#i wanna chew him up like a wad of gum

[rhinestonesox]

Can’t stop think about how Chilchuck’s love language is, like, 100% acts of service that little mother fucker could barely be nice to his friends but was sewing up everyone’s clothes and doing marcille’s hair and letting izutsumi sleep in bed with him and carrying around halfoot marcille to keep her safe he’s such a goober i can’t stand him

[macfrog]

the sweetest con cowboy like me chapter fifteen

well. this is it. we made it, kids. thank you so, so much for reading for all this time. for all your patience, and kindness, and loyalty. i will carry this pair, their story, and all of your love for them with me forever. love you guys. xx

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: every cowboy deserves his ride off into the sunset.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lotsa guilt from reader, dreamy love sequence & mention of unprotected piv/creampie, more greys anatomy spoilers, reader's dad is either Bald or has a Receding Hairline (you choose), more sex - this time reader and joel sixty-nine, face sitting, oral (f and m receiving), more (inferred) unprotected piv, making dirty, hot love ALLAT, cursing, a little smut n a lotta fluff n a droplet of angst at the end

word count: 10.8k

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“How the fuck did this take you three minutes? Three?”

“I’m telling you. I’m a genius.”

You snort. “Shut up. You only passed Math ‘cause you were fooling around with that nerd – Thomas? Was it Thomas?”

“Timothy. And you don’t need math to do a sudoku puzzle, loser. You just need brains. Logic.” Anna taps two fingers against her temple, tilting her head.

“Logic,” you murmur, shaking your head.

Sal’s is quiet today. He’s out of town for his father-in-law’s funeral and made the genius decision to leave the two of you in charge. Since opening at nine, you’ve had four customers. The to-do list left for you was completed by ten, and since then, you’ve been hunched over your phone at the cash register, messing around on some puzzle app Anna made you download.

It's a Wednesday. Nothing exciting ever happens on Wednesdays.

Anna’s behind you, tearing apart and flattening the cardboard boxes you spent all morning emptying. “That level,” she clicks her chewing gum wetly between her teeth, scent of mint over your shoulder, “that ain’t even the hardest one. Ooh, no, babe. Three goes –”

“Shh!” You bat her arm away, curving your hand over your phone screen. She snorts and wanders off through the back, wad of cardboard under her arm.

Anna wasn’t your closest friend in high school, and you sure didn’t stay much in touch past the odd Facebook post update when you left. But working with her, and her dad being your dad’s buddy – she’s sort of become one of those people you just can’t shake.

Like a stray puppy. Or…an annoying hangnail.

She’s nice enough – talks a lot of crap sometimes, but she cares for you. You’d go as far as saying you two have grown pretty close since you came home. Still, the acidic sting of resentment sits on your tongue, anytime you think of her involvement in the unravelling of your little lie. Think of your dad calling hers, Hank asking her where you were.

Think of the fact that, if she hadn’t been honest with him – I don’t know where she is, Dad – nothing would’ve gone wrong.

That’s not fair. If you’d never touched Joel in the first place, nothing would’ve gone wrong.

It’s just – she had a hand in pushing the first domino.

The bell above the door jingles and you lift your eyes from tiny numbers and blank squares to meet a familiar pair of hazel. An Alanis Morissette T-shirt under a denim jacket. She tucks her thick, soft hair behind her ears and smiles, then skips around the counter and links her hands at your tummy; her ear flat against the nape of your neck.

“Why so clingy?” you ask, and Sarah straightens up.

“Just excited to spend some time with my favorite person. That allowed?”

Your eyes scan her up and down as she leans against the counter, stealing a gummy from a jar beside the register. “Been staying with you for nearly three weeks now, you ain’t sick of me yet?”

She shakes her head, jaw chewing, cheeks swollen with a grin. “Are you done yet? I wanna make sure we get good seats.”

“We will,” you assure her. “It’s only, like, three p.m.”

“But it’s Barbie,” she says, “and I wanna get some snacks before we head in.” She holds the decapitated gummy worm up, eyebrows high, before pulling it between her teeth until it snaps. She drags the withered red tail over her tongue.

“That thing you just mauled,” you gesture to the masticated shape in her fingers, “candy. Snacks. Just take some of that.”

“You won’t even buy your date movie theater candy? Damn. Mom’s a cheapskate. Wish I could say my dad’s a lucky guy.”

You shove her off, disguising your laugh with a shake of your head. “You are on thin ice, I’m not even kidding.”

Sarah’s laughing, reaching for another worm. “You know what that sounds like?”

“Hm?”

“What you just said.”

“What’s it sound like, Sarah Miller?”

“Something a mom would say.”

“Alright,” you stand, “get out. Get outta my store.”

The door opens when you point to it, Texan heat sweeping in to swarm the one rickety fan you have in here. The brass bell trembles, and beneath it, a man in a tucked shirt and jeans, glum face and tired eyes.

You blink at him and he blinks back, and no words are spoken between you, but your dad understands to move, to keep walking – and you understand to let him.

“Shoot,” Sarah whispers, twisting her gummy around her finger. “That was awkward.”

Three weeks of staying with them – Sarah and Joel – also means three weeks of zero contact with your dad. The most you’ve heard from – or, rather, about him is that, last week, Joel bumped into Hank at the gas station, and the old man mentioned that he and your dad had grabbed a beer the night before.

What’d he say? you asked Joel, dragging a dish towel around the rim of a glass.

He shrugged, flicking his hands dry over the sink. Said the Rangers aren’t doin’ too good. I said, Yeah, that’s cause a’ –

No, Joel. What did he say about me ‘n my dad?

He waited a second to let the offense of your interruption soak in. Took the towel from your hand, replaced the glass on the draining board. Nothing, he said, I don’t think he knows.

It sat with you the entire night. The three of you watched a movie, occupying either side of Joel’s couch, though you’re sure you don’t remember a word of it. The image of him sat center-stage in your mind until you pulled yourself against Joel’s body in bed that night. Sat in his recliner, flicking through TV channels, the only sounds in the house that of Ice Road Truckers, the ticking of the kitchen clock, and his own fucking breathing.

Alone. Not even Hank to talk to about – well.

You’ve done your best not to think about him. And it works, most days, when you’re with Joel. Helps to go do stuff: ride shotgun while he picks up supplies for work or grabs groceries. Helps to play pretend like his house is yours, too. Tidying when he’s not home, lighting candles and sinking into a bubble bath for him to find you in when he finishes. Helps to be at Sal’s, with Anna. Sudoku and her fucking Tinder account to keep you both occupied.

Most days, you forget to consider the lonely shape of your dad at all – but that seems to hurt all the more. Like forgetting to tend to an open wound; instead, letting the infection blister and bubble so that, when you do bump it again, the pain feels sharper. Hissing at you, poison seeping from flesh.

His showing up, waltzing straight into the store – feels less like a bump, and more like a pair of hands diving straight into the gash, tearing it wide open again. Blood and poison gushing all over the checkered floor.

Anna materializes between two aisles, hands on her hips when she stands behind you. “Y’all still not really talkin’?” she asks.

You and Sarah shake your heads. The three of you watch the shape of your dad’s skull over the shelves, bobbing from bay to bay. Door hinges to fence paint. He painted the fence last summer. He doesn’t need fucking fence paint.

“Nope,” you reply. “’s been, what, two and a half weeks now?”

“Yeah,” Anna mutters, the slope of sympathy in her voice. “My dad’s been talkin’ to him about it. They’ve spoken, like, almost every night on the phone.”

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, head falling into your hands. “Are you serious?”

“Not about you and Joel. Just about the fight.”

Your jaw slowly slackens, eyes thinning as your gaze slides over to your friend, a saddened expression on her face.

Sarah nods, like an accessory sat on the dash of a car. Bobbing bobbing bobbing, until her brows drop and she turns to you, finally realizing. “Wait, what?”

Anna blinks between the two of you. “What?” she asks, lips pressing together.

“You know?” Sarah asks, glaring at her.

Anna snorts. Neither of you break. She quickly quietens and clears her throat, bending to stuff more cardboard under her arm. “Well…” She sucks in a deep breath. “At rodeo night, when you left your phone on the table, me ‘n Kara wanted to leave a bunch of selfies for you to find later. But when I went to grab your phone, you had a text from him. Joel. Something about someone winning you over like he did, or something. I can’t remember. But that was the first thing.”

Sarah’s face sours at the mention of her dad’s flirty text, scoffing as she swipes another gummy from the jar. “Real fuckin’ subtle, Dad,” she murmurs.

You sharpen your gaze at Anna, blurring the brown curls and low brows from your peripheral. “Uhuh…?”

“Then, there was the lying to your dad about where you were. That Monday – you said you were at mine. You weren’t. Your dad called my dad to ask, ‘n my dad asked me why the hell you’d lie. I figured, What a weird coincidence, right?”

You slip off your stool, legs feeling more liquid than bone. “Oh, Jesus…”

“But then…then, I saw how you were when he called on the way to Frank’s. In the car. You were…fucking weird. And then Joel punched that dude – that basically confirmed it. I don’t think either of your dads would do that for me. It felt…it felt personal. He took your hand ‘n dragged you outta there, and it felt like…somethin’ else.”

You’re leaning against the counter, head in your hands. Struggling to even listen to her piece it all together. Were you this fucking obvious, the whole time?

Anna answers for you. “Yeah,” she says, nodding, “I didn’t catch two fucking boyfriends cheating on me, and not pick up some detective skills, babe.”

You stand straight, composure slowly building over shame. “And your dad doesn’t know? My –” you flick your head across the store, lowering your voice, “– my dad hasn’t told him?”

A laugh spurts from somewhere deep in her chest. “Hell, no. Are you tryna give him a second heart attack? No. He just thinks you were somewhere you didn’t want your dad to know – a boy’s or something. Which – well, I guess you were.”

You nod, half-appreciation, half-resignation. Alright. Now shut up about it, would you?

“But listen,” Anna says, apparently not as good at mindreading as she is at secret-revealing, “y’all gotta work on being sneaky. You’re, like, really bad at it.”

“Yeah,” you sniff, “thanks, Anna.”

You grip the edge of the counter and try to draw your eye away from your dad; a little angry that he’s here, and yet, a little more thankful that you’ve had at least a tiny glimpse of him. Desperate for him to come over, to acknowledge your mutual existence in the same room, and yet – petrified that he does.

He keeps his back to you, though you notice him turning every so often, looking at you from his peripheral. Nope – your black shirt and blue jeans are still behind the counter. He turns back to the shelf.

“Hi, sweetie.” A woman in a pink blouse approaches the counter. She lays down a couple pairs of plyers and you ring her up, asking if she found everything okay. Choking a little when you inhale the scent of her perfume.

“Beautiful day for you to be in here workin’, huh?” Her rosy cheeks fill as she hands you the cash.

Oh, yeah. It’s a beautiful day to be stuck selling plyers to pink women in pink blouses smelling of pink perfume, while my dad – still reeling from the revelation that I’ve been sleeping with his best friend, by the way – pretends to peruse the store.

“I’m almost done,” you reply, blunt enough to deflate her expression only a little, sliding the paper bag stamped Sal’s back across the counter.

She nods in thanks and slinks off, suffocating aroma following her. And like a magician, when she disappears off to the side, your dad stands in her wake. A few feet from you, keeping his distance, watching carefully before he dares to move. Waiting for your go-ahead.

When you lift your chin, beckoning him forward, Anna takes Sarah’s arm and yanks her away, shoving some shredded boxes into her arms. “You wanna help me?” she asks the nosy Miller, tossing something of an alarmed glance back at you and your dad.

There’s a funny feeling behind your eyes when he steps up, empty hand resting hesitantly on the counter. “She coverin’ up the smell of a dead body or som’?” he asks.

The air pushes from your lungs, a laugh barreling with it. Your hands clasp on the surface opposite his. A scorch of white heat at the nape of your neck. “Very vibrant, huh?”

“Very.” He clears his throat, shakes his head a little, and takes a deep breath. “I figured this might be as good a place as any to find you. I didn’t want you to think I was…cornering you, or anything, if I showed up at Joel’s.”

“I wouldn’t – I mean, maybe. But, y’know…this is fine.” Your arms cross defensively, the baggy material of Joel’s shirt wrapping snug around you.

Your dad seems to know. Evidence being that it’s you, in a shirt all too big – a shirt he’d likely see his best friend in, too. It forces your arms tighter, sucking in the scent of Joel to combat the dizzying feeling of nerves.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright,” he says eventually, fingers drumming awkwardly. “I just wanted to know you were fine.”

“I am fine. I promise. Just – working a lot.”

He nods, looking down to his feet. Twists the toe of his boot into the linoleum.

“I’m glad to see you’re alright, too,” you offer, the words fluid and spilling from one to the next – something forceful in their nature.

Your dad’s eyes lift at the same time that his cheeks do. Relief. “Thanks, kiddo. I actually – I was hopin’ that maybe we could talk. If you’re free. I don’t know what time you get off today.”

“I finish in ten minutes,” you say, and hope seems to paint across his face – washing away instantly when you add, “but I’m going to the movies with Sarah.”

He’s nodding again, eyes fixed back on his boots. “Right, right.”

“…But maybe once we’re done I can swing by?”

“Oh, well – I’m workin’ late again. I’ll be out by the time…Yeah. Sorry, hon.”

“That’s okay.”

“Late one again tonight.”

“This, uh – what’s his name again? Kel–?”

“Kelman, yeah. Yeah. How ‘bout I call you tomorrow ‘n we can work somethin’ out? You and Sarah, you enjoy your night.”

You lean back from the counter, slowly more confident in your ability to hold yourself upright. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

His lips press together in a flat attempt at a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. You mind if I…give you a hug?”

And then you’re the one awkwardly, forcedly smiling. Your teeth gritting behind taut lips. “Not at all,” you whisper, and wander carefully around the counter to where he stands.

He opens his arms and pulls you against his chest, your head tilting to rest your ear on his shoulder. You hook your arms under his, feeling his wrists crossing at your spine. Like two statues, two figures of stone fixing their crumbling bodies in an embrace, suddenly disjointed and ill-fitting. Your heart hurts beneath layers of rock, swelling in attempt to reach for his, shrinking back crestfallen when he feels too far.

He kisses the side of your head, pulls away, and taps your cheek once. “You know,” he says, letting you withdraw from his grasp, “I really miss you.”

You nod. “Miss you, too.”

“Let’s talk soon, alright?”

“Yeah.”

And then he’s leaving, drifting back out into the summer sun, rock disintegrating as the light catches him again. More human, less monster-under-your-bed. He’s just your dad again, just that swaying, bumbling man who used to sprinkle rainbow flakes over your ice cream and double-knot your laces.

The shadows of Sarah and Anna appear at your elbows, the three of you watching your dad sink into his car. You still feel made of rock, splitting somewhere down the middle as you stare at his figure.

“Well?” Sarah asks.

He turns right out of the parking lot, disappears behind a hedgerow.

“Yeah,” you reply, turning in a daze. “We’re gonna…gonna talk.”

“That’s good, right? That sounds…promising.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Sarah places a gentle hand on your arm, drawing your attention to her kind eyes and infectious smile. “We should probably get goin’,” she says, and you agree.

“What movie are you seeing?” Anna asks, filling your spot behind the counter as you turn, making for the back of the store.

“Barbie,” Sarah tells her.

“Nice. She paying?”

“Obviously. Mom duties.”

You kick the door closed on their giggles.

Two days pass without a word from your dad. No text, no call, no visit to Sal’s when you’re on shift the following day. By Monday, you’ve convinced yourself that the entire thing was a dream, a hallucination conjured up by your imagination in attempt to rid you of some of the guilt still chewing at your heart. Bat it out of your brain, like swatting the rear end of a wild animal let loose indoors.

Guilt which is only remedied, only soothed by Joel. By the feeling which overcomes your chest when you look at him – lungs faltering, heart leaping. The peace of falling asleep in his safe embrace, the heat from his body enough to keep you comfortable all night, and then waking up tangled in his sheets – the smell of bacon and eggs twirling through the house, the distant sound of his humming drawing you downstairs to his side.

Late nights on the porch, watching the sun bleed heavily into the sky. Your ankles in his lap, a guitar over his thigh. Thumb gentle on the strings, soft timbre of song lulling you to some place far from reality: the same rosy, dreamlike state you’ve mostly occupied since he dragged you through his front door, kicked your shoes and all of your worries to the side, and made you forget that anything bad had ever happened.

The most comfortable you’ve ever felt in your life, the most loved – a world where your every word is heard and weighed, rolling around Joel’s palms and slotting carefully into his back pocket. A world where his lips on your neck as you make dinner, where the crook of his arm catching you as you pass by, is all normal. Where I love you and I love you, too become the last words your sleepy ears hear at night, right before you sink into a shared sleep.

All of it becoming as natural as the pale moon switching for her golden sister at dawn. As instinctive as breathing.

“Have you ever made love to anyone?” you ask him one night, the aftershock of an orgasm still soaking into your skin.

Joel pauses, hips slowing between yours. “Yeah,” after a couple beats, “sure.”

“What’s it feel like?” you ask, honestly. Combing his dark hair through your fingers. “I’ve never…No one’s ever…”

“Baby,” he says. “We’ve done it. I’ve done it to you.”

Your body tenses and then melts around him. One blink and suddenly the world softens, seems to bow into the background – the only sharp object Joel, the twinkle in his eye piercing through the haze like blinking white stars in thick, dark clouds.

You whisper, “Can you do it again? So I can feel what it’s like?”

He pushes himself up, one elbow planted by your ear, the other hand lifting your thigh. Hooking it over his waist, lowering his arm again to cage you under his body. He nudges your chin with his nose, lifting it to line your lips with his, hold every part of your body as close to his as he can.

Deeper, in every sense of the word. Slow, hard. Eyes on you the entire time, watching the way your face contorts and your jaw slackens, holding the shape of your head in his hands, swallowing his own moans and grunts to make space between you for yours.

“Look at me, baby, eyes on me,” he says, and by instinct, your eyes roll forward, focusing or half-focusing on the slick hair at his forehead, the red flush climbing his neck, seeping into the skin under his beard. “You feel it? Feel where I’m goin’?”

And yeah, you whine, you do feel it. Feel him dragging you further away from this world and into the next – somewhere a plain away, somewhere new and different to anything you’ve ever known before. Where physicality is a language, a fluid conversation between the melding of his body and yours; where there are a million words swirling around his pupils, hypnotizing and entrancing and drawing you in until you’re tumbling headfirst into the inky pools.

Where I love you sounds like the groan Joel can’t hold back, feels like the pulsing flood as he snaps between your legs. Where making love is as simple as the squeeze of his hand around yours; the shove of his plate over the kitchen table, offering you the last bite of grilled cheese or simply admitting that it was yours before he’d even taken the first. That addictive laugh of his when you stall the fucking truck for the fifth time: You asked me to teach you, baby, I’m tryna teach you. Foot on the gas, c’mon. You got it. That’s it – now, slow. Slower. Try to feel it. No, really feel it.

Feel it. Really, try to feel it. Can you feel it? Do you know the difference yet? The difference between everyone who was before, and the one who is now? Do you finally get it?

“I feel it,” you cry out, and his frame holds yours together as you fall apart.

It feels like – you.

How did I ever know anything before I knew you?

“That one’s nice,” Joel says, his voice jumping the short distance between his lips and your ear.

