#fucking hell i should have learned by now never to enjoy any good days ever cos a bad one always happens right after

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#393

“Well, lookie who showed up!  I thought you were going to flake out.  Did you do it?...  You told them?...  I don’t need to know the details.  You look bummed.  Don’t be.  You needed to do this.  It’s time you moved out.  You’re, what, 19?  They kicked you out for doing what you should be devoting your life to—servicing dick.  And that’s why I want you.  I’m your new Dad now.

“The days of him beating your ass and leave you crying in your bed are over.  I’m going to beat your ass and make you cry in bed only to get turned on and fuck you hard as a result.  Ha. Ha.

“Come over here and give your dad a kiss….  No, you can do better than that….  Atta boy.  No, no.  Stay right there.  I told you to spend the night here having fun.  Did you get loaded up?...  How many in your gut?...  How many in your butt?  Five loads?  That’s good.  I would have preferred all five in your butt, but three is good. 

“Now remember all that happened here.  Because, as my son, I’m in control of that cunt between your legs.  No other men will be in there, not unless I say.

“Did you cum?...  What’s with that puzzled look?  I told you to enjoy yourself so that you can get one last nut before I cut your access off. 

“Tell you what, strip naked right there and jack off for me.  Yeah, I told you on that first night I fucked you, that you are never to touch yourself while I’m using you.  But right now, I want you to cum for me.  Strip.

“Son, I told you when I offered you to come live with me and be my son, that obedience is the center of what I am looking for.  Being naked in front of me will become very natural for you.  The thought of driving around with my naked boy next to me, gets me hard.  Now strip son.  Atta boy.

“This cruise spot is dead in the daylight, so no one will be pulling in any time soon.  It’s funny that the number of times we connected at night, you have been naked without any problem over by those trees.

“Put all your clothes in back.  Get on your knees, right there on the asphalt.  No, move back a little.  I want a better view.  You are rock hard.

“Begin.  Go on.  That’s it.  No, no.  Look up at me.  Stare at your new Dad.  Stare at the man who will own you, who will protect you, who will discipline you, and who will fuck the hell out of you every day.  I may be close to sixty, but I still have the stamina of a thirty-year-old.

“With your free hand, shove two fingers into your cunt….  Yeah.  Feel those loads?  Imagine those being mine.  I know you want to taste it, don’t ya boy?  Pull your fingers out and shove it into your mouth.  There you go.  Tastes nasty, doesn’t it?  I can see the ecstasy in your eyes.  I know you are remembering the first time I fucked you.  You were being spit roasted by those two truck drivers over there.  The three of us were going back and forth between your holes.  You didn’t care what we were doing.  It was all about servicing us. 

“The number of times I used you, it was all about my pleasure.  That’s what I like to see in a boy.

“Do it again.  Go in deep to get your fingers extra coated up.  Keep looking at me while you do it.  Keep pounding that tiny pud. 

“That thing is so small.  I don’t think I ever paid attention to it before, other than smacking you the few times I thought you were trying to reach for it.  I initially thought you reached for your thing just to get face slapped.  But you learned that your pecker is useless and should be ignored.

“You liked me smacking you across your face when my fat dick was slamming into your cunt.  But I saw that hesitation on your face; you didn’t want to encourage more slaps, but deep down you craved it.  I got so turned on to your confusion.  Don’t worry, I have no intention of changing.  You need to be continually reminded of your place.  Nothing does that better than a good ol’ fashioned smack especially randomly during the day.

“You are really going to town on your pecker.  Don’t ask me for permission, just shoot.  It will be the last selfish decision you will make.  Afterwards I will be deciding everything for the two of us.  My needs, my wants, my pleasures are your focus, always.

“My cock will be the center of your world.  You know all eight inches of it.  So, I don’t have to do any stretch training.  Being a whore here to every man with a hard on gave you that. 

“Son, put your hand back there and push.  Shit out the rest of the loads onto your hand….  There you go.  I heard that wet fart.  That’s bound to be messy….  You know what to do with it.

“That’s a good boy.  Lick your fingers clean.  Damn, you like it nasty don’t you?  Of course you do. 

“You like piss, Son?...  Moan if you do….  Good.  I love pissing in holes.  You drank mine with some difficulty.  As my son you will be expected to drink mine.  You eat ass?...  Well Son, you are going to be spending a lot of time with your tongue buried deep inside my hairy ass.  A lot of time.

“Damn boy!  Shoot that fucker….  Fuck yeah!...  That’s a huge load there.  Finish licking your fingers clean.  Figured it would be the thought of eating my ass would make you cum.  Son, there’s no way I would have you as my son if you didn’t enjoy tongue fucking my shithole.

“Go on lick your own cum off your hand.  Enjoy your reward.  That’s the last time your tiny balls will be emptied.  You’ll have all of my cum, more you could ever want; you know I produce huge loads, and I can go several rounds.

“Did you lick all the cum off your hands?...  Good.  Now lick the cum that is on the asphalt.  Yeah, you heard me.  That’s it.  Yeah, you follow orders without second guessing.

“That’s going to be expected being my son living with me.  I will take care of you, but I won’t take shit from you.  You do need structure.  You need discipline.  I will deliver it as I see fit.  And I don’t want any back talk from you.

“Ok.  Get up and get in the truck.  Bring your shirt….

“…Put your shirt on the seat.  I don’t want that ass spooge fucking up my leather seats.  Close the door. 

“Ok.  The is the moment.  This is your last out.  I’m offering you a life where you will be my son and I will be your dad.  I’m in control at all times.  You will be disciplined, and you will be used to satisfy my urges.  You will also take care of the cooking and cleaning.

“Don’t worry, you will be fucked.  My cock gets hard two or three times a day. 

“Speaking of which.  My dick likes to fuck.  And sometimes it’s going to fuck other boys.  You are never to show jealousy.  In fact, I want you to get excited to know my dick is getting taken care of.  Your first words to me after me using some other cunt should be begging me to clean my cock.  Monogamy is not for me, and it never will be.  But it will be for you.  Your focus is always on me.  You will not think of being with another man.  Even when I have other men fuck you, your thoughts are on how it will please me to follow my orders.

“My cock is the only cock that matter to you.  That includes your own.  I had you jack off looking at me.  I wanted to be the subject of your last orgasm.  I have owned slaves, boys, puppies, subs, you name it.  None of them were allowed to touch themselves, let alone play with it.  You aren’t going to be any different in this regard. 

“Here, put this on.  This is a chastity cage.  Take it.  Put it on.  When you lock it in place, you are agreeing to be my son.  You will be accepting this role unconditionally. 

“Pull your balls through first.  Yeah… now your shaft.  It should be easy since you are soft.  Here’s the lock.  When we get home, I will be removing your pubes—in fact all your hair below your nose.  I have a cream that will do that.  Several applications will start to destroy your hair follicles.  I will continue doing it until you are completely and permanently hairless.

“You haven’t seen me naked here, but I am one hairy fucker.  I love contrast.  Me a hairy ape and you a smooth bitch boy.  I’m 6’3” 285 pounds, and you are what, 5’5” and 140?  I’m 59 and you are 19.  And the biggest difference?  I have eight very very fat inches, and yours is nothing.

“You ready to lock that?  This is your last opportunity to back out.  You lock that, and you are mine…. 

“Fuck yeah son!  You ARE mine now….  And now you’ve been face slapped for the first time as my son.  Ha!

“Now here’s your first test.  This is a pill for you to take.  Stick it in your mouth and swallow.  Here’s some water for you.  If I had thought about it ahead of time, I would have a water jug of my piss for you to drink.  Swallow it.

“Good boy.  Lean over and give your dad a kiss….  Oh yeah son.  You made the right decision.  Mmmm.  Mmmm.  You can use your tongue with me.  Mmmmm.  Mmmmm.

“Scream son!  Wasn’t expecting that hunh?  Remember, your titties are a source of instant pain.  And they are right here in arms reach.  I can be driving down the road and reach over and twist the fuck out of one, digging in my nail. 

“Or I can reach down and play with your balls….  Fuck, that’s what I hate about these cages!  They interfere with me grabbing a hold of your balls. 

“It’s a good thing that cage will come off in a month’s time.  That pill I gave you is part of set of pills where the biggest side effect being not being able to get erect.  For most men, it is the worst part of taking it.  But that’s the feature I want.  After a month of daily dosing, you will be completely soft.

“Oh fuck, the thought of looking down at you in my sling to see your limp pecker with your sole focus on your hole pleasing me…  Damn.  I’m starting to get a chubby. 

“Finally, I got your balls in my hand, and with a squeeze...  Awwww.  They are just balls!...  Quit flailing around.  Sit up….  SIT UP!  This is not how…

“…What the…?  Oh my.

“Get out of the truck.  Now!  Come with me to the tailgate.

“Bend over it.  I want to see your back and ass.  Go on lean over. 

“Damn!  Those are some serious welts.  Your former dad did all this last night?  Looks like a 2-inch belt.  There’re about ten to twenty strokes on your back, same amount on your ass.  He even went on your thighs. 

“I just don’t get it.  Why would a man do this… and not fuck you afterwards?

“I need a piece of this right now.  Hold still; Dad is coming in. 

“Oh fuck do you feel good.  There’s still some of the loads in your pussy.  Its silky walls is making my dick slide in naturally.  Oh man.  I know I have fucked you like a dozen times.  But this time it’s a thousand times better.  Your cunt is now my cunt.  Everything is so right.

“I get to fuck this whenever I want.  It’s mine.  All mine.  These welts are beautiful.  I love—after I belt a boy’s back and ass—to fuck him and hold him tight.  My sweaty wiry chest hair act like razors slicing across every welt, every thrust of my cock is agony.

“I’m gonna cum!  Ahhh!  Fuck!  Ahhh!  Shit son!  That was fucking amazing. 

“Let’s go home.  I need to fuck you again.  I was going to wait to fuck your first in my bed… no, our bed.  But I couldn’t help myself after seeing those welts. 

“This time I want to be naked on top of you.  It’s going to be a longer fuck.  And I will tell you this son, ever since I asked you if you wanted to be mine, all I have been thinking of is bringing you home, fucking you, holding you tight with my dick buried deep, and falling asleep in my arms.  “Get on your knees.  Clean me up, and let’s go home.”

[storm-angel989]

Outside the Office Part Eight

Hi All! Mature content warning (it is Valentino, after all). Enjoy!

I awoke the next morning to the shrieking sound of an alarm clock. I groaned and snuggled tighter to Valentino. He rolled over and hit his phone until it finally fell silent. 

“Mmm. Good morning, Princessa.” He leaned over and pressed his lips to mine, a soft smile playing across his features. “I could wake up to this pretty face every morning.” He ran the back of his hand down my cheek. “How do you feel? Did the epsom salt bath help last night?” 

I shivered but nodded, tucking my head to the base of his neck as I recalled the events of the night before. A few hours after I had fallen asleep against Valentino, I woke up, every muscle in my body screaming in pain. He had kissed me, and upon learning of my discomfort, he closed his computer and ran the warmest, toastiest bath I had ever had the pleasure of soaking in. 

He had gone out of his way to set up the bathtub well before he carried me over and sinking into the bathtub felt the same way heaven should. Honestly, the more I thought about it,  to call it a bathtub would be an understatement. His bathtub could easily fit both Valentino and I, and at least two others, with room leftover. He sat across from me while I soaked, punching away on his laptop. “Just be quiet, Princessa.” He had told me. “I need to concentrate on this.”  To see him go from working, the serious expression on his face as he concentrated on his laptop to the soft expression when he looked up at me sent butterflies all through my body. 

“It did,” I replied sleepily. I loved waking up next to him, feeling him underneath me. Protecting me. I wrapped my arms around him the best I could. “I feel much better now.” 

He took my chin in his hand and tilted my face as he studied it. “You look better. The bruises are already starting to turn. You meant it when you said angels healed fast.” He gently let go of my chin. 

I snuggled back against him. With the sleepiness still in my brain, I let out a half laugh. “I mean, it makes sense though that when I was back home I still healed slower than the other angels I trained with.” I snuggled closer to him. “But I was held to the same timeline, even when it still hurt. It made me tough.” 

I heard him take a sharp inhale and looked up to see him as he clenched his jaw. He pulled me up to his chest and pressed his lips to my forehead. 

“That isn’t okay, and it will never happen to you again. Not while I’m around,” he said through gritted teeth. 

Warmness spread through me at his words. My head against his chest, tucked under a mound of blankets, I would have laid there all day if I could have. After a few minutes of cuddling, he sighed and slowly sat up, moving himself carefully so as to not aggravate my pain. 

“As much as I would love to stay here all day with you, I have to work today.” He said, echoing my thoughts. He kissed me again. “And you’re going with me.”

It wasn’t fear that rushed through me, but the idea of going back to that place made me uneasy. Sending my discomfort, he wrapped both his arms around me. 

“No harm will come to you, not this time nor ever again. I promise.” He kissed the top of my head. “After today the world will know that you belong to me, that you are the princess of hell, and no one will fuck with you ever again, lest they face the wrath of Lucifer himself.” He nuzzled into me. “Believe me when I tell you what you saw in the bathroom that day, isn’t a fraction of what the king of hell is capable of.” 

I didn’t answer. I wondered, not for the first time since my arrival, if being half demon came with any perks- like the strength and quick healing benefit from my angelic side. I made a mental note to text Lucifer and ask him. What’s the worst he could do, not respond? Tell me no? I buried my face into him as those feelings washed over me. 

Under me, Valentino let out a steady exhale and lifted both of us up. “Shall we get ready for the day?” He leaned in and gave me a smile, his lips hovering against mine. “I think we both need a wake up shower.” He swung himself off the bed and offered his hand. “Come, mi amor.” 

His hand in mine, I gingerly stood up. He waited for me to find my balance, testing a few steps slowly. Once I was sure of my footing, I followed him into the bathroom, his fingers intertwined with mine. 

“Sit on the counter. You haven’t moved very much over the past few days.  You’re going to be sore.” He lifted me up and set me on the counter.  “I’ll give you something to keep you comfortable throughout the day. It will last longer, and work better than ibuprofen.” He dug through and came up with a vial, and a wrapped syringe and needle. He reached for my arm. 

I jerked away from his touch. “Absolutely not. No. I’m fine with just the pills. That’s all I need. It’s all I’ve ever needed, and more than I’ve received on more than one occasion. I will survive.” 

He looked torn. “But Princessa. It won’t get you high, I promise. I wouldn’t do that to you. It will only make you more comfortable.”

“I said no.” 

He sighed in frustration but put everything back in the drawer, rummaging around again and pulling out a thermometer. “Fine. Here, put this under your tongue before Vox bitches at me again.” 

I opened my mouth and he placed it under my tongue. I closed my lips around it and waited. He walked away from me and opened the shower door. I heard the steady stream as the water began to fall and watched as steam floated towards the top of the room.  

He turned his attention back to me and crossed his arms. “Sit. Stay. I’ll go get more ibuprofen from your room. I gave you the last of it before bed last night. And remind me to write it on the board so housekeeping brings up more.” He stepped out, closing the door behind him. 

I continued to wait as patiently as I could for him to come back. I looked around the bathroom, trying to find something to keep my interest. Much like Valentino’s room, it was decorated sparsely. But instead of the reds and purples that made up his bedroom, his bathroom was primarily white and gray, with gold accents sprinkled throughout. The shower itself was huge, and between that and the bathtub, the majority of the space should have been taken up. Instead, Val had a double vanity directly across from the shower. The rest of the amenities, including a second sink, sat further in the back of the room, not too far from the tub. 

My first time in the shower I hadn’t been with it enough my first time in it to realize just how vast it was. Unlike my combined shower and bathtub at my fathers house back home, his shower was more like a solidly tiled room with several different shower heads scattered about. Shelves lined the walls both when you first walked in, and scattered throughout. Although we didn’t use it, there was a solid bench made of tile off to the side with several shower heads directly above it. I wondered what the purpose of that was. So someone could sit and shower maybe? 

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening and he walked back in, muttering angrily to himself. The door slammed and I jumped. 

He frowned and touched my cheek. “I’m sorry for startling you. Open up.” He took the thermometer out of my mouth and held it up to the light. “Normal. Good.” 

“Are you good?” I asked with concern.  

“I’m just running late, babe.” He kissed the top of my head and helped me down from the countertop. He pressed two pills into my hand and filled a cup of water for me. “Ibuprofen. As promised. Take it. Now.” 

“Thanks, Val.” I took the medication and tossed the cup in the garbage. From the corner of my eye I watched him take his pajamas off.

“Princessa. I don’t have time this morning,” he warned. He came over to me and tugged his shirt off over my head.  

“What? I’m just admiring what’s mine.” I laid my hands against his abdomen, feeling his hard muscles. God, could this man look anymore like something out of a magazine? I wondered what would happen if I slipped my hand just a little lower….

He rolled his eyes and took my hand in his. He tugged me forward and opened the shower door. “After you, Princessa.”

I stepped inside and settled myself under a stream of warm water. I allowed it to wash over me, feeling the instant relief it offered. I tried to lift my arms above my head, letting out an involuntary hiss as my muscles contracted. Ever watching, Valentino stepped behind me and squirted shampoo in his hand,  lathering my blonde hair. 

“Vel is going to do your makeup in her room this morning,” he said as his fingers pressed against my scalp.  “Unfortunately, I have to deal with a fire downstairs so she’ll text me when she’s done and I’ll come back up and get you.” 

“You’re leaving before me?” 

He sighed, “I don’t want to. I have to. I’m sorry Princessa.” He moved my body back under the water. “ Don’t talk. Close your eyes.”

I did as he told me, holding onto him for balance as he worked his fingers through my hair, ensuring all the shampoo was out. After a few minutes, he pulled me out from under the water, guiding me to a hotter stream of water. “Let that hit your muscles for as long as you can take it.” 

I watched him run soap over his entire body. He closed his eyes, letting the water run over him. I bit my lower lip, trying to keep myself under control.  “I understand Val. Work comes first back home too.” 

Annoyance flashed over his features. He stepped out from under the water and pulled me to him. “Princessa. I mean this in the kindest way, but heaven sounds awful.” 

“It  wasn’t so bad.” I said as I nabbed the bar of soap from him. “I just learned tough lessons, that's all.” 

He took the soap back from me and turned me, running it down my back. “That sounds like a fucking trauma response if I’ve ever heard one. And believe me, I’ve heard plenty.” He grabbed my waist and pulled me back under the stream of water, kissing my neck. “You will never go through that again.” 

I believed him. I leaned into him and I felt the same warmth I had felt the night before ignite in my belly. “Mmm…Val.” 

He nipped my neck ever so gently and I relaxed into him. 

“Don’t mmm Val me, Princessa. You’ll make me more late than I already am. I’m just trying to speed things along.” His tone changed to light and playful. “Though touching your body is an added bonus.” He ran his hands down my hips and titled my chin up so our eyes met, kissing me as the water cascaded around us. He broke away after a moment and turned the water off. 

“Val…” I leaned my head into him. 

“Oh no no no. I mean it, I’m late.” He opened the door and tugged my hand, pulling me out with him. 

He grabbed a towel and paused as he caught sight of my body. I felt the tinglement of embarrassment as his eyes seemed to study me,  his expression unreadable. He stepped forward after a moment and ran a hand down my sides, pausing at my waist. 

“Looks like all the bruises are starting to yellow up, not just the ones on your face. Lucifer was concerned about the ones on your belly…but they look okay.” He bent over and kissed down my body, starting at my neck and pausing, for the briefest of moments, as his fingers brushed my nipples. 

I let out an involuntary gasp as he continued to move lower, his lips hovering above my belly. He carefully kissed around the green and yellow splotches before pausing and standing up, back to full height. Even from under the towel, I could tell he was rock hard. 

“I thought you didn’t have time,” I panted, reaching my arms around his neck. 

“I don’t. But work be damned.” He lifted me up and set me on the counter, spreading my legs. He lowered his head and his lips pressed against my lower belly.

“Relax, Princessa. You’re going to enjoy this.” 

I felt his lips move lower, his tongue flicking my clit.  I moaned at the feeling, gripping him. “Valentino!” I hissed as I bucked my hips. Unconcerned, his tongue slid lower, slipping inside of me. I felt my body explode in a thousand nerve endings and I dug my nails into him as I came. 

“Valentino!”

“Mm…princessa, you taste so sweet.” He brought his head up and kept his hands around my waist, pulling me to him. 

I rested my head against his sternum, trying to catch my breath as I came down from the release. “Fuck, Valentino!” I whispered. Every single nerve in my body tingled. 

He chuckled, but rubbed my back. “Easy baby girl. I’ve got you.” He pressed his lips to mine and pulled back gently, reaching over to his phone on the counter. He hit the home button and cursed under his breath. He pressed his lips to mine again and lifted me back to the floor, taking a moment to steady me in his arms. I gripped him gently, head against his chest as I stared at the wall. I closed my eyes. 

“Babygirl.” He said softly. “We can’t sleep. Come on now, we need to get ready, or we’ll throw Vox’s schedule off too.” He gently pushed me up, holding me by my shoulders as he looked at me with concern. “Sweetheart. Are you alright?”

“More than alright.” I leaned in for another kiss. “I want more.” 

He sighed heavily and pressed his lips to mine before pulling back.  “Princessa. I would love nothing more. But we’ve got to get going.” He nodded towards the counter. “Use the sink on the right. I asked housekeeping to bring over a few of your things after you went to bed last night. They’re in the top drawer, organize it to your liking later. They’ll replace what they took in your room, so if you end up spending the night with me you don’t have to go running back and forth.”

I smiled at his thoughtfulness, and leaned over to kiss his cheek, “Thanks Val.” 

He shooed me away, but gave me a soft smile. “Go on. Get ready. And don’t dry your hair. we don't have time. Vel will take care of it.” 

I dug through the drawer,  pleased to find he really did bring over everything I needed. I set to work, going through my own morning routine. By his side, I watched him do the same. There was something oddly comforting watching him get ready, something that made him seem more…human-like wasn’t quite the word I was looking for. Softer maybe? I wasn’t sure. Looking in the mirror at my splotchy face, I picked up my pink comb and began to work on my hair. 

He stepped over to me. “Vel can handle the knots. Come on, I have to go. “ He took the comb from my hand and set it down.”And before I forget to remind you, you need to eat before I get back up here.” 

I nodded and watched as he dropped his towel. I bit my lip, and he shot me a knowing look before he covered himself in a black bathrobe. He tossed a matching robe over my shoulders and I let my own towel hit the ground. He leaned into my back and reached around the front of me as he tied the belt around my waist, making sure I was covered. 

