#i literally have spent the last three nights AT THE VERY LEAST wanting to fucking kill myself. because every single day its the same shit.

[seventh-district]

.

[flippedorbit]

hope my mom realizes she’s 90% of the reasons i want to die on a daily basis

[bella-rose29]

Deck the Halls (and not your partner) ~ Christmas Special

utterly insane that I'm able to write this??? DTH has gained so much love and it was literally just a very self-indulgent crappy christmas romcom I wrote for myself, so to everyone who has come this far with me: thank you!!!

so merry christmas everyone! this is my present to you all 💕

word count: 1.2k

warnings: a couple of swear words

deck the halls series master list

(not my gif but I cannot remember who's it is sorry)

“Lockwood, really?”

“What? It’s Christmas!” You wish you could stop yourself from smiling, but your boyfriend’s optimism and love for the holidays is infectious. He looks completely ridiculous but then again that’s Lockwood, through and through. 

“You cannot wear that.”

“Why not?” he retorts, and you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face and his hands on his hips, and the stupid Christmas jumper that your mum knit him covering his torso. “Your mum will be so upset if I don’t, especially when I already told her on the phone this morning that I would wear it.”

“How often do you speak to my mother, Ant? I swear you spoke to her last night as well.”

“Emma and I are practically best friends at this point,” he says as he moves to the oven. You’d been sceptical about letting him help cook lunch for your parents, but he could at least use a peeler for the vegetables without hurting anyone. 

“George might have something to say about that. Are the potatoes done?” You ask from the sink, watching him peer through the door. 

“Nearly. They’re looking great.” Lockwood straightens and comes to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just like me in this jumper.” You scoff, feeling his grin against the back of your head, and flick some soap suds at him. The jumper in question is the most horrific colour of green (you have no idea where your mother got it from and you don’t want to know), with pompoms and little lights covering it to such an extent you can’t really see the badly knitted reindeer that takes up the majority of the garment. “I’m not taking it off, darling,” he hums as he dips his head to rest in the crook of your neck. 

It’s these moments that make you think Christmas is worth all the stress. You’d decided that after the complete mess of last year (although there were some pros to the whole thing, such as Steph and Linda refusing to speak to any of you again), you would stay home in London while your parents, Will and Olivia came down to see you. Nana Jean and Gramps’ knees were getting worse and couldn’t make the journey so your other siblings had stayed behind to keep them company, but you’d called them all earlier to wish them a happy holiday. “Well if you have to keep it on to win points with mum, then can you make yourself useful and get the table ready.”

“Anything for you, Schmoopie.” He still uses the ridiculous nickname, and it still makes you smile. He’s spent every day since you got home last year making sure that you feel as loved as possible, in every way he can, and Lucy regularly takes the piss out of both of you for it. 

“How’s my kitchen? You haven’t burnt it down yet have you?” You glance over your shoulder as you dry your hands, the washing up finished, and spot a head of messy curls. 

“Hi Georgie! I haven’t let him near the oven, don’t worry.”

“Oh thank fuck.”

Anthony looks up from where he’s drawing something on the table (bastard, you’d told him to set it up) and mutters “language” at George, earning himself a middle finger. Your boyfriend only laughs and goes back to drawing, covering it with his hand when he notices you trying to see what it is. You don’t have time to make him show you though, because just as you step towards him the doorbell rings. 

“Shit, they’re here. George, are you sure you don’t mind being around them?” It’s only the three of you in the house, Lucy and Holly off with their loved ones while George had decided against spending Christmas with his family. 

“I’ve spoken to your family multiple times, Y/n, I think I’ll be fine.” His tone is as matter-of-fact as always, but you don’t miss the tiny smile he gives you. You smile back, then let out a slow breath as you make for the front door. The latch is on and your fingers tremble slightly as you open it, nerves and excitement setting in now that your family is just on the other side. 

You’ve barely opened the door enough to show your face when someone is barrelling through and wrapping you in a hug, and instantly you relax into your mother’s arms. “Hi, mum. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas! Oh, it’s been far too long, hasn’t it?”

Over her shoulder (she hasn’t let go yet) you spot Will mouthing sorry and your sister rolling her eyes. There’s a smile on both of their faces though, and when your dad appears after locking the car he’s grinning too. “Hi, love.”

“Hi dad,” you chirp, your mum finally letting go of you. The three of them fight to be the next to hug you while your mum pulls their bags inside, greeting Anthony behind you with a happy shriek when she notices the jumper as he appears from the kitchen, and your dad comes out victorious. Will and Olivia bicker in the background over who’s going last, and when you finish with your dad you drag both your siblings into a hug. “No fighting,” you say, pulling back so you can stare them down. “I don’t want any extra stress, okay?”

“Alright, Squeak. We’ll behave.” The shit-eating grin on his face says otherwise, but before you can say anything else there’s a flurry of excitement from your mother and boyfriend. Presents are shoved under the tree that you and Holly had spent far too much time decorating (she’s the only one in the house you would let near it; the other three were too messy), George awkwardly waves to everyone, and then the oven timer is beeping and telling you to take things out. 

“Okay, lunch is nearly ready, so - Ant, could you-? Thanks,” you half shout as you rush into the kitchen, George hot on your heels ready to help. Anthony has at least laid the table in the time you were greeting family, and there’s enough room for the dishes you’d been cooking all morning. The two of you work fluidly, twisting around each other with practiced ease (George refuses to let anyone else cook in here but you, a privilege you hadn’t taken for granted) until the table is covered in hot food and serving implements and you’re yelling for people to come and sit down. 

Without thinking you take your usual seat, plopping down with a sigh and smiling when Anthony presses a kiss to the top of your head before sitting next to you. “Proud of you, darling. This looks amazing,” he murmurs with a small smile. 

“You’ve outdone yourself, love,” your dad says, squishing in on one of the extra chairs you’d had to drag in from the basement. 

“Thanks dad,” you smile. “Oh, tuck in, guys. Before it gets cold!”

You decide you’ll wait until everyone else has served themselves, and as you look down at your currently empty plate you notice a new drawing poking out from under it. Anthony must have done it earlier when he was meant to be doing a job and curiosity gets the better of you, making you push your plate just a little so you can see the whole picture. 

It’s the two of you in your current outfits (he somehow managed to draw his jumper), holding hands and smiling. He’s written Merry Christmas, darling above it, and even though his artistic skills have not improved, it’s one of your favourite pieces. You tap his leg to get his attention, and after looking gently concerned for a moment he sees that you’ve uncovered his drawing and smiles. 

“You alright?”

“I’m alright, Ant. Merry Christmas.”

[mediumgayitalian]

When Nico asks him out, there is vomit on his scrubs. His hair is disgusting. The bags under his eyes are actually the size of Texas, and he was born there so he says it in good confidence.

Also, it goes right over his head.

“Gods, yeah,” Will sighs, relieved. “Yeah, I could —” He laughs, a little hysterically, scrubbing his hand over his face and trying to blink the sudden onslaught of dizzy away. “I’m starving. I am — tired of this stupid room. I could use dinner out.”

“Great,” Nico says, rocking back on his heels. He twists his skull ring around his finger, like he does when he’s nervous, but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth that Will has learned, in the past few weeks of his help in the infirmary, is a smile. “I’ll — um, I’ll pick you up at seven?”

Will glances down at the rapidly-drying splatter of vomit spreading from his right shoulder all the way down to his belly button. The nasty brown-yellow colour of it clashes so violently with the mint-green of his scrubs that it might be a felony, actually. The one whole spaghetti noodle smack in the middle of it does not help.

“Yeah, I’ll need at least that long in the shower.”

Nico’s face goes through a very complicated string of emotions. “I think you look nice,” he offers.

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘nice’, di Angelo,” Will snorts. He gestures behind him. “Bye, Nico. I’ll see you in a few hours?”

“Right. Bye, Will.”

“Hey, first name status!”

“Shut up, Solace. Go change your shirt.”

Will snickers, jogging down the Big House stairs with a backwards wave. He hustles past campers jogging towards their daily activities, ducking into the Apollo cabin before someone can ask him for something.

It’s been a busy few weeks.

The Giant War was…well. It’s over, now, is the point, but it was not without casualties, and it was not without injury, and injury, and injury. Plus the flu that just had to hit right before the Romans were about to head back to California. Will has spent more nights in the infirmary in the last few weeks than he ever has, including after the Titan War. Understaffed does not begin to cover it. He had to beg Cecil for his secret Redbull stash after his third straight day on his feet, praying to his father, his aunt, and any other god who was listening to keep his hands from shaking. Without Nico’s help — well, he doesn’t want to think about how things would have gone without Nico’s help.

He’d slept through his promised three days in the infirmary. Will had restitched his werewolf scratching (—his werewolf scratches his fucking werewolf scratches his fucking shitting goddamn werewolf scratches that he stitched with sewing thread and left for gods know how many days and Will is going to quit his job, he is, he is going to live in a hut in the Florida Everglades and chase questers away with a fucking broom—) as he slept on the first day, then spent the next days glaring at him in seething jealousy.

He had wanted to sleep. He had wanted to sleep so godsdamn badly. And yet. He was plastering salve on the translucent fingers of a dumbass who pushed himself too hard.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Will had mocked, ignoring the yelled you’re losing it, Willy! from Kayla as she passed by. “Nyeh nyeh nyeh. I can shadow travel wherever I want. Nyeh nyeh nyeh. Catch me I’m about to pass out. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.”

“I never asked you to catch me,” muttered Nico, groggily, and Will had screamed.

Not his best moment.

Luckily, his string of colourful cursing had killed any idea that Will was scared of him, or something, and the list of chores he’d doled out the second he made sure Nico could walk had put the idea in the grave.

He still can’t quite believe that Nico actually, like…listened. But he’s a good bandage cutter (very accurate) and, as a super fun bonus, the Romans were all scared of him, so when they tried to get out of their cots while their limbs were literally hanging onto them by a thread, Will just had Nico stand behind him and glare at them until they sat their asses back down.

(“You are without a doubt the best nurse I’ve ever had,” Will had grumbled, sticking his tongue out at Austin, who lazily tried to trip him. Nico had rolled his eyes, huffing as if he thought Will was joking.)

“Wow,” says Cecil, sitting in Will’s bed for some reason. He rakes his eyes up and down his body, whistling appreciatively at the towel around his waist. Will rolls his eyes and starts digging through his dresser drawers. “Look at you! So human-like! No zombie eyebags to be seen!”

“Showers don’t erase eyebags, dick for brains.”

“True, but you’re so hot when you’re not covered in blood and vomit that I can overlook them.”

“Kiss my ass, Cecil.”

“Really? Is that permission?”

Will laughs, admitting defeat. He tugs on a pair of boxers, then tosses a few clothing options on his bed.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s good to be out, Zeus’ beard. Nico’s taking me to dinner; d’you know if it’s cold in the city? And I should probably wear real shoes, right, Annabeth mentioned something about New York bacteria —”

“Woah, woah, hold on, William, pause there for a second.”

Will looks up, frowning. “What?”

“Nico’s taking you to dinner?”

Cecil’s eyes are wide. Reflexively, Will pats his chin, paranoid he’s got something on his face.

“…Yes? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing! Nothing, nothing.” Quickly, Cecil schools his face back to its usual smirk, leaning casually against the bedpost. (He misses. Mercifully, Will decides to let it slide and wait for him to straighten himself. He’s a good friend, like that.)

“Well, obviously something.”

“Nope! I’m just —” He softens. “I’m glad you’re taking a break, Willy. We’ve been worried about you. Remind me to send him a lock pick set.”

“Most people send fruit,” Will suggests gently. He cuffs Cecil playfully on the jaw, rolling his eyes when Cecil catches his hand and presses a loudly exaggerated kiss to it. “Or flowers. Also, don’t call me Willy.”

“Sorry, Willy.”

“Gods, you’re infuriating.”

“Mhm. And yet you adore me. Oou, wear the grey plaid shirt, it makes your eyes look bluer. And for the love of Hermes, do not wear shorts.”

———

At seven o’clock sharp, there’s a knock on the doorframe.

“Uh, hi?”

“Nico!” Will says brightly. “Hi! You don’t have to wait by the door, dorkus. Come in.”

With a second of hesitation, Nico steps in. The usually creaky floorboards are silent under his black Chucks. Will chooses to believe that’s on purpose, because it’s cooler.

“You can sit if you want! Unless we gotta leave right away. I wasn’t actually sure, are we just going to McDonald’s or something? Also, I told Cecil he couldn’t come, I figured three would make it a party or something but lemme know if we’re bringing friends along and —”

“We’re not,” Nico interrupts.

“—tell them.” Will blinks at him, then smiles. “Just you and me, then.”

Nico clears his throat. “Yeah.” He glances up at Will, and away again, like he can’t hold his gaze for too long. He looks a little flushed. “You, uh. You braided your hair.”

“What? Oh!” Will touches the French braids on either side of his head, smiling. “Yeah, I finally had the time. Keeps my hair back better than much else. Hey, Nico, you good? You looked flushed, maybe you should —”

Nico catches his hand. He smiles.

“I’m fine, Solace. You just look nice, is all.”

Will snorts. “No kidding. Anything’s better than the vomit shirt.”

———

Nico refuses to answer any of his questions about where they’re going.

Or, well. Will asks him and endless string of questions and receives only hums or nods in response, except for the odd huff of laughter when Will pouts.

“C’mon! Can’t I just know where we’re going?”

“You’re about to.”

“I mean now, Death Breath.”

“Well, now I’m definitely not telling you.”

“Ugh.”

Nico places a fleeting hand on his elbow as they reach the base of Half-Blood Hill, stalling him.

“Wait.”

Will pauses, listening. His heartbeat picks up. Monster? Monsters?

He glances over at Nico, noticing the tension in his face, the twist to his mouth, the —

Oh, no he doesn’t.

“Hold it, Gerard Way!”

Nico startles.

“What?”

“I know that face! You are not shadow-travelling us to the city, no way, no how, do you want to dissolve —”

“Will,” Nico interrupts, laughing softly, “Will, trust me for a second. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Nico blinks. Will flushes.

“That was fast.”

“Well! Well.”

“I’m not shadow-travelling,” Nico promises, changing the subject when it’s clear Will has nothing to say. “I’m just summoning our ride. I promise it won’t drain me.”

“…Fine.”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Nico screws up his face again. The tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose are more obvious when he wrinkles it. Will has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from touching them.

One moment, there’s nothing but empty road in front of them. The next, there’s a massive fucking limo, driven by what Will can only describe as a ghoul.

“There,” Nico says happily. “Our ride!”

He jogs over to the sleek black limo, leaving Will gaping. With a quick hand to keep the driver from getting up, he opens the back door, gesturing broadly.

“C’mon, Sunshine.”

Will recovers quickly. He’s never been in a limo before — hell, he’s hardly ever been in cars. He slides into the black leather seats, gaping, barely noticing Nico ducking in and closing the door behind him.

“Cleveland and Merrick, please, Jules-Albert.”

Limos are crazy.

If hotel mini bars were, like, physical places rather than tiny bottles in mini fridges, they would look like limos. The windows are tinted, so the interior is dark, illuminated a softly glowing red by strips of LEDs. There is an actual TV screen, although it’s not on. Will feels like James Bond.

“Gift from my dad,” Nico explains. “He knows he can’t always be there to drive me around, so he got Jules-Albert to take me places. He’s cool. He even answers to me, technically, and not my dad, so if anything happens back here he won’t snitch.” Nico gets so violently red he damn near goes invisible under the LEDs. “Not that — I mean, it’s more like —”

“That is so cool,” Will breathes. “Oh my gods, Nico, you are literally the coolest demigod in the world.”

“Hah,” says Nico weakly. The limo (!!) slows to a stop. “We are — here, let’s go!”

Nico practically throws himself out of the limo. Will takes one last look, thanks Jules-Albert, and hurries out after him.

———

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“What?” Nico looks at him defensively. The corner of his mouth twitches. “I thought it was pretty funny.”

Apollo Restaurant Diner, reads the garish, flashing yellow sign. Seniors half-off!

Will nudges Nico’s side as they walk in. “You should ask for the discount.”

“Keep it up and you’re paying for yourself, Solace.”

Nico guides them into a booth by the window before he can say anything. In seconds, a server is strolling up to them, popping their bubblegum and grinning.

“Welcome to Apollo’s, where if we don’t predict your order, it’s free! I’ll get you guys some sodas, and…hm. Fries to share, I think.”

They’re off, ponytail bouncing, before either of them can say anything.

“Well,” says Nico after a moment. “I guess we’re having fries.”

Will snorts. “You love fries. You love anything fried and battered, because there is nothing you love more than poor decision making.”

“Caught me, Solace.”

“Aw. I thought —”

Their server pops back in with their sodas, nodding as they thank them.

“— I thought I was bumped up to first name status! You called me Will earlier.”

Nico slurps obnoxiously at his cherry coke.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did too!”

“Not a jury in the world will believe you, Solace.”

Will blows his straw wrapper at him. Nico barely dodges, laughing — a real, open laugh, where some of the guard drops from his shoulders, where his smile is wide enough to show his teeth, where his dark eyes cringe near shut.

“You’re so lame. Get your stupid straw wrapper away from me.”

Will feels like he doesn’t respond for ages, mesmerized by the crooked curve of Nico’s smile. There’s mischief in that smile, and oddly it makes shyness bloom in Will’s chest, it makes the tips of his ears red, makes him duck his head.

Will’s saved from trying to come up with a comment by the massive — truly gigantic — platter of fries set between them.

“Holy shit,” breathes Will, alarmed.

“Holy shit,” breathes Nico, eyes wide. The smile grows wider. “Holy shit!”

Will’s stomach growls. He’s reminded how truly hungry he is, and without another word, the two of them dig in.

They end up ordering another platter. Will theorizes that, in total, they eat at least seven whole potatoes.

“How many fries do you think is in one potato?”

“A yukon?” says Will. “Like, twenty-five, at least. Wait, hold on, pass me your napkin, lemme do the math.”

“Gods, you are such a nerd.”

Will loses count of how many times they refill their sodas. Too many. Camp food is usually very healthy — as head medic, Will has to set an example, but it’s just Nico, here. Will eats himself into a minor food coma and relishes in it. When Nico asks if he wants to order one of the giant milkshakes, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Duh. Strawberry.”

“Gross, Solace. Vanilla or nothing.”

“Basic ass bitch.”

“At least I’m not vying for strawberry!”

By the time Nico gets up to go get their bill, the sun has long since set. Will realises he forgot to put his watch back on after his shower, and has no idea what time it actually is.

“Nine-thirty ish,” Nico says, opening the limo door for him. “We’ll be back at camp at ten.”

Will grimaces. “Fuck. Will Jules-Albert chill overnight? If we try to go back to our cabins, the curfew harpies are gonna eat us.”

“Scared, Solace?”

Nico’s eyes are bright and teasing. Will wonders how the hell other campers find him so frightening — the little twitches of his mouth are so obvious. Some people are just oblivious.

“Of course I’m scared, you dickhead. What am I gonna do, sing a hymn until they go away?”

Nico snorts. “You worry too much. They’re afraid of me, you know. They’ll steer clear.”

“You have a lot of confidence in how much you scare people, which is crazy for someone who’s five eight.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Will grins. “Never.”