You tilt your head, body moving with his when he lifts his hand to swipe through some more of the images. The spacious living room, newly refurbed kitchen, the view of downtown Los Angeles.

He adjusts the blanket draped over your legs. “Washer dryer, walk-in closet,” and then, leaning in closer, whispers, “a balcony. That’s cool.”

“Hm,” you turn to face him, your body shelled by his in the corner of his couch, “I bet you like the balcony, cowboy.”

He smiles plainly in response, squeezing your nose between two knuckles. Yeah. Lots you can do with a balcony.

A sharp gasp from across the room pierces the sweet moment. You and Joel turn in its direction, its owner wide-eyed and blinking at the TV.

“Wait a second,” Sarah yelps. “George is the John Doe?” She gasps again when Meredith announces the same news to her friends onscreen. “Shut – the fuck – up!”

“Language,” Joel clips, chest rumbling between your shoulder blades.

“Oh, like you didn’t have the exact same reaction. George is the…Oh, that sucks. Are you kidding me?” She fishes her phone from the waves of blanket surrounding her, thumbs rapidly typing, eyes shooting from screen to screen.

You snort, turning back to your own phone in your hand, when a text appears at the top of the screen.

Dad: Hey kiddo. Sorry to keep you waiting, work been hectic. Off the rest of today if you’re free to come over.

Your thumb latches onto the message, holding it for Joel to read, too, before letting it disappear off into your notifications.

He tightens his hold on you, burying his nose into the cotton of his own hoodie over your shoulders. His breath pushes heavy and thoughtful across the material. “Still seems as calm as the other day.”

“Too calm,” you admit, “it’s freaking me out.”

“What can he do, you know? You’re here, he’s there. Your dad ain’t an idiot, baby. He knows stayin’ angry about it’s only gonna push you further away.”

“Sure made ‘im feel like an idiot…”

Joel catches the comment and pockets it before it gathers enough weight to bruise. “Well,” he clears his throat, “it’s up to you. I ain’t letting you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Mhm,” you reply, and wait for more words to fall to your tongue. An answer, a response. A decision that you know you don’t feel equipped or even rightful to make.

“Do you want to go talk to him?” Joel asks.

“I…I want to make things right. I wanna fix it.”

“Okay. And will talking to him do that?”

You turn to face him, frowning. “I don’t fucking know,” you mutter. “Will it?”

He smiles sympathetically. “Wish I knew, darlin’. Would it help if I came? Sat outside in the truck, waited for you? It gets too much, you decide you wanna leave – we leave.”

“You ain’t scared to be near him again?”

He gulps back a laugh, Adam’s apple bobbing awkwardly before he allows himself to answer. “Only thing scary about your dad is the sunlight reflectin’ off his damn head. No, I ain’t scared.”

You study him a minute longer, eyes roaming from the lips you could sketch every score of from memory, the beard you’re sure has forever altered your prints from the number of times you’ve run your fingers over the bristles. The eyes which know every secret, every whisper, every thought behind your own.

You sigh, smiling dumbly as he wraps his arms tighter around you. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Joel pulls up by the curb, parking politely at the end of your driveway rather than alongside your dad’s car, like he usually would. Like he used to.

You crane your head, looking past the shape of him to survey the unassuming house. Quiet, still. No sign of hurricane or earthquake, no tremors of rage or words like rocks raining down on the truck roof. Your thumb plunges into the buckle of your seatbelt, the webbing whipping over your shoulder.

“Sure you’re okay?” Joel asks, watching your fingers lift to the door handle.

“Mhm,” you reply, distant. “’s just my dad, right? What’s the worst that could happen?”

His eyebrows lift, agreeing. He takes your hand in his and holds it to his lips. “Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your fingers, “if it happens, you come straight back out here, you hear? I ain’t moving.”

The urge to stay exactly where you are and let him carry you off back to his place overwhelms you for a brief second. To stay in the safety of the truck cabin, stay within touching distance of Joel. And as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. Overcome by the memory of that stony hug in Sal’s, the vacant, lonely eyes boring into late-night TV.

A sharp chap over your shoulder shocks you back to life. You twist in your seat, looking down at a face wrinkled by curiosity and wisdom, sheen of lipstick curved in a mischievous grin. You roll the window down, mirroring her smile.

“Joel Miller,” Rita calls, lowering her ring-adorned fist and pointing over to her car. “Help me with these groceries.”

“Afternoon to you, too, Rita,” he calls back, and she raises two thin, penciled eyebrows. His sigh trickles into a chuckle as he snaps the door open, leaning into you. “I ain’t moving,” he mutters, swinging out of the truck.

“Sure looks like you’re movin’,” you call back, letting Rita pull on your door to let you out.

“How are you, darlin’?” she asks. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

You hop down beside her, helping her tug the shawl around her arms back over her shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve, uh…I’ve been busy.”

She nods, and then her eyes drift to somewhere behind you. “They go in the kitchen, son.” She points to her house. “I’ll come help you unpack ‘em.”

Joel’s face twists, eyes wide, hands outstretched. You swallow back a laugh when he looks to you, an almost teenage expression which asks, You seein’ this? as he turns back to the Nissan.

“I better go,” Rita says then, giving your arms one last squeeze. “You take care, now. Tell your dad I’m askin’ after ‘im.”

“I will, Rita.” You turn on your heel and saunter around Joel’s truck, giving him one last twirl as he hoists two bags under his muscled arms, rolling his eyes as you spin.

You pull the weight of yourself up your drive, passing past versions of yourself as you near the front door. She’s stumbling towards her dad’s car, a bucket of soapy water sloshing around between her knees. She’s sat on the curb, waiting for Joel’s truck to roll up, praying she never hears another Marty Robbins song again.

She’s naïve, still. Knows no better, knows no worse. Chasing a high, chasing the thrill of being caught and the thrill of nobody ever knowing. A relationship built entirely on lies and deceit. A love woven with dark threads of shame and anger, a tattered mess in one corner where the edges fray and loosen.

And you think: you’ve never felt more jealous of anybody your whole life.

The front door clicks open easily, like the building welcomes you home with a relieved sigh. You follow sunlight into the hallway, feeling it easier to walk through than before – less dense, less suffocating. Less guilty. An honest thief, back to return the bleeding heart she dragged out the door with her.

Secrets like shards of broken glass on the floor, debris from that day. And as if he hears the crunch of your footsteps, your dad appears at the bottom of the hall.

“Hi, hon.”

Eyes wide with a misplaced shock, you say, “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“’m good.”

“Good. Come in, come through.” He beckons you forward, a smile only half-forced on his lips. “You want a drink or anything?”

You follow him into the kitchen, politely accepting a glass of water when he offers it.

He turns with two steady palms on the island, watching as you drag a chair free and sit at the table. “How’s Joel?” he asks, swallowing roughly.

The words come delayed, your open mouth lying in wait. Your body selfishly trying to hoard the information, protective the second the image of that six-foot, two-hundred-pound man crosses your mind. “He’s fine. He’s out front.”

It sounds like a warning, though you don’t mean for it to. Just conversation. He’s helping Rita with her groceries. She’s asking after you, by the way. But your dad seems to sense the natural amber tone of it – the sparking of a flame, daring to catch. He’s waiting for this to go south.

He nods, accepting the fact of it. His own failed attempt to separate the two of you only drove you closer together. Only made you want Joel more.

But then he’s nearing you again, pulling out the chair opposite yours. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, settling with a sigh. “Glad we’re…we’re talkin’ again, at least.”

Your head angles. “Are we?”

His body jerks, flinching from the sting of the question. “Well,” his head wobbles, jowls quivering, “I sure hope so. I was takin’ it as a good sign that you’re here.”

“I’m here,” you repeat, “but that doesn’t mean I’m staying.”

“No, I know. I know. Joel’s out front, ‘n all that.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. Holds his tongue behind his front teeth, waiting for the next turn of conversation.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, softening your voice. “Dad?” you say, and he looks up. “This whole entire thing – I think…I think we oughta try and understand each other, a little better. Hear each other out.”

“I am tryin’, hon. I’m really tryin’. You dealt me an awful lot to hear out ‘n understand.”

You rock back, sinking against the hard chair. Tracing the wood grains in the table, nails digging between. Shame coiling like a snake beneath your tongue, taking up too much space in your mouth. Its venom dripping between your teeth, acrid and sour; tendons in your neck jumping with the bitterness of your dad’s tone.

He sighs. “Be honest with me a second.”

“Huh?”

He waits a beat, watching you carefully. Opens his mouth, pauses, and then speaks. “Who instigated it?”

Your finger pushes harder into the surface. Digging new divots. “Um…kinda both of us. Was sort of a two-way thing from the get-go.”

His lips twist, almost imperceptible. He looks behind you to the patio outside. You can’t read what’s in his eyes. It makes you say more, say things you reckon you’ll regret later – but something to fill the silence between you. Something to let him sink his teeth into.

“There was flirting. Lotta flirting. And then it…it just sort of snowballed.”

“Snowballed.” He looks uncomfortable, lifting his hands to cup over his face. “I just didn’t take him as the type,” he says, muffled into his palms.

“As what type?”

He drops his hands, hitting his thighs with a slap, and looks you dead in the eye. Sad, almost. “Arthur Kennedy type.”

“He’s not.”

You say it instinctively. Your ears hear it at the same time your dad does. He looks at you blankly.

“He’s not,” you repeat, a little looser. Less hasty. “Look,” you sigh, “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but…everything that we ever did, I wanted to do. I already told you. There ain’t nothing we did that I didn’t ask him to. I swear to you.”

You think back to the cookout, how angry Joel was at the thought of Arthur Kennedy hanging over you. How pissed he’d be, hearing your dad line him up against that old leather boot of a man. Comparing, contrasting. Here’s how you measure up, son. How much of a phantom Arthur Kennedy has been, your whole life, and how much of a sanctuary Joel is in comparison.

Your stomach twists at the thought. A tight knot, wound by a desperation to clear the name of a man whose worst offense was doing exactly what your dad would’ve told him to: leave.

“This whole thing,” you go on, “it’s a mess, alright? It’s – totally fucked. And we shouldn’t’ve lied, shouldn’t’ve been keeping things from you, but then…what did you expect?”

Your dad cuts in like a bullet: “I expect the two of you not to do what you were doin’.”

“No, I know that. But we did it, right? It’s done now. I meant, did you really want us to sit you down in the living room ‘n say, Hey, Dad – guess what?”

He grimaces at the thought.

“Didn’t think so. We didn’t even know what it was. We had no idea what it’d turn into. But you gotta hear me out: it wasn’t just…some fling, or whatever you’re thinkin’. I swear, Dad, it wasn’t.”

He still doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t lift his stare from the table. You feel like a little kid, desperate to make him love you again. Desperate to make him listen. The space between you fills with the bored tick tick tick of the kitchen clock. Each second hurting a little more than the last.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you down, but…I’m not sorry that I did it. If I could go back, knowing everything I know – I’d do it all over again.”

The words roll across the table to him like billiards. You lean back again, watching them as they rattle from his side to yours – your sentence delivered back into your ears. You nod, a sure thought in your mind.

I’d do it all over again. All the covering, all the hiding. The aching, the wishing and wanting. Staring at Joel’s empty hand, dying to slot yours into it. Dying to put any part of yourself near him; your head under his chin, your arms linked around his waist. Knowing you two would feel, knowing everyone else would see, just how perfectly you fit together.

The chasing your own tails: Did you lie well enough? Do they suspect anything? Did we leave any evidence? Disturbed sheets, a collar still upturned. Can they hear us? Have they noticed we’re missing? We’re always fucking missing.

You’d do it all over again. You know what it cost, now, sat directly opposite the price. His polite smiles like veneers over rotten teeth. The tremble in his lip when he opens his mouth to speak.

And it was worth it. Joel. He was worth it all, in the end.

All over again.

“Do you know that every time I look at you, there are…probably four versions that I see?”

You frown. Did he hear what you just said? All ov–? “What?”

Your dad laughs to himself. “When you walk outta that door, I see a little pink backpack over your shoulders. Gym bag in your hand, maybe. I see missin’ front teeth, I see those little clip-on earrings you used to love so much.

“And – and when you’re mad at me, when we fight, I see you at fourteen. Growing pains, y’know? I still remember you slamming your bedroom door in my face, all ‘cause I wouldn’t let you go to that girl Molly’s birthday party.” He looks up, smiling at your perplexed expression.

“I don’t even…remember that, hardly.”

“Long time ago now. My point is,” he continues, “you’re twenty-three. You’re grown. And I just can’t figure out how to make those other versions…grow with you. You still feel like my kid. Still that little girl with the pink backpack.”

“But,” you clear your throat, trying to swipe her from your own memory, “I’m not. I’m not her anymore, Dad. And I think maybe you gotta give me the space to be someone different, now.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, nodding. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think this new version of you would…y’know. Be with Joel, ‘n all. That is something I did not see comin’.”

“You think I did?” You spit a laugh. “If you told me when I came home that this is what was waiting for me…that I was gonna fall…”

Your teeth close around the sentence, dropping your dad’s eye. But it’s too late.

He stares back at you like the sun. “…Fall in love with ‘im?”

And you cower. You wince, almost. The last secret. The last thing he doesn’t know. “I don’t…I don’t know, I –”

“You love him. You do, don’t you?”

Your thumbs run circles around one another, fingers locking until your knuckles hurt. “I don’t know,” you mumble, wishing for the tenth time since you sat down that Joel was beside you, in front of you, around you.

“’s what Anna seems to reckon.”

Your eyes flit up. “Anna?”

He hums. “She is her father’s daughter. A damn meddler. She called here, last night.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you groan, head falling into your hands. “Ignore her, please. Ignore all of it. She doesn’t –”

He holds a palm up. “Now, hold on. You don’t even know what it was she said.”

You huff a sigh, twisting your hand in the air. Go on.

“She reckons you do love him. Reckons he loves you back. More, if that’s even possible, she said. Told me all about the way he stepped in front a’ that boy at Frank’s. About your face when he picked you up from rodeo night, how ecstatic you were. The difference she sees in you.”

“Difference,” you scoff, glancing out to the backyard. “What difference?”

“Same difference I see, probably. Same difference Bill said he saw, too: you’re happier. Even I can’t deny it, hon. It’s damn hard – you never make nothin’ easy on your old man – but…but I am willing to try.”

The hurt begins to slowly fizzle away. Cooling, washing from your skin like foamy waves. Curiosity left to shine through.

“You may not understand this ‘til you have kids of your own – if you have kids of your own – but there ain’t a thing in this world that I love more than I love you. And when you love somethin’ that much, you’ll do anything to stop it from getting hurt. Anything. That’s all I want you to know.”

A silence falls between you, thoughtful and waiting. The clock’s ticking grows sharper again. It seems to consider the same as you: there should be more to this. More to be said, to be convinced. More yelling, even.

But you arrive at the same conclusion, at near enough the same time: there is nothing more. Cards flat on the table, eyes pouring all over them. To question it, to second-guess any of it, would be to tempt fate.

“Anyway,” your dad sits forward, clasping his hands on the table, “tell me what’s goin’ on. What’s been happening in your world?”

You shrug. A little, shy thing. “Work. Been hanging with Sarah a lot. And I, uh, I had a job interview last week.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

You shift awkwardly in your chair. “For, uh…that one in LA. They called to offer it a couple days ago.”

A smile pulls across his lips. Growing, growing, growing until he’s grinning back at you. Pride, little bit of surprise. Whole lot of amusement and joy. “You take it?” he asks, figuring he knows the answer already.

“Not yet,” you reply. “Think I’m going to, though. ‘s too good to say no.”

He lifts his eyebrows in agreement, looking down at his hands. Shoulders lurch some under the weight of your news. “There goes that little backpack,” he mutters to himself, and you smirk.

“Can’t hold her back forever.”

“I never had a hold on her in the first place. You were walkin’ on outta that door the minute you found your own two feet.”

You snort. “Good! Good for me. Let me go out into the big ol’ world; let me go fuck it all up ‘n come home for dinner once I’m done.”

“I intend to,” your dad says, nodding along to every passionate word you say. And then he asks, “How’s Joel feelin’ about it all? About LA?”

Your shoulder jerks in a half-shrug. “He’s fine, I guess. Says he’ll miss me, but then – we haven’t exactly had the most typical relationship up until now. Survived a lot I reckon would break any normal couple…”

It’s the first time you think you’ve ever said it. Couple. You’ve thought of it – flicked through the words you might use to describe him. Your boyfriend, your partner. None of them seem to fit exactly who he is to you. None of them strong enough to carry the weight of what’s shared between you. He’s Joel. He’s your Joel. Nothing will ever come close.

Your dad hears it, too. The newness of it. The crisp shape of the word, not yet thawed to this new world. Your tongue still learning how to pronounce it, how to pair it with the image of Joel.

“Guess he can fly out ‘n visit whenever, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, “and I’ll be back here, too. Christmas ‘n all.”

Your dad smiles. Relieved, assured. Light slowly returning to his eyes.

“We’ll be fine,” your chest swells, “so Joel says. I trust ‘im.”

You both quieten, sitting back in your chairs. What once felt like a room ablaze, flames tearing the skin from your body as you dragged your heels through it – now feels like a gentle warmth. Waves wrought with enough power and force to destroy you, now seeping off with the change of the tide. Bumps on the horizon.

“Speaking of,” you say, making to stand, “I should probably get goin’.”

“Yeah. Yeah, hon.” Your dad follows, arm on your shoulder as he walks you down the hall.

The sun intrudes, tosses herself into your arms as you pull the front door open. In her golden-rayed wake sits that dark truck, same as always. The same dark tee, the same dark-speckled-gray hair. Arms folded, stood against the body, waiting. Eyes on the house, on your figure as you step down onto the doormat. Joel straightens when your dad follows you out, chest sucking in a ragged breath.

They look at one another, and that’s about it. Something of a nod from Joel – not quite returned by your dad. You figure that might take some time to come back around. And that’s okay. You can make peace with it.

You turn back. Your dad’s looking down at you, hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

“You know,” you take a deep breath, “the only times he’s ever hurt me, are the times he’s left. The times I haven’t had him around.”

And then you step back, the magnet in your chest telling you it’s time to return to its partner.

In high school, your English teacher tasked the class with writing a short story. Any genre you wanted, any word count up to two thousand. The boys mostly dicked around, wrote action-packed, blood-and-guts garbage. One girl wrote something you’re sure you’d seen in a Hallmark movie before.

But you – you spent two weeks straight, writing. Awake until all hours of the night, hunched over your laptop, sunbathing in the blue hue of an open document. Fingers hammering rapidly into your keyboard.

A man and a woman meet in Central Park. She – hair the color of rust, spilling down her shoulders and lifting at the ends, twisting around the fingers of the blustery wind. A red glow around her third finger where gold once lived. Sat on a bench, alone. Hiding, perhaps. And he – sharp suit and tie, clean-shaven, a steel-blue gaze that might cut glass. Missing the city traffic by taking a walk through the park on his way home. Fleeing, perhaps.

He notices her trench coat first. Bright red, a poppy swaying in the breeze. A little hopeless, a solemn wilt to it. The quickly dampening fire of her hair in the rain, the opaque sheen of polish chipping from her nails. And he thinks he recognizes the constellation of freckles painted across her cheeks. Thinks he might’ve mapped them, once, in some kind of past-life.

She looks up and realizes she recognizes the cut of his gaze. Piercing through her, splitting her in two. Thinks she might’ve felt it before, the opening of her soul to someone who looked just like him – a little more baby-faced, a little more spirited. In some kind of past-life, too.