“Come on, Princessa,” he said softly in my ear, “you can sit on the bed while I get dressed.” 

I followed him out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he disappeared into his closet, remerging moments later dressed in black pants, a matching belt with a gold heart shaped buckle, and a black button up shirt, tucked in neatly at the waist. He threw his signature red coat over his shoulders and adjusted his glasses. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Why do you wear glasses, Val?” I asked as he took my hand, leading me down the hall. 

“They cut the harshness of the light in the studio,” he answered. “Otherwise I end up with a headache. But I wore them so often they kind of became a thing, so now I wear them whenever I’m out. Honestly, it helps a ton, and  I don’t get nearly as many headaches as I used to.” 

He knocked quickly on Velvette’s door. “Vel? It’s me. Open up.” 

I heard the door unlock and Velvette stood, looking as perfect as ever. 

“Ah! Reader. You…your bruises turned yellow. And green. That’s going to change everything I had planned. Come in, come in, I have breakfast for you. Nothing fancy but you can eat while I do something with that hair.” 

Valentino kissed the top of my head. “I’ll see you later, my love.” He gave Velvette a look. “Take care of her.”

“Shoo. You’re disgustingly late. Goodbye!” She closed the door in his face and looked at me. “Follow, follow.” 

I trailed behind her as we crossed the room, taking in the designs as best I could at her quick pace. Unlike Valentino’s room, Velvette was rich with deep red with black and silver accents sprinkled throughout. I didn’t have nearly enough time to look around before she led me through a door and pointed at the salon chair in front of a mirror.

“Sit! Sit. Here. Eat.” She handed me a granola bar and a bottle of Sweet Sixteen. “Get these down and then I’ll grab you a cup of coffee if you want it.” 

I unwrapped the bar and took a bite as she busied herself with my hair, effortlessly unknotting it. She blew it dry and styled it to her vision as I quickly finished breakfast. True to her word, she paused and got both of us a cup of coffee once my hair was finished. 

“Thank you, Vel.” I said, sipping from the red, heart shaped mug. 

“Of course. Coffee is important. Coffee is vibes.” She took a drink from her own mug and studied my face. “How are you? Is Val treating you okay? Love him, but he can be a real dick sometimes, but don’t tell him I said that.”  She paused. “Actually, you can tell him I said that. He’ll laugh.” 

I smiled at her concern. “ Vel, honest and truly he makes me feel safe in a way no one else ever has. I love him, Vel.”

She seemed satisfied with my answer. “I get it,” she responded as she set down her empty mug. “I feel that way about Vox. But sweetheart, don’t be afraid to put him in his place when needed. Sometimes it’s necessary.” 

I drained the rest of my cup and she spun me around to face her. 

“Enough of that. Let’s get your makeup done. It will need to be touched up before you go with Vox. You don’t need to do anything, I’ll meet you down in his studio right before you go on set. But for what you’re doing with Val this will be fine. Close your eyes.” 

I did as she told me and sat patiently waiting as she gently covered my face in a plethora of creams and powders.  Eventually I felt her turn the chair back towards the mirror. 

“Open. What do you think?” 

My reflection in the mirror was the opposite of the one I had seen this morning. Every bruise, even my black eyes, had vanished under the cover of her makeup. Almost as if nothing had happened. 

“And the outfit you’re wearing will hide everything else. At the rate you’re healing though, I think you’ll be back to normal within a week. Come now, let’s get dressed.” 

She helped me put my arms into the shirt and closed the ribbons down the back, yanking them tight so the back wouldn’t open. The front seamlessly hugged my body and hid everything I had behind a high neckline. The jeans she tugged on fit every curve and sat low on my hips. I stepped into a pair of low, comfortable black ankle boots, red bottoms showing off with every step. She fluffed my hair and around my neck, she hung a small necklace with a single charm V shaped charm dangling from it. Looking in the mirror, I couldn’t tell if I was modestly hiding behind my outfit, or if I was showing off everything by showing off nothing. I felt amazing. 

“Well? Give me your thoughts?” She asked, fluffing my hair again. “Looking good, don’t you think?” 

“It’s perfect.” I turned and hugged her. “Thank you.”

She laughed but hugged me back. “Nothing to it princess. Now go knock 'em dead. Make them wish they had never laid eyes on Reader Morningstar.” 

I heard a knock on the door. Velvette perked up. 

“And right on schedule. I guess a broken clock is right at least twice a day. Come on in, Val, doors unlocked.” 

The door swung open and Valentino walked in, fingers flying as he texted on his phone. He looked up and I gave him my best smile. His eyes went wide and his phone disappeared into his pocket. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me to him, pressing a kiss onto me.  He leaned back after a second and licked his lips. “Mm. Strawberry. Good choice Vel.” 

Velvette rolled her eyes and swung her hips to the side, but her expression gave away how pleased she was. “Whatever. It wasn’t for you.” 

“I think you’re lying, but it doesn't matter. Come on, mi amor. We don’t want to be late. Well, later than we are.” He wrapped his arm around me and we walked towards the door. Right before we walked out, he paused and glanced back at Velvette. “Thanks Vel. You outdid yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” She asked, but her tone was that of a satisfied cat. “Go on. Get out of here. See you tonight. And reader!” 

I turned back as Valentino hustled me down the hallway. “What’s up Vel?”

She grinned. “You look killer, darling. Make them respect you.” 

[hellsquills]

Storytelling Night

Don't ask me how this came to be, I have no idea. I just saw a scene from the Lost Legends comic and two hours of dissociation later, this happened. Enjoy a little Stan & Soos bonding <3

***

Whatever you do, don't think about little Soos hearing Stan cry when he thought the kid had gone home already.

A kid with no real father figure, who looks up to stan like one, hearing him sob.

Stan, who thinks he's finally managed to turn the portal on, watching the light fade again after a long day of work.

He goes back up to the Shack to get some sleep and stops by the kitchen on his way. He's exhausted from a long day of touring idiots and working on that stupid piece of metal that took his brother two decades ago now.

Where did I put the bread?

Two decades ago.

There it is. Now where is the ham?

Two decades ago.

Got it. Now some cheese...

Two decades ago.

I should put somethin' else on it.

Two decades.

Like... some mayo or somethin'.

Two.

Where the hell is it?

Decades.

SHUT UP!

A loud glass noise surprises him. He looks to his right, and there in the floor lays a broken glass. He didn't even notice it on the counter next to him, an extension of all the silverware that was piled up, unwashed, in the sink. He looks back at it, as well as all the water and soap it had inside now spread on the floor.

Two decades.

The thought sits on his mind like an anvil.

Twenty years.

He's now spent more time working on that portal than he did living in the streets.

Twenty years.

He's now spent more time working on this portal than he did living in his own house back in New Jersey.

Twenty years.

He's now spent more time trying to get his brother back than having his brother by his side. Almost double the time, in fact.

Twenty. Fucking. Years.

He needs to sit down, now. He's gonna fall if he doesn't, and the floor right now is a safety hazard. He finds the nearest chair and pretty much collapses on it, making a sound that almost makes him think he broke it.

Everything is spinning. His vision is not focused, and he cannot for his life stand up. He's stuck sitting on that chair until the world stops the centrifuge cycle.

Stuck.

It shouldn't be a surprise to him that he's now spent that much time in Gravity Falls, and yet... It hits him so much harder that he would've expected. Usually, he'd try to push any such thought away; he learned very early on (back in his homeless days) that ruminating on how long he'd been on his own was never a good thing. It only brought him pain and many, many sleepless nights. Instead, he'd just tell himself that he was just getting closer to his goal. His big break. The moment he'd win enough money to prove to his dad that he was wrong. That his stupid son, the extra Stan, was actually worth something. That he was worth coming back home.

But now all of that was out the window. Well, not now, but twenty years ago. When he made a stupid fucking mistake again and sent his brother to wherever the fuck he was. When he sentenced his brother to be in his shoes: alone, scared, away from home. Presumed dead-

The sob hardly catches him off-guard. It's all too much: too much time, too unfocused, too hopeless, too alone. It doesn't take long (or any time at all really) for many other sobs and whimpers to echo around the empty kitchen, filling the ever-familiar silence that permeates every single room of that house. Too much silence, for too long. How much more is he going to endure? How long until he completely gives up? Or rather, his body does? If twenty years had already passed by, what was keeping another twenty to do the same? God that was-

"Mr. Pines?"

The voice feels like a slap in the face. It isn't enough to focus his vision or make the weight on his chest disappear, but it definitely succeeds in waking him up. Instinctively, he grabs the knife he was going to use to cut the bread and looks around. Now that he thinks about it, the voice sounded high-pitched, almost like a child. Was he having some sort of flashback, or a hallucination? It wouldn't be the first time, but he isn't drunk or sleep-deprived enough for that. That he knows.

"Mr. Pines!" The voice sounded clearer this time, and louder too. It came from outside the kitchen window, that's for sure.

He doesn't move yet. He knows he heard it, but knowing what lurks in this town, and considering his head is still spinning from the breakdown and the sudden adrenaline, standing up seems like a mildly bad idea.

He hears some commotion outside, like some furniture being moved around or something. But that's impossible, it came from outside. Also, now that he thinks about it, that voice sounded a lot like-

"Knock-knock", the voice says out loud, while actually knocking on the glass window.

Now he's sure.

Wait, what the hell is he doing here?!

Stan stands up a little faster than he should have, but it's alright: still dizzy, but manageable. He goes up to the window and opens the lock. A pair of shiny eyes and a tooth-gaped smile greet him.

"Good evening, Mr. Pines!"

Stan stares dumbfounded at the child in front of him.

"That's good night to you, kid, it's..." he looks at the watch on his wrist. "Almost 11 p.m." He opens his eyes when the realization hits him. "Wait, what the f...udge are you doing here? Why aren't you at home?"

"Abuelita is with some friends tonight."

"And? You still have to be home, ya know?"

"I wanted to stay more. In the last tour of the day you always tell funny horror stories and I wanted to listen to it."

"Yes, I do that because children are supposed to be home by that time. Why aren't ya?"

"There's no bus this late on Saturdays. I forgot."

Stan tilts his head. This kid is as nonchalant as he's dense. Are all kids like this?

"Are you okay, Mr. Pines?"

The question takes him by surprise.

"Yeah, why?"

"You're all red and puffy. And you're still crying."

"I'm not crying."

"I heard you. That's why I climbed the wall."

Maybe the kid isn't as dense as he thinks.

"I'm just sweating."

"Through your eyes?"

"You'll understand when you grow up."

"Old people don't cry?"

"I'm not old, and I'm not crying."

"You look like me when I cry."

Stan opens his mouth to answer, but closes it. For how little he knows about this kid, he definitely knows he shouldn't go there. That damn Abuelita would probably kill him.

"Can I come in? I'm cold."

Stan takes a moment to evaluate the situation: he's basically on a staring context with a ten?-year-old, except that child is just a floating head through a window. Also, the kid's outside of his house, and it's nighttime. It isn't even cold out, but what does he know about that?

"Yeah, sure. Just... go to the front door, I'll open it."

"Okay!"

Stan hears a couple of metallic steps before a jump, and he realizes that the kid was standing on the trash container that is usually a couple of feet away from the window. Was that the "moving furniture around" noise that he heard? That little bastard is for sure resourceful.

Also, did he do that just because he heard him cry? God, that's embarrassing.

A knock on the door. He's fast, too.

Stan leaves the knife on the counter drawer and puts on his robe. He's still in a dirty white tank top and some underpants, and he'd open the door like that if it were for him, but it still feels weird. Let's at least pretend he still gives a shit.

He goes to the door and opens it. Even though he sees him every other day, it still surprises him how short this kid is for being 10. Was he that short at his age? He doesn't think so. That boy will probably grow up to be like 5'6", no more.

"Don't take off your shoes, it's fine", he quickly says as he watches the kid reach for his feet. "How long have you been outside? Since the last tour?"

The boy nods.

"So like two hours. Alrigh'" Stan pinches his nose. Was this kid here the whole time he was working on the portal downstairs? God he was an idiot for not noticing. "Have you had dinner?"

The boy shakes his head.

"Okay. You like ham and cheese sandwiches?" Another nod, this one way more enthusiastic. "Alright, come in. Don't run though, there's some broken glass on the kitchen I have to clean up."

"I can clean it up if you want. I'm very good with the broom. I broom my house. Abuelita says I'm very good at it."

"Nah, don't worry. Just follow me so you don't step on the glass."

"Okay."

They both make their way into the kitchen. Stan makes a sign to the kid to sit on the table, which is thankfully opposite to the mess he made a few minutes ago. While the kid does as told, he goes into the broom closet. When he comes back, broom in hand, he looks at the kid's dangling feet on the air. They're nowhere near the floor. 5'5", tops.

"So, your Abuelita isn't home?"

"No, she's helping out some friends. I don't know where she is."

"And she didn't tell you to be home by dinner?"

"She did. She left me some food, but I know she's not going to be home. Also I wanted to listen to the last tour."

Stan scoffs as he takes the knife out of the drawer again. "You really like the tours, huh?"

"Yes! They're so fun!" The kid's voice sounds even higher. "And sometimes you invent new ones, and I love them. Where do you get the ideas?"

"I don't know, they just pop up, really. I'm good at improvising, I guess."

"You should totally come to Storytelling Day at my school! And tell us some scary stories."

A soft chuckle escapes Stan's mouth. "Yeah, I'm not sure about that. I don't think your teachers would like the stories very much."

"I'd like it. Also, I could finally choose the story. I never can." He says in a sad voice.

"Why not?" Stan's mind immediately goes to his own school days. Is this kid being bullied?

"I'm not good at reading. And usually the storytellers are parents, and Abuelita is very busy. So I can't choose the story."

Stan stays silent. He knows just enough about this kid to put two and two together, and he doesn't like the result. If he lives with his grandma and his parents don't even live in the town, they're either trying hard to make some money, cowards, or dead.

"Don't sweat it, kid. Reading stories out loud is overrated. You think I wanna hear Patrick from accounting read a book he hasn't opened in 40 years? Nah. Boring." He places the sandwich, not finished, on a frying pan. Slightly toasted buns will do wonders for the flavor. "Trust me, if you want some good stories, just make them up yourself. That's how you get the story that you want."

"But I'm not good at talking to people. When they're all looking at me, it's scary. I don't want to look dumb."

Stan sighs to himself. He's had this conversation before. Nope, don't think about that.

"Look, kid. Sometimes you're scared. It's normal. Everyone is."

"Are you scared, Mr. Pines?"

Stan flips the sandwich carefully. This kid asks too much. That's what kids do, after all.

"Yeah, sometimes. Not of talking to others, but yeah. I'm scared sometimes."

What if he doesn't fix... what if the police... what if Ford...?

"But fear is what makes us move forward. If you're always scared, then you won't do anything ever. And sometimes fear is a good thing, it protects us. But sometimes it's just a liability."

"What's that?"

"A liability? Something that... stops you from doing things."

"Like a red light?"

"Sure, like a red light."

"The red lights are scary."

"Sometimes. But traffic lights aren't always red. They can be yellow, or green. Do you know how traffic lights work?"

"They change colors, and they make the cars go and stop."

"Yeah, kind of." Stan turns off the stove. He takes the sandwich from the pan and puts it on a plate. He turns around and walks to the table, placing the dish in front of the boy.

"It looks so good! Thanks!" he says before grabbing the sandwich and biting into it. He was definitely hungry.

"No worries", Stan says. He sits down and looks at the kid for a couple of seconds before he speaks again. "The thing about traffic lights is, they don't make the cars move or stop. They are just a sign, the cars move on their own. You understand that?"

The kid swallows a big bite of the sandwich before answering politely: "Yes."

"Fear is just that. A sign. If you see a red light, you're scared of it, so you stop. And that's good, because then the other cars can move without problems. See?" Stan is using his hands to try and gesture a crossing. To his luck, he kids nods. "The problem is when the light is yellow. Do you know what the yellow light is?"

"No."

"It means you have to be careful, but you can move. So when the light is yellow, you can be a little scared, but you have to keep moving. You understand?" Another nod, this one a little more hesitant. "When you're scared, you need to figure out if the light is red or yellow. For example, if you're in a very high place and you look down, it's scary, right?"

"Yes."

"That's good fear. You're scared to fall, and that's good, because if you fall you can get hurt. So, because of the fear, you move away from the high place."

"Like when I was in the falls. It was very high and I was scared I could fall into the water."

"Exactly, that's good fear. Fear that makes you safe." Stan makes a mental note not to judge this child again. He's not dense at all. "The other fear, the yellow light, is different. It's when you're scared of doing things because of the "what ifs"."

"What's that?"

"Imagine you're doing some math problems in front of the whole class, and you think "what if I make this problem wrong?" What's the worst that could happen?"

"They... laugh at me."

"Eeeehh, error. The worst thing that could happen is that a meteor crashes and destroys the school. See? That's the worst thing that could happen."

"I... I guess?"

"What I mean is, you can think "what if...?" all you want, but the reality is, you won't know unless ya try. Maybe you'll do a great job and you didn't even expect it! Or maybe you'll do the math problem wrong! Who cares? The important thing is that you saw the yellow light, stopped for a second and then decided to carry on. That's what you have to do. Always carry on."

The last part comes out quieter than the rest, and Stan knows. The kid probably noticed too.

"You understand that?"

"Yes, I think so." The kid finishes his sandwich, thinking for a moment. "So, do you think I should try reading on Storytelling Day?"

"Yeah, of course! You can practice reading in your house if you want too. So you're more comfortable or something when you do the real thing."

"...okay."

A few seconds pass, in which Stan reflects on what he just told the kid. He didn't think much about it, he acted on instinct. It's been a while since he had to give a pep talk to anyone. He just hopes he was better at explaining himself this time around.

The kid rises his head to meet Stan's eyes. Immediately, he shoots him a flashing smile. Even his eyes seem to glow a little.

"Okay, I'll do it!"

Stan rises his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah! But I need to ask Abuelita to help me with the reading, I need practice."

"Can't you make some story up? Instead of reading a book. Ya know, write something and invent the rest as you go. That's how I do it."

The kid scratches his chin like he's thinking. Stan thinks it's kinda cute; he probably picked that up from some cartoon.

"I can do that, yeah. If I have it in my head, I don't need to read it. I can do it like theater, like you do!"

Stan smiles. "Yeah, you can do that. Just don't use any of my stories, ya might steal some clients from me."

"Okay! I'll make something up then. Maybe a monster in the falls! That lives behind the water, in a cave! And you can only go if you follow me, because I'm the guide! I know where the monster is!" The kid is now standing on the floor, flailing his arms, trying to explain his story. "And the monster is good, but he's shy! But he can take photos with the people, because he's a cool guy. Cool monster!"

"Okay, okay, I think you have your idea. And see? It took you no time to come up with one. I think you'll do just fine", Stan says, putting his hand on the kid's shoulder.

The kid's smile grows impossibly bigger. Without notice, he lauches himself into Stan's arms, hugging him tight while he's still sat down. Stan instinctively puts an arm around him, hugging him back. God he's tiny. 5'4", no more.

"Thank you, Mr. Pines."

"No worries, kid." Stan could cry —or rather, sweat through his eyes— again. He doesn't want to think about it much, but he knows deep down he needed that hug. Probably just as much as the boy himself.

He stays like that, sidehugging the kid, until the little man decides to let go. Stan won't admit it to his own shadow, but the emptiness that follows that move is overwhelming.

"Okay, no more talking, I need to take ya home. I don't want to suffer the wrath of your Abuelita."

The kid chuckles: "She's nice, she's not scary. Except when she takes the chancla."

"Yeah, I've had a couple of chanclazos in the past. Not looking forward to it. Go to the door and wait for me at the register. I'm gonna put on some clothes."

"Okay."

***

The drive to Abuelita's house is short and peaceful. It's summer, so the night isn't as dark as it could be, and there's still a couple of cars and people out. It is, by all means, a nice summer night.

Stan parks the car right in front of the door. The house is dark, and the blinds are open; Abuelita is probably not home yet. He turns to the kid on his right.

"Alright you rascal, time to go home. Next time, make sure to remember the last bus. I don't want your grandma to have a heart attack."

"Okay." The kid says, without a care in the world. Then, suddenly: "Are you feeling better, Mr. Pines?"

"What?"

"From the crying before. Or, the sweating through the eyes. Are you okay?"

Shouldn't ten-year-olds be a little stupid? Maybe this child won't be tall, but he's too goddamn smart.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just- the glass I broke, it was my favorite", he blurts out.

"Aww, I'm sorry, Mr. Pines. You can have one of mine if you want."

"Nah, don't worry, kid. I'll buy another one. But, ehm, thank you. For the offer."

"Of course!"

"Okay, go home now. You have the key, right?"

The kid slips his hand in the collar of his shirt and pulls out a little key he has on a piece of string around his neck. He nods.

"Great, then come on. Go in and tell your Abuelita you're sorry you didn't eat her food, but you had dinner. Do not lie to her, huh?"

"Never!"

"Good kid. Up top." He puts his hand up. The kid enthusiastically high-fives him. "Nice strength. Now go home, come on."

"Thank you, Mr. Pines."

"You're welcome, kid."

The little man opens the door and steps out of the car. Stan watches as he walks away towards the house. It looks pretty, with some flowers on the windowsills, but very dark. It seems clear to him that the house is very empty.

God, don't think about it. Don't. Do not-

"Hey, Soos!"

Idiot.

"Yes?"

"If you write your story and read it on Storytelling Day, I'll go with you to the next one."

"REALLY!?"

"Shhh, quiet down, you're gonna wake up the whole town. Yes, I will, BUT don't start writing now. Now ya get some sleep. Tomorrow you can start it."

"Okay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Okay, okay, settle down. I'll see you at the Shack, okay? Good luck with the story."

"Okay! Goodnight, Mr. Pines."

"'Night, kid."

Great job, you knucklehead. Now you have to do some theater at a school for free.

It should bother him more that it currently does, to be completely honest. But the smile on the kid's face was... He doesn't know how to explain it, but it was something. Something big, and good. It was nice to see, and much nicer to be the cause.

On the drive home, Stan stops as a crossroad. He looks up, absentmindedly, and chuckles to himself.

Yellow light. Carry on.

[i-hate-people-1]

This is the final part of my Warren Rojas fic I know it’s been a while but I wanted to do this series justice hopefully y’all enjoy it! thank you so much for reading you have no idea how much it means to me!

It's a little under 3.k words and it's a little spicy towards the end but there’s nothing explicit

Warren Rojas x reader

Masterlist

Not my gif

Warren                                                                  

"Look, I know what you’re thinking, but I had to come up with a way to tell her that I really did love her, and it wasn't just drunken rambling.”