The drive back to camp feels shorter than it is. The limo’s seats are stupid comfortable, and Nico is a warm presence beside him, and more than anything, Will is exhausted. Last time he slept was — Thursday? He’s pretty sure? He definitely slept on Wednesday, and he’s pretty sure Kayla locked him in the back office with a pillow on Thursday. But maybe that was this morning.

“Will, hey.” A cool, calloused hand brushes over his forehead, and he leans into it, humming. “Get up, you loser. We’re here.”

Will groans. “Five more minutes.”

The soft, gravelly chuckles are the most musical things he’s ever heard. “Up you get, Sunshine, or I’ll let the harpies eat you.”

That gets Will up fast. He shoves Nico away, who’s still snickering at him, grumbling as he crawls out of the limo.

“It’s like you want me to die of stress.”

“Nah.”

They wave goodbye to Jules-Albert, who disappears in a blink. Halfway up the hill, a hand closes around his. Will glances over to Nico in surprise, but he looks resolutely ahead.

“I can feel you freaking out.” He clears his throat. “I told you, Solace. I’ll protect you.”

“That’s not what you said,” Will grumbles, but it’s hard to get his attitude across when his cheeks ache from smiling.

Nico ends up being right — the harpies steer clear of them. He looks very smug about being right, smirking all the way up to the Apollo Cabin door. He walks him up the creaking steps, pausing at the door. He lets go of Will’s hand, which is kind of a bummer. Will had liked holding his hand — physical proof that Nico was becoming more comfortable with him.

“So,” Nico says, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“So,” Will parrots, grinning. He grins wider at Nico’s scowl, gently illuminated by the soft glow of the Apollo cabin. “I had fun tonight, Nico. I needed that.”

Nico’s whole face softens. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Will smiles at him again. “Thank you.”

For a second, Nico’s slight smile melts into a more serious expression. Will finds himself lingering, searching Nico’s face. Waiting.

Quick as a dart, Nico leans up and presses a kiss to Will’s cheek.

“Oh,” Will breathes, eyes wide. His fingers come up and brush the spot Nico kissed, skin tingling.

Nico looks at him nervously. “Was that okay?”

It takes Will a solid few seconds to answer. Even then, it’s not any recognizable words — more of an embarrassing hnnnnngh wha.

Nico grins. “Goodnight, Sunshine.”

“Nico — wait.”

“Harpies, Sunshine.”

Will could swear he sees Nico’s shoulders shaking with laughter as he walks away. Which — huh! Pardon! Excuse.

“Nico! Was! Was this a date!”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Will.”

“Nico!”

Nico disappears down the bend without answering. Will manages to catch the curve of his smile before he goes.

He doesn’t sleep a wink.

[stop-talking]

So I'm stuck on this shithole island, and I can't even have a smoke? (pt. 4)

Derek Danforth x fem reader

Word count: 2.9k

Tags: 18+, Derek x fem reader, no use of y/n, angst, lots of fluff, enemies, enemies to lovers, fluff, (very) slowburn, sass, banter, misogynistic undertones, (Derek is a prick), suggestive themes, mentions of drug use, withdrawals, rehab, masturbating, caught masturbating, overall mature themes.

slight trigger warning for thoughts of death?? (except Derek isn't really suicidal he's just a drama queen)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────

It's been nearly twelve hours since you accidentally walked in on Derek doing the unspeakable, and you're still kicking yourself for it.

In an attempt to make it up to him, you'd spent the morning making a nice breakfast. Unfortunately, it's almost noon now, and he hasn't left his room.

No way in hell are you going to go knocking on his door. Not after last night. The image of him finishing into his own hand while making eye contact with you is still burned into your brain. Fuck, he ended up covered in cum. And that stupid fucking face he made...

Oh god, think of something else. ANYTHING else.

You turn your attention to the breakfast you'd prepared for the two of you. The cold breakfast. Sighing, you scrape the eggs and bacon into a container for later.

Why did you even open the damn door? Obviously he was jerking off. Horny bastard. Of course, when you'd heard the whimpers and moans coming from his room, you'd assumed he wasn't feeling well.

Which was a valid assumption to make, right?? I mean, he sounded absolutely pitiful, what were you supposed to think? You swore up and down he even called out your name once or twice, but fuck, you didn't want to think about the implications of that.

And so, after knocking and saying his name a few times, you had decided to just go for it. How were you supposed to know he was doing... that??

"It's not my fault." You grumble to yourself, blindly shoving the leftovers into the fridge and trying to shrug it off.

Then again, even if the initial situation wasn't your fault, you still owed him an apology. You'd absolutely been staring. Gawking, even. It probably took a good five seconds before you'd come to your senses and slammed the door, but five seconds was enough for him to... oh god. Stop thinking about it.

You try physically shaking your head to dismiss the perverted images plaguing your mind. It works... sort of. As you make your way up the stairs to his bedroom, your stomach knots with guilt.

Just about anything sounds more appealing than knocking on his door right now. Unfortunately, that's what you're about to do.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

Derek's plans for the day only include one thing, really. Rotting in bed and wishing he was dead.

He figures if he locks himself in his room long enough, the three weeks will eventually pass without him having to show his face to you ever again.

Or he'd die first. With the way he felt right now, that would honestly be fine too.

He groans into a pillow, desperate to hear something than the pounding in his head. He's been trembling all morning, a sign he really needed a fix.

The guilt has been eating away at him almost as much as his stupid withdrawals. He replays the scene from last night over in his head for the millionth time, internally screaming at himself for not covering up. Or locking the damn door.

He knows there's nothing he could have done to change what happened. The timing was just too... perfect. Looking at your pretty face while he came was literally a dream come true.

The aftermath, unfortunately, was a nightmare.

There's no way you don't hate him now. Or at least feel completely disgusted. After all, you'd slammed the door and left him.

So this is his fate. Rot in bed until he wastes away. It's all he deserves, really, for being such a fucking pervert.

"Derek? You still alive?"

He nearly falls off the bed in his scramble to make himself look presentable.

"...Yeah." He eventually croaks out, trying to smooth his curls with one hand and pull the blanket over himself with the other.

"Can I come in?"

Derek begrudgingly agrees, sitting up against the headboard in an attempt to look less pathetic.

You slowly swing the door open, looking visibly relieved when he isn't... exposed. Like last time.

Before he can even think about what he's saying, the words roll off his tongue.

"I'm sorry." You both say at the same time.

Wait, that doesn't make sense. What do YOU have to be sorry for? He's the one that fucked up. Derek's brow furrows as you take a seat on the edge of his bed.

"I- I mean it." He stutters. "I really didn't... didn't mean for you to see that."

He avoids your gaze, turning away as you place a hand on his leg. Well, on the comforter covering his legs, but close enough.

"I know." You seem equally uncomfortable, silently looking around and examining his bedroom. And it is HIS room, decorated to suit his tastes. Unlike the other guest rooms in the house, which are all decorated in shades of pastels and beach-themed paraphernalia.

He squirms a bit, starting to get self-conscious of his own design choices. The dark wood furniture with gold accents stand out against the emerald green walls. Under usual circumstances, he'd feel proud of the expensive atmosphere. Right now... It all felt gaudy.

"I love all the animal print." You say, eyeing a pelt hanging on the wall above his dresser.

Derek winces. Yeah, okay, maybe it was a bit much.

"I picked out these decorations, like, 5 years ago. Cut me some slack." He grumbles, crossing his arms and giving you a pouty look.

"It looks nice." You smile, scooting a little closer to him on the bed, your hand trailing further up his covered legs.

"Don't lie."

"..."

"Okay, It looks like you gave a redneck with no prior knowledge of interior design an unlimited budget and a kilo of cocaine, then set him loose and told him to go crazy."

Damn. He'd be pissed at that if you didn't look so... warm. Even with the harsh words, he could tell you were only teasing.

"To be fair, I probably was on cocaine when I picked all this shit out." Derek snorts, gesturing around to the clashing animal prints, gold-rimmed mirrors and paintings, and wood accent pieces.

That little comment seems to make you waver. Shit. Bad joke?

"Not anymore." He tries to assure you, putting his hand on top of yours. You still haven't moved it from his thigh. "I haven't had anything like that since I got here, and it sucks. I feel like shit."

He slumps slightly against the headboard, letting his put-together act fall. Not like it was a very good act, anyways.

"I believe you, just... I feel bad. I'm sorry for last night."

Derek winces as the topic gets turned back to last night's activities. You didn't even have anything to apologize for, as far as he was concerned. He'd let you watch him cum any day. Make a show of it, if that's what you wanted.

Fuck. Stop thinking about it.

Derek struggles to listen as you ramble, instead staring into your pretty eyes and overthinking the way his hand is still on top of yours. You're saying something about how he shouldn't stay in bed all day, how he needs to keep a routine or he'll end up in a slump.

"...so can we just forget about what happened and move on? I don't think I can stand 17 more days of awkwardness." You finish, giving him a pleading look.

Forget about what happened? Derek's heart sinks into his stomach. He doesn't want to forget. Even though he hates himself for it, he loves what happened last night. He'd re-live it over and over again if he could, minus the part where you freak out and slam the door.

"Derek?" You ask again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Oh. Yeah. Forget about it, please." His face heats up and he finally takes his hand back from yours, nervously running it through his hair instead. He might not what to forget about what happened, but he sure as hell wanted you to forget about it.

"Done." You give him a relieved smile and hop off his bed. "Alright, I'm gonna wait for you downstairs. Come meet me soon or I'll drag you down myself."

Derek does as asked, going through the motions of his normal morning routine. That didn't go as bad as it could have, all things considered.

At least you don't hate him.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

When Derek eventually trudges downstairs, you already have lunch heated up for him. Or... breakfast? It doesn't really matter.

He refuses to eat at first. Stubborn man. He says he feels nauseous, but how does he expect to get better with no food in his stomach?

After practically forcing him to eat, you settle down on the couch with him and try to decide on a movie.

"We are not watching another stupid action movie." You grumble, snuggling up in one corner of the couch while Derek takes a seat on the other end.

"Well I'm not watching some cheesy chick flick."

"Then what do you want to watch?"

Derek shrugs.

"Oh my god, Danforth. Just pick. Comedy or Horror?"

"Comedy."

"Okay, Adam Sandler or Jim Carrey?"

He pauses for a bit, furrowing his brow in a way that you might find adorable if he wasn't being so damn difficult.

"Sandler."

"Okay then, we're watching Billy Madison." You turn your attention back to the television and smile to yourself as you search for the movie.

"I don't think I've seen that one." He starts to shift in his seat as the movie starts, looking restless. What's his problem?

"Do you want to...?" You look over at him, trailing off and patting your lap.

He nods, and immediately lies down on his side, cheek against your thigh.

"Thanks." He mumbles, looking more relaxed by the second as he makes himself comfortable on your lap.

"Mhm." You hum, turning your attention back to the movie.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take long for him to start getting restless again. You pretend not to notice the way he occasionally glances up at you, keeping your gaze fixed on the television.

His hand finds yours, slowly tugging it towards his head. You take the hint and run your fingers through his hair, chuckling at how needy he's being.

"Don't laugh." He groans, leaning his head back slightly and melting into your touch. "It feels nice. And I've been feeling like death."

"You'd better not die on me, Danforth. No one would come to pick me up for another two weeks, and I don't think your corpse would fit in the freezer."

"You could chop me up." He offers, shifting so that he's lying on his back, looking up at you with his head across your thighs.

God, that smug look on his face. Why did the bastard have to be so cute?

"Okay, this is getting morbid. Shut up and watch the movie." You do your best to scold him, but it's hard to keep up the façade while gently carding your fingers through his hair.

"Make me."

Without hesitation, you slap your free hand over his mouth. His eyes widen for a moment, the smug look replaced with... something else.

Muffled noises come from his mouth as he attempts to speak through your hand, but you just laugh and continue petting him.

That is, until you feel his tongue on your hand.

"You're lucky you look so pitiful, Danforth, or I'd push you off the couch." You grumble, wiping your hand off on his shirt as he smirks up at you.

"Pitiful?" He scoffs, shoving your hand away from his chest.

"Yeah, sad and pitiful. You're a mess." You taunt him a bit, but your words are just as soft as the gentle touches you've been giving him.

Derek straightens best he can while lying your lap. "I'm not pitiful." He grumbles. "Stop pitying me."

His little act gets another chuckle out of you.

"It'll be easier if you stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"With those puppy eyes."

Derek's brow furrows, and he frowns up at you while you tug at his curls.

"I have puppy eyes?"

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

Derek spends the rest of a movie in a blissed-out state on your lap. Physically, his body is a wreck. He feels weak, shaky, and all-around ill.

But emotionally? He's giddy. The way you've been treating him lately... there's no way you don't like him.

Fuck, no, don't jump to conclusions. Just ask. Yeah. Simple.

As the credits roll, Derek finally works up the courage to speak up.

"Why do you put up with me?" He asks, shifting to look up at you while his head rests against your thigh.

You pause mid-way through stroking his hair, and Derek is scared you might be able to hear how fast his heart is beating. He can sure hear it, at least.

"What do you mean, love?" You finally respond, untangling your fingers from his curls and setting your hand aside.

That makes him groan out loud. See? Exactly that sort of thing. Always calling him love. It drives him crazy.

"You're just so damn nice to me." He sighs, tossing his head back slightly and closing his eyes.

"Oh? Should I be mean?"

"Maybe." He lets out an amused huff, but there's a twinge of bitterness in his voice. It isn't really a joke. You're just too nice. He doesn't deserve it.

You seem to pick up on his shift in attitude, because you start running your fingers through his hair again.

"It's my job to take care of you, you know. At least for the next... 17 days or so."

Right. Your job. Derek can't help but sigh. He finally finds someone who seems to be interested in him for reasons that aren't monetary... but only because his mother is literally paying them.

"Oh, don't be like that." You scold him, and start to nudge him off your lap.

Derek takes the hint, sitting up. Before he can stew over your words further, he feels you pulling him into an embrace.

The angle is slightly awkward, with his back against your chest and his head resting on your shoulder, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

"Stop... you're gonna make me soft." He grumbles, but makes absolutely no effort to stop your arms from wrapping around him. He melts back into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

From this close, he can smell your perfume. He's caught a whiff of it a few times before, usually when you get up close and personal with him in the kitchen. It's a soft, sweet, floral scent. Extremely different than the expensive, in-your-face scents of most women in his social circle. He's started associating the smell with comfort.

"Maybe that's my plan." You muse, giving him a tight squeeze before finally letting him go.

If only you knew just how well it's working.

・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・・・・・・○・

"Stop! You're getting sand everywhere!" You swat at Derek as he accidentally kicks sand onto the blanket you've spent nearly ten minutes arranging.

"It's a beach, sweetheart. There's gonna be sand." He scoffs, but carefully brushes off his legs before returning them to the large quilt.

After dinner, you'd realized you accidentally let him go an entire day without going outside. So, you'd dragged him out to go stargazing with nothing more than a blanket and a couple of flashlights.

"There's a difference between lying on top of it and being buried in it." You elbow him as he gets just a little bit too close. There's plenty of room for you to both stretch out, why does he have to be so clingy?

"I'm cold." He whines, grabbing at your arm.

"I told you to bring a jacket."

"I didn't think you were serious?! What kind of a beach is cold?"

You roll your eyes at him. It's not even cold, honestly. Just a bit brisk. There's a soft breeze coming from the ocean, smelling slightly of salt.

"Just cover up with the blanket."

"It's covered in sand."

"And who's fault is that?"

"..."

"Please?"

You finally turn to look at him, and you can feel yourself giving in almost immediately. God damn it. There's no way this man didn't know he had puppy eyes. Fuckin' manipulator.

"Fine. C'mere."

Derek scoots closer and you throw an arm around him, letting him rest his head on you.

You both lay like that for a while, staring up at the sky and listening to the soft crashing of the waves.

The moon is full tonight, illuminating the seemingly endless sand and water. There's a forest made of palms and ferns off to the side, and the leaves all ripple in the breeze.

"It's really pretty." Derek finally sighs, eyes still looking skyward.

"I know. You can actually see all the stars out here. In the city it's harder... light pollution or something." You shrug, making his head bob slightly as it rests on your shoulder.

Derek just hums in agreement. Poor thing. He looks exhausted, even though he slept until midday.

"Hey, don't fall asleep on me now. Not sure I could carry you back."

"I won't... promise..." He yawns and scoots a little closer, his arm reaching over and wrapping around your waist.

You should probably push him off, but damnit... he just looks so peaceful.

You rest your free arm on his, keeping him glued to you. It feels nice, all of it. His warmth, the cool breeze, the sound of the ocean, the twinkling stars... fuck. He's really growing on you.

Derek doesn't keep his promise, falling asleep in minutes.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────

Author's note: This chapter took FOREVER!! There were just so many different directions I could have taken the story from the last chapter. Hope y'all enjoyed the one I ended up with!! It was mostly fluff, I know... but Derek is just so cute. I can't help it.

Thanks so much for being patient, and for all the kind comments & asks!!! Feel free to send in literally anything, I don't get many messages in my inbox.

Part 5

[gennyanydots]

Forced to go to the strip club

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x spitfire!wife

Part of the “Spitfire Universe”

Not necessary to read the other parts but helpful.

Summary: It’s Bob’s bachelor party and their babysitter cannot handle them. Reinforcements must be called in. Reinforcements are sleepy.

“Hello?” You say as you answer the phone sleepily. Who the fuck would be calling at this time? What time was it anyway? You went to bed way later than normal and you feel like you were pretty asleep so it’s got to at least be 2 in the morning or something.

“Is this Mrs. Hangman?” A male voice, that you don’t recognize, on the other line asks. You laugh at that. You didn’t realize when you married Jake you were actually gaining two new names instead of one. You were expecting Jake to be the one calling since his name came up on your phone when you looked for half a second before answering. Whoever this is must have gotten a hold of Jake’s phone somehow.

“Yes, this is she,” you say with a yawn.

“Hi, umm, this is Bob’s cousin. I was the designated babysitter tonight and umm I was told well uhhhh,” the man trails off, clearly trying to figure out how to describe whatever is happening to you.

“You were told what?” You ask. Tonight was Bob’s bachelor party. You figured that the squad would be getting into some sort of shenanigans, hence the need for a babysitter. You specifically didn’t ask any questions. You didn’t want to know. You also didn’t want to have to answer questions when you went out for the bachelorette party tomorrow night. So you knew literally nothing about what your husband and his friends were doing. Bob’s wife to be had come over along with Natasha and the three of you spent the evening watching trashy tv shows together while painting your nails and doing face masks to look your best for the tomorrow night. A girls night in before the girls night out. Plus, someone had to stay home with Eli and Radar. Jake’s on kids duty tomorrow.

The three of you ended up going to bed around midnight, way past your normal bedtime. Natasha passed out first on your couch before you lead Bob’s girl upstairs to the guest bedroom. Usually you try to go to bed at the same time as your son, you feel like you should have tonight since you knew he’d be up at 5 just like normal, only you would be the one getting up with him instead of Jake. You were not looking forward to that. Damn your husband for his early morning runs. You wish you would have taken Penny up on her offer to watch Eli tonight for you so you could have a stress free night in and a nice morning to sleep in tomorrow so you’re well rested for the fun.

“ Umm, you see, Bob told me earlier that if I uhh couldn’t umm,” the man trails off again. How long does this man expect this conversation to last? You have sleeping to do and you’re moving past being annoyed straight into being pissed off at this man.

You roll your eyes and huff, “Give the phone to Rooster.” You figure Bob’s cousin wouldn’t know who Bradley was if you used his real name. Bradley’s the easiest to distinguish from everyone else. Easy to spot.