She stands, and he slows, and they meet somewhere in the middle. Words exchanged; body heat transferred through hugs. Is that really you? You look so different. It’s been years. He doesn’t ask about the lack of jewelry on her third finger. She doesn’t ask about the gray circles beneath his eyes. Just, You wanna grab a coffee? and, Yeah. Yeah, I do.

They sit at the window, watch the yellow taxis and the black umbrellas and the trembling traffic lights. They talk about life then, life now, and silently agree to forget about the part in the middle. They look at each other the same way they must have before they lost one another, before life and love and everything else got between them.

They agree to meet again in a week. They swear that they will not fall back in love.

They know as well as each other that they’re really promising to do just that.

Love – twisted and turned over and over, until it’s a different shape altogether. We started as one thing, and we watched it shift into something completely different. Clay in the potter’s hands. Didn’t you think it might fall apart? There was a moment I thought the heat of the kiln might break us. I’m glad it didn’t. I’m glad we’re made of tough stuff.

I’m glad I found you again, in that park. The pissing rain and the wind so strong I felt it lifting the sense from my mind. In that hardware store, in that bar filled with weed and bad intentions. I’m glad you split me open, glad you could see the good that was still inside. I thought I’d lost her for a minute. Thought she’d forgotten her way home.

Let’s go get a coffee. Let’s pretend it’s always been this way.

Let’s fall in love. The rest will take care of itself.

It takes three weeks in total to properly pack up your things. Two days after you accepted the job, you bought boxes and tape, and began to dismantle the identity you’d spent twenty-three years creating for yourself, a little bit at a time. Taking apart the pink-walled museum of your life, artefact by artefact.

Joel has helped as much as you’ve let him. Laid back on your bed when you’ve dismissed him one too many times, raised his eyebrows and laughed with you whenever you come across some old, forgotten piece of memorabilia. Something ceremonial to it, something innocent and fun. Like a little graduation for all the parts of yourself.

Soon, as the last of the summer sun dampens outside, your room lies vacant. Empty of any real evidence of your being here. Bedsheets and pillows folded, packed away; framed photos and posters unpinned from the wall and wrapped up safely. Drawers and closets barren, left with a selection of your less-loved, less-worn clothes. A wardrobe built from stuff you’ll only ever wear when you come back home to visit, if even then.

Joel’s sat on the bare mattress, looking around your room. You’re stood opposite, leaning against your half-empty dresser. The sun filters feebly through your turned shades, averting her eyes.

You look over at him. Golden, like the sunlight outside. Warm, like the breeze through the trees. Yours. Yours yours yours.

“What?” Joel asks, his eyes having finally found their way back to you. He smiles at your focused expression.

“Nothing. I don’t know. Just…”

“Talk to me. Tell me.”

“You are – this is…” You sigh. “This is good. I think it’s good. Not just all the stuff we did. But you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “You’re good for me.” You grip the wooden lip tighter, swaying nervously when you add, “But I think it was always gonna go this way, wasn’t it?”

He sniffs. Shoulders jerk in a weak shrug. “Yeah, I think so, baby.”

Your eyelashes flutter, soothing the prickling feeling of tears forming. “I don’t – I don’t know if I want it to.”

“Yeah,” Joel says through a groan, pushing himself up, “you do.”

You shake your head as he approaches, and his hands cup your cheeks.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling your body tight against his. Your face buries in his chest; your tears wet on his shirt. He shushes you, rocks you gently back and forth with a hand on the back of your head. “Listen to me.”

“Joel –”

“Listen to me.” He pulls you back, swipes the tears from your cheeks as quickly as they fall. “We’re fine. We are going to be fine.”

“I don’t want to leave you –”

“I know, I know. But you want to go do this. And that’s okay. Both of ‘em, at once.”

Your head shakes again. Like an instinctive reaction to the thought of being separated from him.

Joel smiles softly. “I am going to miss you like hell. You got no idea. But,” he pulls your head back to face his, tucks your hair behind your ear, “I want you to go. You gotta go after this. Right?”

“I know,” you whisper, lungs lurching for breath. “I just – wish it didn’t mean leavin’ you.”

“Darlin’…” Joel coos, pulling you in again. “You know how much I love you? What do I keep tellin’ you? We’ll be alright. It’s you ‘n me, right?”

You nod, salty tears slipping between your lips onto your tongue. When you look up, you notice the same expression on Joel’s face. He blinks his own away before they fall.

“’s you ‘n me,” you repeat, and he pulls your lips together.

You roll your tongue onto his, letting him taste you – all of you. Your mouth, and your thoughts, and your tears, and your pain. You let him take it all, let him hold it for this moment as you breathe him in, let his body fill yours in every way.

Your hands are in his hair, your chest pressed against his; he’s every thought on your mind and every beat in your heart. He’s the blood thrumming through your veins, he’s the oxygen filling your lungs; he’s the words between your teeth and the flesh around your bones.

And he pulls you, and you follow, his shirt in your fist, over to the bed where he lays you gently and falls on top.

“When’s he get back?” he asks, taking your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Later,” you mumble, your fingers picking at the hem of his shirt.

He pushes back, letting you tug it up up up over his shoulders at the same rate he peels your tee from yours, both tossing each other’s clothes to somewhere else in the room. Jeans undone, shorts dragged from your hips, underwear discarded until you’re naked under him, and he’s naked over you, and there’s nothing and no one between.

Joel cradles you, holds you close as he presses a palm roughly against the underside of your thigh, opening your body to him in a way only he’s mastered. In a way you only would, for him.

His hand cups your sex, fingers nudging between your folds, pushing in when your jaw slackens and a wanton moan echoes from your throat across Joel’s tongue.

“Yeah,” he coos, wrist jacking between your legs, “’s my girl. Gotta get you warmed up, huh? Get you nice ‘n wet.”

Your back arches, arms linking around his neck to pull him closer, pull him deeper. Hold him tight enough to you that your bodies feel one, feel connected at the meeting of Joel’s hand and the most intimate part of you; the meeting of your tongues between teeth.

And you gasp, the nudging of his fingers against the deepest part of your body, the messy circles of his thumb on your clit. The shape of him, solid and warm against the seam of your thigh.

You reach down for him, wrapping your fingers around his cock, and his breath hitches. Teeth bump into yours. You’re fucking irresistible to him.

“Darlin’,” his voice is low, daring you to keep going, “you wanna cut this short ‘fore we’re even started?”

You breathe a laugh into his jaw, hot and needy. “You get to play with me,” you whine, “I wanna play with you, too.”

Joel growls, seizing his movements, leaning back in what you take as him granting full access to his body. But then he says, “Turn around,” in a strict voice you’ve come to know as meaning one thing, and you pause.

You peel your eyes from his dick to blink up at him. “Turn –?”

“– around, now.” He takes your waist, hoisting you up until you’re straddling him, holding you inches above his body. “Turn.”

“What the fuck are you –?”

“Many times do I gotta tell you? You said you wanted to play.” He twists your waist until you follow his movements, swinging one leg over the other. He grabs your hips, tugging you back towards his face. “So, play,” he mutters, lowering your cunt down to his lips.

You gasp, falling forward and hitting the mattress between his legs. “J– fuck me. Are you s-serious?” You moan, hips rocking against the feeling of his bearded chin at your clit. “You’re like – a fucking – horny teenager. Oh, fuck.”

Your head falls forward, hands splaying out over his thighs, before your eyes refocus and you notice the hardened shape of him, tip oozing precome all over the hair-spattered plain of his groin. Your hand lifts, shakily taking hold of him again, and you lean down.

Elbows hooked over his thighs, you bring his tip to your lips, letting a thick bead of saliva fall and drip down the length of him, meeting your closed fist to be dragged up and down.

Joel’s hips almost buck. He holds it, manages to catch it, but you spot it. You’ve done this too many fucking times not to notice the reaction you draw from him.

“’s good,” you whisper, circling your hips on his face, tongue slipping across his cherry-red tip. “Feels so good.”

He responds in the form of a deep groan, rattling from his chest through your clit, shocking like lightning up your spine until the very same noise is thrown from your lips. You push down, tongue molding around every vein and the slow curve of his cock until your lips meet the thick brush of hair at his base, his tip kissing the very back of your throat.

Your throat which jumps, jolts at the feeling of something intruding – before you’re retreating again, pulling him from your body, warm, wet spit linking the two of you when you come up for air. And then you sink back down, head moving up down up down up down as his stomach tenses beneath your chest.

Joel’s palms keep a heavy hold on your ass, his tongue lapping between your folds like they’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted – like he might die if he doesn’t get his fix of you. And you think, they are, and he might, as your cheeks hollow and you bow down over him again.

You establish a rhythm, two waves swirling between one another: your hips rocking, Joel’s lifting ever so slightly as you suckle on one another. Your hand fisting the parts of him you can’t quite reach, not without choking; Joel holding you fixed to his jaw, letting the tip of his tongue hook around your swollen clit, then dragging it down until he’s letting you ride the wet muscle.

The approach of your first orgasm, a tiny spark catching to life in the pit of your belly, incites you with a need to open up further for him. Your throat taking more of him, your thighs slackening as you drive your cunt harder against his mouth.

“’m so close,” you whimper, lips curving around his cock. “So – fucking – ah, keep doin’ that. Right th-there.”

His hands hook around your thighs, tongue darting across your clit. His nose nudges somewhere between your folds, quickly becoming coated in the slick you’re leaking all over him.

“Joel,” you say, fists pumping his cock. Your voice a warning: it’s coming. You’re gonna – Fuck, you’re gonna come.

His voice is looser, more of a shrug of the shoulders when he pulls away from you. He inserts two fingers, curls them like before, like he knows drives you fucking insane. “Let go, babygirl,” he murmurs, lips immediately returning to position. And then, muffled and rough: “Come all over me.”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, hands squeezing around his cock, feeling that same spark ignite into flame, your entire body bursting with heat.

Your high rips through you, battering through each vein in your system, each nerve electrified. You collapse between his legs, his rough pubic hair sticking to the sweat on your chest, hips rutting wildly against the sharp cut of his jaw.

The mattress absorbs most of the desperate moan which streaks across your tongue, nails digging hard into the flesh of Joel’s thighs. And you hear the deep sound of his voice, the thud thud thud of a chuckle against your clit: the cocky fucker laughing to himself as he unravels you for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Alright,” Joel says, more to himself than to the fucked-out shape of you between his legs. He sits up and shifts you carefully down the bed, settling you face-down on the mattress and lifting your ass to meet his hips. “Okay?” he asks, kneeling behind you.

You feel his tip between your legs, slotting happily somewhere in your opening. Waiting for your response. A response you don’t feel able to give, as much as you’d like to; your lips puffy and confused, words jumbling behind them in a tangle of bliss and love.

“Baby,” Joel says, hand slinking down your back, pressing gentle circles into the nape of your neck. “You okay?”

Your head lifts, glancing over your shoulder to see his hairy torso, his thick arms caging over you. He lifts your chin with two fingers, cranes your neck up until you’re looking into his eyes, heavy lids blinking dumbly.

“Just fuck me,” you whisper, and Joel slips his tongue into your mouth.

You used to dream of coming back home. A few years away, doing whatever you wanted, wherever you wanted. Dreaming things up and then chasing them until they happened. Tiring yourself out, lungs gasping for breath and eyes always searching, always looking for a new target to pin up. But always coming back.

Austin, Texas. Its jagged skyline, the streets lined with a vibrant glow and star-spangled bunting. The river like a silver-bellied snake slithering through. Home.

You dreamt of living out your days here, once your blood had slowed and your mind settled. A quiet life in the country, a big wooden house with a wraparound porch. Two little rocking chairs, so you and whoever your husband turned out to be could sit and watch the sky fade from red into orange into white and then dull gray into deep blue.

Breeze kissing your cheek, his lips kissing your knuckles.

Joel.

Home.

You tell him, and he smirks. “That so?” he asks, wrapping his arms a little tighter around your naked body.

You nuzzle your cheek into the palm of his hand, breathing in the sweet scent of sweat and sex sitting in the air. “Mhm. You could play guitar until the stars come out.”

He hums in agreement. “Sounds like a pretty good dream. Tell you what: you go to LA, do what you gotta do. By the time you come back, there’ll be a big ol’ farmhouse, wraparound porch, rollin’ fields for the dogs. Coffee ‘n sunsets. How’s that sound?”

“And you’ll be there?”

He smiles. Scoops you in one arm and rolls you onto your front, chest to chest with him. His fingers ghost down the curve of your shoulder. “Baby,” he whispers, “I built the damn thing.”

It forces a laugh from your chest, something you’ve gotten used to by now. Joel and his ability to steal a giggle from you, the dumbest moments seeming the funniest. “You’re gonna build me a damn house?” you ask, chin resting between his pecs.

“That what you want?”

Your head rocks left to right, considering. “I just want you. That’s all.”

“Then you got me. I’m all yours.”

In his hazel eyes lives every moment you’ve ever shared. Every conversation, every kiss, every fight. Every minute he’s spent looking for you or at you, every minute you’ve spent looking back at him. It’s all in there. You see it like a movie reel, frame by frame.

It lands like a slot machine on that first night. Cleaning up after pizza. Shoulder to shoulder by your kitchen sink. You wish you’d just kissed him. Even with your dad right there. Wish you’d lifted your heels and put your lips on his, just for the fucking hell of it. Just to condense all of it, every second of longing and hurt and pain into one fleeting moment.

Wish you’d pulled him into you, against you, the weight of his body like an old friend. Welcomed it with open arms, like you’d spent your entire life missing it, waiting for it to come back to you. Let yourself feel your own heart, peeling between the cage of your ribs, reaching out for his. Always reaching for him.

Wish you’d looked him in the eye, tears softening the tufts of graying hair, vignetting the smirk only you can tell is there. Looked at him in that knowing way, that language only you two know; the glint in your eyes translating a thousand messy words into three. Just three – the simplest, lightest words you’ve ever known.

I love you. Let’s skip to the good part.

[toshitophchan]

Even before the gang had truly gotten to know Elmo Zimmer the Third, they’d gotten to know his hair. His curly ginger haie meant he was a target for bullies all through primary school. Kids thought it was funny to say he had no soul and call him a wide variety of orange foods, but it wasn’t just that. Elmo had always kept his hair fairly short like all the other boys had, curled around his ears and remaining that way up to year seven. When Elmo was twelve however, he stopped cutting his hair suddenly. It grew long and it grew fast. By the time the kids had become teenagers, sixteen to be precise, Elmo’s curly ginger hair reached his lower back. It was definitely an odd look, no one was ever quite sure if it really worked or not, but despite a lot of teasing, Elmo’s hair remained stubbornly long. Elmo often wore it down, or in a messy ponytail that just screamed ‘I’m a dag.’ He didn’t seem to care about looking after it, but he never cut it.

“It’s so infuriating.” Richelle sighed one day at lunch, eyes fixated on her nails.

“What is?” Liz asked patiently after it became clear Richelle wasn’t going to elaborate.

“His hair,” Richelle yawned slightly. “It’s hideous.” Her eye flickered over to Elmo, sitting along, hair frantically flapping in the breeze that was lingering from winter.

“Looks like someone set his head on fire.” Tom laughed.

“Well if he likes it like that, then who are we to judge.” Sunny said firmly and that was the end of that conversation. Sunny had that sort of power within the group, when she talked, people listened. Still, they kept shooting glances over at the teen throughout the day.

The next day, Nick stumbled across Elmo in the boy’s bathroom with a pair of those cheap blue handled scissors every classroom had in his hands. His eyes were slightly red like he’d cried briefly or encountered something he was allergic to.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Nick’s mind flew to one conclusion. “Hey buddy, do you wanna put the scissors down.”

Elmo spun at the sound of his voice, staring first at the stationary in his hands, then at Nick, eyes wide with confusion.

“Um…I’m just trying to cut some gum out my hair.” Elmo chewed his lip nervously. He turned slightly to show off the tangled wad. “I do it all the time, it’s not going to go wrong.”

“Oh,” Nick willed his cheeks not to flame out of embarrassment. “Wait, you do it often?”

“Well yeah,” Elmo shuffled his feet. “I mean this curly mop of hair is just asking to be targeted.”

“Oh, right.” Nick turned and left the bathroom. He didn’t know what else to say. He needed to pee but it was more awkward to stay.

He waited outside the door however, ear pressed against the cheap wood in an attempt to eavesdrop. He heard the faint sounds of scissors snipping and then Elmo sighed loudly and footsteps approached the exit. Nick darted away, round a corner and out of sight. He didn’t want Elmo to know that he’d been hanging around and listening in.

He peered round the corner cautiously when he didn’t hear Elmo coming towards him. He spotted the boy leaning against the wall, head buried in his hands. His shoulders shook with…sobs? He was probably trying to compose himself, but why not do it in the privacy of the bathroom?

Then, Nick saw that Elmo was laughing. Giggling. Snorting as he tried to be quiet. Something in Nick told him that Elmo was laughing at him. He couldn’t be sure though- it was just a feeling. He could always ask, but Nick also had the feeling that he’d overstepped some sort of invisible boundary today. He’d reacted like a dumb idiot, implying that Elmo was about to commit suicide in the bathroom and not perform a hasty hair cut.

Damn.

Nick turned and stalked away. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

No more fraternizing with Elmo Zimmer the weird.

Roddacember 2024 Day 2 | Feels Good Activity

This is the start of an incredibly indulgent Nick x Elmo Teen power Inc fic I've been writing for like, 5 years at this point. I'm not writing it for anybody but myself really (this is the first time I've posted anything about it), and it's a total feel good piece of work I tap away at whenever I'm in the mood. Happy Feels Good Roddacember!!!!!

[walder-138]

Hey Pooks! ♥️ Here for the funny ask game for any of your OCs!

🚗 - “who are they on a road trip?”

🧃- “do they drink apple juice? (That’s not a metaphor for anything i just mean normal Apple juice)”

🫵 - “IF you met them IRL what would you do? what do they say to you?”

🏛️- “they’ve suddenly become President of the moon. What do they do?”

Heyo pookie bear! It’s nice to see you again!!!!

(🚗) Oz is the driver. Hands down, no doubts about it. He would double check to make sure everyone has gone to the bathroom, and he will NOT stop the car until they get to a rest stop. He doesn’t wanna hear about how tired or hungry or how much you need to piss, he will not stop the car once he gets to the highway.

If you have snacks, you best believe Oz’s gonna do that hand-bowl thing at you. Chances are he did pay for it, AND he’s paying for gas, and he’s driving the car… yeah, give him a handful or two. Or three. Or four. Or all of it. Would also ask for a sip of your drink, then precede to drink half of it.

Abbey is the substitute driver and overpacks for the road-trip. It’s like she expects that the car will crash, someone to get shot, a bridge to collapse, and the police to start chasing them. She shoves so much shit into the car for an 8-hour trip that they can barely fit any people in it. Abbey would definitely the most responsible person in the car, and would make sure the driver rests when necessary.

You would never get bored in a car ride with Abbey. She’s got everything. If you complained, she’d hand you a kaleidoscope. If you were hungry, she’d give you a bag of chips. Abbey will play rock paper scissors with you. She wants everyone to have a good trip, and somebody being in a mood’s gonna fuck that up.