“I think you should just tell her how you feel.” Karen sighed.

“He can't do that,” Eddie laughed.

“Why not girls like that? Besides, you know that she feels the same way,” Karen said, looking at the boy, exasperated.

“I know, but she said, I think what if now she thinks that she hates me?” Warren told them, falling dramatically onto the couch face first as Karen and Eddie laughed at him.

It's been two weeks. TWO WEEKS! Since Warren said he loved you, he still hasn't said anything. absolutely nothing.

You've still been hanging out every day. He’s just done nothing, and it’s killing you!

Every time he opens his mouth, you pray it’s those three words you oh so want to hear, but nothing!

Your strategy has been waiting things out, but enough is enough. Whoever said a girl can’t make the first move?

And you were so sure it was going to happen right up until you knocked on the door because you swear every bit of courage that’s ever been in your body just took a vacation. With no notice, your palms started sweating, and there was this quiet, incessant ringing in your ears as your brain came up with every possible way this could go wrong and then some.

But just as you were deciding between running back home and never talking to any of them again or making up a reason you were here and playing it off, a man you didn’t recognize opened the door. He had longer, unkempt curly hair, sad green eyes, and an unpleasant frown on his face as he noticed you standing on the other side of the door.

As you were opening your mouth to ask who the hell he was, he held his hand up, making you shut it. “We don’t want whatever you’re selling." He told you, slamming the door in your face.

You stood there for a while before snapping out of your shocked state. I mean, what the actual hell who does that? It’s so rude!?! You have half a mind to stomp in there and tell him to learn some manners. I mean, the nerve of that guy. You banged on the door more aggressively, ready to give this guy a piece of your mind. Unfortunately for your anger, but maybe good for your sanity, it was Camilla who opened it this time.

"Y/N, what’s wrong? Are you okay?" she asked, seeing your upset state.

“No, who the fuck was that guy?” You asked, trying not to scream, but with your aggravation, it was proving to be difficult. “I mean, he didn’t even let me talk; he just held up that condescending hand and slammed the door in my face. Ugh, what an asshole," you complained as you walked in the house, not letting Cammy get a word in edgewise.

“That asshole is the owner of this house,” the guy snapped from the kitchen doorway. “Who the fuck are you?” he bit back, his glare intensifying as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Instead of letting the man get to you, you turn to Camilla, choosing to talk to her instead of him. "Seriously, Cami, who is this dude?"

"Y/N, this is Billy Dunne, my husband,” she sighed.

Suddenly it all made sense. This was the Billy Dunne two-timing asshole dream-crushing dick and every other bad name. In the book extraordinaire, I mean, you’ve heard story after story, and so far, they’re looking to be true. This guy sucks.

"Oh,” was all you said. I mean, how are you supposed to respond? You were at a loss for words; all you could think was just poor Cami, unfortunately for you, though Billy took your silence as a win.

"Oh, that’s all you got. I should think you’d at least offer me an apology,” he said, smugly smirking at you, which pulled you right out of your speechless state.

“Excuse me,” you said, getting upset. “I owe you an apology. You're the one who slammed the door in my face, but no, your right. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry." You paused with a serious tone, waiting just long enough to make him cocky before finishing “that you’re such an asshole,” and the smirk was immediately gone as Cami hid her laughter behind her hand.

Billy went to reply before you stuck your hand in his face to shut him up as he did to you earlier. "Ah, ah, the adults are talking,” you said, motioning between you and Camilla. "Now, Cam, I love you and I respect your life choices, but this guy is a dick." Billy’s jaw clenched, his fist balling at your words.

Luckily, before your mouth could get you in too much trouble, the front door opened again, revealing Karen, Graham, Eddie, and Warren. They looked at you all, surveying the situation with confused looks. Billy looked pissed while you seemed perfectly fine, and Camilla was trying not to fall on the floor in fits of laughter.

They had caught Mount Billy just as he was erupting, and unfortunately,them being there wasn’t enough to stop it. “Who the fuck are you?!" Billy yelled at you. Billy yelled at you, and Warren snapped, punching Billy straight in the nose and jumping on his friend, who had fallen to the ground, laying on punch after punch.

Warren

"Man, I don’t know what happened, dude. It was just like my body went into autopilot. I don’t even remember jumping him until Eddie pulled me off.”

“Don’t you fucking yell at her, you asshole, I’ll kill you. I swear, Billy Dunne, I’ll fucking kill you!.” Warren continued to scream at him as Eddie pulled him out of the kitchen. Warren struggled against him the whole time.

You all stood in shock at the events that just unfolded. Warren was normally so calm that you had no idea he was even capable of something like that. You came too as Camilla passed you to check on Billy.

He was fine, a little bruised, nothing he didn’t deserve, but he’d be fine. His eye, lips, and cheek were starting to swell already as Camilla and Graham helped him up to his and Cam's room to clean him up.

“He's calming down in the bathroom,” Eddie said as he walked back into the kitchen. “I think you should check on him,” he told you, putting a hand on your shoulder squeezing it gently.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding. You tried to shake the nerves out as you walked towards the bathroom.

"Warren,” you knocked on the door softly after a quiet come-in. You interred Warren was sitting on the counter, staring at the wall in a kind of dazed-out state. You knew he was just as confused at what just happened as all of you, so you chose not to ask any question right now that could wait till later.

You walked to the cabinet below the sink. You took out the small first aid kit you knew they kept under there, grabbing the boy's bloody hand and gently cleaning it, trying not to focus on how close you were to him.

“This is going to sting a little,” you whispered, putting on the antiseptic. He winced softly but didn’t pull away.

You finished wrapping his hand and setting it back in his lap before stepping in front of him to get a better look. His eyes widened when they met yours before falling to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Your heart hurt at the boy’s dejected tone.

"Hey,” you tried to get his attention, but his gaze stayed glued to the floor. Putting your hand under his chin, you lifted his face, moving it to look at you. "Hey, you have nothing to be sorry for. You lost your temper. It’s okay. It’s not like it happens a lot. I’m sure Billy will forgive you."

“No Y/N That’s not why I’m sorry. I don’t regret doing it. I’m just sorry you had to see that side of me." Warren told you, and you nodded, unable to keep the oh expression off your face as you listened to him. “Billy deserves it and more. I mean, I love the guy, but he’s such an ass and so arrogant. I can’t believe he yelled at you like that, I swear.” You could tell he was getting angry again by the way his fist clenched and his eyes filled with rage, so you stopped his words by bringing a finger to his lips. Those gorgeous, perfectly plumb, oh, so kissable lips. Wow, you were whipped, you thought, catching his puzzled expression, pulling your hand away, clearing your throat, realizing you probably made him uncomfortable.

As you moved to take a step back, Warren's hands found your arms, keeping you in place as you met his gaze again.

You stayed there a while in comfortable silence, staring at one another. With Warren's hands still on you, yours had moved to rest on his thighs.

“You’re so beautiful." Warren whispered breaking the silence you blushed profusely at his words moving to cover your face and brush the comment off but Warrens hands kept you from hiding “I’m serious,” he told you noticing your disbelief “That first day we met me and the guys spent thirty minutes just staring at you from our house before Karen said we should offer to help you I almost said no too” he paused chucking as he recalled that day as you were practically hanging onto ever word he said “ I was so scared because I swear the moment I saw you out that window my heart stopped and going over to talk to you that was even scarier I mean I was just a guy in a dying rock band and you well I didn’t even know you but you were everything even if I didn’t know it yet”

"Warren,” you whispered to caution him because if this wasn’t what you thought it was, you’d be crushed and you couldn’t live with that, so maybe just maybe if you stopped it now, you could still be best friends. You could just pretend none of this ever happened. It was a terrible existence, but one where you kept him was better than one where you lost him.

"Wait, please, just let me finish. I need to say this." Warren understood your whisper to be one of rejection, but he needed to get this off of his chest; it was eating him alive. Your gentle nod told him to continue. He took a deep breath, hoping it would calm his nerves before he spoke again. “You were even prettier up close, and you were so humble trying to refuse our help. I figured you’d never want to talk to us again, but when you did, I was ecstatic. I couldn’t believe that such a pretty girl was even giving me the time of day, but I thought you just saw me as a friend, and I settled for that because as long as you were in my life, it wasn’t really settling." He paused again, unable to muster the courage to finish his confession, before looking into your eyes. Those beautiful Y/C eyes that took his breath away in most other circumstances just gave him courage this time.

“But I can’t do that anymore; it’s killing me, and I know you don’t feel the same anymore, so everything will go back to the way it was right after I get this out, I swear, but I love you so much, I just had to tell you just once,” he finished, tears falling down his cheeks as he did, looking at your shocked face as emotions washed over him. He couldn’t quite place it; it wasn’t regret; he definitely didn’t regret it, perhaps sadness for the friendship he felt he’d ruined maybe even defeat from his pending rejection.

As Warren was stewing in his emotions, you were trying to come up with a way to tell him you loved him to prove to him that you did just as much, but he had just poured his heart out to you. How are you going to follow that? So you stood there in shock, racking your brain for the perfect response.

"Okay,” Warren sighed, letting you go as he got up from the counter. "Look, I know I said things can go back to normal, and they can. I just need a day to feel miserable, and then it’s business as usual,” he chuckled somberly, trying to make light of the situation before exiting the bathroom, leaving you behind so utterly confused it took you a second to process.

Realizing he must have taken your silence as rejection, you quickly left the bathroom to catch up to him, calling for him to explain how he had made it all the way outside. You’d never know.

You finally caught up to him as he was opening the car door. “Warren!” You called again, running up to him and closing the car door for him. Poor thing looked so confused and upset.

"Look, I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a day."

“Shut up and kiss me,” you cut him off, to which his face contorted in more confusion, and he tilted his head like a puppy, making you laugh at his cuteness. You rolled your eyes, pulling him by the collar of his shirt into your lips. He snapped out of his daze, his lips quickly moving against your arms, wrapping around your waist.

“Finally!” Eddie shouted from the porch, where he Camilla, Graham, Karen, and a bruised Billy stood, everyone but Billy and baby Julia in his arms were cheering.

The two of you pulled away, bashful. You hid your face in Warren's chest to cover the blush as you both laughed with your friends. Warren pulled you closer to him, with one arm around your waist resting on the small of your back and the other on the back of your head, playing with your hair.

“Hey guys?” Warren shouted at your friends as they stopped cheering and paid attention to him. “You’re kind of ruining the moment!”

“Or we’re making it more interesting,” Graham yelled back, shooting finger guns at the boy.

“Go away,” you said, lifting your face from Warren's chest.

Cami and Karen respected your wishes, pushing the boys inside as Graham and Eddie awwed, “I still don’t know who she is.” You heard Billy complain as the door shut, and the two of you laughed, turning your attention back to each other.

“So…” Warren started rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that was in your hair.

You smiled coyly, pulling him in for another kiss, which he gladly reciprocated.

This kiss was longer; you got to feel the way his lips felt on yours, how soft they were, and the way his arms wrapped around you to pull you closer, finding their way into his hair, tugging on the ends slightly so you could pull away.

“I love you,” you said in between breaths, your lips still so close together that you could feel the smile that overtook his features.

“I love you,” he said, quickly reconnecting your lips and lifting you off the ground. You wrapped your legs around his waist, smiling into the kiss, breaking away from his lips and leaving kisses across his face as you made your way to his neck as he started to walk the two of you to your house.

As y’all entered the house, he kicked the door closed with his foot pressing you up against it, pulling your head from his neck, and smiling at the small pout you gave him for having your attack on his neck interrupted.

He chuckled, taking the opportunity to kiss your pouted lips, which in turn made you smile.

“I love you,” Warren told you, pulling away from your lips. He made a trail of kisses down to your neck, whispering “I love you” in between each kiss, making you grin like a crazy person.”

He only stopped when he found a spot on your neck that made you whimper as he kissed over it, deciding to suck on the spot and grinning into it when you let out a quiet moan.

"Fuck, you drive me crazy,” Warren panted as he pulled away from your neck, resting his forehead against yours, beautiful brown eyes meeting your own.

“How crazy?” You asked, pecking his lips and capturing the bottom one in between your teeth as you pulled away.

“So crazy, you have no idea,” he replied, tilting his head back and groaning, his eyes shut tightly.

“Oh yeah?” You egged on kissing his neck again as your hands found their way under his shirt.

“Yeah,” he whispered in between gentle moans. The effect you had on the boy was insane; he full-on whined when you pulled away, grabbing his head in your hands to have him look at you.

“You want to show me?” You asked cheekily, making a giant grin take over his face. His eyes clouded slightly, but you could still see every emotion in them. You could feel the love he had for you in that moment.

“With pleasure,” he smirked his lips on you once more, leading you to your bedroom, never breaking away from your lips.

Warren

“One of the best nights of my life.” Warren smirked at the camera, giving you a wink behind the camera.

[sallyface4everimmarriedto]

JJK x Filia<3 reader

Filia!Reader is the protective type especially when it comes to Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi mostly Yuji cuz ya know vessels stick together

#VESSELLIVESMATTER

Anyway they try their best to stay away from Gojo cuz much to her dismay he talked so much he purposely turned off his infinity just to get a rise out of Samson literally allowed Samson to punch him to see if the punch would be soft like normal hair or would it feel like an actual fist

(Learned that it was worse then a fist and soft hair it felt like sandpaper attached to a metal slide in the hot sun during the summer with blades)

Now with yuji and sukuna yuji and Filia!Reader get along very well basically inseparable they're like fraternal twins if you were to to describe these to with two worded quotes it would be "Rev Up!" And "Power Up! " but...theres always a down side because DAMN SURE THAT SAMSON AND SUKUNA DONT LIKE EACH OTHER theres a difference between these two

one actually cares for their vessel how they feel if they're alright mentally physically psychologically.....WHILE THE OTHER is literally reckless at all times he keeps his vessel alive just because hes interested in his life and everything thats been going on recently and literally its all ENTERTAINMENT FOR HIM

Yes he's killed his vessel a couple of times out of pure boredom yes he'll do it again he doesnt care at all as long as he's entertained he doesnt care how his vessel feels at all SHIT HE'LL EVEN KILL HIS FRIENDS JUST TO GET THAT GOOD ASS ASMR IN HIS EARS OF HIS VESSEL CRYING this mans evil-

Now with nobara....there isnt much to say these two definitely steal gojos black card to go on shopping sprees and photo shoots in the mall its not like gojos gonna miss it this man is literally rich with an end pretty sure he wont even recall its missing because he definitely doesnt keep receipts with all the stuff he buys so nobara and Filia!Reader literally have a never ending wardrobe full of clothes for every FUCKING SEASON fashionably spicefied<3

It may seem like megumi and Filia!Reader dont really talk much at all but they bond over the animals they can make Filia!Reader admires the animals hes able to make that she cant even the she Mostly makes bug shapes with her hair and they wouldn't really count as animals besides the octopus samson turns into its still a thing to talk about now samson loves to pet megumi's divine dogs

and so does Filia!Reader they love to cuddle with them and just relax and sleep after a long day even though Megumi is and emo boi and loves to be left alone he still enjoys Filia!Reader's company anytime shes around

Now...interaction with sukuna...he would just come up with any type of insult and they would just go over her head this one of the reasons why he and samson have a lot of beef because of the way he disrespects both vessel's thats basically keeping parts of them both alive

samson thinks they both should be grateful for that because they're not even trying to kick them out of their bodies but yuji is actually doing the most and willingly trying to find all 20 of sukunas fingers and sukunas selfish ass cant even be grateful for that always talking about fighting and Threatening his friends and sensei's for no literal reason at all what a giant piss baby.....yeah so samson doesn't like interaction with sukuna

Just like how samson doesnt like interaction with sukuna he also doesnt like interaction with gojo literally just because he thinks hes a creep and annoying as hell he would literally call him "stalker grandpa" or "flashlight eyed geezer" or "weezer geezer"

literally anything he can think of thats just in any way calling him old he was said to gojo and i quote "when you were born your hair said 90 but your face said vampirism of 1000 plagues nothing will ever destroy me" this man? Curse? Parasite? Thing?

Anyway he just does not like gojo now he can tolerate everyone else but he mostly tolerates yuji because its like having a second Filia!Reader only thing about yuji samson doesnt like is sukuna he is commited to hating him so much hes labelled as an op in the books theres is a lot of dann hate

Now for the finale on who Filia!Reader favorite adult who basically babysits her and the rest of the group sometimes ISSSSSSSSSS drumroll pls T-T 🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

Nanami because once they were out looking for a curse ended up being a lower grade the sneaky stealing and energy deceiving kind would make themselves seem like a big deal so they can steal from sorcerers mushroomed shaped tiny has stub arms and legs dots for eyes no mouth these things are no use to even kill one because waste of time and two they're help with the environment plants and animals type of stuff

so when one snatchs nanami's tie to bring it to a foxes den to add to a pile to keep them warm and Filia!Reader goes after it to get the tie back for nanami even though he tried to tell to forget about it but she ran off to fast so she finally cornered the thing near the den she decided to give up her tie in exchange for nanami's in which worked

so she went back to nanami with his tie in hand and found herself the one to be tieless he let her keep it due to having so many of the same tie in which he received and big hug and a warm smile

When all together when fighting a stronger and sorcerers get injured Filia!Reader uses samson to make a dome shield or carries a bunch of people out of the fight and gets them to shoko so nobody else has to worry about how the injured would get to her

and they can just keep fighting knowing that people are getting healed and are in safety as much as samson doesnt really like doing that because he doesn't know the people but he does know that he needs to because of their state and if his vessels motivated to do it then so is he

Thats one of them off my list (๑´̥̥̥>ω<̥̥̥`๑) i hope you enjoyed this vote so i can see if you would want more stuff like this and send any request if you want have a part to or side drabbles also did you see the little nanami ties on the little Filia!Reader? ;3

[unicyclehippo]

reminder to self: finish the dang wash prompt

[have read it too many times & now my brain is fried so that’s it!! im done!! for @possibilistfanfiction​ the ray fic as promised, i hope u enjoy it!! for everyone else, if you think you’ve read this before, that’s because the start is functionally identical to the thing i posted a few weeks back for the “wash” prompt]

//

you should have listened to your brother. 

the thought makes you shudder and you ignore it valiantly as you start your morning, because at the heart of it, that’s what you do: you’re a runaway. 

hop out of bed; don’t think about it. make breakfast in your tiny kitchen, the overhead light a little dim but bright enough against blue pre-dawn morning; don’t think about it. get ready for work, check the to-do list note in your phone twice to make sure you’ve got everything you need; don’t think about it. not thinking about it works just fine until, asshole that he is, he calls you as you’re climbing into the car. 

you think about ignoring him but as much as he ticks you off—and you know that the first or maybe last words out of his mouth are gonna be, when are you coming home, ray—it’s been three weeks since the last time you spoke and you miss him. plus, it’s not as if he’s wrong (ugh). it is lonely here, sometimes, and you have friends closeby but no family, and your stomach hurt all last winter because no one wanted to learn to surf when the water was fuck-off cold and the jobs you got to cover those in-between months didn’t ever last long enough, and he’s right about all of that but he’s wrong about it not being worth it. he’s wrong about you needing to come home, because there’s nowhere you’d rather be than right here and maybe, yeah, maybe that makes you selfish or reckless or any of the other things he’d called you in anger, regretted quickly, but the smell of seasalt and smog clings to you and you feel good, healthy, when you swing into the drivers seat of your car and excitement swells up inside of you—like always, every morning without fail—because this was never about running away, not really, it was always about this. about running to something, about having a different home, about making a place where you feel right in yourself, braver and better too. maybe when you explain that to him this time, for what feels like the hundredth time, he’ll get it. 

you put the phone in its clip, up on the dash, and answer his call. 

‘hey,’ he says, voice gravelly with the early hour and the crackle of your shitty reception. ‘didn’t think you were gonna pick up. figured you were still ignoring my calls.’

god, you miss him. but he’s your brother so you won’t ever say that except under pain of torture, maybe. Instead, you say, tone clipped,

‘thought about it.’ it’s not helpful to be short with him but hell, you answered, didn’t you? It doesn’t fall on you to fix all of this. 

he sits with that for a second, then clears his throat. you can picture him clear as day: he’ll be leaning back against the counter of his kitchen, arms folded, face folded up as he listens hard to every word. there’ll be coffee brewing in a pot, and all the stuff for the kids lunches laid out ready for the assembly line. 

he tries again. you love him for this, you admire him for this—not that you’ll ever admit it to him. he never stops trying. 

‘you off to work?’

‘yeah.’

‘how’s that going?’

for a second, there’s another short answer on your lips. something terse, something not quite unkind but not welcoming or inviting. but then you think about him standing in the kitchen pre-dawn making your sandwiches, day after day, and glance to the passenger seat to your bag where you tossed the sandwich you’d made this morning in your tiny kitchen—exactly the way he used to make it, and makes now for his son and daughter—and instead you say, 

‘i have a new student.’

‘oh? kid or adult class?’

‘adult.’ 

there’s a smile in his tone, just exactly as teasing as when you were fourteen and admitted to having a crush on sophie perez (a year older than you and so much cooler), when he says, ‘is she pretty?’

‘oh, come on marco.’

‘what! i’m just asking.’

‘you’re just being nosy is what you are.’

‘sorry, sorry,’ he laughs. ‘but that’s totally a yes, by the way.’

you roll your eyes. there’s not really a word for what beatrice is. pretty, yes, absolutely. but it’s sneaky, the ways in which she’s really stunning, and even after three sessions teaching her how to surf you still feel kinda knocked around by her, not quite able to find your feet. she’s so composed, always, that it makes you feel awkward. listens so intently to your instructions and advice that under that close attention you feel singular, like the only person in the world. and, you don’t tell him, cannot tell your brother without seeming like the world’s biggest weirdo, you’ve seen her smile two and a half times. the half had been an accident; you’d turned to her at just the right moment to witness it—she’d been looking at nothing in particular, an empty spot on the beach, eyes gone wistful—but it wasn’t for you, and it wasn’t exactly happy, so it doesn’t seem right to count it as a full third. each time she smiles, it makes you want to see another with a fierceness that startles you. you are no stranger to want, nor attraction, and you know that makes up part of your fascination with beatrice but, if that were not enough, there is even more to her. 

all the rest, your brother could wheedle out of you eventually, but this is something you keep locked tightly away, something you have not ever spoken to him about. 

you should, eventually. you will (you might). 

the first time you met beatrice, spoke with her after wading up and out of the hissing surf, with her lingering on the outskirts of your lessons to “inquire how to take part”—she’d taken the sheet you’d handed her and filled it out right there and then in careful script, beatrice, she/her, twenty four, england, never surfed before, email, phone number, emergency contact, the last of which had made her pause for a long time—something in you had recognised something in her. grief, still painful, had welled up in your chest, nailed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, stung in your eyes powerfully that you’d had to turn away and run your fingers through your hair, dig your heels into the sand, step back into the wet sand and the water pooling around your ankles. the ocean takes away everything you’re not ready to feel; while you are out there, it holds you up, weightless. two minutes into talking with beatrice, you know that she wants the same thing. 

none of which you particularly want to tell your brother, so you say, ‘yeah, she’s pretty.’