“I don’t remember which one that is,” the man replies. Of course he didn’t. That would have been too easy for you.

You sigh, why did it have to be your husband doing something dumb, “Hawaiian shirt.”

“He’s drunk.” At a bachelor party? Shocking. You would have never guessed. You’re gonna lose it on this man. You really are.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is. He’ll at least tell me what’s going on without pussyfooting around so please hand the phone to the very tall man with a mustache wearing the obnoxious shirt before I start yelling at you and wake up my baby,” you say, very quickly losing your patience.

“Yes ma’am,” he says before you hear the background noise get louder until you hear Bradley say, “Why are you handing me a phone? I have my phone. It’s not mine!” to Bob’s cousin and then some mumbling.

Finally you hear Bradley say, “Hello?”

“Bradley,” you say.

“Hey! Hangman’s been talking about you! Hey Hangman! It’s your wife! Hi hangman’s wife. How are you? We miss you!” Bradley says, all a little too loudly.

You laugh, “Hi Bradley. I’m good. How are you? Miss you too.”

“I’m so good. I’m having so much fun. Not as much fun as your husband though.”

“How much fun is he having?” You ask.

“So much fun,” Bradley says laughing.

You roll your eyes, at least you’re getting farther than you had with Bob’s cousin. Bradley is at least answering you, “What’s he doing? Where are you guys?”

“He’s dancing on the stripper pole! Very badly. He’s bad at this. I’m sorry your husband can’t dance. I’ll teach him if you want. I’m surprised Coyote’s best friend is this bad at dancing,” Bradley says. You’re starting to hear a slur to his voice.

“It’s okay. He’s usually better when he’s not drunk like that,” you explain.

“He’s really, really drunk, me too, but he’s like bad really drunk. If he spins much more he’s gonna throw up. Gross. I don’t want to see that. We should have someone come get him,” Bradley says then you hear him gasp, “I should call his wife! She’ll come get him.”

You shake your head as you listen to him and wonder exactly how much alcohol is in his system, “I’ll come get him.”

“Oh my God did I call you with my mind?! I don’t remember calling you! I’m magic! I knew it!” Bradley says, excitedly.

“Sure Bradley, you’re magic. I need you to text me where you are so I can come get him, okay?” You ask.

“Okay. I gotta use my phone. This isn’t my phone. I don’t even know whose it is. The background is you and your son. Weird. That’s creepy. Honey, I think you have a stalker. I’ll protect you. Don’t worry. Nobody will get you or Eli on my watch. Uncle Rooster will protect you both!”

“My hero,” you say and yawn again. “Okay, Bradley take out your phone.”

You hear shuffling and then hear, “Okay. Done.”

“Good job. Now I need you to share your location with me.”

You hear a few taps then receive a notification from his phone then hear, “Boom! Crushed it!”

You laugh then smile, “Perfect. You did so good, Bradley. So proud. I’ll see you soon, okay? Don’t leave, none of you, until I get there. That poor man Bob put in charge did not sound like he had you all under control. Lord knows you’re all a handful and a half. Bye Bradley.”

“Bye bye!”

You hang up and stretch your arms over your head. This isn’t what you wanted to be doing. You wanted to sleep. You don’t want to go to a strip club to corral a group of drunk men, including your husband, and get them all to leave. This wasn’t your job. You weren’t on Dagger duty, and yet, here you were pulling on a pair of sweatpants and throwing on a sweatshirt to get in the car. Why wasn’t Pete babysitting? Unless he’s also there and drunk off his ass. Or maybe he’s sick of them after being with them all week and instead stayed home for some peace and quiet. Smart man.

You tiptoe into the guest bedroom and quickly but quietly wake the soon to be Mrs. Floyd to let her know what was happening. You couldn’t see well in the dark but you’re sure she rolled her eyes at the situation then held her hand out for the baby monitor. Thank goodness for friends who get it. You handed it to her with a quiet, “Thanks, I’ll be back soon! Hopefully.” before you quietly went down the stairs and slipped your feet into some flip flops.

You just grabbed your keys and wallet and stuck them in your hoodie pocket along with your phone. It felt weird not taking a diaper bag with you for once. You quietly went into your garage and open the door to get your car out. You really hope the noise doesn’t wake up Eli or Natasha who had still been snoring on the couch. You grab some water bottles from the garage fridge and toss them onto the front passenger seat as you get in your car and soon you’re on your way to the strip club. Thankfully it was only about 15 minutes from your house so it doesn’t take long for you to get there.

You park your car and climb out then head to the door. The bouncer looks at you funny but doesn’t question you as you hand him your ID. He checks it and hands it back as he tells you to have fun. You roll your eyes. Does it look like you’re there to have fun? You’re pretty sure your hair is a mess and you might even have pillow marks on your face still. If anything he probably thought you were some jealous wife coming down here in a blaze of fury but that’s not the case at all. You have no problem with strip clubs. You couldn’t care less that your husband is here. These women and some men potentially are just doing their job. Your only problem is you’re here when you want to be fast asleep. You’re pretty sure if the guys don’t immediately listen to you that the party is over that you’re going to have a full on temper tantrum. You’ve watched your toddler have enough of them so you’re basically an expert.

You look around and don’t find anyone who looks familiar. You spot a waitress and quickly walk over to her and ask where a bachelor party might be. She points you towards the VIP room and you thank her before heading in that direction.

There’s another bouncer in front of the door who stops you before you can enter and you just sigh, “Listen, you close in like a half an hour. It’s probably going to take me that long to round up all those guys in there and convince them it’s time to go home. Do you want to deal with their drunk asses and it take you three times as long for you to get them to listen or do you want me to do it and I’ll have them outta here in no time? Because if you want to then by all means go ahead. I’ll go back home and go back to sleep. My son is going to be up in like three hours. If you don’t want to then I’m gonna need you to let me through so I can collect them. I promise you I know them all. This is Robert Floyd’s bachelor party.”

The bouncer nods and holds the door open for you, “Yes ma’am. I apologize ma’am.”

You nod at him and walk in to a mess. There are guys everywhere. A couple you don’t know. One very scared looking man by the small bar. You assume that’s Bob’s cousin. You head over to the bartender, completely ignoring Bob’s cousin, and ask them to turn the room’s music off which they do as you stand on a chair you find. Once the musics off, immediately you hear a bunch of groans and hey’s and you roll your eyes. Whiny babies.

“Hey!” You yell to get their attention.

They all turn to look at you and you take the site in. Bob has a bra hanging from his neck and lipstick kisses on his cheek, you quickly take out your phone and snap a couple shots of that. Bradley’s Hawaiian shirt is inside out. Your husband is holding onto a stripper pole leaning backwards, couple pictures of that one too. Javy was getting a lap dance but the stripper stopped when you yelled, picture of that. Mickey was on Rueben’s back for some very odd reason, picture of that one. Logan and Billy were seated on a couch, double fisting some beers. And both Brigham and Neil have their heads down at the bar and you took a picture of that too. The men you don’t know were all scattered about amongst the others. You honestly expected worse but it didn’t sound like Bob’s cousin could handle anything worse.

When the men all see you there are excited shouts.

“Hangman! That’s your wife!”

“Baby!”

“Mom’s here!” (That one made you roll your eyes but you’re not surprised)

“Oh no! We got caught!”

“I know you!” (Yes Logan, you two have met many times.)

You shake your head at the lot of them.

You put a single finger to your lips until they all quiet down, “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to do this step by step.”

The men all nod at you. Good. You didn’t feel like dealing with any defiant little assholes.

“First! Whatever dollar bills you brought with you for tonight need to be given to the nice ladies who took their clothes off for you. And you’re going to thank them for their time. Bob give back the bra.”

Bob immediately blushed bright red and the men all proceeded to follow your directions, even making sure to thank them. One man walked up to you and held his money out and you shook your head, “Not me you dumbass.” You pointed him towards one of the strippers and sighed, these guys are going to have to make it up to you. You’re taking an extra long nap tomorrow and someone had been watch your son. You feel something around your waist and look down to see your husband has wrapped his arms around you.

“Good job, now number two, you’re going to all cash out at the bar. Get your cards back. We’re not leaving our credit cards here. Make sure you tip,” you say gesturing to the bar.

Jake reluctantly lets you go before following your directions. This step takes them all a while and you end up sitting down on the chair until the bartender gives you a thumbs up and Jake is back to standing as close to you as he possibly can.

You stand back up and your husband wraps his arms back around you, “Okay third step, look around you for trash. If there are cups take them to the bar-“

The bartender interrupts you, “We can handle that. Don’t worry. It’s our job.” You shoot him a glare and he immediately holds his hands up in surrender and says sorry.

“- Like I was saying, if there are cups take them to the bar. If there’s trash there’s a trash can in the corner. We aren’t leaving this place a mess.”

The men all get to work quickly and it doesn’t take long before everything is picked up and vaguely looking clean. To get Jake to listen this time you had to push him off you and point at some trash before he sighed and picked it up and threw it away then returned to his spot.

“Fourth step, make sure you have your wallet, phone, and keys and/or anything else you brought with you. Like a sweatshirt or a hat.”

Everyone immediately starts patting their pockets and nodding. You tap Jake’s shoulder to get him to let go then sit back down and turn to Bob’s cousin, “What was the plan for afterwards. Are they going somewhere? Is there a way to get them to wherever?”

Bob’s cousin shrugged, “We rented a limo to get here and I think the plan was to Uber back to wherever you were staying for the night.”

You shake your head at him, “You think or you know? You’re the worst babysitter. You should know the plan.”

Bob’s cousin hangs his head and apologizes.

You look around before finding Bob and quickly yell his name, gesturing for him to come over to you.

“Hi, Mzzz Hangman. Whass zup?” He says slurring this words.

“What are you doing after this?” You ask.

He scrunches his face for a minute or so before going, “Oh! Theresssa limo to take us to tha hotel and then we go to sleep and then brunch and then more sleep at homes.”

You laugh listening to him, “Thanks. Knew I could count on you.”

Bob beams at the praise.

You stand back up, once again Jake holds onto your legs, “Fifth step, nicely walk out to the limo and get in to go back to the hotel. Mr. Competent over here,” you point to Bob’s cousin, “Will give you further instructions when you accomplish that. I better get a good report for him or I’m gonna be mad at you all!”

That ones followed by most of the men saying a quick, “Yes ma’am.” before they started their journey to the parking lot.

You stop at the little bar and leave Bob’s phone number with them in case anything gets left behind.

You follow after the others and stop at the limo to make sure they’re all accounted for, which they are, except one. You look over at your car and see Jake leaning against it with his hands in his pockets.

You turn to Bob’s cousin, “Do not lose them. Have them drink water. Get them straight to their rooms. They should all pass out. I’m taking mine with me so you have one less. You’re lucky.” You turn to the others, “Be good! I want a good report saying you were on your best behavior!” You’re answered with a bunch of giggles as you pat the top of the limo and shut the door.

You unlock your car and watch Jake scramble into the passenger seat. You laugh and walk over, getting into the driver seat, “Did you think I wouldn’t let you come home?”

He shook his head and pouts, “I don’t wanna play with my friends anymore. I want my wife. I want to sleep in my own bed. I want my puppy. I want my baby.”

You laugh and lean over to kiss his cheek, “My poor, sweet husband, forced to go out and spend time with his friends. Didn’t have any fun. Definitely didn’t enjoy getting drunk and seeing mostly naked women.”

His mouth breaks out into a goofy grin, “That was nice but I would much rather see you mostly naked because then I could just make you the rest of the way naked.”

You laugh and shake your head, “Okay, let’s go home. If you want your baby so much you can get up with him.”

Jake perks up, “I can?! I miss him! We’re gonna play so much!”

“You say that now. When he wakes up in two and a half hours you’re going to be so sleepy,” you say as you start the car and start driving home.

Jake shrugs, “Worth it. I’m sleeping with the baby monitor. I’m getting up with my baby. I don’t care what sleepy Jake says. I promise I’m getting up.”

And surprisingly that’s exactly what sleepy Jake did in three hours when your son woke up. How nice of him to sleep in a half hour.

The bachelorette party

[vigilvntes]

Vigilante Hotline - Adrian Chase x Reader

A/N: hi. my brain works in mysterious ways and i had this idea earlier on when i responded to an ask and now here we are, three hours later with a silly little vigilante fic. it's literally just text interactions, vig's texts are the ones that end with 🧜‍♂️ (obviously). but yeah. i had a lot of fun writing this, and i'll be SO happy to write more if y'all want it?? idk. anyway enjoy i guess!

Warnings: mentions of groping/non-consensual touching (grabbing ass, etc), creepy men, mentions of violence/injuries, language (are we surprised), and just vig being generally unhinged as always. (let me know if i've missed anything!!)

Word count: 2.9k. oops.

Summary: You text in to Vigilante's 'Vigilante Hotline' after a bad encounter at the club.

likes, comments and rbs are very much appreciated <3

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ

You've heard of it, of course you have. It's the town's worst kept secret. The little side hustle that Evergreen's favourite local murderer-slash-vigilante (who's conveniently named Vigilante) runs at the weekend, when the clubs and bars are busy and the creepy assholes come out to play, preying on and harassing unsuspecting victims who, by the end of the night, are probably too drunk to even remember their faces when they wake up.

The cops know about it, too. They've made weak attempts to shut down his operation over the last couple of months, but really he's doing them a favour. They're already in over their heads with calls when the Friday night crowd hits the town's nightlife, so why not just let him operate under their noses? At least, for now. Until they can apprehend him.

So, yeah. You know of it, but you've never utilised it before, because truthfully you've never really had a reason to. You like to party, but your nights out are usually spent with your girlfriends, keeping a close watch on each other and avoiding interactions with men who look like they're bad news like the plague. It's a system that works, one that keeps you out of trouble and away from bad pick-up lines and hands where you most definitely don't want them to be.

Tonight is different, though.

Your friend bailed on you at the last second, a family emergency, and you were already dressed up, so you decided that instead of wiping off your makeup and changing back into your sweats, you'd go out anyway. What's the worst that could happen?

You soon found out that the worst came in the form of Brett Lucas. A guy you knew in high school, someone you haven't spoken to in years. He found you at the bar, used the shittiest lines you've ever heard, and then bought you a drink. You decided to entertain it, because if he was willing to fund your night, then why not? You kept your hand firmly over your drink while he made derogatory jokes about other women and commented on your body and your dress. When he asked you to dance, you agreed, hoping you'd be able to lose him on the crowded dance floor.

That didn't happen, though. Instead, he got a little too touchy-feely, kept his hands firmly on your hips and pulled your body close to his until he got brave enough to slide them on to your ass and squeeze. Hard. You freaked out, told him to back the fuck off, and instead of showing any remorse, he cussed you out. Called you a fucking slut and told you that you're a bitch for leading him on and making him think he had a chance at getting into your pants.

Now, you're standing just down the street from the club, staring at the oddly professionally made poster that's been flimsily taped to a lamppost, a little picture of the all-too familiar masked man that you've seen on the news and wanted posters right in the middle.

Vigilante Hotline

Have you been a victim of a fucking creep in a club who just won't leave you the fuck alone?

Did the guy at the bar use his worst pick-up line and then immediately assume that you're into him and it's okay to touch you without your consent?

Do you wish you could fuck them up without having to face the consequences yourself?

It's your lucky day, because I can fuck them up for you!

Text their name and/or a description to the number below and I'll make them wish their mom swallowed!

(This part is just to cover my ass so, if I accidentally beat up or kill the wrong person... my bad!)

You chew down on your bottom lip, looking between your phone and the poster. You've never really been a vengeful person, you've never wished harm on anyone or caused harm to anyone, but in this moment, it's tempting. You're a little bit tipsy, irate and unsettled. The one night you decide to go out on your own, and this happens? It's a little too tempting.

But is what happened enough to contact a guy who's known and wanted for murder? Is what he did enough to warrant the beatdown of a lifetime?

You sigh to yourself before slipping your phone back into your purse, deciding that it's not worth it. But as you begin to walk away, you remember his loud, jarring cackle whenever he cracked himself up at his own shitty jokes. The way his eyes never met yours, always trained on your chest or your thighs. His gross, sweaty hands roaming all over your body before they went to grope you on the dance floor, thinking you wouldn't react because you were surrounded by other people and it'd be too embarrassing for you to make a scene.

No. Fuck it. That asshole deserves it.

You spin around quickly and pull out your phone, adding the number to your contacts and quickly typing out a message, sending it before you can even give yourself another second to think it through.

'Hey. First time texting in. Need some help. Brett Lucas. White blonde dyed hair. Awful beard, doesn't match his hair. Around 5'9. Wearing a pink shirt and black jeans. Got handsy with me. Grabbed my ass on the dance floor. Don't kill. Just rough him up a little, please.'

You don't even have a minute to breathe before your phone pings. Fuck. Alright. He's fast.

'Sick. A first time user. Happy to help. Where can I find him? 🧜‍♂️'

'He was in Dazy Nights, downtown. You know where that is?'

30 seconds pass. Your phone pings again.

'Yep. Got it. Thank god for GPS. Don't worry, first timer. I'll fuck him up the ass so hard his he'll wish he'd never even been born, as advertised. Not literally, though. I'm not gonna actually fuck him up the ass. That'd be weird. But not because I'm homophobic. My dad is gay. More because he's a creep and he touched you inappropriately. 🧜‍♂️'

"What..." You mumble under your breath as you read the text, an incredulous giggle escaping you. This guy, whoever he is, is seriously fucked in the head, you decide. A little funny, too. But you can't complain too much. You contacted him, you made the choice to text his number and incite some indirect revenge. So you just shake your head, and text back.

'Thank you. I appreciate it. Again, don't kill. Just get him good.'

'Noted! No problemo. But if you ever do need me to kill, don't hesitate to ask, first timer. Seriously, I'm so down for it. Guys like that deserve it. 🧜‍♂️'

You decide to cut the conversation there, sliding your phone back into your purse. You feel a little sick to your stomach as you walk yourself home, guilt and regret stalking you the entire way, following you into your home and crawling into bed with you.

But as you lay there, wide awake, you remind yourself of what he said. Guys like that deserve it. And maybe he's right. Maybe this is for the best, maybe next time fucking Brett will think twice before making unwanted advances. Maybe you've saved someone else from the suffering the same fate as yourself at his hands.

That thought helps you sleep a little easier.

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Monday rolls around quicker than you'd have liked it to, and all you've been able to think about over the weekend is that short conversation you had with Evergreen's own Vigilante a few nights ago. You spent all of Saturday morning re-reading the messages. Saturday night was spent in front of the TV, with some rom-com you've been meaning to watch playing as background noise while you thought about the messages. Sunday, you tried to distract yourself. You went out for brunch with a few friends, but as soon as you made it through your front door, your mind wandered right back to him and that silly little mermaid emoji that made his threats of murder seem a little lighter.

You wonder if he actually did it; whether he made good on his promise to fuck him up so badly that he'd be wishing he was never born. Part of you hopes he did, that he managed to find that fucker before he made it home and gave him a beating he'll never forget. The other part of you hopes that he missed out on the opportunity, if only to subside the quiet, yet nagging, guilty conscience in your head.

Work is a welcome distraction from the weekends events. Deadlines that need to be met, lunch with your co-workers, and your micro-managing boss that never seems to leave you the fuck alone when you're trying to do your job. It's all incredibly exhausting and boring, but at least it gives you the chance to take your mind off of what happened at the weekend, and the masked vigilante that's been invading your thoughts all weekend.

