. "Are you gonna give me what I want? Or am I going to have to find someone else to do it?"

"Fuck-" Dieter pants, his gaze reaching yours, his mouth agape in awe. "How in the fuck did I get so fucking lucky-"

"Grab my tits, D," you ask once more, moaning and throwing your head back, biting your lower lip as you grind on his throbbing erection. Dieter quickly obliges, his large hands engulfing both of your breasts. His fingertips graze the edge of your dress, the hardness of your nipple pressing into the middle of his palm, and he swears that if he were to be struck down dead right at this moment, he would die a happy man.  

"Shit, I knew that your tits would feel amazing, but you are so fucking soft-"

"Oh yeah?" you tease, your teeth grazing the shell of his ear. "I'm soft in other places, too." You whisper in his ear, and he swears he feels the ghost of your smile as he moves his hands back on your hips, his fingertips squeezing the softness of your ass as he angles his dick where he imagines your clit to be, thrusting into your hot, wet heat. "Fuck, so goddamn soft-" he groans, his tongue licking a wet stripe along the tops of your breasts. "You're fucking everything I never knew I always wanted, baby girl," he praises you honestly, cupping your cheek as he pulls you into another kiss, groaning as your tongue dances with his, leaving him breathless.  

"Am I?" you pant as you wrap your arms around his neck, your pussy dragging along the thick outline of his cock. "You talk like you want to marry me or something-"

"... oh, but I do want to marry you, breed you, keep you locked up in my mansion... you have no idea just how much I've thought about you, these last few months-"

"Dieter! My Man!" someone shouts in the distance. "What the fuck are you doing here?!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he yells back, "I'm about to fuck this beautiful woman in an In n Out parking lot, what are you doing here?"

"Fuck, can I take a pic, man?" the fan shouts as he approaches the convertible.  

"Don't you see we're a little preoccupied?" you shout at the fan, flicking him off. "Get the fuck out of here!" you shout.

The fan quickly takes a shot of the both of you with his iPhone, a half-hearted apology mumbled out of his mouth as he quickly runs back inside of the restaurant, probably to the group of men who are completely unaware of the two celebrities dry-humping the fuck out of each other in their wake, eating their double-doubles and sneaking sips out of a cup filled with some cheap ass vodka, fist-bumping the night away.

"Are you gonna come in those Gucci pants of yours, D?" you tease, your pace quickening as you ride his dick relentlessly. "How does it feel having America's Sweetheart getting you to come in your pants, baby?"

"Fuck," Dieter pants, his hand wrapping around your neck as he pushes you against the steering wheel, angling the tip of his cock against your clit. "How does it feel to get fucked by The Devil, sweetheart? Your pussy is begging me to just rip those fucking panties off and just claim you, right in front of all of these fucking people-"

You shiver at that, a choked curse and his name out of your mouth as he sees the entirety of your body begin to quiver and shake.  

"Don't fight it, baby, I know you fucking like the attention, I know you want everyone to see how much of a bad fucking girl you are inside... but don't worry, Dieter knows, and I'll help you show them," he pulls you against him harshly, your chest pushed up against his, as his teeth sink at the hollow of your neck. "I'll get the world to see just who you really are, baby. Let me show you the way-"

You scream as he thrusts into you once more as he rips your orgasm out of you violently, crying out into his neck as Dieter explodes into his Gucci trousers, the mixture of your slick and his thick cum making an absolute mess of his loaned suit.  

I guess I'll have to pay for these, Dieter thinks to himself as he cradles your shaking form into his arms, licking away the salty tears running down your face. "You did so good, Doll, don't cry-" he whispers, stroking the back of your head as he tries to get you to calm down. "What do you need, baby?"

You lie quietly against his chest, your breaths falling into rhythm with his, as he assumes you're simply gathering your thoughts. "Baby," he pleads softly, his hands tracing soothing paths along your exposed back. "Please, say something—"

"Marry me," you whisper against his chest, the words barely audible but filled with undeniable certainty.

Dieter freezes, his heart skipping a beat at your unexpected words. For a moment, he's speechless, his mind racing to catch up with the sudden turn of events. Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

"What did you say?" he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid that speaking any louder might shatter the fragile moment.

You lift your head, meeting Dieter's stunned gaze with unwavering determination. "I said, marry me," you repeat, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. "Let's take this car and drive it to Vegas, get married by some overweight Elvis impersonator, and book the honeymoon suite at the Cosmo... I don't care how we do it, but let's get fucking married, D!"

Dieter's mind whirls with a mix of emotions—astonishment, disbelief, and a profound sense of joy. He blinks several times, as if trying to confirm that he's not dreaming, before a wide grin spreads across his face.

"Oh, my God," he breathes, his voice trembling with emotion. "Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes."

Taglist:@yxtkiwiyxt @skysmiller @picketniffler @readingiskeepingmegoing @islacharlotte @drewharrisonwriter

@missladym1981@amyispxnk@thespookywookies@stevie75@mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@daydream-believer19@survivingandenduring@darkheartgatita @gobaaby-blog-blog

[sophie-jen]

water lilies and tadpoles

read on ao3

James rolled onto his back. He looked up at the sun, shining joyfully in the cloudless sky, then immediately groaned, and rolled back onto his stomach.

"You look like a beached whale, honey."

James groaned again. "S'hot," he mumbled. 

"Why don't you go down to the lake and take a swim?"

James did not dignify this question with a response. His mother had been trying to kick him out all morning. She clearly didn’t want him in her way as she pranced around in her sunhat, gardening tools in hand. James was too miserable to care. He just groaned louder and rolled over again. But this was the wrong move, he realized belatedly, as he felt the crunch of his mother's favorite lilies being crushed under his weight. 

Five minutes later and a shovel shaped dent in his skull found James making his way toward the stupid lake. As he pushed his way valiantly through swarms of mosquitoes, he considered the very real possibility that he would drown in his own sweat before he ever reached water. 

The suffocating heat made everything hazy. Overhead, branches swayed. Leaves rustled. Underfoot, twigs crunched. Moss whispered. Streams of light danced around him. Birds croaked. Frogs chirped. A mushroom tipped its cap to him. 

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it occurred to James that he might be lost. Just as the beginnings of panic started brewing in his stomach, his foot caught in a root and he went toppling down a hill. He rolled to a stop next to a small glittering lake, and groaned. This was definitely not the lake his mother had been referring to. He hadn’t known there even was another lake in this area. It really was quite small, resembling more of an oversized pond.

There was something emphatically off about the happy twinkle of the water and the ethereal glow that bathed everything in a golden light. He also couldn’t help but notice that the water lilies were eyeing him suspiciously. To their left, a large, judgmental looking trout poked its face out of the water, took a good look at him, and with a disappointed shake of its head, went back down to report what it had seen. And sat on an outcrop not three feet away, looking straight at him while her fingers combed through her long tendrils of red hair, was a mermaid. This was a little much for poor James to take, and mercifully, after one last groan for good measure, consciousness fled and everything faded to black. 

                                                      *

James gasped awake. He lay in the dark for a few seconds, contemplating the strange dream he had been having, before sitting up. As he did, something cold and slimy slid off his eyes and down his face, taking his glasses with it. He felt around for the glasses, slid them back onto his nose, looked at the lily pad that had dropped into his lap, and felt his stomach drop with it. 

"I thought it might help cool you off."

He looked over at the girl who sat not far away. She was looking at him with an expression of mingled apprehension and curiosity. And sure enough, when James looked down, he saw curled under her a long gray tail, scales shimmering in the sunlight. He had to make a considerable effort not to faint again. 

"I’ve found lily pads are really refreshing. I was afraid you had heat exhaustion or something,” the girl said. 

“Oh. Thank you.” James didn’t know how to explain to her that it most likely wasn’t the heat exhaustion that had caused him to swoon. 

“I'm Lily, by the way."

James considered her for a moment. Considered at what point between rolling onto his mother’s lilies and meeting a mermaid named Lily he had lost his mind. Considered the lily pad laying limply in his lap. Made a decision. 

"I'm James."

                                                      *

“So, uh…” James kept his eyes on the small blue fish eating out of the mermaid’s hand. He was trying not to stare at her webbed fingers. “You live here? In the lake?”

“No, I actually prefer to perch on tree branches.” She gave James such a deadpan look as she spoke that he was inclined to believe her. At this point, he was inclined to believe just about anything. 

“Yes, of course I live in the lake,” she continued after a moment. She turned back to the fish, which was stretching as far as it could out of the water, vying for her attention. 

“Ah. Right.” James mulled this over for a moment. “But where do you-” he paused, trying to think of the best way to ask the question. “Well, where do you, you know, live?” Well said. “I mean, have you got a bed at the bottom of the lake or something?”

“Yep. I even splurged on a water mattress recently.”

To James’ surprise, a snort of amusement escaped him. Lily smiled as she stroked the fish, which flapped its tiny fins happily. 

“Honestly, I mostly sleep on land. I like looking at the stars.” She gave the fish a final pat, before leaning back onto her arms, her tail stretched out in front of her, and tilting her face towards the sun. “I couldn’t really do that much back home.”

“Back home?” 

“I live in the ocean.”

“What are you doing here?” 

“I got caught in a storm and washed up in a river somewhere, so I swam up here.” She leaned over and lifted a clump of moss off the end of her tail, where a large translucent fin lay. The left portion of the fin was in tatters, and an angry looking rip spanned almost the entirety of it. "I can't swim properly with my tail in that state." 

"So, what, you're just stuck here?" 

"Until it heals and I can try finding my way home. But I honestly don't mind. I grew up surrounded by angelfish and dolphins, so lake trout and tadpoles have been a nice change of pace.“ 

Despite her lighthearted tone, she didn’t look particularly thrilled as she said it. James immediately felt compelled to do something, though what that something was, or why he even felt compelled to do it, were beyond him. Instead, his mouth moved of its own accord. "Oh, so you're usually surrounded by a much more so-fish-ticated crowd, then," he said, placing emphasis on the “fish”. He regretted it immediately.

“Did you just-” She looked at him incredulously, but James was thrilled to hear the laughter in her voice. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Yeah, my bad, won’t happen again.”

“Unbelievable,” she said through a giggle. 

Not wanting to push his luck, he stayed quiet, and they sat in silence together. The fish, realizing it wouldn’t be getting anything more from Lily, swam up to James and gave a hopeful wiggle. He stroked it distractedly as the mermaid next to him sighed and readjusted the moss covering her fin. James only hoped she couldn't hear the frantic whirring of cogs as he tried to make sense of the pretty redhead and her tail, quietly soaking up the sun beside him. 

                                                      *

"Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at my tail."

"It looked at me first."

"It's impolite to stare."

"Social norms don't apply when your cousin is a guppy."

A lily pad thwacked James across the face.

                                                      *

The sun was beating down mercilessly. James sat at the edge of the water with his feet dipped in up to his ankles. He watched as Lily resurfaced, yet another trinket in her hands, and swam closer to add it to the row of eclectic objects she had set out on the sand. She called them her treasures, although they looked more like what a demented three-year-old might drag home from the playground. 

While she fiddled with what looked like a vaguely heart-shaped ball of algae, he examined one of the rocks. She had said it reminded her of the hammerhead shark that would dig up her garden in search of crabs. It was oblong and one of the ends was slightly flat. To James, the resemblances ended there, but Lily had been thrilled at the discovery, so he had smiled and praised how hammerheaded the rock looked. 

He set the rock back down and checked to see what Lily was doing. She was still poking at the green blob. Her hair looked darker now that it was wet, pooling like blood in her collarbones and trickling down her back in rivulets. He looked away as soon as she turned toward him, and stared intently at a chipped snail shell. 

“I know, it’s not very impressive.”

“What? No...” 

She raised her eyebrows in skeptical amusement. “I wish you could see the collection I have at home. I’ve got this gorgeous pocket watch I found with all these flowers carved on the back. It doesn’t tell the time anymore though.”

“Where’d you find it?” asked James. He slid into the water and made his way towards a water lily he had spotted. 

Lily hadn’t seemed to notice, focused on smoothing out the wrinkles of the snake skin she had laid out. “We collect them from shipwrecks,” she explained.

“That’s morbid.” He snapped the flower off the stem and waded back over to Lily and her treasures. 

“Is it? I remember when I was little, my sister and I used to go looking for sunken ships and scare the octopuses living in them.”

“Here, add this to your collection.” Lily turned toward him, and he handed her the water lily he had picked. 

“I can’t add that. It’ll start wilting soon.” She took the flower from him, her fingers brushing his as she delicately held the white petals. He dipped his fingers in the water to quell the tingles. 

“Oh. I just thought it was pretty.”

She studied the flower for a moment, before placing it in her hair and securing the stem behind her ear. He watched as she fussed with it, trying to get it wedged properly. “There. That way we can enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I can get you another when it turns brown,” James offered. 

“No, I like this one,” she said. “I don’t want to replace it. Some things are meant to be temporary anyway.”

                                                      *

"GAAAHHhhbrrggllslg..."

"Pipe down, you'll scare the fish."

James came back to the surface, spluttering and coughing. “This clearly isn’t working,” he wheezed. 

“Really? I thought we were making great progress.” 

“Funny, ‘cause I thought that’s the third time you’ve nearly drowned me.” James rubbed his eyes a final time and opened them. Lily floated next to him, her hair like a pool of blood around her. He pulled a piece of it out of his mouth. 

She rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair, picking out a snail that had gotten tangled in the strands. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Well excuse me for having a sense of self-preservation.”

“You’re acting like I’m trying to kill you!”

“Lily, I don’t have gills! You can’t just push me underwater without warning!”

She looked surprised at his outburst, her green eyes were wide with worry, and James immediately felt bad. 

“Listen, it’s fine. I just got freaked out for a moment,” he backpedaled. 

Lily wasn’t listening. “Maybe we should stop.” 

“No, really, it’s fine! I’ll just make sure to plug my nose next time!” 

But she was already swimming away, and with a flick of her tail, she had disappeared to a place where he couldn’t reach her. 

                                                      *

The bite was oozing. Oozing what, he didn’t know. Didn’t really want to know. He had never thought he would be having to deal with fish bites. Hadn’t realized such small fish even had teeth. Evil little bastards. Always sweet and cuddly when Lily was around. But this was apparently a summer of firsts. 

He poked at the angry looking marks, and hissed. Lily would know how to take care of this. Fix it. He had no idea where she was. She hadn’t yet resurfaced. 

Not knowing what to do, he climbed onto the outcrop where he had seen her for the first time, and stretched out. Warmth enveloped him on all sides, immediately making him drowsy. As he drifted off, he thought about how unbothered he was. Everything was fine. He let himself be pulled under, into the depths of sleep, not worried in the slightest. She would turn up. She always did. 

                                                      *

He’s sinking deeper into dark blue depths. His legs keep up a frantic pace as he kicks, trying to propel himself forward. All he can see is her: her long, slender fingers, her wrists, her collarbones, glowing in the murky water as she hovers, ethereal. All he wants is to go to her, but with a laugh she turns and swims further down, engulfed by the darkness. 

He can just make out her tail undulating as she moves inexorably on, never slowing down. As he follows her, going ever lower, several jellyfish zoom by, their tentacles tangling together to form a billowing cloud of exhaust. Somewhere to the side, a school of clownfish float in a large reef together, studying. A preoccupied looking manatee comes out of a dense wall of seaweed and almost bumps into James, muttering an apology as it hurries away. 

James is undeterred, his focus only on the mermaid in front of him. She turns to face him, curls one finger in a beckoning motion, and her smile is a hook that snags him, reeling him in, pulling him closer to her. Her lips are moving. He can tell she’s saying something, something important, but he can’t understand her. The water is filling his ears, muting everything, and he strains to hear her, to make out something, anything. Panic rises in his throat as her face grows troubled, panic so thick it’s suffocating. He can’t breathe, and she’s floating further into the murky shadows, and he hates the greedy gloom taking her away from him with every fiber of his being. As she grows ever more distant, his panic grows, and he’s never felt so lost, so helpless. He has to reach her, to stop her, and she’s screaming, screaming his name, over and over and-

                                                      *

“James!” He opened his eyes, gasping for air. After several steadying breaths, the darkness began receding. He blinked while the world came back into focus. The panic he had felt so acutely was already fading, dripping through his fingers, leaking out of his ears. It was replaced by the feeling of solid rock under his back, the sun wrapping him in warmth, and Lily’s hands cupping his cheeks. Her face was right over his, her hair forming a curtain around them. 