Annika starts genuinely tweaking after about an hour on the road. After the realization hits that she’s gonna have to stay still for 8 hours, the moment she starts acting up. Annika would torture everyone in the car for no reason other than boredom. The driver would kick her out or put her in the trunk.

You better hope you aren’t sitting next to her or she’s gonna put a wad of chewing gum in your hair. Better yet, get her a book or to distract her for about 15 minutes as you pray to whatever God/s you believe in that she falls asleep.

(🧃)

Oz: “I’m not fucking five years old.”

Abbey: “I love apple juice.”

Annika: “Am I allowed ferment it?”

“No? Well fuck you too then.” (yes)

(🫵)

Okay, if I saw a motherfucker that looked like him and was named Oswald walking down the pavement, I’d deadass cross the street. I don’t care how many cars are coming, I���d do anything to get as far away from him as possible. Even if we didn’t know each other, I’d still walk away from him. Oz is too unsettling.

“So ya like to play God, huh? Fuck around with mine, and everyone else’s lives? I can’t believe I let sum goddamned teenager drive my life like this. Well, guess it’s time for me to cut your story short. Was gonna have a boring ending anyway.” 😳 (I’m so dead) (the shit I put him through) (I think he had it worse than the other two)

I’d get along pretty well with Abbey. She’s nice, and tries to give everyone a chance. Even if I’m the reason for every bad thing in her life. I’d go on awhile, thinking that she doesn’t know who I am, until she’d grab me by the shoulders and stare into my eyes.

“You treat us as if we’re not real. As if we’re just figments of your imagination. Yet here I am now, skin, blood, and bones. I’m still here, you have not, and will not change. Our suffering is entertainment for you, and you call yourself a good person? You say you love us? If this is your love, then I’m happy I don’t know you well enough to see your hate.” (she grew up in a cult, so knows how to make people existential .) (she wouldn’t hurt me, but she will keep me up at night.) (She doesn’t like hurting people, but she doesn’t like being a doormat) (She’s usually such a sweetheart why-)

Same thing with Oz, I’d cross the street if I saw Annika. I could tell there was something off about her from that look in her eyes. That barely noticeable tremor and the thousand yard stare. Annika is a erratic, unstable, and unpredictable individual, I’d probably call 911 on her ass.

“You should have given me a redeeming quality. Something that I’ll see in your eyes that will make me not want to kill you, or some other peachy bullshit like that. You’re a writer, you should have consider these things! Dumbass!”

(🏛️) (💀)

Oz would immediately invest in anti aircraft weaponry as he knows the United States would be after his ass in about 2 days.

Abbey would probably end up selling the moon for money.

Annika would burrow underneath the surface of the moon as she believes somebody is going to try and assassinate her.

Thank you again for the ask!

[thatslikely]

lined-paper confessions - s.s.

lined-paper confessions - stiles stilinski x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of fighting (scott and jackson predictably), strict teachers

word count: 1.5k

a/n: head full of stiles rn... requests for our favorite sarcastic boy are open right now so send some in!

Why is every teacher at Beacon Hills High the absolute worst?

Mr. Harris had just rapidly climbed your (highly opinionated) mental ranks to number one: your new least favorite educator. Giving you after-school detention, for doing nothing but watching with horror plastered on your face as Scott McCall, Stiles’ best friend, threw punches left and right at a topless, water-drenched Jackson, who reciprocated every strike as if he were nothing but a reflection. Seriously?

Previously, you had simply been sauntering down the locker-lined hall, Stiles on your right, passionately ranting about some unnamed problem that had him on edge for the past few weeks. You two turned down the empty, cinder-block-walled athletics corridor as he continued to agitatedly let off steam; the setting was decidedly unromantic given the unshakeable scent of overly pungent deodorant and mildew that was all too familiar. 

You clung to every word emitted from his mouth with an almost comical frown like it was a mug of steamy hot chocolate on a bone-chilling winter day. To your disgruntlement, however, his ramblings were stopped mid-sentence when Scott and his wealthy rival Jackson tumbled out from the dingy boys’ locker room, hands clenched in fists and eyes flaming with fury.

Stiles bent down in a rush, poorly attempting to conclude the boisterous brawl with furrowed, concerned brows, but he looked not dissimilar to a toothpick compared to the two burly teammates. 

“Detention for all of you!” Mr. Harris spat venomously as he dashed to the scene, his voice ringing above the grunts and slams that came from the fighting co-captains of the lacrosse team. “Detention now, Stilinski, McCall, Whittemore, Argent, and Y/L/N! Come on!”

You were dragged by the ear to the vacant library, a place which you often resided in whenever you studied with Stiles (often about mythical creatures, to your confusion). Posters that looked commonplace in an elementary school lined the walls, vibrantly encouraging students to pick up a book, or pen works for a writing contest of some sort.

Golden strips of fleeting sunlight peeked through the slatted blinds, and three gum wad-dotted tables were beckoning for the group of you to sit for the next two hours, or until Mr. Harris would finally decide that your soul had rotted away enough to release you.

You were sternly directed to the uncomfortably stiff chair opposite Allison’s, whose eyes shot daggers wherever they glanced. You flashed her an almost unregistrable smile, as if to say ‘hello.’ Slinging the loose straps of your backpack over your seat, your gaze flickering through the pin-drop silent room immediately locked on Stiles’ figure.

Boy, was he perfect.

The unbuttoned flannel over his shoulders speckled with mud from some vaguely mentioned adventure, his soft, tousled hair, that always had a lock out of place, his freckled face, that always bore some goofy expression, all of it. You couldn’t get enough; nothing would satiate your innermost desire for your lips to meld with his’, for your hands to intertwine through the hallways before class, after class, whenever, wherever. 

One eyebrow-cocked, knowing look from Scott in your direction sent Stiles’ umber eyes to meet yours’, an almost confused look swimming through them. He opened his mouth curiously, surely to ask a question, most likely something along the lines of, ‘is there a stain on my shirt?’, but before he could, Mr. Harris seethed, “Take your seats, now.”

Stiles whipped around, not wanting to anger Mr. Harris any further, and he took his seat. The room was quickly conquered with suffocating silence, which the snotty chemistry teacher was bent on ensuring.

You unsheathed a doodled notebook from your backpack, eventually indenting its pages with inky black strokes of various weights and thicknesses. Your habit of penning loose sketches, vague outlines, began one day in math when the clock seemed to tick aggravatingly slow, and every word from the teacher became drawled further and further until they dissolved into the hum of the air conditioning and the chewing of gum: the rhythm of the classroom.

The unconscious lines eventually formed to a familiar portrait: Stiles. Some would be tempted to call him your muse, your kindling of an elegant flame of creativity. You’d always nod your head in complicity more than agreement, for the smart, albeit rebellious boy meant eons more than that to you.  

You had just hit your stride, your wrist’s movements thoughtless and easy, when someone- rather something, hit the back of your head lightly with a small crunch. It was a small, scrunched piece of loose-leaf paper, ripped at the edge. 

You turned your head to the direction that the projectile was tossed at, but both Scott and Stiles appeared to be very, very engrossed in a hushed conversation, neither of their postures attempting to suggest anything suspicious.

You smoothed out the paper of the angular fruitwood table in front of you, attempting to read the almost unintelligible handwriting.

Hey :)

(this is from stiles, by the way)

Your mood lightened a smidge, a grin bubbling onto your face. You tore a piece of paper out of your notebook along the perforation.

Before you threw it in an arch in Stiles’ direction, you penned a response to his note.

Hey ;) how’s detention treating you?

(This is from y/n, by the way)

Crunch.

not great, as expected. I think I saw harris pick his nose. do you have any bleach to douse my eyes in by any chance?

You chuckled a little, a small smirk glimmering on your face for the first time this excruciatingly long afternoon.

Sorry, I’m all out. used it all after I saw Jackson shirtless. how do you survive in the locker room every day?

A smile lifted on Stiles’ face, one so inflated with abundant excitement (and hormones), he might have burst at the seams.

“Man, you’re down bad,” Scott simpered, nudging his best friend’s forearm.

“Shut up,” Stiles hissed with an eye roll.

just keep your head down and you should be fine. one time, Greenberg looked at him a little too long and he nearly turned to stone, like jackson’s abs were medusa or something.

“Passing notes, are we?” Mr. Harris queried with a malicious scowl, his knuckles white from asphyxiating a helpless ballpoint pen. He slinked over to the tables you and Stiles rested uncomfortably in, raising his brow in heavy suspicion. 

Stiles’ deep, dark chocolate-colored eyes widened in worry. “No, sir.”

“I’m keeping my eye on you, Stilinski. You too, Y/L/N.” 

As soon as Harris was out of sight, perched back at the desk and typing furiously, another wad of paper tapped your occiput. 

hey, y/n, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you for a while.

The note, while its contents wouldn’t usually spark too much concern, was subtly unlike the few ones you had previously received. The lines of each letter were neater, more methodical. The small blots of ink resting at the conclusion of every stroke were larger, deeper, as if the nib of his pen had rested in the liquidly black pool for a second too long.

Your face scrunched with confusion, and upon noticing your shift in emotion, Allison nimbly tapped your wrist and mouthed, ‘Is everything okay?’

You nodded with wrinkled brows while shakily scratching a reply.

what is it?

Your knee bounced up and down reflexively, clicking from your rapidly retracting pen echoed through the idle shelves and arrays of desktops. It felt like years, centuries even, before a reply finally tumbled at your feet.

do you like me?

(circle one)

yes? or yes? 

Your jaw nearly fell to the carpeted floor in shock as if gravity had been multiplied; your speedily thrumming heart was doing flip after flip in the cavity of your chest. Without a second thought, you quickly circled both of the ‘yes’es as if there were no friction under the ink-dispersing tip of your pen. Before cupping the piece of paper, you scribbled out an additional little note.

wanna go out this saturday?

Stiles’ anxious gaze bore into your hunched-over figure as you giddily wrote your reply. What if you rejected him (even though the page lacked a ‘no’ option, meaning that you would have to add one, which was even worse)? Was it possible for him to ask to go to the bathroom and just never return? Are there any secret werewolf abilities that Scott could use to make him disintegrate on the spot? 

But his overthinking was soon alleviated when he received your response, this time neatly folded into a paper heart instead of a crunchy ball. Each crease was crisp and thoughtful; he didn’t have to unfold your expert origami to know which option you circled (or lack thereof).

He grinned goofily like an idiot as his chocolate eyes glazed your response a million times over, taking in every letter, every stroke, the dot in your ‘i’ or the question mark ending your simple but heart-rate-escalating proposal.

Crunch.

stiles stilinski/teen wolf taglist:

it’s a date then. i’ll pick you up at 6? passenger seat’s already reserved for you ;)

@loulouloueh @when-you-wish-upon-a-starrynight @ronbrokemyheart @dylobilysmomg

if your name is crossed out, that means I couldn't take you! check your visibility settings so I can @ you next time!

fill out this form to be added!

[n1ght5h4d3-24]

Nach Mera Hero (Alfasl Alkhamis)

A/N: Getting into the Moonknight series now! Wanna be added to the taglist? Just let me know! :)

~Previously~

A week later, Diana was going through her morning routine as per usual. Before having breakfast, she went across the hallway to knock on Steven's door to make sure he was up so that way he couldn't be late to work. Whatever presence she had felt the night Steven slept over, she felt it around him more often, however she still had no idea what it was or why it was so familiar to her. She tied her dirty blonde hair up into a ponytail and made sure her tortoiseshell frames were situated properly on her face.

She double checked to make sure she had everything before leaving her flat, bumping into Steven coming out of his own flat. Locking the door behind her, she then loops her arm with Steven as he was on the phone with no doubt his mother's voicemail. She pulls him along with her to the lift, around the man selling brooms and brushes in front of the entrance and down to the bus stop.

Steven was exhausted, he had leaned forward and partially fell asleep against the back of a stranger on the bus until they moved, and he quickly picked his head up. He looked around before Diana reached up, slid her arm around his neck and gently pushed on the opposite side of his head to signal that she wanted him to lean his head against her shoulder, which he easily did without any hesitation.

Once they got to their stop, Diana woke Steven up with a delicate nudge and the pair of them got off the bus. She quickly heads up the stairs of the museum but, Steven stood a few feet away from the stairs, to look up at the Ennead banners hanging down outside. He stares up at them, and she returns to him.

"Steven? C'mon, we're gonna be late." she tells him.

"Something's wrong here," he mentions.

She sighs and makes her way back down the stairs, to him. She turns around and looks up at the banners as well, taking them in.

"There's two Enneads missing, that's what's wrong." she points out for him.

"You're right. There's nine in total but, only seven on the banner...I'll have to let Donna know." he says.

"Speaking of Donna, we gotta get inside before she deems us late and yells at us." she reminds him.

He looks in her direction, and nods once his mind caught up to her words before following her inside.

"Okay, I'll see you for lunch." Diana tells him.

He nods again, mind still on the fact that the banners were wrong. She notices his distracted focus and places her hands on his shoulder.

"Steven, you've got to get your mind in the moment. Otherwise, Donna's gonna yell at you for some stupid bloody reason."

He blinks then meets her gaze, "Right...you're right. I'll see you at lunch."

She gives him a small smile before turning and leaving him. Steven watches her go then notices a little girl placing a chewed up wad of gum on a model pyrimad and walks up to her.

~~~~~~

Diana stood in the gift shop with Dylan as they waited for their respective groups to gather so they could begin to give their tours of the day when the dirty blonde observed the other woman making her way over to Steven. The Eternal couldn't help but subtly move closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Hello." Dylan greets.

"Hello," Steven gives her an awkward big wave.

"How's the sugar trade going?" Dylan asks.

"I don't know what this has to do with Egypt really. They didn't have that back then, did they? No. They liked figs and dates, and..."

"My next tour's here" Dylan interjects, "but just checking, we still on for 7:00 tomorrow?"

Steven looks at her in confusion, "7:00 tomorrow?"

"Best steak in town?" she reminds him.

Diana couldn't believe what she was hearing...she had no idea that Steven was interested in dating or that he had feelings for Dylan at all. But, it seems like he didn't know that he had a date either.

"Sorry, but...are you asking me out?"

Dylan laughs at his question, "You're funny."

She walks away from him and towards her group, "I'll see you then."

Diana subconsciously glares as Dylan's retreating form before she seemed to realize what she was doing and she turned her gaze elsewhere.

"Stevie, you absolute rascal." She turns her attention back to Steven behind the counter as Donna walks up to him.

"I didn't know you had taken a crack." Donna says.

"I didn't know either," he tells her.

"Hang on, did she say steak? What in the world's a bloody vegan gonna eat in a steak house?" Donna asks him.

"I don't know, Donna. Salad? Bread?" he suggests.

She looks him up and down, "Yeah, I can see why she went for it. Real catch you are."

Steven watches his superior walk away before he's meeting Diana's gaze across the gift shop. He goes to walk around the counter but, she quickly shuffles off to go lead her tour group that had grouped together. Watching her go, Steven can't help the feeling in his chest when he realized that she must've overheard that he had a date tomorrow. He didn't even remember asking Dylan out and he was surprised that he did because he was always planning on asking Diana out...once he gathered the courage to actually do so. He sighed and went about stocking up the gift shop.

~~~~~~~

Diana did not see Steven for lunch, throwing off their normal routine. After what she overheard that morning...she needed some time to herself to figure out her sudden surge of emotion. She hid out in a stall of the woman's bathroom for privacy, holding her head between her hands as she thought to herself. She knew what happiness felt like, sadness and hurt when her best friend walked away from her, pain and grief from when her friend was suffering from loss but, this feeling was something new to her and she's been alive for at least seven thousand years.

The dirty blonde picked her head up, and stared at the stall door. She came to the realization that it was oddly quiet in the bathroom of a museum when she knew there were kids and other tourists walking around. Suddenly, there was large gust of wind and the empty stall doors slammed open making her jump in alarm. She waits, feeling on edge now, then her stall door starts rattling and she could feel that familiar presence on the other side of the door. She clenched her fists, preparing herself for a fight when it suddenly stopped. Her green-blue eyes bore into the door for a hot minute before she gets up from the toilet and reaches out to the lock and slides it over. She then carefully pulls the door open and cautiously stepped out then looked around in curiosity. Absolutely nothing or nobody was in the bathroom...whatever presence she felt was gone too.

When she walked out of the bathroom, Diana noticed that it was time for the museum to close meaning she took time to herself a lot longer than she originally thought. She did a quick look around and didn't see Steven anywhere, waiting for her. So she bids J.B and Donna a goodnight before walking out of the museum. Once outside, she looks around again for any sign of Steven, hoping he was still around even though they didn't have lunch together.

"So, the girl I was telling you about, the one that lives in the flat across from me...she overheard a girl from work asking me out. Apparently, I'm going on a date tomorrow." she finally picked up on his voice and makes her way in the direction it was coming from.

She stops when she notices a couple approach Steven and the performer he sat beside, asking if Steven could take their photo.

"I'm going on a date and I didn't even ask her. I don't know how it happened. Because honestly, she isn't the one I want to take on a date." he says to Crawley before taking the couple's photo.

He hands the phone back over to them and reminds them to tip the performer before they walk away. Diana walks up to him in that moment before he could continue talking with the performer sitting on the fountain.

"Hey, didn't think you'd still be waiting around." she says in greeting.

Steven looks up at her from his seating position, "Well...we always walk back together, safer that way innit?"

"Yeah, it is. Come on then, let's go home." she holds her hand out to him.

He turns to the performer, "All right, I gotta jog on. Nice catching up. I will see you on the flip-flop." he says, leaning over to put a tip into the hat.

He takes Diana's outstretched hand and stands up. She intertwines their fingers before leading him away from the fountain.

"Oh, I picked you up a burrito." he lets go of her hand to pull out another burrito and hands it to her before taking her hand again.

"Thanks Steven, much appreciated." she tells him gratefully.

Diana doesn't eat her burrito until they're seated on the double decker bus headed back to their flats. Steven turns his head from the window towards her, a question rattling around in his brain.

"Diana...d-do you think...I mean...c-could you...if it's no trouble would you...c-consider helping me...get ready for my date tomorrow?" he felt nervous about asking her because he didn't want to bother her.

The dirty blonde paused mid chew before swallowing. "Yeah, sure. No problem."

She crumples the burrito's wrapping and shoves it into one of her pockets just as the bus reached their stop. They both get up from their seat and step off the bus then headed inside the building, taking the lift up.

"You should get her a box of chocolates and flowers." she recommends as they journey upwards.

He nods, "Y-yeah, okay. Right. Chocolates and flowers, got it."

She hums, "We'll pick out your outfit tomorrow once you get off work before the date."

The lift door opens then and the pair get off, heading down the dim empty hallway to their flats.

"Goodnight Diana, I hope you sleep well." he tells her.

"Thanks Steven. And I hope the same for you if you manage to get any tonight." she tells him in return.

They unlock their respective doors and enter their flats, locking their doors behind themselves.

-Next Up-

Taglist: 

@megangst​

@jupitersmoon167​

[failedintsave]

A Nategaar warmup that got a little long, inspired by @little-murmaider 's rock climbing hc.

Such Great Heights

"You know. Whens you said we shoulds get high? Dis aments what I t'oughts you meant."

Glancing down and to the side, Nathan tracked Skwisgaar's progress. His voice had risen a half octave with strain, but the complaints were a good sign, it meant he hadn't quit yet.

"Yeah, and I thought you told me you were a good climber?"