You haven't thought about it all day, until you pull up to the grocery store after work, and you see him. Brett.

He hasn't seen you, you're safely locked away in your car, but you can see him. He's standing outside the store, cigarette in hand, talking to a guy who you can only assume is one of his friends – he looks like he's just as much of an asshole as Brett. From where you're parked, you can see the shiner of a black eye on his face, dark blue bruising that extends to his forehead. There's numerous cuts and scrapes on his cheeks, and it's looks like his lips have been completely bust up.

It makes you feel slightly ill, looking at him, knowing that you're the one behind this. But at the same time, you can't help but smile to yourself, feeling weirdly... satisfied.

You grab your bag and pull out your phone, unlocking it and scrolling through your texts until you find the chat with the contact you've named 'VH'. You stare at your screen for at least a minute, re-reading the short conversation from Friday night over and over again. You want to text him. Hell, you've found yourself wanting to text him again all weekend, and you can't quite seem to place your finger on why that is. What would you even say to him? 'Hey, thanks for doing at great job at fucking up that guy's face, I really appreciate it'?

With a sigh, you lock your phone, trying to kick the urge to converse with a vigilante to the curb. But before you know it, you're typing in your password again and sending him a 'Hey'.

You keep the chat open, but you make a point out of looking away from the screen, hoping that if you don't look, he'll reply faster. Minutes pass by, and you're slightly disappointed by the absence of the jarring pinging of your notification bell. Then you remember that he probably has a life outside of being Vigilante. He's most likely just a normal guy, with a normal job and friends and family, he probably doesn't spend all of his time checking whatever burner phone he uses to run the hotline.

Just as you're about to lose hope that he'll respond, your phone pings.

'Woah, hey. First timer's a second timer already? Did you get yourself into trouble just so you could talk to me? 🧜‍♂️'

It pings again, a few moments later.

'For the record, that was a joke. If you're in trouble again, I'm sure it's not your fault and I'm more than happy to help. Though I gotta remind you that I usually only do this hotline stuff on weekends, but I'd be more than willing to extend my hours. For you. What can I do for you? 🧜‍♂️'

You feel your face heat up, a grin beginning to creep across your lips as you read the two texts. 'For you'. That's oddly sweet. He's oddly sweet. You know what he's done, you know he kills people. You've heard the whispers around town, stories from the people who've been lucky enough break the law and survive one of Vigilante's attacks. Yet you can't help but be taken in by how... charming he is. Sure, this is only the second conversation you've had with him, but he's been so kind. Funny, too, in his own way.

The rush you get from texting him is intoxicating, and it only makes you want more. So you type out a response, and hit send.

'Nothing! I didn't get in trouble again. I wouldn't want you working overtime for me. But I did wanna talk to you. Just to say thank you for what you did for me. I saw Brett. You got him good. Gave him a real shiner of a black eye.'

Just a minute later.

'HA. Yeah. You should have seen it. He took a real beating. He cried like a fucking BABY. Begged me not to kill him. I made him apologise for harassing women, too. It was HILARIOUS. You were right about the beard, btw. Definitely makes him look even more of an asshole🧜‍♂️'

You're surprised to see a video loading up on your screen.

'He definitely didn't mean it, life or death situations call for desperate measures I guess. But at least you can laugh at him and his stupid fucking face. 🧜‍♂️'

Although you're hesitant to press play, you do so anyway. There, on your screen, is Brett. Beaten and bloody, begging for his life, and apologising through his tears for being a creep. Saying sorry for using bad pick-up lines, and objectifying women's bodies, and... groping asses on the dance floor. You freeze up when you hear that, a wave of panic washing over you. Does he... does he know that you're the one that sent Vigilante after him? Fuck. You didn't even consider the possibility that he'd put two and two together and figure out that it was you who texted in. You have to know if he knows, if Vigilante mentioned anything specific about why he went after Brett.

'You're right. That's funny. But I need to ask you something.'

'Anything! 🧜‍♂️'

'Does Brett know that I'm the one who texted you? Did you mention anything about me or what happened?'

You chew on your bottom lip as you await a response, and when you read his reply, you're more than relieved.

'Nah. I didn't say anything. I wouldn't. Vigilante-client confidentiality, and all that. He was the one that mentioned names. A whole list of them, actually. Kinda concerning how many women he named that could've been the one to contact me about him.🧜‍♂️'

'Okay. Cool. I guess I just never thought of the consequences of texting in. I didn't consider that maybe he'd know it was me. Had me kinda panicked for a sec.'

'Don't worry, I made it clear that if he ever tried to approach or contact you or any of the other women he named, I'd find out. And I'd kill him for it. You're safe. I got you. 🧜‍♂️'

For what feels like the hundredth time in, you find yourself smiling down at your phone as you read his text.

'Thank you. I appreciate that :). Hopefully you've taught him a lesson. Maybe he'll stay home when the weekend comes around. I think he'd be doing everyone a favour.'

'Hopefully! Listen, I gotta buzz. Work stuff. Not Vigilante work. I only do that stuff at night. Like my actual job kind of work. But I'll talk to you later, first timer. 🧜‍♂️'

'Yeah, of course. Sorry for bothering you while you're at work. And thank you, again.'

You take a deep breath before sending another text.

'My name is (Y/N), btw <3'

'First timer has a name? Fucking sweet. Obviously I know you have a name but you never told me, so in my head I've just been calling you first timer. But now you're (Y/N), which is cool. So talk later, (Y/N)! 🧜‍♂️'

'<3 🧜‍♂️'

You throw your phone on to the passenger seat, like it's burning hot to the touch and it's just scalded you. Did you... did you seriously just send a heart to Vigilante? And did he seriously just send one back? Wait, no. The heart isn't the biggest problem. You just told him your name. Your real name. What if he finds you? What if this whole funny-charming-kind thing is just an act, and you end up bleeding in a dark alley within a month?

"Fuck..." You mumble, leaning your head back against your seat, wondering what the hell you've just gotten yourself into. Wondering if you should just block his number and never think about him again.

It's a stupid idea, getting involved with someone like him. One that could leave you hurt, or dead. Anyone would call you crazy for it. You probably are crazy for it. But that's not enough to deter you from reaching for your phone and grinning down at it when he texts you later that night.

'Hey. 🧜‍♂️'

It's a dangerous game, but one that you're more than willing to play.

[ahonice]

it doesn't matter

jamie drysdale x fem reader (ft. trevor zegras)

word count: 4.3k

warnings: drinking, sexual themes and mentions of sex, cursing, jamie being a fake swiftie (dw that is taken care of), reader has a guilty conscious, fluff (some angst i think), happy ending (those are rare on this blog), not proofread because i accidentally queued this so it posted on its own oops

note: i rewrote this about three times over the past two months, hope you guys are pleased with the final outcome. any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. hope you guys enjoy. have a great day, love y’all babes <3 !!!

+++

“hey you’re single right?” your head shot up at the sound of trevor, one of your closest friends, voice. you had known trevor since you moved to anaheim for college, on your first day in town he accidentally took your coffee from the pickup area at starbuck and you chased him down because you would be damned if you spent ten dollars on an iced coffee that you wouldn’t of been able to drink. it would’ve been a lie if you said you didn’t have a crush on him, he was so funny and kind and not to mention the fact that he is genuinely gorgeous, but you never acted on anything because you were worried he wouldn’t reciprocate your feelings, and the fact that the two of you have had one too many drunken, and a couple sober, hookups didn’t help either.

“of course i am, or else what we did last night would’ve been morally wrong, why?” your heart rate picked up, thoughts running a mile a minute. was he about to ask you out? did he actually like you back the way you dreamed he did? was our relationship finally gonna be something more than friends who fuck at times?

“i wanna set you up with my roommate, jamie. i think you guys would like each other.”

+++

it was a crushing blow, not only did trevor just inadvertently just tell you your feelings are one sided, but that they are so one sided that he thinks his roommate would be a better match for you than himself. you felt sick to your stomach, this was in no way a heartbreak, but that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.

“earth to y/n.” trevor’s voice shook you from your trance, you had completely forgotten he was there. “you good? you haven’t said a word in like five minutes.”

“yeah i’m fine, um who is this guy? i don’t think i’ve heard you talk about a jamie before.” you wanted this to be a joke, for trevor to say he was kidding, maybe jamie wasn’t real and he just wanted to see if i was open to a relationship right now. 

“well he’s on the ducks as well, seems like your type. brunette with blue eyes, he’s got nice eyebrows too, just a couple weeks older than you, i know you don’t like extremely tall guys so him being 5’11 is perfect.” the more trevor went on about jamie the more you realized that jamie was in fact a real person and did seem like my exact type. “he has freckles too, i know you love those on guys and he looks good in the color green, he checks off all your boxes y/n.” you hated that he did. 

“can i see a picture before i agree to anything?” you didn’t want trevor to get suspicious when you said no, so you wanted to seem like you were at least considering it.

“absolutely.” looking over at trevor’s phone you let out a small sound of surprise.

he was gorgeous

“trevor why have you never told me about him before?” you said, grabbing his phone to go through all of his instagram posts. “he is literally beautiful!” 

“i honestly didn’t even think about it, but jamie saw you at our party last week and asked about you and i knew i had to make you two happen.” trevor said, taking his phone back. “come over tonight. we’re having a party before the season starts, you’ll be able to meet jamie.”

+++

it didn’t take you very long to get ready, your hair and makeup having already been done from your errands earlier in the day, but you did struggle picking out an outfit as every twenty year old girl would. you didn’t quite know who it was that you were dressing up for, in previous months it was always trevor. you were always hoping that he would see you and you would end up staying with him until the morning. while that was usually the case, the second part of your fantasy never came true. the part where trevor realizes he has feelings for you that go further than seeing you as a good fuck. but now there was jamie, you hadn’t even met him yet and you were still wanting to impress him. maybe trevor would see you with jamie and it would make him realize his feelings for you. but jamie seemed nice, once trevor left you looked him up and watched a few too many tiktoks and interviews involving him, he seemed like the polar opposite of trevor and that might just be what you need, it also doesn’t hurt that he was just about one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in your life, trevor was not lying when he said that jamie was your exact type. settling on a simple pink top and black jeans you made your way towards the uber trevor had ordered for you, palms sweaty and legs slightly shaking as you confirmed where you were headed before you saw your apartment complex disappear in the distance. 

+++

“y/n thank god you’re here, i was starting to think you were pussying out.” trevor loudly yelled as he approached you, great he was already at least three drinks in. “catch up” he said once he was standing in front of you, handing you a beer. 

“i don’t drink this crap, you know this.” you said, shaking your head as trevor silently continued to push the can in your face.

“fine, i bought you some caymans. they’re in the garage fridge, but don’t take too long, jamie is excited to meet you.” you ignored the way his eyebrows wiggled as you began walking towards the garage.

once you were in there you grabbed two drinks, just so you wouldn’t have to come back out for at least half an hour, as well as a shooter. you needed the liquid confidence that would come from the tiny bottle of pink whitney. 

once you made your way back into the party you walked around looking for trevor, stopping a couple of times to greet those you knew, before you found him sitting with the man of the hour.

“y/n! come here, meet jamie.” trevor waved you over, you took a generous sip of the alcohol in your hand before making your way over, sitting down on the couch. trevor in the middle of us, as he began rambling to no one in particular about something you didn’t quite know, your ears tuning him out as the sound of your heartbeat in your ears took over all your senses. 

“y/n, are you even listening to me?” trevor asked you, gently poking the exposed part of your waist.

“no.” the laugh you heard after that made a bush creep up your neck, jamie’s laugh was just as beautiful as he was.

“rude, anyways y/n this is jamie. jamie, this is y/n.” he motioned the two of you towards each other as he talked, jamie reached in front of him to offer you his hand. “now get to know one another, i’m gonna go play pong.” trevor stood up before you could protest him leaving you alone with jamie.

you expected it to be awkward, but it wasn’t. conversation was flowing between the two of you like you had known each other for years, you talked about the basics, what tv shows you enjoyed, favorite movies, taste in music, which then led to a thirty minute discussion about taylor swift and how jamie claimed he was a swiftie but couldn’t name any songs that weren’t played on the radio

“i have a lot to teach you i guess.” you were definitely making it obvious that you were interested in him, but you didn’t care. you’d usually be so shy around a guy so cute, but something about jamie made you calm, that was the simplest way to put it.

“i would love that.” the blush on his face matched yours. you smiled at him, contemplating whether or not you wanted to ask the question you had been wanting the answer to all night.

“so why have i never seen you around or met you before? i’ve known trevor for almost two years now, and i’m over here quite a lot.” 

“i usually just stay in my room all day, especially during parties, i’m not the biggest fan of them.”

“then why are you out here right now and not bunkered up in your room?”

“i wanted to meet you, to get to know you.” jamie answered, scratching the back of his head and giving you a sheepish smile. “i came downstairs last weekend to grab something from the kitchen and that's when i saw you, i really lucked out that you are friends with trevor or else i probably never would’ve been able to find out who you were.” 

you nodded at his response, informing him that you were glad you were friends with trevor too.

“speaking of him, i was hoping to see him again before i left.” you told jamie, standing up from your spot on the couch noticing his slightly upset expression. “let me give you my number, i would love to see you again, maybe begin my lessons on taylor swift to you.” 

“i would love that.”

+++

after exchanging contact information with jamie you made your way outside towards the pong tables, hoping that trevor would still be out there. 

“hey trevor, i was just about to leave, wanted to say goodbye.” you said approaching him in the dimly lit yard.

“you’re leaving already? i didn’t even get any time with you.” he pouted, resting his chin on your shoulder his arms loosely around your waist. 

“sorry trev, but i got to know jamie. don’t let this get to your head, but i think you might be a pretty good wingman.” you joked, your arms around his neck gently running your hands through the ends of his hair. it wasn’t abnormal for the two of you to be so affectionate, so this felt normal.

“good, i’m glad.” his tone didn’t sound like his statement, but you could easily chalk that up to the alcohol in his system finally wearing him down. 

“why don’t i help you get into bed? basically everyone has left already.” you suggested, forcing his head up to meet yours at your eye level.

he smirked before responding. “i like where this was going.” 

“nothing like that buddy, besides you just set me up with your best friend that wouldn’t be a good idea, don’t you think?”

“that's not fair, you can’t do that.” he mumbled, his head dropping back down into the crook of your neck. “you can’t say you're taking me to bed, and then not take me to bed the way i want you to take me to bed."

you rolled your eyes at his comment and began dragging him back inside and up towards his room. once you wrestled him out of his jeans, giving up on putting pants on him because of his multiple attempts to lure you into bed, you got him to lay down and made sure he was comfortable before you headed downstairs to get some water and pain killers for him to take once he woke up in the morning. 

“goodnight trevor.”

you made your way outside onto the front lawn while you waited for your uber to arrive. you usually would’ve taken trevor up on his offer to spend the night with him, but something about even just thinking about doing that was now making you feel guilty. it wasn’t like you and jamie were in a committed relationship or anything, but he seemed to genuinely like you and was actually interested in getting to know you and you didn’t want to do anything to sabotage that.

+++

from: unknown number

can we meet up today for coffee or lunch? i would love to start becoming a real swiftie.

to: unknown number

am i right in assuming this is jamie??

from: unknown number 

yes 🙃

to: jamie🤭

i would love to meet up.

to: jamie🤭

could we get lunch? i am literally starving because of my hangover.

from: jamie🤭

absolutely. send me your address, i’ll come pick you up. 

+++

you were in full panic mode, you had no idea what to wear and the fact that it was visibly obvious that you were hungover didn’t help at all. you told jamie to give you at least thirty minutes, after he told you that an hour was too long. 

you took the fastest shower you ever have in your life before tackling the biggest issue, your outfit. you went through every drawer, bin, and your closet before you decided on biker shorts and a crewneck. you could only hope that jamie wasn’t planning on taking you somewhere with a dress code. 

makeup was applied and your hair was pulled into a claw clip before jamie texted you that he was outside, you did some final touches before you made your way out of your apartment complex. you lucked out seeing that jamie was in a comfy outfit just like you were. once you were buckled up jamie handed you his phone and told you to pick the music before driving off.

+++

“so what is your all time favorite taylor swift song?” jamie asked once he joined you in the booth you found for the two of you, he had taken you to in and out claiming he was craving a burger, and you didn’t complain because you would never pass up the opportunity to fuck up some animal fries.

“i don’t have just one, i think it is humanly impossible to have just one.” you told him, taking a sip of your lemonade before continuing. “i do, however, have a list of my top sixteen songs by her in no particular order.”

“sixteen songs? that’s insane.” 

“she has over two hundred songs, you’ve got a lot of listening to do.”

“well why don’t you give me your list of songs, the only ones i really care about are the ones you like.” you blushed at his words, before stating all of your favorite songs by her. his only responses were “i don’t know that one, never heard of it, i know that one, wait no i don’t”

once you were done and jamie confirmed all the songs were now added to his spotify you two began eating as you gave him a run down of her career.

“so who is your favorite and least favorite ex of hers?”

“i hope you don’t have plans for the rest of the day because i have a lot to say on this.”

+++

“do you want to get dessert? there is a nice ice cream place a few minutes from here.” jamie asked while you two were walking around huntington beach. you didn’t even realize how long the two of you had been hanging out until he asked if you wanted to get dinner, and now three hours after that when he is now asking to get dessert. 

“yea i would love to.” he smiled down at you and you made the move to hold his hand. “sorry, i hope this is ok, i just wanted to hold your hand.” you blushed, turning your head away from him.

“it’s ok, i wanted to as well.” he blushed as well before he began leading the way towards the ice cream shop. 

+++

“i had a lot of fun today, i was honestly a little nervous that with both of us sober it would be a little awkward, but it wasn’t and i would like to see you again. soon. sorry if that is a bit forward.” you told jamie as he pulled up in front of your apartment.

“i’d like to see you soon too, like tomorrow soon. are you busy tomorrow? we could get dinner, a nice place this time, not that in and out and qdoba aren’t nice it’s just-”

“yea i would love to, just send me the restaurants info before so i can figure out what to wear.”

“you’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear y/n.” you blushed at jamie’s comment before leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. you were quick to get out of the car, yelling a goodbye as you ran into the front doors of your building.

+++

“finally you’re back. where the hell were you? i’ve been here for hours.” 

“how the hell did you get into my apartment trevor?” you asked the boy who was sprawled out across your couch eating your food. “stop eating my wheat thins asshole.”

“i found your spare key, i mean hiding it on the top of the door frame is just a horrible idea y/n.” trevor said as he went back into your kitchen, hopefully to put your snacks away.

“what are you doing her trev?” you asked, taking your shoes off before making your way into the living room.

“where were you? you’re never out late, and i got here at like two and it’s now eleven. did you pick up a shift?” trevor was quick to join you on the couch, grabbing a blanket and throwing it over the two of you.

“no, i was actually with jamie, he picked me up at noon to get lunch and then we spent the whole day together.” you blushed remembering how much fun you had today and how it was the first time in a while that you had enjoyed a date that much.

“oh, i didn’t realize that you two were getting along that well.” trevor said, reaching towards the table to grab the remote. “what the hell did you two talk about for nearly twelve hours? jamie cannot be that interesting of a guy.”