“Here.” He felt his glasses being placed gingerly over his eyes. “You alright?” 

Lily’s voice was laced with concern, her eyebrows knitted so close together they were almost touching. Her face was so close to his that he could see every individual hair in her eyebrows. He focused on one hair that lay slightly askew, pointing towards a freckle on her eyelid, as he finished catching his breath. 

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just had a weird dream.”

“Oh. Sure. I have those all the time.”

“Really?”

“Oh, definitely. The other day, I dreamed that I had climbed up a tree, and I couldn’t get down. And you were in the water, and I kept calling you, and asking you to help. But you insisted that you couldn’t, because you had to practice your underwater somersaults. And I was so angry that I started picking crabs off the tree and pelting them at you. But you kept catching them in your mouth and eating them. And you were laughing the whole time. And then you said, ‘Look, Tulip!’ and did a backwards somersault with so much force that you created a huge wave that knocked me off the tree. And then I woke up.”

“Sorry about that.” James was trying very hard to keep a straight face. 

“I can’t believe you called me ‘Tulip’,” Lily said with a frown.  

She looked so genuinely offended that James immediately felt compelled to comfort her. “Like I would ever forget your name!” 

“What was your dream?” she said quickly. 

“Oh, I was just drowning.”

“Well that’s not bad. Why do you get to have normal dreams?”

“Probably because I know how to do backward somersaults.”

                                                      *

James stared at the water intently, looking for any disturbances in the smooth surface. In his hand, he held a freshwater mussel the size of a large baseball. Lily had dug it up from the bed of the lake for the game she had devised. She had informed him that the mussels' name was Petunia, mentioning something about the mussel reminding her of someone. 

He tightened his hold on Petunia, causing her to give an indignant shake in response. James had discovered that a firm grip was necessary when handling the mussel. She had a tendency to clamp down on his fingers when he wasn’t paying enough attention, and getting her to let go required threats of feeding her to the snapping turtle that lived nearby. 

A sudden ripple drew James’ attention to a spot on his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of a tail flicking above the water. As he scanned the green surface, he spotted a smudge of red. Raising Petunia above his head, his eyes following the billowing of crimson under the water, he took a steadying breath, and aimed. He exhaled. Petunia went flying. 

“Fucking ow!” 

The cry told him he had hit his mark. The proud victor had only a moment to celebrate his success before a wave of water was flung in his direction, drenching him entirely. 

“Bit of a sore loser, aren’t you?” James smiled as the top of Lily’s head surfaced. Her eyes narrowed and the green flashed somewhat dangerously, but he took no heed. He was on a roll. “Seems I’ve o-fish-ially won!” 

His laugh was followed closely by a scream as Lily pulled him into the water, and he felt his nose being pinched shut as he went under, smothered by a wave of red tendrils. 

                                                      *

"You know I can't stay here." 

"Can't you? What's so great about the ocean, anyway? So it’s got dolphins. Did you know dolphins are actually vicious? I read that they kill porpoises just for fun."

“James-”

“And they’ve been known to attack people.”

“Are you honestly trying to slander dolphins?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a cruel world out there. But it’s safe here. I can guarantee you’ll never be attacked by a toad.”

“The other day, I woke up with a tadpole up my nose."

“Small price to pay.”

“Small price to pay for not being viciously attacked by a dolphin? Do you hear yourself?”

“I just don’t get why you have to leave right now. How could it possibly be safe? Your tail isn’t even fully healed yet!”

“It will be soon.”

Quiet settled over the little lake again. She broke the silence first. 

"Mermaids can live for up to 300 years."

"My dad is turning sixty next month."

“I want to go home, James. You can go home any time you want. You can be sure that you’ll be able to celebrate your dad's birthday with him. What about me? All I've got here are the tadpoles.”

"You've got me."

"What?"

"You've got me, haven't you? Or do I not count?"

"Of course you count, you idiot. You count so much, you have no idea." 

James' heart must have swollen so big it cut off the oxygen going to his brain because all he could come up with was, "I'm actually terrible at maths." 

She sighed. “I will miss you. But I can’t stay here forever, hoping you’ll visit me occasionally.”

“That’s not-”

“It is.”

                                                      *

The heat had somehow worsened. The pair floated in the cool lake water together, incapable of anything requiring any more energy. He could sense her presence, sensed it constantly, incessantly, tugging on his consciousness whenever he was around her. 

They floated in silence, the only sound coming from two particularly loud swallows. The birds were having it out over a spider they each felt entitled to. The angry chirping hadn’t ceased for at least the last ten minutes. 

James felt a ripple and saw Lily shift over and look up at the birds. She rolled her eyes and smiled at him. He felt the sudden urge to bottle up her smile and keep it stashed away, to take out and enjoy on special occasions. Instead, he dunked his head in the water and pretended with all his might that his heart wasn’t being constricted so tight it would shrink to the size of a marble and roll out of his mouth when he was sleeping. 

                                                      *

And then she was gone. Just like that, the lake was empty. James sat on the outcrop, and watched as a wilting water lily floated by serenely. A small blue fish poked its head out of the water. The fish looked around and then stared at James for a few moments, as though wanting to ask something, before diving back under with a small splash.

Here’s a painting that I think looks just like Lily

[himbowelsh]

Jet lag & Webgott. I know the theme is PAIN but can I request something mildly to very funny??

a little fall of meme can hardly hurt me now  ( accepting )

‘make it funny,’ you say, at which point i instantly forget the concept of humor

By this point, David has become fluent in Joe’s bitching, whichever language it’s voiced in.

It’s an acquired skill — frankly, one he could have lived his entire life without acquiring — but knowing where Joe stands makes navigating their relationship a lot easier. When it comes to the little things, Joe wears his heart on his sleeve. If he doesn’t like a particular TV show, he’ll say it… loudly. When it’s snowing, he’ll agonize about it until David’s tempted to shove him outside and lock the door; when it’s too hot, he’ll strip without shame, hissing like a disgruntled cat all the while. By now, they’ve been dating long enough that David knows Joe like a familiar book, leafed through a hundred times over. Sure, sometimes he could do without all that context, but a working knowledge of Joe’s quirks makes dealing with him that much easier.

Joe Fact #263: He can’t stand long flights.

It’s not like he’s a nervous flier. He’s just… a lot to handle. Part of it has to do with Joe’s inherent restlessness, a genetic predisposition to never hold still for more than a minute; part of it is just Joe’s talent for being annoying. And he can be… really, really annoying. Damned obnoxious. He doesn’t read, he’s hardly interested in the movies — he just spends the entire flight complaining. Why can’t he get WiFi? Why can’t he order another gin and tonic? Why are the seats so lumpy? Why do you want me to close the window, Web, look at this view, it’s priceless —

Having the window open makes him air sick. Joe knows this.

It’s not a massive problem, but during any long flight, it becomes an inevitable one. Queasiness is just another thing Joe gets to complain about on long flights. Part of David thinks it’s all a ploy; an excuse to get up and move around the cabin, even if it’s just to hide out in the bathroom and try to get WiFi signal. 

To be fair — on their trip to the Amalfi coast, when Joe had to sprint to the bathroom mid-flight and stayed there for over an hour, he probably wasn’t faking it.

Flying with Joe is unbearable for everyone involved… so when Joe announces his new solution, David’s optimistic. They’re two days out from a trip to Hawaii when Joe reveals a bottle of air sickness pills — apparently “the best they sell on the whole Internet, Web, I checked.”

David’s skeptical. “Are you… sure you can’t just make it?”

Joe huffs, genuinely offended by the question. “Fine! This time I’ll just blow chunks all over you. In-flight entertainment’s gonna be The Exorcist. How about that, Web? Fuck.”

David rolls his eyes — but he doesn’t argue anymore. At the time, it seems like a testament to his self-control.

Oh, how naive he was.

The pills make it through customs in their carry-on bag — something Joe gloats about for the next half hour, like he’s just pulled one over on the government, even though David looked it up and medication is allowed on planes. While waiting for their flight, Joe insists on Cinnabon. Insists, like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted. He pouts, he pleads, and finally he just tows David over to the stall without any forewarning and sits him down at one of the tables. (Joe Fact #312: Arguing with Joe while he’s got a pastry craving is like reasoning with a brick wall.)

The cinnamon bun in front of Joe is larger than your average infant.  “You ever heard of ‘tempting fate’?” David can’t help but ask around his own mouthful of pastry. 

Joe reaches over and smears frosting on his chin.

Without any delay, they make it on their flight in record time. Joe waits until they’re sitting, buckled in and watching the flight attendant go through safety procedures, to dig the pill bottle from his bag. A strange sense of unease churns David’s stomach, though he can’t for the life of him say why. Joe glances over, smirking; as David watches, he pops the two pills and swallows them dry.

“There. This flight’ll be smooth sailing.”

With four and a half hours of airtime ahead of them, David can only pray.

Joe’s not the researching sort — that goes without saying — but David has always been. He never takes a medication without looking up the full list of side effects in advance. When, twenty minutes into the in-flight movie, Joe’s head starts to loll against his shoulder, he’s not surprised.

“You alright?” he murmurs, turning just enough to speak the words softly into his boyfriend’s temple. Joe shifts, sighing heavily, and tries to straighten up again. It’s more effort than it’s worth.

“Might just end up sleeping through this thing,” he mutters. “Movie’s a snorefest anyway.”

It’s some movie about a dog. Neither of them have been really paying attention. “Okay,” David replies, keeping his tone casual. “That’s fine, just… get some rest.”

Joe shifts in his seat, making himself more comfortable. For about ten minutes, David stays very still. He doesn’t move; he doesn’t fidget; he doesn’t even breathe loudly.

When he looks over again, Joe’s dead to the world.

Oh, thank god.

David tilts his head back to grin at the ceiling, fist pumping the air without a sound — definitely earning a few sideways glances from other passengers, but he doesn’t care. Finally. After all this time, all this anticipation —

There’s no time to waste. He rummages through the carry-on at his feet, emerging with three large books, and headphones dangling from between his fingers. David drops his tray table, sets up his classical music Spotify playlist, cracks open the first book, and orders a Bloody Mary.

Peace at last.

The amount of long flights he’s endured through Joe’s whining… the amount of poking he’s had to deal with, the amount of dirty jokes whispered in his ear, all the times Joe’s stolen his books or drained his phone battery… he’s earned this, okay? As David leans back in his seat, it’s impossible to keep from grinning. Slumped against the window, Joe’s soft snores are easily drowned out by his headphones. They’ve got another five hours of flight ahead, and David plans to enjoy them.

Which he absolutely does, for the first hour. By the second, Joe’s got a specialty airline pillow under his head and a blanket tucked around him; David’s wallet is thirty dollars lighter, but it’s worth it. He runs his fingers through Joe’s hair absently, still engrossed in his book; after a while, he finishes it, and starts another one.

Somewhere around the third hour, Joe stirs, face smushing up against David’s shoulder. Gently, David repositions his head, only to find his boyfriend blinking drowsily at him.

“Hey, Web…” Joe’s voice is raspier than usual, thick with sleep. “How long’ve I been out?”

“A little while. We’re about halfway there.”

Joe hums, head flopping back against David’s shoulder. After a minute, he becomes aware of the blanket around him; a small huff escapes him, turning into a chuckle halfway through. “Aww, Web. Knew you cared.”

“As though I’d ever hear the end of it if you woke up with a sore neck.”

As though just to spite him, Joe cranes his neck at an unnatural angle to look up at him. “Wouldn’t be the first time we woke up sore together.” He pauses, thoughtful, then grins. “Wanna renew our mile high club membership?”

David shakes him off.

“Okay, okay, shit —“ Joe straightens up, disgruntled. Even sitting up in his seat, he sways a bit, as though rocking to turbulence no one else can feel. Davis observes as he gradually slumps against the window again, all the energy drained out of him. Mile high club — uh huh, very likely.

“These pills have any weird side effects?” Joe asks after a moment, brows furrowed. David rolls his eyes.

“How many times have I told you —“

“Read the fine print, yeah, damn it, Web. I get it.” Joe’s eyes scrunch shut. “They’re just not gonna — gimme an extra toe, or turn me green or anything, right?”

“No.” David diverts his attention, recommitting to his book with new stubbornness. “Orange, maybe.”

“That’s a color I can live with.” Without looking, Joe reaches over. Whatever he’s trying to grab, he ends up smacking David in the jaw. Hard, damn it. As David draws back with a muttered curse, Joe’s hand finds his chest; he gives it a few solid pats, maybe as an apology. “Mind if I sleep the rest of the way?”

“Please,” David rolls his eyes. “Be my guest.”

After a while, Joe’s snoring picks up again — and David is left to read in peace. He makes it through about a quarter of the next book before his eyes start hurting, and he finally has to set it aside. He orders a snack. He watches some late-night show. He doodles a bull shark on his napkin and daydreams about the white sands of Honolulu.

By the time the plane’s begun its final stretch, David is more than ready to start vacation. His pulse thrums with muted excitement, mind racing with all the things he wants to do as soon as they step off the plane. Every slight jolt of the plane as it descends kicks his anticipation a little higher.

By all rights, it should also jar Joe awake… but when David looks over, he’s surprised to find his boyfriend still sleeping.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Rip Van Winkle’s blanket-clad shoulder. “Nap time’s over. We’re almost there.”

Joe groans, shifting in his seat. When David tries again, he blindly smacks him.

“Jesus — will you —“ With a huff, David yanks the blanket away, leaving Joe bare. Suddenly exposed to the plane’s crisp air conditioning, Joe’s face scrunches up. He writhes in discomfort for a moment, fumbling around for the blanket, before at last cracking an eye open to look at Webster.

“You’re a sadist, Web.”

“I’m tired of watching you drool,” Webster retorts, busy packing up his carry-on. “Come on, rise and shine. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes.”

Joe gives a drawn out sigh, as if it’s the greatest inconvenience in the world to ask him to be awake. Still, he props himself up. Over the next few minutes, as the airport tarmac slowly comes into view, he pulls himself from the syrupy haze of half-sleep, back into the land of the living. By the time they’re on the ground, he’s still blinking hard and rubbing his head, but awake.

“At least we’re had an easy flight,” David chirps as they make their way up the aisle.

“I dreamed I was on some tropical island, with a buncha pool floats, and the local girls were letting me eat fruit slices off their chests.”

“I already told you, we can’t do that in public — plus I have to wear sunscreen! I burn! Why do you want to eat fruit that tastes like sunscreen?”

“Just leave a spot bare —“

“I can’t stand tangerines,” Webster declares, cutting the argument off before it can take root. “Find a better fruit. If it’s pineapples, I’ll consider it.”

“That’s because you, like pineapples, are disgusting.” 

Joe suddenly stumbles, bracing himself against the ramp. On reflex, David catches him by the arm  —  but Joe isn’t falling, apparently, just steadying himself. When David raises his eyebrows, his boyfriend rolls his eyes and brushes him off.

“I’m fine, quit lookin’ at me like that.” A second later, Joe is on the move again. “Just a little jet-lagged.”

To be fair… David did enough research on the motion sickness pills in advance to know they made you drowsy. He just… didn’t look up how long it would last. 

By the time they’re collecting their luggage, Joe is lounging on a nearby-bench, half-asleep; David has to haul every suitcase off the conveyor belt on his own. He also has to hail a taxi by himself… and, when they pull up in front of the hotel, with Joe dead to the world against his shoulder, pay for it.

“Come on,” David mutters, dragging his boyfriend out of the car. “Home, sweet home.”

Joe wakes up just enough to blink at him in amazement. “Wow, that was some vacation, Web!”

The bellboy who comes out to greet them blinks at the sight of David, two suitcases braced against one arm, a comatose body against the other. With barely a word of apology, he deposits Joe on the luggage trolley. Joe, who seems delighted with this turn of events, just pulls his legs up. 

Hopefully the hotel has a big bed, because it seems like they’ll be spending their first night in Hawaii getting to know it well.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 3: Light My Fire]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.  

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo 

You open the front door and there he is: black button-up shirt, navy jeans, chic but not overdressed. His hair is neatly gelled back from his forehead. In his arms are a lug wrench, a car jack, and a brand new tire wrapped in an oversized, floppy red bow like a Christmas present.

“I think normal guys bring flowers,” you comment.

“I figured...since you’re automotively illiterate and all...you probably hadn’t gotten around to replacing the spare yet.” He shoots a glance at your Elantra, then announces victoriously: “I was right!”

“Mr. Hardy...Ben...I really can’t allow you to perform any more free labor.”