"I ams! But dis aments de same as a tree or a fires exscrapes." With a heave, Skwisgaar stretched to grasp the next handhold. The climbing wall resembled the underside of a diner table, the pinches and slopers scattered over its surface like discarded wads of chewing gum. Spindly limbs contorting to balance his weight, Skwisgaar raised himself even with Nathan's shins. "Besides, ams usually goingk de udder directions."

"Why's that?"

The blonde threw him a look. "We can'ts all punch our way outs of a tricky sitchugations." As if that explained everything.

Nathan understood though, it was the same reason he never let himself get into a room he couldn't get out of.

Skwisgaar reached for the next edge, his chest flush against the faux cliff face, fingertips hooking over the blue protrusion. God, he had the wingspan of a fucking condor. He could probably dunk with barely a hop. Nathan watched the corded muscles of Skwisgaar's shoulders roll and lengthen, normally hidden by his hair or the hunched stance he tended to adopt. He was wiry, but there was some strength there. Sure, not enough to compete with his own. Nathan could easily pin him to the mat if he wanted to, no contest. They'd played that out plenty of times.

Focus up, Explosion! He could practically hear his old football coach admonishing him, caught admiring the cheer squad instead of paying attention to the huddle. He shook his head to clear it, eyeing his route to the summit.

"Gods damnit...hey Nat'an?"

"What?"

There was a pause, then dorky chuckling. The sound tickled something in Nathan's barrel-like chest cavity.

"Huegheuhuegh, pretty shore I ams stuck. Hueghheuh."

Leaning out into the open air, Nathan surveyed the other man's plight. Arms and legs splayed like the intermediate points of a compass, Skwisgaar's cheek was flat against the wall, the glimmer of tears budding in the crinkled corners of his eyes. Nathan snorted.

"The fuck was your plan here?"

"Shuts up," Skwisgaar continued laughing. "Dis stupid harness ams squish mine boll, I couldn'ts t'ink my steps."

"You navigate with your balls? Why does that not surprise me?"

"HUEGHUEGH STOP MAKINS ME LAUGH AND HELPS ME, YOU DILDOES!"

"Do you wanna drop? Go back to the bottom?"

"Pfft, fucks dat. We aments goingk anywhere but up." He meant it, he always did. Nathan liked the sound of that determination even more.

He nodded, "Okay. Then follow me."

It took some doing, and a bit of backtracking, but they managed to finally clear the apex of their climb, hands sore and legs trembling. Nathan sat and Skwisgaar flopped onto his back next to him.

"So next times you want to goes out," he groaned, tugging at his knuckles and flexing his fingers, "Why don'ts we just get dinners or sees a movie or somethingk, ja?"

"You always fall asleep at the movies."

"I do not."

"Every time. Snoring right in my ear. Last time, you knocked over my popcorn."

"Dat hads to be someone else, I woulds never."

"No, you would. If you sit still for more than five minutes, it's lights out."

"Slander."

"It's well documented. You could probably make money off a sleep study. Shit, we should look into that, actually…"

"Okej, fine, somet'ing active den. You gots any more ideas dat don't involves scalingk a wall?"

Nathan frowned thoughtfully as Skwisgaar sat upright, looking out over the rest of the climbing gym. "I guess there is always beer league…"

"Sound promsiking."

"How do you feel about sand volleyball?"

"Actuallies, I changed mine mind."

"With your height and reach you'd dominate the pit."

Skwisgaar shook his head, expression flat. Gossamer wisps of hair escaped the tie at the back of his head, framing a face flushed with exertion. Nathan plucked one away from his cheek, brushing it back over his shoulder.

"Awh, c'mon. Please?" He figured appealing to the guitarist's ego couldn't hurt. "You'd be so good at it."

The effort wasn't lost on Skwisgaar—Nathan couldn't claim subtlety as his forte. His strengths lay mostly in...well, strength—and he leaned closer, receptive.

"Hm. I'm listening…convince me."

Nathan mirrored his posture. He let his fingers curl around the back of Skwisgaar's neck, the hair at his nape damp with sweat. His gaze dropped to plump, parted lips just as they curled into a wicked smirk, and Skwisgaar jerked away. He swung his legs over the edge.

"I'll do it if you cans catch me." With a wink, he began his descent, leaving Nathan off balance and slack-jawed. "Better hurries, ams way more fasters den you!"

"You tease! That's cheating!" Nathan bellowed, scrabbling after him as Skwisgaar's lead grew, his gleeful chortle rising from below.

Nathan took a last look around, enjoying the view from on high. They'd be back, he knew. They belonged at the top.

[a-student-out-of-time]

Maiko! me and the anons are here for you, we have your back, don't take this racist bitch's Bulshit lying down, it's high time we burned this bridge!!!!!

H-How...How dare you-

Oh, shove it, will you? You can insult me all you want, cuz yeah, maybe I have been a loser up to now. And maybe I’ve been comfortable with it.

But don’t you ever- don’t you EVER- talk to my husband or my baby that way.

Baby?! Y-You never even wanted to be a mother!

I changed my mind. You really oughta sometime, you rotten old prune.

Let me make something clear to you. Your attitude not only makes me vomit, breathing the same air not only makes me want to rip my nose off, but every time I hear you talk about “the good of the clan,” it makes me wanna rip my hair out.

This has never been about the good of the clan. It’s always been about you. You, you, you, you, you, you, you! Your power, your legacy, your misery, your needs, your whatever! All you’ve ever given a shit about is how WE can help YOU feel better about yourself.

And I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna say “Oh, you mean like you, sitting there and living in your little fantasy world instead of doing anything with your life?” To which I’ll say, yes and no.

Yeah, sure. I know I haven’t been a good mother to Hiyoko or even the best wife to Kohaku. But you know what else I haven’t been to him or anyone?

A loud, arrogant, self-centered control freak who’s past her prime. Someone who needs to blame her problems on others because she’s too sad, too selfish and too spineless to take any responsibility for them. Someone who acts like she’s the biggest, most pathetic, pitiable loser in the world so she can have the chance to play the victim card.

Alright. If you wanna act like a loser, I’ll treat you like a loser.

Maybe I can’t dance, but you’re the one who gave birth to me and my brothers. You’re the one who can’t let go of how our ancestor went to Hope’s Peak.

Meanwhile, I actually graduated!

But most of all, you need to understand something, Mom. Traditions are important, but you don’t want anything to change, anything to grow and you just want things the way they’ve always been...just with you in charge and telling people what to do. You’re not doing good for the clan, you’re strangling it.

I know for a fact that Hiyoko doesn’t need you in order to keep our traditions going. What she does need is learn who she is and to be allowed to GROW, as a child and as a human being! How fucking dare you act like that’s a betrayal of everything we’ve worked toward as a family.

And unlike you, I know I’m not past my prime. And that infuriates you, doesn’t it? Knowing I could do something that YOU didn’t like and didn’t have control over, so you did everything you could to make me feel like shit!

And that’s not even touching on how much of a narrow-minded bigot you are. But considering you LIED to Hiyoko about who her father is for years, I think that speaks for itself. You think Japan is better without foreigners? It’s better without people like you.

You’re not some special, all-important or even vital part of this family. You’re scum. You’re a chewed-up wad of gum stuck on the underside of a bus stop: dirty, disgusting and unwanted. This clan will survive without you. In fact, it’ll thrive without you and your bullshit.

...

*Sigh*….So what now?

As of now, Hiyoko is going back to Hope’s Peak with us and her friends. Kohaku and I are going to be a bigger presence in her life. And if she wants to, she’ll keep upholding our traditions in her own way.

And if at any point you decide to try and pull anything like this again, if you ever try to drag her back into your bullshit, I’ll make sure we take this to court. And I can guarantee you, we will win.

You know Yamaguchi Kakeru? The guy who helped get my parents convicted? I know him, and we can get him to help us if we need to.

And there you go.

Got anything left to say then?

…Hiyoko? You can’t seriously-

No. Don’t even start.

If you care so much about fucking tradition, you bitch, and your heir being purely Japanese only, then I sure as hell don't fucking count!

Now how about you leave me, mom and dad alone, you crusty old bitch?

...

…If you’re going, just go.

Suppose we’re done here then.

[remmushound]

@brightlotusmoon @errorfreak88 Part 3 of my bay/rise crossover.

Leonardo didn't know where he was, and frankly he wasn’t sure he cared. He was more concerned about not knowing where April and Splinter and Donatello and Raphael were. His brothers— his family! He had reached out to them, felt his fingers brush against Splinters, and then they were being pulled apart again. Pulled away from each other. Then Leonardo was flying out of the rift, clinging with all his might to the only one he had managed to protect. Michelangelo. He landed hard, skipping across metal with solid thuds like a rock on water as he clung to the box turtle’s shell, his baby brother still hiding within. The bouncing eventually turned into a slide that brought Leonardo to crash against a wall. Pain shot through his extremities, but it only made him hold on to Michelangelo even tighter.

The minute they stopped, Michelangelo popped out his shell with a sharp yipe, his arms shooting out and wrapping around Leonardo to cling to him like a security blanket. Leonardo couldn’t help but smile and rubbed the younger mutants head in a comforting motion.

“It’s okay, hermano. Just a little bit of a bumpy ride.”

Michelangelo whimpered and his nose went back into his shell.

“Oh come on! Don’t be like that!”

Michelangelo pulled his arms and legs back in as well.

“Awww, come on~” Leonardo pushed himself away from the wall to lean over Michelangelo and peek into the shell as his shadowed face. “You know you wanna come out!”

“Where is out?” Michelangelo asked, his voice carrying a strange echo.

“Er…” Leonardo looked around. He didn't recognize the place, a giant metal ball with a spiraling floor design and a high ceiling, a blinking light at the top of it. He hummed and narrowed his eyes at the luring draw of the light, but didn't acknowledge it Past that. “Pokeball?”

“What? No we’re not!”

“Well how you gonna know if you don’t come out?”

Leonardo smirked and leaned back to give Michelangelo enough space to emerge. Michelangelo peeked his nose out once more.

“That’s it! Just a little more!” Leonardo encouraged.

Michelangelo’s full head poked out, and his neck too so he could look around at their surroundings. “Woah. This is so cool!”

“Cool isn’t exactly the word I’d use.” Leonardo whistled and stood up, reaching for his sword naturally. It was nowhere on his body.

“Hey uh— you don’t happen to have your yoyo, do you Miguel?”

“Um…” Michelangelo reached to his belt and frowned. “No. It’s gone somewhere… do you have your swords?”

“No.”

The structure gave a powerful groan and Michelangelo yelped, attaching himself to Leonardo’s side like glue. “It’s spooky here…”

Leonardo would be lying if he said that a similar anxiety hadn’t grown in his gut the moment they entered this strange place. Cold, dark, mechanical— everything Donatello loved, except without the eccentric nature. But he couldn’t be scared now. He has Michelangelo to look after, and right now his baby brother needed him.

“Hey hey hey, don’t get soft on me now!” Leonardo beamed, leaning down to Michelangelo’s level. “We just escaped the mother-freaking Shredder and you’re scared of a dingy little metal ball?”

“It’s not very little, Leo…”

Leonardo scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. “Potato potahto! Tomato tomatoh! Shredder, Giant Metal Ball of Doom! What’s the difference?”

Michelangelo didn't answer.

“The only one I can think of is that Shredder was waaaay scarier!”

“Oh really?”

Both turtles froze at the new voice. Leonardo gently placed his brother down, keeping an arm still wrapped around him to keep them both close.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” The new voice laughed in a mocking, wheezing tone, “Turn around.”

Leonardo could see no other option other than to obey. He gave Michelangelo a reassuring pat and held his brother just a little tighter before turning to face whoever it was that had called out to them.

The creature was big, a body near as broad as Raphael’s carapace and a shape that was loosely spherical. It’s entire body gleamed with a layer of slime that oozed out from folds on the sides of it’s head, and every so often a tentacle would reach up to gather the accumulating mucus and spread it throughout its body to keep itself moist. There was a crown on its head, a ridge higher than the rest of its body that slightly resembled the crown of certain dinosaurs. Leonardo could almost swear that whatever it was, was the brain of some massive creature, escaped from its body to do whatever it is that giant, tentacle-having brains do.

“Well?” The creature stroked feelers on it’s face, what could pass as lips parting to reveal tiny, dolphin-like teeth.

Leonardo only allowed himself enough time to blink before he forced his smile to come back and meet the strangers smirk. “Well what?”

The creature lunged forward, supported by pipes that extended out from the misproportioned battle suit, bringing it within inches of touching Leonardo. “Aren’t you scared?”

“Scared of what? A chewed up wad of bubble gum that gained sentience?”

It growled and one of its tentacles came down upon Leonardo, covering him in the thick, viscous coating of it’s body.

“Oh I’m sorry! Did I get some slime on you?”

Leonardo didn't flinch. He reached out a hand and poked the creature on the nose. “It is not slime, it is mucus!”

It growled and swatted Leonardo before pulling back again closer to its suit. “Who said you could touch me with your foul, disease-ridden hands?!”

“Hey hey hey!” Leonardo threw his hands up in surrender, “I bathe regularly! It’s Raphael you gotta look out for.”

“You think you’re funny, do you?” It squinted its eye at Leonardo.

“I think I’m adorable. Don’t you?” Leonardo put his hands under his chin and batted his eyes.

“I think you’re an obnoxious freak of nature.” It tried to draw forth a violent reaction, but Leonardo remained cool.

“Eh, aren’t we all?” Leonardo shrugged, “But this obnoxious freak of nature has a name. Do you?”

The creature seemed to consider Leonardo’s question for a moment before saying, “It’s Krang.”

Leonardo snickered.

“What?” Krang snapped, almost defensively, “What’s so funny?”

“Sorry— sorry!” Leonardo almost keeled over laughing.

“What’s so funny— what’s so funny, it’s just my name!”

“It’s just— ahahaha— did your mom hate you or something?”

Michelangelo started to finally get in on the laughing, and soon both brothers were almost falling over.

“I chose my own name— the Queen doesn’t have time to name all of us!” Krang defended, grunting as its features scrunched up.

“So you’re saying you have a face not even a mother could love?” Leonardo smirked, recovering from his laughter at will. “Man, that is depressing!”

“ENOUGH!” Krang shot two wired pipes forward to grab Michelangelo and Leonardo, squeezing them harshly. “Now you listen here, little turtles! I am not in the mood for games.” It’s eyes glanced between the brothers in an almost alien way, “And if all you’re going to do is play with me, then I’m going to put you away in my toybox.”

“Sounds fun!” Michelangelo piped.

“Fun?” Krang shifted to look at Michelangelo.

“Yeah! In a big box with a whole bunch of other people, having slumber parties every night!” Michelangelo hummed and sighed.

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to enjoy yourself. It’s an extended stay.”

Krang shifted slightly, its armor suit slow and topheavy, and at the press of a button on the suit the floor began to open up and reveal a spiraling display case. Rows upon rows of small, frozen containers. A thick layer of frosty smoke escaped through the opening and filtered out through vents. Krang hung the two brothers over the drop and loosened his grip just to feel the fear of his prisoners. Looking down into the endless abyss of bodies distorted by frost and age, Leonardo felt a sense of vertigo overtake him. It seemed Krang latched onto the fear almost immediately, judging by the evil expression on its face.

“Not so eager to visit the other toys now, are you?” Krang laughed and pulled Michelangelo and Leonardo back over solid ground, putting them down as the ground closed once more. “Now maybe you’ll play nicely.”

“Where are my brothers?” Leonardo demanded, “My family?”

“They’re fine. They were spit out somewhere or other. Does it really matter?”

“Yes.” Leonardo snarled.

“Hmm…” Krang rubbed their folds in concentration, “Then why don’t we make a deal, little turtle?”

“What kinda deal?” Leonardo returned to hugging his brother as Michelangelo cowered against him.

“I didn't just call you here to chat.”

“Well you’re sure doing a lot of talking anyway.” Leonardo grumbled under his breath.

“I brought you here for a far more important reason.” It folded its tentacles over its mouth.

“Care to share with the class?”

Krang huffed. “You have something that interests me— or more like had. You see, a year ago today I tried to take over the earth.”

Leonardo laughed. “Didn't do a good job— you didn't even make the news! I’m sure I would know if there was a broadcast about a giant brain in a robot suit tried to take over the planet.”

“Not your earth. A different earth.”

“There’s more than one?” Michelangelo asked.

“Oh, there is a plethora of earths, all slightly different from the last! But yours… intrigues me. It’s one of the more recent ones, and the use of your ‘mystic magic’ caught my attention.” Krang circled Leonardo like a cat with a mouse, “The way you teleport around with such ease, even without a beacon to guide you~”

“Spit it out, Gellatinous, I haven’t got all day.”

“You’re very impatient for someone whose at the mercy of one far smarter.”

“Eh, I can handle Donnie, but that has nothing to do with this.” Leonardo snarked off, “What do you want?”

“I have you, and I have your family, and I have your sword.”

“Great. And what does that have to do with the price of jelly doughnuts?”

“I want you to show me how to use the magic you possess, and afterwards I will let you and your brothers go back on your merry way!”

“I thought you were all knowing or whatever.”

“I never claimed that. I too need to learn like every creature does.”

“How do we know you’re not lying about letting us go?” Michelangelo pouted, sticking out his lip.

“Do I look like the lying type to you?”

“Yes.” Michelangelo and Leonardo said as one.

“Mm. Clever boys. Well, the answer is that you don’t know. But you don’t really have many choices either.”

“Mm. Fair.” Leonardo shrugged. “Whatchu need me to show you?”

“How to activate the rift that you’ve seemed to master.” Krang tapped its tentacles together.

“Oh that’s easy! You just take the sword and go woosh woosh,” Leonardo made vague gesture, “Then it goes all whoooooo whaaaaa bwaaaaa!” He made a motion of a rift opening. “Then you go all ‘take me so and so’ and badda bing badda boom, you’re done! That work?” Leonardo clicked his tongue and wink.

“What.” Krang narrowed his eyes.

“Well, you take the pointy part and go whish woosh, then slish slash, hundred yard dash, and you’re in Paris!”

“I— I don’t understand what you’re saying!”

“Well you take the thing and do the thing so it makes a thing then you go through the thing and bam: the thing is done! Take a break and get yourself a pizza for your hard work.”

“You’re getting on my nerves.”

“Exactly how many nerves does a brain have anyway?”

“I’M NOT A BRAIN I’M AN UTROM!”

“A who-trom?” Michelangelo tilted his head.

“AN UTROM!”

“You-tron?” Leonardo asked with a smirk.

“GRRR— just show me how to do it!” Krang pulled Leonardo’s sword out of thin air and dropped it into Leonardo’s hands. “And don’t think you can outsmart me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, K-Pop.” Leonardo took the sword and pointed it, dragging it to make a circle. His face illuminated the glow and he smiled.

“Yes!” Krang cheered, smilingly widely and holding out its tentacles to Leonardo. “Give it to me!”

“Yeeeeah, no.” Leonardo stared a moment and then winked before stepping through the blue and disappearing along with the mystic portal.

“NO!” Krang launched himself forward and grabbed at the space where the turtles had once been, “GET BACK HERE!”