“we started off talking about taylor swift and how he is a fake swiftie, just like you are.” trevor cut you off with a gasp and hit you with the pillow he was using. “and then we talked about our childhoods, stories from school and growing up where we did.” you smiled at nothing, just reflecting on this one story jamie had told you about his worst halloween costume, which you then one upped with your own horrible halloween story. “thanks for pushing me to meet him trevor, i know it’s only been a day but i feel an actual connection with him and i can’t remember the last time i felt that with a guy.” 

+++

you and jamie had been going on dates multiple times a week for the past month now and tonight the team had the night off and jamie was taking you to his favorite restaurant for date night. you weren’t dating, yet, but both you and jamie have spoken about it as something you both want. it’s just up to when the timing is right.

“where is he taking you out tonight?” trevor asked you as he joined you in your bedroom. you called him over to help you pick out an outfit for tonight.

“cortina’s” it wasn’t a black tie restaurant, but it wasn’t a jeans and a tshirt restaurant either. “i was thinking my black leather pants and then a nice top, maybe my pink top with the mesh sleeves?” you were met with silence from your best friend, “hello? earth to trevor.”

“sorry what?” you rolled your eyes before entering the bathroom, changing into the outfit you had in mind. “what do you think?”

“i think that jamie isn’t coming to pick you up for another two hours and that gives us plenty of time to have some fun.” trevor said, wrapping his arms around your waist and giving you open mouth kisses on the exposed skin of your neck down to your shoulder, you let yourself revel in the feeling before you snapped back into your senses.

“trevor stop.” you pushed his arms off of you as you distanced yourself from him. “trevor you can’t do that, we can’t do this anymore.”

“why not y/n? you and jamie aren’t dating, there is nothing wrong with it. it’s been a month and i’m getting frustrated.” he groaned, flopping down onto your bed.

“that is not my issue trev, don’t blame me. i can guarantee that there are at least one hundred girls in your dm’s right now who would be willing to hook up with you, go bother one of them.” you snapped back at him, not in the mood.

“i don’t want some random girl, i want you y/n. aren’t you in the mood even a little bit, it’s been a month for you too.” you avoided his eyes as you made your way to your vanity to begin your makeup. “wait have you been fucking jamie? what the fuck y/n?”

“trevor you have no right to be upset, we are nothing. you were the one who set us up. isn’t this what you wanted?”

“no this isn’t what i wanted, i should’ve just made jamie make a move on his own. if that was the case you would still have no idea who the hell he was because jamie is too much of a little-”

“get out.” you cut trevor off before he could say anything worse. “trevor get out and don’t talk to me until you manage to get your head out of your ass.”

+++

“is everything okay? you seem a bit off.” jamie asked, he was right. after your argument with trevor you had been a bit out of it, the guilt of what you had done with trevor in the past was eating away at you. “could we talk about it later? i don’t want to ruin dinner.” your voice was shaky as you spoke.

“yes of course, but i’m gonna be honest i’m a little worried now.” jamie said, playing with the napkin on his lap. 

“i am too, don't worry.” your attempt at a joke didn’t help, but thankfully the waiter came to take our orders. 

+++

dinner was terrible. 

you two tried your hardest to have everything be normal and how things had been in the past month, but both of you were worried about what you had to say. jamie was scared you were gonna break things off with him, he was already nervous for tonight because he was going to ask to make things official between you two, and now he was even more on edge. while you were worried that after you told him about you and trevor’s past that he would no longer want anything to do with you and would break things off before they even got fully started. 

“so can you tell me what is going on?” jamie asked once you two had exited the restaurant and were sitting in his car.

“i want you to know that this started before i even knew you existed and it stopped the moment i met you.” you took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “trevor and i had been hooking up, for nearly the whole time we were friends, but i swear to you the second i met you i cut it off. i’m really sorry for not telling you sooner, it’s just that i really, really, like you and i didn’t want anything to jeopardize that, even though keeping it a secret probably wasn’t the best alternative.” you looked out the window, avoiding his gaze, afraid of how badly he was judging you right now. “i understand if you don’t want to continue this anymore, you can just drop me off right here and i’ll uber home.”

“y/n. i don’t care.” you finally peeled your eyes away from the reflection of the cars in the side view mirror to see jamie looking at you with a smile. “your previous relationships are none of my business, yes it is a bit uncomfortable that he is my roommate and one of my closest friends, as well as one of yours, but i really, really, like you too so that doesn’t matter to me.” you smiled back at him, a few tears building up in your waterline. “i was actually going to ask you if you wanted to be my girlfriend, and i still want to. so y/n would you make me the happiest man alive and officially become my girlfriend?”

“yes jamie, i would be honored.” you leaned over the center console and kissed his cheek, to not distract him from the road. “it sounds like you proposed jamie.” you laughed. “are things going to be weird around trevor for you?” you hated the idea of being the cause of their falling out, or to have any team problems sprout from this.

“yes.” jamie replied bluntly. “and i’m definitely not the biggest fan of you two hanging out without me there, at least for a little bit, but it’ll all work out. i won’t let it get to me or my game, but the second he makes a comment about you it’s over.”

you giggled before replying with a short “got it.” and placed your hand over his.

“and don’t worry, i never plan on going anywhere without you drysdale. you’re gonna have to start coming to girls' nights too.”

+++

note: i actually rewrote this three times and each time the plot was different, the last version was so much juicer and had so much drama (trevor realized he was in love with reader, but he was too late dun dun DUNNNN) but i cut that out because i couldn’t get the wording right. anyways i hope y’all enjoyed, leave feedback (any and all is appreciated), have a great day, i love y’all babes <3 !!!

[desceros]

Okay I have something of a long post/ask/critical analysis of Symphony AU that I want to address. you're free to ignore it if I'm just spouting off insane copium. Or whatever you want to do with it lol. This is more about the turtles that about the Violist.

First I'm gonna talk about Donnie because he's arguably the easiest one to talk about. And take less time. He spent at the very least 15 years of his life knowing exactly five people, three brothers, his dad, and a bestie/pseudo big sister. They're all people who completely understand/grew up with him. And he's used to people adapting to his needs without having to say anything because he's, well, they're brother/son. Speaking from a purely canon standpoint in Rise you can see it, Raph refuses to tell Donnie they hate his gifts because it'll crush him. Stuff like that. Leo calling him a "weirdo" doesn't really mean much of anything considering he's Donnie's brother, and this is about pineapple on pizza.

This is all to say I see how Donnie just didn't bother communicating this was all for his touch experiment. As far as he's basically aware, she already knew. He wasn't going to read between the lines because he'd grown accustomed to the way his brothers, April, and dads act. Which, in hindsight, bit him in the ass because the violist literally doesn't know him aside from "purple turtle science man".

So. I get him. I get where he's coming from even if it ended up kinda fucking up the violist. That's all part of the learning curve of knowing people who don't already know who you are and whatever.

Now for Leo, maybe this is REALLY just me on my copium life support but I see where he's coming from too. Again, when you look at it from a canon lens I see where Leo is coming from. He's always been protective of his family, even more so than Raph at points. He didn't trust Big Mama immediately, even though the rest of his brothers did. He was perfectly willing and happy to DIE IN THE PRISON DIMENSION to keep his family safe. Like, let's not forget he, as well as the others, has a ton of unchecked trauma that he's definitely not willing to address to anyone. A decade of unaddressed trauma will do things to someone's psyche, intentionally or not. The guilt of almost killing his brothers has been festering inside him for over a decade now, this doesn't really seem entirely like a "my brother touches you and not me >:(" thing.

The way I see it Leo's acting out because he's actually just terrified of someone hurting his family again. It's definitely not okay, and it's condemnable. But as someone who's done some pretty fucked shit when I was dealing with my depression before meds, I've been Leo before. That man needs help, and fast.

We've also seen, from Symphony AU that he's mostly accepted the violist as part of the family now. The comments he makes about her being "Donnie's toy" are, again, things he seems to be saying to get a rise out of Donnie. We know he's been doing that for a while. And I wouldn't really put it past him for continuing to try and do it now that Donnie's not allowed to do his experiments anymore.

I had a way better way of wording this last night but I ended up watching TMNT 1987 instead but to summarize my thoughts, I sympathize with both Leo and Donnie and don't believe either of them are irredeemable monsters. If I'm somehow wrong about Leo and this is all just conduit to getting Donnie and the violist together then I'm gonna be so :(. Mafuyu Main Story chapter 14 even.

Or, again, maybe I'm just coping lol.

oh i'm all about symphony copium. breathe deep, anon-chan, hahahaha

aaaaand in true desceros fashion this got way too long so i'm tucking it under a cut. rolls eyes at myself soooooo hard

you're largely correct, though i will specify that for donnie it's not that he "didn't bother" to communicate what he thought was going on, so much as he thought he did.

i invite you-slash-everyone to read this passage from when the agreement was struck to see what i mean. i've removed all of viola-chan's thoughts and interpretations for you, and left you with just the core of the conversation, color-coded for clarity on who's speaking:

“We have… exhausted the limits of touching that I would perform with most people.”  [...] “…What do you mean?”  “I mean that all of the myriad mechanical touches I have experienced so far in my life, we’ve covered together. [...] I’ve become completely enured to them all, so long as you’re the one doing them. There is, of course, an obvious next step, but I wanted to discuss it before we begin.”  “To… touches you haven’t done?” [...] “Correct." [...] “I… don’t understand." [...] “I’m referring to more… intimate touches. We’ve… already been pushing at the boundary a bit, so I wanted to be very specific and clear." [...]

“I… take it you don’t scent your brothers.” “No, I don’t." [...] “Donnie, I—[...] I like you. You know that, right?”  “You aren’t very good at hiding it, no. [...] I, of course, like you as well, though I’d like to think that has been well demonstrated over our time together.”

[...]"…Intimate touches. [...] Like… what, petting? Kissing? Sex? What are we talking about, exactly?”  “All of it, ideally. [...] I’m quite curious to study how I’ll react, especially considering the whole touch aversion situation.” [...] “…Do… Do you wanna try it? [...] …Us, together, I mean?”  [...] “Really? With… With me?” [...] “Of course, I—[...]Donnie, I… of course. I’d be stupid to say no, right?” “Oh, that’s such a relief. [...] I’ve been making spreadsheets of things I’ve wanted to try for several days and wondering how best to bring it up, especially considering—well. It’s quite helpful that you did so yourself. Excellent work, consultant.” [...] “Well, I’d like to amend our agreement on how turtle time is going to go, from now on in light of all this, [...] We’re partners, now, so we have to take care of each other. [...]” “[...]Very well. If those are your terms for partnership, I accept.”

see how differently it reads without viola-chan's thoughts staining it? stripped of her thoughts, you can easily see where the miscommunication happened. other than a few incidental pieces of dialogue that don't affect the meaning of the convo, this is it.

in donnie's mind, he and viola-chan were very much on the same page. "partnership". "agreement". these are words that viola-chan uses. when he refers to spreadsheets, she just rolls with it. as far as he's concerned, they're talking about a scientific study here. he did communicate, and well. it's just... viola-chan put things there that he didn't. and that's not her fault, because at this point she hasn't picked up on how to communicate with donnie yet. and it's completely rational to assume, when discussing sex and romance and hearing someone say "i like you"--and then going on to kiss and have sex with that person--that it's a romantic relationship. as stated in the fic, my personal opinion (which to be clear, as someone who stands on death of the author, this *is* just my opinion) neither of them did the other ill. they literally just didn't know how to communicate yet. so i 100% agree with you on being able to see donnie's side of this. i have another long-ass ask somewhere in the meta tag discussing the lack of socializing specifically, if you're curious for more of my thoughts on that.

i also agree with you largely with the leo portion of your analysis. i... can't go into as much detail on his side of things, but rest assured that before everything is over, viola-chan and leo are going to have more than one conversation. and the two of them, despite everything, really do mesh well and talk about things, so it'll be a satisfying resolution, i think.

anyway WOW that got way too long but teal deer, i agree and love deep meta-analysis of my stuff so don't apologize in the slighest, yeehaw

[gvfgal]

The Art of Life: Part Four

Part Three

18+, minors evaporate!!

A/n: FINAL PART IS HERE!!! This was a fun cute little series to write, and I’m definitely gonna write a cute little smutty epilogue (because there clearly wasn’t enough in the story). BUT ITS DEFINITELY NOT OVER, I STILL HAVE SOME TRICKS UP MY SLEEVE 😏 But for now, enjoy.

Warnings: Brief mentions of sexual content, little angst, big fat happy ending!

Word Count: 3.5k

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

One month later…

Josh had pretty much accepted the fact that he’d never see you again, other than on the big screen that was waiting to broadcast his film to the hundreds of festival attendees.

He knew what you said that night in your apartment, “we both deserve someone who can be there for us…”, but he was a fool for taking it so literally. That night, your mouth said one thing, but your eyes were telling a completely different story, and it was the one he really should’ve listened to.

But instead, he went and completely ruined the best thing that happened to him, all for some girl that couldn’t even compare to you. It lasted all of a week before they went their separate ways.

It had been a hard month leading up to the festival, Josh getting little sleep due to him putting finishing touches on his project and beating himself up for the careless mistake he made. The look on your face when you saw him at the cafe haunted him whenever he closed his eyes.

He felt drained, all he wanted to do was sleep, but the much anticipated night had finally arrived, so he’d have to hold on just a little while longer.

The field that the festival was being held in was bursting at the seams with life, students, their families, and well known figures in the New York film industry poured in as the various screens scattered about played different projects that his peers worked tirelessly on.

Josh’s family was somewhere in the crowd, and he spent a little time strolling with them before wandering off by himself for a moment of peace and (somewhat) quiet before his showing.

Since they’d arrived a couple days prior, they’d been hounding him nonstop about your whereabouts. He had to admit to them that he’d fucked up, which earned him a nice scolding from his mother, exactly what he needed in the moment. He was trying his hardest to enjoy himself, but he found it very hard to do without your presence.

Josh wiped his sweaty palms on his pants as he sat anxiously behind one of the large screens that was displaying one of his classmate’s projects, his was up next. He didn’t know why, but every couple of minutes, he found himself scanning the crowded field of festival goers in search of your face.

It was stupid, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“There you are,” Jake’s voice called from behind him, causing him to turn abruptly.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you, why'd you run off?”

“Just needed some air,” Josh sighed.

Jake sat in the cool metal chair beside him and took a bite out of the funnel cake he was eating, “what’s going on? Are you nervous or something?”

Josh shook his head, for some reason, he wasn’t nervous at all.

Silence lingered for a moment, then Jake spoke again, “it’s y/n, isn’t it?”

Josh looked at his far too smart twin, then dropped his head into his hands, “I fucked up Jake, big time. And I don’t think this is something I can come back from,” he looked back towards him, “how did I manage to fuck up this badly?”

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but one of the sophomore film students came zipping around the corner, “Josh, you’re up in five.”

He sent the girl a thumbs up, then turned his attention back to Jake, who was offering him a sympathetic grin.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it too much. It’s life, everyone fucks up once or twice. And if you’re a Kiszka, that number doubles automatically.”

They both laughed a little before Jake gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “but you’ll also never know what will come of the situation if you don’t at least see.”

He stood from his chair, “blessesed are those who ask the questions, brother,” he spoke in a Shakespearean manner, “or something like that anyway.”

The rest of his funnel cake was finished in one bite, and he tossed his trash in a near by bin, silently scolding his brother for choosing a place of refuge directly next to it.

Josh was standing now, and Jake began tugging on his collar, making sure his twin looked as presentable as possible for his big moment.

“I’m gonna go find the bunch, you know you got this, right?”

Josh nodded, and Jake sent him one more firm nod, “see you out there, then.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The crowd applauded as Josh’s professor stepped away from the podium, allowing him to step forward and introduce himself and his film.

His entire family was sat front row, Karen sending him a thumbs up. At the end of the row, there was an empty seat. It was meant for him, but he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to see you sitting there instead.

Josh cleared his throat, “good evening, everyone. My name is Joshua Kiszka, I’m the director of the film you’re about to see, and I just want to thank the festival directors for letting me share my-… our story.”

He could feel his nerves surfacing, his hands beginning to shake as he clutched the mic between them, “This film is something that is very close to my heart. I-it follows the journey of a young art student, who I shamelessly plucked out of the library one rainy morning, and we were stuck like glue from that day forward,” the audience chuckled, “when I met y/n, I was immediately drawn to her. She’s beautiful, yes, and her talent speaks for itself, but what really struck me was her ability to see the beauty in the people and the world around her. She found inspiration in the most unlikely of places, and her art was a reflection of her unique perspective. She herself, is a truly inspiring person, with a passion for creating art that’s contagious. Watching her work was like watching a magician conjur up a spell, each stroke of a brush or pencil adding another layer to the world she was creating.”

His eyes sought out Jake, who gave him another signature nod of his head.

You got this, big brother.

“But y/n is a lot more than just a talented artist. She’s also a person that radiates warmth and kindness,” Josh began smiling to himself, “her smile… it lights up any room she finds herself in, her laughter is so infectious, and it wasn’t long before I found myself falling in love with her.”

He looked down for a moment then back towards the crowd, “unfortunately, I guess life had other plans for us, and though things may not have worked out the way I expected them to, she still continues to inspire me. After filming, when I sat down to piece this film together, I wanted to capture the essence of her spirit and the beauty of her art. But as I worked, I realized this film was more than just about her art, but about the art of living.”

“You see, y/n taught me that life isn’t just about achieving goals and accumulating accolades. It’s about finding joy in the little things, appreciating the beauty of the world, and the relationships we build with others and the experiences we share. She showed me that art isn’t just something you create, it’s something that you live, day in and day out.”

Josh sighed, feeling more relaxed as he saw the smiling faces in he crowd, “so in this film, you’ll get to see y/n’s journey and the impact she had on me. You’ll see how her art reflected her soul, and how her spirit inspired me to live my life with more passion and purpose. To be honest, I didnt know what I was looking for when I set out to make this film, but I ended up finding everything I ever needed. I hope this film can inspire you in some ways, too. I hope you’ll see that love, art, and life, are all intertwined, and that the beauty of it is all around us, waiting to be discovered. Without further ado, I present to you ‘The Art of Life’. Thank you.”

Applause rung out as Josh exited the stage and took a seat next to his mother.

The projector came to life with harsh white light, before the film began rolling.

The first thing to appear on the screen was your face, angelic in so many ways, and when it did, Josh’s heart sank into his stomach. You were sat in front of your gallery of work in a more formal interview style. He remembered that day vividly, it took the both of you from sun up to sundown to complete that section of filming. He smiled at the memory.

“Introduce yourself,” Josh’s voice rang out through the speakers.

You shifted in your seat, “my name is y/n, and I’m an artist.”

It didn’t occur to him until then how much he missed your voice.

“And what does being an artist mean to you?”

Your lips pursed as you digested the question, “well, to be an artist is to see the world with a different set of eyes, to observe every detail and every hue, to capture the essence of beauty and turn it into something new… something more personal…”

As you continued speaking, the scene cut away to a clip of you laughing in your apartment as you worked on a piece, the faint sound of your laughter causing the hair on his arms to stand up straight.

“…but being an artist isn’t just about creating to me, it’s a way of life. As a painter, you’re given this blank slate full of potential, and you’re given all these various tools and options, and you’re tasked with creating something beautiful. Life is the same way when you think about it…”

Another clip from when you two visiting the art gallery on your first day together, you were standing admiring one of the pieces.