“Five minutes,” he calls over his shoulder as he trots to your car. He has trouble with one of the lug nuts, so it takes him six and a half.

“You can come inside,” you tell him once he’s finished. “I won’t be long, I just have to water my plants.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. It’s dark and rather undomesticated, yet endearing. “I feel like there must be better stalling tactics than that. If you’ve got cold feet, I can handle rejection.” But what he can’t do is disguise the way his shoulders slump, the way he bites the corner of his lower lip apprehensively.

“No, really, it’s totally stupid, but I’m really trying not to kill this batch and if I don’t water them now I’m going to be stressing about it until I get home, and I don’t want to be thinking about houseplants all night, I want to be thinking about...” You wave your hand towards Ben inarticulately. “You know. You.”

He smiles, showing his teeth, his eyes lit up like embers, flickering and radiant and warm. “Take your time, Martha Stewart.” 

“My parents give me so much hell for this,” you call back to him as you flutter around the living room, standing on your tiptoes and reaching around furniture to water your peace lilies and spider plants and devil’s ivy and one wilting ponytail palm. “They’re farmers. They’re professional life-givers. I’m lucky if I can keep the cactuses alive.”

You hear Ben rambling around the kitchen. “I hope your nurturing skills are at least marginally better with first graders.”

You laugh, nodding even though he can’t see you. “I’m alright with those. I’m just more of a rock person than a plant person. Gems and minerals and volcanic glass...fossils and bones and teeth...that’s where the magic is for me.”

“I can see that. Dinosaurs are well-represented in your extensive fridge magnet collection.” There are clicks and scrapes as he rearranges them: prehistoric animals and tiny planets, peace signs and alphabet letters and cross-sections of agate. “These are so cool!” he exclaims.  

You bustle back into the kitchen, place your watering can in the sink, and wipe your hands with a dishtowel patterned with cartoon brontosauruses. “Ready?” Your eyes flick to the refrigerator. He’s organized your magnets into a giant smiley face. It’s ridiculous, it’s juvenile; but you feel this liberatingly simple joy flooding through you like early autumn air. And the way Ben’s grinning at you—a little mischievous, a little proud—reminds you so much of Eli that your breath catches in your throat. You have no idea who Eli’s mother was, but her genetics were omnipotent; it’s almost impossible to find any of Ben in him at all. But every once in a while there’s an unconscious gesture, an off-kilter smile, and suddenly you can see the common threads that wove them into being like spiders’ webs.

“Ready,” Ben agrees.

You smooth your dress as you slip into the passenger’s seat of his Lexus, placing your purse between your feet, checking your hair and makeup in the sun visor mirror. Ben glances over at you as he shifts the car into reverse and roars out of your driveway. Your hands aren’t shaking, your heartbeat is hushed, there’s no hot rushing blood in your cheeks or ears; this shocks you. It’s eerie how inexplicably at ease you are.

“Find something good,” he says, pointing to the radio.

You seize the dial. “Uh oh. My first test?”

He smiles, his eyes on the road now. “Choose something lame and I abandon you at the nearest sketchy-looking gas station.”

You flip through stations until you find Somebody To Love. “I work hard, every day of my life, I work ‘til I ache in my bones...” “Okay, how I’d do?”

Ben steals a suspicious peek over at you. “Are you fucking with me?”

“What?” you ask, bewildered. “No, why?”

He shakes his head. “Never mind. You definitely pass. You’re a Queen person?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely, I adore Queen. Most classic rock, actually.”

“So have you, uh...” He touches his chin thoughtfully, what you’re quickly realizing is a little nervous tic. It’s cute as hell. Goddammit, daddy demon, stop being so fucking perfect. “Did you ever see Bohemian Rhapsody?” But something gives you the impression he already knows you haven’t.

“Not yet,” you confess.

“Not interested?”

“It’s not that, I just...” You hesitate, trying to put it into words. “I know it did well and all. But I guess I’m skeptical of anyone trying to play Freddie Mercury. He was a legend, he was one of a kind. So are the rest of them. Those are massive shoes to fill. It seems like setting the actors up to pale in comparison.”

“I’ve heard it was pretty good,” Ben presses, almost teases.

“Yeah, maybe...”

“And Rami won the Oscar. So his portrayal must have been satisfactory.”

“Okay, oh my god, I’ll see it, are you happy now? Were you on the marketing team or what?”

You’re only half-serious, but Ben chuckles evasively. “So you like old rocks and old music,” he pivots. “But not old not-boyfriends. Except Jeff Goldblum.”

“This is news to me. I sincerely thought you were sixty.”

He laughs, a full gutsy laugh this time, a laugh that says he’s caught-off guard and thrilled about it. “That’s okay. I’m into old stuff too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Old music, classic rock, just like you. But old books too.”

“Gatsby?”

His eyebrows leap up; you’re watching his face as streetlamps illuminate the car in reiterating flashes like a spinning pulsar. God, he’s beautiful. “How’d you guess that?”

“Eli’s middle name is Fitzgerald. That’s not a common one.”

“Ah,” Ben says, and his full lips turn up at the edges into a smile, proudly, fondly.

“I really like it.” That’s the truth; Eli’s a handful and that’s a titanic understatement—though he has been better the last few days, the only blip on the upward trend being his attempt to convince Brayden to eat a live cricket by paying him in Oreos—but his name is classic and elegant and a few literary references here and there never hurt anyone.

“Yeah, that was me,” Ben reveals. “His mother insisted on choosing his first name, I think she heard Eli somewhere and just liked the sound of it. But she let me pick the middle name. And The Great Gatsby was always my favorite book...and The Beautiful and the Damned, and This Side of Paradise?! Freaking incredible. In my humble opinion F. Scott Fitzgerald is a certifiable genius. So...Eli Fitzgerald.” There’s a color in his voice you can’t quite read: the golden yellow of reminiscence, the murky blue of loss, the grey nothingness of depression, the bloody maroon of deep pain or resentment. Who was she, Ben? How did she hurt you? And could I ever fill those hollow places you’re carrying around like pocket change?

He asks how Eli is doing in class, and you tell him; you ask about his favorite classic rock bands, and he answers: Boston and AC/DC and The Stones and Queen. His Lexus cruises by your go-to dinner spots—the affordable chains like Noodles and Co. and Panera and Chipotle—then past the mid-level raw vegan and farm-to-table joints, and finally into the neighborhood reserved for fine dining establishments with three-figure price tags and reservations booked up months in advance.

“Uh...” you begin. “I don’t think we’re going to get a spot at a place down here.”

“Think again.” He parallel parks with absurd ease in front of an Italian-Japanese fusion restaurant called Nejire. There’s a line of people in suits and evening gowns waiting at the door. You feel like a minnow in a shark tank.

“Ben...”

He comes around to your side of the car, opens the door, and holds out his hand. “You trust me?”

Do I? You take his hand in yours like a life raft. “Don’t let me down, Mr. Hardy.”

Unpredictably, fantastically, he brings your knuckles to his lips. “You got it.”

He spirits you inside, past the line of waiting customers, past the hostess and waitresses; they glimpse up and nod at Ben as he draws you through the main dining room and back to a VIP table in a dimly-lit, quiet corner of the restaurant. Oh, you realize with awe and trepidation. He’s an important guy.

You take your seat and open a menu as waitresses array full glasses of water and wine across the table. There’s nothing under fifty dollars. You flip to the salad page, searching desperately.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks gently.

“Um, nothing, just browsing...”

“You’re not paying for any of this,” he says point-blankly.  

“That’s not very feminist of you,” you quip, but on the inside you’re sinking. This is too much, this is way too much. I can’t let him do this for me.

“I’ll explain later. Trust me, we’re good. Order something expensive or I’ll do it for you.”

“I’m a teacher, Ben. My idea of luxury is Olive Garden.”

He grins at you boldly, almost roguishly. “Oh we are going to have so much fun together, Miss Y/L/N.”

Orders are placed, wine is sipped, appetizers are ferried to the table. As you nibble on ahi tuna tartare and caprese sushi, you find yourself lost in how Ben motions wildly with his hands as he tells stories, how his large emerald-or-jade-or-malachite eyes gleam when he’s animated, how his voice is so rich and deep and yet mild, how it suddenly feels like you’ve known him your entire life. Oh no. Oh no, I like this guy a LOT.

Ben abruptly stops eating and cracks his knuckles. “So there’s something I need to tell you. Since we’re...” Air quotes. “Not dating.”

Oh fuck. He’s married or something. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“It’s about my job.”

Whew. “Ah yes, your elusive profession. You can tell me the truth if you’re a dogwalker or a circus clown or something. It’s always nice to out-earn someone. Actually, dogwalkers in L.A. probably make more than me...”

“I’m an actor.”

“Oh,” you reply cautiously. “Like, for tv shows or independent films?”

“No,” he says, amused. “For major films.”

I knew he was too fucking gorgeous to be a normal person. What am I doing here? “Like what?”

“Well, recently, Bohemian Rhapsody.”

You choke on the white wine you’re drinking and cough and gasp into your cloth napkin.

“You okay?” Ben asks. “Don’t die. You can’t die yet. You haven’t tried their tempura crème brûlée.”

“You...” You cough once more. “You were in the movie that made $900 million dollars...?”

He grins toothily. “So you were keeping up with it!”

“It was hard to miss that tidbit. It was all over the news. BoRhap won the Golden Globe.” Your head is spinning. “You’re an actor,” you repeat.

“I played Roger Taylor.” The brilliant, obscenely good-looking drummer, the man who wrote Radio Ga Ga and These Are The Days Of Our Lives and A Kind Of Magic.

“Oh my god, Ben!”

“I mean, I’ve been in other things too—”

“Ben!”

“Look, relax, we’re cool. I’m not telling you this to freak you out, I’m just explaining that you don’t have to worry about dropping a few hundred bucks at dinner. You have a right to know who I am if we’re going to be...involved. And there’s something else.” He wrings his hands. “I have to be...discrete about my personal life. Try to stay under the radar.” But now that effortless comfort is strained somehow, weighted, ominous; Ben averts his eyes. There’s a presence in the room like a storm cloud, trapped pulsing lightening igniting the opacity from within.

“Sure,” you say, thinking that a life in the spotlight can’t always be easy. “Lowkey. I got it.”

“Awesome.” He’s relieved.

“I have to keep it on the down-low too. I’m a pretty important person myself. A bunch of six-year-olds would lose their minds if they knew about my extracurricular activities. They would color such scandalous pictures in art class. Premarital dinner dates, maybe even handholding. Yikes.”

That makes Ben chuckle; the shadow is nearly lifted. “Keep drinking, Miss Y/L/N. I’m loving this.”

And it should feel weird or frightening or wrong that he’s using the word love this soon, this casually; but it doesn’t at all. It feels anything but wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your feet are on your kitchen floor, your palms empty. Ben’s fidgeting around, his hands in and out of his jean pockets; it seems like he’s trying to say goodbye, but maybe he’s not.

“So...” he ventures.

You wonder if he’ll touch you, if he’ll kiss you. You try to catch his eyes, but they’re everywhere except meeting yours. “Hold that thought.”

You dash down the hall to your bathroom to smooth your hair, touch up your makeup, swish some Listerine. On the way back to the kitchen, you stop in the living room to check on your plants. If it’s possible, they look a little perkier than they did when you left a few hours ago. You run your fingertips over the broad leaves of your peace lilies, smiling faintly to yourself. “Maybe we’re going to make it after all,” you whisper.

You hear the distinct clicking sound of iPhone texting. “Oh shit,” Ben mutters from the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I gotta go, Y/N, okay? I gotta run. But I’ll call you. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay, just a sec...” But by the time you rush into the kitchen to say goodbye, Ben is gone, the screen door swinging forlornly. Puzzled, you lock the door behind him as headlights flare to life in the driveway and swiftly retreat into the night. Then you turn around.

Your fridge magnets are rearranged again, this time in the shape of a heart.

[dontyoudarejudgemesworld]

The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far: Chapter Three

Alright guys, so this takes place after a bit of a time skip. While I know that time skips are like coma theories (as in a sort of cheap way out) this is meant to illustrate the sort of relation ship Bill and her 'uncle' are creating. It's a long one (6,000+ words) but gives some insight to the characters. I know not everyone is a fan of time skips but if I were to go from start to finish for this whole fic it would be longer then the whole Lord of the Rings series so forgive me. The next few chapters will all include some kind of time skip as the focus of them is more to establish and form relationships serving as kind of independent one shots instead of parts of the over arching story-line. I understand that this may be a bit unpopular but considering what's coming it seems the best way to structure it to achieve my end goal with out having it drag on forever. I told you this was going to get weird. Also as an aside, I know there were some grammar and spelling errors in the first two chapters, this is due in part to my normal Beta reader being unavailable (because adulting is time consuming). That being said I had a stand in look this over an took much more time in transcribing it so I hope most of the errors were addressed.

Once again it’s posted here on AO3. And now onward to the insanity.

~*~ One Year Later

Stan sat pantsless in the TV room wondering if this was what contentment felt like. Beside him on the floor sat Billie leaning back against the dinosaur skull staring at the trash TV that played across the screen. Murphy announced ‘you ARE NOT the father’ for the third time in a row and the young woman who sat beside him burst out crying as a man who looked like he should be selling used cars jumped up triumphantly to the jeers of the audience. Beside Stan, his ‘niece’ let out a sharp bark of laughter as she took a sip of her soda. He glanced at her and shook his head; she really was a strange one.