[cuddlecave]

is xiphoid

oo with amorphous thingrey, it'd be really fun if gord got cold during the night, and thingrey ended up entirely engulfing him while still in blob mode

it's been days since gord got real rest and the Soft and Warm and Familiar Safety knock him out better than horse tranqs. he's still hella asleep when the team wake up

either they don't know about noms, or they've heard it but haven't registered the reality that gord *actually* does that bc they haven't seen it and it sounds nuts, but either way, they wake up and gord is...not there anymore. it's just big ol blob benr, chilling. at first they assume gords gotten up first, bc that's the norm, but in their morning moving-around and scouting the immediate area, they don't see him anywhere...and. does benr blob look slightly bigger?

benr has not moved--hes awake, and keeping his many ears and senses pricked for danger that may be around, but rn gord is *sleeping* and he doesn't intend to wake him just yet.

the team warily approach benr. they don't think he's really hurt gord, but uh, they're nervous. tom asks if benr knows where gord went?

'nowhere, bro? he's here' and then doesn't elaborate.

a pause.

'uh, where, exactly? can we see him?'

benr starts moving and very gently shifts just enough of his biomass around that they can see gords relaxed sleeping face, but the light can't hit gords closed eyes. even so, the chill on his face causes him to frown a bit and nuzzle in his sleep, trying to get back to full Warm.

at that, benr covers him totally again. 'hes sleeping. he's tired. not gonna wake him up yet.'

the team blink in a bit of surprise and relief, and give each other 'ok I guess this is fine? weird but fine?' looks.

when gord gets up an hour and a half later, he's more rested, relaxed, and level headed than he has been for days. they don't quite get how he can/does trust benr like that/is so unfazed by benrs weirdness, but like, whatever works

after being properly introduced to thingrey and then eventually forming a good close friendship with him, the rest of the team's still really... unused to his 'horrifying fleshbeast' forms. they're used to seeing him in the full human disguise or his little grub form, and had only really seen him in full body horror mode a couple of times since antarctica, with most of those times being when he was in panic attack mode after waking up from a bad nightmare. so they're used to associating fleshbeast ben with 'attack mode' ben. also, the uh, fact that gordn's currently completely enveloped by thingrey, which is usually what thingrey would do to assimilate someone back when they thought he was just a bloodthirsty monster dddddoesn't really help with the unease over this situation;;; but seeing how much better gordn does after getting the World's Weirdest Cuddles from his weird alien boyfriend certainly puts their worries to rest :) "So... is this like a usual thing for you two? Using Ben like a glorified sleeping bag?" "Ah, usually it's more along the lines of a hammock, actually, hah. He'll hang from the ceiling and hold me up with him." "sometimes i get bad dreams that make sleeping-me wanna stick to the ceiling like a spider, i dunno." "I... wouldn't really say 'spider.' More like a wad of chewed gum, honestly." "WOW RUDE, SO RUDE, mean rude boyfriend. but yeah bad dreams suck but gordo cuddles are unsucks. even if he is rude. gordn freemean." "*laughter* Love you too, Ben."

[tenthgrove]

L'inizio- A La Squadra Backstory Collection

Chapter 3: Due Cuori (Sorbet & Gelato Part 1)

Word Count: ~3800

Warnings: parental abandonment, homelessness, mildly-suggestive behaviour

The young boy sobs into the bag he’s carrying as he flees down the dark, damp street. The quick-paced footsteps of his pursuer sound loudly as they smack against the wet concrete. The boy prays for some rain to cover the sounds of his panting and running, but he knows such luck will not be afforded to him.

He is out of his depth in this part of Naples. Not yet 14, he’s one of many such young fools who thought it would be easy to snatch a little money from one of the smaller street gangs that roam this part of the town, making the crucial mistake of thinking ‘smaller’ was synonymous with less relentless. The boy has barely a moment to comprehend the dead end ahead of him before he is knocked sharply around the back of his head and sent reeling to the floor.

“Where the hell is my money, you shit?!” the angered man interrogates him sharply. He rears a clenched fist ready to strike him again, and the boy cowers against the wall.

“It’s there! Right there!” he shrieks desperately, pointing at the back dropped at his side. The man spits. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun. “I swear Signor! The money’s there!” the boy pleads, his voice hitching in mortal terror. The man scoffs venomously.

“Yeah, I heard.”

Two shots ring out, but they aren’t aimed at the boy. The man’s blood splashes over him as he chokes on it, falling to the ground without a word. The boy counts two wounds on the man’s back.

The figure at the end of the alleyway lowers his gun and begins to approach. He is somewhere on the boundary between boyhood and manhood, perhaps about 18, at a first guess. He is darkly dressed, with hair to match, and he returns his weapon to his pocket with a detached smoothness that suggests great experience with the murderous act. He leans over the boy and picks up his bag, smiling in satisfaction at the wad of cash crudely jammed inside. He zips the bag up and hauls it over his shoulder.

“Grazie,” he thanks him, turning away and beginning his journey back down the alleyway.

He does not walk far before he reaches his destination- a small house in a densely packed row just a street away. He knocks calmly, and the door soon opens.

“Ah, Sorbet,” the responder answers. “I thought I’d heard gunfire.”

“’Evening Gabriele,” he greets him, sorting off some of the money in his hands. “20,000 lire says I can stay the night.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Gabriele agrees with a small chuckle. “Come right in, friend.”

Sorbet removes his jacket and seats himself down on the sofa, shuffling the bag protectively behind his legs. He takes off his own bag as well and pilfers through to find the chewing gum he’s been saving for this evening.

“May I ask how you still haven’t found a place of your own? Surely you must be rolling in it from all that blood money you’ve got lately. Hell,” he remarks, eyeing the money poking out from behind Sorbet’s lap. “You could probably sort yourself out for a couple months on that alone.”

“You can certainly ask,” Sorbet answers apathetically.

“Well?”

Sorbet looks at him contemplatively before deciding he’s in the mood for compliance tonight. He leans back.

“To put it simply I’ve just been out of it too long. ‘Don’t have my birth certificate, ‘don’t have any documents of that sort. I left home at 14 and frankly I’d be shocked if I wasn’t legally dead by now. Well, assuming my mum was ever lucid enough to do the paperwork, that is.”

“You could rent a flat from the gang. They’d hardly say no to you,” Gabriele suggests.

“Not really a fan of that sort of obligation, Gabe,” Sorbet refutes him. “Besides, the quote on quote ‘buildings’ the gang owns get busted by the cops all the time. I hardly wanna deal with that at 1 in the morning.”

“True,” Gabriele snorts. A knock sounds at the door. “Who the fuck at this time of night?” he gripes.

“No idea, but have fun with them,” Sorbet says, getting to his feet. “I’m off to help myself to your shower,” he announces, departing up the stairs. Gabriele answers the door.

“H-Hello,” the newcomer greets. It’s another teenager, with messy blond hair and a sky of freckles. He shivers into his thin jacket, hand red-raw from clutching his heavy bag. “Are you Gabriele?” he asks.

“Who’s asking?” Gabriele says with scrutiny.

“My name is Gelato, sir. You don’t know me, but I know a friend of yours from Florence, well, small village outside of Florence, I’m sure you know which one I mean. I heard from him you wanted to get someone to do errands for you and well, I was wondering if I could do that for you,” the boy offers. There’s a wild look in his desperate green eyes, and Gabriele knows this won’t end quickly for him.

“Kid, that was weeks ago! What the hell took you so long?” he asks.

“It’s not my fault I had to walk here!” Gelato protests. “Look, I got kicked out by my parents, I’m only 17 and if you don’t help me I’ll have nowhere to go!” he pleads.

“That’s rough and all, but the job’s closed. Go find a shelter or something.”

“PLEASE!” Gelato begs. He’s trembling, but there’s a touch of anger in his eyes as he glares at him that makes Gabriele mildly scared to turn him down.

“Look, I have neither the need nor the money for another errand boy right now. But, now I think of it I do know a guy who needs someone to manage a bar for him. Make no mistake, it’s nothing more than a meet-up spot for the gang so don’t expect anything fancy, but I think it has a flat upstairs. Maybe you can ask to move into the place as your pay.”

“A bar? That’s perfect!” Gelato enthuses. “Thank you thank you so much!”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I’m happy for you. Now If I go give the guy a call will you please piss off?” Gabriele entreats him.

“Anything you say sir! Thank you!” Gelato agrees. Gabriele heads for his phone with a sigh.

::::::::::::

An hour later, Gelato finds himself in the staff-only section of what was once a fully functioning bar.

“Look kid, it’s not hard stuff,” his guide tells him. “Just keep ‘em drunk enough they can’t kill each other and ring me up if you hear any talk the boss ought to here,” he explains.

“Yes sir, I will,” Gelato answers dutifully. The man opens a rickety door leading to a thin, steep staircase. Gelato follows him up.

“And, this is the flat you were so eager about,” the man announces, looking over the dark, dust-filled space of the bare-bones apartment. There’s a frightful stain on the sofa, and one of the kitchen cabinet doors is hanging on one hinge. “Consider yourself lucky I’m letting you have it when I could be giving it to someone who pays. Don’t expect a penny more from me, this is your full payment,” he continues.

“But how will I eat?” Gelato protests.

“I guess you better hope they tip you good,” the man answers apathetically. “Look, if you do a good job and don’t piss me off, maybe I can spare a few thousand lire a night later on, but until then, you’re getting no more help from me,” he maintains. “Maybe you should learn to pickpocket. ‘Useful skill to have around here.”

Gelato growls inwardly. Of course he knows how to pickpocket! Well- how to pickpocket 13 year olds outside a school gate. Grown men might be a different matter, but he’ll figure it out. Getting caught can’t be much worse than what happened when his parents found out.

“Alright. Thanks,” Gelato forces himself to say. The man gives a satisfied nod and exits.

“Make sure you know where everything is before you open at 9,” he says.

Gelato seeks out the bedroom and lies down, not caring how musty the frayed sheets smell. He grabs the pillow and hugs it close to him like a stuffed toy. It occurs to him that he’s scared.

::::::::::::

It takes him a month to accept his parents aren’t taking him back, two to stop fucking up every day of his life and three to feel some sense of normalcy in his new life at the bar. That’s not to say he’s happy, by any means, simply that he holds onto his current existence with a vice-grip, for fear that things could only get worse if he shook the boat too much.

He sleeps until noon, usually, leaves the house as soon as he’s awake enough to do so and just walks. Anywhere. Sometimes he tries to pickpocket but ever since that beating he earned from a poorly chosen victim, he saves it for his most desperate days. After lunch, if he has any, he sometimes goes to the library. He was never much of a scholar and rarely reads, but he finds the place more pleasant to dissociate in than his apartment.

Should he feel like treating himself, he occasionally visits the arcade when he has the change to spare. After it became clear letting him waste away was not in the landlord’s best interests if he wanted his bar to stay running, he began to help a little with food costs but nowhere near enough for such frivolous outings to be frequently affordable.

Around 3pm, Gelato goes home and sleeps until his hunger forces him to get up and eat. He likes to make a start early on setting up the bar, and cleaning it from the messes of its previous nights patrons, so he tries to begin by 7. It opens at 9 and closes at 2, after which Gelato will shower, and spend a short stretch of time watching the old, boxy TV he pulled out of the attic in bed, before sleeping.

As he exits the cellar, he receives a few apathetic glances from some of the patrons but ultimately nothing much. His eyes are on the far corner of the bar where, to perhaps less of his concern than it should be, two men are engaged in a heated argument. It’s a sight he’s well used to now, but he keeps a keen watch on the men, since the landlord insisted he de-escalate anything that looks like it may prove fatal.

“I don’t care what your excuses are! We had a deal and you’re going to fucking pay me!” The first man shouts. He is one of the younger ones, probably little older than Gelato but with an air of authority more akin to some of the older individuals in the mob. He has heard whispers about this man- his name is Sorbet and he is an enforcer. The mobsters are cautious about the word ‘assassin’, it makes them sound like a more ambitious group than they truly are, one that could be deemed a threat by the larger syndicates that truly control this city. Yet, Gelato reads between the lines when they talk about the things Sorbet has done. As Gelato approaches Sorbet’s eyes flick towards him momentarily. Gelato shies away from the eye contact and feels an odd feeling inside him. Seeing Sorbet always makes him feel odd. He doesn’t dare speak to him directly.

“Whatever. It ain’t on me if you misread what we were talking about. You did me a favour, nothing more,” the second man retorts. He’s another regular, as familiar to Gelato, if not more, than Sorbet is, even if he doesn’t know him by name. He is a cruel man, impatient and aggressive whenever he visits. Gelato always tremors a little when he comes through the door.

Still, he scares him less than Sorbet.

Gelato forces a smile as he approaches the second man.

“Pardon me, could I get you any more-” he inhales sharply as the half-full bottle of wine is chucked over him.

“Yes, one more of these,” the man orders coldly. Gelato wipes his eyes.

“Right away,” he nods, turning back towards the cellar and fighting every fibre of his being telling him not to let this slide.

Gelato descends into the cellar, shaking from the cold of his wet clothes and anger. As he pulls a new bottle off the shelf he wonders briefly if he ought to piss in it, but decides the best result that could come of that is having it thrown over him again. He pats down his shirt and takes the bottle back up to the bar.

He knows what has happened before the door is even open. The sound of shouting is familiar to him, and if the past few minutes is anything to go by, it’s Sorbet and that petulant man’s feud which has turned violent. Opening the door proves his theory, as a small crowd has formed around Sorbet and his opponent as they engage in a relentless match of fists.

Gelato debates to himself. He could put down the bottle and run, he could try and calm the men down and risk one or both of them turning their anger on him, or he could use this opportunity to finally get back at that bastard’s disrespect. Gelato’s never been much of a thinking sort. His mind doesn’t take long to settle on the third option. He rears the bottle above his head and charges.

There’s a collective gasp of shock as Gelato suddenly crashes into the man, smashing the bottle over the back of his skull with full strength. It shatters, and the man falls to the floor with a groan. Gelato looks up at Sorbet, briefly fearing his interference may have provoked anger but, Sorbet only smiles.

Gelato rushes to his feet just in time to join his new ally in kicking the man, again and again until he starts to spit blood. Gelato picks up the remains of the bottle’s base and pours out the remaining liquid onto his enemy’s face in one, final insult. The crowd cheers. Evidently this man was not so popular with the gang after all.

Gelato sits down, whoozy from exhaustion and adrenaline. He finds himself laughing. He cannot recall the last time he’s done that. Sorbet leans down and pulls a stack of cash from the unconscious man’s pocket.

“Lying bastard,” he scoffs. “He did have the money. Probably a lot more than I asked for, but I can hardly complain about that.” Sorbet turns to Gelato with a look of deliberation. He pulls out one of the 50,000 lire bills and hands it to him with a smile.

“For your trouble,” he declares. He withdraws his hand with a slow deliberateness, their fingertips touching for just the briefest of seconds. The odd feeling Gelato has felt since laying eyes on Sorbet returns with a vengeance, and yet, Gelato can feel nothing but awe as it begins to eat his heart.

Oh dear. Gelato might have a crush.

::::::::::::

It is three days later to the hour, that Gelato finds himself hauled into the cellar and pinned against the wall, mouth agape in shock as Sorbet digs his fingers into his neck. It occurs to Gelato he might have gone about this the wrong way.

“Alright, spit it out,” Sorbet demands. “What the hell was that up there?”

“Pardon?” Gelato pleads fearfully.

“Did you think I would let you get away with mocking me like that?” Sorbet asks through gritted teeth. Gelato’s mind turns to the myriad of weapons no doubt hidden in Sorbet’s clothes. That thought shouldn’t endear him as much as it does.

“Mocking?”

“Oh? Is there another explanation for why you would behave like that around me? Humiliate me in front of half my gang? Well?!” Sorbet entreats him. His grip around his neck tightens

“Flirting! It was flirting!” Gelato confesses desperately. Sorbet’s grip lessens.

“What?”

“Look. I think I like guys, you like guys or at least everyone says you do. And- I think I might like you a lot so- I wanted your attention. I wanted to talk to you again,” Gelato admits sheepishly. His cheeks start to burn, and it isn’t from the lack of oxygen any more.

Sorbet looks like something in his brain must have just blown a fuse. Perhaps Gelato should take this opportunity to run, since this half-assed attempt at seduction is clearly a resounding failure.

But then Sorbet starts to laugh. It’s a low, quiet laugh but nonetheless genuine as he fixes his eyes warmly on the floor.

“Oh you dear thing. That isnot how this works,” he says. Gelato breathes out in relief, as well as a little disappointment.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. This was stupid I should- probably just go back to my work,” he apologises. His body goes still as Sorbet touches a hand to his cheek.

“Though if you ever want my attention again,” he leans in and presses his lips lightly against Gelato’s. “You should just ask.”

Sorbet lets out a little hum of amusement at the sight of Gelato’s shock. He caresses his face once more, touching his finger to a little curl of hair as he does so, before finally freeing Gelato from his hold.

“See you later,” he promises, before leaving him alone in the cellar. Above him, Gelato hears Sorbet walk out in the direction of the front door. Gelato collects himself, and calmly wanders over to the sink, waiting patiently for it to fill with water.

He sticks his head in and screams.

::::::::::::

Sorbet visits the bar twice weekly, no different from before. But he starts visiting Gelato more often. Barely a week from their first kiss, they are in bed together, Gelato clinging onto his new love tightly as he reads. This touch is alien to him and in spite of his joy, he cannot help but quiver as Sorbet pets his hair. He wonders how he ever lived his life without knowing joy this strong.

Their second week is easier. They both start to become accustomed to this newfound love and no longer think of each other as strangers. Gelato knows Sorbet’s full name now, he knows which street he grew up on and the names and ages of each of his siblings. Sorbet knows what Gelato’s parents did for a living. He knows the name of the boy he had his first real fight with, and the therapist who tried and failed to relieve him of the ‘learning disabilities’ that made his parents despise him so deeply. Sorbet tries to at least drop in on most days, but when he can’t, he calls Gelato to tell him where he’s staying for the night. Gelato thinks of him as he falls asleep, hugging his pillow close.

By week three, the pair have found a new normal together. Sorbet sleeps over more often than not, and the bar patrons now know full well not to cause Gelato trouble when Sorbet is in the building. Sorbet has made every aspect of Gelato’s life more enjoyable, and he can see in Sorbet’s eyes that the feeling goes both ways. Gelato knows why Sorbet left home four years ago, and Sorbet knows how Gelato really wants to get revenge of his parents for abandoning him. On precisely day 19 of their affair, Gelato asked Sorbet if he planned to keep doing this with him forever. Sorbet did not hesitate in saying yes.

It’s a few days later that Sorbet comes to the bar with an especially warm smile on his usually cold face. Gelato thought little of putting down his current orders to rush over and greet him at the door.

“Sorbet, you’re here early!” Gelato enthuses. Sorbet pecks his cheek.

“I thought we might spend a night to ourselves. I think you need it, Caro.”

“But Sorbet, the bar doesn’t close for three more hours yet!” Gelato reminds him.

“Not if I can help it.”

Sorbet raises his gun and fires it twice at the ceiling. The patrons look up in fear. “Alright, everyone out. Bar’s closed,” he announces. The patrons sheepishly get to their feet and file out.

“But, the landlord!” Gelato protests.

“Fuck the landlord. If he has a problem with this, he goes through me,” Sorbet maintains. Gelato’s breath escapes him with a laugh and he follows him upstairs.

“Really, tell me,” Gelato insists light-heartedly. “What’s brought this on?” He turns around and his face falls to see that Sorbet is looking saddened.

“I- saw my siblings today,” he announces.

“Are they… okay?” Gelato asks worriedly.