‘single?’

‘i haven’t asked.’

‘you should.’

‘should i?’ 

pulling neatly into the park by the boardwalk—your favourite, for no particular reason other than this was the same one you always take, the same one you took the first day you came here, ended up here—you turn off the car but don’t make any move to get out. the engine quietens, then goes silent. marco fills the silence. saying things like how long has it been since you went on a date and you never know unless you try. you pull the keys from the ignition, toss them into the little waterproof bag you’ll take down to the sand with you. sunscreen, food, first aid kit. 

‘what happened to, it’s time to come home?’ you interrupt his teasing. 

he sighs. the line crackles, weirdly high-pitched, as the kettle begins to make noise on his end. 

‘listen, ray. i miss you. i’m not gonna pretend that’s not true, or that i don’t worry about you all the time. and with all the shit that’s been going on lately… i want you nearby. but asim said, and i guess he might be right, that i’m being overprotective. and an ass.’

you’ve thought similar things about him before. twice, just this morning. but hearing him say it, voice warm and tired and a little ashamed, makes you want to take the first plane home and hug him until all the weird, unsettled, lonely parts of you find their place. like all it’ll take to fix everything is a hug from your big brother. but you know that isn’t true. knowing it makes you feel a little old and sad. resolute too, because you’re good here, better than you were. you made this place for yourself and you’re filling it with good, important things. 

that’s far too many feelings for four a.m. so you say, ‘say asim was right again,’ and marco laughs. and then, because he was open first, and that makes it easier to follow, to admit to your own missteps, mistakes, you say, ‘i think about it all the time. coming home, i mean. i love you guys, and i do miss you guys, and you’re right. it’s hard out here. but…i love it. my life, the beach.’ he laughs again at that, which is fair. you could have said one or the other; the beach is your life, after all. ‘hey marco, i gotta go. before the waves get tired.’

‘yeah. yeah, i get it. hey - talk later?’

‘yeah. anytime.’ 

‘love you. be safe out there.’

‘always am. love you too.’

//

beatrice is waiting on the sand when you finally get down there; she’s not looking for you, just watching the sun rise, and you’re going to call out to her when something changes—maybe some ephemeral thing, little more than a change in the quality of the light when you take a step closer; maybe the way she’s holding herself, one hand folded over her wrist where you’ve seen the black ink in the divot of her wrist, delicate letters small enough that you haven’t been able to read it when you’ve snuck a peek or two before. whatever it is, you decide to give her a second on her own. 

the sand is hot on the surface and cooler beneath. you shift your weight, dig your feet down until the sand covers the tops of your feet, just to give yourself something to do. and then you stare out over the ocean and breathe. 

it’s beautiful. it’s so fucking beautiful. you’ve known this was where you were gonna end up since you were eight years old and your cousin gabriel had pinned a photo of it to your wall—no one will ever consider it a masterwork of photography, that old blurred snapshot of sand and water and the sun, and just a tiny bit of his fingertip, no one but you because it had been his and he gave it to you, because he’d stood on the beach—maybe this beach, maybe right where you are now—and loved it so much he’d taken a photo of it and you’ve got the proof of it (proof of him, always) tucked into a book on your bedside. 

‘good morning.’

you drag your eyes away from the sunrise—super gorgeous, thin wispy clouds like cotton-candy, pink in the sunlight, striped across the distant horizon, and everything shimmering in what, logically, you know is the smog haze but for a second it can just be beautiful too—to find that beatrice has wandered up to join you. she’s watching you with the attentive curiosity you’ve come to expect—warmer than polite, cooler than inviting. 

‘hey, morning. sorry i’m late—got caught up talking to my brother.’

she nods her understanding. it has a thoughtful tilt to it, or maybe questioning. ‘does he live elsewhere in the world?’

‘excuse me?’

‘it’s early for a call. is he in another timezone?’

you don’t think she’s interrogating you, or she doesn’t mean to interrogate you. you actually think she’s trying to be nice and show interest, so you say, ‘well, he’s home—mexico—so… i think it’s an hour later for him. something like that. but he’s a get-up-and-go kinda guy—has been, ever since i took up surfing. he used to drive me to the water when i was a kid.’

‘older brother, then.’

‘only by a couple of years.’ you roll your eyes, ‘that’s all he needs to get up in my business.’

‘that’s what brothers are for. so i hear.’

‘true.’ you think about saying something more, because all you want to do right now is keep talking to her as long as possible, preferably forever, but that urge seems like a you problem, and something that’ll get washed away the second you dunk your head in the water. ‘okay! hey - mind taking this board and i’ll run back for the other one?’

when you return with your board, hauled down off the roof of your car, beatrice has set her sandals neatly beside her tote a few meters up from the tideline where it’ll all stay dry. you dump your bag right beside hers and jog to join her, check her out with a quick look. of the wetsuit, that is, that you had advised her to buy if surfing was something she wanted to keep doing. 

she crouches, wets her hands, and secures the leash of her board carefully around her ankle. 

‘good job!’ you compliment, because it’s four-something in the morning and, yeah, it’s your choice to get up this early but that doesn’t mean you’re firing on all cylinders yet. you want to say something impressive and kind and get her eyes on you because she’s pretty and interesting but, here’s the thing, most of the time you’re teaching children so the compliment comes out the way you would say it to little jayla (eight years old and nervous about everything and therefore, in your opinion, the bravest little soul in the world for keeping at it). 

beatrice looks over at you, amused, and you earn your third full smile from her. 

she’s laughing at you, definitely, which you don’t mind, have never minded when it comes to girls; years of report cards scrunched at the bottom of your bag, with comments amounting to smart enough but needs to spend more time listening and less time clowning around for the girls will back you up in that regard. your mami despaired of your grades and your attention (or lack of it) and she had chided you then, sat you down at the kitchen table opposite her as you made dinner together for the whole family, splitting the excess. she scolded—and pressed a ripped piece of bolillo into your hand to tide you over to dinner—she lamented—and passed over a bowl, diced tomatoes, crisp and red—and she talked to you about hard work and the importance of school and respect for your teachers and you know now that it was all love, that loud bright kitchen and how she made you handle it all together, space and work and life; you didn’t have the words to explain then—though you remember trying, loudly—that you knew, or thought, you were only really any good at two things, that most of the time you feel like you’re sleepwalking through your life and it’s only when you’re out there in the water, or making your friends laugh, that you feel totally real and vital and incredible. 

here, today, beatrice’s eyes are on you and you’ve made her smile (laugh, even). you feel invincible.

you laugh at yourself. run a hand through your hair. ‘you wouldn’t believe how many people put their wetsuits on backwards, or don’t bother with the leg rope, so. really, you’re doing great.’

she shrugs very slightly, cheeks gone a little pink under the compliment, or the sunrise, or maybe—a girl can dream—your singular attention. ‘thank you, then.’

‘sure,’ you say, and, ‘i can get your zip for you, if that’s okay? it’s not quite all the way up.’

‘thank you, yes.’ 

she turns away from you so you can fix it and you do, immediately and without lingering. she has freckles across her shoulders; the teeth of the zipper tug closed, swallow up the sight of them. you think, briefly, about kissing her there on the back of her neck, her shoulders, of taking a zip between your fingers and pulling it down. 

‘how does it feel? i know the wetsuits can be weird at first.’

‘it’s fine. i’ve worn stranger.’

you desperately want to ask for details but, aside from her first name, you don’t know anything much about her except that she wants to learn surfing, and probably the first time you ask for more information shouldn’t be about what she’s worn, even though your brain is filled with all kinds of theories. so instead you swallow back a flirty comment—also she is paying you to teach her, you remember abruptly, and maybe you should wait until after the lesson to flirt with her—and nod to the water. 

‘let’s hit it, then.’

the sand is golden, and the ocean is starting to turn gold under the sunlight, and you feel a bit golden too. you think idly, self-indulgent, you want heaven to be like this. a golden beach, with everyone you’ve ever loved on it with you. you take it in—a great start to the morning—and, smiling, run forward into the water.

/

she’s lighter, after surfing. 

in your first few lessons, you weren’t sure whether it would be like that for her. it’s not the physical part—she’s obviously fit and athletic enough to be good at surfing (you’ve noticed); there’s this…relaxation isn’t the right word, meditative is close but too dramatic for your tastes.

it’s like this. you paddle out to the calm, past the small waves that break close to the shoreline, and sit on your board and wait, legs dangling in the water, fingers drifting over the surface of it. maybe you sit in silence, maybe you chat with your buddy. and then you pick out a wave and then there’s this feeling when the wave swells and you catch it just right—you’re a little outside of yourself, entirely out of your head, and you experience it totally, trusting the wave to carry you and your body to move the way you’ve taught it to. you thought, when you first met her, that beatrice was too contained for that, every movement so precise, so controlled, intentional and intelligent and totally present, always watched, always watching herself. if there’s anyone who needs to get out of their head, you thought then and think now, it’s beatrice. 

and now. it’s only been four lessons, four days of knowing her split up over a couple weeks. you’re sitting on your board, legs in the water, cold spray in your face. august and siti—a couple of the regulars, friendly, you talk sometimes enough to say hello at the least, and lent august your sunscreen last week when they forgot to pack some even though it is not cheap—are a decent way further out. you see a good wave start to roll in and before you can say anything to beatrice, she’s already spotted it and moving. you stay where you are, watching as she catches it alone so you can check her form and you see it happen. she pops up smooth and rides it all the way in. a second later, you’re searching for a wave you can catch and wave at her to stay; you tumble off in the shallows, not your most graceful wave ever, and rush up to her. beatrice is smiling (four and a half, you think, totally brainless), big and so pleased, and you can’t help but grin back at her. 

‘you felt it!’ you call out—accuse, almost—when you’re close and she laughs. slicks her hair back off her face with a trembling hand. 

‘i - i think - yes, i did, yes.’ she’s breathing hard, from excitement you think—she’s caught waves before, bigger ones even, but this is different and you can tell. it’s entirely confirmed when she reaches out, clasps your wrist, and smiles—all for you. (five and a half.) ‘thank you, thank you.’

‘yes,’ you say, a little brainless, a little helpless. ‘of course.’

(fourteen years old, madly in love with sophie perez and madly heart-broken when you spotted her hand-in-hand with some scruffy-haired unfunny boy, your cousin gabriel had driven far across town to pick you up and, ignoring the impressive sulk you’d sunken into, packed you into his car and took you to the beach. he hadn’t spoken to you at all while you cried into his shoulder, his arm thin and strong around you, holding you tight, a tether, and when you roughly scrubbed the tears off your shame-hot face, he’d smacked your hands away and pulled a pack of tissues from his bag, cleaned you up carefully. nodded when he was done, approving. and then he stood and walked knee-deep into the water, not seeming to care that he was in jeans or that you’d have to get back into his car in wet clothes. 

love is like the ocean, he’d said. 

you remember rolling your sore eyes because at fourteen years old you already knew that love wasn’t the ocean. love was enjoying all the same music and turning up early to class to get the seat across from hers and the way your heart sped up when you passed her in the hall and staying up way too late dreaming of ways to make her laugh in class the next day. but gabriel was your favourite so you listened carefully, and you’re thankful for that now because you can remember so much. his dark curls, the smudge of his eyeshadow, how cold the water had been on your skin, how warm his arm had been around your shoulders.

not everyone loves her the same way. some people stay for a day and then head back to the mountains. he’d paused. mountains are, i dunno, a loveless marriage in this metaphor. you’d laughed at him. some people paint it, or make movies, but they never swim in it. some people sail out in their nice boats and go fishing. take what they want from her and head back to dry land. but for people like us? gabriel wore rings on his fingers and a shirt, tight, in a dusky kind of orange. love for us is like the ocean. we could drown in it and it wouldn’t be enough. he had a boyfriend in the city, and was beautiful and proud and kind, and you’d looked out over the calm sea and thought the world must be really different for him, vibrant and strange and wonderful. you felt special, nestled into his side. 

people like us, he’d said, and you remember because you remember everything about that afternoon, that in amongst his kindness, he’d sounded sad.)

you’re not fourteen anymore. you love the ocean more than you love anything else. when beatrice smiles at you, your heart swells, crashes, drags you under. you love her, too.

/

‘i love surfing,’ you tell her later, pleasantly tired. 

you trudge up toward the car park, stumble a little at the tide-mark where wet sand turns dry and gives way under your weight. you swear under your breath; every spare moment of your life has been spent at one beach or another, and you’d think that would earn some kind of loyalty perk, like, never tripping over your feet in front of cute girls, but apparently it doesn’t work that way. but beatrice only laughs, kindly, and puts a hand out to steady you and you don’t need it but you take it, of course. beatrice is slimmer than you, and a little taller, and far more graceful; you wonder if she’s ever tripped over anything in her life. her hand is cool from the water and calloused and scarred, which you didn’t entirely expect but makes a kind of sense in the collage you’re putting together in your head of what little scraps of information she’s given you.

beatrice takes her hand back; you keep your observations to yourself. 

‘you love surfing,’ she prompts. and then, ‘i’m starting to love it too, i think.’

‘it’s okay if you don’t, i won’t think less of you,’ you say, only lying a little bit, which you think she knows because she arches an eyebrow in your direction. you grin back. ‘of course i hope you do. but if you’re only coming to lessons for my many charms, i completely understand.’

‘is it hard? surfing, with such a large head?’ she snarks, unimpressed but eyes bright.

‘god never gives us more than we can handle,’ you say, absolutely facetious, absolutely cocky. she looks away. you put “doesn’t like jokes about god” in the collage of beatrice and move on. ‘you thanked me. earlier. you don’t need to. you’re paying me, first of all,’ you tease, ‘but. i love surfing for what it is, for myself, out there alone. i love every bit of it. but the teaching part… i didn’t expect to love that. it’s turned out to be so cool. getting to know all kinds of people, introduce them to surfing. and the water, too, sometimes. watching them fall in love with…’ 

you stop at the rocks and look behind you. the strip of sand, the greedy suck of the tide crawling higher up the beach, the shimmering green-glass sea.

‘with all of that.’

you think about being embarrassed about your tone—way too sincere, way too holy—but when you meet her eyes you see she understand this, too: that holy can be found outside the cathedral, that hymns can be the raucous gull shriek and wave crash and breath. 

‘getting to partake, and teach, and do what i love every day? honestly my genuine pleasure.’

the words bring something complicated to her face. sad? wistful? a little angry, definitely. her eyes return to the view; you stay looking at her, not keen to lose whatever she might say to the crash and hiss of the waves. 

‘i wish…’ she holds herself still. she’s lost the lightness surfing brought her; you don’t know if it’s your fault, you hope it isn’t, or if it was never going to last very long for her. ‘i wish i had that.’

if you were thinking about it properly, you don’t know beatrice or her situation well enough to give advice. but you like her, and you want to be able to help, and you get the impossibly strong (if slightly uncertain) vibe of queerness absolutely radiating off her and that you understand. plus, surfing makes you brave—a little stupid in that invincible way, like nothing can hurt you, like nothing can truly go wrong, like anything that does go wrong can be fixed—so, picking up your board again, you head off toward your car once more and she follows. 

as you walk, you say, ‘i think you can have it. i think you can make it. joy, passions, a life you want to live… that doesn’t fall out of the sky, you know?’ she flinches at that but you keep going, since you already dove in. ‘most of the time, you have to work for it. all of the time, it’s about making decisions and figuring out what’s important. figuring out who you are—how you feel, how you want to exist, what you want to do. and then you have to find your way there.’ scraping your fingers through your hair, pushing it back out of your eyes, you take a second to think. ‘once you know the life you want to have, you can go out and get it. a little at a time.’

she stops where the sand hits concrete, which you get. the beach feels worlds away from reality, sometimes, and you get wanting to stay there as long as possible. everything seems smaller, compared to the ocean. more manageable. you stand there with her.

‘what if what i want is impossible?’

‘…damn. great question. i don’t know. set yourself an easier goal?’ that startles her, and for a moment you think it would have been better to be gentle or sincere but then she laughs, louder than before. god, you think, thank you for letting me meet her. thank you for letting me make her laugh. ‘i don’t always turn into a life coach and give unasked for advice after surfing, i swear. it costs ten bucks more for that package, if you want to spring for that next time, but hey, first one for free.’

‘perhaps i will. you seem to have all the answers.’

‘maybe not all of them but yeah, i know some stuff.’ you let sincerity bleed through, here, because you joke around but there’s something serious and seriously healing about being with other people, being able to be open and honest with them, and you can be that for beatrice, if she wants. 

‘what about you?’

‘what about me?’

‘you made the decision to come here,’ beatrice says, with that faintly accusing, faintly interrogative tone she gets. ‘why?’ 

ah. here is what your invincibility gets you—the sting of salt in your eyes; a heavy pressure against your head, your ears, like you’ve dunked you head beneath the waves and all you can hear is the slam of your pulse; and that feeling—one that doesn’t hit so often anymore—that you are just one little creature treading water at the top of the vast ocean, alone, with no one around to help you out. 

it only lasts for a few seconds. 

you’ve talked to people, on and off, for a few years. and you know how to ground yourself in the here and now—the heat of the sand, the sun on your shoulders, your hair drying into careless waves and curling a little around your ears, tickling your jaw, the taste of salt and lip balm when you lick your lips, the click of your wrist when you flex it. 

you step off the sand and into the parking lot, toward your car. for a minute, you work in silence getting your board up onto the rack; the work helps but the collar of your wetsuit is soaked and heavy, tight around your throat. when you turn back to help beatrice with her board, you grab for the zipper and tug it down an inch, let it slacken so you can breathe better. 

it has been a long enough delay in answering her that she’s starting to make assumptions, observations of her own. she also has the faintly horrified look of someone who has stepped in something gross—dog shit, or, in this case, brought up a more deeply personal conversation than she was prepared for—and looks like she’s searching desperately for a way to change the subject. but it was a direct question, an honest one and not unfair, not one you’re unhappy answering, so you say, 

‘when i say you make decisions, choices…things happen to us in life and we can’t control that shit. but you get to decide what to do after that. something… something kinda rough happened in my life.’ you look at her, and think of a grief so profound that you have to wear it on your skin. you flex your hands, and look down at the tattoo on her wrist that you still haven’t taken the time to examine, not visible under the sleeve of her wetsuit. ‘my cousin died,’ you tell her. ‘he was really important to me. and after that, i chose to come here. left my hometown, my family, and started again. i’d wanted to do it for ages and i guess i realised this was the only life i was gonna get. so here i am. and that,’ you say, tone much lighter, ‘is all you’re getting out of me this morning. you know how it goes—just a little of a great thing at a time. can’t risk you getting sick of me, can i?’ 

beatrice looks at you for a long moment, fingers resting on her wrist. eventually, she shakes her head, passes over her board. ‘i’m not sick of you.’’

‘oh yeah?’ you hoist up the board and fix it in place. when you look back over your shoulder, you mean to say something teasing but lose your head because she’s looking at you—your back, your arms. you flex a little more than you need to and her eyes dart to your muscles, your wrists, and linger on your tattooed hands. 

she turns away with pink cheeks you’re certain isn’t the sun’s fault. clasps her hands behind her back. 

‘thank you,’ she says, sincerely. ‘for sharing that with me.’

‘sure, of course.’ it’s not really an of course. you can count on two hands the number of people you would talk to about gabriel. but it’s an of course for her. you don’t think too hard about it. 

‘and for the lessons.’

that makes you laugh. ‘the ones you are paying for? you’re welcome.’  it’s kind of obvious at this point that she’s just looking for things to say, to hang out a little longer, and you take pity on her. and also, you want to spend more time with her too so, hey, works out perfectly. ‘if you’re not busy, if you don’t have to run off, maybe we can talk some more? i don’t have to be anywhere for a while and there’s this place down the road—a few minutes that way, walking distance, easy. decent coffee, great view. we could get coffee. breakfast, even.’

beatrice turns super slowly and stiffly to look in the direction you point. it’s a long, long moment before she looks at you.

‘as a date?’

‘hopefully, yeah.’

‘oh.’ her eyes dart around the mostly empty parking lot—it can’t be later than six, if that—and suddenly contained seems a little more like hidden. ‘I’m—that’s kind of you—’ she swallows. sets her shoulders, her jaw, and meets your eyes. ‘i have a partner.’

‘that makes sense.’ you wonder, briefly, what her partner is like. you hope they’re stoic and serious as beatrice is, because if they’re hot and funny like you it’ll be vaguely devastating. maybe you’ll get to meet them. ‘as friends, then.’ beatrice hesitates. ‘would your partner be cool with that?’

beatrice smiles again, one of those not-for-you smiles. you think again, more fervently, that you’d like to meet her partner—they must be something seriously special to have captured beatrice’s attention, first of all, but to get her to smile like that… 

‘she’d be delighted, actually.’ she touches her wrist and nods. ‘yes. thank you. i - we - can do that. get coffee.’

she makes it sound revolutionary, like she’s never had coffee before, which you know is not the case because you’d mentioned, offhand, that if one more goddamn politician or bank twitter account advised people to save money and make coffee at home you were gonna lose it, and she’d agreed that she preferred homemade tea and store-bought coffee, and mentioned an article she’d read on how coffee was produced and how it worked, which she though was “quite interesting” and when she forwarded it to your e-mail it wasn’t a think piece like you’d been expecting but rather a fourteen page research article, peer-reviewed, on the social aspects of caffeine consumption, or something like that. there’s genuine nerves in her rigid posture, and you think of how revolutionary, world-changing, bold, fucking terrifying and a little bloody it’s been to get here, where you’re standing now. 

‘cool. if you’ve got time after, there’s this surf shop—it’s a bit of a hike but,’ you flick your eyes to the cloudless blue sky overhead. ‘nice day for it. we can look at a couple of boards for you. i’m happy to go with you, help you find something good. borrowing a board is fine while you’re learning but it’ll be easier and feel better when you’ve got one that’s properly suited to you.’

she nods seriously, the way she always does when you talk about surfing, student to teacher. ‘i - would like that.’ 