In baggy basketball shorts and a tank top, he could see the mural of tattoos she sported. The sleeve on her right arm was actually a bed of colorful flowers and vines with skulls woven in, macabre but beautiful if he was honest. On her left shoulder was a raven’s head that looked like it was tearing through her flesh that was a little to photo-realistic for his taste. She also had a peacock on her left thigh with a long flowing tail that curved around to end on her knee cap, and a small green dog robot thing from some cartoon or other with the word ‘DOOM!!’ in crude childish letters on her right ankle. Wild black curls spilled over her shoulders in an unkempt mane and dark circles around her eyes told him that she had spent too long at the Skull Fracture last night getting rowdy with the lumberjacks. “Told you, Stan that means you’re picking up the tab at Greasy’s,” she told him cheerfully and he let out an exaggerated groan. He should know by now that betting against her was a fool errand. Over the last year, he’d learned a lot of things about Billie. Like she had no fixed address just various post office boxes, and instead, she lived out of a duffle bag and motel rooms. She worked for herself and seemed to make pretty decent money though he had all but confirmed his suspicion that she toed a very fine line between what was legal and what wasn’t. In truth, she played it pretty close to the vest when it came to discussing her work but she’d let a few things slip and he was willing to bet that she was a bloodhound at least part of the time. Someone that loan sharks and crime lords used to find people that didn't want to be found. A dangerous and ethically ambiguous profession at best. And while he couldn’t help but dislike that idea he couldn’t exactly say too much on the matter, instead of taking some small comfort in the fact that at least she wasn’t a full-fledged criminal like he’d been. Maybe if she had kids one day they’d manage to be upstanding members of society, but something told him she wasn’t the settling down type. Overall throughout seven visits and quite a few calls they had developed a comfortable relationship. After the fourth visit, he’d broken down and invited her to just come to stay at the Shack instead of staying at The Twin Beds. Which he regretted almost instantly; Wendy and Soos had both noticed at once and plied him with questions. Fortunately, Billie seemed to have inherited his Ma’s snake tongue and smoothly lied that she was the daughter of an old acquaintance that he was helping out with a place to stay between jobs without batting an eye. Soos and Wendy had been a bit wary of her at first, but they’d come to warm up to her. She tended to help around the shop and was generally amicable flashing charming smiles and quick wit to win them over. He was fairly certain she’d won over Wendy by covering for her so she could skip out to hang out with her friends a few times but couldn’t prove it. And Soos’s natural good nature had caused him to warm to her quickly, especially when she started helping him come up with and build new attractions for Stan to take credit for. When he wasn’t leading tours and she wasn’t off drinking and brawling with the bikers of the town (a pass time she seemed to enjoy a tad too much in his opinion) the two of them usually spent their time watching trash TV in between runs to Greasy’s diner and the bar. Though after she’d started staying with him he’d discovered that the woman could cook. He’d told her at one point that she didn’t need to but she’d shrugged it off with a smile and that cool laugh of hers saying ‘I spent enough nights hungry and cold that it’s a pleasure to be able to make a decent meal.’ That thought had given him pause to wonder what exactly she’d been through; her mother certainly sounded like a piece of work, but it seemed like so much more. But as much as he wanted to know he didn’t ask. In fact, he hardly asked her anything about her past and she in return didn’t ask about his. Instead, they had found a strange sort of comfort in each other's company. Two broken people who had had hard lives that could spend time around the other without pretending to be anything more than they were. The first few visits they'd both been on their best behavior, Billie had kept her habits of beer and brawling to herself and he had cut back on the cigar and shoplifting. But after an incident involving Billie sucker-punching a guy for asking her if she wanted to come back to his room and put a smile on her pretty face after which Stan had declared it was time to leave snatching the guy's wallet as they fled they had come to a silent agreement that they didn't need to put on 'upstanding citizens' acts anymore. He had thought a few times that he vaguely remembered that this strange feeling of accepting each other for who they were was what family had felt like back when Ford and he had been children, but he couldn’t quite be sure. “Earth to Stan,” Billie’s smooth southern drawl broke through his thoughts pulling him back to find her head cocked staring up at him one brow cocked curiously, “You didn't hear a damned word I said did yuh?” she asked a smirk pulling on her lips. “Naw, I was too busy thinking how sick I’m gonna feel at dinner so I cant go to Greasy’s,” he told her to cover his sappy musing. She rolled her eyes as she shook her head. “The most expensive thing on the menu is 15 dollars. I know you're cheap but…,” she began only to be interrupted as an obnoxious commercial can on the volume raising ten octaves. “Are you completely miserable?” came Bud Gleeful’s voice. “Well I am now,” she growled putting one hand over her ear and glaring at the TV as the commercial played. Watching she cocked an eyebrow as Stan’s picture flashed up to be stamped with ‘FRAUD’, “What bullshrimp is this?” she asked incredulously, “That the chubby car salesman? He’s ten times the liar yuh are, how the hell does he have the gall to call yuh out like that?” “I know, right?  At least my customers have some interesting stories to go with the junk I sell them,” he said indignantly, “And what’s worse is it’s working. He’s got his kid pretending to be psychic and the tourists are eating it up. Heck, even the locals are. Putting a real cramp in my wallet. I wish there was something I could do to hit him hard but nothing seems to be working. Even the Squid-abitt isn’t enough,” he railed shaking his head. Beside him, Billie cocked her head one eye squinted in thought as she stared at the TV. “What about someone who can talk ta the dead?” she asked and his head snapped over to her his eyebrows shooting up. “What? Well, yeah that would be a real money maker but who the hell do I know that can do that?” he scoffed as he took a drink of his soda, “Even I can't pull that off.” “I can,” she said matter factly and his face pulled into a look of bored skepticism. “Yeah, and I can teach a pig to fly,” he snorted and she looked up at him that sly smirk of hers slowly crawling over her lips. “Ya wound me, Stanford. I’m from the south where snake oil peddlers are ah’ dime ah’ dozen. Hell Bud’s one that’s why he’s pulling this off so well,” she told him in a slightly condescending tone, “Tell you what I’ll go double or nothing on Greasy’s. If I can give yuh a two-night show that will make more then you do in the same two days. That means two dinners at Greasy’s and braggin’ rights from now until the end of the world,” she challenged and he couldn’t help the lopsided grin that pulled at his lips. “Only if you get it up and running by Saturday,” he added, that would give her the rest of the night and tomorrow to prepare. Not to mention that those were the moneymaker days with tour buses on top of regular foot traffic. A challenge he was sure even she couldn’t pull off but she just grinned and put her hand out. “Prepare ta eat crow, Stanford Pines,” she told him as he grasped her hand causing him to let out a sharp hoarse laugh. “Even you aren’t that good kid,” he sniped unable to help the smug laugh that escaped him at the fire that lit in her eyes at his challenge. “Oh you’re fixin’ ta eat those words old man,” she warned as she hopped to her feet. “Hey what about dinner,” he barked as she turned on her heel to head up to the attic. “Time is money, Stanford. Order Chinese from that there place at the mall, card’s by the phone,” she snapped as she hustled off to get started. Watching her go he couldn’t help but smile. She really was something else, and he’d managed to get dinner without paying for it.

~*~

A day and a half…that was all he’d given her. And now he was thinking that had been too much time. The woman had to be some sort of witch. There was no other explanation as to how literally overnight she’d managed to pull this off. By Friday morning there had been flyers plastered all over town with the simple drawing of a closed eye with the words ‘Esmeralda. Two nights only at the Mystery Shack.’ And apparently, somehow everyone in town had heard the whispers about a real live gypsy that could talk to the dead by noon (he had a theory that Billie had somehow gotten Wendy to help her spread the word but once again couldn’t prove it). By Friday night there was a deceptively large tent set up around the totem pole that looked like it had come out of some storybook. It would have been impressive if he didn’t feel the impending loss breathing down his neck. His one hope was that she wouldn't be able to pull off the act; after all, she had become someone the locals recognized by now so they surely wouldn't buy it when they saw her. That was until he’d come downstairs Saturday morning to find a gypsy woman sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee. Her skin held an olive tint, her eyes a rich deep brown, and her curly black mane was held away from her face by a scarf. She wore a frilled white shirt that hung off one shoulder and a skirt made up of layers of gauzy material in a rainbow of colors with a coin skirt hung low on her hips. Bangles crowded her wrists and a few on her ankle making her every movement musical. Staring at her she flashed him a bright grin. “Good morning Mr. Mystery I’m Esmeralda and I speak to the other side,” she greeted him in an accent that was European but not too strong. Staring at her it took him a minute to realize that she was his daughter. What gave it away was the bandage on her left hand, it was neatly wrapped and wouldn't be worth much note if he didn’t see the slight bump where her extra finger was folded across her palm to hide it. Shaking his head he stared open mouth at her, she looked like a cliche and it was brilliant. The tourist would eat it up. “How?” he demanded his voice cracking in indignant awe causing her to chuckle. “Lots of foundation, contacts, and years of practicing a dozen accents,” she told him smugly in that outrageous but somehow totally believable accent, “You can always admit defeat now Stan and I will only demand one of my dinners,” she offered. “No way toots. You never call a fight early,” he replied and she shrugged as she took another sip of her coffee. Arrogance rolled off her and he let out a low grumble, while he could appreciate her confidence speaking to the dead was a tall order. He opened his mouth to say something to her when Wendy's voice came from the gift shop. "Stan a tour bus just pulled up!" Glancing at 'Esmeralda' she flashed a wicked smile as she stood in a rattle of bangles and rolled her shoulders. Looking him up and down she couldn't help the smirk that pulled at her lips. "May the best con win, " she laughed resting all her weight in on hip as she stretched. Stan couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter that rose in him as a competitive fire lit in him. "Age and treachery with overcome youth and exuberance every time, " he reminded her and she shrugged as she moved to slip out the back door. Watching her go he shook his head getting his cane and flipping his eye patch down, he had to admit having some competition was making the day a bit more exciting. The next 10 hours were a whirlwind of activity as a flood of tourists poured through. He spun his stories with a flare he hadn't felt in years as Esmeralda flittered about. He had to admit that she was good; adding some rustic flare to his stories telling of sighting of the Cat-a-peid in the 'old country' and backing up the claim that the magic crystal they sold were steeped in the mystical energy of the forest. Between the two of them, they managed to create a fevered excitement in the visitors who all but threw their money at Wendy. But even as he reveled in what were surely record profits he couldn't help but notice that all of Billie's help was a double-edged sword. Even as she hyped his attractions she filtered about reading palms and offering charms that she made appear from her skirt. Shiny rocks and crudely carved figures on a bit of string, things he recognized from the bulk supply warehouse he bought his own junk from. A ten here and a twenty there that she slipped away with a smile and an offer to come see her tonight as the spirts had many messages and perhaps one was for them. And he finally got to see her speak to the dead, at least that was what it looked like. Gravitating to a cluster of tourists she placed a hand on her temple as she closed her eyes. Letting out a humming sound she peered up at the curious group. "There is a woman. Older, matronly who wishes to speak to one of you. Some connection with the letter T, " she said softly as she hummed again pausing for dramatic effect, "A name or hobbies maybe. Teresa. Or Teapots. Or Tammy. Or trains...tarting. Tabatha, maybe. I'm sorry it's hard to hear her. Her voice is a soft one but warm like..., " he began only to have one if the men, a middle-aged guy speak up suddenly. "Thelma?" he asked suddenly, "My Mema was named Thelma, " he said excitedly and a murmur went through the crowd. Billie smiled softly as though listening to someone speak before nodding. "Yes, Thelma. She passed suddenly, but not unexpectedly right, " she told him and he nodded his face pinching ever so slightly with emotion. "In her sleep, but she was 98," he supplied and Billie smiled gently as she nodded. "She wants you to know that it was painless and she is at peace, " she told him kindly as she shifted as though leaning closer to someone to hear, "She says that you're worrying over something financial. A promotion or payment of some sort. You are concerned that it won't happen, that it keeps you up at night. You are sleeping and it worries her. Do you know what she's talking about?" she asked and he nodded silently the crowd around him starting in wonder. "Ye...yea. I know what she's talking about, " he choked and Billie nodded sympathetically, "She says that you don't need to worry. That it will all work itself out. She says to tell you to have faith, that God wouldn't have you face a trial you could not handle, " she said her eyes flattering closed once more, "She says she loves you and that you need to read for your own health." For a moment silence hung in the air before the man moved forward and threw his arms around Billie thanking her. Around them, the crowd had tripled in size and an excited clamor rose from them all talking at once. It was amazing and a total sham. He'd seen this sort of psychic before, they were all over daytime TV. And while he had no idea how they did it he knew in his bones they were fakes. But even so, the audiences ate it up including the one now swarming around Billie. "Oh she's good, " he growled as he stood watching her work the crowd telling them that she would speak to the spirits tonight and they were welcome to come, no latter than 7 and cash only for her small admission fee. She only asked 20 dollars so she could continue her travels. And every single one ate it up like starving men. She smiled at just the right moments and spoke just the right word. And that when it hit him. This wasn't her first time pulling this con. She was poised and practiced like she did this every day. This was an old hand to her, a well-practiced grift not some idea she"d randomly thrown out. He'd assumed she was just winging it, she was a PI not a psychic. At least she was now. Just like he was Mr. Mystery now. But before that, he'd been a lot of other things. And it appeared before being a PI Bill had been other things as well. In that moment he realized that he'd been played, that he'd assumed she'd been bluffing without knowing her tells. She was a con artist just like him, and he should have known. Betting against her was a fools errand, and not just when it came to daytime talk shows. She was his daughter after all, and it seemed some of his talents had passed on.

~*~

Billie sighed as she she leaned against the support of the porch, a cigarette in one hand and a can of Pitt cola in the other. She felt like a whole new person after a hot shower to wash off the ton of bronzer and foundation she’d used to make her pale skin darker. It was nice to be out of that stupid heavy skirt and back in sweats and a t-shirt. Pre-dawn just started to brush the sky above the trees with thin lines of pinks and oranges the trees shadows stretched out like fingers of darkness trying to resist the coming day. It got light so early up here it made her feel like it was later (or earlier) then 3:30 in the morning. It really was beautiful though, like a Rob Boss painting. She had to admit when she’d first rolled into the little Organ town the year before she had found the picture perfect place a bit unsettling. It had been the plan to show up meet Stan and never look back, after all she’d never thought he would want anything to do with his brother’s vagabond daughter. Guess that’s what she got for thinking. It turned out her uncle seemed to want something to do with her after all, and surprisingly she wanted something to do with him.

After her research she had expected to find a cold logical man who had no room for sentimentality. While she knew scientific papers were written specifically lacking any emotion his had seemed extra sterile. Even the forwards to the where normally the researcher had some kind of tone had been devoid of anything to give her a glimpse of personality. But instead she had found a man who was the furthest thing from a cold clinical researcher. He was warm in a gruff kind of way and she liked it. It occurred to her that the time line of his published works ending and the Murder Shack coming into being seemed to overlap with Stanley’s death. Perhaps, the sudden change in profession had also been a sudden change in personality, grief was a powerful thing after all.

Or perhaps he’d simply decided that this strange little corner of the world was too wonderful to waste with his head buried in in books. And it was wonderful. And weird. Over her first few visits she’d began noticing strange shadows and odd movement in the trees. And while she’d written off the little men she’d seen rummaging in the diner’s dumpster and the Moth Man she’d seen batting at a street light outside the hotel one night to tricks of the mind and the local legends getting to her, she’d quickly realized there was something inherently odd to the place. Not bad just odd. But once she’d come down one morning to find Stan luring a walking camp fire out from under the porch with marshmallows she’d realized it wasn’t in her head. Instead she had decided that she rather liked this place, after all she was an odd person so she didn’t feel so out of place. It was like she could breath freely in this strange little town with her eccentric uncle.

Her uncle, that was still a strange thought. Billie had never really had a family, her mother had always been too busy being a drunken whore druggie to be anything else. And while she technically had four older siblings they’d all been to busy finding their own way to survive to bother with anything as trivial as bonding. Hell, after she’d been taken into state custody she hadn’t seen any of them for years, a few she still hadn’t seen even after all these years. It had always been her, she’d learned early to never depend on anyone else. Survival was the end game and others had always been passing acquaintances to her. But for some reason she kept coming back here, kept calling to check in on Stan. Perhaps, it was that he never asked any questions or judged her for smoking and drinking. Or maybe it was that she knew that the tired eyes and world weary voice she had was a mirror of his. Not that it mattered, she had come to really appreciate the time she spent with the old con.

It was a nice change of pace. Most people seemed to think that being a PI was like the movies; chasing down leads, sneaking around to get photos, and all that, but it wasn’t. While sure it had its exciting moments (especially when it came to some of her less than reputable clients) it was a lot of time sitting around and waiting for someone to show up. It was digging through mountains of trash and public records to find a lead. It was asking a lot of questions that never got answered to people who didn’t want to talk to you. Over all it was exhausting in more ways then one. She’d always spent her time between jobs partying or holed up in a hotel room getting stoned and sleeping, but now she found coming here to be a much better past time.

There was always some new creation Stan was working on or some project to help Soos with. She had found walks in the woods were eventful as she seemed to run across odd little creatures and weird rocks no matter what direction she went. Even when it was boring around the Shack she at least had company. And Stan sure made for interesting company. He was always ready to snipe at each other or make stupid bets over anything. Heck, the last two days had been the most fun she’d had in years. She had enjoyed watching the old con slowly realized that this wasn’t her first rodeo, though, she knew she had shown her hand and he wouldn’t fall for it again.

Then again even she was surprised she’d pulled it off. While the gypsy shtick had been something she’d acquired as a teenager the rest had been dumb luck. She was constantly surprised that for such a nowhere town Gravity Falls seemed to have everything. 24 hour copy shop to make the flyer? Yup, Shenkos beside the mall. Party rental shop with a thematically appropriate tent? You bet. Costume shop? Yup. Local teenagers willing to spread rumors and wield social media like a finely honed weapon for $20 bucks? Well, everywhere had those but Wendy was a sweet kid who seemed more then willing to recruit help. It just went to show that helping the kid ditch work a few times had been a good idea. Still, some how it had all come together and she’d been able to back up her cocky words. Even with the expenses she’d pull in over a grand in a weekend beating Stan by a hundred buck and some change.

So she’d won, though, since she had told Stan to keep it since it was his customers to begin with she had basically bought herself two dinners and some expenses but useless bragging rights. In truth, she didn’t need the money, she got paid well for her work and had nothing to spend it one. She didn’t pay rent since she refused to settle, and aside from weekly hotels, food, and smokes she didn’t buy anything really. So she had a huge bank account that she just let sit for when she decided to retire. Plus, she’d liked the idea of helping Stan out, if in no other way then sticking it in Bud’s face. How dare he call Stan a fraud when he sold junk cars at astronomical prices? A small self aware part of her knew that she had done it because she cared about the old man, but she just ignored it.

Shaking her head she snorted, she had to be tired to be getting all introspective and squishy. Feelings weren’t her bag, she’d just done it for fun. At least that was what she told herself. Shifting slightly she groaned, her body felt heavy and her eyes kept trying to close. She was exhausted two days and nights of putting on a show took a lot out of a woman. Not to mention, she’d had to strike the tent after last night’s performance so the rental company could pick it up first thing, and of course she and Stan had sat up counting out their respective earnings. Stad had recounted hers twice growling she’d padded them, before finally admitting defeat. The look on his face had been worth it.