“Oh, they’re fine. I saw them down at the cafe, they didn’t notice me. Taking a look at the other ones, I’m assuming the older ones are getting better at taking care of them. It makes sense, given the ages they’re getting to. The issue is… there was another baby, this time, who wasn’t there before,” Sorbet reveals. “Probably just a month or so old, from the looks of her.”

“Sorbet…”

“My sister,” Sorbet says, bringing his head into his hands. “And I don’t even know her name!”

“Sorbet,” Gelato says, taking his head in his own hands. “It isn’t your fault the way your mother is. Looking after them isn’t your responsibility.”

“It was,” Sorbet reminds him. “Then I left.”

“Look, I’m sure they’re fine,” Gelato reiterates. “Believe me when I say there are many worse things older siblings can do than just not look after you. Now,” he begins. “How about that night we were going to have together,” he smiles.

“Right,” Sorbet recalls, pecking him on the nose. “It’s you I came to see.”

Sorbet leans forward and kisses him deeply. Gelato, so recently a stranger to the sensation, leans in further to the kiss, pawing teasingly at Sorbet’s chest to urge him on. Sorbet groans to the kiss, hooking a hand around Gelato’s collar. Downstairs, something crashes loudly.

Sorbet pulls back. He sees Gelato’s eyes widen in fear as a parade of footsteps stumble into the building. Sorbet presses a kiss to his cheek reassuringly.

“Stay calm,” he urges him. “Not a sound.”

Sorbet stands up and, watching his feet on the old floorboards, moves over to the window to peer outside.

“Shit!” he exclaims, ducking away out of view.

“What is it?” Gelato whispers.

“The police. Two cars.”

“Are they here for us?” Gelato asks, voice hitching in fear. Sorbet shakes his head quickly.

“Unlikely. They most likely thought the place was empty. If we are quick, we can still leave without them seeing us,” he promises. Gelato shrinks back.

“I’m scared,” he admits. Sorbet takes his hand in his.

“Just stay with me okay? I’ll protect you.”

[bioodorange]

|| CreepyPasta Office Au||

You're gonna get shit posts because I have no mental fortitude. Deal with it

Slenderman

So obviously he's the boss like duh

He's balding in his 30s

Kinda nice guy just very unsettling

He has one of those water pitchers in his office

But it's filled with black coffee

No one knows where it goes or how he drinks it so fast

It's just gone

Wears a suit that looks the same everyday but it changes slightly, so in photos it looks like a totally different outfit

When asked about it he just creepy smiles

Walks two miles to work or drives in a crappy white van

Has a wife and kid

Everyone was surprised like wtf I thought you lived in a box

Is nice though, does small considerate thing

Gives good gifts and advice

Masky

Second in charge

He's basically Dwight

Can't use the printer for shit

Is very confused by it

Keeps paper documents of everything, not on his computer

Has cold chicken veggie wraps for lunch

Wears the same light yellow button up shirt everyday

Crappy sneakers he somehow gets away with wearing

Lives off chocolate covered espresso beans

Handles most of the finance/counting for the office

*angry calculator noises*

Can get a wad of paper in the trash anytime from any place

Dabbed one unironicly, no one ever forgot it

Tries to ruin Toby's day

Files a complaint all the time

Low-key a nice guy trying to do his job

Underpaid

Hoodie

Overpaid sassy receptionist

Talks all nice to you on the phone but gets overly triggered when you ask him to do anything

"can you make copies" "hell no do it yourself bitch"

Has candies on his desk

Swats your hand away when you try and take one

Eats them loudly when the office is silent

People are too scared too accept

Laughs at the dumb shit Ben and Toby pull but tries to cover it up

Kinda feels bad for Tim

Saving up to go to like fuckin law school or something

Everyone finds out and is like 👀👄👀

"yOu'Re sMaRt"

"didn't you guys get like marketing and communications degrees?"

Awkward silence

Ticci Toby

Young one of the best sales men

People outside his main co-workers love him

People in the same room as him all day wanna smother him

Besides Ben

They basically terrorize Jeff

Brian occasionally helps out

Really annoying habits like having half a pack of gum in his mouth and lip smacking

Chewing on a pen even after the ink explodes in his mouth

Jacks next to him tired of ink getting on his shit

Listens to music and is pretty respectful some days

Spends half his day zoned out but still gets great numbers

Ben

Works in IT

is supposed to help with customer support

Carries his phone and head set upstairs just vibes with Toby

They share ear buds and listen to music while he takes calls

People are used to him and kinda like him

He helps out and is a pretty chill guy

Fairly young working to pay through college

Friends with EJ, Brian and Toby

Constantly harasses Jeff

Disconnects him from the network

Takes all his pens

Moves all the stuff from the right side of the desk to his left and vice versa

spitballs him

Ben low-key doesn't care about his job

Vibes in the elevator for 2 hours before doing any actual work

It's amazing he hasn't been fired yet

Jeff The Killer

HR representative

Annoying as all hell

Files complaints that he loses cause he's a slob

File cabinets stuffed with papers that aren't even his

Slightly disturbing desk toys

Fills up the suggestion box each week

Brian throws them out each time

Brings in really weird lunches like just hard boiled eggs

Or a tuna and jelly sandwich

Has a man bun cause he thinks he looks cool

Rolled up sleeves looks pretty chill

Genuinely tries to help people out sometimes and gets shot down

Becomes a better person cause of his co-workers

Eyeless Jack

Has a desk besides Toby

Him, Toby and Ben have a little system

Get along and work great together

Go out for lunch and hang out outside of work

Kinda feels bad for Jeff and ends up becoming friends with him

Glasses he doesn't wear always stuffed in his pocket

Has adapted to blurry ass Vision

Always the first one in, likes a nice quiet start

Is the go to person for when you need help

Gets In dumb petty arguments with Tim

[darling-i-read-it]

Bonnie and Clyde

JD x reader

Word Count: 1.2k 

Warnings: guns, grabby men, talks of death robbery and hitchhiking

Author’s Note: We STAN JD. I hope you like this one love, I quite like how it turned out especially with how my writings been lately. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Requested: by anon, Hi love!!! Hope all is well. Just wondering if I could request a Bonnie and Clyde type of thing with jd from thelma & louise? Sorry it’s pretty vague but I think it could be cute !

Summary: the request!

Genre: fluff

Song: december 1963 (oh what a night) by frankie valli and the four seasons

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

(not my gif) (sir, i love you doe, i love you)

    When you met JD you were hitchhiking to nowhere. Sometimes you would just take the ride and get dropped off wherever they could take you. On occasion you had to rob those dirty men who thought they would get more out of you than you were willing to give.

    You ran into JD in one of those scenarios. You were on the side of the road, finger out, blowing a gum bubble that you had gotten from one of the stations close by. A van pulled over (bad sign but oh well) and you got into the back seat. In the front seat was what you would later learn to be JD and beside him in the driver's seat was a stingy old man. He looked like he hadn’t taken a shower in ten years. 

    He stunk too.

    “Heya missy,” he said, his voice gravelly. You had met a lot of strangers and you were able to tell pretty quickly when someone was off. While you were getting okay vibes from the guy in the passenger seat, the guy beside him was bad. You weren’t sure why yet but you forced a smile onto your face.

    “Thanks for the ride. Just take me as far as you can go,” you called. 

“You know, JD here is a hitcher too,” he said, pointing to the passenger seat guy. You raised an eyebrow and felt immediately better knowing that information. He did not know this guy and from the look he shot you you were pretty sure he would back you up if you wanted to leave.

“Where are you getting off?” He looked at you through the rear view mirror, chewing on a toothpick. 

“Wherever you are.” 

“Ah a wanderer. I dig that.”

The driver did not seem to enjoy the looks you were giving each other so he started talking about himself and his adventures although you weren’t really paying any attention. You were watching JD listen to him through the mirror. 

Eventually you got to a point where your driver needed to let you out and you started to gather your small bag. JD got out of the car, waiting for you.

“Hey missy,” the driver muttered, smiling evilly. You knew that look. You hated that look. “If you wanna stick around, I’ll get bucko here to get lost.” His voice was drawled and his eyes were lingering on places that were not your eyes. You scoffed.

“Thanks for the ride man.” 

You started to get out when he grabbed your arm and yanked you back. JD saw this from outside and dropped his bag, climbing back into the car in the back seat with you, wrestling the guy off of you. You looked at the driver with furious eyes and slapped him, not caring about the repercussions. He started going at you again but JD grabbed his face before he could get the chance, banging it against the car window. 

You got out of the car while he did that and eventually he joined you on the side of the road, beside a gas station.

“Get lost!” JD yelled. The guy managed to get his bearing and zoomed quickly away. You flipped him off as he went. You let out a heavy breath and both of you were silent for a moment.

    “Not really worth the ride is it,” he muttered beside you. You shrugged and reached into your pocket.

    “You want some extra cash for helping me out there?” He raised his eyebrows, looking at the wallet in your hand.

    “That his?”

    “Grabbed it while you were manhandling his face.”  He laughed and took it from you, opening it to admire the quite large wad of cash in it.

    “You’re pretty sneaky about that.”

    “We shoulda damn killed him. Scum of the Earth. He deserves his wallet taken.” 

    It was in that moment, in an unlikely turn of events and timing that you and JD gave each other big heart eyes. You felt your chest warm and you knew that your days of wandering alone were long over.

    You and JD started to hitchhike together after that. You didn’t have a place to land and neither did he. You stayed in dingy hotels and slept together and laughed and told stories. You were really in love. You had never thought that kind of love was possible. You were both so happy.

    The real glue in your relationship though was the robbing. All the way up and down the highways you would take men and women who you thought deserves it and decide what you wanted to do with them. Death was possible but robbing was more likely. But you wouldn’t shy away from your gun and neither did he, especially if it meant protecting the other from an unneeded fight. 

    You sat on the side of the road, ready for another victim. JD’s hand rested on your knee as he waited for a car to pass. You leaned into his side, his hat rested on your head.

    “Fuck girl, you think you got enough cash there?” he asked, laughing as you counted the money on your lap. You shrugged.

    “We could use some more. Steak dinner. I’m calling it for this one.” 

    “We could just rob one of those gas stations again.” You had gotten into the habit of doing that as well although it was more high profile. You only did it when you were feeling bold (or had just come off of a good night together). 

    “Eh we’ll wait a bit. I saw a sketch with your face a few towns back. I ain’t about to attract attention yet.” He nodded and handed you the gun from his pocket.   

    “You be careful this time then.”

    “JD, I’m used to the shit now.”

    “Who knows. We might get a guy carrying.”

    “That’s why we scope out before we strike. We’re smart. Quit worrying.” He chuckled and squeezed your knee tighter.

    As a car came into view he raised his hand, a thumb out. You smiled.

tags; @mychemicalimagines​ @tealaquinn 

[unusualbill]

Nothing For Us

@goblincxnt it’s here 👀

Warnings: Compulsive behaviors, mentions of death

Last exit in Pennsylvania

The words repeated in Roman’s mind. The sign was a warning telling him this is your last chance, turn back now.

He glanced at Peter, who was busy timing for their exit. He caught the wolf’s eye, who in turn flashed him a warm smile.

How did he end up here? Driving down the interstate with the boy who broke his heart. Left for hours in an aching silence, save for the stereo.

He couldn’t bear to say a word, not yet, not until they were somewhere where they could truly be alone. As Roman traced mindless circles on the upholstery, Peter took one last look at him before making their exit, offering one final chance to leave and go back home. Roman attempted to speak, the words catching in his throat and leaving him breathless for a moment.

It was too late.

Gentle drops of rain began to fall as they made their way down the highway, picking up soon after Peter took one last exit through small town, West Virginia.

“You hungry?” The wolf asked, breaking the lasting silence.

Roman nearly didn’t recognize that he was being spoken to, lost in thought about the day’s beginning.

“Hmm? Yeah, I could eat.” He answered, his voice hoarse from lack of use. 

Peter pulled into the parking lot of a local burger joint, smiling softly at his traveling companion. He clicked off the radio, leaving them in silence once more.

Roman braced himself for the frigid rain as he stepped out of the car. The cold air burned his lungs as he took a breath, stretching his legs. As he looked at Peter, his mind drifted back to the night before.

“We should go,” The wolf’s voice echoed the heartache of many moons ago “There’s nothing for us here”

“Go where?”

The wolf cracked a smile, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Wherever the wind takes us.”

“You coming inside?”

Roman snapped back to reality, standing in the freezing rain next to a littered french fry carton.

“Yeah,” He nodded “Yeah…”

He followed Peter into the restaurant, a silver bell on the door jingling behind them. He glanced around at the sea of shabby tables before finding a spot that was vaguely clean.

The restaurant appeared to have been nice looking once, 30 years ago, though it was styled after a 1950’s diner. Done up in over-the-top cherry red, and black and white checkerboards.

Roman mindlessly ripped apart a discarded straw wrapper as he watched Peter give their order, his leg bouncing. He thought about asking to turn around or hitchhiking back home, but Peter returned to the table with their food and a smile. Damn that smile. Roman decided he’d stay, for now.

“You alright man?” Peter asked, settling in at the seat across from Roman “You’ve been quiet the whole ride up here.”

“Yeah, just thinkin’.”

The upir picked at his fries, silently refusing to look at Peter.

“You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to, you know.” Peter said, watching Roman closely “You could’ve stayed.”

Roman shook his head

“Nah...It’s just that—” he chewed his lip for a moment “I’ve never really been this far from home before, y’know?” 

Before Peter could answer, he was interrupted by a stout redheaded waitress, —whose name tag read Louise— arriving at their table, coffee pot in hand

“Can I top y’all off?” She asked, gum popping and fake southern accent layering heavy over her New England own. “Fresh cuppa coffee?” Her cherry red press-on nails tapped against the stale coffee pot.

“Uh, water. Thanks.” Roman replied, gesturing to his half-empty glass.

“Cherry Coke.” Peter smiled, taking the last sip before passing his glass over, along with his half empty coffee mug.

Roman looked around the restaurant, watching the other patrons and reading the road sign decor before his eyes finally landed on the wall beside him, which was covered in grayscale photos of people looking both miserable and triumphant.

“That’s our hall of fame” Louise beamed “If you order the Appalachian Avalanche apple pie and eat the whole thing in under fifteen minutes, your meal’s free! Y’all wanna try it?”

Roman eyed Peter, and then their waitress, shaking his head. He wasn’t in the mood for something sweet.

“Nah, not this time.”

As their waitress left his gaze returned to the wall, gravitating towards a specific picture. It was Norman, in his younger years, looking as though he was about to lose his lunch. Roman wasn’t surprised by this, surely he had a life before Roman was born. It was the hand on his shoulder that caught his eye, the smiling face next to his sickly looking uncle.

It was J.R., he looked to be around Roman’s age, and was smiling brighter than in any picture Roman had seen of him before.

“Y’know, my cousin actually finished one of these things before,” Peter said, interrupting Roman’s train of thought.

“I was about seven or eight, and my cousin Tommy—Scrawny little guy, no meat on him at all—had gone with us to this little hole in the wall down south. And there was this huge burger, bigger than your head-” Peter paused to pantomime just how large the burger had been, taking some creative liberties, of course “And Tommy- Tommy always thought he was hot shit, so he orders this thing and they set a timer on the table. Twenty minutes.” 

Roman watched as his companion told his story with great passion, laughing and smiling as he spoke. He found himself lost in that smile, the rest of the world tuning out.

“So now he’s one bite away and looking a bit green in the gills, one bite. He’s only got forty-five seconds left. So we’re all banging on the table and screaming ‘Come one Tommy! You got this! One more bite!’ and the rest of the joint joins in and he got it down with two seconds to spare! Two!”

Roman sipped his coffee “He get his picture on the wall?”

“The whole family did!” Peter beamed “There’s a hall of fame for people who can keep it down for at least thirty minutes afterwards. Tommy didn’t make it to that one…”

Roman snorted, popping a french fry into his mouth.

“It’s still hanging there, I’ll have to show you when we make it down that way.”

The last fleeting thought Roman had about turning around vanished with that proposition. 

“I asked Nic if I would ever have to do that and he told me only if I was the kind of man who needed an ego stroke. He said ‘The bigger the ego, the smaller the courage.’”

Nicolae’s words of wisdom hung in the air before Peter started laughing upon realizing what his grandfather had meant.

“I’ve known some guys with some pretty small courage then” Roman quipped.

“Oh, like you don’t have the biggest ego.” Peter teased

Roman rolled his eyes.

“Let’s just get going, alright?”

Roman began to pull out his credit card when Peter grabbed his wrist. He tensed up at the feeling of the wolf’s calloused hand on his own.

“You said your mom was gonna try and find you right? She can track that.” Peter said, referencing a conversation they had the night prior. 

“Sheeit,” Said Roman “You’re right.”

Roman counted the cash in his wallet, only a couple thousand.

“How far will this get us?” He whispered, flashing his cash.

“Further if you quit waving it around.”

He tucked it back into his wallet, scanning the restaurant to see if anyone had noticed. The patrons seemed to be unbothered by his wealth, caught up in their own conversations.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Peter pulled out a wad of crumpled cash, counting out enough for their bill and leaving it on the table next to their trash.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Peter reached into the ashtray and pulled out a quarter, handing it to Roman.

“What’s this for?” The upir asked

“Flip it. Heads Carolina, tails California.”

Roman raised a brow, unaware of what his friend was referencing. 

“Just flip it so I can pick which direction I’m going.”

Roman ran his thumb across the embossed face of the coin before flicking it into the air. Heads.

“Alright, we’re headed south.”

As miles of open road stretched out before them, the radio began to fade. Pop songs turned to garbled static as the town grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

Peter fiddled with the knob, switching to the cassette tape that was inside the stereo. A song from the eighties began to play.

The car was somewhat of a family heirloom, passed around to whichever family member needed it at the moment. Most recently it had been Destiny’s. Peter had made arrangements to borrow it in case Roman had wanted to come with him.

Although its pale brown color and faux-wood paneling were enough to nauseate the average man, Peter had fond memories of him and his mother traveling across the states in the beat up old station wagon. 

Roman stared out the window, watching as trees turned to blurs of green as they drove. 

“Horses.” Peter pointed to a nearby field of horses and goats.

“What about them?”

“I dunno man, that’s just what you say when you pass horses. They’re pretty or some shit.”

“Oh…” Roman looked back at the horses in question. Peter was right, they were pretty.

Roman’s eyes threatened to close as he stared at the open road. The sun was beginning to set, and the upir had been awake since the previous night. He had intended to sleep that morning but his nerves had gotten the better of him.

“If you’re tired you can sleep in the backseat,” Peter offered “Just let me find somewhere to pull over first.”

Roman nodded, trying to stay awake. He couldn’t remember the last time he had fallen asleep on a car ride.

“There should be a blanket back there somewhere,” Peter said, slowing to a stop on the side of the road.

The backseat was cluttered with soda cans and other gas station garbage. Roman swept it onto the floorboards, stretching out on the velour seat covers. 

The seats had gone years without a deep clean and thus were slightly crunchy to the touch.

Roman traced his finger along a small hole in the fabric, left there by a cigarette butt many years ago. The feeling of melted plastic was oddly calming to him.

The blanket was thin and rough, and the edges were frayed from years of use. It was once a gift, made with love, but had long since lost its luster. Roman thought it impossible to find a comfortable position with the scratchy mess.

He was asleep before Peter even hit the highway.