‘yeah? awesome, alright!’ 

//

the cafe is a decent size and decently popular, which normally makes it hard to get a seat sometimes but today is a day of miracles and a couple is clearing out right as you get in, freeing up a table in the laneway. it’s in a good spot, shaded by one of the wide umbrellas and not in the way of the servers, so you sit sideways in your chair and happily stretch out your legs, pluck off your sunglasses and hang them off the collar of your t-shirt. opposite, beatrice tucks herself into her seat prim and proper, no surprises there; what does surprise you is how still she sits and how, even though you know that she agreed—wants—to be here, it’s like she’s trying to go invisible. 

the server who brings out your drinks is young and harried, doesn’t even pause when you thank him. you’d ordered an espresso, and beatrice had asked for the same, but now she’s staring down at it doubtfully.

‘did you want something else?’

she shakes her head no. ‘i’d like to try it. this is your preferred coffee?’

‘my abuelo makes the meanest espresso you’ve ever had. this is water in comparison.’

‘oh.’

‘but it’s a nice place and i like the beans they use here. i really should ask what their blend is one of these days but,’ you shrug. ‘i don’t have a machine at home so what’s the point, right?’

she nods. picks up the little cup and sips at it. immediately, her nose wrinkles and her lips twist and her perfect posture breaks for a second as she bodily fights the urge to say, presumably, judging by her grimace, ‘yuck!’ she lowers it but doesn’t set it down, like it would be impolite to abandon it immediately, and watches with the tiniest grimace as you drink it happily. 

‘not for you?’

‘at risk of sounding like a stereotype, i am more of a tea drinker. this is…rather a powerful taste.’ she looks a little guilty setting it back down. ‘do you mind if i order something else?’

‘no, course not. but i might judge you on what you get,’ you tease, grinning, and she just rolls her eyes, nods. you split your attention between enjoying the morning and watching the line creep forward until she’s at the register, shake your head when she folds another note into the tip jar. 

she comes back to the table with another coffee—an oatmilk latte, with lavender of all things—and, as promised, you tease her gently about it.

‘really settling in, aren’t you? very LA of you,’ you say, and pretend to gag. ‘lavender. gross.’

beatrice smiles over the lip of her cup, shakes her head. ‘your favourite drink tastes like battery acid, i don’t think your opinion counts.’

‘ouch.’ 

‘you mentioned your abuelo,’ she says. ‘do you have much family?’

talking about family is easy, even if beatrice does make it a little of an interrogation—she gets everyone’s names and ages, nodding with this intense look in her eyes like she’s filing it away somewhere in her brain, like if you never spoke again and ran into each other in ten years she would still remember. you don’t have anything to hide, happy to tell her: yes, you’ve been here a while, a little over five years; surfing has always been your favourite thing to do; no, it’s not your only job, you have a very boring desk job but the boring bits are compensated by the fact that you get to work from home and your boss is kind of amazing about letting you take your afternoon run down to the beach and back; yes, you’re queer, you’ve known forever and so has your family, and yes they’re fine with it, very supportive, and they love you the same as they always did after you came out. 

‘barely needed to, really. my mami said she knew since i was like ten, eleven, maybe. all because i followed my tennis coach around like a duckling, which makes sense because i can’t think of why else i would play tennis, it fucking sucks.’ beatrice sips guardedly at her coffee, looking away, and it’s so carefully inoffensive that you have to laugh. ‘tell me you don’t love tennis, beatrice, please.’

she shrugs carefully. ‘i’ve enjoyed it in the past. both playing and spectating.’

you groan. ‘no, beatrice! christ.’

‘it’s an olympic sport—‘

‘it’s dead boring,’ you insist.

beatrice frowns at you, considering. ‘you’re bad at it,’ she announces after a moment, very confident. ‘if you were better at it, perhaps you’d enjoy it more.’ you laugh, shrug a little, because she’s hit the nail on the head. she continues, ‘to its credit, tennis has serena williams, the most incredible athlete—‘

‘messi.’

‘team sport,’ she counters, and you cede the point with a nod.

‘certainly she’s the greatest tennis player of all time—‘

‘oh undoubtedly.’

‘—and it’s also one of the only sports that pays men and women equal prize money, and has mixed competitions.’

‘great points,’ you allow. ‘and yet, somehow it’s still fucking boring.’ beatrice fully scowls, shaking her head, and you have to ask, ‘are you rethinking being friends with me?’ 

she relents after a moment. sets down her drink with a sigh. ‘we can be friends,’ she tells you after a moment. ‘so long as we’re on the same page regarding serena williams.’

‘i’d love to regard serena williams.’

‘you should watch tennis, then,’ beatrice tells you bluntly, and smiles, pleased, when you laugh hard at that.

‘okay. you know everything about me now so what about you?’

‘what about me?’

you push a hand through your hair, ruffle it; her eyes follow the movement, your hands, and then she stares down at her coffee. ‘how long have you been in LA?’ 

‘a month. perhaps a little less.’

‘and you came here because…?’ when she hesitates, you say, ‘wait, wait, let me guess—you’re going to be in movies, right?’ she laughs like that’s ridiculous—even if one in five people you meet here is an aspiring actor, and none of them as compelling or, honestly, attractive as beatrice is—and relaxes. ‘ok, not movies. tv?’

‘no, i’m not here to act. i’m here to…’ she picks up a knife off the table, turns the cutlery smoothly between her fingers. ‘settle, i suppose. i’ve been travelling for some time.’

‘oh yeah? where to?’ 

it takes a little nudging for her to get going but when she does, she speaks very sincerely of the world, of its people and religions, of sights natural and man-made. she’s light on details but you can tell that the travel was important and life-changing, which you sort of understand. you haven’t been many places but every town away from where you grew up felt like a whole new world, like freedom, and you can only imagine that beatrice’s travelling was like that but no doubt on a far grander scale. 

‘and your partner? what are they like?’ you ask, and immediately know that you’ve fucked up, because beatrice looks abruptly striken. ‘sorry, i -‘

‘no. it’s fine. she - ‘ a little of the horror in her fades the moment she says she, like even the thought of her partner is enough to soothe, but most of it stays. she picks up one of the paper napkins, twists it harshly between her fingers. ‘she’s sick.’

sick, she says, voice thick, unsteady. it occurs to you that she’s lying, trying to soften the blow or maybe deny it to herself again, but beatrice doesn’t seem like a liar. you choose to believe her. this is what it was, you realise. the source of that grief you’d felt, seen, ever since you first met her. you recognise the grief in her eyes—loss, fear, confusion too, like she doesn’t know quite what to do with herself. you remember that. the fog, the ache, when he was gone like an organ removed and your life having to close and heal around the lack. trying to find something that filled in that empty space, or fit enough that it didn’t hurt so much. 

love for us is like the ocean. that’s true for you, then and now. you don’t think it’s the same for beatrice. 

there’s love in every part of her—the joy and the waiting, the grief and the hurting—and there’s a cross around her neck that drags low, heavy, and there are words on her wrist that stand out stark against her skin and you think for beatrice love is like religion, holy, dedicated, faithful. you’re terrified that she’s waiting for a miracle that will never come; you hope, of course you hope and will pray for it tonight, that she gets it.

it’s also far too much to consider on a weekday before coffee, and you’ve already planned to keep her in your life in whatever capacity you can, so. you can talk about it later. 

‘oh. that’s -’ beatrice looks like if you say another word she’s gonna bolt; if she does, you’re not sure that she’ll come to her next lesson, even if she has already paid for it. instead of condolences or well wishes, you say, ‘do you wanna hear about the time i hopped a fence and ripped my pants? right in the butt.’

she wasn’t expecting that in the slightest, obviously. a small smile curls her lips upwards and she resettles, looking dramatically less like she’s going to flee. ‘yes. that sounds very amusing.’

‘it’s funny now, sure, but back then? first of all, i got teased a lot. and second, it fucking stung,’ you bemoan, grinning when she looks a little unsure of whether this was, like, the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. she relaxes a little more and you thank god and your parents and brother that you get to be the person you are, someone who can make other people laugh. that’s not a bad life–surfing at the beach, a boring job, and making your friends laugh? not bad at all. 

‘sounds like a pain in the ass.’ beatrice says, looking very pleased with her joke when it makes you groan, which is a lot better than her looking devastated. ‘what happened?’

‘usual idiot kid stuff. playing footy with my brother, kicked the ball over the neighbours fence. i thought i could jump it, get it back for us, and i did. mostly,’ you add after a tiny pause. then, slyly, you say, ‘the only reason i didn’t rip my boxers and my pants is because i was going commando.’

‘no.’ 

‘better a cut up my ass than ruining my good boxers,’ you wink, and beatrice laughs.

it’s just as easy as that to turn the conversation to lighter topics. she knows what you’re doing—you can tell, because her smile is occasionally too grateful than is deserved for just a chat over coffee—but she allows you to do it, and all too soon it’s been an hour and she’s buying you a second coffee, takeaway this time, and tipping, like, two hundred per cent with the most pristine notes you’ve ever seen tucked away in this slim handsome wallet, and you’re walking lazily, slowly back the way you’d come toward the beach. it’s not really a surprise that she declines the offer of heading to the surf shop—she still seems a bit unsteady after the mention of her partner—and you’re a little worried that she’ll disappear from your life now so you slow your pace when you see your car, twirl your keys around your finger. 

‘what is it, ray?’ she asks, a touch cautious but mostly good-natured, curious. 

‘busted. i was just thinking… you have a partner—major bummer, by the way,’ you tease, which is a fucking risk, but she manages a tiny smile. ‘mostly for you, because i was gonna ask you out and it would’ve been a good time, i know all the coolest places in LA.’ her cheeks go a little pink but she’s still smiling, so, ‘so despite being heart-broken, i’m going to this party tomorrow night. just a small thing, house party with a bunch of folks i go surfing with. you’ll probably meet most of them, if you keep up the dawn patrol, but it might be nice to get to know them out of the water. y’know, wearing clothes.’ much more seriously, much more sincerely, you tell her, ‘it’s absolutely cool if you want to be with your partner, or if you’re not going out much, but i wanted to invite you anyway. i think you’d enjoy it. very casual scene—music, some beers, a disproportionate amount of queer folk. plus, i’ll be there looking hot, that’s always a plus. you can be my wingwoman!’

beatrice frowns, considering her words carefully. ‘my partner is… she’s in a speciality hospital so i don’t get to visit her. i - promised her i would have some fun,’ she tells you, fingers brushing against her wrist. in this life, you’ve managed to read now, sitting opposite her for an hour in the morning sunlight, drinking coffee that almost tastes like home, sitting in a body and a life that entirely feels at home, and you look across at beatrice and see someone who is almost there. almost certain, almost sure, almost happy. ‘yes,’ she says, after taking a bolstering breath. brave, you think, with sudden fondness, protective. it comes to you, a splinter of a memory, being afraid of the ocean; gabriel plunging in ahead of you with such joy that you forgot. ‘yes,’ she says again, ‘i’d love to come to the party.’

‘amazing!’ 

‘and, while i find it difficult to imagine you would have a problem finding people to go on dates with you, yes, i will be your…wingwoman, if you require it. what is the dress code?’

‘too hot for leather, unfortunately,’ you tease, and have the extreme delight of watching beatrice stumble over literally nothing, ears going pink. so, so valiantly you manage to not comment on it. instead, you say, ‘wear whatever makes you feel good and happy. hot, if you want to feel hot. that’s always the rule.’

‘you get to decide what you do.’ it takes you a second to place her words—they’re your words, from this morning, which makes you smile because she’s quoting you, very seriously and kindly like that actually helped her, maybe. ‘i do best with rules, or a guideline,’ she mutters, but sets her shoulders and nods, decisive. ‘i’ll find something to wear. you have my number.’

‘from your form, i do, yeah. it’s cool if i text you?’

‘yes.’

‘alright. awesome, i’ll pin the address for you.’

‘good.’ 

beatrice walks you all the way to your car, shakes your hand like you’ve just concluded a job interview, and then continues on quickly. she’s got a white-knuckle grip on the handle of her tote bag and walks away with this quick, neat stride that makes you feel self-conscious about your own walk, like maybe you’ve been doing it wrong for your whole life. more importantly, there’s about a thirty per cent change that beatrice will actually turn up at this party but you’ve hoped for things with worse odds that were way less important to you than this, so you easily, recklessly hope that she’ll turn up. 

//

the likelihood of beatrice actually showing up is still low, you remind yourself, even though she had texted this morning to accept and had thanked you very sincerely - and formally - for the invitation. the uber drops you off on the corner where you had agreed to meet and you hop out, saying a cheerful goodbye to your driver, rajeev, who had taken one look at you and nodded and switched his playlist to something titled GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS which…accurate. he totally earned his five stars and you’re clicking through to leave a quick review—clean car, GREAT music—when beatrice calls your name. 

‘hey! you came!’

beatrice strides up the street to join you. the timing of her arrival three seconds after yours is odd enough that, for a second, you wonder if she’s been waiting and for how long. then, you get distracted by beatrice in her gay ass outfit—lightwash jeans, loose, that fall to her ankles; a soft-looking crewneck, blue; and birkenstocks that are either brand new or excruciatingly well-cared for, with not a speck of dirt on the white sandals—and realise you’ve made a huge mistake. there’s no way beatrice can be your wingwoman. every queer woman in this house will flock to her and her damn british accent and her freckles and her polite, comfortable, slightly masculine air, and the way she looks at everyone like they’re important. god. beatrice is devastating at four in the morning in a wetsuit, hair slicked back with ocean water; she’s devastating now, with the sleeves of her crew folded just once, precisely, enough to show off the dip of her wrists, and her hair pinned up in a pristine bun. 

she stops mid-step, looks you up and down, and you stop calling yourself an idiot long enough to preen. with beatrice coming tonight, you felt like getting a little dressy and picked everything with slightly more care, ending up in a satin-type top you’ve tucked into high-waisted pants. it drapes open rather handsomely almost to your belly button—you’ve only done up half the buttons tonight, because you believe sincerely in being god’s gift to women and it’s your duty to parade around with a little skin showing, enough to tantalize. maybe a little slutty, just for fun. you’ve got a few chains hanging around your neck, and some rings on your fingers. 

‘oh, i am gay,’ beatrice mutters when she gets a good look at you. ‘sorry - that’s,’

you wave off her apology or whatever she’s going to say, because a compliment is a compliment and that is a damn good compliment, especially coming from her. 

‘delighted to be of service, honestly. any time you need reminding.’ you stroll over to greet her properly—not a hug, but an obvious once over, so she can see how much you approve of her look too, and then a tap to her elbow in hello—and she examines you a second time, looking marginally less embarrassed to get caught. this time, her eyes linger on your necklaces; no, your cross. 

‘catholic?’ 

‘born and raised. you?’ 

she only nods, lips pursed. glancing around, she says, ‘the party is around here?’

‘yeah. oh, yeah, it’s on this street. one minute walk, maybe two.’ she looks a little confused and you admit, ‘i wasn’t sure if you actually wanted to come. i wanted to meet up with you first, make sure you were comfortable.’

rather than being offended, beatrice relaxes. ‘that’s kind of you.’

‘well, i want you to have fun. it will be fun,’ you insist, and start in the direction of luis’s place. ‘i’ll take care of you tonight, i promise—you can drink, if you want, or smoke. no pressure. i’ll stay sober anyway. but what i really want is to introduce you to my friends, i really think you’ll like them.’

‘because we’re all queer?’ beatrice guesses, a note of something odd in her tone. it’s not suspicion, but something akin to it. 

‘yeah, sure. i know what it’s like moving to a new place and not knowing anyone, it’s rough. especially for us,’ you say, light on the emphasis but apparent enough that beatrice looks at you again, and nods to herself. ‘but aside from being queer, i just really think you’ll like them. luis is the one hosting tonight. they’re super smart, they’re finishing a phd in anthropology, movement in borderlands—oh, and they will offer you weed every half hour but that’s not you, and you don’t have to accept, it’s just their idea of hospitality.’ beatrice nods very solemnly. you can practically hear the information being locked away in her brain and the image makes you smile. ‘it’s this one, up ahead.’

as promised, the party is pretty chill—low lights, not too packed, good music. it’s a really nice night and there are a few folk standing around on the porch, drinks in hand; when you get in, you’ll probably find most of the guests have spilled out into the back yard. plus, you’re only a few streets back from the beach—based on the last few parties luis has hosted, the beach is where you’ll end up in a few hours. 

beatrice stops outside the house, stares in through the open door. she touches two fingers to her wrist. you stand with her, beside her, and part of you aches because you know that there is someone else who should be here, who she wants very badly to be here, and it seems terribly unfair that something this simple - a party, new friends, the distant sound of the ocean - isn't simple at all.

‘all good?’

‘thank you,’ she says, softly. ‘for inviting me. and don’t say you need a wingwoman because i sincerely doubt that.’

you grin. run a hand through your hair in a way that makes you look particularly douchey, according to your ex. ‘thanks. i appreciate that. and no, i don’t need a wingwoman but it can’t hurt... except if the girls hear that accent, actually,’ you say with a thoughtful frown, like it’s only occurring to you now that beatrice is hot. you step in front of her like you’re blocking her way to the house, even as you back up toward the house, the party. ‘this is bad, i’ve made a huge mistake, you gotta go,' you insist, teasingly.

beatrice laughs and follows you in.

[stiricidewrites]

The Damage You Do: ch 27, pt 11

Previously

CN: mentions of fisting

Minor edit: I forgot to mention wwx losing his shirt at the end of the last update. Just pretend it was mentioned, lol

~

And oh good fucking heavens above did wwx enjoy his dom's hands. It really was a travesty that they were supposed to be pretending they weren’t people who had fucked before. lwj deserved to know how much he fucking loved this—deserved to have moans and praised piled onto him. As much as he had already let a few very inappropriate moans out, he was meant to be controlling himself! He couldn’t just let loose! He had to control the moans that wanted to escape him…

Fuck, there’d been so much about this session that had been frustrating, but the fact that he couldn’t let go and sing the man’s praises was somehow turning out to be the most terrible of all! It was truly egregious, and wwx pouted quietly into the mat as he was forced to instead tell his dom very politely that he was a good masseuse.

A very, very good masseuse. The man’s hands had obviously been designed for this exact purpose. Previously, he had been content to imagine those hands on and inside him in a sexual manner—occasionally freaking himself imagining them inside him in their entirety, although those moments were tinged in arousal despite his growing concern over the idea of an entire fist inside him. Now, relaxing into the delicate and firm presses of his dom’s giant hands, the tender and stretching way they dragged over him, wwx wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be thinking about lwj’s hands on him in any other manner ever again.

This was it. lwj had ruined him for everyone else. He would never be able to fuck anyone who couldn’t give him this good a massage. Actually, he should be demanding lwj regularly massage him if he ever wanted to fuck him again, too. He wouldn’t—he wasn’t about to risk his job by asking for something like that—but he couldn’t help but imagine what life would be like if he did.

lwj slowly peeling off his clothes before they fucked, his fingers seeking out all the little knots that tormented him throughout the day. lwj dragging oiled hands over his sated body post-orgasm, grinding out an entirely different sort of pleasure for him. lwj pressing his own oiled body against his, their massage quickly turning into another round. Then, he’d oil up his own hands and return the favour—his dom deserved nice massages, too!

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea—the giving him dom a massage part, not the demanding massages from his dom part. Chances were nhs’s guidebook had even had some instructions on massages in it—hell, if he asked, nhs would probably set him up with someone who would teach him the art of massage—sexual massage, most likely. Wasn’t there a specific word for that? He was pretty sure there was, but lwj pressed into him just right, and all wwx’s thoughts about learning how to give his dom the massages he deserved slipped away.

[jakowskis]

Day 23 - Discuss Tosh. Opinions? Favorite moment? Least favorite moment? Any unpopular opinions? Any fun headcanons?

tosh my babygirl my princess light of my life angel darling… shes so good. shes so good 🥺 i love her dearly. she’s so damn underutilized i hate how the show regulates her to a supporting role + only uses her for romantic plots. WACK shes so much more than that. i want a plotline about her cyberterrorism like hello??? i want a plotline about her warped little mind.. i want a plotline about her finally learning spanish ;-; that show did not do her justice and it did not deserve her. i often say torchwood’s characters are too good for the show; tosh is probs the best example of that. no other character gets screwed over as badly as she does by the narrative (not even ianto!) she’s so tragic and lonely i just wanna give her the biggest hug ever. 

fav moment… every time she smiles. (or smirks. hrgh. tosh call me.) also every time she geeks out about smth. im tryna think of a specific moment but idk if i have one?? i just love her overall i smile every time she’s on screen she’s my girlie. when i rewatch i might rmr one though

least favorite moment, the absolute only thing i can think of (hell, my only complaint with her as a character other than i wish she’d get over owen cuz bad taste queen pls u deserve sm better) - it’s always bothered me how she goes over to owen’s flat in aditd and just starts babbling about her own problems. she even says something like “you think everything’s about you”, and in that ep it’s like ??? why are they all acting like he’s unjustified being miserable and angry when he's fucking dead?? like they're all so unsympathetic and mean, even tosh, and out of her it's especially weird?? tbh it just strikes me as ooc (+ kind of misogynistic highkey) writing. i mean, by all means, let tosh bitch, she deserves to blow off some steam + esp deserves to be rude to owen tbh fhsdkjfsd, but the way it’s done in that particular moment feels ooc and, like, how men write women as talking too much and never listening lmao u kno what i mean (owen’s tuned out in the actual episode but you can see her full ramble in the original script, on page 23). tosh has never troubled anyone with her issues before, why would she choose now to, and when she knows owen’s struggling? yeah, on second thought, i don’t hold that against her actually, that’s ooc to me fhdkf. thts just the writer being a wiener.

my only unpopular opinions (slash hot takes) are that 1) towen fucking SUCKS get her away from him, and 2) most people like tosh but she’s highkey underappreciated, esp in fanfic, because of fandom racism + misogyny. she’s not bashed like gwen is but she’s ignored completely which is nearly as bad, and a lot of it’s cuz she happens to be in a show with two white men in a gay relationship who are overwhelmingly prioritized 💀 i will never not be petty about the way that ship dwarfs everything else in comparison. also throwing towen into the background of janto is so gross n cheap. if ppl cared abt her they'd do smth more interesting. and it's never well-done either. ugh.

i have a few hcs that are gonna end up in my owento verse (gwen and tosh are prominent characters in it bc i love them, and their relationships w owen and ianto and each other also have value lawl). tbh a lot of em are just things i think they should introduce into their lives to be happier. i want them happy ;-;

she starts coding video games recreationally!! nothing fancy but she rlly enjoys it + also gets into the swing of making little storylines n getting to express herself that way which is good for her. owen playtests shit for her

her and gwen go on spa dates sometimes. they put it on the torchwood credit card

she gets into fish tanks and fish tank care!!! esp like aquarium plants. shrimp and moss balls, that sort of thing. maybe plecos or loaches. she loves it + it’s grounding, which is good for her bc shes otherwise always got her head in her computers yanno. she’ll sit by her tank while she codes her games and the water sounds are calming. 

she also sits by it while she studies her spanish books which she does finally do. she doesn’t get around to the piano, though; doesn’t prioritize buying a keyboard. maybe one day (this is a nobody dies au btw so she will in fact eventually get around to it ;-;)

oh she’s autistic have i said that. the fish tanks absolutely become a spin. she has a few we know of from canon - math and computers, obviously, but also history (gbg) and the uk’s rivers (from gooseberry; i think it was just the uk maybe it was europe’s rivers. or the world’s! i don’t remember). she also loves trivia like she knows a fair amount about quite a lot of things + loves accumulating random info

lowkey also. giving her a kitty. i think tosh should have a lil fuzzy kitty to keep her company 

well this is smth from my owandy verse but i think it should happen anyway. so it kind of kicks off bc gwen mixes up a blind date (it was gonna be tosh & andy and then owen & a friend of hers, but shes an adhd icon n bungles the invites <3)... tosh ends up with gwen’s friend, who’s straight, but they hit it off and she invites tosh to have drinks or maybe come to a bookclub meet or something with some friends of hers?? point is, tosh makes some casual friends. maybe meets a pretty girl there or smth 👁️ but mainly i want tosh to have girl friends like i think she grew up very lonely i want her to have some normalcy

also sometimes i like tosh x andy maybe they have a little meet cute at a torchwood crime scene or smth fshdkfd. i think they’d be cute and he’d treat her well. she'd babble abt tech stuff and he wouldnt understand a damn word but he'd listen very intently

i also like tosh x ianto for similar reasons. i think it’d be a kind of friends to lovers sitch... they should just be close in general tbh, platonically or not yanno, and in my owandy verse i like the idea of smth kicking off between them i just think theyd be so sweet

she’s a very sleepy drunk and also a lightweight. if the team goes out to drink she’ll get two glasses of smth moderately fruity and then fall asleep against someone’s shoulder it’s very cute (this is just cuz i like the idea of a sleepy tosh 🥺 my baby my baby shes so precious to meee)

[invisibleraven]

15 for Writer's Choice!