“Alright kid, how’d you do it?” came a gruff voice and the smell of cigar smoke pulling her eyes from the trees. Looking over at him she flashed a smile earning a half hearted scowl in response and a dismissive grunt, “Come on out with it. It’s only fair I know how I got beat.” Smirking she let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“It’s called cold reading,” she told him causing one of his eyebrows to shoot up in question, “You size up a crowd; age, clothes, general stuff you know. Then you throw out a line; something vague enough to not be a definitive statement but specific enough to be convincing. One you get a bite you reel them in, double talk so they tell you everything but it seems like you told it to them and bam you talked to their dead aunt,” she explained as she took a drink.

“Sounds like it would be easier to actually talk to the dead,” he grumbled, “Yur Grandmother would be proud. So where on earth did you learn to pull that off? It doesn’t seem like somethin’ you’d learn for a party trick,” he observed as he took a long puff off his cigar groaning as he settled back on the couch. Shrugging she sighed as she moved over to sit next to him staring out at the dark woods tucking one leg under her.

“When I was round about 16 I ran off from the group home. I was tired of being passed around homes like a fruit cake at Christmas yuh know. So I landed at a traveling fair after a while and met the Amazin’ Jezabel. She pulled the same gimmick and taught me how since my weird hand gav’ ah bit of a witchy vibe. I traveled with them for a year or two, ‘fore getting sick of making her a ton of money and gettin’ hog spit in return. I went out on my own and was good at it,” she told him cracking her neck  a touch of melancholy settling over her as she recalled the days she spent running the con at fairs all over the south, “I probably could have gone on with it, got one of those shows on TV, but after a while people started coming to me looking for real answers. Sure, stuff like this weekend is fine. Tellin’ people that their grandma loves them or their dog is always hangin’ around them don’t hurt nothin’ It makes them happy, but when you have people comin’ to yuh lookin’ for their missing kid offering their life’s savin’s for answers it changes the game. I couldn’t bring mah’self ta lie to them. I didn’t want to give ‘em false hope so I quit. I was tryin’ to feed myself not cheat desperate people, yuh know?” she finished before calming up. She hadn’t needed to say all that, and it kinda broke the unspoken agreement they had to avoid anything too honest about themselves.

Glancing over she expected to find him either half listening to her ramble on or looking at her with the inscrutable look of mild disappointment he got when she came in half cocked with a split lip from brawling with the guys at the Skull Fracture. Instead his brows were furrowed and the corner of his lips pulled down in a half frown. It wasn’t that he looked disgusted at her words more…saddened by them. For a long moment they just stared at each other before he looked away taking a drink of his own soda.

“What?” she asked finally ignoring the slight feeling of insecurity that his silence had brought on.

“Nothin’. I was just thinking about your Dad,” he said his voice slightly rougher then normal, “That’s impressive though. You got any other tricks up your sleeve?”

“Naw, nothing worth noting,” she said as she looked away from him resting her elbow on the arm of the couch and leaning her head on it. For a moment they were silent, sitting there smoking before her eyes slid over to him again.

“What about him?” she asked unable to stop herself. While she excepted that Stanley was gone, and he seemed to be a subject Stanford didn’t seem keen on she couldn’t help but wonder about Stanley. He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes knowing what she was asking at once. For a second she thought he wasn’t going to answer before he shrugged.

“Nothin’ really. Just that you’re a lot like him. He may have been a cheat and a liar but he never preyed on desperate people. He’d probably be proud of you for that,” he said as Billie barely suppressed the pleased smile that threatened to surface at his words, “Though if he’d have known about you’d you could bet you wouldn’t have even been in a position to have to decided who were acceptable marks,” he added under his breath like he was speaking to himself not her. Smiling she looked back out at the trees.

“Yeah well if that were the case I wouldn’t have been able to get some free meals and braggin’ right now would I?” she chuckled to break the heavy silence that had settled on them and she saw his lips twitch from the corner of her eye.

“Yeah, yeah live it up kid. You cheated and you know it. That was dirty trick, I wouldn’t have made that bet if I��d have know you were a professional psychic,” he grumbled and she chuckled as she finished her drink and stood stretching.

“I’m goin’ ta bed. I’m beat,” she announced with a small yawn, “You should get some sleep too, Stan yuh look like hell,” she added glancing down at him causing him to chuckle.

“You ain’t the boss ah me kid,” he grumbled as she couldn’t help the stern look that crossed her face causing him to laugh, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll finish then and head to bed,” he assured her waving his hand at her. Smiling she yawned again as she headed in.

“Night Stanford.”

“Night Billie.”

[audacity-city]

Soap Suds - Werewolf!Kirishima x Reader

A/n: This is definitely based off of @thetrashyartwitch Werewolf!Kirishima x reader mini series she’s been working on recently. I’m in love, and I know tons of other people are as well, so we came up with a whole bunch of headcanons for it and this was birthed from the combined creativity. I hope you enjoy, my requests are open, and feel free to leave comments as well!

Warnings: Mild Cursing. All characters are 18+!

Living with a dog, that’s one thing. Living with a werewolf? That’s not only a different subject, but a different planet! That fact seemed nearly literal to, seeing as there were endless differences between you and your beloved Kirishima. Several were painfully obvious, you lacked a tail, ears, and the ability to change into a dog upon viewing the full moon. There were some that were not so obvious, though, and to you those were some of the better ones (even if Kirishima’s ears were super soft).

They way you slept for example, although it had begun to change over time, for the both of you. Kiri liked to ball himself up, knees nearly tucked all the way to his chest, arms filling the space in between them. You however, slept any way you could get comfortable, depending on the temperature or what part of your body seemed to ache that day from your tedious desk job.

Another thing that was (highly amusing) yet slightly different? How you viewed different interactions, verbal or physical. Especially physical. Kirishima saw no problem in giving physical displays of affection or gratitude, taking all opportunities to wrap you in a comfortably crushing hug, or patting your head when he was proud of you. He also seemed fairly fond of just resting his own head on top of yours, or you forearm, or you leg, just whatever was available and comfortable at the current point in time would suffice. You yourself became comfortable with allowing your fingers to traverse his vibrant hair, never giving a second thought about lightly scratching the base of his exceedingly soft ears.

When it came to Kirishima learning about different things he could do to help you out around the house, seeing as he couldn’t really go out and work to help support your home, he was more than willing...but that didn’t mean he was always had complete successes. The first incident occurred when you were trying to teach him how to shower by himself. While he was still a dog for a few short periods of time, you would bathe him yourself, and before this, you had first attempted to just scrub him down with a wash rag, seemingly forgetting that, in his human form, he could just take a shower.

This series of thoughts is why had lead you to your current predicament.

“So I’m just supposed to willingly get into a container full of water? That sounds fake,” Kiri gave you a skeptical look, glancing back at the bathtub full of water. You had tried to make it seem more enticing by adding your favorite bubble bath, but Kirishima didn’t seem to have any more of an inclination to it that way either.

“And you can’t drink it either. You’ll get sick.” You pointed a finger at him knowingly, the memory of poor Kirishima trying to help you do the dishes once flashing through your mind. The poor guy had taken a plate from you, that wasn’t completely rinsed off, and licked up a mouthful of soap. He didn’t help you do the dishes for a while, was all you had to say on the matter.

“And remind me why you can’t take a “bath” with me? I’m going to forget half of the steps you told me to do by the time I actually start man.” He was pouting now, pulling at you heart strings. Maybe there was a way to make that work? You tapped you index finger against your lip, trying to think of a solution. You smiled to yourself, giving Kiri a pat on the arm before jogging out of the bathroom and towards you shared room.

“Give me a second, I think I have an idea!”

He could hear you giggling as your feet padded against the floor. Kiri waited patiently, curious to see what you had come up with. He always loved how you had the oddest ideas and solutions when it came to teaching him things.

Kirishima hadn’t realized he was lost in thought, until he was suddenly looking straight down into your (e/c) orbs, rather than at the floor. You held out a pair of weird shorts to him, which he examined quizzically before realizing you were also wearing two pieces of clothing made from the same smooth fabric.

You felt like a genius for not coming to this realization earlier. Obviously, the easiest way to teach Kiri would be to show him, but you hadn’t figured out the easiest way to do that quite yet, but the answer had been so blatantly obvious! Swimsuits, while a bit showing, were the easiest way for you to accomplish the task at hand. You would do it just this once, and Kiri would be able to get a step by step instruction on how to shower or bathe by himself. You tossed the swim shorts onto his head, sliding back through the door.

“Change out of your clothes and put those on, so let me know when you’re done, and I’ll come back in, alright?”

Kirishima nodded at you, lifting the shorts from his head to peek out at you as you made your way out of the bathroom again. You were so proud of yourself for preemptively buying him a pair of swim shorts, since you had been considering maybe taking him to the lake one evening to teach him how to swim, but you hadn’t had the time to do it quite yet. This would work for now, too, though.

Kirishima opened the door, a large smile spread across his handsome features, his sharp teeth on display. You giggled to yourself at the pattern that adorned the pair of swim trunks. They were a simple, but you knew when you had seen them that Kirishima would love them unconditionally. It seemed you were right. The shorts featured a simple ocean wave pattern, with different shades of blue for each no strip of waves, but on the left thigh of the shorts, was a cute cartoon shark with its own pointy teeth bared in a smile. Kiri pointed down at the shark, and then back up to himself excitedly, “(y/n), he looks like me! Well, sort of anyway!”

You covered your mouth to try to stifle the laughter bubbling from within, but Kirishima saw right through you. He moved forward, happily wrapping his arms around your shoulders in a tight hug, resting his head atop yours easily.

“I don’t understand why I have to wear these, but I don’t even care, I love them! They’re so manly!” Kiri nuzzled his head against yours excitedly, continuing to hold you close. You smiled into his chest, hands unintentionally rubbing the skin of his back in response. “I’m glad you like them Kiri, I hoped you would.”

You pulled away from the warmth that was Kirishima, realization dawning on your face. “Well, we’re going to have to take a shower instead of a bad, we both won’t fit into the bathtub together.”

With that being said, you moved past Kirishima, draining the tub and starting the shower instead once the tub was empty again. You turned the temperature up pretty warm, knowing from previous endeavors that Kiri like to be bathed in pretty warm water, before turning to face him.

“Well, after you!”

Showering with Kiri was interesting, to say the least. He was really curious about all the different products you had, and of course he had to smell each one before he used it himself. You had taken the liberty to go out any buy him his own shampoo and body wash, figuring he didn’t particularly want to use your sweet smelling products. He did like to be “manly” after all. It was hysterical watching him mimic your actions, eyes wide with curiosity while he rubbed face wash into his skin in small circular motions.

“Kiri, you’re going to have to close your eyes, or you’ll get soap in them, you dork!” You closed your own eyes, rubbing face was gently over your brow bones and eyelids. When your face felt clean enough you gathered water from the stream of the shower head and rinsed the soap from your skin. When your eyes finally blinked open you could see Kirishima just standing before you, soap still on his jaw and forehead in bubbly masses.

“Did I get it all (y/n)?” He questioned, looking to you for assistance. You shook your head at him, cupping your hands to catch more water. “No honey, not quite.” The two of you burst into a fit of laughter as you splashed the handful of water up at Kirishima, the rest of the suds effectively washed away by your attack.

Kirishima splashed water back at you, the two of you continuing like that for some time before the two of you were leaning against one another, enjoying the warmth of the water together. Your breathing had finally returned to normal, and you let out a final laugh as you reached for you shampoo bottle. Popping the cap, you squirted the lightly tinted substance onto your head with a smile. The familiar smell brought a smile to your face, but you hadn’t noticed the matching one on Kirishima’s face as he watched you replace the bottle onto the small corner shelf. You went to raise your hands to your head, but Kiri caught them in his own before they could make it to their destination.

“Let me try?”

The heat that quickly spread across your cheeks betrayed you, and you silently cursed yourself. Were you not used to Kiri’s affectionate and helpful nature at this point, how could you not be? You noticed Kiri was looking at you expectantly, waiting for your answer, and it took all you had just to nod your head at him, quietly giving him permission to wash your hair for you.

Kirishima was always gentle with you, afraid of accidentally hurting you, but he took even more care to avoid that as he massaged the shampoo into your hair. The way you were gazing up at him had his heart melting into a puddle, and he couldn’t help but stare. You had tilted your head back a little and closed your eyes, a precaution to prevent soap getting into your bright (e/c) eyes. Like this, Kirishima could look at you all he wanted, committing your features to memory. The slope of the bridge of your nose, the shape of your brows, the curve of your jaw. Everything about you had enticed him since the first day you two had met, that day at the animal shelter. He had been there so long that he had begun to lose hope that someone would ever rescue him from that dark place, and then you appeared.

Your presence had been light, and you smelled so sweet that it almost made him whine from within the kennel he was locked in. You had looked at him with some kind of wonder in your eyes, and at that moment, unbeknownst to Kirishima, you had already chosen him. When the caretaker had opened the door he couldn’t help but wag his tail and jump towards you, and action that would likely have scared most potential adopters off, but you wanted nothing more than you reach out and pet the new addition to your home. You were probably more excited than he was, he had no doubt in his mind about it.

The memory was so fond to Kirishima, and had become so vivid in his mind’s eye that he didn’t realize that, once again, you were staring right back up at him. The heat that had previously plagued your features now spread across Kirishima’s as well. You seemed to notice this, and gave him a shy smile, unable to prevent the deepening blush on your own face. You tilted your head into the stream of water, allowing Kiri’s fingers to slip from you (h/c) locks and brush down your arms as you shifted your body away from his.

The sudden distance was creating a pain in Kirishima’s chest, and he couldn’t help but close the distance once more, wrapping his arms around your stomach from behind. You jumped, head turning quickly to glance at the redhead, “Kiri what are you-”

“(Y/n), I love you.”

You couldn’t remember what you were about what ask Kirishima before, new questions circling through you mind in a wave of panic. “You...what?”

“I didn’t stutter. I said, I love you.”

You sighed deeply, a sound so foreign to Kirishima’s ears, turning your head to face the shower wall. “I don’t think you understand what your saying Kiri…” You whispered, your voice trailing off into silence, the sound of the showering running the only sound filling the small space. Kirishima couldn’t believe this, how could you not believe his words? He had never lied to you, and would never dream of doing so, so why would you mistake his intentions?

Kirishima leaned down, hooking his chin onto your shoulder, an action so common between the two of you now, and he could feel you tilt your head into his.

“(Y/n), I know what I’m saying, and I know what it means. I think I’m in love with you.” When had you started holding your breath? You didn’t know the answer to your question, but you couldn’t breath as Kirishima continued speaking quietly into your ear. “How could I not be? You’ve accepted me for everything that I am, allowed me into your home, and into your life. You’re the center of my attention at all times, even when you’re not home, all I can think about it you.”

Kirishima nuzzled his forehead against your neck, hiding his face from you, quickly becoming embarrassed at the words that were spewing freely from his lips.

“You saved me (y/n), and for that I’m so grateful. I’ll keep telling you until you believe me, too. I love you, with everything I have.”

As Kiri’s rambling had continued, your eyes continuously widened. Did he not know how you felt, was the dork of a man beside you that oblivious to how he affected you?

“Kiri?..” You could feel your voice shaking, but you couldn’t help how your nerves affected you. “I-I love you too, you dork!” You stated adamantly, turning to wrap your arms around him as well, needing to feel him in your arms, needing to know that this wasn’t some kind of sick dream.

Kirishima only held onto you tighter, nearly suffocating you, but you didn’t care. Your head came up from his chest and the pair of you locked eyes. The close proximity had never really bothered you before, only made you nervous, but now all you felt was adoration for the man before you. You leaned forward, pressing your lips to the wet skin of his cheek, then the tip of his nose, and finally his lips. He met you halfway there, closing his eyes as he had seen the actors in the sappy romance movies the two of you had watched.

The feeling of Kirishima’s lips on your made you feel elated, but you still needed to consume oxygen, and that was difficult enough with how tightly he held your smaller frame, let alone with your lips locked to his. You pulled back and Kiri tilted downwards to rest his forehead against your own. A snort escaped you as you came to the realization of how long you’d been in the shower, the water beginning to run cold against your skin a telltale sign of the passage of time.

“I think we should get out, we’ve both turned into prunes,” you continued to laugh, turning off the shower and pulling back the curtain.

“Plus, I have to cook you dinner still, don’t I? How’s steak sound, huh?”

“Oh hell yeah!”