“Life, like painting, is full of contrasts, dark shades and bright hues, light and shadows that last. It’s all those imperfections that make it unique…”

You and Josh running through the rainy streets of New York, you with copious ammounts of art supplies in your clutch.

“… so to me, being an artist simply means being alive. Living, learning, growing, experiencing… and creating.”

Josh could feel something stirring inside of him as he watched you on the screen. The film cut to you standing on the windy harbor, and Josh turned to gauge everyone’s reactions. Every eye was glued to the screen as you began speaking. They all seemed to be just as captured by your beauty as he was.

In that moment, there was no doubt in Josh’s mind what he needed to do. He sprang to his feet, moving towards the nearest exit.

Karen gave him a wild look, but his heart was too preoccupied to pay any mind.

His slow pace turned into a light jog, and soon he was full on running.

“Does anyone know where the final art gallery is being held?” He shouted to anyone who would listen.

“Shut up, man. I’m watching a movie here,” someone shouted back.

“It’s a film, not a movie, genius,” he quipped back.

“South Harbor and 30th,” a female voice rang out.

He thanked the mystery voice, hastily exiting the venue and heading exactly in that direction.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You were still on your first glass of champagne as you surveyed the gallery, watching people dressed in their Sunday best partake in cocktail hour. The room was filled with chatter and the soft hum of classical music.

These kinds of events always had you on edge, rubbing elbows with snobby art elitists wasn’t your cup of tea, it was simply a part of the profession you chose. But you often felt uncomfortable and out of place, just as you did right now.

Your parents were a no show, but that was to be expected, they hardly every crawled out of their small corner of the world for anything other than weekend casino trips, so their absence wasn’t missed. But Josh… oh how you longed for his presence. Even after seeing what you had a month ago, you couldn’t stop yourself from yearning for him. But you figured that season had come and gone, leaving you alone in a room full of crowded people as you waited to present your finished piece.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Another hour rolled by before it was time for the artwork to be unveiled, and one by one, you listened to your peers give rehearsed speeches about their work, and soon enough it was your turn to do the same.

As you stood at the small podium, scanning the crowd in front of you, you suddenly forgot all the words you’d gone over dozens of times in your apartment. Eveyone’s eyes were on you, and you shifted your balance on your feet, tugging at your long black gown and steadying yourself in your uncomfortable shoes. The room was eerily silent as everyone waited for you to speak, and after trying and failing to remember what you wanted to say, you decided to simply let the words flow.

“This… this painting that I’m about to present is very near and dear to me, something I worked on tirelessly, and it’s of someone who’s very important to me.”

You paused briefly before continuing, “I met this young man one day in the library when he asked me to be the subject of a film he was making, and though I was a bit hesitant at first, I agreed. I didn’t know what to expect going into it, but I thought why the hell not? It’s not every day you get to be the main character in an underground film, right?”

A few people in the audience chuckled, “but what I didn’t know is how much that man would change my life. You know as an artist, you’re trained to pay attention to details, colors, shapes, those kinds of things, and I’ve pretty much convinced myself that I was an expert at doing so. But after Josh entered my life, I started seeing things a bit differently, a bit clearer. Josh has a way of bringing out the brighter side of life, a side of life I didn’t know I was missing out on,” your eyes began to burn from the tears that began to brew, “and I feel so lucky that I was able to experience that with him, no matter how short it may have been.”

“So I painted this portrait in hopes to capture his essence so that I could share it with all of you, because as much as I wanted to keep it all to myself, something that beautiful deserves to be experienced by many, if only captured in a single moment. After all, that’s the true job of an artist.”

A few smiles appeared in the crowd, and you dropped your head with a soft chuckle, “it’s kinda funny. I started off being his muse, but he ended up being mine…”

You were speaking to yourself now without even knowing, and when you realized that the room was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, you snapped out of your trance.

“Anyways, without further ado, I present to you ‘Quintessence’.”

The large black cloak that was draped over your painting fell to the ground as the audience erupted into applause, all of their focus shifting from you the the canvas behind you.

There were a few gasps and excited murmurs that slowly melted away your nerves, but as you turned to get a look at the painting, Josh’s eyes seemingly staring right back at you, the tension returned.

You stood back with the rest of the spectators to take in the painting, your first real time doing so since it was completed.

The painting was in fact of Josh, but it depicted him as some sort of angelic being. His face held a serene expression, encased by a soft white glow that brought out the curvature of his features. The idea came to you the night of your first date, Josh’s naked body pressed against yours. The light from a street lamp outside casted its light perfectly across his face, bringing forward the most beautiful parts of him.

His arms were outstretched as if he were in flight, his wings extended behind him, and his head tilted up towards the heavens. His body (which you decided to paint as close to the real thing as possible), was draped in a gold fabric that shimmered in the light, another idea from that night when Josh stood at the foot of your bed wearing only your bed sheet. His halo glowed a similar color, it’s luminescence bleeding into the background of the painting.

The background took on no real form, just swirling colors and shapes that gave the piece more of an otherworldly feeling.

Overall, it wasn't your usual style of art. It appeared as if it belonged in the renaissance section of some posh museum, but as you stood marveling at it, all you felt was a sense of pride. You were actually proud of it. All you wanted to do was show Josh in the way you saw him, and you had to admit you did just that.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Once all of the art had been presented, you took the time to stroll around the gallery by yourself, admiring the work of your peers while sipping on champagne that was far too expensive for your taste. You hadn’t realized how much time you spent browsing until you made it back to the front, the once large crowd that congregated in the area now much smaller.

You sat your empty champagne flute down and began making your way back to where your piece was, silently cursing yourself for not sticking around to answer questions like you were supposed to. By now, anyone who might have been interested was more than likely gone.

As you rounded the corner, you expected the area near your painting to be a ghost town, but to your surprise, there was one curly-haired patron standing directly in front of it, observing in deep thought.

Though his back was turned to you, there was no mistaking who it was, and a small smile began to spread across your face.

“What’s your analysis of this painting?” You asked softly, repeating the question he asked you on the day you met.

You could tell he was already well aware of your presence, not frightened by the sound of your voice coming from behind him. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he shifted on his feet and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I see,” he began, pausing briefly to give the question more thought, “I see the best version of myself. A slightly less handsome version,” he teased, causing you to chuckle, “but it’s the version I’d like to be all the time.”

He finally turned to look at you, and his face was just as angelic as it was in the painting, maybe even more so.

“It’s the version of myself that you bring out.”

Your heart began beating wildly in your chest, your heels digging further and further into the ground as his eyes burned into you. They wandered down the length of your long black dress, then back up to your face.

“I miss you, y/n.”

All you wanted was to melt into his arms and tell him that you missed him too, but your pride took over in the moment.

“I guess the brunette in the coffee shop wasn’t enough?”

“No,” he responded with a scoff, catching you off guard, “no she wasn’t. In fact, I don’t think any woman will ever be enough for me, any woman except you. My muse.”

He was standing directly in front of you now, running the back of his fingers delicately across your cheek, “I know what you said that night, about us deserving someone who could be there for us, and I thought I agreed with you, but I don’t. I deserve you, y/n. And I think it’s safe to say you deserve me too. We deserve each other,” your eyes closed as he continued to speak, “could you even imagine anything other than this? Anything other than us?”

His thumb came up to wipe a single tear that slid down your face, “no,” you whispered, “I can’t. I don’t want to.”

Josh shook his head at you, “then let's not. Let’s not complicate it, okay mama? We’ll figure out all the details as they come, but let’s just fucking do it.”

More tears were falling now, only they served a different purpose. You nodded you head, wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer, “okay, let’s fucking do it.”

He smiled down at you as his other hand found your face, pulling you in for an intoxicating kiss. It lingered on for a while without progressing before Josh pulled away from you breathless.

“Hey Picasso,” he grinned, “I think I love you.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Taglist: @welllauragvf @why-ami-on-here @objectsinspvce @josh-iamyour-mama

[smolcinnamonchipmunk]

Im very sorry, but I need to vent, even if it's out in the void because the whole missing stray thing is getting to me way more than it should be, but I tagged the things (animal death mention) and am going to trauma dump a bit, IGNORE THIS IF YOU DONT WANT THAT. It's messy, and whatever, but I've sobbed more the last two days than I have since the end of last year

I think one of the reasons the stray going missing is hitting me so hard is because literally day before the storm came in one of the people who's seen me frequent the area with her (I've talked to him a couple of times with her) was like "I'm moving tomorrow, and I wish I could take her, but she always runs away when I try. Guess you're her human. Try to find a good home for her, yeah?" and all the staff at the cornerstore who I've badgered the last several days if they've seen her have all said something similar about me being 'her human', and how she likes me, and 'she never lets me pet her or anything' (yeah, because I've spent the last TWO MONTHS TRYING TO MAKE HER COMFORTABLE AROUND ME) and I promised him I'd take care of her, and literally the next day a massive storm and flooding and she's been missing, and I just

Idk, I literally looked at her Wednesday as the guy told me to help her and thought "Should I try to scoop her up again tonight?" because I've tried picking her up before and she freaked out, so I was like "Nah, I'll wait til she's a little more comfortable", and IM SO MAD AT MYSELF NOW

I know there's not really a way for me to know that there would have been flash flooding even if I knew the storm was coming (which I had no clue about until it happened the next day), but I'm still so angry at myself because even if I didn't succeed in wrangling her back to my place, at least there's the chance that she'd be safe inside with me right now instead of potentially drowned or eaten by coyotes. I was supposed to protect her, I was already going to, but then I PROMISED I WAS GOING TO TAKE CARE OF HER AND I FAILED NEXT DAY. And now, I might never see her again, and I've just been wandering around calling her name and waiting three hours a night for a cat who'll probably never come again, and I wish I didnt care as much as I do

I feel like I need to stop caring, at least enough so the universe leaves me the fuck alone with irony because this whole thing is just reminding me of when I called my mother to say I was staying at my apartment for the holidays because I didn't know how much time my KD elderly cat had, came home to her already passed, AND when I dropped her off in the middle of the night for a necropsy because this was my first time dealing with a deceased pet and checked the mail, THE FUCKING INK PAWPAD SET I GOT TO GET HER PAWPRINT BEFORE SHE PASSED WAS IN THE MAIL

[grayskies2525]

A Year of Falling | Ben & Arlo | M/M | Part 7

Part 7 is shorter and continues from the last chapter. This one's definitely more care-taking heavy with less emphasis on sneezing. Part 8 will jump forward in time.

CW: The first scene shows Ben dealing with the grief he feels over losing his parents. Be careful going into it, and if you want to skip it, you can just start after the  dividing line thingy. If you do skip, there are a few tidbits about Ben's childhood and family you will miss, but ultimately, they're not *too* important.

Link to all parts: A Year of Falling

________________________

Chapter Seven: June - Fourth Cold of the Year (cont.)

Ben has never cooked with tofu before, but the challenge awakens something inside of him he’d forgotten. Well, it’s not so much that he forgot — more like he deliberately pushed it away into the farthest recesses of his mind. Ben’s not someone who creates; he’s never been one to add to the world. He takes and takes without offering anything in return. That’s just who Ben is. But the closest he’s ever come to feeling like he can contribute something positive to the world is when he cooks.

These days, cooking conjures too many memories of his parents — lazy Saturdays as a child spent dancing around the kitchen with his mom, some classic rock song his dad chose playing in the background, usually Queen. His parents had been busy with work — his mom at Dairy Queen, his dad as a mechanic. As busy as they were, they still had a home-cooked dinner together most nights — even if the meal was only hamburger helper. His mom insisted that Ben help in preparing the food. As a child, this involved standing to assist, often stirring or simply handing his mom ingredients. As he entered his teens, Ben started cooking entire meals himself. He’d serve them to his parents with pride after they came home from their long shifts. As someone who barely passed his classes and participated in no sports or extracurriculars or did anything that warranted special notice, the compliments about his food meant the world to him. 

He thinks about this as he seasons the tofu for Arlo’s soup. Would his mom eat tofu if Ben cooked it? Ben considers this and is sure she would, but would she like it? She was definitely a fan of eating meat, especially red meat — a fact that likely contributed to the heart attack that killed her at only the age of fifty-three. Well, that and the smoking. And the lack of exercise. And her disdain for going to the doctor. And, well, everything about her lifestyle. Ben smiles as he remembers his mom’s stubbornness. Then, as always, the smile dissolves and he closes his eyes and grits his teeth in anger at how if she just would have taken care of herself — at all, to literally any degree — she would probably still be here. He knows he can’t actually be certain of that, especially considering the heart attack happened a month after his dad died in a car crash. The sudden and extreme grief undoubtedly put stress on her heart. Still, though, if she had taken care of her heart better, she may have been able to recover.

Ben stares at the tofu. He’s sure his mom would, at the very least, scoff at Ben if he handed her a bowl of “chicken noodle soup” made with tofu. But she’d still take it, say something like “I can’t believe my own son would subject me to such horrors,” then proceed to eat every bite just to appease Ben. 

He hates that she only exists now in these hypothetical scenarios. He wants to just fucking ask her what she would say if he cooked her tofu, but he can’t and every time he’s reminded of that fact, it hits him with more force and pain than he imagines it would to get hit by a car.

 Ben uses the back of his hand to swipe at the sudden moisture on his cheeks.

Three years after their deaths, he still can’t disentangle these associations. Will he always tear up every time he so much as chops a carrot?

And it’s not even just cooking. Sometimes it feels like everything. Every single day, without fail, he thinks about how appalled his dad would be to see the current state of Ben’s car. He’d helped Ben buy it when Ben had been eighteen. As a mechanic, his dad taught him everything Ben needed to do to maintain the car, and Ben has done literally none of it since he passed. Ben would never admit it to anyone — he barely can to himself — but that’s what makes taking care of his car so damn hard now. Bringing his Corolla to a stranger always proves to be nausea inducing — grief-laced memories crashing over him, taking away his breath, causing him to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to keep the tears from spilling over. 

He bought a new vacuum last month — a vacuum — and, removing it from the box, his throat had tightened as an unwelcome thought lodged itself into his mind that he couldn’t shake for several minutes.

Mom’s never going to get to see this.

It was entirely absurd. If his mom had been alive, she wouldn’t have given two shits about his new vacuum because, again, it’s a vacuum. But she had seen his old one and now she would never get to see this one and for some reason that matters.

These thoughts seem to hit him after any kind of change. The same thing happened when the Walmart in town changed their layout and moved everything to a different place. A normal person would react to the change as though it were an annoying but minor inconvenience. Ben, of course, is not normal. So he, instead, reacted by standing still in the middle of an aisle, his breath catching in his throat, as decades of  memories of shopping with his parents raced through his mind. Again, the same kind of thought attacked him.

They’ll never get to see this.

Ben wanted to slap himself for the thought because they wouldn’t even want to see it. It’s Walmart. If they had a choice in the matter, they’d probably choose not to experience the shitty store moving its shitty items all around in a way that seemingly served no purpose other than to confuse people.

But it’s like all these changes — regardless of how small — are reminders of how time just keeps going. And as it keeps going, it’s taking him farther and farther away from a time when his parents were still a part of this world — from a time when regardless of how much he fucked up, the one thing he knew with no doubt was that there would still be two people loving him, unconditionally.

And time is only going to keep going. There’s going to keep being new vacuums, new cars, new stores, and eventually an entirely new Ben that his parents wouldn’t even recognize. 

Would they even recognize me now?

Through watery eyes, he stares at the bowls of chopped ingredients on the counter. He pulls the handkerchief he’s been using to deal with the remnants of his cold out from his jeans back pocket. He swipes at his eyes, blows his nose, then stands with his hands gripping the counter as he takes a deep breath before going to wash his hands. 

This is why he doesn’t cook. 

But, then, he hears a volley of harsh coughs come from the bedroom and he remembers Arlo — sick as can be in bed — and he’s reminded that he has a purpose right now. He can actually do something to help someone for once.

He shakes away his lingering sadness as he continues cooking the soup. But after three years of this, Ben knows better than to think it will stay gone for long. The emotions are still there, lurking inside him waiting for another mundane, innocuous moment before they attack.

___________

Ben is finishing up the soup when he hears footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Footsteps accompanied by coughing. He turns away from the pot and sees Arlo standing there, wearing his thick comforter like a cape and rubbing his eyes.

“Hey, what are you doing out of bed?” Ben asks gently.

Arlo doesn’t answer — just stares at him then blinks. Ben feels the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement at how lost Arlo looks. They are literally in Arlo’s own kitchen, yet he looks like he’s stepped onto another planet.

“Arlo, you still with me?” Ben asks, brow arched. Arlo lets out a small groan before shuffling over to Ben, his comforter dragging across the floor. 

He stops in front of Ben, sniffles, then looks at Ben with watery eyes behind his black-framed glasses. He told Ben once that he only wears his glasses when he knows he’ll be spending his day in bed — otherwise, he chooses contacts. Ben holds back a smile at how Arlo manages to look adorable even in this incredibly pitiable state.

“What are you making?” Arlo asks, sniffling again. He wraps his comforter around himself more tightly before coming in closer, clearly wanting Ben to embrace him. So, he does.

Arlo’s only an inch or so shorter than him, so his head rests comfortable against Ben’s shoulder as Ben extends his arm around Arlo to rub soothing circles on his back. 

“You okay?” Ben asks, concern building as Arlo remains still against him.

“Hm, yeah, just needed to stretch a little,” Arlo says, words muffled against Ben’s shoulder. “I’ve been in bed for so long. Why are you still here? I thought you had to work today."

Ben’s grip on Arlo tightens slightly at the unexpected question. “I work tomorrow,” he says, not exactly lying, but definitely not telling the truth. It’s such a transparent way to avoid the question that if Arlo weren’t a sleepy, sniffly mess right now, he surely would have clocked it immediately. There’s definitely guilt there, but Ben doesn’t want Arlo to feel bad about Ben staying home from work just to take care of him. “I’m making you some soup for dinner,” Ben says, quickly. “I know you’ve had nothing but ice cream today. I’ve loaded it with vegetables, since you for some reason seem to like that kind of thing,” Ben says, rolling his eyes fondly as Arlo continues to just rest against him. “Uh, you’re not, like, falling asleep on me, are you?” Ben asks.

“Maybe,” Arlo mutters.

Ben laughs, then guides the very dazed Arlo to the small kitchen table. Arlo sits down, then immediately snaps forward into a sneeze.

“HEG’Nkx’t!”

“Bless you,” Ben says with a frown. “Just in case you need a reminder — it’s so completely okay to let your sneezes out. I heavily advise it, even.”

Arlo throws his head back and scrunches his nose as if in an attempt to scratch an itch without using his hands. “Sorry, it’s just a habit, I guess,” he says, sniffling thickly.

“It’s a habit you need to break,” Ben says, seriously. “You’re going to wind up with a sinus infection or ear infection if you keep up with that.”

“You don’t know that,” Arlo mumbles, mid-nose scrunch.

“I do,” Ben says. “I Googled it before starting the soup. You’re supposed to sneeze, Arlo. It’s, like, one of the body’s most basic defense mechanisms.”

“You Googled it?” Arlo asks, brow raised. 

“Of course I Googled it. Wanted to make sure you weren’t at risk of an aneurysm or something.”

Arlo stares at him, his expression impossibly soft. So soft and full of warmth and possibly something else that Ben doesn’t want to analyze, so he clears his throat. “But, yeah. I made soup. Chicken noodle soup,” he says, gesturing to the simmering pot on the stove.