The alarm blares, and Luke groans, slapping at his phone until the horrible noise stops. Opens a bleary eye to see the date staring at him. "Happy fucking birthday," he grumbles, finally getting up, even though he'd rather stay in bed the rest of this miserable day.

Most people who didn't like their birthday didn't want to grow any older, but for Luke it was the opposite. He longed to be any age other than eighteen.

But here he was, celebrating 18 for the twenty fifth time, all because he still hadn't met his soulmate.

At first he had stayed put, wanting to be here so it would make his soulmate easier to find him. But after a few years he got restless and decided that he would travel. Who was to say that his soulmate was in La, hell in the USA even? Plus if he was gonna be stuck as a teenager,might as well get his wanderlust out now.

He travelled all over the world, learning new cultures, languages, and most of all, music. He loved music, and getting to study it with so many masters and teachers was amazing.

Eventually he came home, but he found he still felt restless.

He tried the whole college thing, but he found it wasn't for him. So now he took the odd class at the adult learning centre, gave guitar and voice lessons whenever he felt like it, and generally wondered if he was ever going to meet his soulmate. Not everyone did, and sometimes it took centuries.

Luke had kind of hoped to find them before the next millennium set in.

He didn't have many plans for the day; supper with his folks complete with his favourite chocolate cake. But that just made it all the harder as he sat there watching them get older and older while he stayed ageless. He really hoped he would find his mate before they got too old to meet them, maybe give them a grandbaby or two while they could enjoy it.

Other than that, maybe he could busk on the boardwalk a little? That was always a good time, and he knew some execs hung out there. Yeah he knew he'd probably never get signed all by himself, but he picked up a few session musician gigs that way, and a few of those studios kept his number on file enough that he could make rent.

Resolved, Luke got himself ready; cut off shirt, his favourite beanie, oversized jeans complete with wallet chain. Slipping his feet into his Vans, he grabbed his acoustic and set off.

It was a nice day, so the crowds were going out in droves. Luke set up in a corner away from the other performers, case open in hopes for a few dollars. He did a few covers to start out, it always drew people in. Then he'd launch into a few originals, which usually kept the people around for a spell.

Today he was just finished a set when he saw a very cute couple standing there, smiling at him. The girl tossed a twenty into his case and Luke beamed. "For that you can make a request."

"I like The Beatles," she supplied.

Luke nodded, couldn't go wrong with the classics. He did a lilting version of Blackbird, mournful and full of longing. If she were along he might have done Here There and Everywhere, but he figured that would be pushing his luck.

When he finished, the girl applauded, still smiling wide, showing off the gap in her smile. "You should advertise your YouTube or Insta... something so you get your voice out there," she said. "More than just your name and a pager number."

Luke rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, I never took to the internet. I know I need social media, but it's after my time and I just never learned."

"Try adjusting to electricity," the guy quipped. "The riots when Tesla and Edison were at their height? Whoa nelly."

The girl giggled. "Reggie you are a tech whiz, stop being so old fashioned."

"Aww Julie, it's fun though!"

Luke at Reggie confused. "Wait... you're still a teenager though."

Reggie cocked his head to the side for a moment then laughed. "Oh yeah, Julie and I are missing our third soulmate. So I still don't age."

"What about you?" Luke asked Julie. "How long have you been waiting?"

Julie blushed, hiding behind her curls for a moment. "Oh, I am actually eighteen, just this year."

"Wow," Luke replied. "Never met anyone who met their mate, or at least one of them so young."

"What about you?" Reggie asks.

"90's," Luke said.

"Not too bad then," Reggie said, and Luke supposed that to him, a quarter century was nothing compared to the decades he had been waiting and the untold stretch of time before him.

Luke saw the crowds were thinning, and he started packing up. It was almost time to head to his parent's place soon anyways. He turned to Reggie and Julie, and a part of him didn't want to say goodbye. There was something about them that allured him so. "It was nice to meet you," was what he said though, knowing they probably had places to be.

"Are you busy tonight?' Julie asked, impulsively.

"We want to get to know you is what Julie mans," Reggie supplies.

"Why?" Luke asks.

"You interest me," Julie says. "Plus I felt this... draw to you when we got here. I'm usually not wrong about this stuff, and it lead me to Reggie."

"How did you know-that you were soulmates?" Luke asks.

"My calendar shows my next birthday will be my 19'th," Julie said. "I checked after Reggie and I met. His is the same."

"Well today is my birthday..." Luke says, but he realizes he left his phone at home, as usual. "But I don't have my phone."

"So do you wanna celebrate and see what happens?" Reggie asks.

"I have dinner with my parents," Luke said. "But you should come. I want to get to know you too."

"As long as they won't mind," Julie cautions.

"Ma is always on my case to bring friends and cooks way too much," Luke assures her.

So they head to Reggie's truck and drive to the Patterson abode. Emily is a little surprised to see two extra people with her son but she's a gracious host and ushers them in.

Reggie and Julie get on like a house on fire with his parents, and Luke already knows that even if Julie's gut is wrong, he wants to keep them in his life for forever. Especially after he finds out that they sing and play. Reggie even confides his best friend Alex plays drums, though he's a little older, meeting his soulmate a few years back.

"Willie ran him over on his skateboard," Julie chortles. "Weirdest meet cute ever."

"Can't be as bad as me almost falling on you from the loft," Reggie says, and that is a story Luke will have to hear later.

Finally it's time for cake and Luke cringes, hating the same eighteen candles every year. Wishing every time for an extra one to appear.

But when his mom enters, he sees something different. There, burning on top of the cake, are nineteen candles.

"Ma?" he whispers.

"The extra one was there when I checked the drawer," she whispers back, squeezing his shoulder.

Luke looks over at Reggie and Julie who are beaming back at him. His soulmates.

"Make a wish," Julie urges.

"Make it a good one," Reggie jokes.

"I... I don't know what to wish for," Luke admits. "Because my wish came true today."

Everyone gets teary at that, and Luke simply wishes for a long life where he gets to grow old with Julie and Reggie.

And this year? He thinks his wish might just come true.

[nagy-bari]

standards

aph hungary and romania have a little chat about a future project regarding an archeological find.

no human names used -if i did it right no country names used either.

cussing and swearing and the most awkward tension ever.

cause i still fall back to write semi-personal rants using these two horrid little portraits, and cause i should really focus more on my uni but it was kinda inspired by uni.

The small kitchen with the two chairs filled with old times, smoke and dust reminiscence of a battle or a wine cellar. The two figures in it looked more akin to a painting waiting for restauration or half way saved from the teeth of time dulling their colors. One sitting at the table, the other next to the counter, glass in hand looking out the window.

The lazy afternoon basked them in warm, familiar almost kind hues, soothing out the acid in their tone.

‘ so he’s back. And you invited him back.’

‘not exactly. He found out I found where he stored his precious little favourite toy for 42 days and now he wants a guest room for him there.’

‘that’s… and you’re gonna set up that guest room?’

‘yep.’ The woman took a gulp of her glass. ‘what would you do?’

‘not tell him in the first place?’

‘as if that was ever an option.’

‘yeah it is. You found something you don’t say shit, end of problem.’

‘even Mr. ‘Murika  found out before I could finish the search, there was no chance in hell he wouldn’t find out about it.’

‘so you’re just gonna set up a guest room for him to march back whenever he feels like it.’

‘yep.’ Another gulp. ’politics don’t really care about historical sentiment.’

‘ya crazy? That’s all it cares about, how else do you think people gonna vote?’

‘to be honest I’m still hoping people will be so fed up at one point they just don’t go to vote. Like any of them.’

‘dream on.’

‘but you know the same shit as me, forgiveness is our cultural corner stone, and if I’m half a good a Christian as my government makes me out to be, I should really be happy to be in the position to set up that guest room – as a sign of good faith and forgiveness and cultural friendship.’

The other snorted an ugly laugh.

‘and you believe that bullshit?’

‘as much as you do.’

The two figures raised their glasses at each other and took a swig. The one standing reached for the bottle to pour another round. The wine looked amber gold in this light, the sour taste mixed with the smoke from outside still reminder of old times that were never quite there.

‘so what now?’

‘hm?’

‘you’re done with your little speech, I can go I assume?’ She smiles, a crooked smile.

‘thought you would love to ridicule the shit out of this clusterfuck.’

‘it really is just sad if anything.’

‘I’m trying to re-learn a bit of comedic sense here.’

‘by rolling over for an abusive ex?’

‘might as well get used to being the punchline.’

She’s laughing. He’s just looking somewhere with hooded eyes.

‘and why do you think I give a crap?’

‘I know you don’t. it’s the best practice.’

Silence. She shrugs and looks out the window enjoying the last rays hitting the building and he studies her from behind his glass. Then he takes a gulp, sits down his glass on the counter and rolls his shoulders.

‘you know this is exactly what fucks you up more right?’

She hums and turns with a smile, question in her movements.

‘and you know that this fucks me up as well.’

‘and?’

‘and I was never a good enough enemy to be such a supportive boxing bag. I don’t wanna deal with your bullshit of choices.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘you told me about it.’

‘yeah so you get the whole story and can laugh more.’

There’s real mirth in her eyes when she smiles, the ones he last only saw under the soviets. The absolute nonchalant acceptance of a grotesque reality. It makes him all the more angry.

‘what sort of heartless monster do you take me for?’

‘a lucky enough bastard to still have a better image in grand total globally.’

‘so you do want me to suffer.’

‘i thought you don’t care enough about me to have any kind of effect on you.’

‘you told me this whole thing.’

‘you can always leave.’

‘don’t pull that shit on me.’

She’s all smiles and he hates how serious he sounds. As if he cares. As if they are actually friends binding over past trauma.

‘why aren’t you telling this to your precious little phoenix friend? He would actually care.’

She looks at her glass.

‘he was more on the trading side of the Ottomans. I was more on the get fucked part.’

‘so what, this whole thing here is just a get fucked pity party?’

She looks out the window again.

‘like you’re actually want to get a fuck out of this or some shit?’

The neighborhood is still painted in soft glow of the afternoon but their building is already in the shadows.

‘no, I’m not gonna let you use me in some twisted self-depricating spiral, no. Jesus woman get a grip.’

‘this is me getting a grip.’

‘no, this is some toxic shit you’re too gone to notice and too sado-mazo to not enjoy.’

‘as if you don’t get a kick out of it.’

‘again, what kind of monster do you take me for.’

‘the same.’

‘the same what?’

She glances at him and smirks and he hates how it gets him to hyperfocus again on her lips and eyes and how actually this is ridiculously working for him too.

‘as me?’

And it’s gone. The light behind her is faded, the colors are an ugly gray her face is tired and wrinkled, her hands are calloused and her nails have seen better days. Her lips are chapped, her eyes are sunk in and her hair is just a bunch of brown strings knotted in the mother of all nests.

And it’s still working. Cause those tired eyes have some remnants from a by-gone time where they hid together in the market, a little time for themselves between errands. She looked way better then. Being forced into the palace and the garden did wonders for her look. The subtle smell of flowers and that wild fire in her eyes worked wonders all around. But her harsh humor stayed. And he got them in trouble and she got them in trouble and it was way back and they were maybe just kids, maybe never adults and maybe it doesn’t count this time as it didn’t count then cause who keeps records anyway. They can enjoy the stolen moments and still hate each other.

It's always been like this. They got each other in hell – if all fails, this remains.

‘so what, you want me to use that guestroom too? Are you inviting me over to be your next ex-tocix shitty partner?’

‘would you? Or am I beneath your standards?’

He straightens up, crossing his arms anger boiling all memories into nightmares.

‘you’re not gonna drag me into your fucked up pity party.’

‘okay.’

She smiles and turns back to her glass, turns back to the window, giving him a way out, giving him time to collect all he needs from the kitchen and leave. He knows. This is his chance. To stick to what he’s saying and remain clean from her mess. Saving himself weeks of headache and self-doubt, a migrane a-

He sits down across of her, hands laced over eyes piercing this mess of a woman across him.

‘I still hate you, and I love to see you suffer but you need to get some help. Some serious help.’

‘if you look at it this way it can be a little art-therapy. Cultural things are art in every form, if I can make that room pretty enough it might work out.’

She’s talking to herself and he accepts for now, it’s better than to have her eyes on him daring him to leave her or jump her. Her profile is still carrying something from her golden days centuries if a millennia ago. It’s not fair how good she looks exhausted. How she has something from those classical romantic paintings’ sadness, that melancholy etched into her lines, her form. She spares him the dilemma of saying anything as she rambles on.

‘maybe this way I can finally get some kind of closure as well. Naïve I know. But I hate how good it feels to be a woman and know that I can thank him for learning that. I hate how much stuff I adore in beauty he loves too. I hate how he still think we’re good friends enough to just ask me to set up a guest room. I hate how I have to forgive and he doesn’t even think there are things he should maybe ask for forgiveness. I hate how if I act upon my part of the story I’m a moody bitch who cannot ever give another chance to anyone and the tackles idiot who can’t appreciate culture. I hate-‘

He reminds himself to breath as her voice trails off, slight tremors, a telltale sign of tears to come but she’s just smiles sharper at the window, her eyes creaking with spiteful cheeriness as she marches on.

‘ cause I know it’s pointless. Cause even if I make a nice enough guestroom and all the media covers it as some archeological historical great point cause ‘oh my Gosh that sultan was buried HERE, in the middle of fucking nowhere for HOW many DAYS, why yes of course you have to make a whole ass museum to talk about that culture’ and not about the ACTUAL fuckin CULTURE that it destroyed and damaged on the way, the actual living fuckin planecrash of a clown culture still kickin and screemin in my own fuckin language hogy a jó büdős kibebaszott élet kurná szét az egészet, mert tényleg felesleges. Az egész. Annyira. Felesleges. De jól mutat.’

Her voice gets quiet at the end. She retorted back to her own language and he hates how he gets the swears but not the end. She chuckles with centuries of resentment and it sounds nice when it’s not aimed at him but he squashes out that thought. He waits to see if she’s done. If he can leave. If he still has a way out of this.

‘don’t you love to watch a trainwreck fumble around parading as some super railjet?’

He lost. She’s looking at him through bitter smile, and he wants to snarl back, to behave cool and collected to correct her, to drag her to shore cause this is fucked up, cause she cannot be right all the fuckin time, cause he got better, he stopped this nonsense why does she have to drag him down again-

‘you need help.’

‘yeah. But no one’s gonna go out of their way to do it.’

She laughs

‘and honestly I get it. Everyone has their plate full. Wars and genocide all around and here I am crying about a fuckin museum for a 5 hundred dead skeleton who’s not even here.’

‘you need help from professionals not fuckups like me.’

‘now, don’t say that. You’re dealing with this waaay better.’

‘you trying to be positive is the most horrifying thing I’ve seen. Don’t do it.’

‘afraid your perfect little hate-able image will get morphed?’

She’s riling him up cause she’s desperate for a simulation, anything to voice out the self hate he knows all too well.

‘if anything it made it permanent.’

‘don’t you find it funny how we give up everything for the empires.’

The tonal whiplash hurts more with her eyes back to the window. He lost his chance to leave. He still could just get up and walk out but it’s too late, she wormed herself into his thoughts and he hates how much he wants to act. How he has this urge to do anything to shake her out of this. How he knows the next steps in this little dance.

‘the once ruling wonders built on our blood and cries upkept by never-dying-myths of grandure and culture we made reality. And yet. And yet…’

She burries her fingers into her hair, hiding behind her arms, folding in on herself.

‘it’s so fucked up to search any solace in a culture you were taught to hate on principle, something that did and didn’t do any lasting damage and change on you, something you find wonderful and horrifying, alien and oh so familiar. It’s so fuckin wicked to celebrate the man and the culture that destroyed your own. Yet…’

She looks at him again, her eyes burning in a haste, a carnal hurry and he’s afraid it’ll scorch him beyond repair.

‘yet, if you cannot appreciate the true value of all of this you’re the stupidest of all to live.’

Her voice is soft again, her eyes holding him in place for a moment before his lips betray him.

‘just poison him.’

She blinks in surprise.

‘when he comes over to the guestroom and you get down again just poison him.’

‘in this economy?’ she barks a laugh.

‘if you hate this so much do something. Refuse. Twist it. You’re the woman, you know how to be oh so better than us, just kill him in his sleep.’

‘but still get in his bed. Is what you say.’

He stops, she looks at him with sharp unbearable smile.

‘you do agree that I should just endure this whole and be what I am. A whore.’

He ruffles his hair in frustration. She keeps the paper thin smile pointed at his neck like a poison blade.

‘cause that’s how it looks no matter what I do. It’s pointless. No matter how much personal growth and therapy I sneak into that room to help me, it’ll always be just a glorified holding cell for a bed to fuck me in.’

‘you talking like this is not helping you in any way. And you know it. I know you know it.’

‘What? It’s the 21th fuckin century, strong independent woman can’t talk about how she’s a sex worker in the same room as lawyers about paid healthcare and social benefits?’

She was riling him up again.

‘How has this anything to do with the museum and all?’

‘Don’t tell me you think now that whore is a diminutive thing to call a woman? You loved to call me a bitch. Still do.’

‘You calling yourself that too?’

This finally shuts her up a bit. But hey eyes are liquid acid and he hates how it thrills him.

‘I thought you don’t care.’

‘does it look like I don’t care? Does this whole conversation sound to you like I don’t give a fuck?’

‘well, do you give a fuck?’

He stops himself from just grabbing a shaking her. To just shout at her to finally tell him what to do, how to help right now, not on the long run, not throughout the horrid journey of healing but right now, in this cursed moment where she wants to hit rock bottom, what on earth does she want him to do in this damned scene.

‘will you make that guestroom?’

‘not my decision. Government wants it, looks good for the media, for diplomacy, for culture.’

He’s off the hook for now, her eyes averted back to her glass.

‘so just make it about you. Tell your side of the story.’

She looks up with genuine laughter hiding in her crushed eyes. She gave up long ago.

‘do what you’re doing to me with style. Make it art. Sell it. Make it more alluring than that dead man.’

‘how could one conquered part of an empire ever be more interesting than the man who created it.’

‘you killed him didn’t you? Maybe that’s the spice. The place that cost the empire its greatest.’

‘and what did I get out of that kill? Wasn’t even me, it was old age and sorrow and my suffering only started then. It was only the beginning.’

‘you are still here. With your own language, own land, own history, make it about survival, make it about how empires fall yet some things remain.’

‘the hate. That remains. The disdain, the miscommunication, the different narratives. The complexity of it all never trully explained, that’s what remains.’

‘you are clever enough to leave all the breadcrumbs for others to find.’

She looks at him amusement mixed with the acid that drips from all deliberate wrong choice in life.

‘isn’t it naïve to think people will have the attention to even look for the crumbs?’

‘they will.’ He doubles down, hoping his voice comes across as determined and unvavering and not hungry. He licks his lips. Tossing a coin and jumping in without the result. ’after all, who doesn’t love a good mystery.’

Her eyes turn two shades darker, the same hunger echoing in them. Neither of them move. Old memories flash in, with the descending shadows, the outside slowly turning from gray to black with fizzling oranges and yellows splattered in it. Neither of them move to flick on the light.

It might be the last stop before the fall. The last moment to steer back the conversation, to even continue the conversation in any way. The next would be only actions. So the kitchen remains in dark, cause movement is an action.

It goes like this.

The only light in the small kitchen comes from under the door and through the window. Two set of eyes stare at each other centuries old dares echoing in them.

To see who moves first. Or who looks away. Who breaks the rules to create the exception.

The window paints her in muted gold and murky greys, her dark circles all the more prominent. She parts her lips a bit, maybe trying to say something, maybe to just get some air, cause it’s a stalemate, and the kitchen is filled with dust like a wine cellar long abandoned. She decided long ago where this was going. Yet-

His eyes are like fire, twinkling embers turning to charred ash, if she wasn’t already burning from the rot inside, he would scorch her. She tries to bat away his voice from the beginning, the raw worry in it spoils her determination. She wanted to feel like shit, he would make her feel like shit, the sky was blue the grass is green, these things should never differ…

A part of her appreciates the irony of the situation. She wants to believe so hard in how things are complex and if given enough time people can understand, better yet accept those complexities, and here she is, clinging with all her claws into such childish rules set up by oh so many variables.