[capaldisrighteyebrow]

Unorthodox Auto Repair - A Reylo Fic

That time this video came up in chat and @mnemehoshiko made me have cracky Reylo thoughts about fixing car dents with dildos.Thanks to @spacedarcy for reading this over and helping me fix that pesky problem!

Links: FF | AO3 (ETA: Link added!)

Rey has a split second to make her choice: take the fall or chance an impact. If she swerves now, she'll have to lay down the 200 kilogram bike—not the best option under any circumstance, but a full-blown Bad Idea when sporting a mini dress and heels instead of proper leathers and boots. Damn Rose and her insistence that her bachelorette party should feel like Vegas despite taking place at the Tico family farm.

Option two doesn't give her much better odds: if she brakes now, she may not have the distance to spare before hitting the jackass sitting at the crossroads without so much as parking lights. Her only saving grace is that her heels paired with the unfamiliar country roads have tempered her lead foot. She's kept the engine between her thighs at an even purr instead of coaxing it to the delicious growl she loves to hear, because she does want to show up to Finn's wedding alive come morning.

Gritting her teeth, Rey makes her choice.

In the Porsche's insulated cabin, he almost doesn't hear the screeching tires. By the time he does, it's too late. The car lurches forward from the hit, though it only moves a few inches while parked. Ben scrambles up from his reclined seat, the stars he was observing through the windshield utterly forgotten, and throws open the door.

This night just keeps getting better and better, he thinks sourly. First, the disastrous corporate banquet; now, this.

The air smells like burnt rubber as he circles round to the back of the car. An accented voice scares away the songs of nearby nocturnal creatures concealed in the cornfields surrounding the intersection.

"Shit," the voice exclaims as the girl flips up her visor and starts to remove her helmet with shaky hands. "Fuck."

He casts a cursory glance over the two vehicles. The headlight of the motorcycle shines on his back end, the only light for miles and miles just inches from his bumper. There's a dent, but nothing looks cracked or scratched on his end; her bike's front wheel didn't fare as well. The popped tire sags, making it look like the aging Triumph is bowing to his car.

Insurance details can be hashed out after manners have been met. "Are you okay?"

She swings her right leg backward, dismounting the bike. The black fabric bunched at her hips falls down to her upper thighs, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't take in how much skin stretches between the hem and her black pumps. Legs. Legs for days. Toned and smooth and. . .the absolute last thing he should be focusing on right now.

"I didn't ask to see my life flash before my eyes," the girl answers after running her hands over the front of her leather jacket and up again to grip the back of her neck, "but yeah, I'm fine."

Now that manners are dispensed with, his voice takes on a harder edge, "Are you drunk?"

"I've had drinks," she throws back, "but that's not the problem."

He holds the shock of anger in his fists, squeezing it up his arms and through his neck, before finally gritting it out around his teeth. "You rear-ended my car."

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, kicking up dust from the road as she steps toward him, an accusatory finger pointed at the loosened knot of his tie. "I bumped into your black car that didn't have any fucking lights on in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere at night," she counters. "If anyone was a hazard on the road, it was you."

He's both impressed and horrified by her words. The sharks he swims with usually conceal their teeth around him; seeing them bared and ready to bite is oddly refreshing. "Are you always this eloquent at three in the morning?"

"Only when my best friend is getting married tomorrow, and his fiance will kill me if I end up in jail," the girl goes on.

"I didn't say I was going to call the cops," Ben remarks. He has every right to. Taking his car in to be looked at by the dealer for underlying damage will cost him more than what her bike is worth. Still. . .the truth she hit upon nags at him: he is at least partially responsible for the accident. Parking at an intersection without hazards—even on a back road no one should be cruising through on a still-dark Saturday morning—wasn't the best choice on his end.

Her eyes snap up to his, hopeful. "You mean that?"

Ben groans inwardly. Considering the age of her bike and the sudden calmness in her tone, he assumes it means she has no insurance. He doesn't care much; money has never been a concern on his radar. But her bike is inoperable, if not totaled. How is she going to get it fixed without coverage? What would have happened had she been thrown from the bike and injured?

He puts aside the what-ifs to focus on the present. His jaw eats around the lie as his hand waves off the entire accident, willing to sweep it under the proverbial rug seeing as neither of them are hurt. "There's no damage."

Her eyes narrow. "Are you blind? Or do you really not see that dent?"

"It's nothing major," he corrects.

She's already shaking her head at him, not accepting his words even though she's the one that benefits from him not making a fuss. This girl seems determined to hold on to something he's ready to move past, to forget.

She crouches next to his bumper, hands smoothing over the impact site, whispering her apologies. "I'm so sorry, gorgeous. I'm gonna fix you up in no time."

"Are you talking to my—?"

"Shh," she hisses. "Let me think. I can get this dent out. I know I can."

She'd give anything to have her tools. Normally, she keeps the essentials in her saddlebag at all times, but she'd needed the space to transport party supplies tonight. For a moment she considers offering to fix the dent at her shop on Monday—even goes so far as to visualize the sleek, black 911 model nestled into the single station she calls a garage—but brushes off the thought.

The G-Man, whom she's upgraded from jackass due to his offer to forego a paper trail, would probably laugh at such an offer. He's dressed in navy Tom Ford pants and a tailored white shirt that knows every curve of muscle in his upper arms and chest intimately. This is the kind of man who doesn't work for the government so much as is the government. He doesn't come to businesses that break half a dozen OSHA laws unless he's there to give a citation.

Better not to invite trouble, Rey agrees with herself. Even so, she can't leave his beautiful Porsche looking like this. If only I had something with suction. . .

"Ah!" she cries, startling his spine straight in her eureka moment. Spinning dangerously on her heels, she bends over to dig through her saddlebag. It's a crazy idea, but the physics of it should be the same no matter if the pull is coming from a traditional suction cup or from the more unorthodox tool she has on hand thanks to Rose and her ridiculous party favors.

Her hand finally closes around the soft shaft of silicone and she whips it out into the country air.

At first, Ben isn't sure he's seeing what he's seeing. It can't possibly be that.

She straightens and holds the electric blue dildo aloft like it's some award. A delighted laugh at her ingenuity turns into a fit of giggles as she considers the obscenely large phallus, pressing the base to her hand several times as if testing it out. Whatever simulation she's running, it passes. "This should do the trick."

He intercedes before she can reach his vehicle. "Wait," he tells her, "You're going to fix my car with a. . .with that?"

Her smile falters slightly as she looks from him to the intimate toy—how anything so imposing can be called a toy, he can't begin to fathom. Flipping the dildo so she's holding the tip, she shows him the end with the concave cup. "It's just like a plunger," she explains. "It'll work just fine. These things have some incredible suction."

He's at a loss for words, but his eyebrows must speak for him because her eyes cringe shut and she runs her tongue along her bottom lip. "Not that I would know," she mutters, clearing her throat.

"This really isn't necessary," he protests. "I can have a mechanic work it out tomorrow."

"I am a mechanic," she returns with a proud smile. "And one that won't charge you a fucking pound of flesh for an easy fix."

Without another word, she brushes past him and kneels down on the road, clenching her jaw against the bite of the asphalt on her bare knees.

"It's just. . ." he begins again, gesturing at the thing he can't seem to name without his cheeks threatening to catch fire. "Why do you even have it?"

She shrugs as she lines up the base of the dildo with the center of the dent. The thing is so large that even her two hands don't cover all of it. "It's from the party. No need to worry," she adds, "I haven't used it yet."

Rey remembers learning about spontaneous human combustion in school and thinks it might be happening to her right now, starting at her ears. Haven't used it yet? she repeats to herself with an internal groan she wonders if he can hear. You don't plan on using it at all, Rey. It was a gag gift.

She goes silent with embarrassment and hopes he thinks she's concentrating on her task. There's not a chance in hell that she can meet his eyes right now to check. Instead, she secures her hold around the dildo and presses it firmly against the dent. She feels the air compress beneath it, gives the dildo a slight twist to lock it in place, and then yanks back with a determined pull.

The dent pops out with a hollow thunk, and it's over. Easy, peasy. She's probably just saved him a grand with a five second job.

His remark is a dumbfounded whisper: "I can't believe that worked."

She's still flushed from her previous comment, but she can't help grinning at the skeptic. "I said I could fix it. I'm good at fixing things. Always have been."

"Even with your skills," he starts, "I don't think there's a way you can fix that tonight."

She follows his gaze to her busted front tire, and Rey scrunches her nose at the sight. It really is a miracle that she wasn't bucked from her seat when the rear of the bike popped up. Having opted for two wheels all her life, Rey's had her fair share of scary situations and taken one or two trips to the ER; tonight marks the first time she's ever been truly afraid of not walking away.

"I'll have to call for an Uber," she remarks, tucking the dildo under her arm to retrieve her phone. "Finn will give me a tow to my shop in the morning."

As she unzips a pocket on her leather jacket and removes her phone, Ben scuffs the asphalt with his cap-toe Oxfords. Getting an Uber to come all the way out here at this hour is going to take forever and cost her an arm and leg. He would extend an offer to drive her home, but he can't think of a way to express it without coming off sounding like a creep. They are relative strangers, after all. He doesn't even know her name.

"I'll wait with you," he says instead, leaning against the side of his car and tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. "It's the least I can do."

"You might be out here until dawn," she comments as she scrolls through the app to contact a driver.

"I insist."

Her thumbs stop moving across the screen. The girl peers up at him, cocking her head to the side. "If you're willing to wait that long, why not just give me a lift?"

Ben thanks the stars that she is the one who asks, and he pushes away from the vehicle. "I'd be happy to, if you're comfortable with that."

She looks from him to the car, an odd sense of longing in her glance. In the eyes of a mechanic, the sleek Porsche must be an awfully big temptation. The hunger in her gaze isn't focused on him, that's for sure. He fleetingly wonders if it's possible to be jealous of his own car.

"On one condition," she states, then changes her mind, "No, two."

Tentatively, he nods in agreement. He did say he wants her to be comfortable with him driving her home. "Make your demands."

"Show me your ID."

Of all the things she could have said, that isn't what he anticipated. "My what?"

"Your license," she repeats. "I don't make a habit of getting into cars with men at three AM. You could be a serial killer."

His eyes go wide and his jaw slack in mild horror—these are the conclusions women leap to?—but he's already digging into his back pocket for his wallet. In a moment, he produces it and slips his driver's license out of the clear window, holding it out to her between two fingers while questioning her logic, "Even if I was out to kidnap beautiful women, how would having my license keep you safe?"

She shrugs, snapping a picture of it and tapping out a message he presumes she's sending to a friend. "It wouldn't," she answers, "but at least if I go missing, the police will know where to look first."

"A bit morbid, don't you think?"

"I like to think of it as pragmatic," she responds, finally reading his name from the card, "Ben Solo."

He watches the way her mouth forms his name, how her pink lips kiss together before curving around the vowels. "What's your other condition?" he inquires as he plucks his ID from her hand.

She moves past him and ghosts her free hand an inch over the car's shell, headed for the passenger side door, as she makes her second request: "I want to hear her roar. I may never get the chance to ride in one of these again, and. . .it'll kill me if I don't find out what she can do."

He mirrors her movements as she speaks, meeting her on the opposite side of the car. He was right about the hungry look in her eyes as they feasted upon his car. "I think I can make that happen," he agrees with a wide grin, adding, "But he prefers to be called 'Kylo.'"

"Ben and Kylo," she repeats with a smile. "We had a rough start, but I'm glad to have met you both. I'm Rey."

[amazingmsme]

Why Jesse Tuck Hates The Ocean

Miles and Jesse had pledged to spend more time together. Family was the only consistency in their eternal life, and every few years they decided to plan a vacation together. They've visited the African safari, climbed Mount Everest, kayaked down the Amazon, and seen countless other sights. Miles remembered how much his brother had loved the ocean. He used to talk about it constantly, rambling about the countless creatures that lurked in the waters that would remain unknown. He used to say that he would go down in a submarine one day to see what it was like, and if he couldn't find one, he would swim to the bottom of the sea himself. As the years went by, he talked about it less. Miles assumed he'd just forgotten about his dream with time. After all, they've been alive for over 200 years and they didn't always remember certain things. So he decided that he'd do something nice for his brother, and asked if he wanted to go to Australia with him, where they could go surfing, relax on the beach, and even get in a shark cage next to some of the world's largest great whites. Jesse used to say how he always wanted to do that, but in recent years, it was as if his brother had completely forgotten that the ocean even existed. But when he asked if he wanted to go, his brother had a panic attack. It took 20 minutes to get him to calm down. He didn't know if he wanted to talk about or leave it be, and he decided to leave that up to Jesse.

"I hate the ocean," those were the only words he could choke out between sobs. And just like that, all the reasons came flooding back to him.

Reason 1: 1912 He had bought a ticket for the maiden voyage of the biggest ship to date. History was being made before his eyes, and he was gonna be a part of it! History was made alright, and after days of gambling and fun, it all came to an end. He felt the boat strike something large and heard a terrible metal scraping. Everyone else dismissed it for the most part, but he could tell something wasn't right. Hours past and suddenly they were sinking. Chaos on deck as people rushed to the lifeboats that there were too few of. Women and children first. Jesse knew he couldn't get on one, it would be too selfish of him. He would survive no matter what. Someone else needed that seat.

He jumped early on. The boat was just beginning to capsize when he plunged himself into the icy waters. His body froze instantly when he hit the water. Just because he was immortal doesn't mean he can't feel, and even though he couldn't really feel pain, it was the most excruciating thing he had ever felt. It was the closest thing to physical pain he could feel. He almost missed it. He sunk for a good bit before coming to his senses. His eyes shot open and all around him he only saw black. He  tilted his head back and saw the boat lights above the water, illuminating the lifeboats and bodies floating. Suddenly, half of the ship broke off and sank quickly past him, startling him as the metal brushed past. He had ran out of air a long time ago, and even though he couldn't die, it was a frightening feeling. His lungs yearned for air, and when he opened his mouth, water rushed inside, filling his body and making him weak from the cold. He tried to cough but found he couldn't, the taste of salt overwhelming him. He was 25 meters below the surface but found he couldn't swim anymore. He needed to rest. It wouldn't hurt to rest, right? He felt his eyelids flutter as the urge to sleep and give up grew more and more.

He shook his head, forcing himself to stay awake. He forced his numb limbs to move through the water until finally, he broke through the surface. The air was sharp against his cold skin as screams and cries rang out in the night, calling for help that didn't come. He looked up at the dark moonless sky dotted with stars and closed his eyes, silently praying for mercy. He forgot which way land was, so he picked a random direction and started swimming.

89 days. That's how long it took to swim back to shore. 89 days of swimming constantly until he couldn't feel his arms and legs, letting himself drift with the waves, staring blearily up at the sun. He was so cold, he forgot what warmth felt like; he was so wet, he forgot what being dry felt like. And even though he didn't necessarily need food to survive, his stomach rumbled so loud, he was shocked it didn't attract sharks or other creatures. He saw a pod of blue whales swim past, breaching close by. It was a beautiful sight, the only good thing to happen to him since he started his swim. He hoped it was a sign of good luck, and that good things were coming his way.

He cried when he saw land on the horizon. He arrived off the coast of Delaware, surprisingly close to his home in New Jersey. His money was soaked, but he had enough to pay a cab driver to drive back to his house where he finally got to rest. He drank two whole gallons of water, and ate all the food in his pantry before sleeping for three weeks straight.

Reason 2: 1945 Jesse had been drafted in the second World War. It wasn't his first one, but after the Great War, he hadn't been too eager to get back to fighting. He was on a secret mission on the USS Indianapolis to deliver the atomic bombs that were said to bring an end to the war. After a successful arrival, they were all ready to celebrate. Then things took a turn for the worst. Two torpedoes struck the ship, and they started sinking. This was so much faster than the Titanic. The boat was sunk in 12 minutes.

Jesse and his comrades clung onto ship wreckage, donned in life jackets. He looked at the men around him, noting that a large chunk of the crew didn't make it out. He yelled out asking for names, hearing the voices of his friends and relaxing a bit. Until he felt something brush against his leg. And someone else did too. And someone else. And then there was the first attack.

By the light of the almost full moon, Jesse watched in horror as his brothers in arms got picked off one by one by ravenous sharks. Blood in the water swirled around them, drawing in more hungry predators. Pain filled screams filled the air as the men were ripped apart and drowned, and the heart wrenching sobs of those who were forced to watch their friends die before their eyes. There was nothing Jesse could do but watch.