When Roman awoke it was dark. The rhythm of the windshield wipers brought him back to reality.

“What time is it?”

“About three o’clock”

“Sheeit.”

Roman sat up slowly, shaking the remaining sleep from his head. He rested his head against the window and watched the rain fall.

“I just realized there’s a few things I need to get, you wanna come in with me?” Peter asked, gesturing to the sign for a nearby supermarket.

“Yeah, sure. I need to get a pack of smokes while we’re at it.”

“What state are we in?” Roman asked as they pulled into the parking lot.

“West Virginia still, we’ve still got a while ahead of us.”

Roman checked his hair in the rearview mirror before stepping out of the car. He covered his head with his blazer and waited for Peter to join him in the freezing rain.

Peter locked the car doors and tucked the key into his pocket.

“After this, I figured we should get a motel, the storm is only going to get worse and I don’t think we should drive in that.”

Roman nodded and walked with Peter into the smalltown supermarket.

The air conditioning hit Roman’s wet skin and sent a shiver down his spine. The air smelled like stale bread and lemon cleaner. Roman found himself wondering where the employees were.

Peter grabbed a shopping cart and placed his wet jacket inside. After a moment, Roman did the same.

“So, what do we need?”

“Food, stuff we can eat in the car.”

“Beer?” Roman asked

“Nah, not here. Too expensive and we’ll need to get some new IDs.” Peter’s fake ID only said he was 18, since his mother was usually the one buying alcohol for him.

“Right.”

Peter pushed the cart towards the snack aisles, one wheel spinning loosely on its own accord.

The sound of wet footsteps on the linoleum floor felt like little knives inside Roman’s brain. The squelching was enough to make his eye twitch.

“You okay man?” Peter asked, looking up from the potato chip shelf.

“Yeah, yeah. Tired.” the upir lied. Truthfully he felt as though he could feel every sound in the universe through his teeth, the fluorescent lights assaulting his eyes.

Peter studied two bags of chips carefully before shrugging and throwing both in the cart.

Roman stared at the checkered floor tiles, making a conscious effort to only step on the white ones. He didn’t know why, all he knew was that the idea of stepping on a green tile filled him with a deep sense of dread.

“Playing hopscotch?” Peter asked, moving on to the aisle that contained beef jerky.

Roman shook his head.

“No, I just have a bad feeling about the green ones I guess.” He said, feeling rather silly for admitting it. But despite his rationality, he knew deep inside that the danger was all too real.

“Ah, Okay.” Peter looked across the aisles “The deli doesn’t have any green ones, wanna get us some sandwiches while I ask someone to get one of those coolers down for us?” He gestured to a row of coolers that sat atop the freezer aisle.

Roman nodded and began walking carefully in the direction of the deli.

“What kind do you want?”

“Nothing fancy, anything with meat so none of that veggie crap.” 

Roman held his breath as he skipped over the green tiles until he arrived at the deli, its flooring a solid mustard yellow, it appeared to be either faded or incredibly dirty, Roman wondered if that was intentional.

He smiled at the middle-aged woman behind the counter. She did not smile back. She had a vacant stare and her nametag was falling off.

Brenda, Roman read.

He waved awkwardly before putting his hands in his pockets and looking over the prepackaged sandwiches instead.

Each sandwich was wrapped in white paper with a date stamped across it. Roman grabbed two at random, checking to make sure neither was vegetarian, before heading off to find Peter.

Peter was talking to a store manager and trying to fit the cooler into their cart.

Roman started towards him but stopped in his tracks as the mustard yellow tile ended, a sea of checkers before him. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself but he also didn’t feel safe stepping on the green tiles.

He took slow careful strides towards Peter, trying his hardest to nonchalantly avoid those evil squares.

Peter saw him and ended the conversation with the clerk, meeting Roman halfway.

“Hey, sorry I didn’t come find you. You okay?” Peter placed his hand on Roman’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Roman looked at his shoes and the white tiles underneath them “The whole thing is pretty stupid anyway.”

He offered Peter the sandwich in his hands, Peter took it and inspected it before placing it in the cart next to a 12 pack of orange soda. 

“No, it’s not. Not if it makes you feel safer.”

Roman opened his mouth to argue but couldn’t find the words. He was so used to his mother telling him that his actions were nonsensical and embarrassing that he had never thought that they could be anything else.

“C’mon, let’s go check out. We need to make it to the motel before this storm gets any worse.” 

Peter stood near the open trunk of his station wagon, pouring the remainder of a bag of ice into their new cooler. Roman was sitting on the bars of the cart return smoking a cigarette. The rain had let up for a moment, the pavement still freshly wet under Peter’s feet.

Roman flicked his cigarette butt into a nearby puddle and grabbed a soda from where Peter was stocking the cooler.

“Man, c’mon! It’s not even cold yet.”

Roman shrugged and cracked it open, taking a sip. He eyed the orange label, wishing he had grabbed a Cherry Coke instead. By the third sip, it began to grow on him.

Peter finished stocking the cooler, setting it in the corner and closing the trunk. 

Roman slid into the passenger’s seat, waiting for Peter to start the car. As he shut the door the rain began to fall once more, starting softly but quickly picking up.

“Shit,” Peter started the car, turning on the windshield wipers

“I saw a sign for a motel back that way” Roman gestured helpfully.

Peter nodded and put the car in gear.

Roman watched out the window as the city lights turned to watercolor blurs in front of his eyes. He’d never seen so much rain in one night.

Peter followed the main road until they arrived at a motel whose sign proudly boasted that they had color TV. He put the car in park, counting out enough money for two rooms. He instructed Roman to stay in the car and watch their stuff while he went to the front desk and got their keys.

Roman closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the rain against the windows. The steady rhythm of the windshield wipers and the low rumble of the engine was almost enough to put him to sleep again.

He had almost drifted off when Peter knocked on the window, gesturing for him to get out.

“They were down to one room,” He yelled over the heavy rain “You don’t mind sharing do you?”

Roman weighed his options: sleep in the same room as another man, or sleep in the parking lot of a seedy motel in the middle of a thunderstorm.

The upir answered with a shrug, grabbing his bag from the backseat and taking the key from Peter’s hand.

“Are you going to help carry stuff in?” the wolf asked.

Roman was already on his way to the motel room.

As Roman opened the door to room 227, he noticed a smell. A foul, sour smell. He turned away in disgust, gagging before he covered his nose with his shirt sleeve and trudged forward. He was almost afraid to touch anything in fear of locating the source of the stench.

As he set his bag down, he forced himself to take a breath, and in doing so he realized that he knew that smell.

It was the smell of death.

[phantomphangphucker]

Round 2

Danny gets up from his desk and slowly walks up to the front, “okay, so you’re telling me-”, Danny gestures erratically to Vlad, who's tied up on the floor and in ghost form, “-that you overshadowed ClockWork-”, gesturing even more erratically at ClockWork, who’s just sitting on a desk and inspecting their nails, “-so you could travel to the future, to team up with your future self and bring him back here-”, Danny points both hands at the floor a bit aggressively, “-so you could tag-team pulverise a teenager-”, Danny gestures at the future Vlad, who’s glaring bloody murder at normal timeline floor Vlad, “-but said future you instead assaulted ClockWork”, glaring at floor Vlad harder, “so you used ClockWork’s powers at random and just came back to this timeline?”.

Kwan adds in, “through the ceiling”.

Floor Vlad manages to spit out his gag, “well they somehow tossed me out of their body immediately after! I mean the audacity! And this Cheesehead-”, jerkily attempting to nod or point at the scruffy-looking future Vlad, “-gets more pissed and assaults me, ME! Instead of you”.

Future Vlad kicks him and snarls, “it’s been two years in this timeline! TWO! I stopped with the stupid fiddlediddling after six months!”.

Dash snorts, “why would a ghost even want to assault Fentit”.

Danny meanwhile, throws his hands out to the side, “of course that happened!”, then gesturing toward ClockWork, “you can’t overshadow ClockWork, that’s not even possible! They literally had to have allowed you to”, actually turning to glare slightly at ClockWork, “why, I haven’t a shot-glass of pennies close to a clue”.

Floor Vlad looks to future Vlad, “you can’t judge me, you fudge-bucket of a hypocrite”.

Danny rolls his eyes and snorts, “that’s not even pot calling kettle black, that’s a wad of chewed gum calling a fork an unchewed stick of gum, and actually expecting that insult to stick”. Danny then squints and turns to ClockWork, “wait”, pointing emphatically at future Vlad, “how does he even exist?!?!?”.

Future Vlad squints at him, looking affronted, “why wouldn’t I?!?”.

Danny turns to him and waves his hands around wildly, “THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU UNRAVEL TEN YEARS OF TIME! THOSE THINGS AND PEOPLE GO POOF!”.

ClockWork sticks up a finger, “that’s not how time works”.

Danny and both Vlads’ turn to ClockWork, both Danny and future Vlad pointing aggressively, “YOU STAY OUT OF THIS! THIS DOESN'T CONCERN YOU!”.

Nathan mutters, “or the rest of the class apparently”.

ClockWork smirks, “pretty sure the author disagrees on that one”. Everyone squints at them but goes back to bickering. Danny throws his hands up before gesturing at floor Vlad, “plus! You’re still here! And still A CRAZED UP FRUITLOOPY DICK!”.

Floor Vlad, looking a bit insulted, “language my boy”. Danny just looks down and knocks a desk over onto him.

Mr. Lancer coughs, “um? There are other people here you know”.

Floor Vlad glances at him, “no one but us and dear Maddie qualify as people”.

Danny sputters incredulously while ClockWork points at floor Vlad, “and that is not how classifications of species and words work”.

Future Vlad throws his hands up and walks around, “this me’s insane! Wonderful!”.

Valerie snickers into her hand, “I want to get involved but...”.

Danny snorts, “you hadn’t already figured that out when he decided to abduct and control the body of the dude who controls time itself and oversees everyone’s futures. A literal living legend and basically a god?”,

Floor Vlad screws up his face and wiggles in the bindings some before squinting at Danny, “wait a biscuit buttering second, how do you even know about the ghost from the clocktower?”, sputtering and squirming, “how do know their name?!? Even I didn’t! Daniel what in the name of Gouda?!?”.

Danny deadpans, “oh don’t you use that tone with me, mister. You’re not my father”, gesturing at ClockWork, “and of course I do! They’re my Time Daddy!”.

Everyone goes silent immediately and you could hear a pin drop. Instead, a different voice breaks the silence, “wow! Didn’t know you had another dad, son!”.

Both halfas and the ex-halfa turn slowly and look at the doorway, where one Jack Fenton is standing and munching on fudge like he’s engrossed in an intense tv show.

Danny blinks and sputters, “how long have you been there?”.

Floor Vlad also sputters in utter disbelief, “this, that, THIS IS NOT HOW ANY OF THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO GO!”.

Future Vlad blinks at Jack, “why are you not freaking out over the ghosts?”.

Star sighs, “are they really just ignoring that none of us have been freaking out?”.

Jack shrugs, “one’s tied up and the other gave me fudge”. Floor Vlad just shrieks in frustration and disbelief. While Danny gives a dramatic thumbs up to ClockWork, even going so far as to use a little ecto-energy to make his thumb sparkle like some anime bullshit.

Future Vlad kicks floor Vlad but speaks to Jack, “well if it’s anything, I’m not a ghost or half of one”.

Multiple people mutter, “half ghosts are a thing?”, while Valerie grins like a loon.

Floor Vlad shrieking, “WHAT?!?!?!”.

Future Vlad looks down at him but points at Danny, “he ripped out and ate Plasmius”.

Danny blinks and gestures wildly at his dad, “are we just ignoring the uniformed third party?!?”.

Mr. Lancer glares, “the class has been here the whole time”.

ClockWork smirks, “Vlad’s the authors' bitch right now so...yes”.

While floor Vlad gapes at Danny, “YOU DID WHAT NOW?!?!?”.

Danny throws his hands up exaggeratedly, “NOT IN THIS TIMELINE!”.

Valerie gets up and smacks both Vlads’ over the head, which just turns into an all-out fistfight. Well okay, floor Vlad is just squirming in his bindings and kicking like a feral rabbit, but still.

Valerie steps back and nudges Danny, “who you wanna bet on to win?”.

Danny snorts, “future Vlad, based on sheer tenacity”.

ClockWork smirks and points a finger to the ceiling, “that’s my bet”, another portal opening up and yet another Vlad falling through and landing on the two others in a heap; knocking all three out, floor Vlad finally transforming back human. Danny looks to them, “the fuck is wrong with you?”.

While Maddie’s voice mutters from the doorway, “oh my Zone, Vlad?!?!”. Standing next to yet another interviewer from Genius Magazine: For Women Geniuses, By Women Geniuses; who slowly lifts up her phone and snaps a photo, while patting the pocket where her recorder is.

[kryptidkat]

sneak peek!

in honor of the extremely kind and talented artists who made fanart for my prank war series (thank you again @angelface-the-robot-cowboy @poisonviles and @ravenxbones!) here’s a scene from the upcoming sequel to Give Party a Heart Attack — Make Kobra Move To Australia. Going along with the spirit of good ol’ platonic fun, I’m hoping to have the whole thing finished in time to release for Palentine’s Day on Feb. 13, but meanwhile...enjoy. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snap. 

Kobra started, jostling Cherri’s patched-together computer setup. 

“Stop bumping the thing, I’m trying to get all these cables in,” Cherri admonished. 

“Sorry.” Kobra shot a glare across the room at his brother before returning his attention to their project. 

Cherri was trying to read a usb drive he’d found, but the only working computer they had at the moment was a Commodore 64, so they were trying to wire that up to a television screen and assemble a chain of like, 30 different adapters so they could find out what was on it. 

As far as the prank war went, he and Kobra had more tricks up their sleeve (and had burned their original battle strategy poster in the shed lest anyone find it; they were way past organized planning now) but they were still biding their time, hoping to catch Party off guard. 

Party himself was in fine form this morning, doing absolutely nothing useful and getting in everyone’s way while doing it. He was sporting heavy eyeliner and one of his shortest crop tops and sassily chewing a massive wad of gum he’d gotten from somewhere, popping extremely loud bubbles with it. 

Snap. 

Cherri grimaced a little. Only Party could make something as innocuous as Juicy Fruit seem so...obscene.

It wasn’t just his and Kobra’s nerves Party was getting on. Jet was already rolling his eye appealingly to the ceiling. And Ghoul was getting steadily more and more tense as he hunched over a table messing with a tangled mess of wires. 

Party looked over Ghoul’s shoulder, chomping noisily. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Very sensitive bomb stuff! Sans detonator, but still. Stop, you’re gonna get that shit in my hair. What is your deal?”

Party gave him a sharp smile, obviously dying to be asked. “Devil May Dare game tonight.” 

“So I’d heard,” Ghoul said. 

“And this time, I—” Party came around the table opposite Ghoul, pulling a broken-off matchstick out of his pocket to show him with a flourish— “am the Devil.”

“Seriously? Again?”  said Ghoul. “Please tell me you didn’t rig the straw-drawing.” 

“What’s Devil May Dare?” The Girl came running in. 

“Suicidal,” Jet said. 

“No one’s died!” Party protested. 

“Yet.” 

“It’s not that bad!”

“Oh really?” Jet said. “Last time you came home with double shiners, Nick O’ Time broke his nose, Daisy Dukes got stabbed in the spleen and Pony went head over skates into the Cactus Pit of Death, and you still think it’s a good idea?”

“That was one time! And my championship is on the line here! I have a winning streak to keep up, okay?”

“By running around in the dark trying to get yourself and other joys killed?” 

“BUT WHAT IS IT?” the Girl yelled when no one answered her fast enough. She tried to climb up Jet. “I wanna know!”

Jet sighed and hoisted her up piggyback style so she could hold on while he kept checking batteries and shoving dead ones into their charging docks. 

“Imagine the unholy union of guerrilla paintball, capture the flag, and lasertag. In the dark,” he told her. “Idiotic people bet on it, and even more idiotic people play it.”

“Sounds about right,” Party said. 

The girl wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t sound that dangerous. Can I come?”

“No,” Jet said.

“Aw, c’mon! My whole life is a game of lasertag, Jet pleaaase.”

“When you’re older,” Party said. “Maybe.” He popped his gum right next to Ghoul’s ear. Snap.

Ghoul’s hands clenched into fists. “Stop. Don’t you have stuff to pack or something?”

“Oh, I’ve been packed for days,” Party said. “Glow-in-the-dark paint, flashlights, the works.”

“Where is it this time, Poison?” Cherri wanted to know.

“The old amusement park.” 

“Oh, fuck you!” Ghoul exclaimed, envious. “I wanna go now.” 

“Hey, don’t blame me for you getting yourself banned!” Party said. He hung over Ghoul’s the back of Ghoul’s chair again and purred, “Explosives were clearly prohibited in the rules.” 

Snap. 

“Would you quit that?” Ghoul said, jerking his head away and rubbing his ear. The noise had to be deafening with his hearing aids on. “They were just flashbangs. I don’t know why everyone raised such a fuss about it.” 

“Who’s going?” the Girl said.

“Anyone stupid enough to join in,” Party said with a grin. 

“Your words, not mine,” Jet said.

“Hail the brave of heart, and dumb of ass,” Cherri couldn’t help muttering to Kobra, whose mouth twitched.

“Burners, mostly,” Party went on, regally ignoring them. “Some rock’n’rollers. Pony. Chimp. The Buzzkills usually get in on the action, too.”

“Next time I’m totally going.” The Girl declared. Curiosity satisfied for now, she slid off Jet’s back and ran off again. 

“It’s gonna be hella rad.” Party said dreamily, already there in his head. He was still hanging over Ghoul’s shoulder, chewing obnoxiously. 

“Party,” Kobra spoke up, sounding unhappy. “Are you su…”

“I let you race all the time!” Party shot his brother a get off my back look. But he must have picked up on the genuine concern in Kobra’s tone that Devil May Dare these days sounded like a panic attack just waiting to happen, because he added breezily, “Pony’ll be there, remember? I’ll radio if I die.” 

Cherri guessed the game might be good practice, actually. Controlled environment, no life-and-death stakes. 

“Shiny. No way relying on Pony could go wrong.” Kobra grumbled, but he let it drop. “Just be careful. Second input, Cher. Blue cable.” 

“Sorry, try this?” Cherri switched cords. 

Party started to blow another bubble, and Ghoul kicked his chair back with a screech of metal on tile. 

The sound was so loud it turned everyone’s heads. 

“I said, stop.” Ghoul put a hand on Party’s chest, backing him up until he ran into a chair and couldn’t retreat any further. Party’s eyes went wide. 

Nose inches from the taller joy’s, Ghoul stood on his tiptoes and bit the giant bubble himself with a snap of teeth. 

It deflated onto a completely flabbergasted Party’s face. 

The diner fell into stunned silence. 

“I’ve got 17 carbons riding on you.” Ghoul’s voice had dropped to a husky growl. “So you’d better score big tonight.” 

Ghoul reached up with his free hand, stripped the gum off Party’s face, and shoved it into his own mouth. Staring Party down the whole time. 

And walked away. 

Party sank into the chair, expression blank with shock. 

“Witch almighty,” Jet said faintly. 

“I knew Ghoul had personal space issues, but. Damn,” Cherri murmured to Kobra. “Are they usually like that?” 

Kobra gulped. “Totally,” he said. “They...they fight all the time.”