Arlo’s soft expression contorts into something much less affectionate. “Ben… I don’t eat — hold on I heh —" Arlo says, looking desperate and adorably confused.

“Need to sneeze?” Ben asks, corner of his mouth twitching.

“Yes, I have to… have to? — hh hh heh — gonna ng’t ip-gnkx’t-chuh! Ow!” Arlo takes a deep breath before bringing his closed fist up. “Ih’chieew! Chiew! Ep’chieww!”

Arlo sits in that position for a long moment, gaze seeming fixed on the wall. Slowly he brings his fist down and begins the process of uncurling his fingers. Ben watches and frowns at the amount of effort such a simple movement seems to necessitate. Arlo stretches his fingers slowly outward, grimacing, before he finally lowers his hand.

“Bless you, and thank you for letting them out. But, Arlo, really… don’t worry about covering. They’re literally my germs, first of all, and even if they weren’t I really couldn’t care less, okay?”

Arlo’s still staring down at his hand, his mouth in a tight line. “I should be able to cover a sneeze without being in pain,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically frustrated. “It’s summer. Usually the meds work decently enough for my fingers not to feel this bad when the weather’s warm.”

Ben looks at Arlo for a moment, at a loss for what to say. Supporting someone with a chronic illness is a completely new territory to him and he’s undoubtedly going to say or do something wrong, so he naively thinks it would possibly be best to simply not say or do anything. 

But Arlo looks so sad. He continues to stare at his hands as though he feels personally betrayed by them, and Ben realizes he probably does. 

“You said getting sick can trigger flare-ups, right?” Ben asks, choosing his words carefully. “I honestly don’t know anything about arthritis, or uh, rheumatoid arthritis, I guess? Honestly, I don’t really know the difference between the two,” Ben says, feeling his cheeks warm. 

Arlo looks up, looking tired. “The symptoms are similar, but the causes are different. And usually older people are the ones who get the regular type of arthritis. RA affects younger people and it’s an auto-immune disorder. So it’s my own stupid immune system attacking my joints. For basically no reason. And yeah, being sick triggers flares, which is just…” Arlo lets out a long sigh. “Which is really frustrating because I already feel sick enough during a flare. I usually get fevers with them even when I’m not sick. So when I am… it’s like twice as bad, you know?” Arlo says, looking down at the table.

“Yeah, so… honestly I can’t imagine what that’s like, at all,’ Ben says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But um, it looks really, really shitty.”

Arlo huffs out an amused laugh. “Yes, really shitty may be the best way to describe it, actually.”

Ben grins, his eyes lighting up. “Mr. Thompson, did you just cuss?” Ben asks, clutching his chest dramatically.

Arlo blushes, but he’s smiling. “I’m thirty-two years old and I’m not in the classroom,” he says, looking sheepish.

 “Yeah, but still. You never say bad words,” Ben continues teasing, his smile growing wider. “You always say things like ‘this is quite wretched,’ or like, ‘how dreadful,’ or like ‘what a bother.’ But never shitty.”

Arlo’s laughing in earnest now. “First of all, I don’t say any of those words. It’s like you perceive me as a British old man, or something.”

“Can I be honest?” Ben asks, amusement lacing his tone. “That kind of is how I perceive you. I mean, those are totally the vibes you give off.”

“Shutup, they are not” Arlo says, cheeks pink, though still smiling. “You’re a bad influence on me. Your much less sophisticated vernacular is obviously infectious.”

“This is what I’m saying,” Ben says with a playful roll of his eyes. “I mean who even says words like ‘vernacular’?”

Arlo snorts. “An English teacher, I guess,” he says. Then his head, once again jerks forward in another set of sneezes. “Ets’chieww! T’schiew! ET’schiew! Chiew!”

Ben is oddly pleased to see the sneezes spray out over the table. It’s certainly not sanitary, but they’re past the point of that mattering, and it’s relieving to see Arlo not putting himself through pain for the sake of being polite. 

“Bless you,” Ben says before he turns around to the pot of soup. He ladles out a bowl for Arlo, puts a spoon in it, then brings it over. “I was kidding earlier, in case that wasn’t clear. I made it with vegetable broth and tofu, so don’t worry — your weird vegetarian morals aren’t at stake,” Ben teases.

Arlo stares at the soup, frowning. “Ben?”

Ben’s eyes widen at the apprehension written all over Arlo’s face. “What?” he asks hesitantly. 

“You know that I get easily embarrassed, right?” 

“Yeah, I may have noticed that.”

“Well, I feel less embarrassed around you than I do pretty much everyone else, except for maybe my parents and my sisters,” Arlo says.

“Okay…” Ben says, dragging the word out because he doesn’t understand the direction of this conversation.

Arlo closes his eyes, then lets out another sigh. “I’m telling you this because I’m going to ask you to do something that I would feel embarrassed to ask anyone else.”

“Okay…” Ben says, again, his heart starting to race.

“I — I need you…” He sighs and Ben’s heart is now pounding in his chest. What could he possibly be wanting to ask that’s deserving of so much leadup and anxiety? “I need you to get my giant spoon. It’s in the second drawer down on the right side of the sink,” he says, finally.

“Your… your what?” Ben asks, the words not computing.

“Well, I guess it’s a misnomer to call it a giant spoon when really it’s the handle that’s giant, but it’s just easier to call it ‘giant spoon’ than to call it ‘giant-handled’ spoon,” Arlo rambles, his cheeks growing pinker. 

Ben stares before finally turning around and heading to the specified drawer. He pulls it open and, sure enough, there’s several “giant spoons,” and other similarly designed eating utensils filling the drawer.

Ben pulls out a spoon with a thick, black rubber handle. It reminds him of the spoons and forks made for kids who haven’t yet developed fine motor skills, though this handle is definitely thicker than any of the toddler utensils he’s seen before.

Ben looks at the spoon, face contorted in confusion, until it clicks. “Oh. Arlo, this is amazing! This will make eating easier, right? Like, you won’t need to use as tight of a grip on it, I assume?”

Ben smiles down at the spoon, feeling relief settle across him. He was honestly worried about the process of Arlo eating the soup, since it would require so much movement with the spoon from bowl to mouth.

“Yeah, it helps. It’s not a perfect solution, especially since my elbows are, uh… not feeling especially great today. So I’ll still have to bring the spoon up and down, which isn’t ideal, but they’ve been worse before, so I’ll manage,” Arlo says with a shrug. 

Ben has the oddest compulsion to say he’ll spoon-feed the soup to Arlo. The fact that someone as gentle and sweet as Arlo has to endure pain — any amount — just to lift a spoon to his mouth, quite frankly, pisses Ben off. Anger builds in him as he contemplates the situation, but it quickly dissolves into helplessness as he realizes he can’t do anything about a disease. There’s no one he can fight or argue with. He would spoon-feed the soup to Arlo — happily, if it kept him from dealing with pain — but he also knows the mere suggestion would likely cause Arlo to combust from embarrassment. 

So, he’s thrilled for the existence of this spoon if it can provide anything at all to ease the process for Arlo.

Ben switches out the spoon already in the bowl with the “giant” one. Arlo’s comforter falls off his shoulders and hangs off him awkwardly as he picks up the spoon, but Arlo doesn’t seem to mind.

Arlo glances sheepishly at Ben, biting his lip. “So I know I say I feel less embarrassed around you, but it is still pretty mortifying to be sitting here with my big freaking spoon.” Arlo sighs. “Ben, this is… uh, this is what dating me is going to be like, okay? You’re um… you’re going to feel like you’re dating an old man sometimes. My medication, generally, does a good job at handling the worst of it, but I still have bad days. And on those days, I have to use silly things like this,” Arlo says, glancing down at the spoon. “And I guess I want to know if you’re okay with it?”

Ben blinks several times. “You’re asking if I’m okay dating you because… because what? Because sometimes you have to use a spoon with a thick handle?” Ben can’t hold back a light laugh. “Arlo, you know, I’ve dated a few people before and I have to say, if that’s the worst thing you’re bringing to our relationship, then I really don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

“I won’t use it in public or anything,” Arlo says quickly. “I usually only use it when I’m completely alone.”

Ben narrows his eyes. “Arlo — I mean this in the kindest way possible, but why the fuck do you think I’d care about what kind of spoon you use in public?”

Arlo looks down at his soup. “I mean, some people do.”

“Some people?” Ben asks, giving Arlo a knowing look.

“Some people,” Arlo says, nodding, still looking down at his soup.

“And is ‘some people’ perhaps another way of saying Jeremy?”

Arlo looks at Ben, then winces. “Maybe.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Ben says in exasperation. “Please tell me this guy moved far, far away to, like… Australia. Yes, Australia sounds like the perfect place for him. There’s all kinds of weird, scary shit there. Felix made me watch this documentary once and they talked about this one snake that lives in Australia and it can kill people with its bite in, like, under fifteen minutes.” He pauses, seeing Arlo’s expression of horror. “Which is a fact totally unrelated to why I think Jeremy should live there,” he adds quickly, flashing Arlo a broad smile.

Arlo rolls his eyes. “No, he doesn’t live in Australia. He lives here — works at a bank. I see him around sometimes still, but mostly avoid him. But… he wasn’t all bad. Not all the time. And I mean, it was kind of attention grabbing to just bring out my giant spoon out, you know? I’d have to carry it into a restaurant, and out… It was awkward. I only did it once before it became clear it was a horrible idea. And usually when my fingers are so bad that I need my spoon, I’m not really feeling up to going out anyway because it’s never just my fingers. RA likes to attack a bunch of joints at once. But, Jeremy was tired of staying in and… well, it was only Wendy’s — not some fine dining establishment or anything, so I didn’t think it’d be a massive deal to bring it, but Jeremy was mortified, and honestly, so was I. I mean, usually the people using these things are, like, ninety. ” Arlos dips the spoon in the bowl, and Ben suspects it’s his way of avoiding eye contact with Ben.

“Arlo, what the hell are you talking about? Like, what the hell? Ninety-year olds are also the demographic for people who need to carry around oxygen tanks. But do you point and laugh when you see a seven year old with, like, cystic fibrosis, using one? No, because that’s fucking insane,” Ben says, unable to stop staring at Arlo with wide eyes. “If the spoon helps, then the spoon helps, and I will not tolerate any embarrassment over it,” Ben says, definitively. “You can take the damn thing anywhere, for all I care.”

Arlo looks up from his soup, cheeks burning. “And you say you aren’t nice,” he finally says after staring at Ben for a long time.

“I’m.. I’m not,” Ben sputters. “Didn’t you hear the threat in that statement? And all my very strong language?”

Arlo rolls his eyes, but he’s smirking as he brings a spoonful of soup up to his lips. After he takes a bite, he goes for another — his movements slow and take obvious effort. “Ben, this tastes really, really good. Have you cooked tofu before? It’s the perfect consistency,” he says before going for another bite.

It’s Ben’s turn to blush. “Well, no, but it wasn’t too hard to figure out after I pressed all the water out of it. I was not prepared for the obscene amount of water tofu has.”

Arlo laughs. “Yeah, most people are surprised by that. Ben, this is really good,” he says again, then sniffles.

“Thank you,” Ben says, sheepishly.

“I never see you cook, but you obviously can. Why do you live off Cheetos if you can cook like this?” Arlo asks, dipping his spoon back into the bowl. 

Ben looks away quickly, then turns to grab some water from the fridge. “Cooking is… you know… boring,” he lies. It’s a minor lie. A very mundane, innocuous lie that he refuses to feel bad about, even if it does make it the second time he’s told this type of lie in the past hour.

He joins Arlo at the table with his own bowl of soup. They eat in a comfortable silence for a minute or two when Arlo breaks it.

“IP’shhhhhhh! HIH’shhhhh HIH’tshooo ‘shhh ‘shhhh ep’chhh! Ep’chhh! Ep’chhhooo! Chiew chiew chiew chiew HEH chiEW ep’shhhhh ep’shhh ep’shhh HHEH! Ngt’shuuh!

“Jesus, Arlo. Bless you,” Ben says, spoon stopped midair while he stares open-mouthed at Arlo.

“Whoa, I am sorry. I don’t know why they just took over like that there. I just —” Arlo shakes his head, then turns it to the side again to avoid spraying Ben. “Et’shhh! Et’shiew! Et’shhh t’shhhiew t’shiew EP’shieeww!”

“Bless —”

“ETS’SHIEEW! EPt’SHIIEEWW! HEhh hhh HE EH’PTSHIEW!”

“Bless you, Arlo. My god. Are you okay?” Ben asks. 

“Yeah… just…” Arlo sniffles thickly — the sound wet and gurgling. “I think I’m going to lie back down. The exhaustion is hitting pretty hard again. I’ll heat up the rest of the soup later, okay? Thank you so much for making it. That was so kind of you to do. And I really don’t deserve it and ET’SHHIEW! ETS’shhhhhh!”

He feels the mist hit his face. If Ben hadn’t been sick already, he definitely would be now. 

“Ben —” Arlo starts, his eyes wide, brows drawn close together.

“Nope,” Ben interrupts. “You are forbidden from making any more apologies tonight. Especially if it’s for sneezing on me. We’ll just say we’re even now, okay?”

“But I should have covered. I —”

“You should be in bed,” Ben says before even the beginnings of an apology can fall from his lips. 

“I am suddenly very tired,” Arlo says. “Sorry I’m not the best company, right now.”

“Arlo, go to bed right now before you have the chance to apologize for something else silly.”

While Arlo gets up to do just that, Ben works on putting Arlo’s soup into Tupperware. After everything is cleaned up and put away, he heads to the bedroom. Arlo is already fast asleep, his kangaroo stuffed animal tucked into the crook of an arm, and the cat curled up on his stomach.

Ben winces at the image —not because something is wrong, but because the emotions welling up inside him are strong and unfamiliar.

He’s sure, at this moment, that he’s never come close to feeling this way about a partner before and a thought has never terrified him more because there's not even a miniscule chance of him not messing this up.

[songliili]

2023 writing roundup

i was tagged by @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and @rockyroadkylers!

i feel like i've spent my whole year writing, but i also know that i've spent months without doing it so i can't say how much it was month by month. but i posted three fics this year so like. that's an achievement!

let's see what we got.

January:

the great dean court off - Supernatural, 21.8k, M (chapter update) [someday i will finish it, i promise]

Of all the things Dean expected to find when he came back from the bathroom break, a folded piece of paper with "hey, if you’re not gay, my friend thinks you’re cute. here’s her number 316-557-9608 (and if you’re gay, here’s mine 316-997-2018)" written on, was not it. - Or the one where Dean organises a dating contest because he's bi and can't decide between two options.

September:

I Had Some Time (With You) - Supernatural, 23.9k, E

It's 2005 when things go to hell. Well. They go to hell for everyone except Dean, ‘cause he was ready for it. Well. He was ready for the apocalypse, not for the gorgeous man who fell into his life, quite literally. OR A Destiel rewrite of Bill and Frank's love story as shown on HBO's The Last of Us episode 3: Long Long Time that uses elements of both universes.

November:

we all have a hunger - RWRB, 22.9k, E

Alex’s journey of self discovery started one random night five years ago, when he was scrolling his favorite porn website to relax after midterms. He chose a video with the preview of two guys in the threesome category, thinking nothing of it, and came so hard he thought he was going to pass out. The threesome didn’t happen, the girl just sat there looking at the two guys going at it, just like Alex did. After that night, saying that the tall, blond and gorgeous actor with a fucking sinful shoulder to waist ratio didn’t do it for him was a complete lie, so maybe, maybe, Alex could be excused when he freezes up when said man - even more tall, blond and gorgeous in real life - stretches a hand toward him and says “I’m Henry, Pez’s ‘best mate of honor’, as he says.” with his perfectly infuriating British accent. — OR: Henry is a porn star, Alex is a fan.

December:

Fill My Stocking - RWRB, 6k, E

Alex has spent the past fifteen minutes talking with David about his favourite treats. Not that the dog answered, but Alex was undeterred and kept going, uncaring that Henry had asked him to give him an hour and then he’d join him in hanging up fairy lights and mistletoe everywhere. Very well. If Alex wants Henry’s attention, he'll have it. It's probably not what Alex thought he’d accomplish with his little scheme, but it's a compromise between Henry's needs and Alex's wants, and that's all that can be done. OR: Alex wants some attention and Henry has to get creative.

Upcoming in 2024:

part 2 of the pornstar verse (title undecided):

picks up the day after the ending of part one, it's alex's first christmas in london

Like Father, Like Son:

alex is a horse trainer and has a crush on arthur fox. he's the trainer on set for arthur fox's new movie (a queer western). his son, henry fox, visits the set and well. alex is fucked.

I hope you don't mind. (part 3 of the pornstar verse):

henry's bad days and how alex helps him go through them

Other things I hope I manage to put out next year (or at least start writing):

Your body is the Sistine Chapel:

what if dean was as tattooed as he was supposed to be? which tattoos would he get? for whom would he get them?

untitled airbnb fic:

alex travels to london as a reward for finishing college, and henry is his airbnb host whose dog likes alex a little too much.

untitled mandalorian!alex fic:

alex is the mandalorian, david is grogu. that's all i have for now.

untitled scarlet witch!henry/sword agent!alex fic:

inspired by this tweet. i have nothing more than this to give you atm.

i posted 62.406 words this year, and written many more. i'm fairly new to writing, so this is a real accomplishment for me. my biggest goal was to post a fully finished chaptered fic, and i did! then i started a series, and wrote something shorter than 7k, and i have so many ideas for future fics that i genuinely don't know where to start. i hope i manage to post at least a couple next year!

tagging: @affectionatelyrs @firenati0n @absoluteaudacitywrites @gayrootvegetable @leojfitz @anincompletelist @ssmtskw @littlemisskittentoes @cactusdragon517 @read-and-write- and everyone else that wants to join!

[transmutationisms]

I apologize if there's something already on your blog about this and I didn't find it, but I was watching tailgate party and realized that Shiv had spent the entire episode pacing around one apartment complex 6000 steps over and that the Roys do this a lot.

My memory of the last few seasons is fuzzy (<- binged it before and now doesn't remember shit) but I feel like the Roys spend a lot of time in very large, usually open spaces, with wide walls and tall ceilings, and usually ones we've seen before or are expected to see again and that a lot of important scenes happen *outside* of these spaces. Important meaning either big moments or iconic ones or sometimes just transitonary. Kendall had his Next-Jesus moment out in the ocean, Tom started throwing water bottles in that cramped ass escape room or talked about his marriage out on the beach, the entirety of Kill List happens outside of ATN offices, Logan meets Mattson for the first time on a personal island, Roman went to a random one story office environment for a fucking business school and was never the same character (well. compared to S1 Roman) again, they have that reverse Jesus thing over cruises on a cruise ship, etc. I feel like plane scenes could both fit into this or break it depending on the season but at least for other scenes I feel like there's a pattern here.

Outdoor spaces or parts where they actually put their shoes outside onto sidewalk always feel semi important to me but it doesn't even have to be outdoors specifically. Like, even just the honeymoon suite was different enough from every other building we'd seen the show have, and that's when Shiv admitted to cheating!

Do you think there's something to this, or do you have your own thoughts? I'd be interested to hear more if only to appeal to my ego ;-). There's other things that could connect to this like the grey-white-brown-dark blue color palette damn near every scene is in vs. scenes with real color inside of them and Kendall's asking why Sophie was "on the street" being indicative of how he thinks she should be raised (based on how he was raised and also how he can recognize the manipulation and abusive inherent to his father's parenting but not the more subtle isolation and neglect) and the fact the Roys are literally running an actual rat race while trapped inside Waystair Rocyo 1/2 the time but I have to stay focused on one thing when I write shit down even if I'm connecting dots in my head or else this ask won't even be remotely legible.