"Quint! Over here!" Jesse called out to his friend, pulling him onto his piece of driftwood for safety. The pale moonlight illuminated the scene, and saltwater and tears drenched their faces. And then Jesse felt himself be pulled down. Quint reached out to grab his hand and Jesse tried to cling on, but their grip was no match for a shark's jaws.

It's a strange thing, not dying: being able to feel, but not feel pain. He could feel the teeth sunk into his thigh, ripping and dragging him down only, it didn't hurt. He felt the pressure of each tooth that pierced his skin and tore away the flesh. Jesse tried to get away in a panic, but another shark bit through his arm. Another grew in it's place. He stared at the new appendage before getting struck from behind by the original shark, taking a bite from his side, only for more flesh to grow and replace it. Jesse looked up, staring into the blank and empty eyes of the shark, it's mouth opening wide, showing him all it's teeth, chunks of flesh stuck between. Jesse screamed, the last of his air long gone and swallowing mouthfuls of sea water. His lungs would ache if they could. He reached back as far as his arm could reach, and with all his might thrust his fist towards the shark, punching it on the nose. It swam off, leaving him alone and allowing him to return to the surface. Everyone screamed, not knowing what to expect.

He coughed and sputtered, "It's okay, I'm okay." By the time they were rescued, only 317 members of the 1,196 person crew remained. And out of all the people who went under the water, only Jesse made it back to the surface.

Reason 3: 1985 By this point in time, Jesse had a rough relationship with the ocean. He still loved splashing along by the shore, but refused to get in water deeper than he could touch. He was swimming along a crowded beach in Florida, trying his best to calm his swarming mind. And then he felt something brush against his leg and he froze. Memories came flooding back as teeth dug into his leg, spilling blood into the water for all to see. His skin and flesh instantly healed and the hammerhead swam off after the exploratory bite, but the damage was done. Mothers were gathering their children from the water and lifeguards were already coming to his rescue as the entire beach watched on. Everyone was expecting him to be injured, to have a piece of him missing, to have meat hanging on by the skin. They were all preparing themselves for something awful. Only he didn't have a single scratch on him. Not a single solitary flaw on his smooth perfect skin. His blood was still lingering in the surf, proof of what had happened. He was panicking, thinking of excuses he could use for why he wasn't injured.

He ended up telling the lifeguard that the shark got a fish that happened to be near his leg. He still looked concerned and skeptical, but after looking him over, believed his story. But after that day, it had been proven to Jesse that the ocean was not a safe place for him. It brought nothing but bad luck and traumatizing memories, and he refused to step foot in it. It served as a reminder that no matter what he goes through, there truly is no way out.

Miles didn't know this. He made a point not to tell his family any of this. But he decided now, maybe it was time to share his burden. His brother listened, not uttering a sound, instead listening to Jesse's words spoken through sobs, all the while holding him in a tight embrace. When he was finished, all Jesse could say was, "I used to love the ocean..."

[fullbattleregalia]

(The Android 20 Universe continues with Part 4!  And, er, I’m tagging @chestnutisland and @deadlybeautydbz since you’re both interested in this story.  Yay!)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

For the first time since leaving Gero’s lab, gray clouds were beginning to pile up and hang low in the sky.  18 stared up at the clouds.  She had joined 20, perching on the backseats next to him when 17 had whined his way back into the driver’s seat two hours earlier.  The wind riffled through her hair.  The air was soft and cool against her face with the promise of rain.  No wonder 20 seemed to be enjoying sitting back here so much.

18 glanced over at 20.  The lines of tension leftover from last night’s fuel station incident had finally smoothed away completely from around his eyes.  His chin was tilted up slightly, and a small, contented smile was pulling up the corners of his mouth.  18 looked away again.  Her cheeks felt ever so slightly warmer than usual.  It was probably just windburn – nothing important.  It didn’t occur to her that, with Gero’s modifications, windburn was likely something she would never experience.  She shifted through her memories to try and see if she could remember ever actually experiencing rain.  On the radio someone was playing a truly spectacular rift on the electric guitar.

Just as 18 was coming to the conclusion that she had no memories of what rain felt like against skin but one of a storm so violent that she had been able to hear the rain rattling against Gero’s thick metal doors, the entire car jerked to the right.  Only their superhuman reflexes kept 18 and 20 from being flung out onto the highway as the car skidded across three lanes of traffic and down an exit ramp.

“What the hell, 17?!” 20 yelped, clinging so hard to the side of the car that he was in danger of leaving a dent.  Behind them on the highway, tires screeched, horns blared, and drivers swore.

“We are going to the aquarium,” 17 announced cheerfully.

“What?!” demanded 18 and 20 in unison.

“There was a billboard back there for an aquarium, and they have a petting tank.  I want to pat a stingray.  It said something about being able to pat jellyfish, too.”

“I thought jellyfish were poisonous,” 20 put in hesitantly.  It sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Yeah,” 17 grinned.  “It sounds like a challenge!”

“Huh.  Okay. Sure, why not,” 20 nodded.

18 considered the prospect of fish.  Bright, colorful fish.  Something old and forgotten and buried beneath programming and trauma stirred and brightened at the idea.

“Okay,” she agreed as well.

“Good,” 17’s grin widened, “because you two didn’t actually have a choice.”

20 laughed, and 18 rolled her eyes at her brother’s antics, but she wasn’t actually annoyed.  With every mile farther that they drove in the lime green convertible, the pressing need to find Son Goku seemed to wane further and further.  It was a good game, a good excuse, but 18 was starting to wonder if she just might be happy if they never quite made it to Mt. Paozu.

 The aquarium was a massive building with wide, dimly lit corridors. Most of the bright light came from the floor to ceiling glass tanks embedded in the walls where schools of exotic fish darted around reconstructed segments of coral reef and rainforest tree roots.  17 dragged them past all these without pause, following the signs to the petting tank area.

Even their first visit to the restaurant with the moo shu pork hadn’t prepared 18 for this many people.  The petting tank room was large, brightly lit, and packed.  Excited, babbling young voices practically drowned out 18’s own thoughts, and she was tempted to clamp her hands over her ears.

17 elbowed his way to the front of the crowd without care for subtlety or politeness, rolled up his sleeves, and stuck his hands in the water of the shallow, sandy-bottomed tank to touch the first thing he could reach – a horseshoe crab. His face brightened with almost childlike delight.  

20 peered at the side of the tank where tank a small ray about eight inches across was pressing its belly to the glass.

“It looks like it’s smiling.”  20 gently touched his fingers to the clear barrier.

“Be very gentle.”  A cheetah woman wearing an aquarium employee shirt was showing 17 how to touch one of the little rays.  “Just let your fingers skim over its back.  Any harder and you might hurt or stress the animal.”

18 rolled up her sleeves and plunged her hands into the cool saltwater as well.  She let her fingers trace over the back of a ray as it swam serenely past.  Rubbery sandpaper with sharp ridges of spine. Next to her, 20 had his red wrist bracers tucked under one arm and was laughing at the texture of the starfish under his hand.  18 looked from her brother’s delighted expression – possibly the most relaxed and happy she had even seen him – to 20’s massive grin as he helped a freckled little girl to pat the starfish as well.  Then 18 reached out to touch the hard, smooth shell of a horseshoe crab. This had definitely been a good idea.

The jellyfish were in a separate tank and turned out to be moon jellies and nonvenomous to humans – much to 17’s disappointment.  You didn’t so much pat them as hold your hand in the water and allow the jellyfish’s translucent white doom to bump softly into your fingers. 18 found the moon jellyfish peaceful and soothing despite the cacophony of children going on around them.

“We’re going to the jellyfish exhibit next,” announced 18 when they finally left the petting tank room.

17 blinked at her.

“But sharks.”  He pointed down a different hall.

“We have all day.  Sharks later – jellyfish now.”  18 caught 17 by the wrist and 20 by the hand and started towing them in the direction of the jellyfish exhibit.

“And then the coral reef fish,” 20 added.  His cheeks were tinted the slightest bit pink.  

“Coral reef fish and more prawn crackers,” 17 agreed.

“Haven’t you had enough of those?”

“You can never have enough prawn crackers.”

Hours swirled by in colorful splashes and sparkles of chaotic, breathtaking life.  There was a massive oval tank that you could walk down the center of like you were swimming with the fish themselves, and on the level below that sharks drifted by with graceful menace.  Jellyfish trailed tentacles like ribbon and lace streamers beneath ruffled skirts, and silver hatchet fish flashed along the bottom of a fake rainforest riverbed.

They had been at the aquarium for almost four hours when 18 caught sight of her reflection in the glass of a dark, underwater shipwreck display.  She hadn’t thought much about her appearance in a long time, because until now it hadn’t been hers.  The image in the glass was shadowy and a little fuzzy.  The low lighting caught her face oddly and made half her hair look shorter than it actually was.  In her earliest memories, 18’s hair was long, falling past her shoulder blades.  Then between one awakening from stasis and then next her hair had been clipped to above shoulder length to match 17’s.  18 considered her distorted reflection.  She looked… good with short hair.  Less like Gero’s doll in a box.  She wasn’t in a box anymore.  If she wanted to cut her hair so it didn’t match her brother’s, she could. It was a surprisingly liberating thought.

20’s reflection joined hers in the darkened glass.  The strange cast of shadows made his face look solemn.  It didn’t suit him.  She looked away from the glass and down at 20.  He gave her a smile.  She gave him a small smile in return.  

“I’m getting a haircut,” 18 told him just so that she could hear the words out loud.

20’s eyebrows furrowed together slightly,

“I don’t think that’s something you can do at the aquarium.”

18 snorted and then, after a moment’s hesitation, reached out and bumped 20 lightly in the shoulder with her fist like she had seen him do to 17.

“I meant after we leave the aquarium.”

“In that case,” said 17, leaning in and startling them both, “I want a hat.”

“A hat?” asked 20 skeptically.

“Yup.  A hat. It saw a sign that says souvenirs, and I want a souvenir, and that souvenir is going to be a hat.”

17 could not be talked out of buying a hat, though thankfully 18 did manage to convince him to buy the baseball cap with the stylized shark rather than the stupidly grinning purple fish.  Somewhere in the melee of the gift shop, 17 acquired another wallet since their current one was almost out of zenni.

 18 stared at her reflection in the mirror as the hairdresser removed the drape from around her shoulders.  A ‘pixie cut,’ the hairdresser had called it.  18 didn’t think much of the name, but she did like how it looked on her. She ran her hands through her hair, enjoying the sudden feel of air on her fingers so much sooner than expected. Her head felt lighter.

“Huh.”  17 was peering around the corner at her.  Apparently he’d acquired a new bag of prawn crackers while he’d been waiting.  “Now you and 20 match.”

“We do not,” 18 scowled, crossing her arms.

“Yeah,” agreed 20, leaning around 17, “hers is way longer and doesn’t stick up in the front.  You look really nice, 18.”

“Thank you, 20.  And for that comment, 17, I’m driving next.”

“Awww,” 17 pouted, but she ignored him.

18 glanced at her image in the mirror one more time before turning to go. The different hairstyle made her look a touch older, and for some reason, her eyes seemed a little brighter. There was a light to them that she didn’t remember seeing before.

She headed for the door.

 Around dawn the next morning 18 finally relented and let 17 have the steering wheel back.  They were getting steadily closer to Mt. Paozu.  Even on the meandering backroads 17 had taken them back onto, they should be there by tomorrow.  18 had stopped trying to direct 17 using their map.  She wasn’t reluctant to find Son Goku but- but-

Well, whatever the reason, she was content to just let 17 take them in more or less the right direction.

20 was flipping through radio stations, pausing on one for barely a few seconds before switching to the next.  17 finally caught 20’s wrist before he could press the button again.

“Yeah, no.  That is both annoying and distracting.”

“You’re hardly one to talk,” 20 shot back good-naturedly.  17 made a ‘this is true’ face.  “Besides,” 20 commented off-handedly, “I’m supposed to be distracting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked 18, twisting to look at him from the passenger seat.

“Hm?  Oh, it was just something Gero said once,” 20 shrugged.

For some reason, that comment left a bad taste in 18’s mouth.

[embracetheapocalypsewithme]

A Slippery Situation

This fic was borne out of a silly conversation with @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash on this post. I hope that I did the idea justice. :)

Summary: Negan eats some questionable soup while working late and encounters an alternate version of himself. This “Other Negan” may be a little older and shorter than him, but he might just have some things to teach Negan about oil wrestling and the love that a man can share for his ruggedly handsome TV clone. 

Word count: 4,301

Warnings: Smut, Negan, Negan being Negan, Comic Negan being Comic Negan, submission, domination, anal sex, unsafe sex, oral sex, semen, drugs, mention of incest, mention of masturbation, and oil wrestling! Enjoy!

A Slippery Situation

From the very first spoon-full, Negan knew that the soup tasted funny, but went right ahead with his meal anyway. Hell, most things that came in cans had started to taste funny as they exceeded their best before dates by months and years. Besides this, the Sanctuary’s cooking staff were notoriously terrible at their job, so everything that left their kitchen tended to taste a slightly “off” at best, and barely edible at worst.

“I’ve gotta find some new kitchen bitches like fucking yesterday,” he grumbled to no one in particular as he raised the spoon to his lips and grimaced at the slightly sour taste that invaded his mouth.

The soup was so bad that on another day he probably would have had one of his men bring it back to the kitchen and tear a strip off of whoever was in charge of that night’s meal, but he was far too busy for those kind of shenanigans today. He braved his way nearly to the end of the bowl, trying to fill his empty stomach with the disgusting liquid while actually tasting as little of it as he could manage. He mostly succeeded and only retched once near the end when the soup had begun to cool to room temperature and the taste could no longer be masked by its initial scalding temperatures.

“Fucking good for nothing, lazy asshole fucking, so called fucking cooks. Fuck, fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck!” he exhaled a long sigh of profanity after regaining control of his gag reflex, and pushed the nearly-empty bowl of soup away in disgust.

As he sat alone in his room, going over battle plans in preparation for another day of squabbling with Alexandria, he felt his mind wander back to the god-forsaken soup. Fucking Christ, how he wished he had time to personally march down to the kitchen and force-feed the cold leftovers of his meal to the first member of the staff he laid eyes upon. A tension headache began to gnaw into the centre of his forehead and he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, slamming his eyes shut.

“Oh fucking great! Just fucking marvelous! A fucking headache is all I need now…”

But it wasn’t just a headache that he was feeling. His stomach turned over and he felt another wave of nausea hit him as his vision began to dance slightly. Staggering to his feet, Negan shuffled toward one of the long, velvet couches that sat against the wall of his office. These were typically inhabited by a wife or two, but he had dismissed the women in order to focus on his work this evening, and was totally alone.

“Just need to lie down for a minute and let it pass. I’ll be right as fucking rain if I can close my eyes for a goddamn minute. Not like I have a fucking choice at this point.”

He let his large body drop into the couch dramatically and groaned in frustration at his plight. Of course he would get food poisoning the night before he had to deal with Rick the Prick and his merry band of dickwads. This did not bode well for them at all.

“Well, shit, you fucking pussy! Why don’t you just bash another one of their heads in and break his spirit a bit more. Get him back in line, man!”  

The voice that came from inside the room was deep and not entirely dissimilar to his own, but it had a strong southern drawl and was rougher around the edges. Negan’s deep brown eyes sprang open and he sat bolt upright, ready to confront the intruder.

His gaze fell to a man he knew he had never seen before, and yet he felt instantly familiar to Negan. This was because he was dressed in his characteristic uniform of green pants tucked into black boots, a white t-shirt with a leather jacket draped over it, all topped off with a bright red scarf around his neck. He was even carrying his beloved Lucille in his hands. The man was several inches shorter than Negan and much slimmer, but still managed to look imposing as he loomed over his current place on the couch.

“Good morning, sunshine!” the man drawled smoothly as a shark-like grin spread across his face, which was undeniably handsome and adorned with a fair amount of silver-tinged scruff. He leaned back at an angle that seemed just a little bit too extreme to be comfortable and slung the wooden symbol of the only bitch Negan had ever loved over his shoulder.

“You must have a fucking death wish, asshole!” Negan bellowed, springing to his feet, ready to follow the man’s advice and start cracking skulls at this disrespectful display, “What the fuck is this? Halloween for Doucehbags? Get my fucking jacket the fuck off of you and get the fuck on your knees! Now!”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know I can’t do that yet. Ya gotta buy me dinner first!” the man said, taking a step closer, “Besides, this ain’t your jacket, prick. Look down.”