She doesn’t want to hear the worry in his voice, doesn’t dare to think about the what ifs, the meaning of her own words on forgiveness and Christian compassion. She wants to feel like shit. How she thinks she should.

All these slow stops and ways out freeze her. The shadows helped so far yet now she hesitates. If she goes for it, just simply does what she wants she’s no better than the problem she talked about.

But she was always a problem. So now what?

He closes his eyes with a sigh, taking a deep breath. One of his hands come up to smooth over his face blinking back at her again. Shoulders slumped, exhausted.

The stalemate is broken. The tension – no. the moment is gone.

She blinks as well, still burning from the rot festering inside but biting back on the stench. He warned her multiple times, he wouldn’t do it. She’s almost proud for him. If she was anymore collected she would say it to him. Now all she does is reminding herself to blink, to quiet the fires, to get a grip.

He moves to stand up, taking her glass to move it to the sink.

‘you up for some hot chocolate?’

She shrugs, looking out the window, trying to focus on anything besides the rapidly approaching disappointment. Cause she’s gonna vomit all that bitter acid on to him. She’s gonna be that bitch who never appreciates a good deed. She just wanna feel like shit in a different way.

Hah. Ain’t she needy to boot.

He’s trying to busy himself with the process of heating up milk and dissolve the cocoa in it.

‘sweet or salty?’

‘bland.’

‘you mean bitter.’

She doesn’t trust herself with an answer. She’s looking out the window, he’s turned towards the counter. After some clinking with a spoon his voice is hesitant.

‘you need help. Not from me, not from the eu, not from the higher ups. Not politically or culturally. You need – fuck, it were so much easier if we were just humans – but you need simple humanitarian help. Like with compassion and shit. And I’m the last person you want this from but right now a simple hug and a real cry-out would help you more than you getting me to fuck you raw.’

He doesn’t turn towards her as he puts the two cups into the micro to bake the chocolate a little bit. Her voice is as dusty as the air.

‘Humanitarian help is what needed in Ukrain and Gaza and all those other places no news station can reach.’

‘yeah but you also gotta live. You made it this far. Would be a pretty miserable joke to give up now. It’s just a museum. You had worse.’

‘I have worse.’

She sighs, finally letting a tiny bit of tension out of her shoulders, hand trying to rake through her locks. She lays down on her folded hands over the table, still looking out.

So far the nicest rejection she got from him. Another one for the exceptions.

‘look what I try to mumble is that you deserve help. Isn’t that also in that ridiculous bible of ours?’

She closes her eyes muttering some half assed retort. The darkness is familiar behind her eyes, the quiet beeping of the micro is the next thing she focuses on cause if she let her emotions check in she will cry. And that would be just annoying at this point.

He places the mug down the table, slightly nudging her crossed arms as he sits down across, taking a sip. She doesn’t move. He feels like he ran a marathon and managed to knock over a blind kids sandcastle at the last step. He doesn’t know if he’s okay, if he can walk out now and he fears he’ll ramble something stupid so he tries to concentrate on the sweet warm drink in his mug. Not sure if it helps with anything. He tries not look at her crumpled form on the table basked in the lights from outside. Too much, too heavy, too… simple.

The air is still dusty and smells like old times, the silence almost domestic and her mug slowly stops steaming.

His voice is gentle if a bit croacked.

‘it’s gonna go cold.’

She finally moves to cup it in her hands, her head like a sad soggy sack of potatoes hung low as she gazes into the mug, not trusting herself to look at him. He clears his throat.

‘should I call a friend over?’

Her head moves a tiny bit, before a sullen shake tells him no. He takes another sip, trying to let the warmth of the drink solve this gordian knot.

She finally takes her first sip of the drink. Shoulders dropping, a sigh mumbled into the mug and he pretends to not see the tears and the snot on her nose.

‘thanks.’

‘yeah… just… just get help.’

‘you’re kind. Too kind.’

He ignores the acid around the words, how he knows it could have also played out and takes a sip again.

‘when the guestroom is ready you’re also welcome. To test if my little art-therapy worked.’

He cannot fight off the smirk.

‘you want to piss him off?’

She chuckles, her voice hoarse and crooked.

‘within survival reasons.’

He dares to look at her again and she has her eyes closed, a wobbly smile on her lips.

‘you’re gonna be okay.’ He tells her, surprised at how warm his voice is but chalks it up for the exceptions. ‘mixing high culture and history with passive aggressive narrative sounds like a fun task.’

‘yeah.’ She doesn’t open her eyes, just clutches her mug closer, sniffing as quietly as she can.

He imagines kissing her forehead for a moment but doesn’t move. They are too far apart, and anything like that would drag him dangerously close to just give into her despite his resolve. Instead when he’s done with his mug he searches for a napkin. Washing his own mug, putting the napkin next to her he stands, one hand on the doorhandle. He’s hesitant.

She blows her nose and it’s eerily soundless but she sighs again, a bit more straightened up and glances at him. His hand find the back of his neck, unsure what to say.

She cracks one of the saddest smiles he seen, nodding with her head.

‘run along, you outdid yourself tonight.’

‘you sure you don’t want a friend around?’

‘what, just cause you rejected to have sex with me and made me a pity choco we are friends now? How cheep do you think I am?’ the snark in her voice is shacky but back, her head held a little higher. ‘I’m quite picky with my friends, unlike my hookups.’

She’s finally smirking at him and there’s an itch to just march back and kiss her senseless cause she wanted this so bad, he’ll show how he’s above a cheep hookup but stops and just laughs a little snort.

‘well unlike you, I have standards for my friends and hook ups. But don’t worry, there’s always time to raise them some more.’

‘like only hookin up in a place dedicated to memorate a long gone empire you were partially slave of?’

‘sounds like a date.’

He winks and opens the door, seeing her wave an uncertain hand after him.

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

Bottom!Luke Masterlist

Crave (ao3) - paperstorm michael/luke E, 4k

Summary: Michael has one complaint about being Luke’s boyfriend. Just one.

Endlessly (ao3) - pxnkspace luke/calum M, 3k

Summary: Calum and Luke have been together for almost five years now and Calum just wants to show Luke that he is the right guy for him.

First Time for Everything (ao3) - orphan_account luke/ashton N/R, 3k

Summary: The first time they decided to go all the way, Luke had felt his skin go red as Ashton had quickly pushed him inside of his own bedroom. They had just gotten back from their seventh date together, at a park near Luke’s house.

for you are not beside but within me (ao3) - elysianhood luke/calum E, 11k

Summary: Calum pulled Luke up with his blonde locks by his right hand and wrapped his left tightly around his throat, restricting his airway, and leaned in close to the teary blue eyes, hissing threateningly, ‘You never – ever – speak to me like that ever again, you filthy slut. Ever. You don’t fucking tell me what to do. You’re just a fucktoy, remember? A dirty, fucking whore. That’s all you’ll ever be.’

or; Luke was a bad boy and Calum isn't happy.

Found Out (ao3) - Latefan_5sos1d_wherewasi multi pairings E, 4k

Summary: Luke was very horny but all he had in the hotel was lube while his roommate was with the rest of the band as they ventured in the city. So while Luke wants something other than his fingers up his ass he searches the room and finds something.

Hearts Pounding (ao3) - notonguexwithbutt michael/luke M, 7k

Summary: "Michael realizes he’s blatantly staring at his friend’s mouth so he finally tears his gaze away and returns it to Luke’s eyes. When they meet, Luke is staring right back at him and something in Michael’s stomach tightens and flips. He clenches his jaw, smart enough to know that that’s not a normal feeling to get for your best friend. That’s the feeling he got in high school when a girl he liked actually felt the same and kissed him after school one day.

It’s not a feeling he should have about his best friend."

Luke feels sad in the middle of the night so he goes to Michael for comfort and decides to finally take a chance.

Height (ao3) - iCheeseYou (EHkook) luke/ashton M, 12k

Summary: “I may be shorter than you, but I most certainly do not bottom.”

i am a pale imitation of a boy in the sky with a cap in his hand and a knot in his tie (ao3) - antisocialhood michael/luke N/R, 8k

Summary: It's just, Michael likes Luke and Luke likes how good Michael is at sucking him off.

It's a hell of a feeling though (ao3) - thenewbrokenscene michael/luke M, 58k

Summary: [AU, actor/model Luke and musician Michael]

After a recent scandal and the subsequent publicity nightmare, Luke Hemmings doesn't need any more trouble. He's just trying to enjoy his best friend's birthday party. But who the fuck invited Michael Clifford?

I've Seen My Neighbor Naked (ao3) - orphan_account luke/calum, michael/luke, luke/ashton E, 18k

Summary: Luke is a porn star. Michael runs across two videos of him with Ashton and Calum two really famous porn stars. When said boy moves into the house next door will feels come out?

Looking In Your Eyes And They're Burning Fire (ao3) - fourdrunksluts luke/calum E, 8k

Summary: Luke doesn't think he's very good at sex, so Calum helps him practice, and maybe learns a few things along the way.

Promise (ao3) - paperstorm michael/luke E, 5k

Summary: The whole world has this really bad habit of wanting to hit on Luke at every available opportunity and Luke has an equally bad habit of not being aware it’s even happening and flirting back accidentally because that’s just his permanent setting.

something of you (ao3) - theonlyreason michael/luke M, 5k

Summary: Out of all the three, Luke had always considered Michael the closest to him. He never felt uncomfortable about the way Michael flicks his ear randomly, pushes him a bit too hard in interviews, headlocks him on their way to the stage where most of the time, he could swear he felt a muscle tear, stuff like that. It was a playful manner. Luke had always seen that in Michael, and for some ironic reason, he felt safe with it. But things start to get weird after Luke had the most erotic dream involving Michael, and he enjoyed it himself.

tell me what your worst fantasies are (i bet they look a lot like mine) (ao3) - orphan_account ot4 N/R, 8k

Summary: :+: or where Luke has twisted fantasies and the boys have twisted minds:+:

That's Money, Honey (ao3) - senioritastyles luke/calum, ashton ofc E, 22k

Summary: "Excuse me?" Calum calls, gesturing for the bartender and waiting for him to come over before continuing. "Who is that, over there? The boy on stage."

Michael doesn't even have to look, already smiling and nodding as he tops off Calum's already half-gone whiskey. "That's Luke." Michael explains and Calum nods, sipping at his whiskey again as he watches Luke dance, body swaying fluidly in front of several men dressed pretty similarly to how Calum is. "He tends to attract the uh, black card crowd." Michael says, handing Calum back his own black card.

Or: Calum makes Luke his sugar baby.

To The End (ao3) - antisocialhood michael/luke N/R, 2k

Summary: It was always 'je' this or 'vous' that and Michael was lost; he couldn't hold a conversation with the French exchange student if his life depended on it and he honestly wanted to scream because he'd taken like six years of the damn language and Luke was really fucking hot, and Michael deserved to be able to communicate the fact that he wanted to fuck the boy into next month. Really, was it that much to ask for? He didn't think so.

Or, the one where Michael and Luke fuck on the couch, and Luke speaks french the whole time.

Two, Two, Four (ao3) - orphan_account ot4 N/R, 9k

Summary: "So, let me get this straight. You...want to have a foursome...tonight?" Luke asked, raising an eyebrow at Calum.

or the one where Calum and Luke seduce their boys into a foursome.

wet dreams are the best (ao3) - Emma_Davis680 michael/luke N/R, 1k

Summary: Michael hears Luke having a wet dream and decides to help him out a bit. Resulting in Michael taking Luke's virginity.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Grief

There was an article a few days ago about video games and grief - mostly about how, while gaming’s always been a good way of taking your mind off grief, recently games have actually been actually dealing with the subject as a main part of the plot. Which, because sometimes my brain works like someone bouncing subject to subject via Wikipedia links, brought me to something a good friend of mine said awhile ago. Because given the games I’ve been playing of late, and how much I’ve been enjoying them, a few things are becoming clear.

See, back in December, when we had that cold snap and there was snow and ice on the roads and no one was salting anything? I posted on my Facebook that I was kind of sad about the situation. I was born in Montreal. I learned to walk on ice-slick pavement ... well, at the same time as I was learning to walk at all. That instinct never left me, either. Now it’s just that ... well, unless I want to put some version of mountaineer’s spikes on the foot of my cane, the damn thing would be a liability. I’m not even sure that would work, and certainly wouldn’t be good in places where the ice was thin. Anyway, fibromyalgia means I can’t walk on ice the way I used to, and I definitely couldn’t risk the fall. So I was a little sad about that.

My friend talked about “the folly of comparing ourselves now to ourselves then” and "comparison is the thief of joy” and something about how we’re different and we shouldn’t look at that poorly. And it took awhile to really understand why I was so upset at him about it. I know he meant well, so I didn’t say anything, but after awhile, I figured out the words I needed for this (though far too late to actually call him on it). The words were these:

“Let me fucking grieve, godsdamnit!”

Because I am. I am grieving for what I could do before everything was made of pain. It’s a process. It’s a long, miserable process, but it’s an important one. It’s like losing a friend or a family member - life goes on, yes, but you’re probably going to end up tripping over something that reminds you of the loss at random intervals for the rest of your life. So, yeah, I’m sad when I realise that I can’t walk on frozen streets anymore - not because “I should be able to do this because I have places to be and I’m letting someone down”, but because “That skill is one of the last things that I in and of myself keep from the place where I was born; that’s a piece of of myself that sings of home, and it’s gone and it’s never coming back”.

There are a lot of things that are gone and they’re never coming back. A careless grocery shop where I don’t have to read the labels of every fucking thing that goes into my cart. Day trips to fun parts of the city. Late night walks in the summer to cool down. Running for buses. Conventions (though I will take the risk if the Critical Role crew ever reschedule the MCM Comic Con appearance they had to miss because it was during the early-ish days of Covid). The cinema. Travel to any significant degree. A general sense that I will at least be able to get up and function most mornings. Umbrellas (because holding up an umbrella for any length of time hurts like hell). Boogieing to music on my headphones (unless it’s a very good day). There’s always something I’m finding I can’t do because it hurts too badly to do it, and thus I grieve in small stages over this one huge loss.

So I think games like I Am Dead and Lost Words: Beyond the Page and Spiritfarer helped me because they reminded me that it’s okay to be grieving. There are stages of grief for a reason; they don’t make the grief go away, exactly, but they teach us how to cope with it. Of course, I don’t know that I’ll ever get to the ‘acceptance’ stage, or maybe I’m already there, I don’t know. Just because you’ve accepted the loss doesn’t mean you’re not going to still feel sad or angry or disappointed or all of the above when another facet of that loss comes knocking.

...I guess the only difference is that if it’s a person you’re grieving for, you can say things like, “They would have loved this”, or imagine them watching you from Wherever Comes Next and cheering you on, or something else that lets you still feel close to the person who’s gone. That’s harder to do with ... you know, physical health. Maybe that’s why I started gardening, and being more inventive in cooking, soon after my diagnosis - just to feel closer to “active and abled and Doing Things”, I don’t know. I reap the benefits either way.

Point being ... yeah, most of the time I’m all about, “Yeah, I’m used to it”. But sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I’m angry or sad or asking what I did to deserve this. And that’s probably always going to be the case. But it’s just ... a lot bigger than “comparison is the thief of joy”. Because comparison is not the thief of joy. Even with the fibromyalgia, I look at who I am now compared to who I was ten years ago and I am just ... so much better. But ... I can’t even want “just one day without pain” because I know - I absolutely know - that if I had total relief from pain for one day, that pain would feel worse when it came back. But sometimes I wish for it anyway. I wish it was easier. I wish it hadn’t happened. I have to carry on having a life, obviously, and I do so as well as I can with my current limitations. Hell, in some ways I’m doing better than I was before the diagnosis.

Just ... please never ask me not to be sad about it. I am allowed to be sad about it. And angry. And frustrated. I am grieving, and as long as I’m doing it in a healthy way (which I think I am; I can certainly function, at least), I fucking deserve to grieve. And if some of the help I’m getting to keep the grieving process healthy involves video games? ...Hey, I love video games, so silver lining.

[showfallsquigandiris]

/Transcript app activated/

/Turning on microphone…/

/Starting transcript/

…

Squig: Oooh! This seems like the kind of show Jasprix would be working on…

Iris: Oh yeah, you said the dude was like, big on horror.

S: I looked into it and he was quite literally raised on a horror show.

I: Hah! Sounds familiar!

[Scoff]

S: It wasn’t a horror show, it just was a horrible time. Big difference.

S: Anyways, he should be around here somewhere… he’s short but he also literally has horns and wings so, shouldn’t be that hard to spot…

Jasprix: Wings are gone now actually. Did a little experiment with Security a couple days ago. Worked great for me.

S: Oh there you are! And I see that now, I imagine your wardrobe options have vastly improved.

I: [Quietly] Oh you weren’t kidding about the short part.

J: The horns still cause an issue with wearing things, but they are much easier then the wings. I like the heart bun thing you have going on, looks good with the outfit. And the rude spider android person.

[Sharp gasp]

S: Hah yes, my options with the straps on this mask are either up-do or nothing, so I decided to have a bit of fun with it. I think it adds to the charm.

I: Wha- S-Squig, aren’t you going to defend me!

S: You really need to learn how to have inside thoughts sometimes Iris. Jasprix don’t mind her, also Jasprix, this is Iris, she’s the Head Security back at my facility.

[Tail thumping against a wall as Jasprix laughs]

J: I’m used to certain comments occasionally, though I’ve never had them said right in front of my face. I’ve also never seen a security that wasn’t just… those things over there. Pleasure to meet you Iris, you have a lovely name.

I: [Muttering] I tried to be quiet about it…

J: I have slightly better hearing then most humans.

S: Also Iris your default volume is already really loud, I don’t think i’ve ever heard you speak even close to a whisper before.

I: Alright, message received. Ahem. Nice to meet you too Jasprix, and yes, the Security around here are all quite similar, so I supposed that makes sense.

J: I like them though, they're great as threats, looking like horrifying monsters. Are you a spider android because you’re head security, or is that a normal sort of look for where you work?

I: Hah nah, I used to look boring as hell, but when you work with those 12-foot fucks every day you end up losing a lot. Decided to lean into it after a while, it’s a lot more fun don’t you think?

[Series of mechanical whirrs]

J: Yeah, that’s some cool shit you got going on there. Could jumpscare somebody if you wanted, or be the most unassuming enemy in a movie. No one would suspect it until it’s too late. Have you ever considered trying that out?

I: Hah! Yeah all the time, love doing it to pretty much every new hire we get, though obviously sometimes they can’t really react.

[Chuckling]

S: Alright, enough chit-chat, Jasprix, how’s it going with the bird hunting?

J: It’s going… I hunted him. It’s, this is going to sound mental alright, but you remember that I mentioned the gay chicken thing right?

S: Oh of course I do! Has he given up yet?

J: He hasn’t, he’s very stubborn about it, I guess. Or maybe he actually enjoyed that I did what I said and took him on a date. I’m… not actually sure what he thinks about this game anymore, but he hasn’t backed down, so neither can I

I: Ah, well if you need any tips, Boss Lady here knows a lot about not backing down from gay chicken.

S: I suppose that’s true. So, a date, that’s how you’re using your newfound freedom?

J: I mean, I’m using it for other things as well, like checking out Lostfield and seeing where stuff is in case it seems like something I could bring back here, but the date was one thing I did with it, yes.

S: Of course, of course, I was just teasing. No worries.

I: Where’d the two of you go? Me and Boss Lady ate at that “Denny’s” place last night.

J: I was considering bringing him there when I checked it out, but I can’t eat most things there. Breakfast foods don’t seem to involve a lot of meat. I found this place called Longhorn Steakhouse instead, and it smelled absolutely delightful. The food that it came from also tasted perfect.

S: Maybe we’ll have to stop by there the next time we’re in Lostfield.

I: Wait did you have access to a company card? Or did the two of you do a good ole dine and dash?

J: There are company cards?

S: Yeah, I mean unlike pretty much every other business ever, we don’t really have anyone at the top hoarding money, it just all goes back into production. We have like, mildly excessive amounts of extra. I’ll see what I can do for you.

J: That’d be very kind, especially with what you’ve already done to get me a proper place to swim and let me take visits to town. It would be nice to have money though, because we did have to run very quickly after leaving the restaurant. A difficult thing to do, when handcuffed together and the other person is a bit faster than you.

[Silence, 26 seconds]

[Loud laughter mixed with static]

S: Iris, volume. I suppose [Giggling] that was your solution to making sure your little bird couldn’t fly away?

J: [Grumbled huff] That was loud, but yes. I knew he’d run off if I took him outside, so I needed to keep him near and close with something. My other option was a dog collar and leash, but I felt like that would bring unwanted attention.

[Wheezing mixed with static]

S: In a town like Lostfield at least that certainly would. But you’d be surprised by what people ignore in big cities.

J: I think I’d have an incredibly uncooperative bird on a leash, honestly, and he’d make them pay attention. He’s very… distinct. Hard to miss, easy to notice, all that uh… The cuffs worked the best, is basically it.

S: Oh, I’m sure you’d be able to tame him eventually. But I suppose on a slightly more serious note, I am pleased to hear that you’re keeping him busy enough he’s not trying to stage any more explosions or something else that would cause lots of problems.

J: Yeah, I don't think he’s got any more plans for that. Or if something does go wrong next, it’ll probably not be because of him this time. I think there might be an issue involving the archives, but I don’t know enough about that to get too involved beyond being aware that it's company blog is having a problem.

S: Ah yes, I saw that. But when it comes to Archivists there are a lot more protocols in place to get them back in line, so I wouldn’t be too worried.

J: It is only one of the multiple having the problem I guess, after all. Anyway, do you want a tour around the set, maybe know what this show is about? Maybe itll help make this scene work and get the actor to stop fucking up her murders.

S: I think we have some more spare time before we have to head on back, what do you think Iris?

I: I’ve already checked out everything else I wanted to see in the Mall, why not.

J: Just be careful about the blood everywhere, I’m sure it must be an absolute nightmare having to clean between all that plating.

I: Ugh, you do not know the half of it.

…

/Transcript app deactivated/

/Uploading transcript…/

/Upload successful!/

[linklethehistorian]

🤗

🤗 What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?

Oh gosh, a lot of things, really; in fact, there are so many things I could say that I’ll probably miss a few along the way as I’m writing this, and have to add to it in reblogs in the future.

For now, though, let’s see…

(Full answer under the cut for length)

1. Ignore the naysayers.

I know, I know — this advice probably sounds cliché and basic as fuck, but hear me out.