[If you already wrote about this - sorry! I hope this makes sense. Either way, have a good night, and fingers crossed something fun happens at Logan's funeral. I still want Tom to fight someone. It won't happen but it'd be funny as hell lol]

yeah i haven't really written anything comprehensive on this, but i do think there are a few interesting points with regards to how the show uses the characters' environments. forgive me for bullet-pointing lol, maybe you can help string these things together into something more cohesive. but:

yes, the characters often spend most of an episode trapped in one location, even one building. in part i think this is a function of the presence of playwrights on the writing staff, and the way many episodes flirt with the three classical unities of tragedy writing (time / place / action). so, lots of episodes are 1 day only, or 2 or 3 max, and often a character will be mostly confined to one location during that span. in part this helps make each individual episode really tight internally, but it also contributes to that persistent sense that the characters are trapped (within their circumstances, company, family, etc)

indoor vs outdoor is an interesting thread. one thing that has always stood out to me is that the show has a tendency to use natural sunlight not as refreshing, enlightening, etc, but as blinding, overwhelming, and even dangerous. the sun almost kills logan in s3, there are those shots in 2x10 and 3x09 where everyone's squinting in the bright light, there's a similar effect in 'austerlitz', etc. this contributed to the overall sense of discomfort that the roys experience, despite all their material luxuries; it also contributes to the sense that nature and the natural world is an alien, external force that appears threatening—this sense also comes out in all of the animal metaphors they use, which emphasise the brutality they see in the animal kingdom and in nature generally

if we're talking places, i also must bring up the presence of bathrooms on the show. these are quotidian rooms, but also dangerous ones, in the sense that they exist to purge a civilised society of its filth, and the whole process tends to be marginalised and wilfuly ignored. so, i've always liked that succession has a lot of scenes set in bathrooms, and often characters are able to speak differently in the bathroom—sometimes more intimate (kendall and stewy, tom and logan in 3x05), or more direct (greg and logan in 2x08), or they're allowed to say things they couldn't elsewhere (roman and mencken). bathrooms are also sheltered personal spaces, where the characters can retreat and hide (kendall using them to do coke, shiv practicing a smile in 1x02, greg rehearsing his congressional testimony)

the waystar offices obviously have that very 21st-century glass-and-steel aesthetic that telegraphs new money, a certain neoliberal attempt at severance from systems of social and cultural meaning-making, etc. so, moving the characters to other locations is effective because, in contrast to the kind of soullessness of the waystar building, it makes the other places stand out and emphasises the meaning we can glean from the sets alone (like, the gut-punch of dodds's house in contrast to the sort of corporate default)

in regards to the idea of control and confinement within luxe spaces—yes, this is clearly something we see many of the environments convey (the ultimate expression of this being the anti-suicide wall that logan puts up to pen kendall in). this is really a discrete material expression of how waystar operates in a broader sense, constraining people whilst appearing to create more options and more freedom (also a basic characteristic of neoliberal modes of production, lol)

again i'm not sure i have a thesis statement here unifying all of these observations lol. but i do think the show does well at using its environments and settings to tell us a lot about the characters, the company, and the broader world they inhabit.

[bigskydreaming]

Okay, so you know “Justice League meets Batman’s kids, who they’d previously been unaware existed” AUs?

So picture that.....but this time, instead of them just having no knowledge of any of these other Gotham vigilantes at all....the Batkids all migrate to various cities as they get older and become known as their protectors - Dick in Bludhaven, Tim in San Francisco, Cass in Hong Kong, etc....

Meaning they’re all established figures, the Justice League are aware of them as solo local heroes who stick to their cities and so they just don’t interact with them much if at all, or else some are members of team lineups but are particularly vague about their histories or life outside of the team’s adventures....

So the big reveal isn’t that they become aware of all these other Gotham vigilantes all at once....its that some big conflict or whatever requires a huge team up of all available heroes, and in the aftermath, they figure out that like.....despite being known as solo heroes who work alone or loners outside of their team settings, 80% of these heroes all not only seem to already know each other, they seem to be related.

And so naturally they all turn to Batman, who has profiles on every known hero and they thus figure had researched these individuals too and just never mentioned this little detail, and they’re like, “Did you know about this?”

And then Nightwing turns to him too, arms crossed and is like, “Yeah Dad, did you know about this?”

And the infamous Red Hood is all: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have never met any of these people before in my life. Lives? Whatever.”

And then Red Robin moodily grates out “I have no siblings.” Since he’s nursing a grudge since Dick and Jason broke into his apartment the night before and replaced all his custom Red Robin gear with Darkwing Duck merchandise and his vengeance will be swift and also totally disproportionate because things escalate quickly in this family, that’s true in every universe.

Cass meanwhile has deftly skewered Jason’s lie by walking over to him and brazenly patting down the man with many many guns with no fear whatsoever. He squawks and futilely attempts to bat her hands away as she riffles through his many pockets, but he doesn’t seem shocked, just annoyed. Eventually, she pulls away and triumphantly reveals a box of Hello Kitty themed band-aids.

“So these are yours then? Just for you?” Black Bat asks smugly. Red Hood squints at the box.

“What the fuck? How long have those been in my jacket? Why are those in my jacket? Did you freaking plant them in my jacket just on the offchance you could at some point in the distant future use them at my expense?”

Black Bat frowns, puzzled. “Yes?”

“Oh come on, Dead Hood,” Spoiler says with an exaggerated toss of her head meant to convey she’s rolling her eyes beneath her own mask. She skips her way across the room to Black Bat and then drapes herself languidly all over the smaller woman. Who in turn doesn’t so much as twitch beneath the sudden added mass as Spoiler holds out her hand towards the box of band-aids. 

“One please. I have a boo-boo,” she says with easy familiarity straight into the intimidating cowl of Black Bat. Only then does she deign to finish her train of thought with Red Hood.

“I mean seriously, are you saying you don’t have potential blackmail set-ups, pre-rigged releases of incriminating material, and a random assortment of traps, pratfalls and mortifying scenarios in place for the express purpose of being able to humiliate any and all of your siblings at any given moment, without any need for additional prep time?”

“Is this true, Little Wing?” Nightwing whirls on the larger Red Hood with a faux-scandalized gasp. The founder and leader of the Titans, formerly the Teen Titans, renowned for his stratagems and calm competence when directing squads of supers in the heat of battle while he keeps pace with nothing more than naturally acquired acrobatics and a utility belt that apparently uses the same technology as Wonder Woman’s invisible jet....now appears to be....staggering with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead, moaning about how he felt....faint? 

What is happening right now, several dozen superheroes want to know. Is this a drill? Are they supposed to be checking for signs of a mental ambush from undetected psychic saboteurs? Did they all hit their heads at the exact same time and are now experiencing some kind of shared mass concussion?

Look, that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to ever happen on the Watchtower. 

“Have I failed you so utterly?” The veteran child hero bemoans with a dramatic twirl - that when contrasted with his stern demeanor of a mere ten minutes ago - makes the fears of telepathic infiltration seem less paranoia and more....concerningly probable. “Did you learn nothing from me? Did you learn nothing from B?”

He stops and jabs a finger up at the sky. “Quick, everyone! What is the very first rule of Living While Batty?”

As if by rote, over a half a dozen voices chime in from all over the room, causing various heroes to jump. Spooked by yet more and more vigilantes joining in some kind of mass recitation like they and they alone have some kind of clue what the hell is going on and everyone else just hadn’t been invited to the party. Which is just rude, honestly. Nobody likes feeling like they weren’t invited to the party. Not even superheroes. 

“If you’re not going to bother preparing for every possible contingency and at least six impossible ones, you might as well just stay in bed.”

Even the Red Hood joins in the Illuminati chant or Cub Scout pledge or demonic ritual or whatever the fuck that just was, though his slumped and exasperated posture gives away every hint of sulkiness his headgear otherwise would have kept safely hidden. He’s surprisingly more...expressive, than most who’d only known of him by reputation had expected him to be. The day continues to yield surprises.

“Of fucking course I do,” he growls out, snatching the box from Black Bat. She doesn’t even fight to hold onto it, just lets it go with a knowing smirk. “I wasn’t surprised by the idea of it, I was just surprised she bothered with such a weak effort. Like yeah whatever, actually those could be mine. I use those all the time at home. So what?”

He aggressively yanks one of the band-aids out of the box, fumbles with the peel-off strips with one hand and he roughly rolls up the sleeve of his jacket with the other. Then just slaps it on his forearm and raises said appendage high, showing it off this way and that. “See?”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Signal drawls from the other side of the room, nodding his head approvingly. “Totally convincing. Nice job walking that one back, you really showed them.”

Red Hood’s head snaps in his direction with ominous intent. “Watch it, Day-Glo.”

Signal just snorts.

“Yeah, like I’m gonna take constructive criticism on my name and costume from a dude who’s spent the last several years calling himself Red HOOD while running around in a freaking HELMET.”

“Its not meant to be literal, you fucking pedant.”

“So wait, its not literally a helmet? Huh, does it at least protect your head literally, or just like...symbolically? Like if Bane were to clock you across the head, would your concussion just be a metaphor? What’s the treatment protocol for a metaphorical concussion? Fluids, bedrest and a philosophical prescription of two chapters of Chicken Soup for the Soul as needed?”

“Laugh it up, KC and the Sunshine Band,” Red Hood bats back. “You just got yourself disinvited from Thursday night’s poker game.”

Signal just grins and folds his arms over his chest cockily. “Please. You’ve been looking for an excuse to ban me for weeks, cuz you know until you can prove I’m using my ghost vision to cheat, you can’t actually bring suit against me for it in Family Court.”

“That, and also Family Court isn’t a real thing, you toddler. Stop validating Wing-a-ding-ding’s obsession with Shitty TV Nostalgia and just call it that thing where Oracle traps us all in a room until we settle our latest fight without anyone getting stabbed.”

“Yeah, but like, say that five times fast,” Spoiler pipes up. “Its just not practical. Family Court’s way easier.”

“Says the one who’s not even in our fucking family.”

“And yet I grace you all with my sublime presence anyway,” she blows a kiss at him, beatifically unbothered. “You’re welcome.”

The Red Hood scoffs and rounds on his heel, zeroing in on Batwoman in the far corner.

“Hey Auntie B, my siblings are all dead to me and I just helped stop an alien invasion so I deserve nice things like a fun Saturday night. Can you get me into Dad’s fundraiser so I can crash it? He won’t put me back on the list until I promise not to bring any C-4 with me and I won’t promise not to bring any C-4 because he should just trust me that I won’t when I say I’m not gonna and he won’t trust me that I won’t until I admit I shouldn’t have brought any to that sting last month where three tiny little yachts blew up through barely any fault of my own, and I’m just not gonna do that ever because I have convictions and I feel I shouldn’t have to be punished for that. Y’know?”

Batwoman blinks at him. “Kid, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re my nephew and I love you, but I stopped listening three seconds into all that.”

“Ugh, fine. Can you help me crash Dad’s event tonight so I can teach him a lesson about why he should just trust me not to make a scene so I don’t have to always make a scene to make a point.”

“Tempting as you make that sound,” she says wryly, “I have a strict policy for dealing with you lot and your......everything. I only worry about tolerating one of you at a time, and there’s seven of you, and seven days in the week. You each get your own. You know perfectly well its Robin’s day today. You get me on Tuesday, just like always.”

“Auntie B, we’re not like other families, are we?” Red Robin’s delivery is sarcastically childish and his question clearly rhetorical. Most of his attention is fixated on whatever it is he’s doing with his wrist-mounted computer. 

“No sweetie, we’re all severely fucked in the head and a little bit too comfortable with that.”

“Just checking. Oh hey, Hood, I just emailed you a patch for the hole in your firewall I exploited when replacing all my shit using your accounts just now.”

“You did what?”

“Used your accounts to pay to replace all my stuff that you fucked with last night?” Red Robin says slowly. “Did you not realize that I’ve been sticking within ten feet of you for the past five minutes just so I could clone your devices and do all that while BB and Spoiler kept you distracted? I gotta say, bro, I feel like that’s on you then.”

Red Hood swivels his helmeted head in the direction of the aforementioned two. Black Bat waves. Spoiler shoots him an utterly unrepentant thumbs up.

“You’d side with your ex over me? That’s what its come to?”

“My only allegiance is to chaos,” Spoiler says brightly. Black Bat shrugs.

“Plus he bribes better.”

“Hateful,” Red Hood points at Black Bat, moving on to level the same finger at Spoiler, who curtsies in acknowledgment: “Hateful-er.”

Then the finger rounds the bases to aim judgmentally at Red Robin. “Hateful-est. And that was all Nightwing’s idea anyway, not mine.”

“Oh, I assumed as much,” he says casually. “Your idea of a prank tends to have more of a Carrie vibe. Or be a literal literary reenactment.”

“Its called an homage, 4chan.”

“Whatever, plagiarist. And anyway, I couldn’t go after ‘Wing for payback on this one. He used an Immunity card. If you didn’t want me getting back at you, you should have used one too."

Red Hood looms aggressively. Red Robin ignores willfully. Round and round they go. Superheroes who can survive excessive G-Forces are getting dizzy just watching them have a largely motionless stand-off. That shouldn’t be how that works, but whatever. All the most infamously reclusive and isolated heroes in all hero-dom are apparently part of the same one big reclusive and isolated family of fucked up weirdos and they’re all officially bonkers. Nothing makes sense anymore. Reality broke. Try another stall.

“Okay, but see, in order to have an Immunity card, I would have to participate in one of you losers’ stupid Immunity challenges,” the Red Hood drags out with exaggerated patience. “And I’m just not going to do that, on account of those all being fucking stupid. You see the problem there?”

Red Robin just shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, bro. You can have principles or you can have an Immunity card. You can’t have both.”

Meanwhile, on another side of....the same room.....look, its like, an octagonal room, probably. It has a lot of sides. Robin fends off questions from an aggrieved looking Superboy.

“You never told me you had a bajillion brothers and sisters!”

“Yes but I never said I didn’t either.”

Superboy rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, so I should just assume everyone I meet has a bajillion secret brothers and sisters?”

“Well clearly it would have worked out in your favor in this instance if you had, now wouldn’t it?”

“Assuming of course that you can trust what has been said or implied here today and I am actually related to any of those numbskulls. Which I am not actually admitting to,” Robin tacks on hastily.

Superboy eyes him dubiously. “You joined in the same creepy chant all the others did and then got super self-conscious and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Which uh. I did.”

“First off, your interpretation of body language is abyssmal. I do not get self-conscious,” Robin says with a delivery that probably could have benefited from being a little less self-conscious. “And second....that proves nothing. I guessed what they were going to say.”

“Word for word,” Superboy says super-skeptically.

“I’m very good at guessing things. You know this.”

“Okay. Guess how much I believe you right now then.”

Robin glares and folds his arms grumpily across his chest. 

“And what was that anyway? Was that like....you guys’ family motto or something like that?”

“Oh no,” Spoiler pipes up. “That’s much shorter.”

Superboy balks at that. “Wait, you guys actually have one of those for real?”

“Yup,” Steph says, counting out the words with her fingers. “He who laughs last....probably works for the Joker. So tranq him just to be safe. See? Only sixteen words. The first rule of Living While Batty is way longer, and what we said was just the abridged version. You should hear the original, before Black Bat put her foot down and refused to memorize it unless sizable edits were made.”

Superboy hovers between her and Robin now, both in mid-air and on the verge of taking Spoiler’s words as an invitation to hear just that. A low growl arises from Robin’s direction.

“Must you?” He asks the older vigilante, with a most put upon expression.

She looks at him pityingly. “Do you actually need me to answer that? Like, we’ve met, right? Hi, I’m Spoiler.”

“Wait, so Robin said that I just never specifically asked him if he had a bajillion brothers and sisters, and that’s why he didn’t tell me, so that means he wouldn’t have just lied and there’s not some code of secrecy that flat out forbids telling other people stuff, right?” Superboy realizes excitedly.

“Yes, excellent direction. Go on,” Spoiler says, steepling her fingers. Robin buries his face in the palm of one hand.

“Soooo, what other stuff could you tell me about Robin’s super top secret family that I wouldn’t think to ask about but that he would tell me about if I knew what questions to ask?”

She claps once, lightly but with emphasis. “Well done. You’ve passed the first barrier. Untold secrets await you behind just a few more.”

“I’ll get you for this,” Robin vows calmly. She waves a hand at him.

“Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you do it before January 1st, remember? You’ve promised retribution like ten times already this year and those don’t roll over, y’know. Rules are rules.”

“Enough!” Thunders a voice then, from the front of the room. Well one of the fronts anyway. Like sides, it has a lot of them, but this is the one where Batman’s standing. All eyes snap to him. Which is kinda just what eyes do when Batman says stuff like that. Its like his superpower, except he doesn’t actually have superpowers, which is what makes it scary. But where the snapping of the eyes (directional) is usually followed by Batman saying something else besides just “hey look at me,” here he pauses in the wake of his own call to attention’s waning reverberations. Uncharacteristically silent.

Not that, y’know, he’s normally Mr. Talkity Talk, but usually his silences feel like he has the words to fill them, he’s just withholding them. This though, this feels more like he doesn’t have any words at all. And he’s as confused by it as any of them, and most everyone else is confused by Batman being confused, and its this whole trickle down economy of confusion and its wrecking havoc on the value of the golden silence standard.

Of course, not everyone present is rendered spellbound with confusion.

“C’mon B,” Nightwing cajoles, leaning forward and practically radiating delight. “I think you know what you have to do now. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Its not likely to come around again.”

Red Hood snickers beneath his helmet and chimes in. “Yeah Pops, go ahead. You do this and you’ll actually have my respect for a whole twenty four hours. No, wait. Sixteen. No! Eight. Yeah, eight. Still a good deal.”

“Carpe diem, B,” Red Robin grins, leaning back as if to enjoy the show.

“Hey! Infringe on my trademark one more time, dude,” Signal throws a faux-glare at the former. Red Robin just quirks an eyebrow.

“And what, you’ll start saying Yum every time you eat a burger? Oh no. I’m hoist by my own petard.”

Signal flips him off with a grin and then redirects his attention back to Batman. “Yeah seriously though B, you kinda gotta do it now. Because if you don’t do it, then you’ll forever be the guy who didn’t do it, and you don’t want to be that guy, do you?”

“Yeah you really don’t want to be that guy,” Spoiler shouts out. “Nobody likes that guy. He’s the worst.”

“Do it, do it,” Black Bat starts chanting beside her, steadily picking up speed and volume. Several others start joining in. Even Robin appears to be slightly anticipatory, albeit trying very hard to hide it.

Batman sighs, and somehow everyone manages to hear it. Stills. Waits for....something? Nobody but them seems to have any clue what, but the air is thick and heavy with portentiousness. Something is about to happen, and all most of the heroes present could say for sure is it was something they never would have in a million years seen coming.

Finally, Batman straightens with the resigned air of a man about to have oh so many regrets. He crosses his arms, shakes his head, and in an absolute deadpan monotone, says:

“You are awful children. You know you’re killing me. You’re killing your father.”

[jackrrabbit]

Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.