Negan did as he commanded, against his better judgment, and was stunned to find that he was still wearing his leather jacket. In fact, he was wearing the exact same outfit as this man, right down to the biker gloves that partially covered his large hands. He gaped in confusion, at a momentary loss for words, before his head sprang back up to meet the other man’s hazel eyes.

“Alright, fucker, who put you up to this? Was it Dwight? Is this some kind of weird dominance display to retaliate for fucking Sherry? Because if it is, I’ll Freddy Kruger the other side of his ugly face!”

The slightly older man with the scruff scoffed at this, “Do you really think Dwighty-Boy has enough creativity to pull this shit off? Not heckin’ likely! I’m you, Negan.”

“What the ever-fucking-shit are you talking about? You’re not me. I’m me. The world can only handle one fucking Negan and I am it!” he bellowed at the man.

“Well, shit. Tell that to Scott Gimple,” the Other Negan said with a smirk.

“Scott who?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied dismissively, stepping uncomfortably close to his younger and taller counterpart, “Let’s just say that I’m an alternate version of you. I’m kinda like…what you would be if they made a TV show of your life.”

“Well, it’s fucking flattering that they think I’m so goddam handsome,” the larger, Original Negan said, inspecting the Other Negan’s face, “but I’m not nearly as old as you are, asshole.”

“That may be true, darlin’, but that just means I’ve got more experience,” the handsome TV Show Negan drawled, placing an arm around Original Negan.

Original Negan ducked out from under the arm, shaking his head, “If you’re me then why don’t you fucking swear. I swear all goddamn, motherfucking, cocksucking day! It’s kind of my thing.”

“Censorship,” TV Negan said simply, looking slightly annoyed, “Jesus, I wish I could swear like you. Might get rid of some of these anger management issues I seem to have. Maybe I’d stop having to bash in so many heads.”

“Nah, there’s sadly always some fucker who needs to be put in their place,” Original Negan sighed, “It’s unfortunate, but some pricks just deserve it.”

“Well, at least that’s one thing we can agree on. That, and the fact that I’m fucking handsome as shit!” TV Negan said, the grin returning.

“Uh, yeah. Ok. Fine, we can agree on that. I’m man enough to admit when I find another man attractive. Nothing fucking wrong with that…” he trailed off in thought for a moment and then came back to himself, “How-fucking-ever, I am going to need you to return my lady-friend you have there. I don’t like other fuckers touching her, even if they do look a bit like me.”

“I’m afraid that I just cannot do that, sweetheart. This Lucille is mine, and I am not letting her go for anyone.”

“Well, it looks like we’re at a fucking impasse here because if you don’t return Lucille this fucking instant, I’m gonna have to kick your ass, and I’d rather not do that tonight. Got shit to do. You know how it is,” Original Negan said as a cold look spread across his eyes.

“Rick the Prick being an asshole again?” TV Negan asked with a twinge of sympathy.

“You fucking know it. God! He’s such a fucking dick sometimes!”

“He does suck ass. A whole lot of ass.”

“Fuckin’ A!” chuckled Original Negan, “You’re alright in my books if you hate Rick, but the fact still remains that I’m about ten seconds away from stabbing you in the gut and taking Lucille back by force if you don’t hand her over.”

The shorter man held up is free hand in a placating gesture, “Calm down, ya big asshole! I think there’s another way to go about settling this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Original Negan asked, skepticism creeping into his tone.

“I’ll wrestle you for her,” TV Negan replied, his expression grave, “Whoever wins gets to keep the fair lady, Lucille. How about it?”

Original Negan stroked his smooth chin with two gloved fingers, considering the other man’s proposition for a moment, “Yeah…Ok! You got yourself a deal. Hell, I’ve got at least a few inches and more than a few pounds of muscle over you. This ain’t gonna be much of a fucking challenge!”

“Plot twist!” TV Negan exclaimed as he stripped off his leather jacket and tossed it aside, “This isn’t just any kind of regular wrestling, you know. That’d be too easy. This has to be oil wrestling, just to even the playing field.”

“Are you fucking shitting me right now?”

“Do you want the chance to win Lucille back or not, asshole?”

Original Negan shook his head slowly, “I can’t believe I’m actually gonna do this…” he mumbled as he pulled off his own jacket and tossed it  into the couch, followed shortly thereafter by his t-shirt and pants, “I’m not ruining perfectly good clothes just because you got it in your head that getting all greased up gives you an advantage. I suggest you follow suit and we do this in our fucking undies.”

“Whatever you say, big boy, only there’s a bit of a problem with that plan,” TV Negan said as he unbuckled his belt and tugged his zipper open.

“And what exactly is th-“ Original Negan’s words cut off abruptly as he quickly discovered the issue for himself.

“I’m not so much a fan of underwear, ya see,” TV Negan said with a grin that contained not even a trace of bashfulness.

Original Negan stared blankly at the other man’s naked form, taking it all in before stripping off his own underwear and squaring up to his opponent.

“Ok, so where’s this fucking oil then?” he asked.

“Behind you,” TV Negan said matter-of-factly.

Original Negan turned to see a large bottle of baby oil sitting on the end table beside the couch, its powder pink label blaring out at him. He reached for it and grasped it in his hand, turning it over hesitantly before flipping open the cap with a shrug and pouring a generous amount of the viscous liquid over his chest and arms.

After passing the bottle to TV Negan, who followed suit, he began to lather the oil across his upper body, eventually trailing his rough hands down to his thighs and calves. He took in the sight of his muscles glistening in the light, the oil highlighting every curve, and then raised his eyes to look at the other man just in time to watch him finish applying the oil to his own body.

Somehow, looking at the attractive older man naked and covered in oil caused an unexpected flood of arousal to take root in his stomach, and Original Negan felt his cock twitch to life ever so slightly. Hoping that TV Negan hadn’t noticed, he shook off the feeling as best he could and readied himself for the fight.

“Ready for me, big boy?” TV Negan inquired, licking his lips slightly and looking Original Negan up and down. Shit! Had he noticed after all?

“You fucking know I am, asshole. The question is: are you ready for all of this?” he responded, gesturing to his large frame.

Without saying a word, TV Negan lunged for him, tackling him to the floor and straddling him before pinning his hands down next to his head. Caught off guard for a moment, Original Negan stared up at the man in a daze, wondering how someone smaller than him had managed to knock him on his ass so quickly.

After he regained his composure Original Negan used his legs to flip the man off of him, causing him to land with a thud on the floor to his left. Before TV Negan could get up, Original Negan had climbed on top of him and used his knees to pin the other man’s hands by his side.

“Well, shit! You’re pretty fast for such a big guy!” TV Negan’s gaze drifted down Original Negan’s body, landing firmly and obviously at the man’s crotch, “And I do mean big! Holy shit, man! You appear to be a grow’er, not a show’er,” he said with a wink.

“What are you-“ Original Negan looked down at himself, flustered by TV Negan’s accusation,  only to find that the part of his body he affectionately called Lucille Two had betrayed him again and was standing firmly erect, pressed fast against his lower stomach. In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t even noticed.

TV Negan used this temporary distraction to break free, his slick body pressing into Original Negan’s as he escaped his grasp, sending the larger man scurrying forward in an attempt to re-capture his opponent. Original Negan’s oil-soaked hands slid out from under him on the wooden floor, causing him to sprawl forward and his chin to connect with the hard surface with a thud as he crashed down.

“Ha! Made you look, shit head!” TV Negan called out from behind him. Fuck was he ever fast!

Before he could get back on his feet, Original Negan felt the other man land on top of him from behind. His chest pressed into his back as he threw his whole weight into Original Negan, ensuring that he would stay on the floor.

“So, I take it you like what you see, huh?” TV Negan practically purred into his ear, his mouth was less than an inch away and his silver-streaked stubble brushed against Original Negan’s smooth cheek, “You might try to cover up your…tendencies…behind that harem of wives we’ve got going on, but your dick ain’t doing such a good job of keeping up appearances, Neegs.”

Original Negan felt his hips buck almost involuntarily as another wave of arousal hit him at the older man’s words, and his ass connected firmly with something hard yet soft behind him. TV Negan’s cock dug into him from behind as the he ground his hardened member against Original Negan.

“Heh. That’s what I thought. You like this, don’t you?” TV Negan inquired.

“Fuck you, douchebag!” Original Negan boomed from below, his face still pressed against the cold wooden floor as TV Negan continued to pin him down. He tried to sound furious, but his voice wavered. He knew the truth, just as TV Negan did, that he was in fact very into this.

“That’s the idea, dollface,” TV Negan replied in a low tone.

With that, TV Negan lessened the pressure against Original Negan just long enough for him to roll over before straddling him again, this time higher up on the large man’s muscular chest, which brought his sizeable cock within inches of Original Negan’s mouth.

“You sure do have a pretty mouth, you know,” TV Negan beamed down at him from above, “It’d be a shame if we didn’t find out how it feels wrapped around my dick, now wouldn’t it?”

“I-uh…what the fuck?” Original Negan felt his eyes go wide as his face grew hot with embarrassment, a sensation he had not felt in ages.

There wasn’t much that could embarrass the boisterous man, and yet the sight of TV Negan straddling him and offering him his cock was almost too much for Original Negan. Oh sure, he had done some same-sex experimentation in college. Lord knew that the long nights on the road with his table tennis team had led to some pretty wild shenanigans, which often devolved into homoerotic romps with some of the other men.

Original Negan hadn’t ever really thought hard about his sexuality or put a label on himself. His motto had always been “If it feels good, do it!” So why was he balking at the chance to literally go fuck himself now? Or, at least to fuck an alternate version of himself.

With these thoughts racing through him mind, Original Negan locked eyes with the man on top of him and raised his head off of the ground far enough so that his mouth hung just in front of the head of TV Negan’s cock. Without breaking eye contact, he trailed his tongue over the slit, flicking it up quickly at the end. He felt a shudder of pleasure radiate from TV Negan as a small moan, almost too faint to hear, escaped the man’s lips.

“Mmm. Good boy. I knew you would find a way to put that mouth to use.”

TV Negan lessened his grip on Original Negan just enough for him to free himself. Once his large arms were able to move, his first instinct was to flip the older man to the ground and fuck his shit up royally for pinning him down like that. Instead the lust won over, and he grabbed the other man’s ass firmly and forced his cock closer to him so that he could fully insert it into his mouth.

The sensation of TV Negan’s thick cock filling his mouth caused another wave of lust to hit him and a slight whimper made his throat vibrate against it. TV Negan must have enjoyed this because his rough hands quickly found their way into Original Negan’s thick, dark hair where they grabbed on tight and forced his mouth even further down the shaft.

A sigh of contentment left TV Negan, “Mmmm…Now how did I know you’d be so good at this? Must be that slutty, filthy mouth of yours? Hmm?”

Original Negan continued to suck the other man’s cock vigorously, taking him all the way into his throat, but his rhythm was broken by a sharp tug on his hair that forced his face to look up at the man who was still perched above him, “Answer me when I’m speaking to you!” TV Negan warned, slowly extracting himself from Original Negan’s mouth with a pop.

“Yes!” Original Negan answered.

“’Yes!’ what?” TV Negan asked.

“Fuck yes, my filthy mouth is great at sucking cock. Now, can I get back to it?” he replied, more than a little bit annoyed.

“Oh, I don’t think so, darlin’,” TV Negan grinned down at him, “I think I’m good and warmed up now, and I want at that ass of yours. Is that gonna be a problem for you?”

Original Negan considered TV Negan’s proposition for a brief moment before giving his answer in a low growl, “Fuck no, it’s not. Let’s fucking do this.”

“Good!” TV Negan said simply, standing. Original Negan relished the sight of the man looming over him, his cock bobbing just above him, glistening with his saliva. TV Negan’s eyes darkened as he regarded Original Negan, who was still sprawled on the floor below, ”Get on the couch and get that cute, little ass in the air for me then.”

Original Negan did as he was told, placing his knees on the cushions and gripping the back of the couch. Within only seconds he felt TV Negan take his place behind him, his body radiating heat against him and the hair of his happy trail brushing across his ass slightly as he lined himself up with Original Negan’s opening.

“Now, normally I’d use some lube, but…extenuating circumstances seem to have left us fresh out of such luxuries…so I guess I’ll just have to improvise!” TV Negan said gleefully. Original Negan heard the unmistakable sound of TV Negan spitting into his hand, and only a few seconds later he felt the man’s hard, slick member pushing against him from behind. A sharp gasp of pain caused him to jerk forward as TV Negan’s tip trespassed his tight hole, and suddenly the man’s hands were on his hips, pulling him closer.

“Ah! Fucking fuck! Be gentle, asshole!” Original Negan growled in anger.

“I’m sorry, baby doll. I’ll go easy on ya. Just relax,” TV Negan cooed.

Original Negan took a deep breath and allowed his muscles to relax a bit as the other man pushed himself further inside. Now fully buried in Original Negan’s ass, TV Negan began to thrust into him slowly but firmly, his fingers digging deeper into the skin of Original Negan’s hips. Original Negan moaned deeper, letting the initial discomfort melt into pleasure as TV Negan quickened his pace.

“I knew you were gonna like this! What a filthy, little slut you are – just letting me waltz in here and fuck you right away,” TV Negan punctuated this with a playful slap to Original Negan’s ass.

Original Negan moaned deeper, feeling his cock dripping with arousal, desperately needing release. As if he was able to read the large man’s mind, TV Negan grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand and pulled him backward far enough to force him into an upright position. With one arm across Original Negan’s chest, TV Negan slipped his hand down to grab the other man’s cock, never slowing his pace as he fucked the younger man from behind.

“Oh fuck, that’s perfect! Keep fucking me and make me cum!” Original Negan moaned, lying back against TV Negan’s chest as the man pumped his cock expertly.

Shudder after shudder of pleasure coursed through Original Negan’s body at the feeling of his cock being milked while his ass was being fucked relentlessly by TV Negan. He knew that he was close to orgasm as his large thighs began to shake uncontrollably with each pump. His breath hitched in his throat and his eyes shut tightly while a low growl left his mouth.

“That’s right, baby. I know you want to, so why don’t you just cum for me?” TV Negan whispered in his ear.

The feeling of the other man’s breath against his cheek was just the sensation that Original Negan needed to push him over the edge. In a flurry of curses that would make a sailor blush, he released himself all over his lower stomach and TV Negan’s hands, the streams of fluid pooling into the fabric of the couch.

Once the last few aftershocks of orgasm had subsided, he felt TV Negan slowly pull himself out of his ass as he simultaneously pushed Original Negan back down into the couch so that his ass was in the air. Seconds later, Original Negan felt TV Negan’s copious, warm release hit is ass and upper back as the man came against him, his breath erratic and labored.

“Oh fuck that was good!” TV Negan allowed himself to slump against Original Negan, still breathing heavily, “You have such a nice, tight ass. I couldn’t help myself. Had to mark my territory. Now everyone will know that I screwed you raw.”

“Mmmm. You know what? I think I’m fucking ok with that. Quel fucking surprise,” Original Negan admitted.

It was at this point that some of the Saviors burst into his office, but Original Negan was too far gone to notice them. They had been sent on an urgent mission to notify him that the cooks had added a special ingredient to the soup that evening: wild mushrooms. Unfortunately, the person who had found the mushrooms growing in a field that morning was not a very adept mycologist, and had mistaken psychedelic mushrooms for edible ones. In doing so, roughly half of the Sanctuary’s residents had been accidently dosed and were tripping balls. Evidently, this number included Negan.

They found Negan alone and naked, slumped against the back of his couch, and completely covered in baby oil and his own semen. As they toweled him off, throwing subtlety amused glances at one another, they caught a few words from the dazed man about “alternate time lines” and a “sexy, fucking old dude” who “needed to shave that shit”.

At one moment, Negan locked eyes with a young man in a moment of apparent clarity, “Hey! You! Riddle me fucking this: If you fuck your clone, is it masturbation or incest?”

The young Savior’s eyes widened momentarily, preparing to answer one of the most important philosophical questions of the post-Apocalypse, but one of his comrades managed to quiet Negan down first, and he was spared that pleasure.

After finally getting Negan to lay peacefully on his couch and covering him with a blanket, the Saviors who found him vowed to one another to never speak of the “magic mushroom incident” to anyone for fear of Negan’s wrath. The next morning, their leader woke up with a splitting headache and vague memories of some very sexual, homoerotic dreams involving a man with a greying beard and dimples for days. He smiled to himself over coffee with his wives, deciding to keep the dreams to himself as future spank-bank material.