One of the most important things I ever started to learn as a writer — and still continue to do so in new and crucial ways, as time marches on and I gain more experience — was the value of not giving a shit about the naysayers.

When I was younger, I used to let the criticism of everyone — both constructive and destructive — live rent free in my head all day, every day, and obsess over making sure that my works were always as picture-perfect, innocent, and problem-free as anyone else told me they should be.

It was the biggest mistake I ever made, it made my life and my hobby a living hell, and looking back, it is the one thing I genuinely and thoroughly regret the most about any of my older works.

To explain this in better detail, here’s a little story-time for you:

When I was little, I would always have my Aunt telling me, “You shouldn’t write stories that are so dark, and [series I was writing for] isn’t meant to be so dark and ugly.” or, “It’s not healthy; there’s something wrong with you if you like writing things like this. You must enjoy things being hurt because then you get to feel good about helping and protecting them. It’s sick; you’re like those disgusting mothers who poison their kids so they can get pity and attention from it.” So, I would hesitate to write any major level of angst in my stories from that point forward.

Then, when I wrote a somewhat less “dark” story, she would tell me, for example, “No. You can’t have the Mom be in the wrong for what she did in this story. She was just looking out for her kid, and right to stop him from making friends. The kid is in the wrong and he needs to pay the consequences of his actions. Rewrite it.” So, I started re-writing it, but then quickly lost my passion and eventually abandoned it completely.

After that, I would eventually try to write a story for a different fandom — a book I loved dearly — and she told me, “Oh god, not that. That story is so stupid; you’re too old to like that, anyway.” Depressed and feeling stupid for ever even wanting to write it, I then abandoned that idea, too, before I’d even gotten past the first page.

If I tried to write multiple stories at once, swapping between them whenever I had writer’s block on the other, she would tell me, “Write one story at a time! Real authors don’t do that!” And if I complimented something in a book I read, saying that “as a writer myself, I really enjoy this”, she would quickly snap, “you’re not a real writer.” As a result, I stopped writing multiple books, even if I had the inspiration for them, and for a long time, I stopped daring to even call myself a writer.

Because I listened to someone who wanted to control and ensure that whatever I wrote would stay purely to her personal tastes, values, and interests, I let so many ideas that could have been born into the world die before they’d even taken their first breath and allowed myself to stay feeling inadequate and irrelevant. Would some of them have sucked? Would most of them have been cringe in some shape or form? Yes. I’m sure they would. But…I would rather have had those sucky, cringy books exist than to never get to see what I would have created — to never get to find the bits of good and overall interesting premises that yes, would also have come to be through each and every one of them.

I can never stress this enough, but please, new fanfic writers and even just writers in general: DON’T be like young me; don’t listen to the naysayers in your life who tell you that you shouldn’t write whatever the hell you want, however the hell you want, and whenever the hell you want. Do not let them get in your headspace over anything.

The thing you need to know about these people who tell you that what you want to write is “problematic”, “boring”, “uncreative”, or “cringe” in some way, and that you shouldn’t do it for your own good and reputation, is that they are all just like my Aunt: that is to say, they do not genuinely care about you or what is in your best interest — they are not genuinely trying to protect you or steer you on the right, most healthy path. Yes, they may claim that they do care and want the best for you, and to some extent, they may even think that they do, but at the end of the day, when push comes to shove, what they really want most is just to control you, so that they can stop you from creating content that they dislike and don’t want to have to see. Thus, rather than doing the actually healthy thing by learning to curate their own experiences in life and teach those around them that it is fundamentally okay to not share the same interests and opinions with everyone around you, they choose to guilt trip you and manipulate you into believing you are the one who is in the wrong, and who needs to be re-educated to recognize the dangerous non-conformists who may look like they are just minding their own business and hurting no one, but are definitely abusing and/or encouraging abuse to real live people and animals behind the scenes. (Because they write about the topic, so it must mean they commit or at least condone these things in real life, too, right? /sarcasm)

I promise you that these kinds of people and their moral grandstanding over things that aren’t even real in this world is far more harmful and genuinely problematic than anything fictional you could ever imagine and write or draw, and that if you went to an actual, licensed therapist and asked them their opinion on the matter, they would undoubtedly confirm that with no hesitation.

It may seem harmless on the outside to give in to one of their demands — that it’s not worth the fight, but I promise you, if you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. It will keep extending further and further from one thing to the next until there is basically no longer anything you are “allowed” to write or draw that isn’t one or two universally accepted “completely healthy” pairings, in “completely healthy and happy, ideal” settings, in which nothing even remotely bad or mildly disquieting ever happens or is said — if you can even do that.

And this applies to more than just tropes, genres, characters, ships, plots, or what have you — these controlling people will exist about other things, too, and they must be ignored the same.

There will be people out there who will tell you that fanfic writing isn’t as good, fulfilling or creative as writing original works. It is bullshit — bullshit that, if not based on an intentional desire to control and manipulate your actions, is at the very least born of the incorrect and extremely biased belief that fanfic writing doesn’t count as “real writing”; ignore it, and do not feel pushed to create wholly original works if that is not what you already want for yourself and are passionate about.

There will be people out there who will give you so-called “writing advice” which tells you that you must never do a certain thing (such as using a certain phrase, perspective, or writing style) regardless of circumstance, and that if you do, that’s automatically a negative thing and makes you unprofessional and a bad or fake writer; ignore them the same. The reality is that many famous beloved authors of the world have either intentionally or unintentionally ignored certain so-called “rules” of writing and are still enjoyed and loved all the same — and sometimes even all the more because of that particular, unique, characteristic ‘style’ they created in doing so.

Constructive criticism can be great and help you grow leaps and bounds on your journey, but that’s the key thing about it; it has to be constructive, and furthermore, what may be typically considered constructive for one person may not be for another. If something is negatively effecting your headspace and making you more miserable and unhappy for having experienced it, that is not constructive — it is destructive, and you need to either find a way to make peace with it and be better for it, or cut it out of your life.

If you don’t want any criticism towards your writings, then try your best to communicate that nicely and outright to your readers; most nice communities (especially AO3) will largely accept that, and those that don’t can and should be blocked or ignored.

2. Realize that someday, you are probably going to look back at your old works and think that they are very cringe, and that that is perfectly okay. Remember how I said “ignore the naysayers”? Well, that applies to you, too; remember that you are almost always your own worst critic, and that if you let that hold you back, you will miss out on a lot of good things and experiences in life, too, as well as depriving other people of that privilege through what you could create.

If there is something you want to write, then write it; don’t sit back and overthink all of the potential negatives to doing so until you’ve talked yourself out of the idea, and it never comes to be.

Yes, it is very likely that someday all of the fics you are writing now — even the ones you love the absolute most — someday will be things you will look back on and, in some manner or form, think are “cringe”, but that is okay. It is okay even if you think it is cringe now; don’t be afraid of being ‘cringe’. Cringe culture is dead, as it rightfully should be, and you don’t need to try to resurrect it out of guilt or self-depreciation.

Not only is it a sign of growth for you as a writer to be able to look back on something and say to yourself, “wow, that’s something I would never do if I wrote this today”, but it’s also important to remember that just because something may be cringe or outdated to you and your current style, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t someone else to whom that very creation means the world or massively brightens their day.

Don’t delete your old works. Don’t prevent yourself from writing new ones by gaslighting yourself into believing they aren’t good or valid. Don’t hold yourself back from experimenting with new things that you may want to try just because it may turn out a disaster; that’s the only way to grow and learn. Don’t be afraid to be derivative or “uncreative” by writing something that’s just barely different from the source material, if that’s what you enjoy. Don’t be afraid to be repetitive by creating five thousand slight variations on the same story or trope; not only is that a valid thing to do, but there are also many people out there who are looking for exactly that.

All in all, just, don’t let you hold yourself back from something you genuinely want to do and will enjoy — in writing or drawing.

3. Don’t pay attention to the numbers. This can be a hard one to stick to, but it’s very important. All too often, we end up getting stuck comparing ourselves to others and the success that they have, instead of enjoying what’s right in front of us, and it’s not healthy or good — not for ourselves, and not even for others around us.

While it may be tempting to pick up the pen and try to write for a more popular series, trope, character, or pairing and rake in some of that sweet, sweet instant gratification with the big numbers, it’s important to remember that not only do those numbers not matter in the grand scheme of things, but also that nothing that is big and popular ever simply started out as being big and popular — and nothing else will ever have hope of joining that list of big and popular if you aren’t willing to take the first or another step in making it so.

That big ship you’re thinking of right now that gets all the kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscriptions, and hits that you wish your fic had? It didn’t start out that big. The most popular and successful fic of all in the biggest fandom you know? It didn’t start out as the most popular or successful; it started out just like your fic did when you first posted it, like your ship did when it first came into being by the first person to think of it. 

Things can only gain traction if they have people behind them, loving them, creating for them, and engaging with them, and every person who gives up on them because they’re not popular enough is one less chance that thing had at eventually becoming popular, just as that biggest ship or fic out there needs people who love it to keep engaging with it and standing by it in order for it to remain “the most popular”.

What you love desperately needs you, and you do make a difference for it; don’t turn your back on it and end up doing something that doesn’t make you happy — or at least that makes you less happy — just because it isn’t popular or doing the numbers right now. Someday it might be. Until then, be the change you want to see in the world.

The fic that I’ve written which I love the very most and have worked on the most and the longest is also the most obscure and niche one of them all — and yet, it did gain something of an audience of its own. It is beloved by more people than I ever anticipated it would be, because I didn’t give up on it — because I made it happen and dedicated myself to continuing that, and it can only grow more popular the longer that I do.

You can make your dreams come true, one step at a time. So don’t give up.

4. Write things based on what you love, not what you hate. Obviously, this is advice that requires nuance and extra consideration based on the individual situation, but as a general rule, I feel that this is a very overlooked and yet very valuable piece of advice for all sides of a given matter.

I’m not saying that is always wrong or even completely impossible to write about something you wholly and purely hate, and still have it come out a good and positive thing to put out into the world, but the trouble with writing about something you completely despise — or for which you even just plain feel nothing but a general dislike — is that it is very, very hard to remain unbiased in doing so, and therefore highly increases the chance that you will create an extremely negative misrepresentation of that thing in some way.

If you absolutely must write about something you hate, I strongly advise that you at least tag it as a hate fic and/or (preferably and) put a disclaimer before the fic stating outright that it is such, that you hate or dislike it, and that as a result you may not be capable of accurately representing that thing in every way.

As someone who has accidentally read fics of this nature before about something that I hold very dear, I can tell you firsthand that it is not the least bit enjoyable to go into the tags of your favorite ship or character and stumble upon an untagged, self-congratulating hate fic that pats itself on the back for how ‘accurate’ it is, with no regard or warning for people who actually love or at least enjoy the character or ship.

I, for example, never wrote a fic centered purely around Paul Verlaine and his character pre-Storm Bringer because, at the time, he was the character I just loved to hate; I had nothing good to say about him as an individual, and writing a fic about only him purely for the sake of shitting on him would have been an extremely terrible use of my time and energy, and of the time of people going into the tag for his character looking for nice, or at least accurate, representations of him. Now that I have a better understanding of him and can appreciate all aspects of him — not just the negative — I am happy to write about him, but, I would never write a fic just about Fukuchi in the present moment, because in that same vain as before, I have nothing positive or interesting or wholly true to contribute about him in his tag (not to mention I’m not really particularly interested in him to begin with).

All in all, while I’m not saying you can’t or shouldn’t do it if you’re willing to give the proper tags and disclaimers, I promise it’s really just not worth your time or energy, when you could be spending it instead on something you love.

And if you do write a hate fic and you don’t tag or at least give it a disclaimer, well, make sure that you at least state outright you don’t want constructive criticism, or else you shouldn’t be surprised if you end up with people who frequent those tags telling you that you’re not writing the character or ship accurately, because it will probably happen sooner or later.

5. Somewhat related to the end paragraphs of advices 1 and 4, don’t ask for constructive criticism if you don’t want it, and make it clear if you absolutely don’t. While most people — especially on AO3 — will not just submit criticism, constructive or otherwise, on a fic unless you make it absolutely clear that you actively want it, if you truly want to avoid having criticism submitted to your fic for any reason, it is best to state that you would prefer positive comments only (especially if your writing community is one that does leave criticism a lot), as it will save you a lot of trouble.  Likewise, if you do want more than the usual amount of criticism, you should feel free to ask for it, but please make sure that this is truly what you want, or else you may not like what you receive. 

I have encountered fic writers in the past who request, “please tell me what you honestly thought of the fic!”, only to then later delete any and all constructive criticism that their readers take the time to leave them. Please do not do this; it is a waste of time and energy not just for you, but for your commenters, as well. If you don’t want something, don’t communicate to others that you do.

6. Be as passionate as you want; don’t worry about being ‘normal’ about your interests. I know this is technically related to the third bit of advice, but seriously, what is normal is completely subjective to the individual and it is also completely overrated. Don’t sit stressing about if you act ‘normal’ or like something ‘a normal amount’; go crazy with it! Be over-ambitious about your creations and your interests! Make as much content as you want for it, spread it across all mediums if you desire! Make a music playlist that ties into it! Make a blog centered all around it! Post regular updates and exclusive content like it’s famous! I did all of this and more for one of my fics, and I’ve had the time of my life with it.

Embrace your inner overenthusiastic eccentric and have fun. That’s what hobbies and fandom are all about.

7. Be kind and supportive to yourself and others wherever you can, and mind your own business when you can’t. It’s unfortunate, but many times in life, when we get caught up in the rush of things and the height of excitement or negative emotions, we can forget to show kindness, love, and understanding to ourselves and to others. It’s important to remember to take a deep breath now and again, and consider those needs and feelings that we would otherwise ignore.  The schedules we sometimes create for ourselves are amazing, and they can help us keep on track, but they aren’t the end-all, be-all to writing and being a writer; don’t obsess over them and let them run your life or expect other writers to uphold them all of the time, either. Taking breaks for your mental, emotional, and physical health is so, so important and so necessary, and it’s something we all should be able to do judgement-free from time to time when we need it.

And furthermore, remember that just as you have your own interests, so do your other fellow writers in the world; sometimes they may move on and change fandoms, or have fictional interests that you don’t like or agree with. It’s important in those times to realize that that is okay, and that they are valid. It’s important to be able to say to yourself, “it’s not my business”, respect their right to do what they love, and move on to something that is your business and that you do love, yourself. Don’t harass or insult other writers in the heat of the moment over something that isn’t your business or they didn’t ask you to negatively comment on, and if somehow you do, make sure you apologize and learn from that mistake going forward.

Fandom is a big place, and there’s room in it for us all to co-exist and thrive.

—

Send me another emoji and I’ll tell you about myself as a fic writer.

[izzy-b-hands]

5V

Just one bigger, not split up chapter here, because we stay with Izzy and Stede the whole time. Slightly nsfw.

---

They spend that night like horny teens, lazily shifting between fucking, sleeping, snacking, etc, as they want. It's a sort of experience Izzy had heard about, but because he'd met Ed so early on, he'd never had a chance to try any version of it for himself.

He thinks his must be one of the best, for the man he's with.

"How many kids do you have?" he asks as they cuddle for a bit, his head on Stede's chest.

"Two," Stede says happily. "Alma, and her little brother Louis."

"Do you get them every weekend?"

"Every other," Stede replies. "That way I can still dedicate some weekends to the bar, and some to the kids."

"Weekends are an unfortunate part of that work schedule, I suppose," Izzy notes. "What made you open it?"

Stede smiles. "I always wanted to have my own bar. Ever since I knew that was a thing you could do. It seemed fun and exciting, and like people in the business were always enjoying their work. Of course, now I know it's a bit more complex than that!"

"Do you still enjoy it?"

"Mostly," Stede chuckles. "There are learning curves for me, but I think I could be doing worse."

"If you ever need an extra hand, I've bartended before when we needed quick cash," Izzy says. "Granted, usually the bar in question would be short a bartender because Ed ate them, so I could drop in and save the evening by working from right off the street, for cash under the table no less."

Stede snorts, then laughs hard. He shakes Izzy with it, and it's infectious.

"I'm sorry," Stede struggles to catch his breath. "But the image is...Ed ambushing some poor bartender smoking in an alley, and you striding in dressed perfectly for the bar's atmosphere like some bartending superhero..."

"I do a wonderful job at it, or so I've been told," Izzy says. "Might not be that far off."

Stede sighs fondly. "This is the most I've seen you smile and laugh. Granted, we've only known each other two days, but-"

That sets them off into another peal of laughter, until an odd sound above them interjects.

"What time is it?" Stede asks.

"Just about midnight," Izzy replies. "Fucking hell, where did the time go?"

"I could remind you," Stede purrs, and trails kisses down Izzy's body.

"We should probably investigate that first," Izzy says, though a hand gently toys with Stede's curls. "What if it's your kids here? Maybe Mary would need to drop them off suddenly?"

"She would have texted," Stede replies. "My phone's been quiet."

"Ed," Izzy mutters.

"Not necessarily," Stede says. "My crew might have stopped in to grab something. We don't have the most storage space, and since everything is so close to the main strip, it's been easier to keep extra supplies here. They have a key to use if I'm not available, so they could have let themselves in."

"You trust them a lot," Izzy remarks. It doesn't seem totally insane; he'd trust Ed with a key to his place if they lived apart. And that was saying something with their current situation. At the same time, you could never be one hundred percent sure it would be a good idea.

"With my life!" Stede smiles. "We've had some bumps and bruises getting on together, but in the last few months we've really pulled together. I'm lucky though, they were all in this business in various departments before I was, so they more or less mind themselves."

"How did you end up hiring two vampires?" Izzy asks. "I found Ed basically by accident, so I don't know how you'd go about meeting one otherwise."

Stede lingers at his hip, kissing and nipping and licking the sensitive skin there.

"They interviewed, same as everyone else," he says after another moment. "They mentioned they couldn't do any hours before sunset, even for setup, and well, I've got werewolves in my family, so once you learn about them-"

"What?!"

"Long story, not nearly as interesting as you would want it to be," Stede replies. "Anyway, that meant I already knew about vampires as well. As soon as they said sun allergy, I knew. I let them know, and reassured them they'd never have to worry about being given risky daylight hours with me."

Izzy nods. "Okay. Interesting."

More interesting are Stede's lips on his inner thighs, kissing and teasing but refusing to touch his cock.

"The asshole club owner across the street from us is one too," Stede says in between kisses. "Used to go to school with him as a kid. We all knew when it happened; one day he was at school, the next we heard he was in hospital after an attack from his great grandfather, Petyr. Such a creepy old man. At the time, I didn't realize he was a vampire, though it seems obvious now."

"How on earth did that happen?" Izzy asks. "He got hungry and his great grandson was the first person he saw?"

"More or less," Stede replies. "He was apparently old enough to be nearly demented, and there should probably have been far more 'greats' in front of grandfather."

"How did he finish school, grow up?"

"Nigel? Ah, his parents hired tutors. Most of his old friends were terrified of him, so even though he bullied me horribly, my parents forced me to be a replacement playmate," Stede says. "Going over for sleepover after sleepover, no matter how detrimental it was to my sleep."

Izzy nods. "There's more to this little place than I thought."

"That's almost always how it is," Stede says. "In my experience. The smaller the place, the more and weirder secrets there are bursting to pop out and reveal themselves."

He moans as Stede takes him into his mouth, only for the sound to interrupt again. Much louder now.

His cock slips from Stede's mouth. "I'm going to go lock the trap door real quickly. Be right back."

"I'm coming with," Izzy says. "Robe?"

Stede hands him a midnight blue velvet robe, and pulls on a dark pink velvet one himself.

Stede is a good step or two ahead, and moving fast. He's already got the door nearly locked by the time Izzy catches up.

"Would any of your crew be in here for this long?" Izzy asks.

"Probably not," Stede admits. "But still, I don't think Ed-"

"Oh no," Izzy shudders in horror. "Not him, but he would, oh fuck-"

"Who?" Stede asks.

"Calico Jack."

[squidincsstuff]

The only thing I'm feel in' is this anger and hate

When no escape my mind is just dangerous place

Self sabotage and I'm about to break

Cause I wanna forget about you but I also miss you face,

I'm a grown man, don't enjoy the chase, as I'm thinkin about these girls and about all the time I waste,

Happiness exist can I get a little taste,

Tell me. That you can but you always show the opposite,

Playin victim but I'm far from minocuous,

Every time I look at you it makes me sick,

How can I be so gollible to ever take a risk,

You could give two fucks how I felt,

Why you think I'm pulling tighter on the belt,

Nothing comes from pain, the drugs didn't help,

Cause when they're wearing off, I'm still left by myself,

I'm still left with myself,

I'm all alone with myself,

The drugs didn't help,

The drugs never helped,

Nothing comes from pain,

Nothing is the same

All I do is hurt,

The drugs never hurt,

My minds a prison,

And I'm locked in a cell,

It's hard being an angel when Your living in hell,

I'm livin on the edge with these demons in my head,

And if I did it my way I'd probably end up dead,

But look, I've been hurt, all I ever do is hurt others, this shits deep,

It goes back to my first love,

Many nights I don't go on social media, laughing at the fact that I thought that I needed ya,

I would hurt every time that I seen ya cry, it would of maybe of worked but we're not willing to try,

There's no trust were telling each other lies,

We're smiling at each other, destroying each others lives,

We were both in the wrong, and I don't want to look at you so I'll just hide behind a song,

I'm sorry miss,

Love don't exist, but I'd rather die, then live like this,

And any time its ever going good I really can't pretend,

That anytime it won't fall apart , it's coming to an end,

So every girl there is no feeling, I'm emotionally detached,

From protection, you ain't ever getting close and that is that.

Why'd you think I don't let nobody in,

I'm feeling more empty then I have ever fuckin been,

I keep thinkin that everything will be different,

But the pain is still the same, and everyone is getting vicious,

All I know is girls come girls go, I throw affection out the window,

And I got nothing left to show, and all this anger is a bomb set off to blow,

And I'm feelin these resentments but I have to let them go,

I tried to leave but I couldn't find the door,

My heart cracked and it shattered on the floor,

I'm feelin like I don't deserve nothing anymore,

It's probably one of the biggest reasons why I'm such a whore,

When I think about you, now a days I just cring, and I should of knew better she was fuckin with him,

It's like the only things feelings ever bring is danger, I guess it's true best friends, become strangers,

My experience love is just a word, so really just how much faith am I willing to put in her,

I'll get manic till everything is a blur,

I'll commit the same mistake cause I'm the type that never learns. - collchie love ballad